We all have our moments. Some are good and some are bad. One day we're making love on top of a mountain while simultaneously caging falcons. We go to bed fulfilled and signal to our new-found companion that it's time to initiate the night watch. Sure, we sleep comfortably knowing that a falcon has our backs, but something changes when the world grows still. We begin to stir, unsettled - tossing and turning. The hours float by but the dreams don't come, and soon that joyous bastard of a sun breaks the horizon once again. If that doesn't wake you, the blue jay will, and you should've killed that son of a bitch a long time ago.
Letting out an obnoxious groan, you open your eyes and stare blankly at your surroundings. For a moment, you don't know what the fuck you are. In your confusion, you begin to ask yourself existential questions. What is bed? What is white door? Why is me? Why is sheet? A fuse ignites in your brain and your sense of self-awareness comes flooding back. You feel agitated. You feel fatigued. You feel like pile of shit. Your bad day has arrived.
Now the catalyst of your current predicament could be an infinite number of things. It could be the cocktail of Jameson and methamphetamine that you consumed the night prior. Maybe it's more of an emotional aftermath. Sometimes no means no and all she really wants is a deeper commitment before she lets you put it there. Most of the time we can't even find the reason why we feel this way. Scientists will probably tell you that it's about science, but that's all speculative. There's no real evidence to support that. The truth of the matter is that it's fucking mystery, like the whereabouts of Tesla's research, or the existence of centaurs within modern society. We just don't know. We're powerless when it comes to such things, and without the help of grain alcohol, the only choice we have is accepting the hand we're dealt and moving on with a pessimistic demeanor. But what if I were to tell you there's another way?
No, I'm not going to question the adequacy of you or your partner's genitalia, or make some weak attempt to plug my book (available exclusively for you at the low price of $17.99 +S&H on Amazon). I mean, I could make millions if I wanted to sell the idea, but I'd rather do a great service to my fellow man and reveal it to you now, for absolutely free. So, if you're ready to feel better about yourself but a life of alcoholism just isn't for you, then perhaps it's time that you purchased a monocle.
Allow me to explain. Feeling better about yourself isn't always about bettering yourself. Sometimes all you really have to do is equip a fancy monocle and establish yourself above those who are inferior, ie; your immediate family and friends. See, it doesn't matter if you have a history of propane abuse or a few pesky counts of feline bestiality. Once you're wearing your monocle, you've already exceeded societies standards and graduated into the upper-class. An entirely new world of possibilities will begin to unfold at your feet. Aristocrats will be captivated by your charisma and extend to you their personal invitations to elegant social events. You'll earn the privilege of erecting your pinky finger while enjoying a glass of fine wine. Extravagant women will become infatuated during your phenomenal performance on the piano. Your former friends will frame photographs of you in your honor, blaming themselves for falling so far behind and wondering if you could have saved them -- if only they hadn't made fun of how weird your balls looked that Labor Day at the lake.
You'll learn that you're rather adept at growing a large, pristine mustache, and you may just win a couple of ribbons for it. You'll be the man of the hour; the life of the party. You'll be the gentleman and the scholar. But most of all, you'll be interesting.
Indeed, should you heed this advice and make such an investment, you'll live a rich and bountiful life, all credit due to a little bit of initiative and an exquisite glass monocle. May you reach new horizons. May you toast to new stars.
Throughout time, we've become familiar with a countless number of villains; stemming from movies, comic books, video games, and even TV commercials. Some of them are more widely recognized than others, like the Emperor Palpatine is to Gargamel (oh shit, he said Gargamel!). This really upsets me, and I think it's about time I turned the spotlight onto pop-cultures most underrated villain. I'm talking about, of course, the fucking Hamburglar.
This son of a bitch is a menace to society. He's the scourge of the fast food industry. Do you have any idea how many families have gone hungry after losing their meals to him? Sure, they still have the french fries, but every one knows those just don't cut it. McDonalds puts so much fucking salt on them, you end up driving yourself into a financial hole just to pay for the drinks. You wouldn't even need a drink if you had a juicy hamburger to bite into. It's tragic.
Just in case you're not buying this, allow me to ask you something. Have you ever noticed that McDonalds seems to be the only establishment that actually uses the first drive-through window? It's not because they're busy. Everyone knows that Burger King is ten times better; not to mention they don't coat their burgers with ass. No, it's because the other restaurants use their first window as a sentry tower. It's there so they can watch out for the Hamburglar. They actually pay a guy to do this too. Since the invention of the fast food sentry tower, successful window to car transactions have gone up 46%. Now that employees can see the Hamburglar coming, bags of food aren't being snatched up quite as easily.
Now, to really understand how the Hamburglar has gotten away with so many thefts, we must take his uniform into consideration. It's made up of three key elements, the first being stealth. He's chosen the classic black and white horizontal stripes, which provide camouflage both during the day (white), and during the night as well (black). The eye mask keeps his identity a secret. The second element is deception. He wears red gloves not only to eliminate fingerprints, but because ketchup stains would stand out against other colors, potentially ruining his chameleon-like guile. His third, and most rewarding element, is capacity. The Hamburglar's pockets seemingly have no end. He can steal as many hamburgers as he wants, and he'll never have to make a second trip. His pockets are just too deep. Together, the combination of these elements have allowed the Hamburglar to pull off some incredible heists.
Now, it's rumored that the Hamburglar has been caught and incarcerated in the past, but there is no evidence to support these claims. It's nothing short of propaganda that's been put out there by Mayor McCheese himself. The closest McCheese and his crooked constables have come to making an actual arrest was back in the summer of '87, when the Hamburglar led officials on a six day manhunt. They had finally cornered him outside of a franchise dispensary, when he suddenly disappeared through a manhole and wasn't seen again for nearly a decade; probably surviving off of his gargantuan horde of stolen hamburgers. Any burger thieving perpetrators that have been perused since then were nothing but impostors. Here's a few of them to watch out for.
Unfortunately, as much as we know about the legitimate Hamburglar, there is far more still left to uncover. The Hamburglar is a notorious cultural icon, a hero to the easily amused, and a living nightmare to empty stomached. But however you see the Hamburglar, there's one opinion that I think we all can share. He is damngood.
When I was a young boy in the prime of my life, Elementary school, I realized that it was time to change. You see, I'd been traveling down the same road for ten years. I had finally grown out of my Mickey Mouse bedsheets and I was on my way to becoming a man - a man that deserved some fucking respect. I came to this revelation while on the playground one day after lunch. Note that after I finished my lunch several minutes beforehand, I slammed a box of apple juice and crushed it with my bare fist. That last bit of information isn't entirely factual, like a small number of details in my story.. But for the sake of sounding credible, I'm going to tell you it's true.
The story begins with my friend Chris and I, hanging out on the 12' foot steel jungle gym. I usually didn't sit on the very top of this particular gym because I didn't want to embarrass the other kids who may have been too afraid to ascend the structure. I mean, it was pretty terrifying at the summit. I personally had climbed to the top of it hundreds of times. I was just showing a little bit of compassion, you see. I was setting an example for the younger kids, to show them that even the bravest of kids can still be cool on the 5' foot beam. Moving on with my story, I turned to Chris at one point while lighting up a candy cigarette. "You know what, Chris?", I continued, "I think it's time we became the bullies of this playground."
After taking a moment to weigh the potential consequences, Chris nodded in agreement. "Yeaaah!", he replied enthusiastically, "Bullies of the playground!", and it was done. We were bullies now. There was no turning back, my friends. From there forward, we were untouchable. Newspapers across the nation would spread the word from Anchorage to Sarasota. Mothers would draw the shades when we rode by on our Huffy bicycles, protecting their sons and daughters from our very presence. Together, we would develop complete immunity to competition and ridicule, using nothing more than our ten year old brute strength, and sheer intimidation to pave our way through a rough and savage world.
(For the full experience, I recommend that you play the song below when prompted to.It's within your best interest, I promise.)
Chris and I stepped forward from the jungle gym and into the blazing sun, walking toward the crowed slides. (Cue western showdown music, embedded above this paragraph) - A lone, brittle tumbleweed skipped across the dusty courtyard before us. The feeling was empowering, and oh, could we feel it. The playground was ours. Climbing onto a vast wooden structure lined with a series of stairs, we stood blocking a line of kids waiting to go down the slide. "Move!", the first kid demanded. I tipped my my cowboy hat slighty, revealing a dark, stony gaze. "Make me.", I smirked, confident that he would do nothing of the sort. He pushed his way past me and jumped onto the slide. Alright, just minor setback, nothing to worry about. The next kid won't be so lucky, though. Okay.. Looks like that didn't work either. Perhaps this wasn't the best way to start our campaign. After all, we had to gain notoriety if we wished to make a name for ourselves, and notoriety has to be earned. We knew we had to take somebody down. Scrapping our previous plan-of-action, we turned our sights to a much easier target, the balance beam girls.
(Keep music rolling for optimal dramatic effect)
We made our way toward our next victims with long, slow-motion strides. Our shadows cast over them, as they turned their heads to see us approaching. I could already see the fear in their eyes. This was going to be easy, like pie. I could taste it, even.. The pie, that is.. I happened to enjoy pie, but not blueberry or apple pie. No, I had a taste for razor-blade pie now. I had a craving for blood, and nails, and gunpowder pie. I licked the dirt off of my lips. It was sweet against my tongue. The girls froze, their conversation stopping abruptly as we planted our boots into the sand, kicking up dust. Chris and I turned to each other, cracking a smile before slowly turning back toward the girls. Sweat began to bead on their foreheads, glimmering in the bright summer sun. I spoke. "What are you girls looking at?", I asked menacingly. Their faces fell to the ground, avoiding eye contact and my inquiry. "Hey, I'm talkin' to you!", I exclaimed, my hands firmly at my hips, elbows jutting out like blades. One of the girls swallowed hard and rolled her eyes up toward mine, taking a small step forward. She gazed quickly around the playground, hoping for an adults intervention, but only found an empty wasteland rippling in the afternoon heat. She knew all of the other kids, even the girls who were with her, had already fled the scene; ducking behind wagons, troughs, and saloons. She hesitated for a moment, and began to speak, her voice quivering in desperation. "G..g..gir..", I stood silently, waiting for her to continue, almost as if I were daring her. Narrowing my eyes, I took a long drag on my candy cigarette. The chalk filled my black lungs like gun smoke, burning warm like the smoldering embers of an El Paso wildfire. I liked the feeling. "Well?!", I shot back, startling her.
She held her wrist nervously, and with a deep breath, she said; "Girls go to college to get more knowledge. Boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider!". Her words echoed across the barren playground.
I stood quietly in awe, absolutely shocked by the words I had just heard. I looked to Chris, his head sunk into his shoulders. I pulled the candy cigarette from my mouth and held it at my side before flicking it to the ground. I exhaled a cloud of sugary chalk through my nostrils. That was unexpected. This certainly put a damper on my self esteem, my new-found ego even. I already knew that, geographically, the opposite genders came from China and Venus. That's where boys received their penis' prior to birth, and girls acquired vaginas, whatever those looked like.. But this.. This was too much. We were in over our heads, rendered helpless by a powerful gypsy rhyme.
After a brief, silent pause that seemed as though it stretched on for minutes, I finally turned back to the girl. She was shaken, her back pressed against the balance beam, cowering, waiting to be struck by the back of my iron hand. She breathed heavily, but tried to hide it behind her brave guise. I spit on the ground and brought my fingers to the rim of my hat, removing it from my head. I studied it for a moment, then tossed it to the ground in defeat. I looked back to Chris, who was holding his against his chest, his eyes still fixed on the dirt below him. He knew it was over. I bit my lip in angst, and took one last look at the girls face. She eyed me pompously, and I gestured back with a nod. We turned and walked away.
Chris and I hung our heads as we took that slow walk back to the jungle gym from whence we came. Our dirty days as outlaws were finished. We knew we couldn't come back from this.
Life is dangerous in the playgrounds of the old west. They say it changes you. Even the greatest of men, upholders of virtue, have fallen to cold pistol grip of the savage lands. Doctors turned to killers, clergymen to gamblers.. Hell, even lawmen have turned into outlaws. But Chris and I were two of the lucky ones. We stared the untamed beast straight in the eyes, and in the end, we walked.
But now, at this time, I would like to turn the story over to a personal friend of mine - renowned black actor, Morgan Freeman; who will be narrating the final passage of this classic American fable.
"After that momentous day of discomfiture, the outlaws turned over a new wing, vowing never to return to their wild old ways. It is believed that months later, Adam's Spider-Man action figure was stolen from him, most ironically, by an actual playground bully. Adam's mother had warned him not to share the toy with brigands, and so he found himself in quite the predicament. He asked Christopher to take the wrap for this crime, and to endure a spanking after school. Christopher refused this act of good faith, and the two of them went their separate ways. All though their friendship was severed, the old legends say that on that fateful day, so many years ago, the very shadows of those two broken outlaws were framed against the land. In their moment of defeat, their silhouettes were preserved forever, for all generations yet to come. It serves as a landmark to remember the young men, and to retell their story again and again. After some time, the playground returned to its former state of peace, but the spirit of the post-lunch outlaws lives on. It lives in stories passed down by grandfather to grandchild. It lives in the ancient trees of the forest, and it lives in all of us, even you.. Always blowing.. in the warm, May breeze."
Alright, Andy Rooney. I'm pointing at you this time. The Reverend place a hit on your head and I'm carrying out the order. I've taken a bit of time to familiarize myself with your one-track mind, taking every thing unimportant on this earth as literally as your striking resemblance to Nosferatu's satchel. I'm going to clue you in on sounding intelligent, since you're clearly having a difficult time convincing the world you're even remotely credible. I know bastards as old as yourself aren't up with today's technology, living out your life in cantinas somewhere on the desert planet Tatooine, but if you're actually going to rant about something in front of millions of viewers, it's usually a good idea to figure out what the fuck you're even talking about beforehand. Hell, I'm the one calling you out and even I did my homework first. Maybe you should try approaching one of your co-workers before shooting and give him a quick run-down on the night's topic. "Hey they John! If you don't mind, I'd like to run this gem by you real quick before I make a complete ass of myself. The fact is John, I don't agree with Coca-Cola using caps to seal their bottles. If they're going to place air inside of their product, I want to be drinking clean air, not old air. Who wants stale air that's been sealed inside a bottle for a month? I sure don't.", and then John would reply, "Well Andy, the cap is actually used to seal incarbon dioxide, not oxygen.. The company dissolves the carbon dioxide into their product to create what's known as carbonation, Andy, one of the key elements that distinguishes soda from drinking water. The cap prevents the cola from going flat, and also protects the product from external debris and other potential hazards. So, with that said, you should probably take a moment to rethink your opinion and remove your Gamorrean-like anus from my immediate workspace."
Despite how much I dislike you, Rooney, I do feel that I should commend you on your phenomenal performance, where you compared your 1920 Underwood typewriter to modern computers, and then proceeded to announce that Bill Gates screwed up the way computers work. Now, I'm not a huge fan of Mr. Gates myself, but I'd like to go over a few of your complaints. First off, and correct me if I'm mistaken here.. But you feel that Microsoft designs computers so you have to purchase a new one every time there's a full moon, and also that you've had to replace your own computerseven fucking times over the last six years.. Hold your tongue, Andy, I'm not finished. If we move forward about fifteen seconds, we find that you voice your grievance over having to access the "Start menu" in order to shut down your computer. You feel that pressing the power switch should be more than enough work to carry out such a task. Well shit, Andy.. I honestly have no idea why you've had to purchase seven fucking computers in half of a decade. I guess Bill Gates really fucked that one up when you sent your hardware to shit. You are a very important man, after all. You have a two minute time slot to fill on a show nobody watches anymore. You shouldn't be expected to grasp anything beyond a 1920's Underwood typewriter. You also shouldn't be expected to put up with that dastardly "prison sentence" you're given every time you fuck something up, resulting in an illegal operation.
(Watch the full segment of Andy Rooney on Bill Gates HERE.)
But I really do agree with Andy Rooney on many accounts. I too think it's fucking outrageous that a box of lemon flavored Jello does not contain an actual lemon, and that "Betty Crocker" carries on the name "Betty Crocker", when there is, in fact, no such person as "Betty Crocker". I also feel that it's disgraceful for Newspapers to announce the rising value of platinum, because like Mr. Rooney, and I quote, "I hardly ever buy an ounce of platinum! I don't really know what platinum is! What do they do with platinum anyways?".
In case it's not blatantly obvious already, I was an interesting character growing up. I was that kid in Kindergarten with red suspenders, a ninja turtles t-shirt, and dried up snot all over my face. I was fucking awesome. I was the kid who came home from school each day to change into my Peewee Herman costume, bow-tie and all. What did I do next? I ran around in my own little reality, leaping from the couch to the love seat, and making up whatever bullshit I managed to pull out of my ass. I actually had a few alter-ego's as a child, like "Gary from the Post Office", an eccentric postal worker who carried himself a lot like Steve Urkel. I did it because my relatives thought it was cute, and what kid would turn down that kind of attention? Anybody on the outside more than likely assumed I was fucking retarded. Just picture the neighbors watching me from their living room window. "There goes Adam, that weird little shit.. Looks like he's wearing a cape and dumping dog feces into a bucket again."
But I'm damn proud of who I was. Imaginary friends and all. I think the most memorable of my imaginary entourage was the ginger kid from Captain Planet. He used to chill with me out in apple orchard on a daily basis, though I can't say where the fuck he was at on the day I nearly hung myself after wedging my head between two branches, flailing my legs about six feet from the ground. How the hell did I even get down from there anyways? Better yet, how did I even get myself into that situation? I'm not sure anybody would have even been surprised if I had died that way. They'd probably think, "Well, it was either that or he would of broke his neck diving head first into the crock pot like a Super Mario warp pipe..". Honestly, it had to of been expected at that point in time. Shit.. Did I even tell anybody about that? You guys might be the first to hear about it.
And let's not forget about Saturdays.. Holy shit were Saturday's the highlight of my week. I'd wake up at the ass crack of dawn in my standard issued "Proud to be Drug Free" t-shirt and matching tighty-whiteys, pour myself a massive bowl of Captain Crunch, and watch fishing shows on TNN until noon. But my day didn't truly progress until we drove out to my grandma's house for the weekly congregation, where I'd meet up with my equally interesting cousins. We'd run around like retards for a while before trying to dig a hole straight to hell, which usually just ended with Chris getting stuck in the fucking hole, where a huge scene unfolded and somebody would inevitably get hit in the face with a steel rake.. Do you think I'm lying? We have this all on tape. Hell, nothing went smoothly during these visits.. It was almost manditory for somebody to whip a toad at a fucking tree and turn me into a blubbering mess of sympathy and tears.. But by the end of the day, we'd all still throw a fit when it was time to go and beg our parents to let us stay for the night. This only worked about 16% of the time, but there were occasions when my grandpa had a few too many and backed us up with, "Oh hell, let 'em stay. They just want to play their fishing game!". Thanks for having our back, grandpa. I miss you every day.
But seriously, my childhood was incredible. I'd give up the world just to go back for a day, but at least I have the memories, right? I'll always remember getting bucked off of our horse while trying to impress the girl my mom babysat, and the time my dad flipped out because I referred to myself as a fartin' boy when I should have said farming boy. I mean, how many kids can honestly say they spent the majority of their days running around outside in their underwear with a fire hat and a Rhode Island Red Chicken? That's right, I had pet chicken, and I carried her everywhere.
And of course there were plenty of embarrassing moments way back when. Like the day my sibling got caught pulling his wiener behind the wing-back chair after my dad sent him inside to fetch a screwdriver, or the time my mom walked in on me naked with a shower cap and rubber gloves on my feet.. But those are probably the most golden moments of them all.. Although, there was that one day that I fell off the kitchen counter and got my sack hung up on the Lazy Susan, but... that's a story I'd rather keep to myself. I'm not sure I can live that one down.
Those were definitely the glory days, though. I'll miss 'em.
I haven't touched this blog in about year, and I'm really not sure why. I guess the shitty moments in life just caught up to me and snuffed out my positive perspective on things. Every now and then I find myself in the mood to write, but humor doesn't flow like it used to. But today, a friend of mine made a valid point. She told me I shouldn't have to be funny to write, and I should be thankful I can write at all, or something along those lines. She's right. So I'm taking a stab at something serious, something that's real, and perhaps through it, I'll find my niche again. (or maybe just a reason to bitch.)
I've been through a lot of crap in the last twelve months, some things good and others bad. For the first time I've questioned whether or not I'm a good person, having laughed when Bret Michaels almost died. I really hate Bret Michaels, but you guys know that. I've actually been asking myself a lot of questions. Anyone who knows me, knows that winter takes a heavy toll on me. It smacks me across the head with a wooden bat and leaves me crippled in the snow until that first warm day of Spring. November scuffs up my shoes while December whips out his bird and takes a piss on me. January shoves a gnarled branch up my ass and February seizes that opportunity to twist it and make off with my shit. March is pretty much just a dick who lingers over my body flicking one more cigarette butt for each day I've felt miserable. Eventually though, the snow melts, birds return, and I brush the dirt off my pants only to find that I've evolved as a person, reflecting on the things I've learned. A familiar state of well-being washes over me like a old friend, and I start exploring these warmer days. (I usually do April pretty hard once she gets here too, 'cause she's a fucking slut and doesn't mind a bit of exploring.)
But so far this year, I haven't been quite as successful. Sure, I take solace in Thursday nights, surrounding myself with those I care about and taking what advice is given to me. The weekend brings parties and good spirits, and I enjoy these things too. But soon the sun rises on a new week, and I wake up in time to see the dawn breaking over the lake. I revel in what's before me, lighting a cigarette and making my way down toward the waters edge. I'm at peace in this moment, but something is missing inside of me. I close my eyes and search for what I can't find, hoping it'll point me in the right direction. I realize I'm no closer to identifying what it is than I was before, my mind flooding with a thousand thoughts and dead-end worries. But maybe that's just it. Maybe I'm worrying too much. Maybe we all do.
In the stretch of things, I've learned a lot of lessons. You can't always have what you desire. You can't change the people you care about. You can't eat chili ramen without shitting your pants. You can't stand on top of the world if you don't give yourself the strength to climb. You'll get by with a little help from your friends. You'll get high with a little help from your friends. I could list a million things I've learned, but it's more important for me to focus on what I need to learn. I need to learn how to take criticism without taking it personally. I need to meditate on circumstances without over thinking them. I need to learn how to let go of my fears and take charge of tomorrow with an open heart. I need to learn how to grab an opportunity when it presents itself, and how to let go of those which are lost. I need to learn a lot of things, but through accepting this I've learned something more valuable than I imagined. I've learned there is little reason to be unhappy in a world with so much to learn. The pursuit of wisdom and love have always been my greatest priorities, and I've never stopped growing because of them. I like who I am.
I almost forgot how great it feels to put my thoughts into words.
(This is a blog that I wrote back in 2008, but it received zero publicity - and that's unacceptable.)
Face it, not everybody can be perfect parents. Not all of us want to be perfect parents. Take me, for example; I don't want kids now. I have too much I need to do before I make that leap, but one day I'd like to. Now, I've heard people say things like, "I'm going to be the best dad ever. I'm going to teach my kid to be awesome." - but I, on the other hand, have a different perspective on the matter. I want me kids to be unique. I want my kids to operate on a different level. I want them to be ready for anything. So here's what I'm going to do.
I'm going to tell my kids that monsters are real.
Can you imagine what kind of an impact that's going to have on my children? Think about it. I'm tucking my six year old boy in for the night. "Dad?", he asks, "There's a monster in my closet. I can hear him breathing, and I can see him peeking through the crack when it's dark. Can you get rid of him for me?". I stop for a moment to show a warm smile; then I respond, "No, son. That monster is clearly your problem, and if I open that door, he's going to become my problem; and that just doesn't seem like a reasonable thing to ask of your father." There's a short pause. "But what if he gets me?", he inquires. "Well son," I continue, "If I confront the monster, he's more than likely going to separate my torso from the rest of me. Then he's going to beat my upper half against the closet walls until I either bleed to death or endure substantial trauma to the head. What makes you think I'm willing to make a sacrifice like that, when the monster has obviously chosen you as a target, and not I?". My son begins to cry. I make my way to the door, and suddenly I stop. I realize that a mistake has been made.
"By the way.", I mumble as I walk over to unplug his night-light, "This months electricity bill was through the roof. Good night, son!"
It's been a while since I've written a blog, but during this stretch of silence, I've had ample time to ponder upon something that truly upsets me. There's a lot of shit on this planet which I'm not fond of, like week-long marathons of "The Munsters", and the outrageous price of cocaine. However, I feel that this is an issue which can no longer be ignored. I'm growing far too intolerant, and it's time for me to make a stand. I'm talking about, of course, Brett Michaels.
This guy is a filthy bucket of pond scum, completely ridden with brine shrimp and those weird little bugs that live inside makeshift stick shells. You know the ones. You don't want to pick them up because you're about 98% sure they're horrendous in every way, shape and form; like Nosferatu, but more closely related to a centipede. Of course, if we really want to compare Brett Michaels to a bucket of pond scum, we have to consider that this particular bucket of scum also contains approximately one cup of human feces, a dozen partially smoked Mavericks, last months issue of "Parade", mayonnaise, coagulated blood, and a giraffe's steaming vagina.
When I look at Brett Michaels (and please, spare me the accusations of "gaydom"), the only thought that enters my mind is how bad this guys ass has to stink. Let's look at the facts here. He became famous as a guitarist for the band "Poison" (which sucks). He's constantly wearing a bandanna (which also sucks) in attempt to hide something (whatever the fuck that might be); and he reinforces his ego by starring in a VH1 reality TV series (which inevitably sucks). If that doesn't spell out "rancid man ass", then take a moment to reflect on the picture featured directly above this paragraph. His ass has to be so infectious and dirty, that a vinegar-like discharge runs down his gooch and marinates around his thigh/testicle region. He never changes his leopard spotted butt-huggers, thus the level of smegma and/or crotch rot has to be grotesquely unfathomable to a magnitude unmeasurable by even the most advanced equipment available today.
So here is my proposition. If you like Brett Michaels, stop. If you listen to Poison, stop! If you watch his TV show, then seriously, you need to stop. After his (unnecessarily long) time in the spotlight has dwindled out, we can finally break away from this terrible affliction, flea bomb his living room, and feed him to the fucking rancor.
If I were a sand crab, I'd be the coolest crustacean on the east coast. There's probably cooler crabs along the Gulf of Mexico and the west coast, but I'm closer to the east so let's place our bets safely. You see people coming to the beach constantly, with their blankets, towels, gay ass umbrellas, etc.. But these people dwell on top of the sand. If I were a sand crab, I'd dwell beneath the sand, and I'd peek out of my hole every now and again to see if those assholes with the blanket have migrated away from my hunting grounds.
Sand crabs care about nothing. They just dig their holes, find sweet things which they can drag into them, and occasionally pop in and out to make sure no other crabs (like those scandalous mole crabs) are sneaking up to make off with their possessions. But what kinds of things would you find in the hole of a sand crab? Well, I've took it upon myself to make this diagram for the sake of demonstration. I hope this clears up a few things for all of you skeptics.
As you can see, if the crab doesn't guard his hole, his items are left open to anyone. He's not a trap door spider. He can't just build a door. He's a crab, okay? He's yellow. He has to guard his shit.
Imagine yourself standing in a thick deciduous forest, foliage cradling your knees like soft linens, and a rich, golden canopy glowing brilliantly above you. You stare up to see a few fleeting leaves, twirling their way downward to meet the earth. They've become one with the forest floor, much like the moss on the eastern face of every ancient oak. This is a beautiful place indeed. You wish your could live out here. Well, you can. Seriously, you really can.
What's stopping you from doing it? Bigfoot does it. Badgers do it. No internet? Shame. Have you ever carved a spear and chased a pheasant? No bathroom? Have you ever hung your ass cheeks over a fallen branch and squeezed out a few turds? It's awkward at first. You picture a family of young rabbits scurrying out of a raspberry bush to see a wretched brown eye defecating on the beautifully fallen leaves. "Cover your eyes!", the mother rabbit shrieks to her young. Perhaps even a hunter may stumble upon you, sneaking out from the woodwork. Be weary of him. For he might just plug your butt with his finger. It depends on what kind of hunter he is, or how stealthy. It's probably worse if he doesn't even have a gun. What's that hunter even doing out there? Has he been searching for such an opportunity? It's hard to say. Maybe he enjoys plugging butts.
If you grow hungry, and you find that killing an animal is too difficult, there's a lot of things you can eat. Depending on the time of year, berries might be in abundance. It's smart to live close to an orchard. Free apples are a wondrous thing.. or perhaps a county park, where you can disguise yourself as a bear and make off with picnic baskets. The only problem with that, is it seems no matter how hard to try, everybody makes potato salad differently. "Sweet!" you shout, "Potatoes, mayonnaise, celery, and... what the fuck.. onions?". Well, if you're still wearing your bear suit, there's nothing stopping you from killing the woman who made such an abomination. That's free meat, after all, and clothing. Hell, take the children too. Make them slave collars and force them to construct your homestead.
If you get into poison ivy (and you're a male), DO NOT touch your penis when you urinate. Use your sleeve. I tell you this from experience, mind you. I once thought I had contracted an STD from a certain female in which I had relations with. Then it occurred to me (after my hands broke out) that we had been running about the forest earlier that day and I had simply transferred the poison ivy rash onto my phallic. This was not a pleasant experience for me, nor for her if the regions I laid my hands on were also affected in such a way.
I hope this advice helps you to survive in the wilderness. I only wish to see you succeed, should you decide to pull a Christopher McCandless and journey into the wild.
Just leave Sean Penn behind. That guy's a doucher.. And he'll probably try to plug your butt.
To follow up my recent pirate blog, Captain Richard Phillips (previously held captive by Somali pirates) has been rescued, and is under the protection of the US Navy. He spent several days at gunpoint, held captive aboard a small life boat by four Somali "modern pirates"; and you all know how I feel about those assholes.
The media pummeled Phillips with questions regarding his endeavors, and he responded with the following. "Yes, I was captured by pirates. How they managed to apprehend me, I'm really not sure. I mean, I am a Captain of a freighter, so was probably drunk.. But hey, they weren't even real pirates, right? It's a god damned joke.", a reporter then asked him, "But, Captain Phillips, weren't you afraid for your life?". Phillips then responded, "Afraid for my life? Are you kidding me? These guys didn't even have swords. They smelled like moth balls, cognac cigarillos and a backwater flea market. I mean, all they did was talk about treasure. Where to store the treasure, what kind of traps to set, bla bla bla. After a few days of floating around the ocean like an asshole, I just kind of pulled my head out of my ass and decided.. 'hey, maybe I should jump off the boat.. That seems like a reasonable solution.'"
And it was.
Captain Phillips did in fact jump off the boat, and he was rescued by our US Navy Seals within moments. Three of the pirates were shot, obviously, because they weren't real pirates to begin with, and, quite honestly, real pirates don't get shot in the fucking face. They're more evasive than that. Phillips' youngest son was also questioned on how he felt about the situation. "I saw Pirates of the Caribbean." he continued, "If my dad was on the black pearl, he'd be totally fucked. But these guys were amateurs. They had snakes, and didn't even use oars. I wasn't worried for a second. Mom started fucking Diez, our Peruvian gardener. I figured it was some form of denial, but then again, she wasn't all too worried herself. Curious."
Phillips later commented, "I have no idea what the hell happened to my crew. As far as I'm concerned, they're a bunch of god damned pussies, and I won't have any pussies on my payroll. They'll all be fired, every last one of them, mark my words; and immediately replaced with real men of the sea.. Men who don't allow an entire freighter to be overrun by dickheads with ectothermic amniote vertebrates and flannel cutoff vests." Captain Phillips is protected now, and inbound for American soil. He is safe, resting easy, and eagerly awaiting to see his family.
So, what did we learn from this? Well, I certainly hope that Captain Phillips learned that if you're going to be captured by pirates and make CNN headlines for over 36 hours, you might as well be captured by the real kind. I mean, seriously, Phillips. Come on.
The fourth Pirate is in US custody and is currently under interrogation. Our nation strives to get to the bottom of this ordeal, and to find out exactly why pirates have abandoned their old traditions, and how snakes could possibly benefit their demise.
On a final note, Captain Richard Phillips escaped with no treasure what-so-ever. This leaves us wondering if it was really worth all the effort to save him. Do you know how many ships we had out there? Many have suggested that we simply turn him back over to the pirates, and hope for a more profitable outcome. Perhaps next time, he'll escape with a map, or a sack of doubloons.
Just goes to show you how much the Captain of a freighter is worth.
Throughout my entire life, I've had this burning hatred for Golden Retrievers. I'm not sure what it is about them. Maybe it's the way they carry themselves, all gracefully and gay, prancing across freshly cut grass with a bone in their mouth. They think they're better than everyone, and more valuable than any possession, even rubies. Yes, even rubies. If Golden Retrievers were people, they'd be the kind of people that I fucking hate, which are the people who are similar to Golden Retrievers. No, no. Like the people who own Golden Retrievers. You find me one Golden Retriever owner who doesn't think their dog is the greatest spectacle since Journey swept the nation, and I'll personally see to it that you're awarded with a commemorative plaque. No, seriously.
Now let's be honest here. Just take a look at this asshole. Look at his smug grin. "OoOo! I have a silky coat, weaved of the finest goooold! I have a middle-class family who lives in a pristine stone house with two kids, a mini van and a botanical gaaaarden!" Fuck you! I hate you, Golden Retriever. If it wasn't illegal to beat the shit out of dogs, you better believe I would have shown you a long time ago that being a Golden Retriever is a mistake.
Why can't people just buy good dogs, like these fine specimens?
These are fantastic dogs. They're way better than Golden Retrievers. What does your Golden Retriever do? It squints it's eyes and runs up to children wagging it's tail in Colonial Penn life insurance commercials. Do you know what these dogs do? They chill on your couch and act fucking awesome. They run at incredible speeds and hurl themselves through rings of fire. They lick their testicles while simultaneously performing extraordinary feats. They rent videos. They dive into pools, they tangle themselves up in the mini blinds.. They get you laid! When's the last time a Golden Retriever has ever gotten someone laid? Never. They've never gotten anybody laid.
Can you imagine that? Pirates? Picture you and your crew standing about a ship. You have 30 tons of silver in the hold. Suddenly, there's explosions all around you, and pirates begin scaling your ship. A sword slices clean through your body, and you fall helpless to the deck. Your vision fades to darkness, and the last thing you see are black sails. You are dead. You have been slain by a pirate, a dirty buccaneer of the high seas. Your crew sucks because they are not pirates, and you've lost possession of your ship. Now you're 30 tons of silver in the hole. How are you going to explain this to Mr. Roper?!
Actually, I should probably retract that "in the hole" part, because if pirates actually attacked you, you'd most definitely be dead. I'm not just saying that. I'm not "pulling your leg", as the old folks like to say. I'm not "pulling the wool over your eyes" as the farmers like to say.. I'm not "Peppering za old poop-chute", as those silly Swedes like to say. I am not shitting you. Nobody survives a pirate attack.
But in this particular news story, the pirates are not the fabled raiders of the sea. (Haha, Seamen) ; They're modern pirates. They have to use guns. They're a mockery to the legendary bearded scalawags of ye old lore. Let me share with you a few examples why.
Observe. Example A; this is the boat in which the pirates used to approach the ship. This piece of shit doesn't even have oars. Fact; pirates use oars. Example B; the two men in the front appear to be holding a tree branch, or perhaps a large snake. Fact; pirates do not use snakes. Example C; there is no physical evidence of beards, nor are there any hats/bandannas and or pirate apparel. Fact; well, pirates have those aforementioned attributes.
Now, to further reinforce my point and strengthen my personal attack against these "modern pirates" (That's right, I'm calling them out), It's a good idea to talk about what pirates do. So, what do they do? They like treasure, that's for damned sure. They tend to look for uncharted coves, which usually harbor sea caves where the pirates can horde their booty. How do they get the booty? They kick the shit out of merchant vessels. Yep, that's pretty much it. Plunder and pillage. They don't even have to be organized. They win because they're pirates, and there's gold to steal. They don't even spend the gold. Or at least, you never hear about pirates spending their gold. What would they spend it on? They just pile it up, along with other miscellaneous items such as scepters, jewels, and pearl necklaces.. maybe a sword jammed into the top with a crown hanging on the hilt. It's not uncommon to find some skulls littered about. Pirates fucking love skulls. Pirates think skulls are awesome.
These "treasure troves" are most certainly rigged with booby traps. If you manage to make it past the giant octopus (bad things usually guard the cave entrance), there would be nothing stopping you from making off with all the treasure. Pirates know this, and this is why you have to watch your step. The traps could be a variety of clever contraptions. Maybe spikes that come up from under your feet, or a log that swings down from the ceiling. It's not uncommon to see an arrow shoot out of the wall, or to fall into a pit of skeletons. (Pirates love skeletons almost as much as they love skulls) So it's always important to be on your guard. Unfortunately for you, you'll never make it past the cave-in, so good luck walking away with that treasure. (don't worry, pirates have secret entrances to bypass the cave-in. They can still get to their treasure even after a collapse)
Never forget that they always know where you are. As Amber said, "They're in the dark places of the ocean. They find caves and shit where you didn't even know they exist, and they always watch you from afar." Usually while they're waiting for an opportune moment to attack, they scavenge desolate islands for oranges (to prevent scurvy) and spice (for rum). It's in no manner a rarity for them to go ahead and bury a treasure chest while they're there.
Pirates are spontaneous like that, and fierce. They're rowdy, and drunk. They're committed to what they do, and they do it well.
A true pirate stands one foot raised upon the bow. The wind to his back, his beard blowing in the maritime breeze. His mighty sails are full, cast abroad the towering mast. Beams of sunlight burst through the majesty of billowing clouds, painting his shadow across a weathered deck. This kind of man goes where he pleases. He does as he wishes. He would face Cthulhu with his bare hands. He fears nothing. He is strong. He is proud. For he.. is a pirate.
I woke up this morning with that song stuck in my head. Augh, what's it called? The one they always play while you're carousing the produce at K-Mart. Actually, I take that back. K-Mart doesn't carry produce.. but Meijer does! (Although they're usually playing that one song by Kenny G, ex; Songbird) - but I'm talking about that dreadful melody that follows you around for a week after hearing it. You know how it goes, "Oo-oo-oh-wooah, baby please don't goooo!". I figure it's a subliminal thing. You hear it for at least an hour while browsing the cereal isle (wondering why the fuck they changed the shape of Trix from little fruits to crunch-berries), and after a while, it facilitates your brain to think about the grocery store every time you hear that piece of shit on the radio. I imagine the profit margin of your local market would sky rocket if they played the song more than they already do. They'd even have one of those line charts, and use a wand during their presentation to really point out their success. But then again, it'd probably just keep people from shopping there. :\
I feel that it's appropriate to introduce myself to all of you. Some of you know me, some might have stumbled across my blog on accident, some may have Google'd "fucking awesome". Regardless, I'm Adam, and it's nice to meet you. Please, stop fondling your balls for a moment and extend your arm to accept my virtual handshake. See? We look professional now, like we have awesome suits.. and really sweet briefcases.. Like the kind that you put a lot of money in. Would you believe me if I told you that 96% of the briefcases manufactured in the continental US are pretty much just made for holding excessive amounts of money? I pulled those statistics out of my ass. I'm sorry that I lied to you.
My blog isn't about anything particular. It doesn't have a niche, or a theme. I just write. I'll share my views on how shitty Saturday morning cartoons are these days. I'll write about birds, wondering why they're too lazy to walk south, and whether or not they have knees. Anything. Everything. Zero politics. None of that "Twilight" bullshit. The pussification of vampires, oh my! Underworld wins, hands down. Underworld wins like a mule at the donkey show. Why? Because the girls are way hotter, and the vampires in Underworld don't go to Junior High. I hate this Twilight craze from the deepest depths of my being. If I had a big ass bird, like a Macaw, I'd send it soaring into the skies, look at him go! "That's my bird. He attacks Twilight fans. That's right, bite off her nose!". It would specialize in dismembering parts of their face. Christ, I need a nap.
