Man with camouflage hat and beergut.
He will be wearing jeans.
He bowls regularly and knows his average.
He drives a pick-up truck. The probability that it is also camouflaged is 70%. It does have a gun rack and a cartoon drawing of Calvin pissing on his truck’s main competitor’s logo. He’s feels passionate about his truck’s superiority in the American market.
He owns a confederate flag, and proudly has it displayed somewhere. Even if it’s only his living room.
He finds Jeff Foxworthy insightful and hilarious and often compares himself to Hank Hill.
He has pissed in a sink more often than you’d think reasonable.
Most of his hobbies involve killing animals or fish.
He voted straight republican on account of the blacks and queers.
He has been in the emergency room for both firework and beer can related injuries.
He calls his wife his Ol’ Lady.
His Ol’ Lady gets violent on the hard stuff.
He doesn’t quite know how he feels about the International Monetary Fund but he doesn’t think he likes it.
He is a premillennial dispensationalist but has never heard the phrase and wouldn’t know what it meant if he did.
He suffers a deep seated sense of inadequacy around people who are outside of his social standing/circle and tries to cover it with racism and lawyer jokes. Mostly learned from the Redneck Comedy Tour featuring Jeff Foxworthy.
Girl in Prius with Yoga bumper stickers
She presents a serene, slightly ambivalent face to the world but if you happen to make her angry, especially during her Colon Cleanse *With Acai Berry® week, she’ll turn all poltergeist and destroy you and everything you hold dear.
She fancies herself more enlightened than the masses and can’t help but feel a sense of superiority, even though she knows that she’s not supposed to. She hates camo hat guy and secretly daydreams about breaking his jaw with a new move she learned in Yoga Boot Camp® class.
She listens to a lot of PBS and Radio Active even though it sometimes goes over her head and other times bores her to death.
She talks about ‘cashing out’ one day, buying a yurt and living like the ancients in the wilderness. But she never will since nature itself doesn’t have nearly the selection as Natures Finest®.
She’s passionate about sustainability.
She either has a Reiki session or a Reiki class scheduled for this week.
She knows that The Secret® is mass produced, intellectually vapid drivel but she still practices the Laws of Attraction® because the basic premise is right on.
Her tramp stamp is the infinity symbol.
She named her dog Deepak and tells people that it’s part wolf. She’s lying.
Guy in an Ed Hardy t-shirt
He’s a douchebag.
He’s also a tool.
Guy in ridiculous pajama pants because real person pants no longer fit him.
He owns two MMA style shirts and 3 Ed Hardy shirts but only wears them on special occasions.
He spends most of his mental energy planning and fine tuning his nutritional regime. He’ll be more than happy to tell you all about it.
He spends most of his money on steroids and supplements.
He can’t walk by a shiny surface without making his pecs jiggle.
When a good looking couple walks by he checks out the guy. Only to re-assure himself that he’s bigger and/or more cut.
He’s definitely, totally, not gay at all.
He’ll fucking kick your ass if you even suggest it.
He’d probably let you suck his dick though.
Because that’s not really gay.
Dear Old Men Ball Danglers at the Gym,
I go to the Y because it’s cheap and gritty. I like cheap and gritty. I hate those yuppie gyms with sparkling chrome and polished leather equipment that no one uses because no one is there because everyone is terrified of their hard sell and their tight shirts and their perfect hair. I go to the Y because I like cheap and gritty. I like to see some handicap people around, giving it their all. I enjoy my conversations with drug dealers and gang bangers. It’s inspiring to see the homeless coming in; sure, I have to watch that the crackhead doesn’t steal my stuff and watch that the elderly alcoholic doesn’t spill his beer, or piss, or whatever the hell is in that gallon *water* bottle. These are my peoples. I’m like Jesus in that way. I love the street and the flotsam and jetsam that get washed in with it. I like cheap and gritty, I like the Y.
What I can not abide, however, are you, the Old Men Ball Dangler Brigade. When I’m getting dressed in the corner of the locker room, keeping my eyes on the crackhead who just wandered in and is methodically searching for an unlocked locker, and you choose to dry off right next to me and you swing your leg up on the bench and everything just comes alive right before my eyes, dangling and swinging and twisting and bouncing and undulating and pulsing I feel kind of sick. I don’t appreciate it when you run your towel up your leg and one, lone, testical escapes like an orbital, fleshy Shawshank Redemption. I don’t like that.
I don’t like when I’m working out and one of you begins stretching or performing an ill advised exercise on nautilus equipment wearing too short shorts and I’m forced to witness a pink, veiny ball of soup working its way down your leg.
I hate when I’m in the sauna, donning the appropriate swimwear as clearly indicated on the easy to read signs, and you saunter in like John Wayne, lie down and de-towel yourself, revealing a lack of appropriate swimwear and a horrific lesson in physics and gravity.
Dear Obviously Gay Guy at the Gym,
I’m not at all interested in your nutritional regime. Also, although I tend to stare at balls, I’m not gay. At all. Sorry. If you really need a blow job, you could probably work something out with Crackhead.
Dear Lottery Clerk,
Please stop asking me if I also want to play my numbers in the afternoon draw or if I’d like to play the Powerball. I’m a
gambling junkie, I can’t say no. What if I say no and the guy behind me wins and I have to come back and kill every mother fucker in the store?
Dear Bureaucrat Who Came up with the Afternoon Draw,
Dear Casey Anthony,
That was kind of a bitch move. You make me yearn for the innocent days of my youth when I still believed in heaven, hell and some form of ultimate justice. Sadly, that’s not the way things work. But, given that you still live here in Florida there’s a very good chance that you’ll die a violent and horrible death just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like a crackhouse on a Friday night or Wal-Mart on check day.
Also, if I see you I’m going to be all passive aggressive because I’m gangster like that.
Dear Michele Bachmann,
If you win and turn this country into a Christian theocracy, I’m going to be nice to Casey Anthony just to spite you. I’ll also be on the first plane to Costa Rica.
Since Monday countless Americans, and presumably people from other countries as well (I’m not sure because I don’t know how to check) were raptured as Jesus began his second coming round-up. For thousands of years, or at least since 1830, many Christians have believed that Jesus was going to descend from heaven to rapture his church. Jesus’ church is generally considered anyone who professes their faith and love in the lord and is white, protestant and republican and owns at least one horrific winter sweater. Most had assumed that the rapture would be an instantaneous, co-ordinated event, but so far it looks like it’s going to be a long process, at least based on the early pattern.
The loved ones who have been left behind by those missing are predictably remorseful. Norma Jean Druitt, widow of William ‘Buck’ Druitt issued the following statement to the media: “On Wednesday night we went to our separate bedrooms, him being a Leno man and me not being sexually attracted to him in the least and when I got up Thursday morning he’d been raptured away. The only things left in his rooms were his bible, dentures, bedclothes and body. But ol’ Bill was gone, any fool could tell that. All those years that bastard went on and on bout Jesus… I shoulda listened.”
The Druitt’s weren’t the only ones caught up in this strange, supernatural phenomenon that swept the country however. Sharon Pearson watched as her husband was raptured right before her eyes. “One minute he was ranting on about George Soros and the anti-Semitic Semitic progressive socialist movement and drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper and the next he was grabbing at his chest as if in love, and acknowledging Jesus’ presence by saying, “Oh Jesus Oh Jesus Owwww Shit.” Then he fell down on his face and was…. gone, just gone.”
Most Christians had erroneously believed that when they were raptured they’d be taken bodily to heaven, getting to avoid the reality of a physical death, but they were wrong, dead wrong, in all but a few mysterious cases. In one such instance a teenager, staying with his slutty girlfriend in a creepy little cabin deep in the woods told the slut that he’d heard a strange noise ‘out there’ and was ‘going to check it out.’
Coincidentally, the only other instances where the body was also physically raptured were all preceded by a cryptic message uttered from the soon-to-be rapturee the last time they were seen.
“I’ll bet you five dollars I can swim across this fucker.”
“There seems to be something stuck in the wood chipper Matty, let me call you back.”
And, “Dude, have you ever mixed Ketamine with PCP?”
Were all among last words uttered by the vanished.
In the strangest case of all, the man who made himself rich and famous by wrongly predicting the rapture in both 1994 and May 2011, and who subsequently re-re-prophesized the event for October 2011 has been partially raptured. It seems only the right side of his face and partial use of his right arm and penis were raptured.
PS- I know that you guys are probably getting tired of all the rapture all the time on this blog so I swear this is the last one. Unless, you know… something comes up.
PPS- Everything that I have against modern/right wing Christianity is perfectly exemplified in this one thread. I may make fun of Camping and others but these good Jesus people are just orgasmic that he had a stroke. They are the epitome of unconsious evil. And schadenfreude.
“…Be…u….ti…ful… friend” blares out from the speakers of my Cadillac Escalade in the parking lot of Mermaids, a strip club on St. Pete Beach. I hoover another line of blow and rig up another fix, my second in as many hours. I have more drugs, whatever anybody could want, in a duffle bag on the backseat. I have a nine millimeter tucked into my waist and an AR 15 on the floorboard. I’m ready like a motherfucker.
“…This is the end…”
I emptied my meagre savings account last week and bought a gun. I went to 34th and MLK and robbed a drug dealer. Then I went to Gulfport and robbed another couple men, hard. I shot a kid because he reached for his piece. Damn. I drove back home and tried to park but my Russian mafia neighbor had taken up two parking spaces with his obnoxious SUV. Again. I scribbled over a pizza menu with a Sharpie, left my car in the street and knocked on his door. When he answered I handed him the note. He read it, ‘Parking Enforcement’ and, just as his eyes narrowed with irritation and accusation, I pistol whipped him into a coma. I think. He was breathing but not moving. I think that’s like a coma? I took his car keys from his pocket and his wife’s vibrator from between the mattress and box springs. I was looking for money but when I saw that thing I impulsively took it. I’m kind of a klepto. And a freak. Apparently.
“No safety or surprise… the end.”
I haven’t been eating much but when I have it’s been double cheeseburgers with bacon and dipped in mayo. Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food to wash it down. I’m now only a few blocks from what was my happy home. It feels like miles. States. Countries away. I kissed my pets and stroked my wife goodbye and I’m not going back. I don’t want to see them suffer.
“…I’ll never look into your eyes… again.”
I’ve always promised myself that when the time came I’d go out in style. This is it. Drugs. Strippers. Scratch off lottery tickets. Maybe try anal sex with a small lavender vibrator. I have to work up a state of mind for a thing like that, I guess. The strippers are all willing to come out to the Cady and do a line or three but so far I haven’t had any luck convincing them that we should fuck like wild animals. Like vampires fuck on True Blood. Especially like that. It’s like these people don’t even care that we’re less than a week from the apocalypse.
When I found out that the animated corpse of Harold Camping not only predicted, but guaranteed, that the End of Days would begin on May 21st, I knew that it was time to party like it was 1999. Times a thousand. Like if Charlie Sheen and Lindsey Lohan had a baby and the baby celebrated its 21st birthday in Vegas on Kill a Hooker day which also coincided with a Red Bull promotion in the hotel he was staying. That’s how hard it’s time to party. Harold Camping has amassed 100 million dollars on the back of this prophesy so you know it’s got to be airtight.
“In a… desperate land.”
Now I just need to recruit a few like minded road warriors, preferably really good looking slutty women, to ride west with me on an apocalyptic crime spree ending at Camping’s front door. I plan to make him clear his throat at gunpoint before giving him a message to give to God from me. “Thanks for all the fish. And opiates. Mostly the opiates.” Then, after those retards get raptured, I’ll be sitting on a huge pile of cash. And weaponry. Those End Timers are big on the guns right? Or am I thinking of the Branch Davidians? I can never remember my cults. The gravel mouthed crypt keeper says that those left behind, us, that we’ll have to endure 153 days of torment by the antichrist. Beats seven years. Fire my old apocalypse attorney. It’s a huge win for America. We’ll finally be free of conservatives and Christian rock. This is going to be a huge adrenaline rush. I’m ecstatic. I think I’m ready to try the vibrator.
“It hurts to set you free.”
Now, I’m going to blast another line. Then, I’m going to take a shit in the frozen food isle of the grocery store across the street. I dislike the night manager. She accused me of assaulting her husband and stealing her vibrator. That lying bitch.
(This is) The End
PS- To the SPBPD. This was a purely satirical piece of fiction. Any dead drug dealers, pistol-whipped Russian citizenry, stolen Escalades, or piles of steaming shit in local grocery stores, if they do in fact exist, are purely coincidental.
PPS- The only thing funnier than this zombified enema, Camping, are all the ‘normal’ Christians losing their shit and saying how crazy he is because nobody knows when it’ll happen. But all the other stuff is totally going to happen. “Shiny mirror make scary.”
PPPS- Seriously though, how cool would it be if this did actually happened. If it does, meet me at the corner of Hollywood and Vine on May 22nd at 2am and we’ll go all Waterworld except we’ll be on land. And without Kevin Costner. I hope.
PPPPS- Anyone interested in a 5 inch, gently used, lavender vibrator, please email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
“But you’ll *never* follow… me”
Too many of us possess the bluster, bravado and largesse necessary to be successful in the Pimp game but are sorely lacking when it comes to the nuts and bolts of the bizness; keeping a stable of healthy, happy, well trained hos. The results of this are as obvious as they are heartbreaking. Every day hundreds, even thousands, of hos are abandoned to fend for themselves, or, even more tragically, have to be put down. Most of these hos were never adequately trained and the fault lies squarely at the crocodile skinned boots of the bitch-ass pimp who never bothered to learn how to care for his hos.
Whether you are bringing home your very first bright eyed rookie or are still struggling with a stubborn but simple minded veteran, the approach you take always has to be the same, consistent. Your hos have to always know what to expect from you. You are their world and you have to be a motherfucking rock of stability if you can dig that. You always need to display calm, patient assertiveness because those bitches can smell fear the same way you can smell a twenty hidden all up a vagina. The trick is to gain their love and respect without causing them to fear you. A scared ho is a dangerous ho and a dangerous ho is apt to do all types of low-down rotten ruthless shit.
The trick is knowing exactly how to handle the many behavioural problems that crop up like unsightly lip herpes before they get out of hand like two has-beens with a thousand dollar royalty check and a motel room in the hood. With the proper schooling (that’s this) you’ll be able to calmly and effectively deal with these situations (like lip-herpes) before they get to the Bobby/Whitney stage (like lip-herpes on steroids. And when I say steroids I mean crack).
Potty Training Your Ho.
Many hos come from the Eastern Bloc or the Deep South, where their menfolk were too drunk and/or uneducated to teach them how to use the bathroom. The fastest and easiest way to train them is to just place them on the toilet every two hours, and especially every time they start looking antsy and sniffing at the carpet. If your ho is a malt liquor drinker you’ll have to increase that to every 30 minutes. When accidents do occur, never, ever smack them or rub their noses in it. This will only cause your ho to become neurotic about potty time and she’ll likely sneak off to drop a load under the pool table or in the walk-in hat closet. If your ho is already potty trained but backslides and begins piddling on the floor again, it may mean a bladder infection. If she suddenly drops a Steve Ducey on the bearskin rug, it may be that her grippers have gotten knocked loose by an overly zealous customer. Either way, handle your bizness and take her to a ho doctor as soon as you finish your drink.
A (Mostly) Drug Free Ho.
There was a time not long ago when it was considered acceptable to keep your ho stoned, tweaked and strung out. Oh how the pimp zeitgeist has changed. After the China White epidemic of the early 90’s when we had ho’s falling out left and right, I guess it was. Plus, we now know that drugs be making bitches ugly and crazy. The only exceptions are your longtime junkie hos. Even if they’re not physically addicted because you’ve been tricking them by giving them mostly water shots, you need to get them on methadone immediately. This is actually beneficial for you because you always know exactly where they’ll be at 7:30 in the morning. That’s why they call it liquid handcuffs. If you have an overly excitable ho, it’s ok to give her a Xanax, provided it doesn’t make her too lethargic to perform her ho’ly duties. After a long day of ho-ing you should allow them to enjoy alcohol, weed, or even a few lines of coke, if you feel they’re responsible enough to handle it without running around your bouncy moon room with a machete.
Bringing Home a New Ho.
When you bring home a brand new ho, you’re likely to have to deal with some unpleasant behaviour from your other hos. Some will show immediate aggression and may even scratch or bite, while others may revert back to old, unacceptable behaviours like piddling on the carpet. This is all perfectly natural; they are just feeling insecure about their new rank in an ever changing pack. Remember the basics and you’ll keep your bizness running like a well lubricated sex organ. Remember to walk through the front door first. This will show the other hos that you are still the alpha daddy. If any of your hos react negatively, just remain calm and with a strong, clear, dominant voice say any of the following, “Back, ho,” “Bitch please,” “Down,” and “Put your skirt back on now, please.” When they respond positively, immediately reward them with a shot of Patron or a blunt of your finest Hydro combined with a nice pat on the head. Positive reinforcement works every time!
Bitch don’t got your money/refuses to get your money.
This is obviously the most troublesome issue. Why else do we bother to get out of our 18 foot, heart-shaped beds and go through our byzantine routines just to get our fine asses presentable to run shit proper and take what’s motherfucking ours if our stupid ass bitch hos ain’t even going to make a goddamned effort? These are the times that’ll make you want to take out your AK and just start blasting motherfuckers. But you can’t make money off dead hos. Not for more than a few hours. So you need to man up and handle this like an adult. If done properly this will be the pinkest, fluffiest feather in your metaphorical hat. The feather and the hat are both real but I’m using the example metaphorically.
You can’t even give into the urge to go Ike Turner on that ass. You can’t even go Chris Brown, not anymore. That’s not the game son. You need to fuck her up… but with your mind. You need to mind-fuck her. Just walk away and act like you don’t care. Maybe sidle up to your other hos and laugh. She’ll instantly feel uncertain. Put word on the street that indie hos are being rounded up and forced to volunteer at Acorn and Planned Parenthood. She’ll be back in your loving embrace by the end of the week. And if not, you can just catch her at the methadone clinic on Monday morning. It always works out if you have a plan.
Remember that with the proper training and dedication your ho will be so much more than a decade long source of income, she’ll be your friend, lover, confidant and spades partner.
*For the purpose of simplicity I used the feminine for ho and the masculine for pimp but we all know that men can be hos (times, they are a changing motherfucker) and, as Jay-Z so eloquently pointed out, ladies IS pimps too. Just not usually.
For as long as I can remember Easter was my least favorite holiday. I’d much preferred every other Sunday of the year where I was free to roam the streets honing my unique awkwardness. I was never big on cheap, mass produced candy. I’d always try to prolong and savor the only thing I really loved, the peanut butter melt-a-way egg, by only eating a sliver or two a day but it would always magically disappear while I slept at night. My mom told me that was why it was called a melt-a-way egg; because if you didn’t eat it fast it would melt-a-way until in was ‘all gone’ but I always suspected she was using my fucking Easter chocolate as a coping mechanism. Probably for the guilt she felt at eating my Easter chocolate. Or maybe it had to do with her sex life. I try not to think too much about the whys.
It didn’t help that this was also the only time of the year that we had to go to church, a place that I never felt comfortable. I felt that at any moment, the pries,t or a gaggle of alter boys, or perhaps the statues themselves, were going to suddenly glare at me and point with shaking fingers, saying, “You!” as if they saw me steal that packet of gum or maybe saw what I made my GI JOE do to Princess Leia. They wouldn’t even blame her for being such a royal slut. Had I had any inclination of the maelstrom of future lawsuits coming against the RCC I would have confessed it all to the first priest I saw with a slight lisp and dressed as a pool boy. Would I shatter my youthful innocence and pimp out my own young ass for tens of millions? In retrospect, yes. Even without the retrospect, yes. I’ll do it right now if someone has 13 million for a 38 year old anal virgin. Seriously.
Even when I was young and naive and still held a modicum of respect for religion, I found the Easter story to be horrific, sad and completely incongruous. I could always get into Christmas, what with the eggnog and Rudolph and Frosty and lights and toys to open and the winter solstice to sacrifice a goat to and Christmas cards to check for money, but as far back as I remember I was freaked out by the eclectic mix of contradiction and weirdness that was thrown at me on the third Sunday in April.
Looking back I can see why; because this was the way that my young mind interpreted the Easter Story…..
The human race (they were all brown) was stuck in a rut and God was really sad that he kept having to send almost everybody who’d ever lived to be burnt up and tortured for eternity so he hatched a plan. He’d shoot his seed (I thought it was a watermelon seed) into a virgin’s stomach without defiling her. (Which I thought meant he didn’t get poop on her.) This also fulfilled ancient prophesy by allowing Jesus to have direct lineage to David without actually being related to David(wait what?) since Joseph didn’t get to put a watermelon seed in Mary’s belly.
Jesus did amazing things and helped all the people and shone his little light on me and everybody. He wrestled with Satan (managed by Bobby Heenan) in the desert and kicked his butt. Then Judas (also managed by Heenan) double crossed him by turning gay and trying to kiss his mouth. There was a big kerfuffle and when Bobby Heenan’s ear got cut off, Jesus felt bad so he agreed to go be tortured and murdered because he knew he was God so the prosecution wouldn’t be able to ‘make it stick.’
He was bullied and beaten (I’d imagined with a wooden spoon) for a long time and it was mean and horrible. Then the bad far-a-sees hung him up on my Uncle’s jewelry medallion thingy but it wasn’t gold it was wooden. Because nobody’s that rich. Then he hung there and died and everybody was really sad and crying. His friends took his body and put it in a cave with a bear. (I think I thought there was a bear in every cave?) Everybody went to look three days later but the body was all gone. (I remember that this made me want to steal a corpse, strangely.)
Jesus came back to life three days later but nobody believed him even though he still looked like Jesus. Then one of his friends stuck his finger in Jesus’ rib-hole, like some kinda sicko, and then everybody knew that it was really Jesus. Because if you can finger it, it’s supernaturally alive. (I still believe this.) Then everybody was like, “Holy crap!” And Jesus was like, “I freaking told you guys!” then he took off into the air like Superman but he never came back and everybody was all like, “Is he coming back again?… … … Jesus?” Then everybody cried some more and wrote really long letters and stuff.
So God split himself in two and made half of himself be tortured and killed as a sacrifice to himself so that the other half of himself could stop the other half of himself from burning and torturing human beings just as long as they said ‘sorry’ and ‘thanks’ and had magic water dropped on their head when they were a baby. And God knew that he’d be ok because he knew that it would only be two really bad days in an otherwise awesome life and after the really bad two days he’d get an awesome eternity which was made even awesomer now that God had himself to talk to. Then, the two one-Gods made a third one-God of themselves and called it the Holy Spirit and its job was to kill archeologists who found the Ark of the Covenant and to possess a giant bunny rabbit named after a pagan goddess and take a bunch of crappy candy and one delicious melt-a-way egg and hide them all over my apartment on the spring equinox.
Now that I’m grown and *totally understand* Easter, I still don’t like it. All the bars and restaurants are closed, the city is dead, and nothing’s even on TV. The only thing I still enjoy are small slivers of my melt-a-way egg, before it all magically disappears on the nights that my wife stays up later than me. Maybe they really do melt-a-way.
It was my wife who first pointed out the similarities between Ryan Air’s business practices and the shady dealings of time share pitchmen/hostage takers. Once I begun shifting through the grainy, overexposed, somehow Dali-esqe memories I have of those flights, I knew that she was right. The similarities are obvious; get a great vacation (or at least to your vacation destination) for a ridiculously cheap price in exchange for a few hours of your time. Sure you’ll suffer a little annoyance and inconvenience, maybe have to deal with an obnoxious salesperson or two but then you’re done. –Just like with a time share.
I think you’ll appreciate the subtle nuances in the similarities between the two situations. I find them quietly charming.
Once Ryan Air begins the boarding process it’s all about people herding. They make you stand in line for an hour, narrow the lanes with those little vinyl ropes and plastic poles, make you move up fourteen feet, cull the herd by picking off a few of the lame or elderly, narrow the lanes again then move you up seven feet while glaring and swearing at you and occasionally stabbing you with an electrified cattle prod. I believe that this is done purely to assert their dominance as the alpha class and loosen your resistance to utter, soul crushing domination. They basically just make you their bitch.
Once you’re allowed to board you have to present your thrice shredded ticket to the First Steward who then rips it from your trembling fingers and throws it to the ground while turning his pant pocket inside out. This you must hold submissively while you are escorted to your seat and while the other attendants jeer, whistle and spit at you. From this point on you will be not be able to move about the cabin without your ‘sponsor attendant.’ I saw one man attempt to disregard this rule to take his young son to the restroom and the resulting beat down/anal gang rape, while sickening and horrifying, did serve to present a lesson. After all, rules are rules.
Once you’re allowed to claim your seat, you’ll enjoy a brief moment of peace during takeoff. This may lull you into a false sense of security and when you’re offered coffee you may stupidly accept. If so, the stewardess will promptly pour tar flavored battery acid in your cup/lap and then demand $2.50 with a malicious cackle. From this point on, it’s on and poppin’ like a Redenbacher with a cheap crack pipe. Every time you allow yourself to let down your guard and relax another demonic attendant will appear with the rustle of blue polyester and the smell of hair spray and spermicide, either to humiliate you with unprovoked violence or to bully you into buying one of their endless wares.
They start out with the $2.50 ‘complimentary coffee’ then proceed to $5 hot dogs and burgers. Then comes the alcohol cart and this has the exact effect you’d think it would in such an unpredictable and dangerous environment. Like a fucking match in a meth lab. Then they tease any and all children with toys until the parents finally relent and buy a Chinese made, lead painted, Dora the Explorer for the price that would actually buy a Mexican child. Then they hawk perfume, cosmetics, clothing, jewelry, cigarettes that don’t smoke, cigars that won’t light and then follow that up by throwing all the leftover wine on you so they can sell you the wet wipes to clean it up.
They already charge a luggage fee, a seat tax and rumor has it that they are contemplating charging for use of the restrooms and cabin oxygen, both being purely optional of course. During my last flight I was lucky enough to get in the shitter before it became a premium service and once I latched the door another sadistic stewardess popped down from the ceiling and cut lines of coke and ecstasy on the sink and fixed a rig with junk in case I was in the mood for a little recreational heroin.
AND THAT’S HOW THEY FUCKING GET YOU!
After I’m floating in a narcotic induced utopia I always seem to devolve into frenzied consumerism, opting for both the blow job and the tied twins while paying to watch midgets beat hookers with dead salmon in the engine room and before I know it I’m spending money hand over foot… no, no, shit, that was a knee, the knee of a dead fucking midget and everything has just gone to hell and now I bought the fucking scratch off too… shit.
Just like a god damned time share pitch thing.
-In hindsight I realize that I wasn’t qualified to quantify that comparison since I’ve never actually experienced a time share meeting and only have the vaguest notion of what it would be like. I guess I just assumed that it is a drug and sex filled orgy in a maximum security prison atmosphere and where annoying, androgynous yet abusive types try to sell you hot dogs and scratch off lottery tickets plus or minus a few dead midget prostitutes.
Update: I’ve been informed that time share pitch meetings usually end with more dead midget prostitutes.
Update X2: I’ve been informed that you apparently can NOT buy actual Mexican children on board.
Update X3: I’ve just been informed that while you can not ‘buy’ actual Mexican children on board you can, in fact, obtain actual Mexican children but only for the express purposes of adoption.
Guy Who Looks Like That Guy in the Irish Spring Soap Commercial: If you looked up the Dunning-Kruger effect in the encyclopedia there would be a photo of Sarah Palin.
Amazingly Hot White Girl Wearing a Funny Hat, Like the Kind the Stoners Wear: I know, right? Then there would totally be a picture of some overweight mid-western truck driver and his wife, and they’d be standing in front of their gun rack and you’d see Glenn Beck on their TV in the background.
Guy Who Looks Like That Guy in the Irish Spring Soap Commercial: Yea. Fuck yea.
Amazingly Hot White Girl Wearing a Funny Hat, Like the Kind the Stoners Wear: This hat is itching the shit outta my head, ugh.
— On the campus of White Mountain Community College.
Debbie Does Dover
Old Man in Fur Hat: I heard the Pattison girl is buying the old Hemler property.
Old Man in Flannel Coat: What?
Another Old Man in another Flannel Coat: Debbie? She’s 58 years old. Hardly a girl now is she?
Old Man in Fur Hat: She’s younger than me.
Old Man in Flannel Coat: I have to take a leak.
— Bus stop in Dover
Man in Bar #1: I heard that Jimmy Mullen dropped acid the other day.
Man In Bar #2: Yea, he got really messed up by that stuff man.
Woman in Bar: What happened.
Man #2: He was etching a new window for the Presbaterian church and knocked it off the table. That hydrofluoric acid burned his foot and calf up something fierce. Pity
Man #1: Shame
Man #2: They should take up a collection. You know, at the church.
—A local bar in Portsmouth.
Live Free or Die
Eckhart Tolle, Speaking on Campus at Dartmouth: You know, this state motto has always bothered me; it’s a false dichotomy. How exactly does one quantify the word freedom? And in what sense would one, supposedly, rather die than ‘not’ live free? For none of us are ever truly free until we are finally able to throw off the bowlines of physicality and set sail onto the brilliantly empty sea of death that can only be achieved through giving up one’s past identity as well as their stake in the future. This process will be expedited by purchasing my books and CD’s.
Student #1: No dude, I think it’s just a motto, like Virginia being for gay lovers or whatever. .
Student #2: Virginia is for lovers moron.
Student #1: Well, it’s also for gay lovers. I have a gay uncle that loves it down there.
Student #2: oh, word.
Eckhart Tolle: Stay in the moment people.
Earl: Did you hear that a colored family moved in last week?
Earl’s friend: You’re supposed to just say black these days Earl.
Earl: But they aren’t black.
Earl’s friend: Well, what are they?
Earl: I don’t know… Middle Eastern I think.
Earl’s Friend: Jesus killers or suicide bombers?
—Denny’s on Route 6
July 15, 2010,
Dear 7 Year Old Self,
There are so many things that I wish I could tell you little dude. However, this magical portal into the past is only available for 15 minutes or until I get distracted by something else, which can be pretty much anything since I seem to have adult onset ADD. Which is entirely your fault for eating too much sugar and watching too many cartoons and probably also from the lead based paint on your walls and your asbestos ceiling and whatever organ melting chemicals are in that Smurf Berry Crunch cereal that you love. Just ignore all that, I was just making wild assumptions, I don’t want you to become a hypochondriac or anything. Seriously though, don’t hide stuff in that ceiling, I’m pretty sure it’s asbestos.
– Start applying yourself in school. You are not going to play professional baseball, football or basketball. Or tennis or golf or street hockey. There’s not even a professional street hockey league, dumb ass. Then, even after you mature (a little) and age (poorly), don’t delude yourself into believing that you are going to play professional pool, or darts or that bar bowling machine game. If you can do it in a bar, it’s not a ‘sport’ anyway. You are not going to play professional poker, spades, pinochle or dominoes. Lastly, you are not going to become a professional trivia knower, so just do the school thing.
– Don’t give Snowball a haircut and shave this year. Snowball will be angry and ugly and mom will be pissed and ground you.
– Take the Willie Stargell rookie card and the Roberto Clemente card and hide them in the ceiling of your bedroom. Do it right now. Don’t worry about the asbestos, this’ll be worth it.
– Please don’t ever start smoking or drinking. It’s not nearly as glamorous as your dad, who is long gone by now, but will be back when you are 13, mostly so he can borrow money off your mom, makes it out to be.
– Be extremely careful when you are playing the Fart Bubble game in the bathtub. You don’t know it right now, but it is, in fact, possible to lose the Fart Bubble game.
– Back the hell up away from the TV. You’re killing your eyes. And don’t listen to music so loud when you’re a teenager either. I can’t hear for shit now. I’m almost blind and deaf thanks to you.
– Do not date a girl named Caroline. Especially do not have sex with any Carolines.
– Don’t be in any hurry to grow up. Just live in the moment and cherish every second!
July 25th 1980
Hi. So the future has lots of super stuff then. Do you like the Steelers? Do you drive a airplane car? I’ll try to do what you say a lot.
School sucks but I don’t have to try too much. Jeff Hagmier is a buttlicker and doesn’t even take showers! Everybody knows that. If I don’t be a football player that’s ok because I’m going to be a CHIP’s. That’s a California Highway Policer and I’m going to drive a bike and live in California unless they all sunk in the ocean because it’ll be Sandreas’ fault. That’s what Mrs. Edmonds said.
Snowball is white and has long, itchy hair. She’s pretty ok.
No because Timmy Quinlin said I could have his old Green Machine, 53 gummy fish and a baseball signed by John Candelaria for them so I said ok. Timmy and Teon spent the night last weekend and we stayed up till real late. Roberto Clemente is dead in a plane so he’s dead.
I think Mom smokes but it’s stupid and drinking is for bastard shiterhead. You didn’t think I know swearing did you! Mom wouldn’t let bastard shiterhead back in the house she told me.
I love fart bubbles. They kill or save my GI Joes. You have a lots of toys I bet.
You swored. If you’re blind and deaf do you have plastic eyes? What is your car?
Gross! I wouldn’t kiss a girl. I skated with one and held her hand so she didn’t fall down and I skate backwards too. I’m good at rollers and also skateboarding. DO you have a flying skateboard? How about for surfing?
No, I can’t wait to be a teenager because then everything will be different and it’ll all be so cool. Is high school scary? When I’m a teenager I’m going to move to the California unless it’s under the ocean and be a CHIP’s or a shortstop. I hope it’s not Sandreas’ fault and it’s all gone though.
Will you please buy me a Blondie album and a Chipmunks Christmas Songs one? You can put regular records on fast and they all sound like The Chipmunks voices do. Teon showed me. I also want a Charlie’s Angels tee shirt, but the one for Charlie not the girls. You could send me a flying skateboard and other crazy stuff that I can’t even think of. I’ll love it. You should come back here and marry my mom. Does Fonzie be president or does Russia kill everybody?
Ok. Please write back and send me a camera too.
The Hype to Chuck D
Chuck, brother man, listen man, I’m a big fan of your work, huge fan. You’re an inspiration, a force of change. You shone the spotlight of political consciousness into the darkest alleys of the ghetto and actually made a difference, touched lives. You are one of the legends of hip hop; you’re a fucking God man, an immortal. Sorry, you know I tend to get carried away. Subtlety is not my strong suit, but I speak the truth… at least this time.
All that being said, I’m admittedly still a little pissed off about your irresponsible and libelous attack on my character way back in 1988. I would have addressed this issue sooner but I’ve been busy with everything from Wrestlemania (Hulkamania was runnin’ wild on YOU!) all the way through to getting your latest president elected. Fear of a Black Planet no more, my brother! Why? Because of me, The Hype, thank you very much. And you have the nerve tell people not to believe me? Asshole.
I acknowledge that I’ve made my share of mistakes, sure. I’ve backed the wrong horse many times, literally, and I apologize for that money you lost on Barbaro, but I’ve never consciously lied. I erroneously stood behind everything from that baby saber tooth tiger fad that went tragically wrong 15,000 years ago to the Golden Calf to the Chevy Volt to Gingko biloba. Hell, without The Hype, there wouldn’t be anybody willing to die or kill for thier religion. Where the fuck do you think pearly gates and streets lined with gold, or 72 virgins for that matter, came from? That was all me. Do you think that your man, Farrakhan, would have got a million black men to march anywhere without me? Hell no. Even some of my cloudy mistakes have silver linings though. Thanks to my over exuberance, Vanilla Ice’s career ended prematurely. That painful shit could have dragged on for years without The Hype. It’s even working its black magic with Sarah Palin right now. I get shit done, bank on it.
I’ve been a tremendous force for good in the world as well. Pretty much every Apple product has lived up to my noisemaking. Without me, you’d have no politics, no religion too. While we’re on the subject even the Beatles and Lennon would have been forgotten by now. Boxing would have died even quicker than it did if it weren’t for my long lasting partnership with Don King. Without me, Public Enemy would have never gotten out of Long Island. I am what gets you got mother fucker, you feel me now?
So yea, you have to expect a mixed bag. Sometimes you’re going to be let down and the life changing unveiling is going to be a Segway and sometimes you’ll be pleasantly surprised and the event will live up to The Hype, like the 2001 World Series or Super Bowl 43.
Besides, without me Mr. D, nothing would ever get done. Companies need advertising. Products need promoting. Brands need, well branding. However, my primary role is so much deeper than all of that. I am hope. People need to feel excited, to get hyped the fuck up about stuff. They need that rush of adrenaline, that amazing euphoria about the latest and greatest THING, to believe that whatever IT is, IT is going to change them on a fundamental level and fill that hole that eats at their soul. It doesn’t even matter if it never does. People need a motivation to get up every day. They need me Chuck. They fucking feed on me.
By calling me a liar, by telling humanity not to believe in me, you’re asking people to abandon hope, to stop believing in the future, to stop doing the one thing that makes them human. Without me, The Hype, the masses would just shuffle around listlessly in a gray, cynical dystopia. It would be just like communist Russia in the 80’s or the produce isle in a Wal-Mart in Middle America right now. They’d only be living to die, and as I’ve already pointed out, without The Hype, they wouldn’t even have an afterlife to look foward to. Do you want to live in that world Chuck? I don’t fucking think so.
I’ll be expecting a public apology as well as a letter to the New York Times stating that you now stand behind me and have full, unmitigated trust in all of my endeavors.
PS. Please give mad love to Flav, that’s my boyyyyyy right there!!!
Update: I thought you guys needed some help with this one. I grew up on this shit…