Xtivus 2008 With Assman

Warning: Reading this might take a while. If you're some kind of important jerk-off and you've got somewhere to be, don't bother to start. If you're a coffee drinker and you kinda sorta have to go take a leak, you may want to get that out of the way first. Are you hungry, Big Poppa Moon Pie? Head over to the fridge and grab a snack. I'll wait. When you're ready, it'll still be here.

This Festivus is weird for me because... well... things have been going pretty decently. If I look at the big picture, what do I have to sit here and use a few thousand words to complain about? My family is happy and healthy. I haven't been laid off, despite the comically-organized handful of rancid mayonnaise we're calling an economy these days. Bacon remains in production and can be added to sandwiches in restaurants everywhere. Bush managed to get out of office without napalming the Asian sub-continent or outlawing the proper pronunciation of the word "nuclear." Really... how can I be upset about 2008?

Then, a few weeks ago, I got an email from a friend of mine who fucked a clown.

Let me back up.

I've got a friend who is the same age as me (she's 2 months older, really) and we occasionally contact each other to stay in touch about things going on in our lives. One day, I fired off the Official "things-are-good-nothing-has-changed-how's-your-mother" Email. Right off the boilerplate. This email was so generic, I might have even started it with "To Whom It May Concern." I'm not sure anymore, and I refuse to check my sent mail to get clarity on the issue.

She responded saying things were good, work was going alright and for the last few weeks, she'd been fucking a clown. There you go. Enjoy your drive home.

Now... when I say clown... I don't mean those 2 or 3 clowns every woman fucks in her lifetime. We're not talking about Darren, that motherfucker that can't keep a job, or Carl, your friend that's been fixing his van for the last 12 years and lives with his grandmother. This isn't Big Dick Ricky that keeps failing the GED test and asking you to borrow $57 dollars for gasoline every time he visits. I'm talking about a guy that gets up to go to work, puts a red nose on his face, baggies up some stripey damned pants, paints on a smile, then punches the clock like it's just another Wednesday.

Naturally, I'm full of questions. Does he juggle while you blow him? Why not? Have you asked him to? Do your breasts honk when he squeezes them, and, if so, does that ever stop being funny? When he says he's going to hit you with a cream pie... which kind are you expecting? You're fucking a clown! The most exciting thing I'm going to do over the next seven days is read a funny email forward on my BlackBerry while somebody else drives the carpool. The concept of fucking a clown is so out of the norm and thrilling for me that I might stay awake for 3 months thinking about it.

I'll iron my pants. You'll watch him clean his semen off your stomach with his seltzer water sprayer. I'll change the filters on the air conditioner. You'll have a giant bouquet of flowers pulled out of your vagina. Unbelievable.

Some people have that life. Some people get to read emails about it, but... some get to write them instead. I want to have that kind of excitement. I want to get that thrill. I want to go to a party someday and meet a guy with a big white beard and a tweed jacket and hear him say, "I'm a famous designer. Have you ever seen the Yield sign while you were driving? Red triangle? Upside down? That one was mine. Took me seven weeks and I did it all while I was going through a divorce." I want to see the guy who made millions off of the Yield sign wipe a wisp of cocaine powder off of his cheek and confess that, for years, he had been screwing the wife of the guy that stole his idea for "Stop." I want that. I want to write emails that people want to read. She's fucking a clown. I'm deciding whether or not it's time to replace the weather stripping on the door to the garage.

So, in my jealous rage, I decided... there's always something to complain about, isn't there? It's Festivus. Let's talk about some shit.

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I'm disappointed that old school cartoons don't hold up when watched by the discerning eye of an adult. My kids pretty much live and breathe by watching the cartoons that their 42-inch screened, ever-loving third parent broadcasts for them 24 hours a day, and, sometimes, I'll try and get them to flip from the newer cartoon stations over to Boomerang to watch 80's shows with me. Doesn't always go over because watching shitty 2D animation is, to them, what watching black and white Betty Boop cartoons was to me. But, occasionally, I'll catch them on the good side of a nap and fire up some Jabberjaw.

Not always a great idea.

When I was a kid, I used to think my mom was smoking crack because she wouldn't watch the Smurfs with me. Wrong on two fronts. First of all... she was smoking pot. Second... all the pot smoke in the world wouldn't make the Smurfs a watchable TV show for someone over 13 years old.

Back in the day, I used to think Gargamel was just an idiot who couldn't keep his eye on 3 smurfs in a cage long enough to add them to his Heavy Cream Smurf Bisque before they escaped back to their strange mushroom village. Now, I wonder if Gargamel is a lonely guy living in the forest with his cat who can't keep strange mushrooms out of his diet long enough to realize that these little blue creatures he's chasing are all in his head. I have a theory that, in the never-aired last episode of the Smurfs, Gargamel's on-again, off-again girlfriend stomps out of his shack the morning after one last drug-fueled hate fuck and screams back at him, "Sometimes I just can't figure you out, Papa Smurf." Gargamel, then flashes back to all the battles he and the Smurfs had, realizes he was just wrestling himself in a pile of peat moss, then tries in vain to pull the plug on his elaborate plans to destroy the world's bank records while something from the Pixies' Surfer Rosa plays in the background. I haven't quite fleshed out all the details yet, but I suspect Meatloaf had to be on the masthead.

It's not possible to sit through an episode of Inch High, Private Eye and not imagine a lady waving her pinky at you while calling you the title character in a derogatory manner. The show used to be funny and cool. Now, it just makes me wonder whether or not I need to spend more time exercising my kegels. My kids are trying to follow the plot, and I'm just wondering why my wife keeps calling her idiot friend Ricky that can't stop borrowing gas money.

Pound Puppies? Please... they would have put these fuckers down by the third episode. The pound isn't some sort of doggie hotel where animals can come, go and solve crimes as they please. This isn't some adorable version of the Hyatt. The pound is where fluffy dough eyed puppies with big floppy ears are killed mercilessly and unceremoniously burned in a cremator. Does it make me an asshole that I scream out "dead man walking" every 3 minutes that it's on? Spay and neuter your pets, people.

Yogi Bear might be the worst show because it teaches kids that bears are cool and maybe just want a few bites of your sandwich before they go fuck lady bears named Cindy and take sweet naps. My daughters are watching it and yelling at the mean ranger for harshing Yogi's mellow. Yogi's awesome, they say. Meanwhile, I'm going to have to spend the next 12 years retraining them to believe that bears are heartless murderers and rangers are pretty much the only thing keeping them alive if they ever get lost in the forest with one. Or maybe I should just get them to watch The Edge with me one dark Saturday night while whispering "this is what happens to little girls that don't finish their vegetables." I dunno. Up in the air.

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I work with this lady and... back in, like, July or something, she asked a bunch of us what we thought about the election. We all said who we were in the tank for and, she stopped, looked at me and said, "Well, you're black. I guess it makes sense you would vote for Barack." Can I make a grievance about the fact that I wasn't allowed to punch her in her face, then go find her mom and punch her in the face too, just to end the fount of retarded thought at the spigot?

Let me get this straight. You're born. You're raised by your parents. You go to school. You learn dumb shit about mitochondria and retain it for 30 years for no reason other than maybe not having to use a street shout out if you're ever on Cash Cab. You learn about the world. You meet people. You hear their life stories. You study economics - micro and macro. You read books... alright, I won't lie... but you still watch educational TV shows. You avoid drugs for the most part. You watch the news on, like, 8 different channels because you want to make sure you're not just being lied to. You watch the news so much that when reporters cite "unnamed sources", you know who they're talking about. ("A leaked report about a security compromise at the South Dakota Department of Health? Man, that sounds like Bobby.") You study history and make analogies to current events in an attempt to not get tricked by the same crap twice. You learn to think critically. You manage to not fall for that "gas tax holiday" bullshit. You stop taking phone calls from your relatives because they're all idiots and every word they say is just making you one word dumber. You do everything short of climbing a mountain with a single flower in your hand just to learn The Way from Ra's Al Ghul, and, in the end, somebody has the bright idea that pretty much everything you believe in was determined the night your black father decided your black mother was looking good in those bell bottoms.

Fuck it. Let's not have the next Olympics. Let's just give the marathon medal to a Kenyan dude and the swimming ones to an American douchebag with jacked up teeth. Oscars? Screw that. Let's find an English guy that can fake an American accent to play a retarded person and hand him the statue. Next time you want to go out to a club? Skip the cover charge. Just shoot yourself in the ass, spill a drink on your good shirt and then go masturbate in your living room while telling yourself that you "could have scored if your cockblocking friends weren't such assholes." I mean... why bother doing anything anymore? You're born, you die, and, in between, you vote for the motherfucker that looks most like your Uncle Pete. I see no reason to try and bring free thought into the equation. Man, I wanted to choke that punk.

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I'm pretty fed up with the medical industry. Not because they're not out there saving lives and stuff. But more because... it's the future, and I was promised that wicked Star Trek diagnoser thingy where they just wave the same machine that the Ghost Busters used to find out if a room was haunted and then they can tell you what the problem is. Now, I've got a doctor prescribing a week's worth of Anacin to make sure it's not a headache from 1983 before he bothers with an x-ray. Can I get a shout from the folks in medical technology advancement? Holla.

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I had a beef with China last year, but this year, they gave me a new slate of reasons to want to see them set themselves on fire.

Okay... let's say you're watching a movie starring Jason Statham and Vinny Jones as a pair of kickboxing crimefighters who get hired by Interpol to go infiltrate an international drug ring being run by a megalomaniac who has an army of half-alligator half-rhinoceros creatures at his disposal. Jason and Vinny and kicking and punching animal hybrids for the first half hour of the movie while saying cool things in their British accents like "Looks like you've got over 200 teeth, rhinogator. It's going to take me all day to knock them all out, isn't it?" There are flips, explosions... Jason Statham has to drive a car at top speed down a skinny road in Belgium or something for some reason... you're pretty much enjoying yourself.

Now, at the climax of the movie, Jason and Vinny confront the bad guy - let's say he's played by an aging Malcolm McDowell - and you're all pumped up to see the final battle where they inevitably end up spin kicking Malcolm off of a 500 foot cliff into a pit of hungry rhinogators or something. If, at this point, Jason asks Vinny to toss him the nunchucks and Vinny, instead, kicks Jason in the back of the head, essentially revealing that he's turning heel and been involved with the drug ring the whole time, you're enjoying the nuance, right? You're liking that this otherwise straightforward action flick took a turn that only, say, 77% of action flicks end up taking, right?

This is my problem with China. There's no intrigue there. There's no back-of-the-head spin kick. China is clearly the bad guy nation and doesn't even pretend to be somewhat decent, not even for the first half of the movie. Cheating in the Olympics? Check. Faking the opening ceremonies? Check. Finding a guy that committed a crime during the Olympics, murdering him in public and half-heartedly pretending it was a suicide even though Scooby-Doo could have seen through that fake story in about 90 seconds sans Scooby snacks for inspiration? Yup. Making shitty, poisonous products, then, when called on it, getting angry at their accusers for insinuating that the dead children could possibly have anything to do with them? Kick it up.

I imagine that the dudes running China all have slicked back hair, white kittens sitting in their laps at all times, eye patches and names that loosely translate to "Doctor Hell Murder," or "Emperor Zartok Von Destructo." And quite possibly Ming Na wearing a collar and metal bikini while chained to their thrones. You're very transparent, China. I'd appreciate it if you could be the clandestine kind of evil, like India or Finland. If anyone from China's leadership group approached you and offered you the opportunity to "join their organization," you'd see through the ruse immediately. You wouldn't need to wait until you accidentally overheard them planning to kill a former colleague several days later.

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I need to enter another political grievance about people that keep sending me emails about Barack Obama's fake Hawaiian birth certificate or his obvious role as the anti-Christ. Can we talk for a minute?

Hey... guy with the John Deere hat and the pocketful of Skoal from Texas? Huddle up. You... elderly woman from Nebraska that really, really trusts Rush Limbaugh more than can be considered healthy by any standard? Put down the knitting needles and pull up an easy chair. Really overly religious guy from South Carolina that doesn't see the irony behind quoting the Bible's passages about love and acceptance while hating gays? Stop daydreaming about your cousin Raymond's tight jeans and sit a spell. Somewhat insane gun-loving pasty white guy that really thinks Ron Paul would have won if the goddamned media didn't give him such a bum rap? Bring it down about 45 decibels and take a seat on the left here. Tragically uneducated 27 year old from Jacksonville that thinks the reason he can't succeed in life has more to do with foreigners taking the jobs than with his inability to get through a job interview without saying the word "fuck?" Get off of the ATV, put down your welfare check and listen up. Dramatically skittish aunt from Oklahoma that has 37 cats, a collection of Niagara Falls sweaters, an AOL account she opened in 2007 and no recollection of ever having spoken a word to a negro in her life because "there are certain ways that we do things around here and that's just going to invite the neighbors to talk"? Take a hit of that klonopin and grab a chair near Texas guy in the front. Extremely disheveled, non-stop ranting, homeless-looking guy that you might think was a liberal until you hear him get to the section of his diatribe where he mentions helping Gargamel plant bombs under the IRS because "that money belongs to the people"? Right... just... put down the sharpened hockey stick... and take a load off. Overzealous weekend warrior from Michigan who signed up for the Army Reserves so he could personally save America from those goddamned towelheads, prove to his dad that he's not just a fat shit that failed out of high school and maybe score some sweet Juggalette pussy when he comes home between tours? Dial back the Tackleberry fantasy about 12 paces and stand at ease for a sec. Angry woman from New Jersey that feels Hillary Clinton is her last chance to prove that women can be successful at something (even if she doesn't support her policies) and that, somehow, Barack's victory over her is analogous to her ex-husband Ralph managing to divorce her without having to pay her alimony? Step away from the SuperCuts Club card, make an appointment with an alienist and get a free space over here on the right. Really well-moneyed guy from Manhattan whose first name is his mother's grandfather's last name, has never had a job in his life that wasn't "deciding how money should be invested" and suspects that paying an additional 7% income tax on a salary of $475,000 might force him to choose between firing his personal assistant so he can buy a new Bentley in March or firing two of his golf caddies so he can buy a new Bentley in March? Wow... just wow... and... yeah... sit, please.

Listen... the liberal media is filled with disgusting Marxist jackal pigs. We all know this. And we're all well aware that Obama had a handshake agreement with them where he'd give them access to unlimited government money if they helped him win. Let's get it all out on the table. They hate freedom, don't understand real Americans and exist only to control information and make your life difficult. I know. But... if a guy isn't an American citizen and he's running for president... at some point, that comes up. Even the leftist moonbats over at MSNBC have to mention it on the crawl. And if a guy walks out of the sea accompanied by a seven headed goat with a 666 across his forehead... we've got YouTube. Somebody films the damned thing and we're all watching talking heads dissect it on Larry King 3 days later. I'm thinking the rising, acid-swollen tides and the chorus of off-key demons ranting from the unclean halls of the abyss might trigger someone to break out the camera phone and at least get grainy footage of the wailing rivers of blood. The rise of the antichrist isn't the sort of thing that you can miss. Could you maybe leave the amateur sleuthing to Chip and Dale's Rescue Rangers and possibly use a little bit of common sense before you send me the retarded email? Thanks. Heil Hannity.

Oh, and weekend warrior from Michigan? Faygo is an excellent gift on a first date. Good luck, buddy.

*----------------*

Minor complaint about Subway's catchy advertising campaigns. If she hears me singing "Five dolla, five dolla, five dolla foot looo-ooong" around the house one more time, there's a good chance my wife is going to toss a javelin through my throat. Can you go back to the Jared thing? Were you losing money?

(Jesus, this is getting really disjointed.)

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I'd like to publicly file a grievance about a guy in my fantasy basketball league. Don't worry about who he is, because chances are he's in your league too. He's the guy that sends trade requests asking me for LeBron James in exchange for seven other guys, four of which aren't even in the NBA this season.

Hey, buddy? I know you're in last place and things are looking kinda tough going forward. Spending that early draft pick on Gilbert Arenas didn't exactly work out for you, and I know you're still holding out hope that this is the season Darko Milicic is going to turn things around. I completely understand how you must feel. But, listen...

Making me spend 8 seconds of my day reading your fucked up email about Amir Johnson's "projected post All-Star Break statistics" before I resoundingly press the "Fuck No" button is only making me angry. That's the sort of thing that makes me want to google your Yahoo! handle, find some post you made on Craigslist in Kansas City trying to sell broken motorcycle parts for $300, sort out your home address and make a weekend trip to your house just to take a crap in a manila envelope and leave it in your mailbox. God willing, you'll open it while it's still warm. I hate you. I hate everything about you. You don't deserve any amount of happiness in life. And, yes, that is indeed partially digested corn.

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(I wrote my grievances in three parts last year because I kinda thought that might make them easier to read. I thought about doing that again this year and decided that it requires too much organization. I'm just going to make motherfuckers scroll for a bit. If that doesn't work for you... er... sorry?)

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(Alright, that last section there wasn't exactly a grievance, but I still used the little asterisk/dash thingy to offset it from the rest of the text which gives the illusion that it's a grievance, even though technically, it's not. I should have either added a truncated version of it to the gay italicized warning section at the beginning or edited it out completely since it doesn't contain essential information to a reader. And I'm aware that I'm doing it again right now. Let's see if I can't fix it.)

People need to stop getting all meta when they write on the internet. Keep your inside thoughts inside. And if you need to go back and edit something, just do it before you publish. You don't have to use the strikethrough tag to clue us all in on your little "stet" joke.

(Good recovery, man. Now let's stop doing this.)

*----------------*

This is kinda out of the blue, but, I'd like to file a grievance about Courtney Love. As a guy that keeps a blog where he makes lots of sex and drug references, I'm truly disappointed that she managed to make it through 2008 without getting into the news even a single time. Come on, Courtney... this shit doesn't write itself! Would it have been so hard to get caught blowing the guys from OK Go while they danced on elliptical machines? You couldn't try and sell oxycontin to David Archuleta or something? Since when do you ever take a year off from debauchery? It's not a good look on you. I don't support it. Here's hoping she starts out 2009 by trying to assassinate Rudy Giuliani at a "Supporting Crooked Cops as Long as They're Just Killing Brown People" fundraiser.

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I don't like the fact that The Tim Tebow Song exists. Not just because Tebow might be the only Heisman winner in history to have never thrown a spiral in his life (and that includes OJ Simpson), but also because there's an 87% chance this was filmed in one of these guys' backyard. Sub-grievance? You're not allowed to wear socks with sandals. Chomp chomp, baby.

*----------------*

Auto bailout loans? So... check this out. The leaders of the American car companies ask the government for a loan, yadda yadda, the government says they'll do it if conditions are met, yadda yadda, the automakers half-assedly slap together a plan. Whatever. You get Yahoo! news alerts like everyone else. This paragraph was completely unnecessary.

My beef is this... one of the changes the automakers say they'll make is that they'll go ahead and close down production of Saturn cars because of lagging sales. Saturn, meanwhile, is one of the only cars they make that pretty much nobody ever complains about. The lack of sales would come from lack of promotion if anything. I don't ever recall seeing a commercial where a cowboy drives a Saturn to a rodeo while a guy with a really deep voice waxes manly about how much torque it's got. I've never seen Hank Williams Jr. standing on the hood of a Saturn playing a guitar solo while fireworks go off in the background and dancing women that are far more attractive than you'd ever see dancing around a car with Hank Williams playing a guitar on it in real life are all dressed like prostitutes at the county fair. Hell, I can't even name a single model of Saturn off of the top of my head. Could that be why, when I'm eating raw steaks and making fun of European people with my friends, I've never thought to purchase one? Meanwhile, I can't hear the word "Durango" without dropping to the ground, doing 20 push-ups and calling my wife a "faggot" for watching Dirty Sexy Money every week. Marketing is important. It makes a difference in people's lives.

Really... this is like arresting a burglar, having him plead for leniency in front of the judge, and when the court asks him how he's going to change his ways, hearing him pledge to stop paying child support. Why are you going to stop doing the one damned thing you're doing right in your life? You assholes never learn.

*----------------*

Semi-related grievance. When the government spends cash, stop referring to it as "spending my money". That shit is gone. Taxed. Off of your ledger. When the guy who owns Target gets a hotel room filled with hookers covered in cocaine on his birthday, do you complain about how marked up the blow was because you bought a toaster there last year? You might need to discuss this matter with your accountant. Money that is longer available to you to spend because you spent it on other things (and that includes the union dues that we call taxes) can't be bitched about. Shut traps. The lot of you.

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If you live in California, and your house gets burned down in one of the 37 disaster-level wildfires they have going on there every year, don't get on TV and say "I don't understand how this could have happened." If you're an out-of-work actor and you're using the opportunity to semi-audition for directors who might be watching the news that day, I can understand it, but if you're just a regular dude with a wife who can't stop screaming in the background while she stares at the music box her grandmother gave her (which seems to be the one thing that survives every fire), you need to get it together.

First of all, you knew California loved getting caught on fire when you bought the house. You did your research after you got hurricaned into bankruptcy in Florida. Second, you chose to not dig a thirty-foot moat with sand bunkers around the property. That was you. All you. Third, wouldn't you rather be the first guy to go on TV and say something like, "Look... we knew the place was going to burn down eventually. Honestly, I was just hoping I'd be able to finish building the deck and flipping it for a profit like I saw on HGTV before the flames hit. Maybe if Meryl Streep back there spent less time whining while dramatically listening to the music box and spent more time helping me move the lumber, we wouldn't be standing here with egg on our faces. Now, excuse me... I've got to see if I can dig those divorce papers out of the fireproof safe." After you became a YouTube sensation, you could build a new house with profits from your book deal.

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I can't get into cat people. They say things like, "Patches really loves me. She lets me feed her by hand sometimes, and, if I'm in a bad mood, she'll let me rub the back of her neck until I feel better. She doesn't really ruin the furniture all that much and doesn't tinkle on my stuff unless I'm late getting her dinner." That's not a pet; it's an abusive husband. Are you a cat person or are you Tina Turner? Y'all really need to figure out how a relationship ought to work before you start bragging about the shitty one you've got.

(I can't tell if I'm getting close to the end of this or not.)

(Fuck. I'm doing it again.)

*----------------*

Here's someone I see every morning when I drive to work. Don't be that person that, in the morning, is putting makeup on while they drive, but is still hopelessly ugly. If you're going to be the ass that damned near kills everyone else on the road because, hey, driving is hard when you're doing it with your knees... you could at least be doing it for something worthwhile. You're like the guy that's trying to bail water off of the Titanic with a bucket instead of helping everyone else get into lifeboats. Stop wasting time and energy on a lost cause and maybe consider the needs of others for a few minutes, if you don't mind. You're always going to be ugly. Let's maybe work on "alive" instead.

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If you went out last night and got drunk... don't talk to me the next day and describe every single drink you had in order. I know how drinking works; I've done it. You drink something, feel good, then keep going until either you or your stomach decides you need to stop. If you ended up getting wasted, I already have an idea of how it happened. You don't need to say "I had two beers at Roy's apartment, then me and Quan did 2 shots at the Taphouse because he knows a girl that waits tables there. Then I had 3 vodka and Red Bulls, 4 Soco's, something with, like, a Puerto Rican rum in it, and a shot of tequila. Then after that, we went over to blah blah blah and had a fifth of hoop de what the fuck! Yay!" Just stop it. Every second of that is annoying and it makes me want to slowly start punching you in the face. First, I'd do, like, two hooks to your right cheek. Then, a round of shots to your lip. Then I'd get a free jab to your eye because the bartender there knows my cousin and he's cool. Then, I'd do, like, six roundhouses to your jaw. Dude... you'd be fuuuuuucked up.

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Oh, and speaking of bars? Bar owners? Stop being that bar that waits until it's really late at night and everyone is nice and toasty before you play House of Pain's "Jump Around."

I'm not sure if you guys know this... or maybe you do, since you're the ones that have to pay the repair bills and call the insurance company once a week... but something about that song brings assholes out from their hiding places. Like, you could only have 7 people in your bar peacefully discussing the writings of Deepak Chopra, and, the second that song comes on, three guys wearing wifebeaters slip out of the bathroom, one guy with really spiky hair will crawl out from under a table, and four guys with glow sticks in their mouths will pop up from the ground like those creepy shadow creatures that dragged people to hell in Ghost. And, without missing a beat, whichever of them claims to be Irish that night will jump right into the back of someone holding a very full beer and a needless brawl ensues. Why are you doing this, bar owner? Stop bringing assholes into my life. I'm trying to get my drank on.

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In a similar vein, people... stop telling me that I can't judge a book by its cover when I see a guy and decide he's an asshole. When was the last time you saw a guy that looked like an asshole and, after about 12 minutes of talking to him, you didn't think, "Yeah... definitely an asshole. I was right." Some things you can't assume by a person's appearance, but whether or not they're an asshole isn't one of them. You can't hide asshole. Asshole is like a red scarlet letter of cock-knobbery plastered across your face at all times. Even if you try to fake a smile and let an old lady have your seat on a crowded train, she's still mumbling about how much of a dick you were about it before she sits down. Asshole cannot be obfuscated. Asshole is forever. Asshole is clear and evident. And I'm looking at you, Kobe Bryant and Richard Jefferson. Let's stop pretending. Everyone knows.

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Hey... lawyers who claim to want to protect accident victims and also have rap jingles in your commercials, can I talk to you about what you're doing? You're saying, "Hi. I'm a really talented lawyer that has a ton of skill and experience at making accidents profitable for the victims. At the same time, I'm openly ignoring the higher-end, more educated consumer and clearly trying to appeal to a demographic that has a history of demonstrating an inability to understand the fine print in written agreements. Yo hablo espanol, but my contracts damned sure don't, so, if you're going to hook up with me, you can fully expect me to try and screw you in every manner possible. By the time the trial is over, you'll be legally obligated to wash my car twice a week while your wife strips for my friends. Have her start doing her Pilates now, and let's take the fight to the insurance company fatcats together."

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This one is short. Rappers? Stop pretending to be rich when this is just your first single. Unless your record company gave you a $45 million advance, I'm pretty sure you don't own 22 Bentleys with a beauty pageant winner sitting shotgun in each. Maybe you could write songs about how good it felt to give two weeks notice down at the Steak N Shake? That's a bit more realistic. Like Special Ed really had a treaty with Tahiti because he owned a percent...

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Side note... bands need to do a better job in general of letting everyone know when they've broken up. I think I was still waiting for Bell Biv Devoe to come out with their next album when I suddenly realized that kids in high school were born well after the last one was on the charts. Is No Doubt still a band? Does anyone know? Does everyone besides me get a newsletter or something? How come I'm always the guy saying "Really? They split up? Two new bands? Sparta and the Mars Volta? Since when?"

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And I guess this one is a two-parter. Bands? You can't make songs with awesome choruses and boring verses that are about serious topics. We learned from "Born in the U.S.A." that when people hear a good chorus, they just want to sing it and never bother to learn the rest of the words. Now, whenever I hear a new song, I get paranoid and have to research it on Wikipedia before I decide if I can like it. I don't want to be sitting in my car singing "this sex is on fiii-iire" and have my friend suddenly accuse me of supporting Tongan genocide.

Additionally, when I need to look your song up on Wikipedia to make sure it's safe, I'll need to know the name of it. Stop giving your songs names that aren't mentioned in the chorus. I know this stifles your artistic whatever the fuck, and that your precious expressive libido is all you have left after your record label gives you the accident victim lawyer treatment (you're such a baby), but it saves people from flipping through 800 Pearl Jam CDs to figure out which one has that song "Of What Was Everything" on it. Dial back the pretentiousness, Lou Reed, and think of the consumer. Okay?

*----------------*

Alright... this has been going on for a bit now, and I imagine we're down to only about 12% of the people that started reading from the beginning. Cool. Let's get intimate and talk about more personal type stuff.

My wife has got these hippie friends. This, on its own, is already three different kinds of bollocks, but in life you've got to choose your battles and I decided to choose "no patchouli oil in the house" instead. These hippies have a son and raise him the way hippies raise their children - through a series of fortunate accidents and extreme coincidences. And for whatever reason, they think this sort of quarter-assed, haphazard leadership works for people who don't randomly get bailed out by their children's more-responsible grandparents.

So, we're at their hippie house, surrounded by flowers and drums or what have you, and these folks, when I went to the bathroom, decided it would be funny to make their son and my 3 year old daughter kiss each other for the amusement of the adults in the room.

Sometimes I'm unclear on the lower limits of things. One day, a picture of a baby in a bathtub is cute, then at some point when the kid gets older, the same picture in the same bathtub becomes child pornography. I don't know when that begins. Anyway, I'm sure at some point, making two little kids kiss each other is adorable and the sort of thing you'd love to see on a greeting card, but if I come into the room and my daughter is looking at me with the "does this count as rape?" face, then we're well beyond it. Now, you're a room full of hippie pimps that ought to toss on an old Grateful Dead bootleg for entertainment instead of trying to put on a Tijuanan donkey show with somebody else's daughter. You're about 12 seconds from whipping out handfuls of cash and chanting "ass to ass" in really creepy unison. I don't live in Tampa; this sort of thing shouldn't be a normal occurrence in someone's living room.

I don't think the hailstorm of cuss words and the cloud of exhaust fumes I left when we whipped out of there were enough. My grievance is that I should have been allowed to murder them. I don't think that sort of thing should be censured. If the state of Texas can murder people for being convicted of crimes that are heinous because they couldn't afford a better lawyer, I should be allowed to murder hippies for doing their freaky beatnik shit to my family.

*----------------*

And on a somewhat similar note, whoever thought it was a good idea to make terrycloth bathrobes for 3 year olds needs to be dealt with. There's no worse feeling than waking up Sunday morning, feeling kinda groggy, then ambling downstairs to see your daughter lounging around the living room like she just finished up shooting "Toddler Threesomes 7." Does dad need to murder someone before he fires up this omelet? I'm immediately looking around the room for a guy with a bushy moustache and a storyboard complaining about the lack of good lighting.

Honestly, I'm not even sure that item needs to exist. What toddler needs to relax? The hardest thing she has to do in a day is avoid shitting herself.

*----------------*

My wife is a church-goer, which means I occasionally have to join her in the pews. Sacrificing the early games on one Sunday a month is a small price to pay to have to avoid having to explain 'free will' to my children while they're still young enough to opt out of vegetables and reading.

To some people, this ninety minutes is uplifting. I, however, just spend the whole time staring at the crucifix and hoping that, whenever I die an embarrassing public death, nobody decides its a good idea to make a little statue reenactment of it and worship that every Sunday all over the world. I can imagine my ghost screaming out about how I didn't know the fish sandwich still had bones in it while staring at a person with a tiny medallion of me choking hanging around their neck. I feel bad for Jesus in that respect and, if nothing else, this is a great reason to avoid doing positive things with your life. Rarely do you see people getting tattoos of Lucifer's fall from the heavens. One to grow on.

But here's the grievance. While I'm at this church, they do an awful lot of singing. (They've got a book with, like, 700 songs in it - all about the same thing. Linkin Park would be very jealous of their monotonous proficiency.) And about half the time, these songs have melodies that clearly rip off pop music. It's like, one minute, we're all standing and praying, then, the next minute, we're singing a song about the Virgin Mary to the tune of "New Years' Day" by U2.

I like to turn to my wife and start singing the real lyrics to let her know that, yes, I've figured this one out. If I have sunglasses in my pocket, I'll even put them on and start in with Bono's antics just to let the choir leader know that he's not getting away with this. My favorite is when they steal Rolling Stones tunes. Nothing quite livens up church like seeing a guy doing the chicken dance like Mick Jagger in the aisles. That, and when they do the song that sounds like "In Between Days" by the Cure. I wish I had the hair to pull the Robert Smith imitation off properly. I really do.

*----------------*

That might be enough. Unless anyone else wants to come out of the closet as a clownfucker? Anyone? If not, enjoy Festivus.

Comments

[Vandelay]

I can't read this whole thing right now but did you get answers? I bet the clown is like a completely serious deadbeat in the sack. Aren't most clowns angry inside?

[puddy]

this whole thing is very meta.

[puddy]

this whole thing is very meta

[Dr. Tim Whatley]

Oh, and weekend warrior from Michigan? Faygo is an excellent gift on a first date. Good luck, buddy.

Fuck yes it is.

[Pnewman]

I forget where I was when I started reading this. I think I was 13 and had just finished blowing my priest.

[Assman]

I can't read this whole thing right now but did you get answers? I bet the clown is like a completely serious deadbeat in the sack. Aren't most clowns angry inside?

I think I was too taken aback to process the details of the event. I need to email her back.

this whole thing is very meta

Or is it?

[Jason]

I like how the dude in the Tebow vid is wearing a Wuerffel jersey. And Tebow doesn't need to throw spirals - he's got the jump shot, man.

[Mr. Kruger]

Yogi Bear might be the worst show because it teaches kids that bears are cool and maybe just want a few bites of your sandwich

Reminds me of the lady from West Virginia who spread honey all over her kid's arm when a black bear showed up at the picnic looking for treats. Thinking the bear was a big dog that would lick the honey off she got out the videocamera and as she started filming the bear went over to the kid and took off his entire arm.

[Mr. Kruger]

Or maybe I should just get them to watch The Edge with me one dark Saturday

Another movie where the token black dude is burdened with the worst luck and is made the example of how bad things can get for the rest. That scene was straight out of South Park.

[Assman]

Thinking the bear was a big dog that would lick the honey off she got out the videocamera and as she started filming the bear went over to the kid and took off his entire arm.

This statement requires a video link.

[Jack Klompus]

"Another movie where the token black dude is burdened with the worst luck and is made the example of how bad things can get for the rest."

Damn good call, Kruger. I remember watching that and thinking to myself, "no way the brutha lasts another scene." It just seemed like an odd placement. Like he was tricked into the job ala Ice-T in "Surviving the Game."

[Newman]

I also agree wholeheartedly on the rappers thing. I can't help but wonder when I hear "Pile Up Your Stacks" or something by Street Rose and it's like, "jump out the Lambo and buy the bar out" and I'm like, jeez, young man...that's not a good financial investment with your $15,000 advance.

[Corinne]

I think you mean "doe-eyed" not "dough eyed" (although the idea of a lil' pup with wheat rolls in his skull is pretty sad).

[Vandelay]

So just so we're all on the same page here...you wanna fuck a clown?

[Assman]

I think you mean "doe-eyed" not "dough eyed"

I wrote, like, 7,000 words. I'm allowed to fuck a couple of them up.

I can't read this whole thing right now but did you get answers? I bet the clown is like a completely serious deadbeat in the sack.

And I got an answer today. Apparently, he's a pretty good lay.

[Vandelay]

Dammit!

[Vandelay]

So, I just decided to print this out and take it to the "office" with me. Do you know that in a 12 point font, this fucker is 15 MS word pages?

[Assman]

Do you know that in a 12 point font, this fucker is 15 MS word pages?

Yes. Anything less and you'd have been calling me a slacker.