“I look you dead in the eye,
Then I spit.
I tell you to your face,
Punk, you ain’t shit!’”
- Eazy-E / Two Hard Muthas
“I do defy him,
And I spit at him;
Call him a slanderous coward
And a villain!”
- William Shakespeare / King Richard II
I wish I could remember the name of the person who first brought this bizarre parallel to my attention, but I can’t. However, I first learned of it circa 1996, so I’ve been aware of it for at least a decade and a half, and I’ve always appreciated the intellect that was able to bring these two circles together in this weird hip-hop/literature Venn diagram. Thanks, stranger! And honestly, if you’re looking for something to punch up your cardio workout, I’m gonna suggest you go with Eazy-E. If you’re looking for something to make your hips and/or brain bigger, go with Shakespeare.
Oh for fuck’s sake, when someone asks you, “Hey man, how ya doin’?!” would you *pleeeease* stop sighing and whining about how BLEHHH you are?
When someone asks you how you’re doing, in that fraction of a second that it takes you to think of which one of your bullshit woes you want to complain about, you should … Click Here to Read On! …
Instead of hurrying up with her purchase so that *I* could be helped with my purchase of bullets, because I’m all about ME ME ME and was in a real rush to get my hollow-point ammunition, a petite, dotty older lady at the gun store told the clerk a rambling story about how she’s … Click Here to Read On! …
“But mummy, which one’s *my* hat?”
“It’s the one with your name on it, love.”
“Wot?”
“It’s the one with your name on it.”
“Then is my name Peterbilt?”
“No dear, it’s Beatrice!”
“Then is my name Heineken or Green Day?”
“No dear, it’s Beatrice!”
“Then is my name Von Dutch or San Diego Padres?”
“No dear, it’s Beatrice!”
“Well then which one’s *my* hat, mummy?!” <stamps foot>
“<sigh> Just take the ugliest fucking hat, princess.”
If I had a time machine, I’d change my name to Chevy Chase. Then I’d travel back in time to a 1970s taping of Saturday Night Live. And when the news updates began, and Chevy Chase quipped, “I’m Chevy Chase and you’re not” I’d leap to my feet and scream at the top of my lungs, “You wanna bet, Chevy Chase?! I *am* Chevy Chase!” And I’d run onto the set with my ID and I’d show him. And he’d sit there looking all flummoxed and embarrassed because he was wrong, and then the crowd would applaud and cheer “Bravo!” and I’d be a hero, immortalized forever in the annals of television’s most awesome events!
Then I’d travel back to now, and change this blog post to read, “Remember when I time-traveled to the ’70s and made Chevy Chase my bitch?”
Did you ever pass out, then wake up an hour later, realize that you left a load of laundry in the washing machine and that you’ve gotta wait another hour for the dryer to finish drying the clothes because you don’t want wrinkles, so you have to stay up while the dryer dries so you don’t forget to get it, and then you pass out again and wake up at 5 in the morning and go out to the dryer and your clothes are dry and totally cold and you stuff them into a bag and get them back to your house and dump them on the couch and haphazardly spread them out so they don’t wrinkle, but it’s too fucking late because your clothes are totally wrinkled and you’re tired and ready to pass out but you know you’ll never get a good night’s sleep because of all that laundry shit and all the other stress in your life but on top of it your clothes are wrinkled too?! Yeah, that happened to me again tonight.
I attended my Bebbeboo’s nephew’s Tee-Ball game a few weeks ago. The team was comprised of kids 4-7yrs old. I don’t know how to describe the experience other than as “frustrating hilarity”.
One tee-ball kid was OCDing over a patch of dirt. I’m pretty sure that he was sorting pebbles alphabetically. Every time my eyes would check up on him, it was obvious that he had zero interest in the game that was going on around him. His dispassion fueled lengthy debates about his commitment to the sport and triggered arguments speculating as to his ability to perform the sport. At some point, because of his intent gaze and furious digging, I became certain that he … Click Here to Read On! …
Features samples of:
Lenny Bruce – Don’s Big Dago
James Brown – The Boss
Average White Band – Pick Up the Pieces
[INTRO - Lenny Bruce]
Culture changes wherever you go…
Los Angeles…
And very innocently too.
You’ll see big signs.
And think nothing of that kind of a sign.
Now I picture a poor guy who was raised in Los Angeles;
“Ya bastard!” >POP!<
Verse 1 (a la Eminem pastiche)
Ooh!
Fuck Silver Lake,
There’s disease in your wake.
Please give but don’t take
And honor the sake of the residents.
‘Cause that’s why … Click Here to Read On! …
I was reading an article on CNN.com today and I made the mistake of browsing the comment section. Some dude posted, “There is no compromise with any Terrorist organization until they are fully eliminated from the world, then we can have a peaceful life.” [sic] I assume that he wrote these words with a straight face. There is no doubt in my mind that the poster believes it is possible to remove all terrorist organizations from the world.
Cool. So how does that belief system work exactly? How do you fight terror? With guns? If someone’s terrorizing you, and you go kill them with guns, aren’t you terrorizing them back? Haven’t you now doubled the terror in the world? Before you rage on me, you should know that I’m just processing the argument literally. I’m not placing a value judgment on revenge, because hey, I think revenge is pretty awesome. I often practice something I call “pre-venge” in anticipation of you screwing me over. So like if I have a reasonable belief that you’re about to do something uncool to me, I might pre-venge you by doing something uncool first in order to prevent you from doing it to me. A-HA! Tactics!
Terror is an emotion, like anger or hate. No matter what progress you make, there’s always some yahoo who’s angry at something or who hates something. Like me. I hate lots of things. The smell of puppies is a good example; I hate the smell of puppies. Puppies are fun, puppies are cute, but I hate the way they smell — bitter and dirty. It’s not a rational hatred like the hatred of western civilization, but it’s a hatred nonetheless. So how do you fight an irrational hatred? Yeah, you could force me to attend puppy odor sensitivity classes or you could bomb my house, but does that solve the problem? There’s always going to be someone out there who hates the smell of puppies.
John Travolta is in a new movie called From Paris With Love and he plays a tough guy or something. “A WHAT?! John Travolta as a tough guy?”
I guess. I dunno.
But it’s kinda difficult to accept him as a bad-ass when he looks like a cross between hairstylist Paul Mitchell and toilet-scrubbing Mr. Clean. He’s even got a hoop earring just like Mr. Clean! A middle-aged John Travolta’s gonna come to your house and clean your toilet — with a bazooka! Oohsoscared!
People like myself, who have plenty of time to speculate on unimportant things, wonder if the bald look is going to become his new look for a while, and if he is abandoning the much mocked hair plugs or wig that he’s been wearing for a few years. Then again, I really don’t care to invest too much thought in John Travolta’s hairline, so I must politely excuse myself now.
The entity known as The State of California is nuts. They’re mad at me because, I guess, in 2008 I didn’t declare my tax refund as income. I’m not sure how it qualifies as income. I didn’t have to work for it. I didn’t have to hustle or fight for it. I just typed in some numbers and they sent me a bunch of money. That qualifies as income? How do I do it again? Is there a website I can go to where I can keep typing in numbers and the State of California will send me more income? I don’t mind. It took me about an hour to file my taxes and they sent me a cool thousand bucks. I’d DEFINITELY do that again.
I don’t understand this tip-your-mailman-at-Christmas shit.
The mailman never brings me any good news; He only brings me garbage and bills. Sometimes he brings me the latest information about local savings on fresh chicken thighs, but that’s hardly his fault.
I know, I know, I shouldn’t shoot the messenger. So I won’t! I will NOT shoot the mailman. But if you can’t SHOOT the messenger, you also shouldn’t have to TIP the messenger.
Anyhow, I have a moral objection to tip any government employee who can’t either get me out of jail or legalize something, and who has a retirement plan and full medical. Maybe I’ll give him some chicken thighs.
Recently, former Alaskan Governor and future presidential wannabe Sarah Palin was spotted in Hawaii wearing a 2008 McCain presidential campaign visor with McCain’s name blacked-out. “Incognito,” Palin said, was the look she was going for. Because there’s nothing visually peculiar about a woman with a giant blotch of magic marker on her hat, right? Nothing that would make you do a double-take and ask, “What the fuck does that shit say?” And it’s not like Hawaii has any gift shops where a wealthy, famous person could buy a new visor or anything. But she wasn’t dissing John McCain — that’s a fact. When *I* cross out the names of *my* friends, it’s cool because I’m from the WEST side and you’re probably from the EAST side and we both do things differently, right?
Anyhow, I’m not certain Ms. Palin knows what incognito means, so I will take it upon myself to help elucidate through sarcasm, satire and condescending language.
If Palin had completed her first term as Governor of Alaska, it’s conceivable that her undercover state troopers would be super incognito driving this:
!!
