Godzilla Gorilla Pimp

A coworker of mine claims that she met an occupational therapist who works with a student in our fine city named . . . Well, named the title of this post. Yes. You're reading that right: Godzilla Gorilla Pimp.

I looked into the system, and as far as I can tell, there is a not a student with any variation of that name enrolled anywhere in our public schools, which is why I don't have reservations about protecting Godzilla's (Mr. Pimp's?) anonymity.


































GODZILLA GORILLA PIMP!



However, I did a google query, and it yielded two results with that exact word combination in the exact order.*

1. A Twitter update from someone read: "Godzilla Gorilla Pimp. Not even playin'." This tweet (I flipping hate that word) did not tell us for sure that it was even a name, and the person forgot the apostrophe in playin', so this doesn't tell us a whole lot and does not seem to be a reliable source.

2. A forum on a site called baby-gaga.com was discussing funny names, and someone said the following:
Quoting Christina714:“ I read about a mentally ill woman who named her child "godzilla gorilla pimp" but she was in a mental institution of some sort, atleast she had an exuse!”

Now, this, however being, again, hearsay in nature, does site an instance of someone being named that, but this person also thinks "at least" is one word and she spelled excuse wrong.** But, would there not be some institution stopping a woman giving birth in a mental institution from naming a kid whatever the heck her crazy ass wanted to? After all, when Dweezil Zappa was born, the hospital would not allow him to be named such a thing.***

If it is true, I hope that Godzilla Gorilla Pimp rises up from all the odds stacked against him, that extend far beyond his whacked-out name, which is enough, and he proves all the doubters wrong, becoming a CEO, local school board president, or dare I say, if the Queen of England has any kind of sense of humor, Sir Godzilla Gorilla Pimp . . .
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*That equasion took me FOREVER because I'm a computer dumb-dumb, and I still could not get that next line, "however..." to stop being indented.
**I need to stop with this grammar police stuff before someone rips me to shreds.
***Here's the full story from wikipedia if you are interested:
"Dweezil's registered birth name was Ian Donald Calvin Euclid Zappa,[4] although this occurred only because the hospital at which he was born refused to register him under the name Dweezil. The name was a nickname coined by Frank for an oddly-curled pinky-toe of Gail's. He was always called "Dweezil" by his family and was unaware that this was not the name on his birth certificate. Upon this discovery at the age of five, he insisted on having his nickname become his legal name. Gail and Frank hired an attorney and soon the name Dweezil was official."

Dirty Talk

I have my second stand-up open mic gig in only a few hours, and I feel a little weird getting up in front of people and talking about gag reflexes, incest, veiney curved wieners, and dirty talk. Sure, on this blog, I've talked about things like queefs and that thing where your pee splits in two streams, but in front of people is a whole other matter.

I swear that I have no intention of being a shock jock like Andrew Dice Clay* or something. Hell, I don't even have aspirations of being famous at all. My sole intention is to conquer the stage fright so I feel justified telling actors what to say and how to say it front of people - can't do that without having the nuts to get up there myself. This particular routine just kind of snowballed, and yes, it's a little gross - but funny (I hope). The trick is, can I be as funny as I am in the bathroom mirror with the microwave timer set in the kitchen for 5 minutes as I can be in front of the crowd.

Wish me luck . . .
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*Searching for "Dice" pictures was a little depressing in that four out of five were the good-looking version from the 1980's, and then every fifth one was the current bald and fat version, one of which seemed to be a candid of him eating not one but two slice of pizza and a regular coke. Ah, hell. Here it is:

The Lost Art of Buying a Disc

Today I arrived for my haircut appointment early, so I killed some time by going to one of Chicago's most famous record stores where way too many surly employees congregate around the counter eating organic crap and talking about Yo La Tengo records. To be honest, there was a surplus of workers, they were milling around not working, and one guy was eating some apple wedges, but they were really friendly. Perhaps in this economy, they figured they couldn't afford the crummy customer service. It is true, however, that back in the day one could ask for something commercial like U2, and the punks would actually laugh at you! Laughing!

In any event, I really needed the new Built To Spill and the new Muse records because I've been having trouble illegally downloading decent copies of both. Yes, I was actually forced to go to the record store, to pry myself off my computer chair, unearth my arm out of the bag of Bugles, and actually take my sorry ass into the record shop, and I'm so glad I did! Not only did they have both those discs, but I got two of the three James Gang records on vinyl that I wanted for $2.99 and $1.99 respectively!

Now, I've already done a blog about working at a record shop and how it was the best job I've ever had, but I really did get nostalgic for the good old days. I remember every Christmas we used to drink Baileys and coffee (alcohol and caffeine being my two favorite drugs and ingested simultaneously is even better) and we would exchange gifts, which were almost always box sets of albums. Not only did I long for the days when I worked in a record shop, but I really got off on the experience of buying a disc.

Seeing that your illegal download has finished compressing or whatever the fuck and hitting play just doesn't compare to the anticipation involved in unwrapping the album on the way to the car, popping it in the player, and driving home while leafing through the paperwork. That is all part of the experience, and technology is compromising so many of life's little pleasures. It won't be long before the joy of your trip to the edge of the driveway in your robe to fetch the paper, pulling off the plastic tube, smelling that newspaper smell, and hearing the ruffling as you fan it out while sipping on your coffee will all be things of the past. Pretty soon you'll just click your fricking yahoo news, or whatever, and call it a day - and call it news.*

ANYWAY, I asked the woman helping me at the well-known Chicago record shop if they were hiring to earn a little extra scratch, and yes, to relive some glory days, and she said, "We're not hiring right now, but I could give you an application?" I smiled and said to the kind and pleasant looking, Rubenesque gal on the opposite end of the counter, "That's exactly what we told people when they were looking for work when I was working at a record shop in the mid to late 1990's!" She smiled as if to say, "whatever," but not in a mean way.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.
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*Does it kind of look like this woman is trying to stop this guy from reading so they could engage in a little mid-morning delight, and does this cat not look like what Rick Springfield looks like these days when his mug pops up on VH1 talking about his one major hit?

Daily Updates!

After taking a month off, it has dawned on me that I need to keep this blog going because it's what got me started writing, and writing every day is just good for me. So, for an entire year, starting now, I'm going to post daily. If Prince can write a song every day he is funky on this earth and Bob Pollard can write three songs on the crapper ("and three of them would be good"), the least I can do is find time in my day to whip up a quick blog entry.

Today's topic is the origin of the word schtupp. This wonderful word for the no-pants-bed-dance derives from a Yiddish word meaning to shove or push. Other spellings commonly seen are shtup and shtupp.

1974's Blazing Saddles gave us the sexy Western singing sensation with a German accent and a speech impediment: Lili Von Schtupp. Her name is far funnier now that I know it's a Yiddish word for coitus (I didn't know that the first 5 times I saw the film).

I urge you all to sneak this word into a conversation, even if it's in the original push or shove way:

"I can't seem to schtupp all these damn Chicago parking tickets into my glove box."

I've also heard it used to pay off someone:

"I schtupped the doorman a $50 to ignore other tennants' complaints about my Halloween party."

Come on back and let me know how you used this marvelous word . . .

Holy Crap! He's Posting!

I don't think I've ever gone a month without a post, and I damn near did just now, with only a day to spare. Wait, September only has 30 days, so yeah, we'll just say that was a month. Damn it!

Here's what's keeping me busy:

Work: Duh. Who cares. Everyone works and nobody wants to read about it.

Open Mic: I've been doing these stand-up open mic sets every other week, and I really thought I'd be awesome right out of the gate. As it turns out, it's really hard, and I have more respect than ever for people who do it just like I wish I could, namely Dave Chappelle. Well, my next set is going to be full of disgusting jokes. I didn't plan it that way, but before I knew it I had a routine that starts with, "Have you ever spit on your own penis?"

Freelance: I did an article on the Top 5 Zombie Films of All Time that I kind of rushed, as you can tell by the fact that I didn't even go for the full ten.

The Next Play: To be honest, I've barely written a damn thing for my next play, and the trick is just booking the fucker for August to force me to get it done, which worked last time.

What I'm Listening To: New and newish albums by Muse, The Mars Volta, and Built To Spill, and MGMT.

Jogging: I frigging love running, and I think it's the only time I feel normal, where I can focus. I get some great thinking done while I'm out there, but then when I'm done I've forgotten everything. Perhaps I need a little tape recorder when I'm out there. I thought about doing a blog that was a running monologue of all the crap that runs through my head during a jog, one that goes in and out of what I'm observing live and the tangents the mind goes through and status updates of all my aches and pains such as chafing thighs. Great reading there, right?

How about you, seven readers? Where does blogging rank in all the things you have to do, and what works for you to get you to post regularly?

More Gancey Lyric Analysis

Remember "Hey Jealousy" by The Gin Blossoms? I was thinking what the ex girlfriend on the other end of the conversation would be saying, like I did on this post.

Gin Blossoms Guy: Tell me do you think it'd be all right if I just crashed here tonight?
Ex: Oh, come on!
GBG: You can see I'm in no shape for driving, and I got no place to go.
Ex: Seriously? There's no where else you could go? You sure you're not just trying to weasel your way back into my pants?
GBG: And you know it might not be half bad. You were the best I ever had. If I hadn't blown the whole thing years ago, I might not be alone.
Ex: I KNEW it! So, wait, I was the best you ever had, and it was only "not half bad" in your estimation? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
GBG: Tomorrow we can drive around this town
And let the cops chase us around
The past is gone but something might be found
To take its place...hey jealousy
Ex: Okay, fine, you can crash here on the couch, but we're not doing it. Also, if you think I'm driving around town getting chased by the po-po's like when we were 18, you got another thing coming, mister. I have a life now, and some priors, so in the morning, just pack up your shit, and don't pull this shit ever again, shit-head.

That was an overuse of the word shit right there, probably a writing no-no of some kind, but then again, I'm a shitty writer, so it kind of works for me.

Okay, here is another unheard end of the conversation, this time from Lil' Jon's "Get Low."

Lil' Jon: Three, six, nine, damn your fine
Move it till you sock it to me one more time
Get low, get low (Get Low) get low (Get low) get low (Get low)
To the window to the wall (To the wall)
Till the sweat drop down my balls (My Balls!)
Stripper: Okay, that's really gross. Don't tell me about your testicle perspiration anymore, and let's just get this dance over with.
Lil' Jon: All these bitches crawl (Crawl)
Y'all skeet skeet motherfuckers (Motherfuckers)
Y'all skeet skeet god damn (God Damn!!!)
Y'all skeet skeet motherfuckers (Motherfuckers)
Y'all skeet skeet god damn (God Damn!!!)
Stripper: Okay, don't call women bitches, don't skeet in here cause you're cleaning it up, and don't you DARE use the Lord's name in vain in MY titty bar.
Lil' Jon: Shortie crunk so fresh so clean
Can she pump that?
Question been harassing me in the mind This bitch is fine
I done came to the club about 50 11 times
Now can I play with yo panty line
Stripper: Hell to the no!
The club owner said I need to calm down
Stripper: Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.
Lil' Jon: security guard go to sweating
Me now nigga drunk then a motherfucker threaten me now
Stripper: Yes, he is sweatin' you, and don't talk about the ball sweat anymore, remember?
Lil' Jon She getting crunk in the club I mine she work
Then I like to see the female twerking taking the clothes off, ooh she naked!
Stripper: First off, I'm not sure how to "twerk," and I can't believe you've been here 50 eleven times, and you still say "ooh she naked" every time we do this.
Lil' Jon:Let me see you get low you scared you, scared you
Drop dat ass to the floor you scared you, scared you
Let me see you get low you scared you, scared you
Drop dat ass to the floor you scared you, scared you
Drop dat ass ya shake it fast ya
Pop dat ass to the left and the right ya
Stripper: Wait, do what now?
Lil' Jon: Drop dat ass ya shake it fast ya
Pop dat ass to the left and the right ya
Stripper: Slow down! These are a lot of instructions!
Lil' Jon: Now back,back,back it up
a back,back,back it up
a back,back,back it up
a back,back,back it up
Now stop then wiggle wit ya
Stripper: Yes. Stopping and wiggling, sir.
Lil Jon: Now stop then wiggle wit ya
Stripper: K.
Lil' Jon: Now stop then wiggle wit ya
Stripper: All right, already!
Lil' Jon: Now stop then wiggle wit ya
Stripper: You know, you're an awful pushy nudey bar patron . . .

Okay, that's all I got.

Another Redirection

I finally made some headway on my second play that I'm writing. It's a scene I'm rather pleased with, and I can't wait to hear it read. I was late for work one day because I just got a rush of inspiration, but I didn't dare stop writing because who knows how long it would be until my next push. I hadn't looked at what I had written in a while, but it's better than I remember and made better by all the stuff I added to it tonight. I'm writing for women a lot better than I used to as well, perhaps because I'm beginning to understand them a little better than I used to.

There's also another new post over at The Liars Club blog that I'd like you to check out because I think it's going to take off again like the hey-day with some new writers out-and-about reporting on wacky shit in Chicago.

Feel free to leave a comment over there, but as for this rag's comment thread, tell me, who, what, where, when, and why you get inspired?

Check It Out . . .

I just published a Top 10 Acting Performances By Athletes list over a Starpulse.com.

Here's the link.

AND . . .

Get a look at the first update of the Liars Club blog in like a year. I'm the only contributer these days with the other three retired just about. Hey, again, if anyone is from Chicago and would like to join up, let me know if you like what you see . . .

link

'Hang 'Em Up!' and Coat Hangers

61-year-old Steven Tyler recently fell off a stage in South Dakota, suffering head and neck injuries.

This caused the band to have to postpone their next show, but that's not the extent of ailments afflicting this aging band:

"On June 28, Tyler hurt his leg at a concert in Uncasville, Conn., and the band had to postpone seven shows in July. Tyler also battled pneumonia before the tour began in June, while guitarist Joe Perry fought a knee infection," says yahoo news.

Jeez! We'll pay you guys to stop touring! You, you just take care of those knees and play with your grandkids!

I mean, if he fell off a stage in 1973 during a coked up frenzy, I'd pay to see that, but this is just plain sad and embarrassing. This guy is as old as my dad, and I just wouldn't be comfortable with people paying to watch my dad dance around in various cities at his age. My father, a man who jogged 7 miles a day, every day, for most of his adult life, recently tripped over a common coat hanger and scraped the hell out of himself, and I was really worried about him. Where is Liv Tyler while her dad is plummeting onto concert-goers? It seems bad for his health. If my dad were riding around in a tour bus, stopping in various places to run around a stage full of coat hangers, you better believe I'd get him in a half-nelson, take him back to his suburban home, and watch the Cubs break our hearts (our favorite father-son activity) until he came to his senses.

What do you think, readers? Do you say:

A) If they still want to make music and tour, and it's what they enjoy, let them do it for as long as they like.

OR

B) Would you like to say to them, "Stop sucking album-after-album, night-after-night because you haven't been any good in literally over twenty years, and that's debatable. You haven't been great in over thirty years, equally debatable, and the more you hang around sucking, the harder it is to like your good stuff."

Hey. Did I ever tell you about the time . . .

. . .that Dr.Kenneth Noisewater (The Gancer) wrote "rock out with your cock out" in a wedding guest book?

A Top Five You Won't Find Anywhere Else

Believe it or not, there was a time when a certain word so funny to us now was not that funny and said regularly on television commercials all through the 1980's and into the 1990's. This word now is synonymous with someone who's kind of a loser, but back then, it was simply a noun or verb, depending on . . . Oh hell, I'll stop beating around the bush, so to speak. I now bring you The Top Five Douche Commercials of All Time (Don't forget to turn off the music player to the right before viewing the ads):

6 - Even After a Shower! (Sorry, we have to go with 6. They're all just too damn funny.)

Sitting in the window sill of their suburban home, Mom says to daughter, while consoling her with an arm around her shoulder, "Hey, I used to change your diapers. Talk." Daughter says, "Sometimes I just don't feel fresh, even after a shower." Mom says, "I think it's time for Massengill." She's a good mom because a somewhat less supportive mom might have said, "You mean a shower isn't enough for that cooch of yours?


4. - Not-So-Fresh:

Daughter and mom are coasting along in a sailboat, when out of nowhere daughter turns to mom and says, "Do you ever feel, you know, not so fresh?" You have to love how mom, despite her daughter's vague description, knows exactly what she's talking about and says, "Of course. That's why I douche." This ad earns extra points for featuring a somewhat famous actor from Third Watch, Soprano's, and Hulk, Cara Buono.


4. Holding Out on Your Mother?!

"Holding out on your mother?" mom says to daughter, pulling a box of Massengill out of her closet, where it was not concealed in the least bit. Daughter seems caught off guard like mom caught her with something illegal, but when she learns that mom is just ticked off that her daughter never told her that Massengill now has Effectal, daughter just laughs, not at all embarrassed, somehow, and says, "I just bought it!" Mom then comments how she's always loved Massengill's slanted design, and the slanted bottle looks supsiciously like dad's slanted . . .


3. - The Test:

Believe it or not, this one is from 1994. It features some women putting on make-up in a bathroom, and one accuses the other of having an antique douche. Then, one informs another of massengill's new bomb-ass cleansing design douche that even kept her fresh through her period, and "that's the test," evidently. Good lord! Are these women complete strangers in a ladies room exchanging this personal information? Hey, don't go calling some random lady's douche an antique unless you're ready to throw down.


2. - Do You Douche?

Mom and daughter are walking along the beach when daughter turns to mom and says, "Do you douche?" You can't beat that. Wait you can: with her response of, "I sure do." It's a classic commercial for the ages. I also like how creepy mom sounds when she says, "You'll see how clean and fresh Massengill makes you feel." It kind of sounds like mom can't wait to get home and douche her daughter.


1. - Guess the Douche Game!

Excited, with her hands behind her back, daughter asks mom which hand is holding the newest idea in douching. The answer, both hands! Extra Mild and Extra Cleansing are both new! How tricky of her! Extra Cleansing has something called puriclean while Extra Mild has no additives. Mom says, "I choose Extra Mild," subtext being: not that stinky of a beaver. Daughter says, "I choose extra cleansing," subtext being: a really, really smelly vagina, which is why she is so excited about this new technology. I also like that in this ad Massengill brags about rocking the douche game for 70 plus years. Way to hold it down, Massengill!


What do you think, Seven Readers? I have a few questions for you:
1. Do you think the order of this list should be changed at all?
2. Do you have a nomination? If so, please provide a link.
3. Do you ever feel, you know, not-so-fresh?

Stay Tuned . . .

So sorry for the lack of posts lately. I pitched a Top Five list to the editers over at Starpulse.com, and they turned it down. So, stay tuned for that list here at The Gancer, where anything goes. Owwwww! I'm a writing rockstar, and you fucking know this!

Mix Bag of Bad Blog Topics

It's time that I clean out the piss-poor blog topics that are in the memo section of my crappy phone. Some are kind of interesting in a Gancey kind of way, some are just plain dumb, but either way, here they are:


1. Remember the Amazing Kreskin? He was a psychic who made appearances on David Letterman. For whatever reason, I was thinking about how sometimes women want men to read their minds, and men just want women to tell them what the hell they want. Well, neither one is right. Men need to be more in tune and women need to just spell it out every now-and-again. So, while riding my bike to work, I was having one of those imaginary conversations in my head with my girlfriend about how I can't be expected to know what she is thinking, and I was saying, "Who do you think I am? The Amazing Kreskin? The Amazing Foreskin? I nearly fell off my bike laughing to myself, but is that even funny to anyone else? Haha. Foreskin.


2. I was watching some people play Flippy Cup, and I say watching because I have vowed not to play drinking games after thirty years old, and I also don't do more than one shot in an evening. I like to do zero shots a night if possible, but sometimes there are those special occasions where a guy just can't be rude. As I'm watching this game, I was trying to liken a given player's ability to flip cups in baseball terms, and I've decided that someone who averages three flips is batting .270, two flips is like a .300 hitter, and someone who hovers right around a one-and-done is like a .333, batting title type of guy. Anyone refute this or want to change these figures slightly in either direction?

3. I don't like to go to strip clubs because they kind of depress me. I always get thinking about the girls and what their childhood must have been like to be doing something like that, but I will say that one thing that can keep my mind from drifting to those sad places is how terrific they smell. There is this distinct smell that no other women really smell quite like. I asked a bartender a while back to affirm this for some of the ladies I was with, and our exchange went roughly like this:

Gancer: Barkeep, don't strippers smell great?
Barkeep: Oh, God yeah.
Gancer: How would you describe it.
Barkeep: I'd say it's like a . . . sexual chocolate type of goodness . . .


4. Those last couple may have been a little strange, but this is one could very well be just outright stupid. I was at work the other day singing "Some Like It Hot" by Power Station, only I was singing, "Some like it hot and some shit their pants when the heat is on." I just liked that I was lumping people into two categories: those who can handle said heat, and some who at the first sign of trouble just go ahead and crap themselves. It's funny to me, damn it.

230th Post and Still Not Good With Clever Titles

Some of those drafts that never were never deemed post worthy or ones that I didn't even think were funny upon a second look all count towards that 230 figure. I just want to clear that up because all seven of you were so concerned about that, I'm sure.

Make Romance. Everyone says this in songs, but nobody says it in real life because it's the most terribly dorky thing ever. What would you say if your significant other said to you, "Baby, tonight I don't want anyone around. It's just you and me, and all night long, we're going to make romance." Hahahha! Don't say that to me, weirdo.


Yet songs say it all the time because it rhymes with dance. Don Henley says it in "All She Wants to Do Is Dance" when he says make romance as an almost after thought, as if it should be implied that of course she likes doing it, or she wouldn't be interesting subject matter to sing about.


Walter Payton of the Chicago Bears said it when he compared running with the football to making the romance, which seems strange, but have you see highlights of his runs? Son of a bitch really was making love out there. It's no wonder they called him Sweetness, but while he was a smooth muthafucka, I bet her never asked some girl on the road in a Phillidelphia bar to go back to his hotel to make or create, if you will, some romance.*


The lead singer of The Four Tops once lamented that he and his old lady used to dance to the music and make romance through the music. That sounds intense. Had he said we used to make romance to the music, yeah, big deal. We've all put on a little music and gotten down with someone, but to make romance through, the music, well, that is something.

Help me out here, seven readers. Are there any more romance making lyrics out there to be blogged for posterity, I mean seven people? Leave them in the comments section, you romantic F'ers.

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* I grew up watching Walter Payton run the football and jump over a defensive line to score touchdowns, sometimes landing directly on his head. He's one of the most complete backs to ever play the game, but he also seemed like such a great guy. He died in 1999, prematurely and unfairly at the hands of a rare liver disease, despite not being a drinker, looking skinny and terrible in a press conference, and it was really hard to see. It was especially hard having always remembered him being so strong, running up those hills, working harder in the off-season than anyone else, getting that edge on the competition through hard work and not performance enhancing drugs. It was very sad to lose him, and yet it seems he's not remembered anywhere near as much as Michael Jordan when it comes to Chicago athletes, which is unfair. My first Old Style beer when I'm camping this weekend is for you, Walter. Thanks for playing in my city. I will show that clip of you running over Kanasas City Chiefs like mere speed bumps to my son some day.

2 Quick Things: Poop Precautions and General Suckiness

THE FIRST THING

There are some expressions that we use to remember certain things to get us through life:
1. Look both ways before crossing the street
2. Beer before liquor, never sicker. Liquor before beer, you're in the clear.*
3. You have to know when to hold 'em, fold 'em, and walk away. And don't count your money at the table, because as Kenny Rogers once said, that kind of greedy shit amongst friends and strangers alike is bound to get you an ass whippin'.

One that should be added to this list, I think, is don't ever start pooing without first checking to see that there is toilet paper readily available. We need a good expression for that reminder. It sounds like something that should be such an obvious precaution, that we shouldn't need a catchy phrase, right? Everyone should have an instinct to avoid finding themselves with a dirty ass and nowhere to turn. One would think it would be clear to most anyone. One would think . . .

AND THE SECOND THING


Friends and I were talking about a real dork. We're talking a virtual tool shed of a man that you can't even stand to talk to. The kind of a guy where he walks into a party, and you say, "Awww, fuck! So-and-so is here. I'm either going to have to leave this place or kill myself with a corkscrew." As we discussed this guy's outright crappiness, someone said, "That guy sucks." I busted out laughing because is there anything worse to say about someone? I'd rather have someone say, "That Gancer is an asshole." Asshole I can deal with. To say someone sucks is to say that they don't necessarily suck at anything in particular, basketball, croquet, or anything else, they just suck in general, in summation. It's so final.

Leave me a comment, Seven Readers, because you don't suck, and due to your foresight and lack of need for catchy phrases, you all have sparkling clean anuses.

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*That one actually has been disproved by most experts (read drunks) because what really matters is how much booze you pour down your esophagus, not the order in which they go in. Either way, if too much goes in there, it's going to come back out. The only thing does make the expression hold true is that if you have 7 or 8 beers in you, you may be pouring in hard liquor without knowing how much you're really boozing. Then again, if you have 3 or 4 cocktails in you, you may throw back beers like they're water. No, I was right the first time: it's a dumb concept.

A Book Review and Some Random Crappola

1. My good friend Jeff Phillips, otherwise known as The Igloo Oven, just published a book called Whiskey Pike. Having known him for around three years now, seeing him steal the show with his knack for comedic timing in the play I co wrote and directed, The Loitering Hole, and knowing what a light-hearted fellow he is in his day-to-day life, I was not expecting such a dark tale. Yes, it's dark, but not just dark for dark's sake; it has something worthwhile to say about strained relationships in a family as they deal with greed, corruption, and alcoholism. I also like the cute illustrations Jeff did on his own that keep such a sad story grounded in the theme: "A Bedtime Story for the Drinking Mankind." So, pick up a copy at the website or at Amazon.com, sit back with a single-malt whiskey, and settle in for all 65-pages of booze soaked enjoyment.

2. Recently I got thinking about a bar that one of my best friends managed that was like my home away from home for around a year. I knew the whole staff, they knew me, and I always felt pressured to be funny when I came in there, coming up with bomb-ass one-liners like Norm on Cheers. There was a gal there who will probably always be my favorite bartender. She'd pour me a drink with like a four to one booze to mixer ratio that I could just sip on for an hour or two, and she'd say, "I put some stank on it." One day my roommate at the time and I were having a few there and helping that very bartender come up with names for a Christmas shot she had concocted. I'll be honest here because there's no other way to say it: It looked like a shot glass full of cum, but it tasted just like Christmas! Because it looked so much like spunk, all of the names we were coming up with were totally inappropriate, but so damn funny that they need to be shared.

I remember throwing out Santa's Baby Batter, and my roommate, always shocking me with the funny stuff he'd stir up in his head, being such a quiet fella, came up with Blitzen Juice. Blitzen Juice! I still laugh when I say it. Telling that story last night, I decided to text him those two words. I woke up this morning to a return text from him: Santa's Sleigh Load. Ha! Forgot that one.

3. I was watching COPS today, and as you know, I've been known to offer little tips here and there to help all of you Gancey Up Yourself, and I think this is one of my better ones: Watch COPS as a means of boosting your self-esteem. I watch losers getting arrested, and I think to myself, "Sure, I have a heaping pile of student loans, my writing career isn't taking off like I hoped, and my actual job doesn't pay a whole lot, but I have all my teeth, I've never smacked my 'old lady' around, gotten handcuffed shirtless on my front lawn with a knee in my back, cursing out cops who would moments later find a few grams of cocaine in my jean shorts. I got it pretty good next to those guys, and so do you, seven readers. Whenever you get down on yourself, just remember, even if your job sucks, be thankful you have a steady one, and you could be somewhere getting dragged out of your trailer and beaten with nightsticks while snarling police dogs bite your ankles.

Updates

1. I've been writing weekly reviews for The Bachelorette over at Starpulse.com. Click over there and leave a comment if you have a second. The show has exposed me to all kinds of unthinkable douchiness, and I'd like to share with you what I've learned . . .

2. Sitting at my girlfriend's place with her brother, both of whom were born in the 1980's, we saw a clip of Mr. T. chainsawing down about 100 oak trees on his estate, angering his neighbors. The following conversation ensued:

Gancey Girlfriend and Gancy Girlfriend's Brother: Who's Mr. T.?
Gancer: Who's Mr. T.? He was on the A Team.
GF and Bro: What's that?
Gancer: It was a show about a bunch of mercenary dudes driving around in a van being called on upon by clients when they had nowhere else to turn, doing God's work with machine guns. The show was so awesome, we used to play it at recess. I played the part of Hannibal, their savvy, silver-haired, cigar-chomping leader.
GF and Bro: (blank stares).
Gancer: Okay, he had a Mohawk. Well, everyone has that hairstyle now, but back then it was really significant, you know? I mean, on his Saturday morning cartoon, even his dog had a Mohawk.
GF and Bro: Okay. Got it.
Gancer: He had like fifty pounds of jewelry around his neck, and I'm not exaggerating. I'm serious!
GF and Bro: So, are you going to order that sushi?


3. Yesterday, as I sorted out my colors and lights for my laundry, I started gangsta' rapping "Colors" by Ice T from the movie of the same name. Every time I'd come across a dark shirt, I'd throw it to a pile, and say, "Colors! Colors!" My roomy must have though I was the biggest laundry hardass ever. Laundry hardass?

4. Okay, I know I've given you some cutesy nephew stories before, but here's one more, so deal with it. I'm going to say his name is Maynard. He was around 5 when he had this conversation with my sister, his mom, so you'll have to excuse his problems with suffixes.

Maynard: I pukeded on Christmas, and I pukeded on Easter. What's the holiday called with the red, white, and blue?
Gancey Sis: 4th of July.
Maynard: Yeah, I didn't pukeded on that one.

Readers, any thoughts on any of these random-ass updates? Who's my reader who's gone the longest without having "pukeded?"

Dilf With Baby on Board

My girlfriend has a park across from her apartment, which is great for looking out to see what people are wearing to see what to wear, but it's also great for people watching in general. She told me that she had been seeing a rash of DILFs (Dads I'd Like to . . . Fornicate). We then got in a discussion about dads and baby slings. I want to know what my Seven Readers think.

Is a man more or less hot if he's wearing one of those?

Would you ever wear one?

Can a man be hot if he's wearing a baby sling AND jean shorts? How about a baby sling and Zubaz?

5 Things in the 1980's That Didn't Form Voltron

I did one of those lists on Facebook called, "When I Was a Kid, I Loved . . ."

Here's what I came up with, in no particular order:

1. Stinkor from He-Man. He looked like a skunk, and his power was just that he really, really smelled. It must have sucked for him to have a superpower of which he was a little self-conscious, or did he just not give a damn, like, "That's right, bitches! Stinkor is back, so put your clothespins over your nose, and get ready to lose your appetite!" Whether he embraced it or he wanted to crawl into a cave and wallow in his own stink, either way, only the 1980's would have a muscle-bound guy who reeked to the point of superpowerdom.

2. Big League Chew. It was gum that came in a pouch, billed to wadded into your mouth during little league games to prepare kids for chewing tobacco and eventual mouth cancer, and you have to love how they still make the stuff. Joe Camel gets all that flack for being a cartoon geared towards kids and having a phallic nose, while all the while kids are throwing in a chew before heading to the on deck circle, and I like that for some reason.

3. Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka. He was a Fiji born professional wrestler who ushered in high flying acrobatics off the top ropes into the world of body builders who fake like they're hurting one another. He was my favorite guy, and it always seemed like he lost, which is why I liked him. And the Chicago Cubs.

4. Pitfall. It was a game on the Atari 2600 video game counsel in which you were Pitfall Harry, a guy jumping on the heads of alligators, swinging on vines, and hopping over scorpions in an endless screen-by-screen pursuit of hidden treasures in the jungle. Today's games are too advanced. Now they have these story lines where you're a guy stealing cars and shooting hookers in the face. I like the world of Pitfall, where I could assign my own metaphors, like maybe he's just going to that next screen, hoping for more treasure, but no matter how much gold he gets, the game will only end when he dies in a limited number of horrific ways, or when his time runs out. If you don't see the deeper meaning in that, just go back to your hooker shooting games, and try not to think too much. Pitfall Harry and I think you're not deep enough, and you wouldn't last a day in those scorpion infested jungle caverns.

5. Feathered Hair. I just dig it, that's all. Do I think it should come back? No, that would be stupid, but it's hot. Can a chick work up some feathered hair for one night only, and then fix it before she had to go to work the next day looking like Farah Fawcett? If my girlfriend could do that for me, I'd be happier than Ponch. At the very least, I'd promise never to feather my own hair.

Have You Ever Thought About . . .

1. I know it's old news, but remember Miss South Carolina in the Miss Teen USA pageant with her incoherent, desperate effort to explain the horrors of the lack of maps in foreign countries? Well, the other day I was thinking about, don't ask me why, how she kept saying "such as," and I was speculating that someone probably coached her to say that every time she had the urge to say the word like because she probably said the L-Word a few zillion times during her run-through responses. Watching it again, there is, in fact, one instance where she starts to say like, catches herself, and then goes to her stand-in, the fail proof such as. Check it out.


2. On our walk to the Cubs game the other night, my buddies and I were talking about the final, really fat days of Chris Farley, and I said, "Remember that last shitty one he did with Matthew Perry, Wagons East? My good friend corrected me, saying that title was John Candy's morbidly obese movie, and I was thinking of Almost Heroes. Isn't it weird that two overweight, very funny, likable actors both had fat guy in the frontier movies that were universally lambasted by critics for their swan songs just before their untimely deaths?


3. Gancey Girlfriend was cleaning her apartment with a do-rag on her head, and I said, kissing her temple, "Hello there, Aunt Jemima." By the end of the night, she was calling herself the pancake icon, too, but then she questioned it, saying that she did not believe the good aunt wore the apparel in question. This morning, reaching into the cabinet, I was shocked to see that my syrup had revealed that Gancey Girlfriend was right: Jemima was staring right back at me sans do-rag. I did the research, and apparently she hung up her rag in 1989. I personally think the old way was better because I'm old school, and if for no better reason than to keep her fallen hairs out of the damn syrup.

What senseless junk have you been thinking about, Seven Readers?