Friday, February 5, 2010
As a point of being both lazy and letting the actions speak for themselves, please watch and read:
AOL News - that's right - Shows Us Todd Palin Did More Than Be A Manny
I Have an Arguably Nicer Crib Than Famous Rapper Redman (arguably)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Yeah, sure you're "friends" with John Mayer. People think you're cool. You get to hang around in John's entourage. You're part of his crew. You get to free ride off of JM. For the price of being his lackey, you receive hot women, cool parties, probably an assortment of drugs, probably a decent amount of money, arguably good music, tons of Twitter followers and John's witty but thoughtful prose.
Not a bad gig, right?
Not necessarily. I did mention 'the price of being a lackey.' Yeah, that's right. Are you a true friend, or a lackey? Very fine line. And if you're going to be a lackey, you need to have the personality of being a lackey. You have to be able to be a tool. A manservant, if you will. I think the Fresh Prince is calling his Butler Jeffrey now. You can't be your own person if you're a lackey. You're inevitably tied to whomever you are being a lackey for even in whatever independent ventures you involve yourself in. You're universally known as one of "John Mayer's Boys."
Friends are different from lackeys.
Just think if you were to try to introduce your girlfriend to John Mayer. She'd totally want to do him. And could you trust JM? Could you trust your girlfriend? The man has a helicopter made of gold (seriously). Do you think he cares about your feelings? No. He has a helicopter made of gold. And your girlfriend will bang anything with a guitar. And she'll do much more for a man with a helicopter made of gold.
So say you're a normal person. You have goals. You're driven. But now you have the chance to be a friend of John Mayer. What do you do? My answer: as difficult as it may seem, break up with John Mayer before you get a girlfriend. Or don't ever get a girlfriend. Just bang. Find a way to use his fame to tie into yours. Don't look back. Don't feel any shame from using him. Become friends with the band Weezer. They still get a lot of airplay but somehow seem irrelevant on a national scene. You can work off of an aging fan base, linking yourself to a recognizable name, and still date a respectable female that won't be tempted to sling leg for a rock star.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
I enjoy drinking sometimes. There's something to it, possibly something much more scientific than I care to research to back me up, that brings out a conciseness to my thinking. Drinking brings out a simple and clear picture. Maybe, it's just a gift to the ADD-children in this country.
Nonetheless, I enjoy it. Sometimes when I drink to a certain point (not of complete drunkenness but of an OK buzz), I begin to tire. Maybe, it's the fatigue and not the direct alcohol I like? Because there is something to fatigue that shines that light of clarity in the brain. Instead of fog, there is line of direct waves connecting and firing, resulting in brutally honest verbiage. And sometimes, I love every second of it.
It's the fine line of drunkenness and buzzing we must walk (in various facets). Drunkenness leaves us stupid and slurring. A solid buzz can lay sharp, poignant remarks which would have never been uttered in a sober state. Unless of course you're Robin Williams (and lets face it, when was he ever sober?). Liquid courage is not a bad thing when it's somewhat controlled. Our thoughts and emotions are combined and evoked most brilliantly when a line, the line between control and freedom, are tiptoed on.
Or so my 3 1/2 glass of cheap Chardonnay say.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tK3Ce9md96g: The Decemberists, Sixteen Military Wives -- Somehow this represents what I'm trying to say.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
If I were a Native American, I might have this to say about Thanksgiving:
Dear White People (and all other people who give thanks to those who stole my land by eating Turkey):
My name is Dale, and I'm 1/8 Native American. I know 1/8 may not seem like a lot, but if my people were allowed the necessary means to raise a family in some other place besides a remote desert, I may have slightly thicker blood lines. You see, my grandparents and parents had to marry outside of their inner-circle because they had dreams of working at an establishment beyond the local reservation Radio Shack. Oh, and just to clear something up, I'm a Native American. Not an Indian, or an Engine as you rednecks like to call us. And you may think it's cute to call us "Indians: Feathers, not Dots." It's not.
I'm not trying to sound too bitter. I'm really not. You just have to understand folks: YOU STOLE OUR LAND! It's kind of difficult to see around that (especially around this time of year). You guys walk around with so much pride as you cook up those turkeys. OK, no big deal. Except you cease to remember that we were the ones who taught you how to kill those things in the first place! And the maize. Don't even get me goin' on the maize. Or as you call it, corn. Which brings me to another point.
Just because you rename something, doesn't make it yours. For example, you think all Native American names are so hard to figure out just because we don't have a vowel after every consonant. However, unlike your names, our names actually mean something more than some insecure, desperate attempt by our parents to a) live vicariously through us by attaching the same name or b) attach some trite name like Michael, in order for them to seem hip among their friends who are having children also named Michael. In your language, Pat means Pat. In ours, Pat means "fish" (something we must kill and eat in order to survive, instead of a sport we sell to ESPN as a Sunday morning TV show). "Shiye" means son. Not "Cal Weatherington III." By the way, my name is Dale which is shocking to a lot of my white friends. They all think I should have a name like "Squanto." That's fine. I say that makes a whole lot of sense, and if they had a Native American name, it would be something like "Pussytalk."
Again, I'm not writing this to sound resentful or bitter. It's just that you people, I don't know, STOLE OUR LAND! I know, I know. I shouldn't complain that much. In fairness, you've given us retribution such as arguably moderate strides in affirmative action. I mean, really, you stole our land, but now that my kids will get a small leg up on the SAT and a first-round bye to the Ivy Leagues, we should all be square. I'll make sure to remind them of their advantages when my future teenage daughter is hooking, and my 12-year old son is working security at the casino I manage. Hopefully, if we're lucky though, my son will gravitate to the steady income of hack road comedy. Undoubtedly, he'll get a steady dose of it on the weekends at the casino. If he's lucky, maybe a big comedian like Pauly Shore or Bob Saget will drop in and take him to the cocaine infested Motel 8s they reside in along their route through Tulsa.
Sorry, I'm not trying to ruin your fun. Have a great time with your families, really. Have fun watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. In fact, my family will probably watch the Parade that's sponsored by a major department store seeing as that's as close as we get to one. Wait, nevermind, we don't have a TV. I'll be happy as long as you can find a way to turn this day into a huge marketing ploy. I mean, you've sure done a helluva job with Columbus. That dude has his own holiday. Seriously, what the fuck did that guy do? Discover America my ass! First, it was the Vikings, then us, then Columbus. Besides, Columbus wasn't searching for anything. Columbus was like my drunk uncle: he just stumbled around, killing people in the process, until he "discovered" a place he could get a decent meal and not have to show ID.
Anywho, back to the reservation I go and the moonshine I brew openly and without federal regulation. Thanks White People (and all other people who give thanks to those who stole my land by eating Turkey).
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Taco Bell has risen the stake on value, and sexual innuendo. Recently, the new "black taco" was introduced. Who's satisfied? Every drunk slug in America, by God.
And...sexual humorists across the continent. Taco Bell is glamorizing and making a killing off of one of the greatest frat boy jokes since the term "sorostitute" or, the black taco's rival, "the pink taco."
In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, "What's the deal with the black taco?" I could understand the already promoted red taco...representing fiery spiciness. But the black taco? What the hell does that represent? Maybe the answer lies in the full name, "The Black Jack Taco." But it isn't a 21 cent taco. It's an 89 cent taco. I guess the reference is to the fact that the BJ Taco is a "jackpot of a deal." Really...
So, guess what? I'm suspicious of the Black Jack. So, I'm going to do some research. Tomorrow, I'm going to talk with some folks who've had a BJ.
I'll ask them how it felt. I'll see if it's something worth getting sometime. If they felt guilty for it, or if they felt a bit of pride. At least in private. Did it feel warm? Was it gooey? Kind of dry? Possibly crunchy? A little crunchy can be good...if you're into that sort of thing. As long as the outside was hard. Real hard. Should I have it at home or right there in the parking lot? Did it last very long, or was it, as expected, quick and easy? How was the sauce? Did it make you spit or swallow? Did some slop on your face? As long as it was cleaned up. Was there bumpy stuff on the outside? I mean bumpy isn't necessarily bad...as long as it doesn't stay with you. Either way, it's a great source of protein. And remember to check for hairs. I can't tell you how many times I've received things like a BJ and gotten hairs mixed in. Remember, this is America, not Germany.
So maybe the BJ Taco is something of value. Or maybe some crude, childish sexual reference in order to get attention.
Friday, October 9, 2009
I did my own pitch off in my apartment earlier today. Alone. Well, not completely alone. My dog and a handle of Kettle One were within an arm's length at all times while this ground-breaking experiment was taking place.
F.F.F.'s hit "Superman" vs. J.B.'s hit, "You're Beautiful." A steel cage match of effeminate male vocal cords. The result was a slight victory by F.F.F., and me wailing into a recently used and still moist hand towel. Why'd I put this experiment on you may ask? Because I have homoerotic tendencies? No.
Because, by God, I was bored as shit. Sometimes this happens, and you can't be scared to try things. It sure as Hell beat probing around on Facebook all day, or blogging.