Hey Chuck, wanna hang out? I could be your wing-man ‘cuz I gots a sweet lead on a red-haired girl who will gbgnyyl byav lbhe gueboovat ulqebprcunyvp wkbv, lbh mvt-mnt jrnevat cynlobl!
(possibly rot13 encrypted)
There is no greater faith than that of a man who trusts the packaged fish snacks of another culture.
My dad is a multi-cultural sportsman. That is, he loves to experiment in the sandboxes of other nationalities as a sport. He enjoys their movies, listens to their music, lights their incense, drinks their teas and partakes of their foodstuffs. It’s a loving sentimentality that I’m fundamentally interested in.
I inherited this trait from him, so it’s not uncommon for me to wander optimistically through the snack and dehydrated meats aisle of the local Asian grocery store, 99 Ranch Market, as though I don’t know any better, which I absolutely do. I totally know better than to blindly grab at imported Asian snacks. I don’t mean that in an ethnically insensitive way — I’ve always appreciated the integrity and style of my Asian friends, I just mean that due to lack of exposure over the years, I’m not very likely to palate many of their best fishy tidbits. But still I’ll poke through their grocery racks and look at all the goods and it’s not unusual for me to throw a few bags of weird stuff into my basket. I love the breath decimating Boy Bawang and some interesting peanut confections called Nagaraya that my Bebeboo has brought to my attention, but I’d say that 85% of the time, I’m completely disappointed and appalled by my selections. Pickled radish, Chinese beef jerky, dried pollock fish snack? What the living fuck am I thinking?
The snacks are often pretty funky tasting, laced with salt and MSG, potentially full of fat, cholesterol, lead, melamine, arsenic, mercury, human papilloma viruses and influenza. As an example of this, I was in LA’s Chinatown on Tuesday February 24th, dicking around in the Folksy Medicine section of a popular two-story red-colored Chinese supermarket on Broadway. There were NUMEROUS folksy remedies that were clearly (cough cough) labeled as dangerous, of course on the very bottom of the package with a irritating 2-inch sticker that was folded in half upon itself and could “just accidentally fall off” because it was adhered to the box by a 1/16″ sliver. This sticker, as difficult as it was to read, identified many products to contain, According to the State of California (flip the sticker over) cancer-causing poisons. The Sea Horse Genital Tonic Pills depicted here from my camera phone are exactly such a delicious cancer-causing medicine. Oh, I forgot to mention, The Sea Horse Genital Tonic listed as its first ingredient inexplicably contains LAND HORSE testicle bits. A savory thought, I know, considering the duplicitous ocean theme, but that’s wacky Asian snacks for you — uh, I mean folksy medicines. I will admit that most of the boxes I saw had the ubiquitous statements of not being endorsed by the FDA, etc. Though I don’t read Chinese and couldn’t tell you if the translations were honest to the English illiterate.
As you know, I have a morbid fear of shady Chinese restaurants. It is almost impossible to get me into a Chinese restaurant unless it has either “Panda” or “Express” in its name. I’m not sure exactly why that is, except that I went to a few of ’em here and there when I was a kid and they always kind of creeped me out. Roasted ducks hanging by the necks, dirty fish and lobster tanks crammed with someone’s meal-to-be. And of course television played a role; undercover consumer advocates would sometimes catch evil chefs doing horrible things in the kitchen, like smoking and dropping ashes into the bok choy. It’s obviously an irrational fear as there are thousands of very high quality Chinese restaurants out there in the world, but it’s a phobia of mine. So even I am at a loss for why I’ve been experimenting with shady Asian snack delicacies. I guess I genuinely like to be disappointed in life while spending money here and there on things that almost make me puke. Blecch! Who doesn’t?! But now perhaps it’s time to hang up my scholar’s cap and reach for the Doritos when I’m peckish. Or some Boy Bawang.
From information parsed from variousnewssources, I know this: Mexican drug cartels are murdering cops, civil servants, each other, and innocent families over maintaining power of the drug trade. And maybe even pets! Now, I was always a little surprised that people were getting killed over schwaggy, soil laden, seeds-and-stem, kilo-bricked Mexican marijuana, but now it’s the good stuff too! I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if it isn’t happening, and I’m *nobody’s* uncle, I can assure you of *that*. Mexican murder cartels have begun to wield even more power and exercise greater violence alongside their increased greed.
But we can’t let innocent pets die, or even people, and we need to face the unsavory fact that America is in the midst of an economic crisis in need of swift repair. Every penny you spend domestically will help to strengthen us. So, I present to you the first step towards my rung-climbing aspiration to Pharaoh of California, this national movement to boycott foreign narcotics. Look, if you are a Hollywood socialite, it may seem difficult to take a stand against foreign drugs. You’re busy sleeping most of the day and partying at night. When do you have time to take a stand? But your dealers are hungry for your business. If you re-define your needs, they will be forced to provide that product. That’s the free market. So if you are that kind of Hollywood socialite, especially one with any history of public good-deeding (do-gooding? dood-gooing?) or environmental action, just remember that the best environment you can improve right now, is your own environment. Heck**, why involve a dealer at all? If you have any acreage in the Hollywood Hills you probably have plenty of room to grow coca or opium to sustain your needs and the needs of a few of your closest friends. Even if you live in a small home you could probably farm something. And you don’t have to be a socialite to make a difference. Even if you’re just a regular guy who like to party and occasionally snort a line of coke off of the top of a club urinal, you have the right to demand quality. The customer is always right.
So beginning now, and until further notice, anyone who cannot grow their own narcotics, for example, because they lack the lab equipment to refine cocaine, are because they are on disability, should insist only upon domestically produced, caffeine, tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, psychedelic mushrooms, LSD, MDMA, organic cocaine and heroin, methamphetamine, GHB, oxycodone and angel dust. I think it’s doable, starting small like that. Tell your drug dealers that you will no longer need their services unless they can provide you with quality, US grown and processed narcotics that bear the Made In The USA sticker. Demand that they open their books for review and that their sources are verifiable by the FDA, USDA or whomever for quality control oversight. Tell your drug lords that you want a written assertion that none of the drugs they provide to you originate, or are linked with, any drug cartels outside of the United States. I think they call that a product mission statement, which is a legitimate expectation to have of your vendors. Your suppliers should take a few tips from the good people at Ben and Jerry’s.
We are Americans and we have high standards. We should insist only upon the best, and only upon honest, quality, humanely made products crafted by honest, quality, living-wage-receiving Americans. Let’s get our brethren and sistren out of the unemployment lines and back on the streets, restoring their pride and making them once again the great Americans they always thought they were. This will make our country better, stronger, more unified and will help to prevent the innocent murder of those pets I mentioned in my first paragraph and of the families and cops and civil servants, yadda yadda.
Now is the time for action. Now is the time for change!
I have decided to take a vociferous anti-pre-algebra stance.
Either it *IS* algebra, or it isn’t algebra. I’ve always said that, or at least I’ve sometimes said that, especially when it came to criticizing pre-algebra.
I’m an English kinda guy, and we deal in a lot of definitions. pre-English isn’t a legitimate educational genre, and neither is pre-science. Prescience might be, but they didn’t teach us that in public high school. So if pre-english, and pre-science are not actual subjects, why is pre-algebra? I’d like to point out that it was never made clear to me what, exactly, pre-algebra was, except that it included elementary parenthetical equations and maybe some introductory FOIL (First Outside Inside Last) arguments here and there. But I still think that was algebra, not “pre” algebra.
But what made it pre-algebra instead of regular algebra? I don’t know. I just know that it was harder than the stuff I learned in 6th grade and got me into considerable trouble on report-card day and parent/teacher night. I therefore rebuke pre-algebra and any attempt to teach a skilled writer, or me, any mathematical concepts.
It’s pretty clear that I’m alienating potential readers before they even get here. Not sure that anyone would ever link to my blog because the 400% More Jackoff Magic title might be a little, uh, provocative. And I’ve been thinking that it’s going to be a little embarrassing to put the name of this blog on my writing resume.
If you have any ideas for what I can call this blog, lemme know! Sign up and leave a comment, or email me. My email addy is located at the bottom of this page
My gf and I took a trip to the San Diego Wild Animal park in January. She and I, along with a dozen or so innocent children nearby were gravely poisoned by this horrific display of a sleeping lion. Since I do not like to suffer alone, I will now force you to look at the balls and anus of the king of the jungle, or in this case, the king of the Land Rover. The queen of the Land Rover was nearby sleeping under a log, occasionally opening her eyes to express disdain that her slacker king was not resisting the temptation of shiftlessness.
That’s some balls and anus, eh?
As a matter of public interest, if you search Google for “Lion Balls and Anus” (in quotations) this blog post is the ONLY result in the entire universe as of Feb 24 2009. But I’m sure it’s just a matter of time…
Easter is right around the corner. Why not celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ by blasphemously eating his chocolaty burden? Or by opening his egg and eating his candy therein. He won’t mind, for he is risen! (It says so on the egg!)
I’m no theological historian, but I’m fairly certain that He didn’t schlep this delicious crossy mess all the way to Golgotha. If He had, across the hot middle-eastern sun, there probably wouldn’t have been anything left for Him to be nailed to. I’m just sayin’ that nails in the arm don’t stick to chocolate. That could be a song! (But I hope it isn’t.)
Thank you Dollar Tree for making my Sunday afternoon a weird one. If you don’t have a Dollar Tree in your neck of the woods and you wish to indulge in this sinful, er, uh, sinless treat you can pick up a milk chocolate cross here. I guess chocolate crosses are everywhere, just like His love.
Millions of people world-wide have heard Meatloaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That) and countless droves have wondered what the hell it is that he won’t do when he whines, “I would do anything for love / I would do anything for love / But I won’t do that / I won’t do that.”
Wonder no longer, my friends, for the answer is in: Deep anal. That’s what Meatloaf won’t do for love. As a bottom, anyway. Deep anal.
Nice album cover, BTW, Mr. Loaf. And great stage name. Cough cough.
I’ve been bothered by this for many years but I never think to make a public nuisance about it except when I hear it; I have always hated the song Mack The Knife, specifically the Bobby Darin interpretation of the original German song Die Moritat von Mackie Messer from the Threepenny Opera. What a dumb piece of shit song I always thought, mostly because it always seemed to have a bunch of disjointed, random words thrown together amidst that loungy “hey-a, yowza, Old Lucy Browwwwn” singing style. “Sukey Tawdry” — who the fuck is Sukey Tawdry? What kind of a name is Sukey? Or Tawdry? Suki sounds Asian, but what kind of name is Tawdry? It sounds dirty. Was she a prostitute? “Sukey Tawdry” and “Old Lucy Brown” was just a bunch of gibberish to me for most of my life. When I’d heard it recently I inadvertently subjected my lady friend to a unilateral critical rant about the song. I felt badly about that, so I though I should man up and and perform due diligence on this track by attempting to dissect the song academically, in case I am wrong.
In the first quatrain of the Bobby Darin lyrics we’re told that there’s a shark and it has some amazing teeth. The shark shows his teeth, then inexplicably Darin starts talking about a jackknife that MacHeath has. Here is where I figure that the shark is a metaphor for the jackknife, or of MacHeath himself with the jackknife, and I surmise that MacHeath is a not-so-savory kinda guy. There is an element of secrecy introduced as MacHeath keeps the knife hidden.
As we listen to chapter two, we learn that MacHeath doesn’t get blood on his hands when he cuts people with his knife because he wears fancy gloves. (And Bruno Magli shoes? Aw, I’m just kiddin’.)
Quatrain three, it’s Sunday morning, someone’s bleeding on the sidewalk and maybe MacHeath is lurking close by.
In part four, there is a tugboat that has been prepared with a bag of cement. The cement will be used to weigh something down, like a body. “Five’ll get you ten” is a folksy way of saying “wanna bet” that Mack is in town?
Louie Miller, the singer tells us in the fifth block of the song, recently took his money out of the bank before going missing. Did Mack do it? He’s been spending a lot of money ’round the town. One might only presume…
A few others, it is suggested, have either gone dead, or are in the queue. Jenny Diver, Sukey Tawdry (did I mention how much I fucking hate that name?), Lotte Lenya and Old Lucy Brown are a few people named, but there are likely to be more to come when Mack is in town. This verse is repeated, I’m guessing either for emphasis or to fill a few beats.
“Look out, old Macky is back!” That’s probably good advice because this dude is a flamboyant, don’t-give-a-shit serial killer and your little tuchis is bound to get caught up in the mix.
The song winds up being a lot cooler than I thought it would be, but I’m sure it’ll still bug the fuck out of me when I hear it. “Whoooa Sukey Tawdryyyyyyy…” Anyway, I concede to you, Mack The Knife, while I still might not want to listen to Bobby Darin sing this, because I really think he accidentally fucks up the meaning of the song. Or Bobby Darin might have wanted a deliberate irony by performing this all sing-songy contrasted against the dark tone of the song. Whatevs, I am yielding on my original, uneducated assumption that it was bullshit writing. It is GOOD writing, in fact, Bertolt Brecht, and I hereby apologize for the unkind words I’ve said over the years.
Should I boycott the 99 Ranch Market for selling this anti-feminist, offensive product? Nah, I really enjoy their pork and chicken bao and it would be a shame to turn my back on them just for this careless infraction.
But we male feminists are watching you, House Wife Soy Sauce… we are watching you very closely. And China too. [punches fist into hand threateningly.]
I’m on a Ridiculous Direct-Mail Advertisement kick lately. Here’s an ad I received several weeks back. I”m thankful that I had the foresight to scan it.
There’s a lot to discuss here. Would you be caught dead wearing a shiny plastic-looking leather bucket hat? If you’re going for that early 80s hip-hop b-boy flavor, you’re not going to get it from this hat. You’re just going to look like a cheap-ass who couldn’t afford a real Kangol. Sen Dog from Cypress Hill you ain’t gonna be, wearing this thing, knowwhu’msayin’?
Nextly, I’m not a fashion maven by any stretch of the imagination, but I have never seen a leather baseball cap that did NOT look like shit. I mean, if you want to give the impression that you’re a Janet Jackson Rhythm Nation expatriate, you’re certainly welcome to, but in 2009 it’s a little, uh, how-you-say, “dated”. And why not emigrate back to the Rhythm Nation if you miss it so much? I know, you often hear the “why don’t you move back” argument from those self-righteous shit-kickers in fly-over states, but I really think that illegal Rhythm Nation immigration is a cause the entire country can get behind. Move along, sonny.
The wide-brimmed black leather hat is just not a bright idea. If your plan is to don a black leather hat to protect yourself from the sun, you might want a refresher course in 7th grade science. Black attracts heat, and buying this hat (even if it has a breathable polyester liner) is just asking for a neck full of dripping sweat, possibly tinted black from possibly cheap leather dye. (DISCLOSURE: This is an unsubstantiated assumption based on prior experience with cheap leather boots.) Maybe that’s why that poor young man in the ad look so miserable. He realizes how stupid he looks — like a bargain bin, lummox Crocodile Dundee. I’d look sad too if I were him. I’m sure he’s an awesome guy, just caught up in a really bad leather hat and jean-shirt scene.
That leather driving cap is just god-awful. I’ve hated those hats for decades and I think that Robert DeNiro is the only guy who can really pull them off. I promise that I have nothing against the blue-collar man. Cab drivers, limousine drivers are all functional members of our society. I just don’t think that I need to look like a cab or limo driver as part of some contrived fashion statement force-fed to me through direct mail, somewhere in between the Albertson’s and Ralphs coupons.
Two hats for twenty bucks? I guess the price point isn’t too bad, so if I were forced to pick two, which would I get? I’d probably buy the bucket hats. I could stick a couple of houseplants in them or something. At least they’re crush proof. Did you hear me? Crush *PROOF* That means they are impervious to being crushed. If you attempt to crush these hats, you will fail miserably because they CANNOT BE CRUSHED!
Well, folks at Direct Source Inc, I’m sure that I can’t go wrong by buying these hats because you assure my satisfaction, and I will likely be ordering a half dozen bucket hats for my garden in the next few days.
She only costs $59.99 plus $7.99 shipping and handling, but I do have to wait 10-12 weeks for shipment after I pay them. Fortunately, if I’m strapped on cash I can divide the $59.99 into two payments of $29.99 (Yeah, I would save a penny if I took advantage of their payment plan – how can they afford to stay in business?!) And if I really don’t have any cash, I don’t have to send any money now at all! I can just send back the business reply card and the Ashton-Drake Galleries will reserve a Tiny Miracle Emmy So Truly Real especially for me. Now the real good news is that I have 365 days to decide whether or not I’m completely satisfied! I wonder how she could possibly disappoint me in that span of time. Maybe if she were disobedient and talked back too much.
She feels almost real! Now, the ad says that dolls designed by Linda Webb normally fetch thousands of dollars. I don’t doubt it! My girlfriend collects Super Dollfie 13 ball-jointed-dolls and those mamajammas are expensive. So imagine how fortunate I am to be given the opportunity to buy this 10-inch lifelike doll for only $67.98 out the door. 10-inches and lifelike? Shhh! I don’t want my gal-pal to hear THAT kind of talk if you know what I mean!
I’m having a little trouble here. This thing is suitable for a 3 year-old? As what, a $70 pacifier? And an adult? So like, an undergrad from the nation’s busiest party school would play with this while on spring break? Or maybe a 34 year-old bachelor who lives by himself?
I’m pretty gay-friendly when sober, but if you are gay and happen to be around me when I am drunk, I would like to apologize in advance and forewarn you that this is what you are likely to experience:
At some point, and without provocation, I will confide in you that I have a really lax attitude towards gay people. “No seriously,” I’ll assure, “I like gays.”
“I just want you to know that I support your rights,” is probably going to come up at least once.
I’ll joke that I support gay marriage, but that I’m staunchly against gay divorce. We’ll both laugh. Although you’ll be laughing from pity, and I’ll be laughing because I was sure it was a great joke.
I will take you on a magic carpet ride of all of the gays who have appeared in my life throughout the years. I’ll unfurl a glorious rainbow tapestry and discuss: a) That poor guy in junior high school that we used to tease, and how badly I felt later in life to think about how we made him miserable, and will you, a gay person, please forgive me so I can stop feeling badly and stop overcompensating while drunk? b) The nice girl who advocated for gay people in high school in spite of how much flak she received. c) The math tutor relative who always showed up at Thanksgiving with his [cough cough] “roommate” Gary, and how it always seemed to me that Gary had been tricked into being homosexual. Does that ever happen? d) The first gay male co-worker I ever had and how it made me feel. e) The second gay co-worker who helped me to not feel weird around gay people. f) The first time I ever hugged a gay man. g) The co-worker everybody thought was gay because he had a tight body, never talked about girls and would go on tropical vacations with his “homeboys.” h) The weekly Carl’s Jr. dates I had with a gay man for about a month, completely by accident. i) The lesbian I dated. j) Tales of The Vamp: a former co-worker who systematically destroyed heterosexual men’s sexualities as sport, and had the photographs to prove it.
After we meet all of my ghosts of homos past, I will spontaneously pause to remember the gayest person I have ever met and then inject it into our conversation. Maybe something like, “Boy, yeah, speaking of shrimp cocktails, who was the gayest person I’ve ever met? I met Rip Taylor once! Boy is HE gay or what? Do you ever see him in the clubs?”
Now seems like a good time to tell you about the times in my life when gay guys flirted with me. I will probably say something very magnanimous like, “I was surprised at first, because it doesn’t happen too often, but I realized that it was very flattering! I mean, if a gay man is hitting on me, that’s pretty good, right? [awkward laughter]”
I may even get into a drunken argument with a stranger to defend your gay honor, and I’ll do it very loudly so that you can hear that I was there for you.
“Who the hell do you think you are calling him a name? You don’t call people that. We live in America, asshole. You will be accepting of him or you can leave America, got it jerk?!”
“Hey relax, buddy, you misunderstood me. I said ‘Hey, look over there, it’s Bob Saget.’ Bob Saget is at the bar. Relax.”
“I don’t care WHO is at the bar, you don’t call my friend names, okay? He is human and American — he’s Human-American and he has rights like his CIVIL RIGHTS!”
You know how excited you might get when you get a new black friend? Because maybe you haven’t had a black friend in a while and you’re really looking forward to it working out because everybody needs a black friend? And you want so much for the black person to accept you back, so you ham it up by trying to identify with the person and playing all of your black cards, as the case may be? You talk about The Jeffersons and Sanford and Son and maybe you afford yourself the liberty to talk a little more “street” than you ordinarily would. You might say “DY-NO-MITE!” a lot and even sing the Living Single theme song just to be entertaining. I have a similar level of excitement about gay people when I’m drunk. I assure you, my heart is in the right place, I do believe in the goodness of the gays and I just want to be friends. Anyway, I felt I should give you fair warning in case you are gay and in case you ever have the grave misfortune of being located anywhere in my vicinity when I am drunk.
[c] 2009 Russ of America
To help you relate to your black friends a little better.