Wednesday, February 25, 2015

the pt cruiser effect and some random crap

What's the PT Cruiser effect? Well, grab a seat for your ass meat and I'll lay it on you. The first time I glimpsed the sadness that is the PT Cruiser, she'd crept into my periphery, remaining on the fringe with the awful knowledge of someone who knows they've done something they shouldn't-like exist. My first impulse was aesthetic. It reminded me of the older, 1940's cars that I'd rarely seen in person and more likely in a ZZ Top video. "That's kinda cool," I thought with my ignorant brain. At this point the PT had come into full view, ready for her centerfold and hoping to fulfill someones sad, depleted whacking material. Its then that I realized, "oh shit-this car is totally lame." The sting of her betrayal was a knife in my balls. She knew the whole time that she was just gonna fuck me. And not in the good way. That's when I concluded that I'd been the victim of the PT Cruiser effect.

The Reverend Jim Jones of the PT Cruiser effect.

Now, I'd sooner have my balls set on fire and stomped out by a Clydesdale than be seen behind the wheel of a PT Cruiser, but fate would have it another way. My dear, sweet mother whom I adore, was manipulated by the conniving, self-aware whore that is the PT Cruiser and was unable to awake from her (probably)smelly spell. She too was a victim of the PT Cruiser effect, but unfortunately only the rapture could bring her out of her slumber.

I went home to visit my mother for Christmas, as a good son does. "You can borrow my new car while you're home," she exclaimed, tossing the keys towards me in slow motion. I smiled as I held my hands to catch the keys-still in slow motion-as she burst out in tears of joy, "It's a PT Cruiser!" I swallowed hard, forcing the vomit back down my throat as my smile turned into a twisted grimace. "By the sweat of Satan's balls, I cast thee out, demon!"

The only good PT is a dead PT.

So, I totally didn't say that. After all, this woman pushed a heathen from her vagina into an unsuspecting world and I must respect our little pact. Instead, I had to drive a PT Cruiser around town like a total asshole. Get this-I drove to my friends work and asked if I could see her and waited in the lobby. All of the dignity was drained from my balls as I heard someone say, "Hey Anna, your friend is here to see you-it's some guy in a PT Cruiser." Yep-that happened.

Dude! You know how much action this back seat has seen? None.

Now, the PT Cruiser effect can come in different forms, from distressed logo's on t shirts to effects laden movies with Tom Cruise, which is the dreaded PT Tom Cruiser effect. Really, it's anytime you second guess yourself in your choices. However, someday we'll all be dead and burning in eternal hellfire, gnashing our teeth behind the wheel of a PT Cruiser so fuck it.

"Yes they deserved to die and I hope they burn in hell!!"


As far as some random crap, let's see.....oh-if you're a girl and you're sweaty you should say "my tit's are sweating balls."

Also, change the lyrics to the Michael Jackson song to "I'm trying to shave my balls in the mirror."

And one more time, "balls."

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

viewing under the influence: a series*

I'm not one for drinking alone-however, if you've got The Bandit or Philo Bedoe around, you're never alone. So yes, you should drink tons of beer while watching movies and feel nothing but elation. For instance, this one time I was having a beer on the couch and glanced up at the TV to see that a movie was playing-it's really that simple!

Myself, I tend to stick with 70's cinema because suspension of belief is usually required and the soundtracks are amazing. Why the 70's, you ask?

1. Burt Reynolds is probably in it.

2. A bar fight is totally gonna break out.

3. An animal will be fed beers.

4. Awkward racial slurs. Even ones that weren't as obvious, like referring to Asians as "Oriental".

5. Muscle cars that will make your mangina soaking wet.

6. Classic swearing, ie. "Balls!"

7. Drinking and driving? Oh, shit yeah!

8. The now defunct Palomino Club.

9. Another bar fight.

You're in luck, as I've been considerate enough to watch a shit-ton of these movie while drinking beer like I just found out that I've lost my parents in a horrible car crash. I'm also including a beer rating which will help gauge how many beers you'll need to watch the movie. The idea isn't how many you'll need for the movie to be awesome, it's how many beers you'll drink BECAUSE the movie is so awesome. Our series begins with.......



Hooper



Lets begin by knocking it out of the park. This is pretty much the pinnacle of drinking and viewing. You get Burt Reynolds, a bar fight, a horse that chugs coors, drinking and driving, the usage of "balls" as an exclamation, a sweet theme song about the life of a hollywood stuntman, and a fucking rocket car. Yes-a fucking rocket car

Highlights include a pre-Dukes of Hazard Roscoe P. Coltrane as Hooper's pill providing side kick, a pre-what the fuck happened to your face Jan Michael Vincent as the up and coming "kid" stuntman, a pea-smuggling Sally Field(if that's what you're into-no judgements), a doctor smoking in a hospital, and most importantly, a fucking rocket car.

The Palimino club? Yep-with a bar fight in the beer garden involving a young(but still quite ugly)Terry Bradshaw. Oh shit-is that Robert fucking Klein?! That motherfucker's in it too?! Yes, that motherfucker is in it too, playing a smarmy director who rocks a sweet snowmobile onesie on set. Mad with power, he pushes Hooper and the kid into more dangerous and deadly stunts, all in the  name of his "art." Of course Hooper has the last laugh, handing Klein's dick to him on a plastic picnic plate right after breaking the forth wall with his classic, mustachioed smirk. Of course.

Beer rating: all of them. It's just that good. Yes, you will mos def drink all of your beers.


"Who's got two thumbs, a Hooper tattoo, and love's the movie "Hooper"?
Maybe this guy. I can't see if he has thumbs.


* Yes, I admit this is some lazy-ass horseshit but I can't blow your tits off every time. Also, you should watch "Every Which Way But Loose" as a homework assignment and drink a good sixer or two. We'll talk about that soon.


Wednesday, January 7, 2015

"the laddie reckons himself a poet"

I'm attempting this post thru a foggy haze of NyQuil and the common cold, my head a congested slurpy machine. It's 6 days into the new year and I've been pinned to the couch like a dead butterfly for most of them, the ridiculous irony being that my good friend was here for 3 of them to visit and showed up with the same affliction. I have no idea what's behind that serendipity doo dah, but I was happy to have someone else in the trenches of the 'nam, turning my living room into a triage infirmary. We also both shared the heavy crack pipe that is "Sons of Anarchy," along with some cult classics from the 80's such as:


...and some random documentaries such as:


...both of which I highly recommend. 

Fret not, dear reader, as the drama and triumph that was the Burt Reynolds Auction will soon be detailed on this horseshit blog but for now let's talk about "The Process." There is an innumerable amount of failure when its comes to risk, especially in creative endeavors. Also, attempting art when you're shit-housed. So with that in mind I'm going to share with you one such attempt. Quick back story-a dear friend of mine passed on into the ether last year who truly was the most realest motherfucker of all real motherfuckers, fucking up my head and heart in ways I hadn't imagined. Well played, dickhead universe. Well played indeed. I wrote this "poem" one night in an alcohol fueled nebula which culminated in a supernova of bad spelling and grammar. I was drunk and angry, howling at the moon for my ethereal loss. It comes across as the frantic rantings of an insane person but there's also some beauty-it's some raw shit, motherfucker. Enjoy and remember-keep failing. It's the only way we get any better. And fuck F. Scott Fitzgerald in his dead-ass butt. I may be misquoting him, but we all have a second act. Plus I just wanted to say "dead-ass butt."

I want you to asked the dj to play I was made for loving you by kiss and welt have a couples only slow skate in my heart and we'll hug and laugh and fart and shit and piss all over because we're horribly flawed individuals living in an insane world that wants us to fail and will take pics of it and instagram and hashtag our failures and maybe make is celebrities for a day and turn us into royalty only for us to fall and be celebrated again as failures and mske everyone feel better because they never took s chance and settled for a slow and inebevitable tug job into ncomplacency. Then tell me not to pull the trigger even though in my head it's a sleeping bag under the stars with a sandwich made by my mom so I can taste the love. Man I wanna pull the trigger.pull open my skull Nd dump whiskey all over it and it'll short circuit and I'll be the old guy who drank too much and died instead of the old guy who die






Thursday, December 18, 2014

"Now, gettin' to Texarkana and back in 28 hours, that's no problem." -the bandit


So I started this post last week on the eve before my pilgrimage...

"East bound and down"
I'm about to embark on a voyage-nay, a quest into the black, shit-filled he(f)art of darkness that is Las Vegas. The last time I slow danced with fate in this desert disco of debauchery, the foul gods of diarrhea rewarded my performance by swiftly filling my Farah slacks with unruly amounts of soft serve. I, uh, that is to say-I shit myself in the motherfucking desert. You can read all about that ridiculousness here.
So why would I return? Why, indeed. Well, how about because Burt Reynolds is auctioning off what appears to be a lifetime payload of celebrity booty at the Palms hotel December 11th and 12th? That's right, my sweet, sweet bitches! Yours truly will be there, if only to get pics of some mustachioed whackin' material. And probably some trouble.
This will not be the first time I'm exposed to the saccharine nectar of all things Burt. I was able to visit the Burt Reynolds and Friends museum in Juno Beach, Florida a decade ago but that yarn shall be unraveled a little further down the path, cowboy.
Burt claims that he's not a total broke-ass. He's more or less downsizing so there's no need for me to feel like a fiendish ghoul drooling over his golden flakes of shaken memorabilia dandruff. "Quite frankly, I am sick of so many pictures of myself in my own home," he recently told Entertainment Tonight, which is where I get all of my news.*

I realize as I re-read this dilettante post that I'm reading the words of a fool. A naive child, blissfully unaware of the bloody mary and buffet breathe I would inhale(and exhale)as I once again made the odyssey into the mouth of madness. You know, fuckin' Las Vegas. Despair not, as I managed to rise from the ashes like the Phoenix emblazoned on the hood of THE Pontiac Tran Am, a chariot only worthy of the man whose name I shudder to speak. You know, fuckin' Burt Reynolds. I am now a man. Well, sort of. More of a jerk, but a jerk who's seen a thing or three.

I ask for your patience as I sweat and bleed out the words to articulate what I witnessed and ingested. I'm guessing this shit is gonna be a three parter, Jimmy Carter. Dare I say a trilogy? YES! A trilogy it shall be! Until then, I leave you with this:



"if only to get pics of some mustachioed whackin' material"






*I used the courier font to make it look all typewritery 'n shit.  Like this. Balls. Pretty cool, eh? It's looks like I'm some sort of bullshit writer.


P.S. reynolds



Thursday, November 13, 2014

this blog ain't gonna suck itself

So for those of you who return or stumble upon this here blog and wonder "papa-where have all the beautiful stories of poo poo and pee pee gone? Please papa, I'm so terrified and alone," I truly am sorry. Forgive me, my sons and daughters, as I occasionally lack in the grace that is social. Also, sit on a dick and fart it to climax, for I am not my brother's monkey. See what I mean?

Heres the thing: You know when you do something creative and it beats your expectations which in turn scares you into thinking you couldn't possibly best it? Then you realize that you're also a lazy bag of shit and have the grammar skills of a third grader? Then you take a perfect, no splash olympic gold medal swan dive into the rabbits hole? Then you buy a pair of flip flops and think to yourself "well fuck it-I'm wearing fuckin' flip flops?!"

So in the interest of lowering the bar along with my expectation, I'm gonna pick this blog up by it's sweaty balls and wring 'em out over your lips until they crack and split like hot dogs on a grill.

Speaking of which, a funny thing to say when you're really sweaty is "if my buttcrack was a movie theatre it'd be showing 'a river runs through it.'" Or "if I emptied a box of potato flakes into my underwear I could give you 5 pounds of mashed potatos AND gravy."

When you fart, you should say "Reynolds" cuz sometimes your farts sound like "Burt." You know, "buurrr-r-r-rrrrrttt." Then get your friends to say it too and if you're lucky, someone will text you "Reynolds" at 3 in the morning and you'll know exactly what happened. This has occured several times for myself. I am lucky.

Change the lyrics to "Ain't Nobody" by Chaka Khan to "ain't no grandma-like my grandma-made my grandpa-dinner every night." This will just make you feel good. So will this:

This is how you sell records, dickholes.

Also, you should sing "tastes so good-c'mon baby make it taste so good-sometimes food don't taste like it should-you make it taste so good" and refer to yourself as "John Cougar Stretchy Pants."

When someone disagrees with you, say "thats not the cake I'm trying to bake." Or, "how'd you like a big, sweaty dick in your mouth?" 

That second one is awful, but it illustrates where this blog is headed. I actually have no idea what I'm doing at all. Yes, my sons and daughters, Papa too is terrified and alone.



Sunday, June 17, 2012

beer and loathing in treasure island casino part 2: the cycle of life. and a lot of piss


We stumbled into the casino like drunken seniors on the last day of high school. I was immediately hypnotized by all of the flickering lights, grinning in wonderment like a simpleton taking his first shower. Oh, how I enjoy anything shiny and a lot of. I also have ADHD so go figure. The other thing I noticed was the army of old people plugging change into machines, moaning and spending their kid's inheritance, waiting for death like defiant, bored teenagers. I myself look forward to getting old (if that happens) and wearing jeans and t-shirts that say ridiculous things like "I'm vegan AND racist" and recounting to whomever how I "once ate so much pussy, I had to unbuckle my belt and take a nap in a lazy boy." I'll be the old man who farts as loud as he can in public, grinning and shaking my head at you as you turn to see who could possibly be so rude.

I'm not much of a gambler, but I was called by the sweet siren of the slots, flickering lights and all. I slid one quarter into the beast, pulled down it's arm, watched as it's eyes rolled back into the same color and shape and finally cry out as I pulled $100 from it's belly on the first try. Yes. I magically turned 25 cents into 100 fucking dollars. Which of course meant that I was going to magically turn that into beer and whiskey.

We found our way to the auditorium which was surprisingly small with cafeteria style seating. I ordered us a round of whiskey and beer and continued to do so til the $100 was gone. Shortly after Bobcat had begun, 2 things of significance occurred, the first being some asshole under the influence decided to heckle him, and the second being holy shit I had to piss. I will concede that I have a bladder the size of a squirrel's and once I tap the seal, it's on. Although drinking a beer every 15 minutes also creates some pressure that's not ordinarily present. Now, being lazy, drunk and a dude-and by dude I mean having a wiener which allows dudes to piss pretty much anywhere quite easily-I decided to piss in my empty glass under the table. This system proved infallible, and as I filled each empty glass, so did the hatred in my heart for the heckler.

As Bobcat performed, batting down each annoying interruption (arbitrary questions such as, "where is your wife, Bobcat?"or just yelling out nonsense-anything to distract the show because "Daddy made poo-poo owie" or whatever reason he needed attention in a public forum) by the asshole seated in front of us, I decided I would do some batting of my own. The plan was simple: after the show, Brian would walk up to the heckler with a full glass of my urine and I would "accidentally" bump into him, soaking him with the seeds of piss he'd sown. However, our muscle control and coordination were sorely weakened by the copious amounts of ingested alcohol, and I basically fell into Brian who basically fell into...the dudes girlfriend. Her shirt was completely drenched-even her hair would not escape the yellow rain of revenge. So we chose the only reasonable option we had-we ran.

We grabbed a case of beer from off-sale, as we clearly hadn't had enough to drink, and hopped into the barf-filled flaming van, laughing hysterically onto the freeway like a pack of hyenas.

"A good hearted woman in love with a good timin' man."

As we pulled into the alley behind our house, an object appeared before us, laying there like a sacrificial lamb. It was a sofa, caught like a deer in the headlights, left to fend for itself in the cold, cruel world by some heartless home departers. As harsh as it seems, sometimes the only humane referendum is to put an animal down and in this instance, it was the only choice we had. I glanced over at Heath and saw something I hadn't seen before-it was the eye of the tiger. The tears come quick to us both, as the realization washed over us. I offered my hand and as he took it, turned his attention to the ghastly task at hand and floored it.

By the time we hit the couch, we were going a good 50 mph, and I can honestly say, my brothers and sisters, it never knew what hit it. The front end went up and over the beast, launching us skyward as if we were it's chariot to heaven. I could hear the narration of Waylon Jennings in my head, wondering "how the good ol' boys were gonna get out of this one" as the van came slamming down on the concrete. What was left of the carcass had become trapped between the front and rear axle and a shower of foam and sparks danced in the air-a dazzling and bittersweet display of the cycle of life. As the back end rolled over what little was left, we held each other and took solace in the knowledge that the sofa was in a better place.


And then we all totally blacked out.




Monday, June 4, 2012

beer and loathing in treasure island casino

So we decided to go see Bobcat Goldthwait at Treasure Island Casino. My only references to Bobcat were Police Academy II and the fact that he opened for Nirvana, which is unique only to Bobcat. I don't think Steve Guttenberg was ever asked to open for Nirvana. In fact, after several Police Academy sequels and Short Circuit, the request Steve Guttenberg got the most was probably "dude-could you just knock it off?" And whatever assholes are asking for "Three Men and a Bride" should be taken out back and beaten with a shovel. Actually, that's kinda harsh because more than likely my mom is one of those assholes. Tom Selleck, Ted Danson and Steve Guttenberg? What mom wouldn't want to be passed around like a doobie in that trifecta of machismo? Crap. That's a horrible image and I apologize for any discomfort it may have caused you-unless of course you're into it-then shame on you, mister. Man-this shit got derailed and fast.

So we decided to go see Bobcat Goldthwait at Treasure Island Casino.

At this point in my heathen career, I was reaching the pinnacle of savagery, sustained by the attributes and traits it requires. Like the saying goes, "young, dumb and full of cum." Except instead of cum, I was filled with bad ideas and no filter whatsoever - the last person you'd want to be in public with. I was also at the age where a hangover was more of an "owie" or a "boo-boo." Not like present day where it feels like I gave myself terminal cancer in one evening and need to summon my family into my bedroom for last goodbyes, or make sounds and smells on the shitter the next morning that would compel the good samaritan to call an ambulance. No, this was the spring of my youth as an aimless, angry lunatic who was determined to make partying into a career, well before I would fathom limitations, and anyone divergent was a total dick. I also had congenial allies with bad ideas of their own and we totally fuckin' partied, mang.

One such friend, we'll call him "Heath", was the owner of a Ford Econoline that he had smartly painted black with flames.

Hello, trouble.
This was the go to vehicle for getting pulled over and doing the sobriety test in your underwear, getting searched and thrown in jail for a miniscule amount of weed, spending the night in a ditch after filling it with instruments after a punk rock show, and so on. Chances are if you were getting into this van, you were shit-blasted or well on your way.

We stopped at the liquor store for party favors. Our beer of choice back then was J. Ruppert's, the reason being it was $7 for a case. Now, when a beer company sells a case of beer for $7, they really can't expect it to be consumed responsibly by those who know when to say when, unless it was "when are we gonna get another case of J.Ruppert's? I'm not yet blacked out." We certainly didn't drink it for it's full body and aftertaste-you don't use a beer bong to luxuriate in the flavor of shitty beer. You suck it down like the world's gonna end and start making poor decisions. Buying a case of beer for $7 seemed almost miserly, so we bought 2.

The mud-sprayingest of cheap beer

We picked up our friend and fellow heathen Brian and were eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin' and gonna do what they say shouldn't be done, whoever said that. They sound like total dicks. This was when drinking and driving seemed downright hilarious. Even in the face of death you would've offered him a beer and a ride. As the sun went down, so did the beer. We made our way to the casino,  basking and baking in the ignorant glow of guileless youth. By the time we pulled into the parking lot, we were pretty much hammered, having drained our munitions down to a few strays. The bad idea of shot-gunning one last round seemed genius in it's simplicity, and we were all seasoned veterans in the appreciation of bad ideas. After showing our beers who the boss was, something happened to Heath that occurs after ingesting too much, too quickly on top of too much already-he barfed. And since he was the one who had been driving, he barfed all over and through the steering wheel, onto his shoes, and it's final resting place on the floor mat. This was met with teary-eyed laughter and hearty approval. After surveying the damage and cleaning off his shoes, Heath blurted out the only reasonable response to the situation: "Fuck it." Yes, fuck it indeed.

That's when things started to get out of hand...

COMING SOON-part 2 in which gambling and urine lead up to the destruction of property.

P.S I can't find J. Ruppert's knickerbocker beer so either they don't make it anymore or we drank all of it.