The Blogging Affairs Desk

When It’s Good, It’s Good, When It’s BAD, It’s Better…

TidBits: Your Online Newspaper Sucks.

In this issue of TidBits I focus the topics on various online newspapers, oppose to being all over the road, like I usually am.  Enjoy:


Huffington Post: I was first introduced to HuffPo back during the 2008 elections, because they seemed to have a more indepth (and far more liberally slanted) reporting on the campaigns than the New York Times did.  This is because unlike The Times, HuffPo is a fucking tabloid.  A tabloid, not in the sense of layout, but a tabloid in the sense that everything they publish is utter garbage and a glorification of shock-media.

Go to their site and likely on the front page “above the fold” you’ll find some colorful headline, with shocking allegations/implications/ramifications.  I’m sure today, 20NOV09, it’ll be something like “OPRAH QUITS!” or “GOLDMAN SACHS QUITS!” You get the idea.  The only people that should be quitting Huffington Post though are us.  Really, stop reading this trash.

Below that, you’ll likely find a headline involving a mass shooting, police dash board video of a 1oo mph car crash, or kittens.

The only real redeeming aspect of Huffington Post is it’s ‘Entertainment’ section, where on occasion they’ll post NSFW photos of quasi-famous people from European magazines.  If not for this section, I’d never known that Lady GaGa has pancake titties.

That being said, the Entertainment Section is rife with even more shit I don’t care about, to wit: Amy Winehouse BACK in rehab.  Lindsay Lohan looks strung out and too-skinny.  Some European model is doing coke on a yacht in the Mediterranean.  Levi Johnston’s cock is out for everyone to see, etc etc.

The worst crime perpetrated by Huffington Post, by far, is it’s line up of guest bloggers.  It seems that anyone under the sun, myself likely included, can submit their blogs and they’ll run on HuffPo.  A lot of these blogs are maybe 400 words in length, baseless, whiny, complainy, and ultra liberal.  And when you sprinkle into the mix CELEBRITIES, well, hold me down Jethro, let me beat feet over and see what the likes of Meryl Streep, Alec Baldwin, and fucking-a-christ Fitty Cent have to say about topics including and not limited to: The Environment, television, and polar bears.

We all know that if you give a celebrity of any size caliber a mouth piece they will talk non-stop on subjects they know little about.  They will regurgitate talking points garnered at parties and shit they heard on Keith Olberman two nights ago.  They then turn around and fill up space on Huffington Post with the same shit, so that simple-minded office drones (like myself) stuck in front of a computer all day, will read that shit and puke it back up during a conversation with our spouses, co-workers and mistresses.

JUST BECAUSE GEORGE CLOONEY SAID SOMETHING, DOESN’T MEAN IT’S RIGHT!  He’s a handsome man, no doubt, but that doesn’t make him Jesus.

Slate: Slate strikes me as the type of online magazine that only people who want to pretend they care about important shit read.  If you scan over it’s front page there’s a splash of multiple graphic-headlines along with a side bar that represents the latest stories to appear on Slate, called “The Slatest” which is fucking cute.

Scrolling over the tops of the subject columns, you get drop down menus from the latest articles being written in each subject matter.  What really catches my eye are the “explainer” articles, where someone asks a question regarding current events (my favorite so far has been “What makes a gun a ‘cop-killer’ gun?” to which I would’ve simply answered: “It’s ability to function, now go back to pulling the curlers out of your hair, Maud.”).  I like these because it allows me to peer into the psyche of my fellow readers, and see exactly how shallow it can be.

Who gives a rat’s ass about “Which Way is Best for a ‘Twilight’ Vampire to Drink Blood’ or “What Makes a Prison State-of-the-Art?”  I have answers to both:  Through a straw and Rape Whistles, that’s what.

I think my biggest hangup with Slate is it’s over all redundancy.  On their front page alone, I can access the same article five different ways, six if it’s still listed on the “Slatest” side bar.  This only reeks of lack of content, which is why I normally only pump my brakes here once a day.

If it wasn’t for Farhad Manjoo, I would likely take Slate off my bookmarks.

Cape Cod Times: I don’t want to make this personal, I really don’t.  That would hurt my objectivity as well as credibility, but seriously you fucks, that sunrise submission I sent in was TIGHT.  And when you compare it to the other crap that was submitted, it makes me feel like someone down in whatever basement at the CCT has been busy jacking off all over everyone’s mail.

Here’s the back story:  The CCT asked for reader submissions of photos of sunrises and sunsets.  I submitted the following photo:

A few weeks later I checked back and saw that they posted the top 15.  Surely I was going to get SOME mention in the top 15.  That pic I took, with my iphone no less, was sick.

But no.  Out of the 15 they picked, maybe 4 or 5 were better, and after that, maybe 6 total were worth the effort.  The rest, including one taken from someone’s couch out of their picture window, blew King Kong Kock.

Now to the rest of your site – it’s terrible.  I understand you’re the only daily on Cape, but c’mon dude, you guys are fucking terrible.  It’s not like you have any real competition, except for the little dinky local papers, like the Ptown Banner, Barnstable Patriot, etc.  But c’mon, make the effort.

Your stories are half researched at best, and usually filled with speculation from your editorial staff.  You run incomplete articles that virtually amount to nothing, except a huge waste of time.

For instance, for the last month or six weeks, you’ve been running the same story about how some fire lieutenant is in trouble with the town offices in Bourne.  You can’t report why she’s in trouble, or under what circumstances she’s being investigated for, yet you run the story.

It’s fucking gossip dude.

Your Police and Fire Notes are often stuff you guys grab off the scanner.  Shooting here, stabbing there, car accident on 6… big deal, it’s so fucking repetitive that I want to go down to your printing shop and instruct all of you on the phenomenal waste of paper you’re generating.

But hey, my ferrets need ass wipe too, so… keep up the good work.


November 24, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Getting Older, Gonzo Journalism, Out and About, People I Hate, Shameless Self Promotion, Why Am I Reading This? | , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dissecting Cosmo

So imagine walking into your office and you catch this whiff of some fruity concoction; it’s over powering, destabilizing, and instantly you wonder if someone set off a Febreze bomb in your working space.

With coffee in hand you set your things down and looking back up at you from your desk is Megan Fox, the “it” starlet of the moment, complete with the allure of a flash frozen whore.

Someone left a Cosmopolitan Magazine on my desk, whom I have no idea, since my office is a shared workspace and I do work with members of the opposite sex.

“Cosmo” as it’s called by its utterly slutty readership has a home in America’s beauty salons, high school lockers, and under your little sister’s mattress.  I figured I’d go into the magazine and dissect some of it for my readers, because shit, it’s midnight, I’m up, you’re up, wouldn’t you like to know what men think about a magazine that purports to KNOW what men think?

The Cover:
As stated, Megan Fox is on the cover, set on a pink background, she’s wearing a skanky looking pinkish dress, complete with fan-blown hair, and a bunch of gaudy costume jewelry that looks like it was purchased from a local flea market.  I do not understand her appeal, only that she’s conventionally hot.  I guess she has a new movie coming out, but… whatever.

Of course there’s headlines detailing what’s inside the issue, some of these include “Bad Girl Sex: These 12 Moves Will Show Him Your REALLY Naughty Side.  We Call Them The “Dirty Dozen.” This headline will forever ruin the classic war movie of the same name for me.  On the same subject, 12 moves?  I’m confused because I’ve been having sex for a while, and honestly, there’s really nothing new to discover, at least in my own mind, that a sexual partner, particularly a girl, can do that hasn’t been done in every porno movie I’ve ever watched while only wearing one sock.  Girls: here’s the real scoop:  Just show up, that’s it.  You don’t need “super secret dirty new moves” to impress us.  Just… climb on board.  Really.

Another headline:  “One Question No Guy Can Resist.” … Whatever the fuck that means.  Girls, ask a guy any question about himself, or his opinion, and likely he’ll cough up an answer, as long as it pertains to his thoughts regarding sports teams, high school glory days, beer vs. beer, or if he’d be interested in seeing you naked.  When it comes to that stuff, we’re usually open books.

The last headline before I move on:  “The Sexy Ass Workout:  2 Weeks to Tight Cheeks.” I don’t know what it is about that lede, but it’s so utterly unattractive.  Anything with the word “ass” in it just… ugh, and you know, I’m an ass and leg guy too?  But seeing it in big bold black letters under Megan Fox’s right tit just… it’s so unclassy.  Maybe it harkens to that “Flirty Girl Fitness” commercial I see advertised in the mornings that I’m watching old “Saved By The Bell” episodes.  You know the commercial, a handful of strippers prance around with the promise of getting “fit” by doing “sexy” stripper routines in your own living room.

But you know better.  You know that the tantalizing bodies on the screens are not the ones doing squats next to their crumb-covered couches at home.  No, it’s gross heavy weight housewives lamely attempting to get into some sort of shape in order to seduce their husbands, who will only be closing their eyes and imagining the gyrating girls from the commercial when they get to sticking it.Fat_figurestore_pole

That said, let’s take a look inside…

I flip through fifteen sum-odd pages, re-wafting that noxious gas back into my office.  Every page I turn is an ad for something or other, make up, perfume, clothes…

I’m not surprised or unfamiliar with this, as I read “Esquire” and “Men’s Health” somewhat religiously.  Periodicals have to pay the bills I understand, and advertisers know this.  If you’re interested in men’s fashion, expect Calvin Klein ads to be littered about your magazine.  Women’s mags are no different.

I get to page 18, and on the bottom left corner there’s a picture of three celebs with the title “If You Had To Choose…” with the options of Musicians Jon Legend and Jon Mayer, and actor Jonathon Rhys Meyers, with the option to “shun, shag or marry.”  Men play this game too, but it’s typically called “Friend, Fuck or Murder” and it tends to involve female celebrities.  But in this case, I would Friend Jon Mayer (I follow him on Twitter), fuck Jon Legend, and probably murder Meyers, only because I hated the two and a half episodes of “The Tudors” I’ve seen.

More ads, more ads….

I come to the article on Ms. Fox, and I’m somewhat confused because the opening pages are photo splashes of her, full body shots, her in flirty tantalizing poses, which makes me flip the magazine back over to make sure I’m still working through an issue of Cosmo and not “Maxim.”  I know girls check each other out and probably are more inclined to bi-sexual fantasizing then men (for instance, I doubt I’m going to crack open next month’s “Esquire” and find a spread of a shirtless Alex Rodriquez on bed sheets…).  It’s just confusing.

Apparently Ms. Fox has filled out some sort of questionnaire here that they’ve superimposed into the article as filler, because even I’d be hard pressed to get 700 words out on an actress with a pool of talent shallower than anything bought at Kmart.

Information gleaned from the questionnaire:  Ms. Fox’s nickname is apparently “bird” which is never explained (maybe it’s explained in the article, but I didn’t bother to read it), her most “tomboyish trait” is her “sailor mouth” which … I’m not sure if it turns me on or makes me think of festering scurvy sores… in another life she was probably a man… According to Ms. Fox the only thing sexier than sex is a Funny Boy (Bobby Hill, watch out!)… her ideal date would be a “sexy sandwich with Andy Samberg and Jonah Hill (first of three times I would throw up in my mouth and be forced to swallow it back down while researching this article) …. The most scared she’s been was when “any time I go on stage – instant diarrhea” (That’s two!  I just want to know if she uses the loose 1 dollar bills she’s collected to clean herself up?)… and in ten years she’d like to be “still working.”  Megan I hear there’s some prime real estate over at Vh1 on Sunday nights if you’re looking… or Hollywood Square, bottom right, under Bruce Valanch and next to John Stamos’ stunt double.


I skip ahead to the next article, titled “What He’s Really Doing at a Bachelor Party.” I’d like to point out at this time that I’m listening to Tom Waits on my Pandora radio station to help balance out the estrogen that’s bleeding out from this magazine.

From the 350 word article:  “The horror stories abound: binge drinking, strippers, lap dances, even full on sex with hookers!  You know your guy would never go there… but you also know guys act stupidly when pressured by pals.”

Ok, let me say this:  I’ve been to two bachelor parties in my entire life, neither sure as hell involved any sex with hookers, and only one involved a pair of non-English-speaking strippers who engaged in a dyke-fest on the floor of a HVAC shop while a bunch of coked out Colombians cheered them on.  Regardless, bachelor parties tend to be kinda lame.  There’s a collection of guys, both professional and personal friends of the groom who gather, watch a porno together and drink beer.  Usually, by nine-ish the married guys dip out to get back home to the wife and kids, leaving the single guys start getting picked off one by one by the booze fairy around 11ish.

Women: Honestly, you have nothing to fear from a bachelor party.

Also from the article, towards the end:  “A good time to drive your point [re: acceptable behavior at the bachelor party] home is right after a good romp, when the love hormone Oxytocin is raging for both of you.  Point out that you’re able to try new things in the bedroom because you trust him and know you’re the only one he’s doing stuff like that with.” If you read between the line here ladies, what you’re being told is to let us bareback it with you the night before, so you can say “look I let you hit it raw, you better not go to the party and bring back something nasty that’s going to make my insurance premium sky rocket the next time I get a check up.”

Moving on…

Page 48 has a huge graphic breaking down what’s apparently “Sexy vs. Skanky.”  A rhyming break down of acceptable and unacceptable fashion-type behavior.  Such helpful advice includes Sexy: “Being edgy” with a picture of the singer Fergie wearing what looks like an over sized t shirt she wore to a razor fight, and Skanky:  “Picking Wedgie” where model Victoria Silvstedt, clad in a bikini is digging knuckle deep up her ass to fetch part of her bottoms.vs23_medium

One more:  Sexy “Pumped up guys” with a picture of actor Taylor Kitsch, who I think is from the tv show “Friday Night Lights” but I could be mistaken, because I nor anyone else has ever watched a single episode of that show, and Skanky: “Frumped up girls” with a picture of Helena Bonham Carter walking some place wearing what looks like turn of the century bed clothes.

I have a problem with this because Ms. Bonham Carter is a sweetheart and hardly a “skank.”  Sure, she often looks like a crazy homeless lady, and I expect her at any second to have some small mammal leap from her hair, but she’s by no means to be lumped into the same circus of painted whores as the entire cast of “The Hills.”  She’s a very talented stage actress and will forever be Marla from ‘Fight Club.’  Cosmo, leave the poor woman alone.  I’m sure she has mirrors in her very expensive British estate, and she’s aware she leaves the house looking like a bedraggled bus riding bag lady.
More ads… more ads… head starts to spin due to lack of sufficient O2 as office becomes saturated in perfume samples.

I get to a section called “Confessions” where readers submit embarrassing, albeit humorous anecdotes that involved their “V Zones” and an unnaturally high amount of accidents involving fellatio.  I chuckle, and figure the bulk of these are at least 50% creative fiction writing exercises, because “hooking up with a real hottie in the bathroom of this club” seldom ever really happens.

I skip ahead again, and now I’m looking at a series of close ups of some dudes eyes, with the headline “4 Truths His Eyes Reveal.”  Apparently if you study these four sets of eyes, you’ll be able to read our (men’s) minds.

Featured:  I’m Bummed – half raised eyebrows, slight smirk.
I Love You – Narrowed gaze, rapist quality eyebrows.
I’m Putting One Over On You – Eyes complete closed, face apparently becomes African-American.  Maybe it should read “I’m Putting One In You?”
I Want You – Steady, burning gaze that the longer I look into, makes me feel gay as a tree full of birds.

Not Featured:  Hunny, Get Me Another One? – Uplifted eyebrows with hopeful glint
Ugh, I’m Kinda in The Mood, (But Don’t Feel Like Fucking Around With All That Foreplay) – Squinted eyes, furrowed brow.
Please, Shut The Fuck Up – Upturned eyes, towards ceiling, almost asking for god’s hand to come down from the sky and smite thee.
I Hate Your Harpy Friends – Red eyes, bared teeth.

I next come across “The Guy Report” with useless information for women to “nudge” guys to do their bidding and to decode eating habits.  Of the eating habits “If he routinely finishes his meals long before you do, being in sync and savoring your relationship may not be priorities for him.” Or… or it could mean I’m just fucking hungry because I’ve been at work all day and the last time I ate was at about 9 am this morning which consisted of a piece of wheat toast and a handful of Corn Pops?  Lesson:  If you have time to over analyze our relationship based purely on how I’m eating, you need to check your insecurity.  The fact that I’m sucking down the meal you just made me should be a compliment.  The way I look at it, as a guy, if I’m spending my time chit-chatting to you and NOT shoveling a forkful of the meal into my mouth, I’m not interested in the food and if you made dinner, that doesn’t bode well for you, or our “relationship.”

Next page:  “Why He Calls You A Nag, When You’re Not.” …Too easy, moving on.

Blah blah blah, fashion accessory stuffy… Pandora is playing some funky shit…lights are blinking around me for some reason… the fear of keeping this magazine open much longer and developing a vagina in the course of writing this article hits my chest with a sudden thud….

The rest of the magazine is basically ads, either in-your-face variety of paid full page ads for hair products or slick-looking “reviews” of products that no doubt the manufacturers paid for to appear in the pages with glowing reviews by some editor.

A picture of Rob Thomas, … he looks like an autistic kid with a flashlight….Screening The Duchess NY

Now on to the obligatory sex stuff that is the pride of Cosmopolitan Magazine.  A collection of essays, tips, pointers, and pictures of soft core pornography to go along with it all.

Remember earlier when I mentioned that during the research phase for this article I puked in my mouth thricely?  Here’s number three:

From the article “Fun Little Tricks Guys Love:”  “Use Your Thong as a Hair Tie.” …I’m not even remotely making that up.

It goes on:  “There are few things guys like more than long hair, women’s underwear, and sex.  So combine all three!  If things start getting hot and heavy, stopping the action to go search for a pony tail holder will kill the mood.  Instead, grab – or take off – (get read for it…) your underwear.  Simply fold the crotch up so that the thong forms an open circle, twist your hair into a low pony tail or bun, and use your panties like an elastic band to secure your locks!”

…Ok.  I can almost… ugh… I can almost smell how disgusting of an idea that is.

Let me go out on this note:  If I were ever getting frisky with my wife and she … pulled off her underwear to use to tie her fucking hair back, I’d throw her out of bed.  Without hesitation, because I figure if she has gone past the point of caring that she’s now wearing her used, hot underwear on her head and still going to have sex with me, she’s either become Helena Bonham Carter or she’s just gone plain crazy.
My wife, and just about every girl I’ve ever been intimate with since about the age 16 has an army of fucking hair ties laying around within reach of her at all times.  If there isn’t one already on her wrist, there’s bound to be one on her fucking ankle, or the night stand, or in her pocket or purse or on the floor, on the sink faucet, on the little Buddha in the bathroom, on a toothbrush… you get the idea.  And fuck it if you can’t find one… hell, there’s times when I can’t find a condom, but that doesn’t stop us!  We just say ‘fuck it’ and keep moving forward.

I refuse to have sex with anything that will wear it’s underwear on its head and still figure I will find it attractive.  So fuck you Cosmo, for misleading young women.  Watch for next month’s article on how guys apparently think snowballing their come back into their mouths is “sexy.”

Can’t wait.

September 9, 2009 Posted by | Around The Office, Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Why Am I Reading This? | , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Sign #13 That You’re Officially An Adult…

As you age there are tattletales that let you know you’ve officially crossed the threshold into adulthood.  Some of these are fussing about health insurance, buying a mattress and a sudden natural avoidance of retailers playing music on their store’s overhead speakers so loud as to not being able to understand the mouth breathing acne-riddled teenage sales associate explain that their out of the size running shoe you’re looking for.adulthood-dvd-launch-drive-video-127

Another marker on the road towards inevitable death is the sudden onslaught of bodily pain.

As we get older our bodies tend to break down, because we as people have a tendency to use them every day.  We use our bodies in various ways depending on the types of people we are.  Some use our bodies for a certain purpose while others tend to let themselves waste away through means I couldn’t explain to you in less than a thousand words.  Regardless, as we put the necessary mileage on our bodies, things tend to not work so well as they did when we were younger.  I like to think of it as Death scratching his long withered finger down our backs to remind us that he’s right there, waiting.

Or at least that’s what it felt like the other night.

Roughly twice, maybe thricely a year I throw my back out, and it’s fucking painful.  My back, particularly my lower back, has been my Achilles’ Heel since about high school.  Even as I write this, sitting at my office desk in front of the computer, my back is still achy, despite mine, and my wife’s best efforts.

It doesn’t help things that I was born with a fused vertebrae – my L12 and T1 or something or other are stuck together and have been since birth.  And apparently that’s somewhat normal (one out of every 8 or 9 people?), according to the quack chiropractor I saw half a dozen times during my senior year of high school.  How did I know he was a jackoff quack shaman?  The license plate on his Mercedes said ‘Thanks.”fused_sm

Regardless, he took X-Rays and pointed out that there was nothing chiropractic care could really do for me, since those two bones in my spine were stuck together.  What compounded things was that I had been somewhat injured at some point growing up, and I never allowed the muscles around my lower back to properly heal.  I can think of two possible incidents that occurred that could be these injuries, but I won’t get into them in this article.

Given that, there’s little I’ve ever really done to correct the problem of my lower back, and as I’ve been getting older, the pain that seems to come with my bi or tri annual bouts has only intensified over the years.  As a college kid, I’d catch a quick muscle spasm, wince, and then go on with my day being a little stiffer until my back decided to play along with the rest of my body and come to its senses.

However, the other night was especially rough, to the point that when my wife asked if I wanted to go to the ER, I actually considered it.  And did I mention that the ER was an hour’s drive away, and fucking terrible by western medical standards?worame1_233901s

I had been dealing with a sore back for a few days already when the Last Great Spasm took place on Tuesday night.  I’m not exactly sure on what exact event triggered it this time around, as I’d been doing a lot of heavy, awkward lifting over the last few weeks, leading up to the LGS.

Our dog Ivy has a hard enough time getting up from the floor let alone into the cab of my truck.  When she’s with me and we’re going for a drive, I’ll walk her over to the passenger side of my F150 and open the door for her.  She wiggles her hind quarters and looks up at me with a dumb grin almost to ask “hey, are you fucking kidding me?  Do I look like I can climb up there?  Have you seen me climb the steps up to the apartment?”

So I squat down, trying to keep my back straight, and scoop her up into my arms and lift her 50 lb body into the truck cab as she’s wiggling around and grunting with exuberance.  Doing this a handful of times over the previous weekend might’ve brought on the LGS.

I’m not blaming the dog, I’m just saying.

So fast forward to Tuesday night, where for the last day and a half I’d been walking around the apartment like fucking Frankenstein; a sour disposition, stiff legs and jerky movements – grunting and mumbling when I spoke, that sort of thing.  I’m sitting on the couch with Ang watching “Zoolander” of all things, when I see something on the floor off the side of the couch.

“Oh, that’s where that went,” ‘that’ being an old dog leash that the ferret’s had decided to hide on us a week or so back.  I leaned over the couch to grab it before one of the little furry bastards could re-hide it on us, when suddenly Ang shot me in the back.470_126937

At least that’s what it certainly felt like.  A hot shiv raced between my discs, its piss-and-shit-soaked tip severing my spinal nerves, shifting everything out of place, causing my entire body to lock up like I was running Windows Vista.

I yelled in agony, my outstretched arm turned into a statue’s claw, my eyes watered up, my tongue swelled, my throat closed.

“Ah, ah-ah-aahh…” I managed to say.  My wife popped up concerned, asking me what was wrong.  I think all I could do was point to my back and try to slide backwards into the couch.  As I did so, it felt like I was sitting on an electric fence.

She moved into medic-mode and secured me on the couch (not so secure that I couldn’t grab for my iPhone when she left the room) with my legs propped up.  She quizzed me about the yoga moves she showed me how to do to help with my back spasms the last time this happened a few months ago and frowned with disappointment when I answered “no” to “have you been doing them?”

Soon I was face down, head hanging miserably off the side of our bed, attempting to realign my spine.  Ang warmed up a heating pad, and sensing that something was wrong with daddy, Ivy came padding over and licked my face.

Pushing her away only emboldened her, as she then decided it would be a good idea to try to lift my head with her body.  She squatted under me and pushed her furry, shedding back against my face, so that the sticky dog spit I was covered in would collect her shedding blonde hair, giving me a patchy bearded look of a high school kid who’s just begun growing out his facial hair.

Ang took a video, of course.

September 4, 2009 Posted by | Getting Older, Shameless Self Promotion, The Great Indoors | , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Animal Magentism

In case you haven’t been following me on Facebook or Twitter (@BAD0rg)IMG_0105, it may come as a surprise to you that my wife and I adopted a yellow lab about a week ago.

I could go into the why’s and how’s but I don’t feel like getting into it right now.  Just take for granted we went to a shelter, found ourselves a pretty laid back, albeit beat up, 5-8 year old yellow lab – slash – something else, and brought her home with us.

I’ve noticed, in the last week though, that people will literally (!) cross the street to come pet my dog.  Why, I have no idea.

I don’t mean to say that my dog, Ivy (so named because when we first took her for a “getting to know you” walk at the shelter, she dragged us through a patch of Poison Ivy), isn’t worth the attention.  She’s a great dog, great personality, non-aggressive or skittish.  She’s just a laid back dog, like any dog you’d find on a leash on Cape Cod.IMG_0103

Yet, everyone wants to talk to us about her, or pet her, or fawn a ton of attention on her.  People, she’s not like, Princess Diana’s dog or anything, Christ.

It’s annoying in the way that I can’t walk down our street without being stopped at least three times by some tourist asshole asking me a bunch of questions about my dog.

To wit:  Ang asked me to pick her up from work, as it was a Saturday night, and she’s taken a gig at a shop down the street from my office.  It was a nice night and since the aspect of having a pet I could actually walk was still somewhat new to me, I decided to take Ivy along and walk her down this boulevard towards Ang’s shop.

Because it was Saturday night the place was teaming with people, mostly hanging out in front of the many bars along particular stretch of road.  The road itself is congested, so when a slow moving vehicle is trying to squeeze through the throngs of people, I had to pull Ivy to the side between me and the loiterers.

“Hey, can I pet your dog?”  A gay guy asked me as I was walking by.  I don’t know if I hesitated or not, because I was walking with a purpose towards the other end of the street towards the shop, and Ivy loves to smell people/things so I was giving her little tugs on her leash to keep her moving.  Knowing the question was directed at me and was still up in the air, I half turned my head and said:

“No,” and kept walking.  The gay guy didn’t really like that.  He makes a huge fuss, calling me a douche bag.

“Who says ‘no?’ to someone asking to pet their dog!?” Shrieked the man.

I’m sorry that I don’t stop and let you pet my dog, sir.  In case you didn’t notice, I’m fucking walking someplace.  If I stopped and let every asshole in town who asked pet my dog, it’d take me an hour to go the four hundred yards down the street.  If you want an animal to pet so badly, go adopt one of your own.

Not to mention that my dog is currently in kinda rough shape and takes a bunch of pills because her former owners didn’t give two shits about her.  So how would you like to be swatted and rubbed down by complete strangers while you convalesced?  Or better yet, as you walked down the street?

I don’t understand it, honestly.  Before we were dog owners, I never went out of my way to play with or pet a stranger’s dog.  I see a dog being walked on a leash I just smile and keep walking; I probably side step too, just to get out of their way.  I sure as hell don’t stop that person and ask them 20 questions about the breed, age, pedigree, temperament, colorings/markings of the animal.

I understand that dogs can be used to attract people as well.  There’s countless movies where some hapless everyman is trying to attract a woman in a park with the aid of a puppy.  This ploy has been well documented.  But I’m a married man, out walking my dog.  My motives are clear:  I’m trying to get the animal to shit outdoors so it doesn’t shit in the middle of our living room.

Ang and I work in a gay community, so that Saturday night as I arrived at Ang’s shop, she was just closing up, and it was going to be a minute or two before she was going to be ready.

So Ivy and I hung out in front of the store, the dog sitting by my feet while I scanned the latest headlines on my phone.  This obviously was a huge signal for a group of gay men to come over and start talking to me.

“Wow, can I like, pet your dog?”  A member of the group of three or four asks.

I can’t be the same “douche bag” to these people, especially if I’m stationary, so I finish reading what I was reading on my phone and tell them they can shower Ivy with a bunch of attention.  While petting and rubbing her they press upon me the typical compliments about the dog I’ve been receiving the whole time, all while undressing me with their eyes.

“So what’re you doing here tonight in town?”  Another in the group asks.

“Oh, I’m just waiting for my wife,” I make sure to say.  That seems to get them to move along as they talk about visiting the “adult toy store” across the street.

IMG_0114To reiterate on my point:  If the dog is leashed, people, just mind your business.  If I’m at the dog park, or trails, or someplace where the dog isn’t leashed, then sure, don’t even ask, rub her little butt – she loves that.  But for Chrissakes, get your fucking hands off my dog.

August 26, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Out and About, People I Hate, Pic Post | , , , , , | 2 Comments

Fuck It, Let It Ride (With Edits, However)

A slightly edited version of the earlier article.

Given where I live, I spend about 65% of my time on the road, either commuting or running errands.  Since moving to Cape Cod about two years ago, I’ve learned to hate driving, begun to detest riding my motorcycle, and have found that I have “rage triggers” when I’m stuck in traffic.

So I decided to write this article, breaking down my rage as to better understand it.  Each of the following sections will detail exactly how I feel at that given moment, as this piece was written largely in my head, while behind the wheel of my truck as I operated it like I was maneuvering a one ton black bomb on four wheels.

Section One:  Traffic.


Until I moved to Cape Cod I had never experienced the level of fucking traffic I’ve witnessed on this miserable tourist trap of an island, and this is someone who lived in NYC for three years.  It seems that during the summer tourist months people will come from all over the country to just sit in traffic from the Bourne Bridge to Provincetown.  “Hey kids, let’s go spend a blistering week this summer in our car, packed tighter than inmate’s shit and stare at NOTHING while we drive from one end of Cape Cod to the other!”  Why else would these people come out here?  It’s can’t be because of the beaches, because they suck and are over crowded when they are in fact open (thanks to a species of endangered bird, beaches on Cape are closed for half the summer).

So all these people come out and clog up the major arteries to get around Cape Cod.  What usually is a ten minute drive to the super market a few towns over takes three times as long because there’s just so much traffic to contend with.  Compounding things is that most of these jag offs want to turn left while driving down our one highway, causing a huge log jam of traffic.  The other tourists in the opposite lane won’t yield to let the turner make his turn because they have places they want to get to and can’t be bothered, leading me to lean out of my truck’s open window and hurl a fruit smoothie at someone’s windshield.

Section Two:  Other Drivers.


As stated above, the mass of population I tend to deal with are out of staters here on vacation.  Like any vacationing sheep, they pack just about everything except their god given common sense.  Hey asshole, how about looking behind you when you back up, and I mean actually looking over your shoulder and not relying solely on your mirrors?  Or if I’m out for a run (I know I’m not behind the wheel of a car at that moment but it relates, just go with it) how about you don’t just pull out blindly from a side street?  Nearly getting fucking T Boned when I’m out minding my own business and trying to avoid you at all costs kinda puts a damper on my spirits.

Also, thanks for flying that “stay the fuck out of my way” flag on your rear view mirror.  Be it a handicap or camp ground parking placard, seeing something dangling from your rear view mirror tells me that you require wide birth because either you’re actually handicapped and shouldn’t be allowed to operate a motor vehicle but we feel bad for you, so here’s a set of keys, go wild, or you’re a fucking tourist staying at a camp ground and have no clue what you’re doing or where you’re going.  Either way, I know to stay the hell away from you.

One more thing about the camp ground placard:  The camp ground placard is also a swell indicator that the operator of the vehicle will likely slam on their brakes at any moment and try to make an abrupt left handed turn into traffic to take his tourist brood to either an ice cream shop, fried seafood restaurant, some gaudy eye-sore of an inflatable knick-knack/t shirt store, or yard sale.  The placard may as well just read “Caution;  Stay Back 500 Feet.”

Section Three:  Parking


If there’s anything on Cape Cod that’s an overpriced commodity, it’s real estate.  And at an even higher premium is a parking space.

To wit:  My wife bought a town parking pass to use for when she has to go to work.  This pass is supposedly designed for the purpose of people who work/live in town to be able to park at a reasonably close distance to their places of employment.  However, in practice, this is not the case at all.

On numerous occasions she’s had to double back to our apartment and have me drive her back out to work and drop her off and pick her up because the lot she’s supposed to park in is full.  Now, either the town sold too many passes (at 135 dollars a piece!) or people are just saying “fuck it” and are taking the 20 dollar hit on a parking ticket for illegally parking in the lot which they’ll never pay because they’re out of state residence.  Regardless, it’s a huge pain in our asses.

Also, again, getting back to the whole tourism thing, tourists out here tend to think they can park where ever they want, whenever they want, regardless of people’s feelings or intentions.  We, Ang and I, were going to do some laundry.  We had parked her car in the lot next to our apartment, all the way at the end, so the car would be out of everyone’s way.  It was mid day, the lot was about a third full.

We’re walking down the lot, carrying laundry baskets, detergent, quarters, etc, and we both get that weird sensation that we’re being followed.  So we both turn and there’s this champagne-colored Mercedes with Florida plates slowly rolling behind us.  Behind the wheel is some middle aged self-righteous She-Bitch in a big hat and sunglasses.

She waits for us to get to our car, load our laundry, get in and start the car.  She then proceeds to block us in by taking the spot next to us, making it impossible for us to pull out smoothly, resulting in me having to “shimmy” out of the spot.

Enraged by this cuntbag tourist’s selfish actions, I put the window down on my wife’s Honda and yell out “there’s like a million other spots you could’ve taken!”

From behind her cell phone she calls back “but none of them were in the shade, thank you!”

Thank you?  Was she thanking me for my comment, this arrogant bitch?  I was livid, to the point of wanting to drive directly to the nearest hardware store, purchase a spade, and proceed to bludgeon and dismember this audacious bitch into pieces to be eaten by seagulls.  I couldn’t believe her.

I should’ve rammed Ang’s shitty little Honda into the rear quarter of this old cock dumpster’s Merc, and shouted “THANK YOU!” over and over again.

I would’ve rammed her cell phone down her throat and kicked in her stomach until I dialed Tokyo.

Section Four:  Pedestrians.


Is it me, or do people generally think they have a magic force field around them as soon as they enter a cross walk?

Shortly after the vaginal swab of a tourist blocked us in, we were driving down our main drag when some beer delivery man decided to step out from behind the front of a parked truck, on a crosswalk, without looking to check for traffic, pushing his dolly in front of him.

I hit the brakes hard and let out an audible “YO!” with our windows down.  The dickbag with the hand cart turns over his shoulder at me and says “state law!” and keeps on pushing.

Yes, it is in fact a state law to stop for pedestrians crossing in a crosswalk, very good sir.  But that same state law will not mend your broken legs and hip when you get struck by a car because you failed to uphold your end of the bargain by stepping out into a busy street without looking.

You can claim “state law” all you like as a matter of fact, because when the state police’s accident reconstruction team arrive and release their findings on the collision, they’ll determine I was driving maybe 20 mph and see that you failed to look both ways when crossing a street, the first lesson we as people learn shortly after managing to tie our own fucking shoes.

Left, right, and left again, dildo-licker.

I have all the respect in the world too, for beer delivery people.  It’s a tough job and they truly are some of America’s unsung heroes.  So it sucks that one of you guys has to be a sandy tampon about crossing a street.

Part two of this section:  GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.


I understand that this certain street by where I work is a thoroughfare of just.., bizarre shit and that you’re all on vacation from your jobs as doctors and teachers and who knows what else, and you’re all having a gay ol’ time, I get it.  However, you’re walking down the middle of a fucking street, dude, where there’s actual traffic, slow moving I know, but it’s still traffic.  We, in the big objects on four wheels known as “cars” can’t fucking get down the street if you and your Abercrombie and Fitch model friends are blocking it up by walking down the middle of it eight abreast, blowing bubbles, slowly riding a bicycle, walking your poof ball little dog, or doing one handed push ups in tiny briefs (for real, not an embellishment).

I have a job I need to get to, and my office is at the tail end of this street.  It takes me almost half an hour to go one mile some times, from the hardware store to my front gate.  If I tap my horn, and I say “tap” because that’s what it is, a friendly “get out of my way please I’m driving here” and not a long, boorish blast that says “hey fucknuts, get the fuck out of the middle of the road or I’m going to dropkick you off the top rope” do not turn your head over your shoulder and give me some bitchy/sassy fucking look like I’m the one who’s fucking up YOUR day.  Just scamper out of my way, that’s all you have to do.  Do not argue with me, because sir, or ma’am or whatever, I am encased in an air conditioned almost-sound proof chamber and can’t hear your bitchy effeminate whining.

Section Five:  The Radio.

Retro Radio DJ

Here’s a sampling of the songs that were playing on my presets as I was writing this article out in my head:  Station 1: Smashmouth “All Star”, Station 2: that one song by The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.  Station 3:  Some generic Led Zeppelin song.  Station 4:  Some generic song by Papa Roach.  Station Five:  NPR’s Fresh Air, but the topic was something obscure and boring, probably to do with some artist I’m unfamiliar with.  Station 6:  WEEI, sports talk radio, which I think is just a cover for their conservative media agenda, so I don’t really listen to it.

I don’t know about where you live, but here on Cape, the radio is fucking trash.  Until my truck was broken into a year ago, I used to listen to my iPod through an FM tuner.  Most mornings on my commute I listen to NPR, unless it’s something boring, as stated, or if it’s The Diane Ream Show, which makes me want to snort a line of chalk and sit down upon the Seattle Space Needle, bare ass.

Nothing is more frustrating than dealing with all the shit I’ve already listed, and then having to fiddle with your pre sets in the car, to find one station out of six that’s playing A) music, and B) something worth listening to.  I love Led Zeppelin, but it doesn’t have to be the only thing the stations around here play, because honestly, I think that’s the only album some of these stations have.  I will guarantee you right now, if I were to flip on the radio in the other room, I could get a Zep song, any Zep song, right now.

I’d shell out for satellite radio, but it seems overly costly for something I can get for free, that’s only really giving me more options.  Instead of 6 channels to choose from, now I have 600, but like that old Bruce Springsteen song goes “150 channels and not a damn thing on” or something like that.

I slam the buttons on the presets so often that I’m actually starting to wear away the numbered decals a little.  And if it isn’t music that’s being played, it’s some god awful local business advertisement, usually a used car lot.

“Come on down to Jeff’s Subaru, where we’ll give you honest prices from honest guys.  Hell, we’ll even throw in a fifty dollar gas card for just taking a test drive!” and so on.  Or the staged interview with the lot’s owner, dispelling some sort of rumor that he has a “private connection” with the factories in Detroit.

Dickhead, Detroit doesn’t make cars anymore, they’re all made in Canada now, get a clue.

I don’t know how to conclude this article, so I’m just going to say this:  People, next summer, just stay the fuck home.  Do me a favor, and don’t come out here, don’t spend your money on an overrated tourist trap, don’t waste your time bullshitting yourself that Cape Cod is a magical place to spend a week or two.  Sell your condo, time share, cottage, and get the fuck out of here.

I’m selling my motorcycle because of you.  Do you know what that means?  Let me put it another way:  I’m 27 years old, and I’m going gray because I get so stressed out behind the wheel.  Just stay home, if not for me, do it for your kids.  Because next summer if I see them lollygagging in the middle of a road I’m trying to transverse, I’ll fucking eat them.  I’ll kick them each in the balls so they can understand the pain I feel.

I fucking promise you.

August 22, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Hate | , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

We Also Share a First Name

Capt. James T. Kirk covered in Tribbles.

Capt. James T. Kirk covered in Tribbles.

Holy Shit, Tribbles in my bathtub!

Holy Shit, Tribbles in my bathtub!

I’m just saying….

February 15, 2009 Posted by | Blogging Couple, People I Love, The Great Indoors, Too Much Time | , , , , , | 3 Comments

I Do The Judging So You Don’t Have To

Once a year I like to reflect on what ridiculous things celebrities do.  Granted, there are a million other media outlets doing the exact same thing, and of course I could be spending my time blathering on about the holidays (see article above) but sometimes you just need to tell it how it is.  Put people on notice, and all that.

And besides, its more fun to trash celebrities.  It’s a cathartic article for me to write because everything else in the world feels really heavy right now, with working two jobs, struggling to make rent, and the cold oppressive crush of the holidays on my chest as if I was skin diving in these deep New England waters.

So without further ado, I present my cases for the top ten or so douche bags of 2008:

1.  Spencer Pratt:

Pratt, of “The Hills” fame, which is a mind-numbingly ridiculous show (if you have no idea what I’m talking about, ask your kids) fills me with rage every time I see his face.  First, if you’ve never seen the show, just looking at him will tell you he’s an epic douche bag, with his pomade’d hair, little blonde manscaped goatee, his puffy face, his tries-too-hard Christian Dior wardrobe, the list goes on and on.  But it isn’t until you actually see this cumstain in action do you get a true feel of how much of a shit he is.

He’s an opportunist of the lowest sort, always trying to finagle some sort of promotional deal for his equally douche baggy, and wholly untalented girlfriend Heidi Montag, “The Hills” antagonist.  He constantly talks about his “haters” or the people on the internet that call him a total fucking douche bag.  He then thanks his haters because they’re promoting him, and his image through their blogs.

Mr. Pratt, please, you don’t have “haters.”  You have a massive collection of people, with the ability to put two or more words together consecutively to form complete ideas, who think you’d be better served as a fluffer on a gay porno set.  Comedian Katt Williams has haters, because he’s black and talented.  You’re white, privileged, and a fucking snob.  The closest thing you have to haters are your illegally hired Mexican landscapers, though who do not understand one iota of English, seem to loathe you just by your cocky-for-nothing attitude.

Here’s to you tripping and impaling yourself on a very dull Samurai sword.

2.      Dane Cook:

God, remember when Dane Cook was the guy to be at parties?  Ok, now think back a little further, remember when Dane Cook was funny?

I’ll be the first to admit, I have both of his albums, and yes, they were at one time uploaded to my ipod, and also spent exclusive amounts of time in my old truck’s cd player.  Dane Cook, that once skinny, reptilian-like guy who would run and jump across the stage like a monkey missing his Aderol, would crack up even the coldest critics.  But what happened to him?  Why do we no longer find him a hero of comedy, but a bitter douche bag that deserves our scorn?

One answer could be his involvement in terrible films.  Ok, “Waiting” wasn’t so bad and his role was relatively minor, the perfect stepping stone to something bigger.  But then he was in that awful “thriller” with Kevin Costner (word to the wise, unless it’s a sports movie, signing on to do anything with Kevin Costner, even lunch, is a career killer).  And then his ridiculously over-hyped road-doc “Tourgasm” came out and we got to see how much of a douche trailer Cook really is.  Things were compounded by his lackluster and fatter appearance in “Vicous Circle” a comedy special done “in the round”, hence the name, which fell flat on it’s face, leaving a lot of fans to wonder what the hell was going on to their once beloved golden calf…

Then a film came out with Jessica Simpson and Andy Dick (dude, did you seriously think that one out?  What, was Tom Green not available?) which everyone seemed to collectively pass on, which somewhat signaled your demise from pop culture outsider anti-hero.  You sold out.

But then you had redemption knocking on your door, you were going to be in a film with higher profile Jessica, in the form of Alba.  She was going to play a hot sexy nymphet to your bumbling, luckless Chuck. Hey, this could be the electric shock to your slowly fading career.

But that movie sucked too, because no one could believe you’d get that much ass in real life, regardless of whatever “curse” was layed upon your character.

And honestly, looking back on everything, why does so much of your routine revolve around sex?  Aren’t you like, 30-something?  It’s kinda creepy to hear you talk about sex as if you’re a college douche bag.

It sucks that you’re from New England.

3.      Horatio Sans

It’s cool that you lost over 100 lbs, but you’re still an unfunny fat fuck who ruined what would otherwise be half-way decent sketches on Saturday Night Live with your fat-kid snickering.  If you have a shred of comedic talent (and this goes for your equally douche bag friend Jimmy Fallon, who only missed being on my list this year because he’s been relatively obscure over the last 12 months) you would’ve found another way to make the audience laugh with you, either with better acting and comedic timing or getting into the writer’s room and getting better jokes into the sketches.

Just because you’re Hispanic and chubby does not preclude you to being uproariously hilarious just by default (this goes for you too Carlos Mencia).  Truly funny people have to work hard at it, and can’t just show up and piss away opportunities like you have, Mr. Sans.

You’ll forever be an auxiliary character, always in the peripheries, never center stage.

Hollywood Squares has an opening at top left just for you.

4.      Larry The Cable Guy

Another unfunny fat fuck.  Larry TCG is what my culturally out of touch aunt who gives shitty Christmas gifts thinks is the cutting edge of pop culture.  It’s been a few years since that whole “Blue Collar Comedy” tour launched you into the spotlight of fame and public awareness, but when we all think back on the light hearted take on rural life that makes up 99% of your act, those of us outside of the South Eastern and Mid-West States (or, those who voted for Obama) wonder what we were laughing at all this time.  Were we laughing with you or at you?

And please stop making movies so dull and formulaic that when their shown for free to our soldiers over in Iraq and Afghanistan, the kids in the humvees would rather go out on an IED patrol.

And it wasn’t Nutra Systems that got you skinny, it was all that cocaine.

5.      Phoebe Price

I had no idea who Phoebe Price was until I asked The Lady for help with this article.

“Hey, I’m writing an article on the biggest douche bags that have been around this year, can you think of any?”

“Um, Phoebe Price,” she says.

“Who’s that?”  I ask, and I feel out of the loop because I don’t know something pop-culture related.

“Just google her and you’ll see,” and I do.

What comes up on a google search of Ms. Price is her IMDB page, which is sparse at best.  It relates to half a dozen or so films I’ve never heard of that I suspect are Lifetime Originals.  She was however on the pilot episode of “The X Files” like 15 years ago, and on an episode of the HBO Sports-Drama “Arli$$” which was probably watched by three guys back in 2001, who happened to be waiting to masturbate to “Real Sex 17” which was on following.

Also according to IMDB, she’s a former “international model.”  I can, right now, name every Victoria Secrets model in the last twenty years, by heart.  I’ve never seen Ms. Price model a damn thing.

Just goes to show, I guess.

6.      Suri Cruise.

The Lady gets on my case when I bring this up.  “She can’t be a douche bag, she’s just a child,” to which I say:  Can’t children be complete douche bags?
She’s like, two, and have you ever seen her walk?  Or talk?  She’s probably just as brainwashed as her mother, and every paparazzi photo I see of her being carried down some Central Park East side street, eating a vendor pretzel makes me want to shoot myself in the face.

Why are we so obsessed with this little munchkin?  Her name reminds me of “slurry” a weather term for rain and ice mix, which is terrible to drive in.  Were all the good fruit names taken?  Where’s there not a borough of New York City to name her after (The Beckhams’ son or daughter is Brooklyn and Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson named their child “Bronx”  IT’S A CHILD FOR CHRISSAKES, NOT A DOG!  FUCK!  DO YOU THINK YOUR KID IS GOING TO THINK IT’S COOL TO BE NAMED BRONX WENTZ?!  IT SOUNDS LIKE A DISEASE WHERE YOU UNCONTROLLABLY PISS YOURSELF FROM DRINKING DIRTY WATER!  GOD, PLEASE SMITE THEIR TESTICLES AND OVARIES!)

I can call it right now, because I’ve seen this whole scenario played out a hundred times before:  She’s going to be sheltered from the spotlight until she hits any where between 15 and 21, where she’ll be thrust back into the media’s, and ours, collective eye, with scandal so lame that I’ll fall into a deeper pit of alcohol abuse and depression.  Likely, she’ll be caught smoking pot on her balcony, or drinking under age.  Gasp.  She’ll have minor forays into show biz, but for the most part, she’ll fall off into some puffy non-existence, ending up as a commenter on one of those Vh1 clip shows twenty years from now.

Here’s hoping I’m completely wrong.

7.      John and Kate Plus 8

If there’s nothing more that I hate than people’s obnoxious children, it’s a whole gaggle of them.  Now add in a 24/7 camera crew, some naturally half crazed parents, and you got a tv show that people some how gravitate towards.

Admittedly, I’ve seen half an episode.  Something about the kids going to the beach or something.  I could barely understand what was going on with this dick bag dad and his breeder wife.  I mean seriously, you have a litter of kids, does this mean you should become international television stars?  Has our criteria for celebrities fallen so low?

Let me clue you in on something:  My dad was one of 11.  That’s eleven, with two ones next to each other, like their waiting for the bus.  Not eight, but fucking ELEVEN.  Why?  Because he grew up on a farm, and kids were needed to help with the work.  He lost a little sister to Leukemia when he was about seven or eight, but the family just kept trucking because there was work to be done.  It made sense to have that many kids that spanned twenty years apart.

Now you have John and Kate and their unholy army of fucking teething, screaming, dirt-faced little bastards and bitches.  They don’t live on a farm, they live in a suburban house (I think).  They just go on mad capped adventures at the cost of exploiting their children’s lives.

John, the husband and father says that they do it because they, the parents, themselves don’t have time to capture all the “precious moments” they encounter day to day.  I’m sure TLC is also helping with the cost of strollers, diapers and formula as well, right?

They should’ve waited til these brats hit their teens, that would’ve been a show worth watching.

8.      David Duchovny

Imagine this:  You get caught cheating on your wife, who’s hot and famous to begin with, and your excuse is that you’re “addicted to sex.”  You even try to take your lie a step further and try to go to rehab for your “sex addiction.”

It’s like me saying to Ang:  “I cheated on my diet because I’m addicted to Whoppers” and then going into rehab for my fast food addiction.

Hey Mulder, try some fucking self control.

9.      Frank Caliendo.

Christ alive, how many tv channels is this asshole on?  Every time I turn on the tv, here’s this little puffball pitching Satellite Tv to me in the form of poorly impersonated “B” list celebrities.  I can’t watch an episode of “Family Guy” without seeing an ad for his show “Frank Tv” and it’s generic reviews by such upstanding voices of criticism as “Tv Guide.”

Well, if “Tv Guide” thinks your “great” I should absolutely tune in, right?

There’s two types of comedians I can’t stand and one of them is impressionists (for the other, see below), especially those who use impressions as the foundation of their acts.  It enrages me further when said impressionist is given his own half hour tv show in which all he does is impressions.

You see, impressions are easy if you can impersonate one type of person really well , because certain people sound the same.  Theoretically, if you can do really awesome impersonation of Jerry Seinfeld, Donald Trump should come easily, with a few simple tweaks.  Both celebrities have that nasally New York accent, where Seinfeld’s is whiney and pitchy Upper West Side, and Trump’s is lower and more Long Island Honk.

And has anyone ever seen Caliendo’s show?  Or is it just that he does an unending parade of uninteresting obnoxious commercials?

10.     Jeff Dunham

This is the second style of comedian I want to staple to a wall upside down and use his mouth as a urinal:  Prop Comics/Ventriloquists.

To me, there’s nothing that represents a bigger crutch for a public speaker and entertainer than comedic props that they require to get their jokes across.  It’s pandering and insulting to the audience that you, the comic, believe we require visual aids to get your tedious jokes.

It’s like every time I turn on Comedy Central I see this asshole with his hand up a puppet’s ass, making it talk, while playing the straight man.  And his puppets are so ridiculously over the top creepy.  Have you seen that old man he has?  What the fuck?

Another barometer that tells me that this unfunny dick infection deserves to be on my list is the fact that my philistine co-workers talk about how “funny” he is.  I’ve seen his show in parts numerous times and he’s not funny.  And if you’ve never seen his show, let me do you a favor and reiterate that last point and say again, he’s not funny.

Vaudeville acts like puppetry are as topical as a Dana Carvey’s George H. W. Bush impression.

Bonus:  Adam Sandler

Oh Adam, Adam, Adam, how far you’ve fallen.

When you first came around, I was in the 6th grade, which means that was roughly 15 years ago, putting the year at 1993.  You had the funniest skits on Saturday Night Live at the time, and your star was quickly rising.  You put out three classic comedy albums (who remembers The Buffoon, The Goat, and Piece of Shit Car?)  and then came “Billy Madison” and “Happy Gilmore”, two back to back, albeit sophomoric stoner comedies, but where absolutely hilarious.

You defined “stoner comedy.”

And then you kinda came into your own and became the next Big Thing in Hollywood, which meant you were floating away from your roots.  “Big Daddy” and “The Wedding Singer” were both big budget roles, and you were still the same Adam, but that guileless buffoonery was missing; that edge had become a little dull.  You tried to get it back with back to back duds in the form of “Little Nicky” and “The Waterboy” and then furthered yourself even more with “Punch Drunk Love” and “Spanglish”

Dude, seriously, it’s ok to pass on weepy dramas or dramadies, or whatever.  “Reign Over Me?”  Really?

Now you’ve been dealt the ultimate death card:  Your career is just about solidified into “family friendly actor” with your latest holiday pandering in the form of Disney’s “Bedtime Story.”

This is the math:  At your height you were like a 9/10 for funniness, so minus two for age and relevance, that puts you at a 7/10, still not bad, still somewhat fresh.  Then minus one for doing a Disney Family Comedy that was probably pitched to Eddie Murphy first, and minus another one for it being live action and not animated.  Ok, so we’re down to 5/10, that’s average.

But then, from what I’ve seen in the previews, not only do you share screen time with precocious children for the majority of the film (minus one) but also a CGI hamster that actually emotes?!  (Minus two!)  Dude!?

So you’re down to what, 2/10?  That’s twenty percent.  When you started out, you were a comedic god, a heavy hitter, the Babe Ruth of 18-34 male humor.  Now look at you, you’re a breath away from starring in Daddy Day Care 3.

Adding insult to injury:  Your movie is buoyed by a co-starring Russell Brand, who although came across as a complete douche bag at the VMAs this past Fall, was remarkably hilarious in this past year’s “Forgetting Sara Marshall” which managed to keep him off the list.  Barely.

I’m just sayin…

December 19, 2008 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, People I Hate, Too Much Time, Why Am I Watching This? | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

In Memory

Bianca “Binks” Rose, c. June 10th, 2008 – October 23rd, 2008.

We really miss her, and Ang and I are pretty distraught over the loss.  We’d both like to thank everyone who’s shown support through comments, or facebook postings, or phone calls and emails, including Dad, Mom, Judy, Christina, Jake, Anita, Beartwin’s Mom, and everyone else who’s thinking of us.  We really do appriciate it.

If you’re just catching up, read the post below for the details.

I’m just sayin…

October 24, 2008 Posted by | Blogging Couple, People I Love, Pic Post | , | 2 Comments

Can You Tell I’m Bored Yet?

So with the Pats not playing til tonight at 8, the Sox have the day off, The Lady’s at work til 6ish, and the Ferret’s asleep, I have really nothing better to do for the time being.

So I ripped this off from both Arkay and Titanium Rose.  Just bare with me.

A) Answer the questions below, do a Google Image search with your answer, take a picture from the first page of results, and do it with minimal words of explanation.

B) Tag five people, so they’ll be put through the same misery.  No thanks.

1.  Age you’ll be at your next birthday:

2.  A Place you want to travel to:

London, England

3.  Your Favorite Place:



4. Your favorite food:

McDonald's Fish Sandwich

McDonald Fish Sandwich

5.  Your Favorite Pet

Granted she's our only pet but...

Granted she's our only pet but...

6.  Your favorite color combination:

I miss my bike... (color combo is red and black)

I miss my bike... (color combo is red and black)

7.  Favorite piece of clothing:

Luuuuuvvvv my Ray Bans

Luuuuuvvvv my Ray Bans

8.  My favorite tv show:

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart

9.  First Name of your Significant Other:

Obviously not us, but hot none the less.  Surprised at how much porn popped up when I put her name in to google though....

Obviously not us, but hot none the less. Surprised at how much porn popped up when I put her name in to google though....

10.  The town you live in:

I'll let you guys figure it out from here...

I'll let you guys figure it out from here....

11.  Your First Job:

Pappy's lobster boat, age 12-15

Pappy's Lobster Boat, age 12-15

12.  Your Dream Job:

Merc Work

Merc Work

13.  A bad habit you have:

Eating like shit

Eating like shit

14.  Your Worst Fear:



15.  What you’d like to do before you die:

Finish an Iron Man Triathalon

Finish an Iron Man Triathalon

That’s all I got.

I’m just sayin….

October 12, 2008 Posted by | Pic Post, The Great Indoors, Too Much Time | , , | 1 Comment

Some Things Should Be Left to The Professionals.

So I’m sitting here on the couch, watching FOX’s coverage of NFL football, when in the background I hear this jackass, Terry Bradshaw weighing in on the current economic crisis.

I didn’t really hear what his comments were, but if you know anything about FOX’s Bradshaw, you know he’s a blithering idiot who can barely read.  Also, why are you melding my football with my politics?  Keep these two things as far apart as possible.  I watch overpaid, overweight, drug infused grown men beat the shit out of each other on Sundays to escape the troubles of the world.

Not to be reminded of them.

I’m just sayin….

October 12, 2008 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Living in an Insane Asylum, People I Hate, The Great Indoors, Why Am I Watching This?, World Wide Events | , , , , , | 1 Comment