Thursday, October 21, 2010

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts

It’s that time of year again. The leaves morph from a sea of green to a vibrant ocean of warm, golden colors, only to fall to the ground, leaving the trees bare and skeletal. The temperature goes down and the air becomes crisp and rejuvenating. What better time to dress up like Sarah Palin and go banging on strangers’ front doors for sugary goodness?

That’s right, it’s Halloween time again. The time when people are a little more apt to be scared, a little more willing to believe in portals to the other side, and a little more wary of apples (they could have razor blades in them!*) It’s the scariest time of year folks! (Well, the second scariest time of year, the first being April 15th.)

All the talk of horror movies and ghost stories and the like have got my spooky creative juices going (it’s true, my juices are quite spooky) about what I would do if I were a ghost. Because really, who hasn’t thought about that at least once in their lives (or weekly in some cases).

There are a lot of different options for being a ghost these days. You’re not limited to haunting a rock or something, like our caveman forefathers. Thanks to Japanese horror movies we now have a world of choices! Besides the typical house, building, porta potty, donut and stuffed animal, we can now haunt televisions, VCRs, the Internet and dirty panty vending machines.

With all of those choices out there, it’s tough narrowing down where I would haunt. What’s my over all intention: publicity? Longevity? Abject terror? If I wanted publicity, then I’d haunt some new building that was just completed and still has that “new building smell.” If I were going for longevity, then I’d go for someplace old, like a battlefield or your mom’s house, (though both of those places might already be packed). If I were going for horror and terror, I’d do the most obvious thing: I’d haunt ex-girlfriends.

In fact, a few come to mind right now, (though all of them should be worried!). I’d stick around and mess up any dates they were going on, keep them up all night so work the next day would be torture, and I’d insert my 8 by 10 head shots in random places just to freak them out. Also, if it were an option, I’d enter their dreams and poke around their subconscious. I’d be a straight life-ruiner!

The only problem with that scenario is that once they die, I’ll be out of a gig and I’d have to find somebody else to haunt. And they might get pissed and come after me. Can ghosts kick other ghosts in their ethereal junk?

I think haunting my childhood home would be fun. I could do random raps and knocks on walls, open and close windows and doors and maybe even find that Princess Leia action figure I buried in the backyard when I was a kid, (why not? I’ll have all eternity!)

Maybe I could switch it up and do a little human possession or something. Then I could turn on the tv when nobody’s around and maybe make myself a cocktail or two. Then, I’d become intangible and depart the body without worrying about a hangover. Sweet deal.

Of course, eventually all buildings crumble, all man made things suffer the ravages of time, to become no more. So maybe I should haunt an actual geographical location instead of a building. A field, or a meadow? Perhaps a copse or a pasture. Maybe a tundra, or a steppe, or plain, prairie or expanse. Are bodies of water even an option? I wouldn’t have to worry about holding my breath, but I doubt I’d get much enjoyment out of scaring fish and frogs.

Speaking of which, just what the hell do ghosts do when they’re not frightening people? Do they nap? Read books? Catch up on the latest gossip from the Underworld? It seems like being a ghost would involve a lot of downtime, which would get really boring. I would try to learn another language, that way I could haunt in foreign, far off lands in case I felt like traveling. Another option would be learning magic tricks. A bit redundant since I’m a ghost and all, but it’d be a great way to impress the lady ghosts. Do ghosts date? So many questions.

Luckily, I have about 390 years before I have to worry about any of that (I eat my vegetables) so I’ve got time to spare. Sometimes though, I wish I were dead right now so I could just go haunt the female locker room at the closest college. Peek-a-boo!


*Though, to be honest, I don’t think that’s ever actually happened. I mean, whether there’s a razor blade inside or not, what kid in their right mind would actually accept an apple as part of their loot?

Friday, July 16, 2010

Hmm Hmm Hmm Hmm

So the other morning I was able to attend a ceremony at the Smithsonian Museum of American History (Motto: Slavery? Internment camps? American Indians? Nope, sorry, never heard of that stuff!) where the museum was being presented with the original costumes of dummies Vince and Larry (as well as the original dummies themselves).

Remember them? The Crash Test Dummies? They used to have commercials where they would be horribly mutilated in these vicious car accidents, but they’d laugh it off, with a kind of “oh well!” attitude, then the narrator would say “You could learn a lot from a dummy.”

Those commercials were weird, because while they were cautioning people to wear seatbelts and not put on their make up while driving, or whatever, at the same time they were showing that the consequences weren’t that bad. Much like Looney Tunes cartoons, you could be burnt to a crisp one minute, walk off screen then back on, and you’d be fine, no worries.

Don’t even get me started on the Crash Test Dummies Saturday morning cartoon. Then again, if M.C. Hammer could have a cartoon where he put on a pair of magic shoes and became Hammerman, I suppose anything is possible these days.

The ceremony was very bland and dry. I would like to say that I never realized how boring talking about safety is, but…duh. Talking about safety is uber boring! Here you had a room full of suits, patting themselves on their collective back because they all thought that seatbelts and airbags are a great idea. I bet you never knew the innovations made in the world of steering columns, did you? And I bet you don’t care either. What person in their right mind would?

The actors who originally played Vince and Larry were in attendance, wearing their costumes. That was good, because when they took off the costumes later, to be available for interviews, nobody had the slightest idea who they were. It’d be like if Tim Allen’s neighbor, Wilson, suddenly showed up without a fence in front of his face. You’d be clueless!

My favorite part of the event is my favorite part of any event where I’m not just a participant: unfettered access to behind the scenes shit. I got to park in the museum staff parking lot and walk through the back hallways, (and no, I didn’t see Ben Stiller or any miniature Owen Wilsons). Everybody knows that I love museums, (what, you ain’t know?) especially Air & Space. I love the information they impart and they way they do it. What I don’t love are the little snot-nosed brats who run around and ruin my attempt at a quiet day of learned enjoyment. If I had it my way, all kids would be given duct tape to put over their mouths when they enter the building.

Once the ceremony was over, people had the opportunity to interview people they’ve never heard of before, like the guy who came up with the concept for Vince and Larry. I was thoroughly bored by this and instead checked out an exhibit about a dude trying to pull a Model T across a puddle, with his bare hands.

Ahh, the good old days. You just don’t see commitment like that anymore. Now we’ve got OnStar and AAA, and we can call them up and whine when something’s wrong with our vehicles. I mean, do people even carry winches around anymore? Not to mention how few of us have jumper cables. We’re so lazy. And now we’ve invented cars to make us even lazier. They beep when we’re backing up to something, because apparently turning one’s head just isn’t done anymore. They parallel park themselves, (though, to be honest, most women couldn’t do it anyway, so why not have the car do it for them?)

I guess eventually we’ll get those cars from Minority Report, the ones that drive themselves and allow you to turn your chair inward to talk to your passengers (because in the future everybody will be forced to carpool, even if you’re just going to the grocery store.) On the bright side, this will make drinking and driving a whole lot safer, (though a lot less fun.) And when that day comes and I try to get women drunk to have my way with them (the finest move in my arsenal of seduction) they can’t use the excuse, “but I have to drive home” because safety technology will have taken care of it. And for that we should all thank Vince and Larry.

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

How Green Was My Thumb

The dirt accumulating under your fingernails. The cuts and scratches on your hands, arms and legs. The pain in your lower back from constantly bending over. The sun beating down on your head and neck, baking the muscles and tendons beneath your flesh. The salty sweat that drips into your eyes and blinds you, but you can’t wipe it away because of all the damn dirt on your dirty, dirty hands.

And those are the good parts.

Gardening. What’s that all about? We live in the 21st century right? Shouldn’t we have robots to grow our produce for us by now? That’s partly why we Negroes got out of the whole slavery/picking cotton racket--we saw the future and we knew robots were the way to go. (That’s a lot of foresight on our behalf)

And yet…and yet…people seem to like the back-breaking labor involved in running a garden. Some people do it as a hobby, some people do it to be able to eat, some people do it because they’re prepping for the end of civilization, but everybody does it for the end result: the fruits (and/or veggies) of their labor*.

My friend John recently got me into gardening. Not as much as he’s into it of course, I’m more of a fair-weather gardener. John, on the other hand, is so into gardening that he’s about two steps away from buying a bunch of Birkenstocks, growing some white guy dreds and living out in a smelly, unwashed commune with like-minded “Sons of the Soil”**.

John has a nice bit of ground in a larger, communal garden here in the nation’s capital. He was kind enough to share a piece of his parcel with me. So I’ve got about a 6 x 2 area in which to practice my cultivation skills.

Wanna know what I’m growing? There are literally tens of options! Like: tubers, cantaloupes, hot dogs, breakfast cereals, orangutans, marijuana, butter, etc. Being the neophyte that I was, I decided to go with simple, easy things to grow that even a ‘tard like me couldn’t mess up. Things like sticks, pebbles, pieces of broken glass, dead vines and dirt. I’m kind of proud of my dirt crop. It’s coming in nicely! I’ll have enough dirt to last until next summer.

I’m also growing squash, carrots, broccoli, green peppers, cucumber and radishes. It’s only been about two months, but I’m lovin my veggies. There really is no feeling like when you harvest your own veggies that you planted and toiled over and lovingly watered with the cheapest beer money can buy, (that’s a lie, I just drank a lot of beers then peed on the plants. But it seemed to work!) I mean, I’ve heard that when your first child is born, that’s pretty special too. But who are they kidding, you can’t eat a baby! (at least, not without the right barbecue sauce.)

Besides the tips I’ve already given so far (and that would be…no tips) on how to be an expert gardener, I’ll leave you with one more. People tend to go with all types of fertilizers, both organic and man-made. They use different soils with varied amounts of nitrogen, calcium and unobtanium.

Me? I just use the dead bodies of those who have wronged me. I have found that bill collectors and people who cut me off in traffic bring just the right nutrients to the soil. Also…elementary school bullies. (I say that in jest, and yet, why do I get the sinking feeling that this is going to come back to haunt me in court one day?)



*People who only have flowers in their gardens confuse me. They’re about as useful as people who make and paint wax fruit.

**Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. He will be very useful after the Robot Uprising, or the Zombie Apocalypse, or if those Tea-Partiers ever gain political office.

Tuesday, June 08, 2010

Bridezillas: The best way to get men to NOT want to marry you

So, over the past weekend or two, the WE channel (motto: Proof that it’s possible to have an entire channel about weddings and women will gobble it up!) has been showing large blocks of its show Bridezillas.

For those of you not in the know, Bridezillas is about camera crews following around brides-to-be as they prepare for their upcoming nuptials. We get to see the women organize the catering, the music, the dresses and tuxes and the 8 trillion other things involved with making their weddings the most perfect day in their lives.

Oh yeah, and the women are all bat-shit crazy.

See, the cache, or “hook” for this show is that these women are all literally the most terrible people in the world. Watching them prepare for their weddings is like watching a guy having sex with a sheep in a car that’s about to go off a cliff; it’s incredible nasty and yet you must watch it to its grisly end.

These women lie, the brow beat, they threaten, they cry, they manipulate (yikes, sounds like one of my exes) to get any and everything they want. Their justification? “It’s MY wedding day! I’M the most important person in the world! And you must all do everything in your power to make me happy!” some crazy ass lady on the show probably said.

The things they do on that show in the name of selfishness are astounding. But the worst part isn’t the abhorrent behavior these women display (all though that is REALLY BAD) it’s the people in their lives that allow them to act that way without giving them a bitchslap of truth. Be it the parents willing throw money at anything just to shut the Bridezillas up, the best friends who seem to scared to point out how crazy the Bridezillas are acting, or the hen-pecked and pathetic husbands-to-be who allow their women to trample all over them and call it love.

When you see this show, at first you want to feel sorry for the husband. You sit there with pity in your heart at the sight of these men trapped in relationships that are obviously no good for them. But then you sit back and realize that those idiots got themselves into this situation. Their girlfriends were probably self-centered bitches long before the idea of matrimony entered the picture. And they’ll continue to be that way even if they get everything they think they want for the wedding.

In fact, those jerks deserve what they get. I mean, it’s not like it’s a hidden-camera show. It’s called Bridezillas for heaven’s sake! Not…Laid Back and Reasonable Women Preparing for Marriage, ya know? Why would any man want to get involved with that? (And of course, all the women think it’s a point of pride to be a Bridezilla. That’s some messed up logic there.)

I’ll tell you who I DO feel sorry for: the cameramen. Those guys are stuck following these crazy people around for weeks. Stuck having to listen to the ‘tards whine and cry and basically embarrass and debase themselves on camera, and for what? 15 minutes of fame? I wouldn’t be surprised if that show has a high turnover rate on cameramen. I know I could only take so much stupidness before I drop the camera and shake the shit out of somebody!

Of course, the real head-scratcher is why anybody would go on this show. The things the women say about their friends and family members would seem to me the kind of stuff you wouldn’t want caught on camera and played on NATIONAL TELEVISION. The show is edited in a way to make these women look crazy. They must have watched an episode or two of the show before starring on it themselves. It’d be like starring on a show called Racist Assholes and not knowing how the final product will turn out.

I guess it’s for all of these reasons that I love/hate this show. The love/hate shows are the best shows in my opinion. The ones where you root for nobody, hope everybody has a miserable life and that it doesn’t end happily ever after. Kind of like real marriages, I guess.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

King of the Road

You know, I seriously think that the people here on the streets of the DMV (for those not in the know--and I pity ye for it--DMV stands for D.C., Maryland and Virginia, basically the Washington D.C. metro area. Here’s a fun fact for you*: in Maryland we have the MVA: Maryland Vehicle Administration, whereas every other state has a Department of Motor Vehicles, or DMV. Isn’t that ironic?**)

Great, now where was I? Damn, my mind tends to wander off in my advanced age. Oh yeah! I sincerely believe that drivers in the D.C. metro area truly have a death wish. Either that, or somewhere along the line we all unconsciously decided to train to be demolition derby drivers. It’s unreal!

In 2009 (remember 2009? It was so long ago wasn’t it? That’s okay, in keeping with the grand tradition of such wonderful shows as I Love the 70s, I Love the 80s and I Love the 90s, VH1 has actually already created I Love the New Millennium. So you can watch a show that fondly recalls the great moments of that bygone era, like when Twilight came out, or how we had a black president. Good times indeed) Washington D.C. became the fourth worst congested traffic area in the country, (the top three? I could tell you, but since I don’t live in those places, I don’t really care). In fact, according to Forbes the amount of time it took drivers to reach their destination last year rose 22%. Which basically means that if you wanted to make it to church Sunday morning, you have to leave your house Saturday night.

I blame this increase in road congestion for everybody’s driving insanity. When you end up stuck in traffic so long that you contemplate wearing adult diapers just so you don’t get your upholstery wet, then you’re living in desperation. Rush hour around here is something like Thunderdome. “Two men enter the fast lane, one man leaves.” Or whatever. It’s a madhouse! Bedlam! Nobody even bothers trying to follow traffic laws. It’s every man (and small woman in an over-sized SUV who can’t even see over the dashboard, not that it would make a difference if she could because she’d rather focus on putting on make-up and talking on the goddamn phone!) for himself!

So what caused DC to move from the 6th most congested area to the 4th? There are a few factors at play. First is the fact that this wonderful recession we’re in has done almost nothing to affect government jobs. There are actually so many government jobs that people are moving to the area to snatch up all the work they can get. The second factor is that thanks to President Obama (Official motto: Whatever it is you guys elected me for, I’ll get around to doing eventually) trying to “jumpstart the economy,” road work is being done all over the place. That means that there are lane closures and detours and other nonsense going on throughout the area. The third factor is the large amount of immigrants moving into the area.

Look, I’m no more of a xenophobe than the next “Joe the Plumber” at a local clan meeting. I know that this country is a big old sloppy melting pot of different cultures, educating us as to how others live and enriching America to make us the best country on the planet, yada, yada, yada. But I have to say, it’s really annoying when people come from other countries and decide to bring their traffic laws (or lack thereof) with them. It’s like “hey guy, I know you’re used to driving a three-wheeled cart pulled by a donkey through the dusty streets of your home village, but you’re in America, driving a car now. You need to step your game up!”

And you wanna know my theory? I think that some people from other countries purposely drive anyway they want because when they get pulled over they can act all ignorant of driving laws. They’ll go from having PhDs to pretending like they don’t speak English.

Of course, it’s not just our friends from other lands who drive like maniacs. There’s plenty of homegrown stupidness as well. I used to believe that it wasn’t a problem to talk on the phone while driving, until I realized that being good at multi-tasking is a myth. Frankly, I’m surprised that we managed to master walking and chewing gum at the same. And don’t even get me started on the driving habits of old people!

In traffic, in the course of a week: I’ll be cut off at least two dozen times, have to break suddenly because the person in front of me decided to stop and smell the roses, or wants to make a turn without using a turn signal, at least 40 times, and have to speed up to get around people going 40 MPH in the fast lane, at least 8 times a day. And those are just the big ones. There are the people who try to speed through yellow lights and almost crash into me. The people who decide to pull into traffic at the wrong time and almost crash into me. And the people who just don’t give a damn about anything who try to crash into me. I’m lucky to be alive, I tell ya!

My solution? (and thanks for asking) Make cars more expensive so less people can own them and make the driving test harder. Because frankly, they just hand those driver licenses willy-nilly at the MVA. Do they even bother to test people anymore?

Until then, I think I’ll just stay home.


*And by fun I mean not fun at all. Sorry for tricking you!

** No. It isn’t.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Sexting...the Silent Menace

“Sexting” one of the goofiest made up words since “iPad”. “But Josh,” you’re saying to your computer (which you really shouldn’t because computers don’t work that way…yet) “I’m over the age of 16. I’ve never heard of Justin Bieber, let alone ‘sexting,’ what does it mean?”

I’m glad you asked, nonexistent voice in my head! “Sexting” is the act of sending nude photos, or provocative “texts” by “cell phone.” Although it could just as easily mean something else, or nothing at all. I’m not entirely sure. Lemme put up the definition from Urbandictionary.com:

“the act of text messaging someone in the hopes of having a sexual encounter with them later; initially casual, transitioning into highly suggestive and even sexually explicit.”

Seems pretty cut and dry right? Doesn’t actually match up with what I said, but that’s okay, because here’s the next definition (by the by, why are there so many definitions for a word that was made up within the last year or so?)

“a term created by the media referring to sending sexually explicit text messages. The term is used by adults who are out of the loop, and not by the individuals actually sending the messages.”

Or:

“when a guy and a girl send dirty text messages back and forth to each other. Pictures may also be included, but only if you're lucky.”

So if you mix those definitions up in a blender and pour out the creamy results, you basically get the definition I said in the first place, rendering that little jaunt over to urbandictionary pointless. Good times.

It has been well documented (by me) that I enjoy watching television. But I’m getting tired of how every time I turn my tv on, I’m subjected to some kind of PSA about the dangers of sexting. These PSAs usually feature a bunch of unattractive teens, sitting around cross-legged or backwards in chairs around some random stage, rapping*to each other about the dangers of sexting.

Of course, if one wants to take away any message from this commercial the people who made it probably should have hired teens who are actually attractive and look like they probably deal with sexting on a regular basis. Instead it looks like the producers just went to the some kind of Twilight/Yu-Gi-Oh joint convention (TwiGiOhCon? YuLightCon?) and snagged the first group of lameos they found. Honestly, the kids in the PSA look like they wouldn’t know what to do with their own dangly bits, let alone getting a picture of somebody’s dirty pillows on their phones.

Secondly, all of the kids make it sound like the concept of sexting is just one vast conspiracy designed to trick them into taking naked pictures of themselves to put up on the internet. Sorry little Sally, but your inverted nipples and completely flat ass aren’t something the world is clamoring to see. Especially not when there’s actual, free porn everywhere you go online. Professional porn with two attractive women eating chocolate soft serve ice cream out of one cup together. With all of the nudity available on line, what makes you think your pathetic body is desired?

Bob: Hi Sally! Wat up lol?
Sally: Just got out of shower, wanna c a pic?
Bob: …Ummm, not really. Thnx tho.
Sally: 2 late. Just sent. Enjoy me nekkid!
Bob: ROTFLMAO!

At one point in the PSA they actually say that over half of all “sexts” are passed on and showed to others. And to this I say “huh?” Fifty percent? Where’d they pull that number out of? Is there some government agency that goes around to schools polling kids as to their sexting habits? Was there a question added to the Census that I missed? How could anybody possibly know what percentage of sexts are shared? (I once attended a class about sexual harassment and rape in the army and at one point the person running the class said that 82% of rapes in the military are never reported. To which I asked her, how she knew it was 82% if they weren’t being reported. She had no answer)

I don’t engage in sexting personally, I find it to be a nasty, disgusting habit, too base and uncouth to even be considered. But…if I were going to “sext” it wouldn’t be with the end goal of getting pics and racy texts to show my friends.(Or would it?) Who does that and why? Probably those same guys in high school who would lie about who they’ve had sex with, or the ones who pretend that they do have a girlfriend, but she lives in Canada and you’ve never met her.

Another problem with the PSA is that they’ve obviously confused phones with the internet. Sure, with these new-fangled phones people can very easily jump on the interwebs and post pics, but it seems ridiculously unlikely that it’ll happen. The pic will just stay in the person’s phone until they get tired of it (or of the person who sent it) and erase it, or when they get a new phone or something. Stuff online is pretty much on there forever (or until 4Chan finally breaks the internet), but they aren’t the same thing.

I say nuts to that! Don’t let badly produced PSAs (probably starring…Canadians. Yuck!) mess up a good thing we’ve got going here people.

Sext On You Crazy Diamond!

*The old definition of rapping that adults use when they want to talk to kids about the birds and the bees or whatever, not hip-hop.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Can you keep a secret?

Shhhhh….don’t tell anybody I’m back. Let’s keep this between you and me, shall we?

Look…everybody’s gone! No more phonies, no more fanboys, just you and me. The way I always wanted it. Thanks for sticking around, I guess you really like the way I weave words into a tapestry of wonderment and wackiness. I’m the 400-count thread Egyptian cotton of funny!

***

So listen, I’m a pretty active guy. I like to go to the gym, do karate, run from the police…you know, regular stuff. But the one thing that annoys me about working out and staying in shape is that it can totally injure you! There’s a fine line between getting in a good workout at the gym and totally wrenching your spinal column out of place. And you’d be surprised how often people topple over that line (in a pain induced back-spasm, no less). Seriously, why is it that the one thing that can get you in shape is also the one thing that can totally get you “bent out of shape.”* I guess that’s why all the machines you see in the gym come with little drawings of people using the contraptions wrong and end up getting folded in half like some human origami.

My advice? Go for a walk. Shit, nobody ever killed themselves by walking, (unless they walked off a cliff or into an alligator’s mouth or something, I guess. Don’t take me so literally!) You get some low-impact exercise in and nobody gets hurt.

Walking not good enough for you? Fine, go for a run. Run your crazy little heart out. Pump those legs. Work that cardio. Run up hills…oh, wait. Don’t do that. I heard about a drill sergeant in the Army who actually had a heart attack and died running up a hill. So do the opposite: run down hills. In fact, for ease, just run down a luge run or something for speed and ease…wait, didn’t a guy die on the luge track during the last Olympics? Yikes. I guess there no way to stay in shape without killing yourself. So let’s switch tracks here.

What should you do if you injure yourself during a workout? Especially if you hurt your back? Excellent questions to throw out into the crazy abyss that is the Interwebs! Allow me to refer to my friend (and lunatic doctor who gives me inappropriate prescription pills) Doctor Gooch!!

ME: Dr. Gooch, as somebody with a medical degree, can you give any advice for people who have injured themselves during workouts?
Dr. Gooch: Actually, no. As previously stated, my degree is from the Hollywood Upstairs Medical College. I was a classmate of another famous fictional doctor: Doctor Nick. Also, I’m hella out of shape. My idea of a workout is getting up off the toilet after I lose ten pounds taking a dump.
Me: Wow Dr. Gooch, that was a really gross look into your personal life. Now I know why I never delved further into your world. It’s a good thing you’re fictional, because you’re weird!
Dr. Gooch: Welcome to hell bitch!

Okay, well…sorry about that. Let me give some advice instead. Here’s what to do if you injure yourself during a workout:
1. Stop working out
2. Sit down
3. Lay down
4. Drink a beer
5. The end

So take that advice with you as you venture out into the world of exercise and physical self-improvement.

You’re welcome.

*See what I did there?

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

1, 2, 3 Testing...

Is anybody out there? Hello? Probs not. But that's alright.

So, what's new? Yeah, it's been awhile, but, like any quality narcotic (or episode of Adventure Time) one keeps coming back to what they love.

So anyway, give me some topics to write about. I want to write something funny for you! Help me out. Shoes? The color purple? Relevant and vital socio-economic issues? Anything for you baby!

Hey, what's up with that oil spill? Does God hate Louisiana, or what? What a jerk! The worst part is that with all of our technology and ridiculously huge imaginations, we have no idea how to fix it. That's tantamount to the old question of "Can God create a rock so big that he can't lift it?" Except this time its "Can humanity create a technology we can't control?" Didn't that cautionary tale about our problems with SKYNET teach us nothing? Or that time we created those robots who forced us to live in The Matrix? My favorite part is how the people who run Virginia are like, "what gigantic oil leak in the gulf? I want off-shore drilling in my backyard RIGHT NOW!!" Then again, they did also declare last month to be Confederacy Appreciation Month, so we already know they're geniuses.

Of course, because of the oil spill, seafood prices around the country are going through the roof (except for in land-locked states where their seafood suppliers were shifty in the first place). I feel sorry for all the seafood lovers out there. The next time you go to Red Lobster, or Captain D's, Or Joe's Crab Shack, or Bubba's House of Stuff I Caught in the Creek Over Behind the Outhouse, you're gonna have to pay out the ass for just one shrimp! My recommendation? Sell one of your kids on the White Slave Market. I hear kids under 12 fetch good prices these days (Lawrence Taylor clued me in on that).

As for me, never has my seafood allergies been more useful! Other than the severe environmental damage done to our planet, this stupid catastrophe doesn't affect me at all! I get to walk into Long John Silver's and laugh and laugh to my heart's content as the rest of you form one of those early 1990s breadlines that were all the rage in Russia. So, good luck with that.

***

Well, that was a nice little exercise in Eighty-Four Glyding. I'm a little rusty, true, but I'll be back in top form in no time. Full of laffs, wackiness, allusions to potential alcohol dependency and addiction to cartoons! Won't that be grand? Good times...good times.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

The End is the Beginning is the End

What a long, strange trip it’s been. Who knew, four years ago, that we’d end up here, you and I? Remember when we first met, back in 2006? Those were heady days, were they not? President Bush was kicking ass and not bothering to take names, Vice-President Chaney was shooting people in the face and laughing maniacally. Anna Nicole was doing drugs with her son, Bernie Mac was imploring America to watch his show, nobody had even heard of Twitter and thoughts of a future black POTUS were far from our minds.

Sure, we had our ups and downs over the past four years. Sometimes, I was there for you, sometimes I wasn’t. Sometimes I poured my heart out and you simply scoffed and turned your back. It’s okay, though, people go through these kinds of things in a relationship. It comes with the territory.

I know I’ve been missing for the last few months. Well, six or seven months, I think. I’m sorry about that, I had things going on in my life and couldn’t give you the focus and attention you deserved. I blame the economy, as well as the fact that I’m lazy as all get out. You deserve better than that!

Sadly, the end has arrived for us. We must go our different ways. I have things I have to do and I’ve heard that you’ve been reading another blog behind my back. That’s cool, if he’s providing you with the laughs and topical, informative articles that I haven’t given, then you should read him. He probably has a bigger penis too.

When you look back, think of our good times together, not the bad ones. Remember the laughs we had together, not the tears we shared over poorly thought out and written blogs. Remember that cozy evening we shared where I did that thing you liked? Good times.

Me? What will I be doing? I’m glad you asked! I had hoped to do the big unveiling of my next project today, for Eighty-Four Glyde’s fourth birthday. But, it’s not finished yet. So instead of the proper introduction, with lasers, smoke machines and sexy, semi-nude models, you’ll have to settle for me just telling you what the future holds, (which is cheaper anyway.)

I’m a man of many talents: writer, lover, healer, historian, artist and debonair man-about-town. While digging through some boxes I had in storage, (looking for some old trophies, to prove to myself that I was once successful at something) I came across an old comic strip I used to draw in middle school in high school. For years my parents had suggested I share my artistic skills with the world at large. I balked at the idea, since it was extremely childish, poorly drawn and not the least bit clever. Well, turns out I was wrong! It’s hilarious and it’s time I let reveal my genius to the world!

Out of death comes new life. Goodbye Eighty-Four Glyde, we had good times, (damn glad I didn’t get that tattoo though). Hello Luke & Jon! In a couple of weeks, feel free to stop by at www.lukeandjon@blogspot.com (at least, I think that’s URL, I’ll have to get back to you on that) to see what kind of wackiness we’re getting into over there. I’m glad that our breakup is amicable. It’s good that we can stay friends. And who knows? Maybe the occasional back-slide may happen. Maybe we’ll get a little too drunk one night and wake up next to each other in bed the next morning. It’s only natural.

Until then though, I’ll see you on the funny pages.

Thursday, January 07, 2010

You asked for it

I've got one more left in me. Prepare for the last Birthiversary of 84 Glyde.