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.