You could do better. I'm just saying... You could do a lot better than that. I think you set the bar kind of low on this deal, if you get my drift. You need to pick it up a little here. Come on. Seriously. Just... come on.
*************************************************
How many of you out there saw the film "Waiting" starring Ryan Reynolds, Dane Cook, and the girl that looks like Ashlee Simpson. Oh, and the guy from the Apple commercials. And possibly Chris Klein and Mandy Moore, I can't quite remember. Did you see that? Well, if you did, how many people told you "Man, you really needed to work in the service industry to get it" after they saw it, before you did? Well, after I saw it, there was nothing in this film that you would have needed to work in a restaurant to get. I saw "Knocked Up" and "Juno", and I didn't tell people they needed to impregnate someone to get it. Because that wasn't true. So stop telling people that. In fact, if there was any part of Waiting you didn't get, you're probably retarded.
You know, when I saw "Glory" starring Matthew Broderick and Denzel Washington, I wasn't running up to people saying, "You know, you really have to be a black Civil War-era Union infantry endentured soldier to get it." The sheer number of people that told me you had to work in a restaurant to get "Waiting" was alarming to me. Was there something after the credits that said to go out and tell people this? Did I miss it?
Hey, you want to know what you should do? Go rent "My Life" starring Michael Keaton. You will cry like a bitch, but... well. Nevermind. You have to be dead to get it. Wait till after your dead to see that film. That way, you know... you'll get it. Just letting you know.
************************************************
Speaking of movies, I was at the theater the other day and I noticed something. I never eat all the popcorn I buy, and in fact I have never eaten all the popcorn I've bought ever. So I don't know if I'm a popcorn glutton here, but man. I get popcorn all over myself when I'm in a movie theater. I'm like taking these huge handfulls of popcorn and shoving it into my mouth. I look like a gerbil. I'm trying to form my mouth around the small globule of popcorn, and with every handful probably 40% ends up on the floor and my lap. Popcorn to me is a volumized type of consumable. It's like sushi. Every piece of a roll is usually larger than a regular bite of anything else for me. It's just akin to taking big bites of stuff. It's like taking whole dinner rolls and shoving them into your mouths at a family function. Imagine everyone doing that. It would look like a contest or something.
After the film is over, imagine the guy walking around picking up all the bags of popcorn. Most bags are probably about 1/2 full, shared between couples and families of small children. When he gets to wherever I was sitting, he's probably like "What a fucking pig. What was this guy? A hamster?" It's not funny, movie man. I have always had an affinity for large wheels I could run on in place, but can't find one big enough to fit me. Maybe I am part hamster. What are you going to do about it?
Monday, April 28, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Hey, come see me. Be my friend.
I don't know if anyone really ever reads the crap I put on this thing, but if you do and you want to literally do anything you want me to (like dance, sing, fall down), you can come see me and my super new sell-out feature SUPERVILLAIN perform at the North Gate Tavern on Saturday, April 26.
That was a VERY long sentence up there.
Anyways, no cover so come out and drink up your little hearts content.
Hope to see all you dudes and dudettes.
That was a VERY long sentence up there.
Anyways, no cover so come out and drink up your little hearts content.
Hope to see all you dudes and dudettes.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
You Can't Leave. You're breaking the LAW!!
One time, we went to this bar called Glen’s Bombay Club. It was in the Esplanade Shopping Ctr, where Hooters, Clicks, Melting Pot, and Sullivan’s is. Well, it was this total fucked up little joint where all the ragged bitches in thier 30’s-40’s would roll up, and the dudes were all either old or they shaved their arms and had tribal armband tattoos. I don’t know why we went there. I think it was because the line to get into Southdowns was too long. See, every now and then to keep yourself in check, you just have to suck it up and have a "Go Look At People With An IQ of 30 In Bars" night.
Well, we went in and drank a bunch and then got really scared by the fuckjobs hanging around in the joint, so it was time to roll out. I had to pee really bad, and I didn’t feel like going back in so I went by the side of the truck. All of a sudden, this snaggletoothed yokle walks around the vehicle. I kind of turned towards the truck so he couldn’t see me pissing all over the tires of someone’s tricked out Hyundai. He walked past, then walked back and said:
"Whudder you dooooowen?"
I looked around and kind of turned around and said "Nothing. You know. Just waiting for my friends, so we can get in the car and uh you know err (trailing off)." He says "Well, I saw whud you werr doin, you werr pissin’ all over the ground. Well guess whud? I’m a cop. And you’re in some big trouble." I was like "Oh come on, you’re not a cop." "Oh yessir I AM! And yer breaking the LAW!"
He stepped back and kind of motioned over to a group of people. I’d finished peeing long after his initial threat. "Hey!" he was screaming. "This guy over herrrre is BREAKING THE LAW!" I was like "Dude, come on. Knock it off. I wasn’t breaking the law." He said "No, you was breaking it. I seen you." As he’s doing this, I’m trying to open my truck door, but I couldn’t get it open. My pushbutton remote unlock had opened the other doors so everyone had began to pile in, but my door wouldn’t open. He saw me struggling with it and said "Oh, you caint leave! You’re breaking the law."
My door finally unlocked, and I was getting into the truck and he was still frustratingly yelling "YOU CAINNNNT LEAVE!" I then realized he was wearing blue jean cuttoffs and had earrings. The car he was next to had a 6" exhaust tip. I jumped in the truck and started it up. He runs up to the window, and makes one final attempt to tell me that I couldn’t leave and that I was apparantly in fact breaking the law. I mouthed to him "I’m leaving" and drove away hastilly.
So one of two things are certain. He actually wan’t a cop, or the Gonzales Police Dept uniform consists of cutoffs, a buzzcut, tennis shoes, bad teeth, and earings in both ears.
Well, we went in and drank a bunch and then got really scared by the fuckjobs hanging around in the joint, so it was time to roll out. I had to pee really bad, and I didn’t feel like going back in so I went by the side of the truck. All of a sudden, this snaggletoothed yokle walks around the vehicle. I kind of turned towards the truck so he couldn’t see me pissing all over the tires of someone’s tricked out Hyundai. He walked past, then walked back and said:
"Whudder you dooooowen?"
I looked around and kind of turned around and said "Nothing. You know. Just waiting for my friends, so we can get in the car and uh you know err (trailing off)." He says "Well, I saw whud you werr doin, you werr pissin’ all over the ground. Well guess whud? I’m a cop. And you’re in some big trouble." I was like "Oh come on, you’re not a cop." "Oh yessir I AM! And yer breaking the LAW!"
He stepped back and kind of motioned over to a group of people. I’d finished peeing long after his initial threat. "Hey!" he was screaming. "This guy over herrrre is BREAKING THE LAW!" I was like "Dude, come on. Knock it off. I wasn’t breaking the law." He said "No, you was breaking it. I seen you." As he’s doing this, I’m trying to open my truck door, but I couldn’t get it open. My pushbutton remote unlock had opened the other doors so everyone had began to pile in, but my door wouldn’t open. He saw me struggling with it and said "Oh, you caint leave! You’re breaking the law."
My door finally unlocked, and I was getting into the truck and he was still frustratingly yelling "YOU CAINNNNT LEAVE!" I then realized he was wearing blue jean cuttoffs and had earrings. The car he was next to had a 6" exhaust tip. I jumped in the truck and started it up. He runs up to the window, and makes one final attempt to tell me that I couldn’t leave and that I was apparantly in fact breaking the law. I mouthed to him "I’m leaving" and drove away hastilly.
So one of two things are certain. He actually wan’t a cop, or the Gonzales Police Dept uniform consists of cutoffs, a buzzcut, tennis shoes, bad teeth, and earings in both ears.
Monday, March 31, 2008
A Pirate Looks At 30.
At 1:19 pm today, my body will turn 30 years old. That’s 210 in dog years. This is an unbelieveable occurance to me. Who let this happen? Who is responsible for this? I want answers!
It really started this imposing feeling on me. Brett Farve just retired. An old, graying man, hobbled by injuries... at 38. Jesus Christ ascended into heaven at 33. Kurt Cobain blew his brains out at 27. But 30? What so great happens at 30? The other day, Adam said to me "Wow, 30. You know what that means? You can’t ever trust a fart again." So there it is. There’s the meaning of 30.
One night when I was 10 years old, I burst into tears and ran into the den from my bedroom into my mother’s arms. I’d made a realization. My great grandmother had passed away recently at 82 years old. For some strange reason, I’d equated years into decades, making Mawmaw Neal 8.2 years old, but luckily I was only 1.0. I asked my mom "Will I die?" and she said "Well, someday, we all die. But there’s a long time between now and then." That was in 1988, and the time between "now and then" gets shorter all the time. But as I walked back to my bedroom, I held my head high and I said "I’m never going to die." Do I have the same resolve at 30? I guess one can only hope so.
Is it time to wear more sweaters?
Is it time to buy a watch?
Is it time to get a cocker spaniel, and wear knee-high black socks?
Is it time to buy a feathered wig, and wear it on my head?
Is it time for my daily spongebath, is it time to be spoon-fed?
There it is. My 30-poem. I don’t understand what the feathered wig had to do with anything, but who knows? But you know what: I’ll close with this. I am truly blessed to have such a great girlfriend (sorry Aimee, but ’wife’ sounds too grown up today), such great friends, to have such wonderful family, to have such terrific people that surround me in this life. I love all of you dearly, and you make turning 30 a little easier.
Now if you’ll excuse me, where’s the alcohol? I still have a few hours left before 1:19.
It really started this imposing feeling on me. Brett Farve just retired. An old, graying man, hobbled by injuries... at 38. Jesus Christ ascended into heaven at 33. Kurt Cobain blew his brains out at 27. But 30? What so great happens at 30? The other day, Adam said to me "Wow, 30. You know what that means? You can’t ever trust a fart again." So there it is. There’s the meaning of 30.
One night when I was 10 years old, I burst into tears and ran into the den from my bedroom into my mother’s arms. I’d made a realization. My great grandmother had passed away recently at 82 years old. For some strange reason, I’d equated years into decades, making Mawmaw Neal 8.2 years old, but luckily I was only 1.0. I asked my mom "Will I die?" and she said "Well, someday, we all die. But there’s a long time between now and then." That was in 1988, and the time between "now and then" gets shorter all the time. But as I walked back to my bedroom, I held my head high and I said "I’m never going to die." Do I have the same resolve at 30? I guess one can only hope so.
Is it time to wear more sweaters?
Is it time to buy a watch?
Is it time to get a cocker spaniel, and wear knee-high black socks?
Is it time to buy a feathered wig, and wear it on my head?
Is it time for my daily spongebath, is it time to be spoon-fed?
There it is. My 30-poem. I don’t understand what the feathered wig had to do with anything, but who knows? But you know what: I’ll close with this. I am truly blessed to have such a great girlfriend (sorry Aimee, but ’wife’ sounds too grown up today), such great friends, to have such wonderful family, to have such terrific people that surround me in this life. I love all of you dearly, and you make turning 30 a little easier.
Now if you’ll excuse me, where’s the alcohol? I still have a few hours left before 1:19.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Things I Hope to Say Today
Hopefully, sometime today I’ll be able to use the following phrases:
"You know, this is kind of like how PeeWee accused everyone of stealing his bike. Everyone was a suspect, but when he pulled up the picture of the black dude from the magic shop, people probably thought he was a huge racist."
"Did you miss me? I did!"
"I just peed in your office. Sorry."
"Mommy? MOMMY!!!" (What I would say as I randomly page every person on my office phone.)
"Wow, I just crapped a dog. Just... wow."
"You’re about to get jelly rolled." (I’d say this when I dialed a wrong number, just before hanging up.)
"How now, brown cow? Come with me if you want to live."
"Is anyone going to drink this coffee? I just made it. Seriously, like-with-my-body-just made it.."
"What do you mean I can’t use crayons on my fax cover sheets? I just changed it to read ’fax cover shits’, that’s all. And I wanted to do it in violet to make it pretty."
"Yo check it. I wore a tie to work today. And nothing else. Am I fired?"
"That glue in the fridge is totally mine. Touch it and I’ll cut your motherfucking hands off."
"Janet, I wasn’t talking about you when I said ’Janet is gross.’ I was talking about all of us. All of us, except me. And kind of... except everyone else too. So not everyone not named Janet."
"Blazza-blazza-blar-blar!"
"I’m leaving work early because I need a haircut. Not a normal haircut.. An eyebrow hair cut. It’s complicated, and these things take time."
(Calling wrong numbers, someone answers, I say): "Hello? Are you there? Are you still there? If so, why?"
"Quick! Everyone! To my office for the lunch hour Tori Amos listening party!"
(If I was a hostess at Chili’s, I’d say): "Table for two? Smoking, non-smoking, or the near riot-like atmosphere dog fighting arena we keep in the Chili’s top secret area... in my pants?"
"Where is the forklift? Janet will probably need it to lift her fork today during lunch, heh heh.."
"You know, this is kind of like how PeeWee accused everyone of stealing his bike. Everyone was a suspect, but when he pulled up the picture of the black dude from the magic shop, people probably thought he was a huge racist."
"Did you miss me? I did!"
"I just peed in your office. Sorry."
"Mommy? MOMMY!!!" (What I would say as I randomly page every person on my office phone.)
"Wow, I just crapped a dog. Just... wow."
"You’re about to get jelly rolled." (I’d say this when I dialed a wrong number, just before hanging up.)
"How now, brown cow? Come with me if you want to live."
"Is anyone going to drink this coffee? I just made it. Seriously, like-with-my-body-just made it.."
"What do you mean I can’t use crayons on my fax cover sheets? I just changed it to read ’fax cover shits’, that’s all. And I wanted to do it in violet to make it pretty."
"Yo check it. I wore a tie to work today. And nothing else. Am I fired?"
"That glue in the fridge is totally mine. Touch it and I’ll cut your motherfucking hands off."
"Janet, I wasn’t talking about you when I said ’Janet is gross.’ I was talking about all of us. All of us, except me. And kind of... except everyone else too. So not everyone not named Janet."
"Blazza-blazza-blar-blar!"
"I’m leaving work early because I need a haircut. Not a normal haircut.. An eyebrow hair cut. It’s complicated, and these things take time."
(Calling wrong numbers, someone answers, I say): "Hello? Are you there? Are you still there? If so, why?"
"Quick! Everyone! To my office for the lunch hour Tori Amos listening party!"
(If I was a hostess at Chili’s, I’d say): "Table for two? Smoking, non-smoking, or the near riot-like atmosphere dog fighting arena we keep in the Chili’s top secret area... in my pants?"
"Where is the forklift? Janet will probably need it to lift her fork today during lunch, heh heh.."
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Chocolitter and Losing Man Points
Littering is wrong. You shouldn't litter. If you do, you could face a fine. But let me ask you this. What if you were littering with chocolate? Not wrappers or anything like that... but like real milk chocolate. Doesn't seem that bad then, does it?
You get pulled over. Here's the exchange.
"It's ok, officer. I just threw some chocolate out of my car window. That's all..."
"Oh, well alright then. I mean, it was just sugary chocolate. I'm sure the ants will take care of it."
Just make sure you're not lying about it. That officer might head back to find the snickers bar you discarded, only to discover he's trying to eat a cigarette butt or your old cell phone. Way to go, jerkface! You fucked it up for everybody.
**************************************************************
So check this out. I have AAA. Or Triple A. Or however you would type that in a blog. The card looks a little something like this:
my new embarassment card, from AAA!
The purpose for AAA is essentially to keep you protected if you're in west Texas, stranded on a desert highway, with 4 flat tires and an engine fire. Or perhaps in the ghetto and your tires have been shot out, or maybe you've punctured your gas tank while driving through unnavigatable ravines. Or maybe your tires have been burned off because you've driven through the 7th layer of hell, I don't know... Either way, it's really for extreme cases, if you get my drift. It only costs like $50 a year, and it's some piece of mind that you can purchase rather cheaply.
The other day I had a flat tire. Well, lets just say I knew I would have a flat tire. It wasn't flat just yet, but I could hear air escaping through the nail that was stuck in it. Therefore, it would be flat soon so all I could do was wait. I had driven somewhere to do something and ran into Justin. He's like "what are you doing later?" and I told him how I was waiting for my tire to go flat so I could change it. The conversation progressed, and eventually I admitted to him I was going to just call AAA to change it because I hadn't gotten my money's worth out of them this year. Which was true. Actually I haven't called them in like 2 years.
Justin went on to add that I'd be losing "man-points" if I couldn't change the tire myself. I told him it wasn't that I couldn't change it myself. Believe me... with the idiotic driving I've done in my youth, I've changed my fair share of tires. It was simply that I didn't want to change it myself. Plus, I've been paying these assholes for nothing for the last 2 years, and I wanted to get a little love back. The conversation lingered until I admitted I really didn't have any man-points to begin with. I got into my soon-to-be-flat-tired vehicle and rode off into the sunset.
On the way home, I called the 800 number to tell them I had a flat and I needed it changed. They went through the motions and told me someone would be there within the hour. I parked the truck in the driveway, and went inside to sit my happy ass on the couch and watch tv. About 45 minutes later, I heard a diesel engine pull into the driveway. I went out to present my card to the AAA man so I could get back to whatever non-manly activity I'd been immersed in. That's when about the worst thing that could possibly happen to me in this situation reared it's ugly head.
The Triple A man... or what the Triple A man was supposed to be... was a woman. A little black lady, probably about 45 years old or so, was standing at the rear of the truck. I didn't know what to do. I was ashamed. I was just going to turn and walk back in the house but I didn't want her to think I was a racist or something. I wanted to be like "Oh, I was just playing... That was my kids making a prank call to you guys..." or maybe tell her it was the wrong house, and that tire only looked flat because it was a special kind of look-flat tire they just started making.
I was now in negative man-point land, and this lady knew it. I muttered something about how my jack was broken to her, and she smugly smiled. "Dammit, it could be broken! You don't know!", I thought. Fuck... Come on, AAA. Why not send a girl scout to change the tire next time, to add more insult to injury? Maybe you could hire infants or amputees to change tires. I'm expecting some guy who really digs changing tires to show up. You guys send a woman?!
She opened the back ot the truck and pulled out this air hose. Then pulled out this wheeled jack, hooked the hose up to it, and hydrolically lifted the truck in 3 seconds. The compressor was loud enough to attract my neighbors to the windows, just to make sure everyone knew a female was changing a man's truck tire. I was covering my face like criminals do on TV when the police are escorting them from jail to a police car. I wished I had a halloween mask to hide my identity. Like a hockey mask or something, but that I guess that would be kind of bizarre.
The hose was eventually placed into an impact wrench, and the lady changed the tire like a pit crew in NASCAR. I was impressed with the speed. I thanked her for helping me, and told her I'd get that jack fixed. I then waited for her to call me a pussy boy and push me on the ground, but it didn't happen.
I'll of course be renewing my AAA man-points eraser program again in April. But next time I have a flat tire, I'll push the truck behind a building or into my backyard before I call anyone.
You get pulled over. Here's the exchange.
"It's ok, officer. I just threw some chocolate out of my car window. That's all..."
"Oh, well alright then. I mean, it was just sugary chocolate. I'm sure the ants will take care of it."
Just make sure you're not lying about it. That officer might head back to find the snickers bar you discarded, only to discover he's trying to eat a cigarette butt or your old cell phone. Way to go, jerkface! You fucked it up for everybody.
**************************************************************
So check this out. I have AAA. Or Triple A. Or however you would type that in a blog. The card looks a little something like this:
my new embarassment card, from AAA!
The purpose for AAA is essentially to keep you protected if you're in west Texas, stranded on a desert highway, with 4 flat tires and an engine fire. Or perhaps in the ghetto and your tires have been shot out, or maybe you've punctured your gas tank while driving through unnavigatable ravines. Or maybe your tires have been burned off because you've driven through the 7th layer of hell, I don't know... Either way, it's really for extreme cases, if you get my drift. It only costs like $50 a year, and it's some piece of mind that you can purchase rather cheaply.
The other day I had a flat tire. Well, lets just say I knew I would have a flat tire. It wasn't flat just yet, but I could hear air escaping through the nail that was stuck in it. Therefore, it would be flat soon so all I could do was wait. I had driven somewhere to do something and ran into Justin. He's like "what are you doing later?" and I told him how I was waiting for my tire to go flat so I could change it. The conversation progressed, and eventually I admitted to him I was going to just call AAA to change it because I hadn't gotten my money's worth out of them this year. Which was true. Actually I haven't called them in like 2 years.
Justin went on to add that I'd be losing "man-points" if I couldn't change the tire myself. I told him it wasn't that I couldn't change it myself. Believe me... with the idiotic driving I've done in my youth, I've changed my fair share of tires. It was simply that I didn't want to change it myself. Plus, I've been paying these assholes for nothing for the last 2 years, and I wanted to get a little love back. The conversation lingered until I admitted I really didn't have any man-points to begin with. I got into my soon-to-be-flat-tired vehicle and rode off into the sunset.
On the way home, I called the 800 number to tell them I had a flat and I needed it changed. They went through the motions and told me someone would be there within the hour. I parked the truck in the driveway, and went inside to sit my happy ass on the couch and watch tv. About 45 minutes later, I heard a diesel engine pull into the driveway. I went out to present my card to the AAA man so I could get back to whatever non-manly activity I'd been immersed in. That's when about the worst thing that could possibly happen to me in this situation reared it's ugly head.
The Triple A man... or what the Triple A man was supposed to be... was a woman. A little black lady, probably about 45 years old or so, was standing at the rear of the truck. I didn't know what to do. I was ashamed. I was just going to turn and walk back in the house but I didn't want her to think I was a racist or something. I wanted to be like "Oh, I was just playing... That was my kids making a prank call to you guys..." or maybe tell her it was the wrong house, and that tire only looked flat because it was a special kind of look-flat tire they just started making.
I was now in negative man-point land, and this lady knew it. I muttered something about how my jack was broken to her, and she smugly smiled. "Dammit, it could be broken! You don't know!", I thought. Fuck... Come on, AAA. Why not send a girl scout to change the tire next time, to add more insult to injury? Maybe you could hire infants or amputees to change tires. I'm expecting some guy who really digs changing tires to show up. You guys send a woman?!
She opened the back ot the truck and pulled out this air hose. Then pulled out this wheeled jack, hooked the hose up to it, and hydrolically lifted the truck in 3 seconds. The compressor was loud enough to attract my neighbors to the windows, just to make sure everyone knew a female was changing a man's truck tire. I was covering my face like criminals do on TV when the police are escorting them from jail to a police car. I wished I had a halloween mask to hide my identity. Like a hockey mask or something, but that I guess that would be kind of bizarre.
The hose was eventually placed into an impact wrench, and the lady changed the tire like a pit crew in NASCAR. I was impressed with the speed. I thanked her for helping me, and told her I'd get that jack fixed. I then waited for her to call me a pussy boy and push me on the ground, but it didn't happen.
I'll of course be renewing my AAA man-points eraser program again in April. But next time I have a flat tire, I'll push the truck behind a building or into my backyard before I call anyone.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
The Witch Doctor
Hey, sing this:
I told the witch doctor I was in love with you...
I told the witch doctor I was in love with you...
and then the witch doctor, he told me what to do.
he said:
"Oooh eeee, oooh ah ah. Bing bang, walla walla bing bang.
Oooh eeee, oooh ah ah...
Bing-bang! Wallawalla bing bang!"
verse 2:
I then asked the witch doctor, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
I then told the witch doctor "I think there's obviously a language barrier here I was not previouly aware of..."
I told the witch doctor I was in love with you...
I told the witch doctor I was in love with you...
and then the witch doctor, he told me what to do.
he said:
"Oooh eeee, oooh ah ah. Bing bang, walla walla bing bang.
Oooh eeee, oooh ah ah...
Bing-bang! Wallawalla bing bang!"
verse 2:
I then asked the witch doctor, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
I then told the witch doctor "I think there's obviously a language barrier here I was not previouly aware of..."
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