Saturday, July 24, 2004

Coming Soon!

My thoughts on why Fenway Park should burn tomorrow, July 25, 2004.…How a trip to Montreal goes when I go with my family for a day instead of my friends for a weekend…An in depth look at why no one actually visits either of my blogs…Some thoughts on why anyone with a mustache looks like a dirty Mexican…except my father…Top Ten reasons we need a keg-erator at my house…A one-sided foolishly optimistic debate about how long until I am famous enough to date Lindsay Lohan…

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Ashlee Simpson stole my heart!

Let me explain to you how someone so deep into the pop-culture our nation is emerged in can thoroughly enjoy shows like The Simple Life, Real World, Newlyweds, and Rich Girls and yet completely despise Ashlee Simpson.
It’s actually quite simple – “Ashlee” as this little strumpet’s show is aptly named is the most contrived reality show ever – a feat that should not be over looked in the history of television. In a genre where the whole concept is to keep recycling a formula, this piece of shit really goes above and beyond reality. From the confessionals this idiot gives, to the stupid shit that happens to her in “real life,” you can almost smell the rat producers cooking up more “confrontation” for our little starlet to happen upon. Where to start?
How about the “boyfriend.” This little bitch and her “punk-rock” geek amazingly realize there is a sexual attraction between them during this wannabe male Avril Lavigne’s video shoot. All of a sudden these two 19-year olds who have been best friends forever or something clich├ęd shit like that, make out. And when Jackoff (isn’t that his name?) does something that is less than right the arguments make Nick and Jess come off like a presidential debate.
Which brings me to the fucking bitches voice. Gravely and yet high pitched at the same time she “doesn’t want to be like her sister.” Well dummy, a reality show on MTV directly after your sister’s show on the same network, doesn’t exactly bode well for the whole “I’m blazing a new fucking trail” spiel.
The recording sessions, which take up about 5 minutes of every show, which I assume is what the whole thing is supposed to be about, are painful and repetitive. How many times can we watch her fuck up “uh huuuuh?” And then there is the idiot producer who is so starved for work that he’s humoring this “artist.” And in case you missed the theme, they are soooooo close! Fuck both of them.
Fuck her punk rock boyfriend. Fuck anyone in my age group that’s on television. (Except Ally Hilfiger...I still love Ally.)
If you want to be the anti-Jessica Simpson you missed the fucking boat. Her name was Avril Lavigne and we’re already sick of her. She’s the anti-pop pop icon. Like Frankie, she’s too punk rock for you. So dye your hair whatever fucking color you think makes you an “individual.”
Why am I writing like I’m actually talking to this girl? Odd how voice can change so quickly, eh? Well, I think I’m done venting about this poor girl. After all, don’t all younger siblings just want to move out from the shadow of big brother or sister? It’s a curse and here I am chastising the girl for doing what every other little goes through. What a callus prick I am. Shame on me.
 Oh well…I still hope a circus bear attacks her. Not a wild bear. I’m talking about an enslaved bear who faces the humiliation of wearing a stupid hat and riding a tricycle every day. You know, a really pissed off at the world mother fucking bear. Until next time… stay punk rock everybody.  

Monday, July 19, 2004

Justin was a stimulator...

I live with a very patriotic American. His name is Justin Hadley and he is very patriotic in case you missed the previous sentence. Let me explain to you how Justin is the kind of forward thinking individual that is making the Bush Whitehouse a formidable opponent to any liberal thinking group who wishes to have a semi-competent person in charge of our nation.

Before I delve further I must apologize to my good friend Brian. I realize that I do a lot of “conservative bashing.” However as a quasi-journalist/wannabe lampooner of current events it is my job… neigh… my duty to stab at those who are in power. Once John Kerry is inaugurated in January, I will begin my campaign to find a replacement for him. The point is Brian, in a two-party system where only the most intense nitpicking can help one to distinguish between one side of the political divide and the other, we are forced with the responsibility of picking the lesser of two evils.
My point is – I can’t really go back to middle of the road independent until after we’ve got Bush back in Texas and the troops back in America. Unfortunately, those two are one and the same. The chicken or the egg? Apples and apples. We can’t have one without the other and I’m sure that most everyone left of the median will agree with that.
So until 2005 the best I can do for you is Dick Gephardt jokes and they aren’t too funny. Here I’ll give you an example:

How many Gephardt supporters does it take to screw in a light bulb?

It’s a trick question - Unless they pay somebody to hold the ladder for his wife it can’t be done.

Now back to Mr. America a.k.a. Justin Hadley. Recently Justin got a job at the Coffee Beanery in Crossgates Mall (Motto: Suppressing the First Amendment rights of shoppers since 2002).
I was sitting in the living room watching SPORTSCENTER mentally preparing for work when I realized how intigral Justin Hadley was to President Bush’s plan to save America. Those of you who have memories that hold more information that various Chris Jericho quotes from I Love The 90’s know that GWB encouraged Americans to get out and spend to stimulate the economy. This is after all, how we will beat the terrorists – pre-ripped jeans from Abercrombie and chairs that massage your balls from Brookstone.
The moral of the story is this, Justin as an employee of the Coffee Beanery provides energy producing caffeinated beverages to loyal Americans trying to stimulate the economy on the advice of our president.
He is therefore, a Economy Stimulator Stimulator. The uber-American! He’s the guy that stretches out gymnasts before the floor routine. He is the fluffer on the porno set.

So ladies and gentlemen - that is what’s up with the economic recovery. So thank you, Justin Hadley. John Ashcroft shall sing you a beautiful song, my friend. Perhaps a Bruce Springsteen joint. Something truly patriotic.

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

new thoughts and other shit

Wow, what a weekend. We had a couple kegs, had some people over, saw some fireworks. It was everything the 4th weekend should be. Probably most importantly, Fahrenheit 9/11 surpassed $60 million in ticket sales. Sure it only did $21 million this weekend, but it can be difficult when Spiderman II grabs some $105 million.
It’s just nice to have Michael Moore out there so I have proof to show my conservative roommates when they start that whole “Bush is doing a pretty good job” spiel. I didn’t think a victory could mean as much to me as when the Marlins beat the evil Yankees last fall, but I think Kerry/Edwards over Junior will top it.
Speaking of the Marlins, what a fucking slide they are on. We’ve managed to get 4 fish on the All-Star team (Jack might have something to do with it, but they’ve earned their births) and yet we are in a terrible falloff that has left us 3 games (at press time) behind the Phils – those rat bastards. The wild card is going to be very tightly contested this year, so the Marlins need to get their heads out of the fishing-holes and win the East.
Anyway, who cares about the Marlins besides me? No one? I thought not. Lets talk about my wardrobe.
Right now I’m wearing an orange shirt my mother purchased for me at Express for Men. In the store, amongst shirts of its ilk, it looked very nice. Now, far away from Crossgates, on me, it just looks gay. This shirt is all sorts of questionable. Also, while shopping at Express, one of the sales guys kind of tried to sell me underwear. I’m not positive, but I think I was being hit on. Either way it was a bit creepy. My mother sort of gave me the “a friend of yours?” look.
An interesting twist at the internship today. I came in and the Art Director’s desk was cleared off. An odd thing to see in the middle of putting an issue together don’t you think? Apparently she found another job. I hope it’s at the Metroland, they don’t have enough flowers in that magazine if you ask me. Everyone at the Metroland is way too busy shoving their maybe-maybe not-a-gay-hippie-with-a-typewriter opinions down your throat without so much as on iota of regard for whether or not you give a fuck about some former wannabe Vietnam vet street poet on the corner of Clinton and Lark who thinks it’s Jerry Jennings fault that he doesn’t have a job. Go down to Lark, listen to the Burners U.K. and fuck off you insufferable jack-offs. P.s. your calendar of events rocks!
If you want to get my attention with an article, give me two-thousand words on the guy that invented the 10 cent wings or why the fuck Paesan’s is so popular. All the great and cheap pizza in this city and we’re all addicted to the only pizza that makes you sick after 2 slices? Almost 2 bucks for a slice? What, are we at the mall or something?
I have to go do some actual work now. Not that anyone is reading this shit.

Thursday, July 01, 2004


So last night I’m sitting at Ben’s house with Vinny and we’re watching some God awful movie on HBO on Demand. It was some ridiculous story about “stereotypes” and everyone in the flick had a problem. Well Boo-fucking-hoo. The oddest part of the flick was easyily a scene where a well-to-do prick was getting a bagel and had a problem with the ghetto-fabulous girl at the counter. He explained that it wasn’t her fault she was the way she is because of the rap music and such. The girl was offended and, while moving her head side to side saying things like “nuh-uh mista, you ignat,” explained that he was stereotyping her and that she played cello in the New York City Ballet! Well, this pretentious jack off knew better than that. “You almost had me going there for a moment,” he said. She then told him off and went on break. Normally, this would just be a stupid after school special where we all learned a lesson, except the guy was black and the girl was white. My question is who was the genius fucking casting director behind this one? Why I shared the most inconsequential part of my evening here, I don’t know.
Back on track…we decided we needed beer. So I volunteered to go get some. While I’m at Price Chopper this lady – who probably lost her job as a greeter at Wal-Mart for continually wandering into the Dale Earnhardt Jr isle – checks me out. While scanning my 18 pack, this P.I. in training noticed a tear in the box. Now I, as a person with a bit of common sense had duly noted said tear and was transporting the box not by the handles but – gasp! – by carrying it from the bottom. I just thought to myself, what would a person who hadn’t been hit in the head with a free weight do in this situation? I often ask myself questions. It keeps me on my toes.
Anyway, after Jessica Fletcher noticed the tear she started doing risk management and decided I needed a bag – for an 18-pack of bottles. Having watched a countless number of high school dropouts operate these bags before, she knew exactly what to do. She took a paper bag and put it inside a plastic bag.
“Okay,” I thought to myself, “now that we’ve bagged a bag, we’re really in business. Obviously a plastic bag cannot support an 18 so we’ll put the 18 in a paper bag to help redistribute the weight.”
It all seemed so simple to her. Keep in mind all the while I’m telling this woman that I don’t need a bag and that I understand the concept of the tear. I argued that I could get the box to my car in the same manner that I got it to the cashier – carrying it like any other primate would – by the fucking bottom of the box.
But no, Da Vinci here has to reinvent the wheel so that I can get home safely. She continued to struggle with the box until she had to call for back up. She got the attention of the normal looking kid who was a few isles down bullshitting with another cashier. As he approached he saw what she was attempting and got that “What the fuck are you doing, little kid?” look. She explained how there was a tear in the box and had to do her civic duty and protect my beer – which I do appreciate. When she finally navigated the box into the paper bag inside the plastic bag she triumphantly proclaimed “No beer is going to spill in the parking lot tonight!” We exchanged high-fives and she sprinted to the deli to wonder where exactly does the meat go at night? Does the butcher eat it? Is it magical? Then she probably would go get a mop to clean up the nosebleed she would get from contemplating something with such cosmic significance before spending the rest of the evening arguing with her invisible parrot who she should marry tonight, Mr. Clean or the Brawny Man.
Now for the best part of the night - at some point during my drive home, I ran over a screw and won a flat tire in the raffle that is life. Needless to say I was about as excited as Mary Kate Olsen at the Olive Garden – All the breadsticks you can eat, but not more than you can throw up!
So lucky me, I got to change my first tire! Unfortunately I only had a donut, and I drive a Buick. I might as well have used the steering wheel. I’m just kidding, it works fine. It looks about as natural as George Bush leading a country. Oh, shit.
Since I was at Ben’s house, he coached me through it like any good dad would – by continuing to provide me with Labatts. All it took was a little elbow grease and twenty minutes. All in all it was a fun night. I know I can’t wait to deal with the garage.

In other news

Sadaam doesn’t seem too impressed with the new Iraqi legal system – rumor has it the government is trying to hire Sam Waterson as the prosecuting attorney. Ben Matlock for the defense, anyone?

The White House is encouraging constituents to ignore Michael Moore and Fahrenheit 9/11. Meanwhile RNC supporters are trying to get the film banned. At least everyone is on the same page. It’s tough to suppress so many free speech issues at once. We’ve got Howard Stern’s potty mouth and Michael Moore’s un-patriotism to quell before we worry about the petty stuff – like getting Americans out of harms way. You know, stuff that can just be put on the backburner.

Reuters reported on June 25 that Fox and ABC are in a race to see who can be the first to show a new reality show based on switching married couples.

“Tentatively titled ‘Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Mommy,’ the forthcoming Fox show is expected to premiere in late summer ahead of ABC's much-ballyhooed ‘Wife Swap,’ currently scheduled to launch Sept. 29.”

Those of you who are into Dave Chappelle know that he did a spoof of reality shows during his first season about a show call “Trading Spouses.” What the fuck is going on here. Can Chappelle sue? I literally did a spit take when I saw the commercial for “Trading Spouses.” What’s next, “Who Knows Black People?” So, is this art, imitating art, imitating art, imitating reality? Or is it art, imitating skewered reality, imitating art, parodying art, imitating reality? Oh, wait, it’s not art – it’s just fucking stupid. When Dave did it, it was clever and humorous. Now it’s just going to be stupid. And yes, I’ll be watching it.