The Airing of Grievances: Dr. Whatley Has His Festivus Prescription...In Booze

It's Festivus 2009! Holy shit has there been a ton of stuff that quite frankly makes me wish I spent the year shoving hot coals from the Centralia Mine Fire up my ass. Well, it wasn't that bad, and I'm not a fan of ass play, so I'll stick with "this year blew".

This is my second year of Grievances, fellow Grievers, and this year, in honor of those that cannot run this year's Festivus Celebration properly (they have lives and get pussy from time to time) I decided "why the hell not" and took the reigns and will emcee this shindig. I have the pole up, the dinner is served and unlike Chevy Chase hosting the Oscars, I'll try to do it well and be coherent the entire time. In fact, because of this little thing called "the internets" and my lack of it at my dump of an apartment, this year will be the first ever Festivus hosted entirely from the cozy confines of a place that serves buku amounts of my favorite food and alcohol. Buffalo Wild Wings, lots of beer and I will be sitting here awaiting the grievers to grieve, and by the end of the day, I'll pass out in a pool of Asian Zing boneless wing vomit and hope to God that I don't drunk dial one of those mentioned below. I'm going to keep a running tally on the number of beers I have on here as well, just to see if I make any sense.

*22 oz. Beer Number One*

I suppose that I could start with a few things here, namely the weather where I live, but that would be too easy. It snows a lot. It's colder than Kate Gosselin's vagina, blah blah blah.

Or how about my slut of an ex-wife, who has been ridden and dumped on with bodily fluids more often than Cedar Point's "Demon Drop".

I could chime in about my crazy ass ex-girlfriend, who for some reason thinks there are plenty of 38 year old males with no attachments (see: kids and/or ex-wife), little responsibility, high paying jobs, lots of money, have all their mental faculties, no emotional issues and are NOT douchebags who live OUTSIDE of their mother's basement.

And let's not forget about the woman I dated recently only to find out after 3 dates that a). she had three kids, b). those kids were obnoxious fucking apple chewers and c). those three kids were from three different fathers, one of whom still lived in the same apartment with her as a "friend". Yeah, way to go Whatley. Nice instincts. The back fat and the tattoo of Tigger that in retrospect looked more like Tony the Tiger on medicinal marijuana didn't give it away.

All of the above are about me, though, and really, who gives a green apple splatter shart about what my personal shit? Nobody, that's who. So let's begin.

First things first. Celebrity Deaths. These things happen every goddamn year, and every year the converage of said deaths get more in depth and worse and nauseating quite frankly. This year we had a few high profile ones and I am still hearing about them in some capacity. Web sites like TMZ, Yahoo! Oops (or whatever the fuck that is) get a dig on some celebrity shit and plaster it on their site as if the information is earth shattering and if we don't like, get it now, like, OMG! we might, like, be able to, like, improve our GDP, like and junk. Michael Jackson took a fucking truck load of pills? No way. Edward Kennedy's cancer cells decided to head home from the bar? It's about time. Billy May's had enough cocaine in him to kill a small Guatemalean village? Shocker. Brittany Murphy...wait...too soon? My point is, aside from these people being high profile in some regard for doing their jobs, poorly in a lot of cases (I'm looking at you Swayze...) they fucking died, it happens, let's move on and hope that Ashton Kutcher can get on this list already. If I hear another update on how MJ's doctor prescribed Propofol and Jesus Juice and tee hee...he wanted it so bad, well fuck me with a ping pong handle. Enough.

*22 oz. Beer Number Two*

Michigan State football. Most notably Mark D'Antonio. I thought you were supposed to come into my alma mater and turn shit around from that debacle known as the "John L. Smith" era? You know, discipline, effective recruiting, solid defensive play, a run at the Big Ten title? Remember those terms? What do we have now? Half the team involved in a dorm fight, members of the squad arrested for being dickheads, recruiting is brutal and you just fielded a 6-6 team and lost to a MAC team at home and "Fat fucking gut on my way out the door" Charlie Wies's Notre Dame team? The Red Cedar River stinks of that vile shit you've put on the field sir, and if it weren't for the fact that you beat Michigan (who is in worse shape than MSU, amazingly) and we have a basketball team that always saves the day, MSU would be known only for it's ability to create veterinarians, drunk whores and recruiting company sales reps after four years of burning couches. Step it up big guy, or I'll see you roaming the sidelines at College of Wooster soon.

Hey people with OCD? Get a grip on this shit already. I'm specifically speaking about one particular neighbor upstairs who is a cleaning freak. Four in the goddamn morning and that's a good time to clean your bathtub? Why is it only in America we can have "diseases" such as this one? Obsessing about cleaning? Good fucking Lord, buy some plastic and wrap yourself up in a little ball and never leave. Better yet, why don't you take that plastic and wrap your head in it and asphyxiate so that I don't have to worry about potentially paying for your prescriptions to help you refrain from vacuuming your bedroom at 5:37 in the morning.

*22 oz. Beer Number Three*

Comcast. Fuck you.

Boys Like Girls. I thought that 80's "I'm a dude, but I look like a chick" schtick went bye-bye in the, well, the 80's. Your act is about as fresh as Bea Arthur's clam. But then again, you are marketing yourself to a generation of people that know so very little about anything other than purchasing useless consumer products on credit and think Miley Cyrus has more musical talent than everyone in the history of music, so hey, whatever works. Just know that if and when I run into you around here on New Years, I'm going to throw beer bottles at you in the hopes you'll come after me in your pussy looking chick jeans so I can rip them with an Atomic Wedgie on your tour bus door handle.

And speaking of Miley. See you in the delivery room with the first of your babies in, say, oh...two years? Terrific.

*22 oz. Beer Number Four*

Douchebags I see where I am right now. Die already. I don't know how you keep landing hot chicks, for the life of me I don't know what women see in you guys with sideways hats and Hollister shit on, but die already so I can buy your lady a drink properly.

Douchebags that go to my gym. Die by drowning in that enormous jug of water you feel the need to tote around. Did you do those three sets of flys you just did with the 50 lb. weights in the middle of the Sahara desert? No. Hey tough guy, nice ripped shirt, nice Zubaz pants, nice tattoo, NICE LIFE. By the way, you misspelled "awesome" on your tattoo. Doosh.

Daunte Culpepper. Retire. It's over.

Hey other peoples kids...you suck. Hey parents of other kids...your kids suck. They aren't all geniuses, they aren't all cute, they aren't all going to play 3rd base for the Yankees someday, they all don't have charming and witty things to spew out of their cheeseburger encrusted mouths and they all don't look so adorable wearing their pink fuzzy slippers and one piece pajamas....they look like fat rubber double dongers, so knock it the fuck off. Seriously. Why is it that most parents I see on a daily basis hang over their brood and just gush at everything their whiny brats that should have been left as a puddle on 200 thread count sheets do? So your chubby "athletic" daughter can walk at nine months? Fuck you, that just means she'll be walking the streets earlier, lowering herself onto anything with a cock because you're too busy updating your Facebook status on the contents of her poop to notice anyway. Hey look, I have kids. I love them too. But my son picks his nose and eats it too often, my daughter has the fashion sense of a 70's Blacksploitation movie hooker and my other daughter seems to be headed for a career as a catcher in women's softball, so they aren't perfect. Your kids aren't even close either. They suck. Tell them to stop whining at the movies too.

*22 oz. beer number five*

I'm sure there is a lot more I could Air here at Festivus, but I prefer to not go all MySpace blogger and write a novella. Until next time grievers, Happy Festivus! See you bastards and twats in 2010!

*shot of Jameson*

*burp*