“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.

[c] 2012 Russ of America

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 quickly evaluate all of the good stuff that’s going on for you, or god forbid, be grateful to be alive for fuck’s sake! Maybe even take a breath and say confidently, “Ya know, I’m doing pretty good!” You’re goddamn right you are! And if you can’t do that kind of quick math in your head, here’s the super-fast answer: “I’m great!” It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not because *I* don’t care, and neither does anyone who makes the mistake of asking your miserable ass how you’re doing.

And anyway, what’s with trying to bring *me* down? What the fuck did *I* do to you?! All I did was feign concern for your well-being! Does that make me a villain? I hardly think I should be punished by being forced to be your counselor when I’ve got far more interesting frivolities to attend to.

[c] 2011 Russ of America

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 stocking up her food reserves and emergency supplies for the future. There was a hint of 2012 apocalypse in her voice. It wasn’t Mayan doomsday, but more of a New World Order/Illuminati-flavored apocalypse, with a twist of moral decay. She said that when she mentioned her survival plans to her neighbor, he allegedly replied, “I’m stocking up on guns and lots of ammo.”
“I asked him if he’d use those guns on me,” she said. He didn’t answer.” There was genuine concern in her shaky voice.

She went on to express a specific fear that as long as Obama is in office, she can’t be certain that she will be safe in her own home or that she’ll be able to eat. So she tucked her newly purchased 12 gauge shotgun under her arm and left, ostensibly to wait out the remainder of Obama’s presidency in shade-drawn paranoia.

Enjoy your hardtack, ma’am.

[c] 2011 Russ of America

Mark my words: The journey to beauty begins with a complete waste of my motherfucking time.

Here’s a link to the video, should you actually wish to make one of these. :D

[c] 2011 Russ of America

“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.”

We’re !!

[c] 2011 Russ of America
Image stolen from HuffingtonPost.com

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?”

[c] 2010 Russ of America

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.

[c] 2010 Russ of America

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 was trying to dig himself out of the game from pure embarrassment, possibly attempting to seek sports asylum in China.

Saw two kids get beaned in the head with baseballs because they weren’t paying attention to the game. Each instance made me laugh out loud. Yes, I might be a bit of a sadist, but each event was genuinely funny. Neither kid was hurt. Or I should say, neither kid received a concussion. One was wearing a helmet, and the other wasn’t paying attention when she was beaned, so instead of crying outright, she looked around to see if it was worth bleating about. Since nobody was paying attention, she opted out of crying and went on about her day. That was a fun psychological process to witness!

Two outfielders played a rousing game of soccer with a baseball mitt. Another kid just threw his mitt into the outfield for no reason. One of the coaches had to retrieve it. It looked like a typical test of authority to me. In an instant, the coach became that little kid’s bitch. The little kid stood there looking at him as if to say, “Hm. It took you 13 seconds. Unimpressive…”

One kid ran from second base directly to home plate, avoiding third base completely. Efficient! Instead of bringing the ball to third base and outing the batter, the outfielder chased the batter to home plate. But in a twist, the batter juked the outfielder, ran back to third base and slid in safely with no more threat from the outfielder. WHAT THE FUCK?! You can DO that?!

Apparently in Infant Tee Ball, even if you’re tagged out, you are still indulged the privilege of running to home plate. And you get to slide into any base you want, as much as your heart desires. If you want to slide into first when the ball is in deep left field, you can. Wanna slide into the pitcher’s mound? Go ahead! The dug-out? Nobody gives a shit! One kid slid into the nacho concession stand. They tagged him out with extra jalapeño. I understand why the kids are allowed these indulgences. It absolutely makes sense to me. But maybe they could make it a little more fun by adding a water slide or some mud or something?

My Bebbeboo and I were clapping more than any of the parents. It wasn’t a competition, the parents just didn’t seem to care. That was really depressing considering how elated the kids looked when they heard people in the stands clapping for them. They displayed an insatiable hunger for attention and it was emotionally gratifying to give it to them that day.

It’s gotta totally suck to strike out at tee-ball. On the other hand, it’s gotta feel soooo good when there are people clapping and cheering for you when you do something good. Or even if you just got tagged out. Kids need that.

If you’ve ever played Nintendo baseball (and I’m talking old 1985 NES,) that’s how fast the kids run. Tek tek tek tek tek. Anyway, it was a lot of fun and I’m glad I got to witness it. Here is a visual representation of Infant Tee Ball, minus the awesome catches and 96mph fast balls.

[c] 2010 Russ of America

3 minutes 46 seconds. (3.45 megabytes)

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 the increase in dissidents like me
Who eschew every muthafuckin’ thing about you.

In your retro-nasty clothes and expensive cars,
Just because you drive an SUV don’t make you no movie star.
You’re just a low-life muthafucka scoundrel with good credit,
Certainly don’t earn no respect and you never get it.
And work is for the working class?
A kick in your ass, you think you suffer?
Shit, I fucking wish *I* had it that good, motherfucker.

And while you ponder the ramifications of your deeds,
I contradict the perceived benefits of your poetry readings.
Fuck bohemians,
Your big-ass cars, and your blow-up dolls.
Your casting calls, and your shopping malls.
Your Lisa Loeb glasses, Taebo classes,
Your quaint boutiques.
Your lifestyle reeks of overprivileged trust-fund bullshits
And silicone tits.
Now if the shoe fits — wear it.
You ain’t got no spirit and you know I don’t wanna hear it.

Verse 2 (Resume Eminem pastiche.)
You trickle into Echo Park and you drive up the prices.
Raising the base cost of the myriad of vices.
Niggers aren’t welcome, ’cause the honkies have made investments;
Jacking up the rentals of even the sleaziest of apartments.
And while I try to find a place to stay,
I’m wasting away,
‘Cause someone said that being poor is fashionable today.

Went to the thrift store to get myself some slacks
They were out because some Push King fans had cleaned out all the racks.

“Let’s go have some coffee –
Will it be Starbucks, Starbucks, Starbucks, or Tsunami?
I think I’ll have a crumpet,
Or barring that, a scone.
Look, I’m really into you,
But I have to take a call on my cell-phone.

Wanna get some sushi?
I’d like to just relax.
We can make out in the back seat of one of my three El Dorado Cadillacs.
No, not *THAT* one, the one with the MOOSE-skin interior.
The cow-skin and the sheep-skin are,
Well… Quite inferior.”

Verse 3 (You act like you’ve never seen a bitter person before.)
I can see the scenario so clearly in my mind,
Some hippie said,
“We don’t have Greenwich Village out here
And that’s what we need — something more refined!”

The hippie-types started moving in and improved upon the scene
As they had done in many cities time and time again.

Well the hippies got older, and as they aged their minimalistic needs grew –
Eventually abandoning their ideals to party with jerkoffs like you.
Trying to break into the biz and play the Hollywood game,
No sense moving out of their cozy wood-sided A-frame.

Up went the satellite dish,
And in came the Escalade
And >BOOM< went the class of the culture
They eventually betrayed.

Incense turned to scented candles,
Wingtips replaced their sandals,
Their lanky frames developed sexy Jack-in-the-Box love-handles

Holden Caulfield was correct,
When he called you straight-up phonies.
Don’t give a damn about the working-man,
Only your lingams and your yonis.
Sippin’ on your single-malt and ice –
Need proof?
I hear your nigga Zack DeLaRocha lives in a Martha Stewart paradise.

Verse 4 (Wind down this Eminem gag already.)
She must be down-to-earth ’cause she recognizes DK,
But now she’s DKNY and claims allegiance to Green Day.

P’shaw girl,
You’re not as cool as you would lead me to believe,
Because I seen you doin’ rails of tweak
And wiping snot on your sleeve.

And your boyfriend,
The one who was always hounding you for sex,
His greatest contribution to your personality
Was introducing you to NOFX.

Well, Silverlakers,
I guess with all that free time on your hands
You’re good at shopping,
And decorating,
And jocking crappy bands.
And lounging,
And parking in those disabled person zones,
And running the only remnants of Angeleno culture out their homes.

Way to fucking go!

A pat on your back.
A pipe full of crack.
Your chin on my sack,
Now please go the fuck back.

I said it before,
And it ain’t no mistake.
From the bottom of my heart,

FUCK SILVER LAKE!

FUCK SILVER LAKE!

FUCK SILVER LAKE!

In approximately 1996 I moved into a hovel in a small Los Angeles enclave called Echo Park. A human rights activist friend of mine from high school invited me into the structure, my first home apart from my parents. At the time, a lot of things were right about Echo Park: I was paying slightly less than half of $450/month rent and the neighborhood was chock full of salt-of-the-earth Latin types. Yes, there were some drawbacks. A new friend of mine, a former computer felon, peered into my bedroom and commented, “This room is about as big as my cell.” He was right. It was ridiculously small and overstocked with unnecessary memorabilia from my youth. But otherwise, living in the barrio was cool. Sure, every third time I’d go shopping at Pioneer Market on Sunset, there’d be a shopping cart carelessly abandoned behind my motorcycle. I fuckin’ hated that! But that was the charm of the neighborhood, I suppose — Old-sk00l apathy plus low prices, great dollar stores and cheap booze!

Over time, the booze got more expensive, and so did the rent. And I was quickly becoming infuriated at all the shopping carts that were being left behind my motorcycles. Mi hermano moved out of the hovel, and a few years later, I had to move out of my cozy cul-de-sac shithole after the newest property owner attempted to raise my rent by more than 40%. But before that went on, the shift in the neighborhood was becoming more obvious. Instead of having to ride my bike past a platoon of gangsters fifty deep, I now had wear hip-boots to wade through a sea of douchebag hipsters who had begun to pollute the streets, in their tight courderoy pants and “unique” eyeglass frames. But were they really doing anything interesting or refreshing, or was it all derivative of ancient style, ancient clothing, and ancient eye-wear? One day it occured to me how ludicrous it was that I was more uncomfortable passing through a gauntlet of inconsiderate hipster jackoffs than I was about passing through a flank of violent gang members. At least the homeboys would nod their heads at me in recognition. Very peculiar.

Also at the time I was writing. I wasn’t writing anything that you were reading, but I was writing. I was logging everything. And I eventually logged a song called “Fuck Silver Lake”, which was meant to thumb my nose at the gentrification, and at the types of people who were doing all that gentrifying. Also, I thought it important to mimic Eminem, because 1) his voice sounds funny to me, and 2) my “normal rapping voice” is atrocious.

Now, I’ve never had any ambition to be a rapper, so you won’t find me selling demo CDs in the parking lot. What’s important is that I can write a little, and sometimes that skill, plus some rudimentary audio editing skills make for good, rhythmic spoken word pieces, which by now you’ve already heard. Hope you enjoyed it.

[c] 2001 and 2010 Russ of America

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.

What the hell was I talking about?

[c] 2010 Russ of America

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.

[c] 2010 Russ of America

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 call The State of California nuts because they’ve put me in a really stupid position. When I filed my taxes in 2008 everything was cool. They liked the information I provided, they said that everything was kosher, my tax preparation software didn’t send up any red flags, California accepted my e-file. But now California is mad at me. If the State of California wanted a portion of that refund money, they should’ve just kept the shit. This is why I think you’re nuts, California. It’s crazy to give me back a bunch of money that I don’t owe you, and then get mad at me because you think that you’re entitled to a portion of that money that I didn’t owe you to begin with.

I can only imagine the consequences if we treated our loved ones this way.
“Here you go, baby, I bought you a burrito.”
“Ooooh! Burrito! My fave! Here come the fresh burps! Thank you so much for the burrito. Nom nom. MM, that was good.”
“You didn’t eat the entire burrito.”
“You’re right, I have some leftovers. I’ll tell you what: I want you to have the rest of my burrito.”
“Wow, that’s a pretty hefty chunk of burrito. Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“Oh my love, I’ve eaten my fair share of this burrito and I am happy to let you have the rest, as you clearly bought me a burrito too large for my needs.”
“That’s very sweet of you, baby. Nom nom nom nom. That leftover burrito was delicious!”
“Wait, you ate the rest of the burrito?”
“Of course! You gave it to me because you said you’d already eaten your fair share.”
“Well you could have offered me a few more bites.”
“You’re fucking nuts. Get out of my goddamn house.”

Or another scenario at McDonald’s:
“Okay, that’s a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, a medium fry and a medium Diet Coke. That’ll be $15.37.”
“Here’s a twenty.”
“Okay, out of twenty, your change is one, two, three, four, five sixty-three.”
“Excuse me ma’am, you gave me an extra dollar.”
“Oh, you’re right. I’m sorry. Thank you for returning it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I notice that you haven’t left yet. Is there something else I can help you with, sir?”
“You gave me an extra dollar.”
“Yes, and you gave it back to me. Thank you very much.”
“That’s income. Now you have to give me twenty cents.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Yes. I’m the State of California.”

[c] 2010 Russ of America

[c] 2009 Russ of America

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.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

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:

And undercover Juneau Police officers might look like this:

“I’m just a regular man in a solid-black outfit driving a regular Crown Victoria with decals of mountains on it….
KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM! GET ON THE GROUND! DO IT NOW!” [taze taze taze]

And if Mayan doomsday predictions don’t come to fruition and we’re all alive in 2012 to vote for Palin, what might her cryptographic presidential correspondences look like?

And finally, I’m a helpful lad, so here are two disguise recommendations for Sarah Palin’s Project Incognito. How about this attractive visor?

See? It says quite clearly that you are NOT going rogue, so nobody would assume that you are Sarah Palin. And then there’s my favorite:

Palin hates varmints, right?

[c] 2009 Russ of America

Esteemed television actress Meredith Baxter, who portrayed Elyse Keaton on 1980s hit sit-com Family Ties, recently revealed during a slightly awkward Today Show segment that she is a Lesbian. But for those of us who have been following her IMDB history over the years, this is no new revelation. Why, just looking at the names of some of the projects she’s worked on over the years, it is clear that she has been trying to tell us something for a very long time:

Bound by a Secret (2009)
“Half & Half” (2004)
The Wednesday Woman (2000)
Let Me Call You Sweetheart (1997)
“The Rosie O’Donnell Show” (1997)
Betrayed: A Story of Three Women (1995)
My Breast (1994)
A Woman Scorned: The Betty Broderick Story (1992)
Bump in the Night (1991)
Jezebel’s Kiss (1990)
The Kissing Place (1990)
Kate’s Secret (1986)
The Two Lives of Carol Letner (1981)
Little Women (1978)
“Police Woman” (1976)
The Impostor (1975)
The Stranger Who Looks Like Me (1974)
Stand Up and Be Counted (1972)

But LULz aside, congratulations Ms. Baxter for having the courage to talk publicly about your private life. This blog and its sole writer wish you and your partner success, happiness, health, legions of support and good fortune.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

This post is a derivative, friendly RIP-OFF and a tribute to Garfield Minus Garfield.

Russ of America

 

This Christmas be sure to fight to the death for the most popular toy to hit store shelves:
The Tickle Me Olmos Plush Doll!

Squeeze his tummy and Edward James Olmos will recite all of his most popular movie lines.

Chale homes!

[c] 2009 Russ of America

When I was in 7th grade my friends and I made a daily habit of crank-calling people. We’d congregate around the white Panasonic speakerphone and dial local numbers randomly. We’d usually keep it to a few prefixes that we were familiar with. We had a few routines that were fun. I liked to start out the conversation by asking them who THEY were. Which is why, to this day, if a caller begins the call with “Hi, who is this?” I always respond, “I give up.”

[ring ring]
“Hello?”
“Hi, who’s this?”
“This is Dorothy, who is this?”
“This is Mike.”
“Oh hi, Mike!”

Everybody knew a Mike.

But one of my favorite exchanges would go something like this:

[ring ring]
“Hello?”
“Hi [blah blah blah, crank call scheme, blah blah blah, we laugh]”
“Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“What do you mean how did I get this number?”
“How did you get this number? This phone # is unlisted!”
“We dialed it randomly.”
“But it’s unlisted!”
“Okay.”
“So how did you call me?”
“What do you mean? We dialed you randomly.”
“Tell me how you got this number.”
“I did tell you. I don’t think that you understand the concept of random.”
“Don’t you be smart with me!”
“We live in your area code. We picked a prefix and then dialed four random numbers.”
“But this phone number is unlisted!”
“Okay. Well, we were able to get through, sooo…”
“I don’t know who you are or how you got this number, but I don’t want you ever calling here again! And I’m going to have this phone number changed!”
“Okay…”
[click]

This happened on many occasions. Ah, sophisticated adults!

[c] 2009 Russ of America

 

(click image for full size)

[c] 2009 Russ of America

Snuggies already look like day-glo robes from a freak religious cult. But throw in a couple of overly-enthusiastic white people dancing in the kitchen with lunatic grins and, well, just look at the photo.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

Blogging metrics are so important to anyone who tries to make people laugh via blogging. I was fortunate to see a ridiculous exponential jump in hits to my Cleft Deodorant post on November 7th. All of the hits came from StumbleUpon, though I’m unsure why it jumped so quickly. It was deliciously insane! While the status quo has been resumed, I hope that the visitors come back and find something else amusing after checking out my #1 Favorite Posts. Thanks for visiting!

With love,
RCoA

Ah, Halloween! As far as I’m concerned, it’s the purest of all the holidays, because it doesn’t matter who you are or what god you believe in; If you’re a kid and you’re dressed up real cute in Halloween gear, you’re gonna get some candy. It’s the only time of year when people really DO give without any expectation of something in return, whether it be cranberry sauce, pastel candies, flowers or gifts. But, like most other holidays, there is a heavy commercial presence. Costumes are store-bought and many are licensed from comic books, movies and books as you will see below. I wanted to help celebrate the awesome joy of Halloween, but I also wanted to protect the identities of the children involved and avoid any legal hassles from sharpshooter corporate legal teams. So I’m redacting the faces of the kids as well as all trademarked logos and images.

Happy Halloween!

Awww! The kid on the far right is hilarious with his goofy smile. He’s not wearing his mask, which could be problematic for this crime-fighting arachnid, but he really is cute! In the middle is a basketball player for the ********* *********. Going by the large 23 on his jersey he’s obviously ****** *****. I have no idea who the kid on the left is supposed to be. I’ve redacted the back of her head because certain characteristics could cause her to be identified.

Oh man, is this little guy adorable or what? I think it’s really cool that he went for the vintage ****** costume instead of the 2009 **** ****** era costume. The 1960s version is considered to be campy, but I always loved the yellow and gray. But how come he’s not wearing his cowl? The woman on the left is stoked to see this handsome little guy, no doubt because he reminds her of good television hours invested in her youth. The girl from the first picture makes another appearance here. I still can’t tell what she’s supposed to be. Can you? The adults behind them are eager to score the most candy possible from the woman on the left. Great encouragement, but the kid’s gonna need his cowl to score maximum trick-or-treat points!

Now these kids have done something a little different. Their masks are fairly simple — just different animal snouts over their own snouts. No heavy commercialism here, aside from the sweatshirts and jackets and t-shirts that they’re all wearing, which are saturated with corporate brands and slogans. But the costumes themselves exude rogue simplicity! I’m not sure what the kid in the red sweatshirt is going for though. He’s the only one not wearing a snout, as you can see. It appears that someone tried to turn his sweatshirt into a kind of cape, but they did it all wrong because the arms are still free. The effort reminds me of my youth when we’d convert black t-shirts to ninja hoods and roam the streets in search of pornography.

Wow! It’s a slew of princesses and only one female superhero! How sad that only one girl in the bunch has parents who taught her not to buy into anti-feminist ****** propaganda. Where the other girls will grow up thinking that it’s okay to perceive themselves as princesses, get plastic surgery, wear oversized “bitch goggles” sunglasses, get tramp stamps and date men who overtly resent them, this one girl (front center) will grow up to understand that she is powerful and capable of establishing her own destiny instead of building her future upon a foundation of archaic gender stereotypes. Yeah, I know, Halloween is about dress-up, but are the kids buying the costumes, or are the adults buying the costumes? Looks like mommy is trying to fulfill her childhood princess through her daughter instead of building her up like she ought to!

And finally, a mad-dash for the last call for chocolate. This mishmash entourage bumrushes the door for the final handout of candy goodness. Dolls, fairies, angels, vampires and a boy made of ferrous metal. Ah, Halloween, the most precious and the purest of all the American holidays!

[c] 2009 Russ of America
Images used under Creative Commons License – Attribution, Non-Commercial, ShareAlike
1 & 2 courtesy of El Destructo – Flickr
3 courtesy of Rapid City Public Library – Flickr
4 courtesy of Little Koshka – Flickr
5 courtesy of PDub – Flickr

Happy 40th birthday, Internet!

For all you technophiles, here is a copy of the first email volley ever written. These five email messages were hacked out in 1971 and sent across the fledgling Arpanet. And while Internet lore suggests that Roy Tomlinson may have been involved, this cannot be proven in a court of law, so we’ll assume that he had nothing to do with these exchanges.

Click to view the large version.

[c] 2009 Russ of America

 

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[c] 2009 Russ of America