Sunday, July 29, 2007
I figured it best to address these questions in the forum in which I’m most talented, sadly, I’m a bit rusty in the interpretive dance department, so I decided to just go with writing a bunch of crap, (but you’re all used to that by now aren’t you!)
And we begin.
Q: Joshua, what’s your view on the war on terror?
A: What war on terror? There’s a war going on? Why wasn’t I notified? Are we at least winning? (muted whispering into ear) Oh? Really? That bad eh? (more whispering) to shreds you say! What about our military? (more whispering) To shreds you say! Alright, then my view is this: THIS IS THE GOVERNMENT. THIS ANSWER HAS BEEN CENSORED FOR POTENTIALLY DEMORALIZING THE TROOPS. WE WARNED YOU ABOUT THIS BEFORE. TRY TO VOICE AN OPINION THAT IS NOT CAUTIOUSLY OPTIMISTIC OR FULL OF PATRIOTIC ZEAL ONE MORE TIME AND YOU WILL GO ON “THE LIST.”
Q: Which do you prefer, dogs, or cats?
A: I am actually a cat person, as flaming as that may be. I like cats, they’re manipulative, selfish, independent sons of bitches, much like myself. I used to have a cat, until my mother killed it. You think Michael Vick’s dog fights were bad? You have to see cat fights. Now those are brutal.
Q: Do you think that last joke about dog fights was in bad taste?
A: What, too soon?
AA: You insensitive jerk! You wouldn’t make such jokes if you had a dog!
AAA: But I don’t have a dog. I used to have a cat. That’s the point. Next question!
Q: Josh, what makes you so funny?
A: Great question! I’m actually going to address that in an upcoming Eighty-Four Glyde entry. It’ll be a “How To” on being funny. The short answer is that I am not actually funny in the slightest, all of my jokes are stolen, (Carlos Mencia-style) from everything I’ve ever read, watched or observed throughout my entire life. The trick is to have a photographic memory.
Q: Speaking of your last answer, WTF does Eighty-Four Glyde mean?
A: I actually answered that one in my Eighty-Four Glyde one year birthiversity entry. But, for those of you too lazy to go back and read that, (and I’m too much of a douche bag to provide a link, suckers!) then I’ll answer it again. Be warned though, the answer will be a complete lie.
Eighty-Four Glyde is actually taken from hieroglyphics (yo, I actually spelled that right without spell check or anything!) discovered in a cave in New Jersey. Amazingly enough, there was once a thriving, hyper-intelligent race living in Jersey 12,000 years ago. They were so smart that they realized they were living in New Jersey and they left, never to be seen again. Some say they turned into a race of consultants, (think about it, consultants get paid obscene amounts of money without doing anything more than giving their opinions about shit.) Some say they became Scientologists, but I refuse to believe that, because then it would mean they weren’t so smart after all.
Q: What are your thoughts on celebutants?
A: Did you really just use the word “celebutants” in my blog? How offensive. Anyway, I try not to think about them. In fact, rich people in general piss me off. Famous rich people are the most uneducated people I’ve ever seen, (hey, I didn’t even do a joke about Jersey right here, aren’t I nice?) They get away with doing whatever they want, when they want, without any consequences. Reality shows that highlight the plague that is rich/famous rich people have caused me to grit my teeth in anger so much that all I’ve got left are bloody gums. I’m talking about shit like that Mtv show about girls and their sweet 16th birthday. I’m talking about that show about rich kids that had to do a cattle drive. I’m talking about The Simple Life and anything else where we get to see inside the lives of the uber self-obsessed. And you know what? We’re to blame for this garbage being on the air. There’s nothing funny about seeing celebutants being stupid on t.v. You’re stupid for watching it! At the end of the day, you can laugh at how dumb they are all you want, because their stupid asses are laughing at you all the way to the bank.
I’d still bang Paris though.
Alright, that’s all the questions for now, but (being the nice guy that I am) if you readers have any questions you’d like to ask, feel free to ask them in the comments. Honestly, I’ll answer them, and I might not even lie when I do it!
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
In my half-baked idea to do an Eighty-Four Glyde entry for each state, I had assured you, (my gentle and ever so wonderful readers. How are you feeling today? You smell terrific!*) that the next state for me to speak about would be Pennsylvania. But, my never-ending travels took me to St. Thomas at the beginning of the month, and I felt that it would be best to write about that while the memories were still fresh** in my mind.
Ahhhh, St. Thomas, truly, it is paradise. As long as your idea of paradise includes more mosquitoes than the entire population of China (and all madly in love with your legs) and liquor stores every five feet, (wait, that part kinda is my idea of paradise.) St. Thomas is an extremely beautiful island. So beautiful that you end up O.D.ing on beauty, (of course, the same thing happens when I look in the mirror for too long, so it’s a bit subjective.) With beaches of such sublime, orgasm-inducing gorgeousness, that you’ll think you died and went to a really, really hot heaven. But before I continue, allow me to give some history.
St. Thomas was discovered in 1604 by Captain Jack Sparrow during one of his seven seas, all-male orgies. He was awed by the clear water, sandy beaches and 89 degree slopes. I mean seriously, that place is all hills. But I’ll get back to that***.
St. Thomas used to belong to the Dutch for a long time, until the early 20th century, when America, (with early aspirations of world-domination) decided to throw its weight around and invaded St. Thomas in a crazy scheme to depose the current leader and bring democracy to the indigenous peoples, (or something like that. Hell, it seems like something we’d do.) Ever since then, St. Thomas has been an island haven where every year millions of WPs migrate for the winter. Their favorite mode of transportation to the island is the over-priced cruise ship.
St. Thomas boasts some of the best beaches in the world, such as Magens Bay, Coki Beach and Joshua Beach, a non-existent beach I just made up to see if you’re paying attention. The best beaches though, are the ones that lie off the beaten path, you need to: be a local, know a local, or swim around the entire island if you want to go to one. If none of these seem like an option to you, the final (and uber secret) option is to stand on the corner of Main St. and Poop Deck Ave. at 3 a.m. with a red flower in your left hand. Somebody will come and give you the map of secret beaches, be sure to bring both an arm and a leg for payment.
Besides beaches, St. Thomas has a multitude of shops for you to waste your money at. Honestly. Bring an assload of money to drop at these places, because you desperately need five googley-eyed shells at $40 each. Trust me. The money you don’t spend on crap, you’ll be spending on over-priced mixed drinks and beers. The good side? You can drink anywhere, I’m pretty sure there are no laws against drinking in public, (I make this assumption based on the cops I saw with beers in their cars.) Also, there are mad liquor stores. I shit you not when I say I visited a jewelry store with a full bar in it. A full bar. I’m pretty sure drinking is the national sport.
When visiting St. Thomas, you’ll probably want to stay somewhere, (stands to reason, I think.) You could stay at a hotel, but only if your idea of a quiet night’s sleep involves the constant patter of gun shots (which, if you’ve been to Iraq, is pretty typical.) Naw, what you want to do is stay in a resort. And not just any resort. I have discovered the secret, secret spot. I mean this spot is so under the radar, I kinda hesitate to tell you about it, for fear that my millions of fans, (okay, ones of fans, I guess) will blow it up and mess the whole exclusive, hidden vibe of the place. But, I know how sweet it is to know about things before they become popular, so I’m going to let you in on the secret. Allow me to introduce you all to Sweet Love Too. The best and most undercover resort you’ll find on St. Thomas. The views are spectacular and the accommodations are the way I picture Mr. Burns’ summer home. Honestly, I thought I had died and gone to Scott Storch’s house. And unlike every single other thing on the island, (except for the price of a bottle of rum) the price for a night’s stay is reasonable****.
Other points of interest include Coral World, any random-ass liquor store and the bottom of the ocean, (I SCUBA dived, one of the more harrowing experiences of my life. I think I’ll leave the bottom of the sea to Spongebob.)
So, whenever you’re in the American Virgin Islands, be sure to stop by St. Thomas to get really wasted and sunburned within two degrees of being well-done. You’ll thank me for it.
Friday, July 20, 2007
It has been awhile since my last Friday review of movies I haven’t seen. And I’ve been a bit spotty with the Eighty-Four Glyde entries lately, (what with me having Goonie-style adventures and all. My pockets are full of doubloons son!) so I decided that it would be a nice little treat to hook it up with two Eighty-Four Glyde entries in two days. Zoinks.
I’m a bit worried because I don’t know if you all, (especially the newer readers) can handle that much funny. So, here are tips on what to do if you find yourself overwhelmed by the amount of killer jokes. You will be able to tell if you have been overwhelmed if you have any of these symptoms: lightheadedness, hunger, a sudden urge to punch the next person you see wearing crocs, a desire to watch a lot of cartoons, bloating, grumpiness, Irritable Bowel Syndrome and Itchy Ball Syndrome.
Should any or all of those symptoms occur, first thing to do is to stop reading. If necessary, run to the opposite side of the room, face the corner and count the number of suspicious looking spots on your ceiling until the giggling subsides. Next, take a deep breath, too much laughing at an Eighty-Four Glyde entry can cause choking and/or suffocation and has even been known to result in death, (farewell Lady Bird, you will be missed.) If the deep breath doesn’t work, then sit down and drink a cold beer. If nothing else, it’ll at least relax you. Careful though, it could make you laugh even more at my carefully crafted wordplay and humorous anecdotes about American life. Lastly, watch a Dane Cook movie or comedy special. Anything Dane Cook does is automatically the unfunniest thing ever, so it should halt the effects of reading my blog.
Once you think you’re doing better, you can go back and finish reading whatever uproariously funny thing I managed, in a drunken stupor, to type that day. A word of warning though, after reading Eighty-Four Glyde, do not watch/read/listen to other things that you think are funny. Nothing can follow my act and you’ll see just how unfunny everything else you thought was hilarious truly is. There are exceptions to this rule, but I’ll be damned if I promote anybody else’s work on my blog!
Alright, now that all that crap’s out of the way, let’s get on with
Reviews of movies I haven’t seen (pt. Something)
Hairspray (P.G.): Finally, somebody in Hollywood delivered on something John Travolta fans have been asking for for years! Travolta dressed like a fat woman! I couldn’t get enough of Martin Lawrence dressed as a fat woman (with a sequel no less) and I’m in stitches every time Eddie Murphy is a fat woman (what was it, like three movies so far?) So, naturally I’m all atwitter at seeing a WP dressed as a fat woman. If this trend continues we could end up with nothing but movies where men dress as women. I, for one, eagerly anticipate the dawning of the transvestite movement. I’m going to go rent Rocky Horror Picture Show tonight!
As for Hairspray, well, I saw the first one, (I think I’ve got it on VHS somewhere) and I’m not going to bother with this one. Nobody can fill Devine’s size 24 heels and it’s blasphemy to even try. Is John Waters even involved with this movie? If you like musical numbers where complete strangers all seem to know the same choreographed dance routines, if you like movies where John Travolta dances, if you like movies about Baltimore, then this is the movie for you. Queen Latifah’s breasts round out the cast.
I now pronounce you Chuck and Larry (P.G.-13): Sigh. I really don’t know what to think anymore. Hey Adam Sandler, got a question for ya. Are you going to complete the crossover into trying to become a serious actor like Tom Hanks did, or are you going to continue doing mediocre crap featuring your talentless real life husband Rob Schneider? Honestly dude, pick one or the other. Either it’s going to be Spanglish and Punch-drunk love, or it’s Little Nicky and Bulletproof. Your fans aren’t going to put up with this much longer. Luckily, I’m not one of them, so I’m not worried.
This movie is about two straight guys who pretend to be gay so they can pull a fast one on the government. Whoop-de-frickin-do. Naturally, a super hot chick, in the form of Jessica Biel, is thrown into the mix to see what kind of wacky things the guys will go through to maintain their Brokeback relationship. Could be funny, I guess. Kevin James has his moments. Unfortunately, that human jizz-receptacle, Tila “I don’t actually have a brain, so I’ll make up for it by wearing as few clothes as possible and acting super slutty” Tequila is in the movie as a Hooters girl (I know, shocking isn’t it? I thought she’d be a doctor or something), so I’m going to go ahead and pass on this movie. Maybe one day, when my heart has mended from never getting a response to all those emails and love letters I sent to her, I’ll rent it. But until then I think I’ll survive without watching this flick.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go find a bunch of Harry Potter fans and throw stuff at them.
There’s been a sad trend recently where it seems to be “cool” to not drink, or to bad mouth those who do. The bad rap that drinking gets upsets me so much that I can barely finish my Gin & Tonic (& vodka & rum & rubbing alcohol & gasoline.) I’m here to set the record straight and maybe, just maybe, reverse this crazy teetotalling fad. Because there is absolutely nothing cool about not drinking. Nothing I tells ya!
Let me start off with the first myth that people have about those who drink. Drinkers fall into two categories: social drinkers/occasional drinkers and alcoholics. Naturally, this is nonsense. There are several thousand categories (or “levels”) of drinkers, of which “Alcoholic” is in the middle. At the lowest end of the spectrum you’ve got the person who has had but one drink their entire life. At the highest end you’ve got Barney Gumble and Nic Cage’s character from Leaving Las Vegas, (though I have to admit, he didn’t seem all that bad. He was mostly in control.) Just below that level you’ve got the rich WASP cougars with names like Buffy and Pussy. They drink because being rich and occasionally humping the guys who secretly run the country, (when they’re not busy bumping uglies with Julio the cabana boy) just isn’t enough for them. So they escape to alcohol. Those bitches are constantly drunk! Man, I wish I was one of them, (except for the banging Julio part, and I’m not really sure what a cabana even is.) On to the next myth.
Being an alcoholic is a bad thing. Yeah? Says who? This country was founded by alcoholics! (they were also hypocritical slave owners, but we’ll ignore that for now.) Everybody knows that famous quote Ben Franklin said about beer: “Beer is like the most kick ass drink ever discovered! Yo Handcock! You’ve got a super gay ass name! Where’s the &$*@($* beer bong you bitch?!” Truly, words that will live forever.
Alcoholics are all around you, completely pissed and able to maintain without you knowing. Doctors, judges, senators, blog writers, and they are able to do what they need to do without any problems or mishtakeses. And you know why? Because they are “High-functioning Alcoholics.” Hell, rock stars are idols in our eyes because of their drinking lifestyle. You want to be like rock stars don’t you? Then pass the &$*&#($ beer bong bitch!
Drinking before the evening is the sign of an alcoholic. Nuts to that. That’s so arbitrary I don’t even know how to respond. Besides, does drinking at nine a.m. really count if you never went to sleep the previous night?
Drinking and driving causes car accidents. Anybody who’s ever driven while drunk knows that their driving skills are enhanced by drinking. I have personally broken the land speed record twice, and one of those times, I’m pretty sure I was driving on a lake, (the other time I was in a nursing home. I figured, hell, old people are constantly driving into other people’s houses, why not return the favor?) Besides, everybody knows that the real reason there are car accidents are because of:
a) Women drivers
c) Cell phones
d) Old people
f) Everybody else on the road not being as good at driving as me
So, what have we learned here today? We’ve learned that drinking isn’t such a bad thing. Hell, one of the greatest moments in American history is when everybody got together and beat up those stuffy, opinionated, wet-blanket, middle-aged biddies who whined and whined until they were able to foist Prohibition upon us. We beat those bitches good! Then we sprayed malt liquor all over them!
What else did we learn? We learned that drinking isn’t just an American tradition, it’s a religious one as well, (actually we didn’t learn that at all, I just now mentioned it.) For, was it not said that Jesus was once at a college kegger and turned a barrel of water into jungle juice? Hell yeah he did! And he got so wasted he actually thought he was walking on water. The Apostles peed their dresses about that one.
To sum up: Wait, what was I talking about? I kinda forgot. Damn, I’m three sheets to the wind. Oh man, I think I’m gonna puke!
Rehab is for quitters!
Monday, July 16, 2007
On a recent plane ride, tragedy struck. A horrible event that led to a most horrendous discovery that has forever altered my life and will haunt my dreams until I die.
Usually, when I fly in a plane, I have at least one book to read and contemplate upon while I travel. Jung, Kierkegaard, Socrates, perhaps even some Dickenson or T.S. Elliot if I’m feeling in the mood for some poetry. One must always strive to elevate oneself, (alright, that’s a lie, I usually just bring a couple issues of Big ‘Uns and settle in for a nice plane ride.)
Anyway, on my most recent airborne adventure, I misjudged and finished my book with more than half the plane ride left. This was painful for me. I always have a book somewhere on my person to read in times of boredom, (which is almost all the time now that I think about it) I can’t sit there and actually talk to people. People suck and I’m a terrible conversationalist.
With my book complete I was forced to look to other means of literary diversion. First came the Skymall magazine. Everybody loves Skymall. It’s one of the most useless magazines in existence, (does anybody actually buy anything from there?) but it’s interesting to look at all the crap that’s been invented specifically to give the pretentious have-to-keep-up-with-the-joneses douchebags out there something to lord over their friends. Actual, true items in the magazine include: pet tents with mosquito netting, exercise machines that only require four minutes of effort on your part a day to get the best abs ever, $300 mahogany cases designed to hold your cell phone when not in use and others. It got to be too much, so I put the magazine down and continued my search for reading material.
Luckily, (or unluckily) my sister had the latest issue of Cosmopolitan in her bag and handed it over to me to read.
Now, when I was in high school and I was trying my hardest to get in every girl in the world’s pants, I did a lot of reading and research to become The Greatest Lover Any Woman Has Ever Known, (it worked too of course. I’m retired now, but back in my day I was a Josh among men!) I read such periodicals as Seventeen, YM, Cosmo and other magazines that would hurl me into the violent, confusing maelstrom that is the female mind. At the time I was young and inexperienced and figured that everything I was reading was factual. Silly me.
Reading this new Cosmo had me shocked. Page after page of stories about weight loss, which starlet is humping which member of
“But what about men’s magazines?” You women might be shouting at your computer screens right now. “Those are all about getting good abs, looking at airbrushed pictures of the worlds’ stupidest women (i.e. Tila Tequila) and stories about crazy drunken adventures!” You’re damn straight, and all those magazines provide an important service. They have been a boon to our gender and have brought about an age of peace and prosperity across the land. Do not speak ill of men’s magazines! Because I’ll probably do that in a later Eighty-Four Glyde entry!
The weirdest thing about chick magazines, (besides everything) is that fact that women are giving advice to other women from the male point of view. I feel the need to point out how illogical that is. Guys are really simple and easy to understand, we’re very basic, yet women are still confused by that. I’m not going to go into the whole battle of the sexes thing today. That is a whole series of blogs in itself. Anyway, I guess chick magazines need to justify churning out stuff every month, so they have to put something in there, even if it is a bunch of junk they make up. Especially those articles on how to please a guy in bed (“Ten tricks in bed that’ll knock his socks off!” or something stupid like that). Pleasing a guy is easy. Dave Chappelle taught us the way. It can be done in four easy steps.
- Suck his dick
- Play with his balls
- Make him a sandwich and
- Don’t talk so much
Simplicity itself, don’t you think?
I fear for the women of the world today when I read such periodicals as Cosmo and Jane. It makes me feel as if I have somehow failed as a man. As if I am to blame for your insane behavior and constant need for reaffirmation, (and by the way ladies, you really are all beautiful and special and unique and blah, blah blah. I’ll be back in ten minutes to remind you all how each one of you is unique, even though you all want to look like the same five movie stars. Oh, and also, no, your butt doesn’t look big in that dress.)
Ladies, simplify your lives. Divest yourself of these magazines designed to rob you of your money and self-esteem, while simultaneously reinforcing an ideal of the female image that can only be achieved by .05% of the population, (those genetic freaks!).
Next time I’m going to tackle romantic comedies. Drew Barrymore, you’re going down!