Back by popular demand-- another edition of How Many Beers?
In the hot seat today is Ted from Rocket Jones. Let’s see just how sick he is:
As they appear today
Madonna - I was a big Cyndi Lauper fan. I never could stand Madonna. Just because of who she is, it would take a bottle of good tequila, but I'd want someone I trust there to make sure I wore two or three condoms. Who knows? I might inspire her next children's book: "Having Sex Without Really Feeling It."
Good choice. Personally, I could never get past the hairy armpits in that old Playboy spread. Cyndi Lauper goes on the next list.
Diane Sawyer - After Madonna? Hell, a six-pack of malt liquor will do it. I'll make her forget that little troll Moreley Safer. I bet that smokey voice gets real sexy in the right circumstances, and if I'm feeling particularly kinky, I'll squint and pretend she's Martha Stewart.
Oho! Methinks Ted likes to bed down old broads. Squinting Martha, huh?
Stevie Nicks (30 years has taken a serious toll) - She's still a rock goddess, and when you start up high, even downhill ain't half bad. She's blind, right? That improves my chances right there. Hell, I'm beginning to think this is really possible. Four shots apiece, but if she calls me Mick I swear in the morning I'll kiss her goodbye and hold the window open for her.
Blind? That’s news to me, but I don’t exactly keep up. Four shots ain’t much for someone that looks like Norma Desmond. I’m going to have to start graduating these questions, i.e., It’s 3:00 pm and you masturbated around 8:00am. Stevie walks in and grabs your crotch but she has real bad breath…
Sally Struthers - only on hallucinagens, and only if I can call her "Cartman". On second thought, those two conditions, and I'll just sit back and watch shank do her at his bachelor party. Better have a bottle of ouzo for the wedding boy, he's gonna need it.
Well, that’s the safe answer, but I think I’d do her for the same reason I’d do Barbara Streisand—because a good old-fashioned horse humpin’ might set them straight. It’s your civic duty.
As they appeared in the 70s
Sally Struthers - only two things would've kept me from tapping her sober: her annoying voice and the way she acted. If I can't duct tape her mouth shut, then I demand that she whisper "Oooh yeah, daddy" in my ear. "All In The Family" fer sure. A couple of boilermakers.
Hard to believe, but before she became a manatee that broad was hot.
Alice, the maid from The Brady Bunch - We'd work on a bottle of rotgut bourbon shot for shot, and then when she was semi-concious I'd let Tiger have at it. PETA would throw a fit, but you just can't make those people happy.
A wise choice, my friend. No amount of booze is enough to tag Alice. If you said something like three beers I would have had to submit this to Drudge. “Man Admits He Would Make Sweet Love to Alice.” He’d have to get the flashing lights out.
Mrs. Cunningham from Happy Days - in a heartbeat. You could tell she was a wild one in the bedroom. Perhaps after a scotch, neat, just to fan the fires a bit.
Good answer. I’ve always wanted to tag her. Rumor has it that Potsie gave her oral in his trailer and she cracked a vertebrae in his neck. Actually, I just made that up, but so want it to be true.
Florida from Good Times - *whistle* Here, Tiger! *whistle* C'mere boy. Seriously though, at least a full keg. Dropped from six feet, onto my head. Please.
Shit, Ted. You let me down on this one. She seemed like a real nice lady and all. Three beers for me.
As they appeared in the 50s
Barbara Billingsley (Mrs. Cleaver) - Two martini's, more for her benefit, to loosen her up a bit. Good looking, but I'd imagine sex with her would be kinda like her prototypical television housewifery: technically perfect but a little sterile. I'd want her on the floor begging to be broken. Better make it four martini's and pass me the ping pong paddle.
Ah. Now the picture’s becoming clearer. Four martinis and you’d get the funk out. Could Eddie Haskell watch?
Aunt Bea from Mayberry - She dated Fatty Arbuckle you know. There's not enough alcohol on the planet. Oh wait. There might be pie, right? Ok, a pint of whatever white lightning Otis is drinking, and then maybe if I squint and pretend that I'm Tiger...
This one was kind of a throw away, but I had to gamble. On the off chance you said yes in any way, shape or form, we’d forever be known as the blog who found a guy that wanted to tag Aunt Bea. I so wanted that.
Well, let’s give a big round of applause to Ted for being a good sport.
Final Pervert Rating: 5 out of 10
Welcome back to another edition of How Many Beers? This week is our first ever female version and our guest is Jennifer of the fine blog Jennifer’s History and Stuff.
Let’s get right to it.
1. Tommy Lee--Tommy's not bad looking once you clean him up, and he IS impressively endowed. However, I'm pretty sure he'd smell like an ashtray, and who knows what kind of diseases I'd get. A fifth of Jack and a latex body suit.
Wow. Tommy Lee is blown out of the water. Let’s try a different tact.
2. Steve Buscemi--Steve's goofy looking and a little creepy sometimes. Which means he's probably good in the sack. Two mixed drinks and a shot.
Incredible! Buscemi scores with two drinks and a shot. That’s not far from sober, folks.
3. Anthony Hopkins--is old. And looks distressingly like Hannibal Lecter. But he does have a British accent, and I likes them foreign accents. Six mixed drinks.
I’m kind of relieved here. Less than six drinks would have upset me.
4. Liv Tyler--She looks like her dad, and that's in her favor. But she's a little too delicate for my picky go-gay tastes. A fifth of anything and a couple shots of Tequila.
I tried to slip one past the goalie but no score. Too delicate…[mental note].
5. John Goodman--John is a big, big guy. I bet you thought I'd need a lot for him. You'd be wrong. I've mentioned before that I love John Goodman. Three mixed drinks.
Another score for an unlikely candidate. Three drinks and the big man doing the wave. Folks, this is top-notch blogging.
6. Jack Black--The lucid, Tenacious D Jack Black, or the drugged-out, looney red carpet Jack Black? Either way, let's say a fifth of Jose and a shower.
Okay, no heavy fetish. Again, I’m very relieved.
7. Al Pacino (the current scary, over-acting incarnation)--"Say hello to my little friends." That's not something you want running through your head when you're about to say hello to his little friends. Know what I mean? Two fifths of whatever I could lay my hands on.
More relief. I was worried about this one. Looks like crazy guys are out for Jen.
8. Bruce Springsteen--Bruce, God bless him, looks like an ashtray. And the faces he makes would be really distracting. A fifth of Jim and a dark room.
No real surprise here. He always looks like he’s got a mousetrap on his balls with the faces he makes normally.
9. Tom Hanks--Everybody loves Tom Hanks. If he was single, I'd do him sober.
Really? He’s kind of old, no? No matter, everybody gets one freebee.
10. Denise Richards--Now, I admire your tenacity in trying to make me go gay, and this is a much better option than Liv Tyler, but...Angelina Jolie is the one I'd go gay for in a heartbeat. Those lips, those eyes. Stone cold sober for Angie. And I'd bring my camcorder. She already has the handcuffs.
Holy shit. I almost don’t know what to say. Is there any woman in America who would not go gay for Angelina Jolie? God damn it’s hot in here.
Bonus Question. Chandler Bing--Monica said he was the best she ever had, even when it was early in the relationship. That is a nice endorsement for Chandler. But the constant jokes? If I met Chandler in a bar, it'd take a few to overcome his personality. Four mixed drinks.
Good. He doesn’t deserve you. Angelina and I, well…we’ll take good care of you.
You know, sometimes I think of Jen as a delicate flower, and other times I think of her throwing a drink in my face and saying, “Take your pants off now! Before I change my mind!” I really like them both.
Well, that’s it for this round of How Many Beers. I’m just going to sit here until I can safely stand up.
We’re currently in the process of assembling a few more guest editions of “How Many Beers?”
If you are selected to play, and you decline, we will be forced to ridicule you mercilessly.
Thanks in advance.
Of all the different symptoms, by far the worst is vomiting. I can keep my sense of humor up during coughing fits, sinus infections, stomach cramps, etc.—Hell, some of my best material has come from having severe diarrhea. But vomiting? That changes everything.
You know it’s coming when your mouth starts to fill with a little extra saliva. A moment later the queasy feeling in your stomach starts. I’m usually in denial when I get the first wave of nausea, but within seconds it’s usually reinforced by stronger waves and in no time the look of panic on your face reads like a headline.
The worst part is that you know there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s a fait de compli. It’s no longer a question of if you’re going to vomit, the question is, “How bad is it going to be?”
And so you find yourself on the bathroom floor, waiting, as if a lethal injection is coming. You are faced with great despair. You look around the bathroom floor noticing every detail. A stray pube off in the corner. Water spots. A dead spider. Meanwhile the waves of nausea increase in frequency and the urgency of the situation becomes almost intolerable. Here it comes. It’s coming now. You start to spit a little bit of saliva into the bowl. The first contraction comes with little result, but you know you have passed the point of no return. The second contraction is somewhat stronger and you spit again. By the third time you’ve usually got yourself some results. No matter how hard you try not to, you find yourself identifying bits of what has been purged. I’m sorry, it’s a fact.
Meanwhile your mind is absolutely racing. How long can this go on? Is it almost over? And so on.
There are a lot of different styles of vomiting. I pride myself on being a quiet puker. Unless you had your ear against the door and heard the splash you’d never know it was happening. Others have no self control. It sounds like someone’s fucking murdering them in there. I’m talking about fucking unholy sounds. Some people follow up a good splash with intense moaning until the next ejaculation.
Sometimes the whole ordeal is compounded by well-wishers. “Are you okay in there? Is there anything I can do?”
Yes. Shut the fuck up. I’m on the bathroom floor puking! I feel like it’s my final hour for Christ’s sake, and now I have to talk through the door? I’m trying not to expel my fucking organs in here!
The only thing that could make it worse is when it happens in public. Or while driving. Or standing in line at the DMV. Have you ever had to puke just standing somewhere in public? But enough of this. I’m not one to take things too far.
The fiancee has what I call a creativity-based, emotional response to stress. I'm not saying it's a bad thing at all, I mean, she eventually comes to some enlightened decisions. It's just the Mr. Toad's Wild Ride through the depths of complete and utter pandemonium that I can't handle.
Well, and sometimes I unknowingly set it off, but that's neither here nor there. I had a little nooner with the boss yesterday, whose son recently tied the knot. So naturally, the wedding thing comes up, and we chit-chat back and forth. She's very engaging, my boss. A sense of humor that smarts like a bullwhip.
Anyways, I come home yesterday and start talking about all the fresh wedding ideas I have. A somewhat unusual situation, since I tend to let her run the wedding plans; but not unheard of. So we talk about a few things, blahblahblah, and everything's fine. Then, at like 10:30pm,
the surface starts to crack, and she begins her decent into madness.
She clams up. There's the vacant stare, the somewhat disassociated demeanor, and the expressionless face. I guess I'm kind of afraid that maybe I know it's already started, this stress management of hers, so I drop a depth charge.
"Hey, everything okay. You look a little stressed, what can I do for ya?"
"Eh. Nothin'."
"Okay."
Then the sniffling starts.
"Babe, really, talk to me. You wouldn't want me to just lay there and do this, you'd want to help. What's up?"
"Really," her voice is quivering now as she talks in between sniffles, "I don't think it's anything you can help me with."
"Okay, but if you want to talk or vent, just do it." This usually does the trick, and in true form, it works.
"WE'VE ONLY GOT SIX MONTHS LEFT AND WEDON'TEVENHAVETHECAKECUTTINGSONGPICKEDOUTYET!"
"Ho, hey. We've got a dress, food, a place t-"
"Yeah, but there's a millionotherthingstodobetweennowandthe-"
"It's okay. I swear, we've got plenty of time to iron things out; we've got plenty of people to help us. I'd say we're 80% complete at this point."
It is here that the litany reaches full pitch. She begins to lament everything from her shitty groom (hey, right here dear, hi, me), to our busy schedules, to the wedding party - everything is on the table now. Ah, the sound of hysterics at full volume. But see, this is where she releases the tension. I don't let it bother me because she only does it about the wedding and it seems to help her gain clarity.
Eventually, we get all calmed down, and we're talking and laughing. I turn and say "You know, you gave blood today. Maybe you're body's just exhausted from the drain." She gives blood often, and has been known to suffer side effects. "Yeah. Oh, that and the only pills left for this month are the placebo's." I grown and roll back over, at least we found the root cause.
She's fucking crazy. Help me.
Please?
Okay, we all know celebrities are pontificating, self-absorbed idiots. But do we really know it? As in, have we yet come to terms within ourselves that the idea that many of these people the public seems to hold on high, are really just as worthless as the rest of the human race? I say no, we haven't because of the fact that Diane Sawyer was asking Barbara Streisand her opinion on global warming and it's effects on diastrous weather.
Now, Diane Sawyer is pretty prime time as far as interviews go. I mean, it would be the assumption that if you're being interviewed by her, she's probably going to be asking you the questions that burn in the minds of millions. Instead, they're talking about the science of weather, we're getting her meterological forecast, big weather expert that she is. Who gives a shit?
Are people really going to cite her professional opinion on the matter? I can see it now:
"...And now to George with the weather. George?"
"According to NOAA, the fifty year cycle for hurricanes is entering a more powerful phase, Bob."
"Well, smack my nuts with a spiked bat George. What ever shall we do?"
"My first thought is not to worry too much buddy, because it will eventually phase back to normal-"
"Oh, praise Jesus, George. I really thought we were fucked."
"-But then I heard world-renowing hurricane expert Barbara Streisand say that this hurricane season is actually the beginning of the Apocalypse Bob, so you can just get back to kissing your ass goodbye."
Not only does her opinion on the subject means absolutely nothing from an authoritative standpoint; but it's not even based in generally accepted fact. But there it is on ABC. She's not the only one though. It seems that every celebrity has made a point out of championing some cause or forwarding some opinion or another. For some reason we just care what celebrities have to say these days, even if it's in reference to something which they know absolutely nothing about.
Well, the final presentation to our clients went off like a bomb. They really appreciated the work we put into it, and said our recommendations really opened their eyes to ways they can manage their growth. Right as I was leaving the president of the client company practically offered me a job. Even if he had been explicit I would have declined; my interests don't really lie in manufacturing right now. But I consider it a hell of a compliment. Apparently, our work is now in the running for some kind of collegiate prize. I'll stay hopeful, but I'm happy with the things we've acheived so far.
In November or so, I start my practicum. I'll be working with one of the residents at the hospital on building a strategic plan for one of the service lines at the hospital. It will take several months, but there's a lot of opportunity with this particular project, and I'm about thrilled with it. I've always wanted to get into strategy and now I've got the chance to really show my stuff.
I'm also putting together an application for an administrative residency at a regional health network. I would basically be working side by side with CEO/CFO/Strategic leaders for a year, and getting paid handsomely as well. The competition for these things is pretty stiff, but I'm confident that given the chance I can really be a viable contender at the least.
That is, if I ever develop the determination to stay past 3pm on a Friday. Have a good weekend biznatches!
I went to get my car inspected about four months ago because I was due for one like last March right. The dingleberries at the shop failed my car because the turn signals are apparently not the right color.
Not the right color?
Yeah, they gotta be amber, yours are white.
But they flash right? When I push the turn signal lever?
Oh yeah man, it all works. Just need the amber bulbs.
But. But it works. If I was sitting in traffic with my turn signal blinking, no one would miss it, or assume since it's not amber that maybe I was just putting on some kind of low-tech light show. I mean, why fail me right?
-Blank Stare-
That was the way I bought it from the dealer.
Well, if you have the amber bulbs, all you have to do is put them in. You can take them out as soon as the inspection's over for all I care.
So wait. You don't care if it's correct, and even if you know it's going to be incorrect as soon as it gets on the road, you'll still pass me?
Uh, yep.
So why don't you just pass me now, save me the time and effort of having to dismantle and assemble the damn turn signals twice, and we'll just go with that?
Becuase if you get pulled over it's my ass.
But you just said you'd pass me even if you knew it was going to be incorrect as soon as I got the sticker.
How do I know you're not a cop?
Mostly because I don't have a shiny fucking badge on my shirt, but also because if I had a baton I would have beat you retarded with it already. -Walks out-
I'm going to the gas station in a few minutesl but before that, I want to leave you with this:
SHIIIIT!!! SHIT! CRAP!
I bought my first renter's insurance policy tonight. Our area had been on suspension for the past week or so due to hurricane Ophelia. This season has been balls to the wall eh? Hopefully for the Texans who come through here, this weekend will find them alive and safe - even if they do lose other less valuable trappings. Yeesh.
So, Paul is temporarily away from his computer this week and I'm going to take a stab at this thing. I carefully chose an interviewee, based on his extensive and laudable track record as a well respected bachelor and debaucherer. However, said guest would only take the interview on the condition that he be known specifically as "Hebert the Honky Highlander." Apparently, he thought this would protect his identity. I protested based on the grounds that he's a nobody and an idiot to boot, but in the end he was going to walk; the diva.
Below the fold.
Who was the 142nd fastest gun in the West?
(Remember - no searching online.)
All day tomorrow I have a management skills retreat at a private location with my employer. There goes a day's work hey? In all seriousness I kind of prefer the boondoggle to the daily grind, but don't tell my director.
I'm not sure when we'll be finished at this little seminar, but at five I give a presentation to a client company I've been working with for over a year. I and a few of the crew from grad school have this moonlighting gig as consultants. Anyways, we're presenting the clients with our final findings and recommendations on how they should take the next step in managing their growth. It's exciting to be involved in the process, and I feel like our team knows their company almost as well as they do. I can't help but be afraid sometimes though; that we're going to present something to someone that they think is completely off the wall - at which point the entire pitch will come to a screeching halt, and we will be chased out of the office by a pitchfork-wielding, torch-waving board of directors. Sometimes it's hard to tell how personally business owners are going to take your advice. But this group seems to be on the same page with us. They're ready to grow, willing even, they just need something to help manage and control said change. Well, we'll see what happens tomorrow.
Rachel Ann has a little comment quiz today. My answer ended up way too big for a comment section so I'm posting it here. This way has a side benefit - maybe some of y'all can head over to Rachel's place so she gets more participation.
Here are my answers to her questions:
1.PETA--what is the first image that comes to your mind hearing the name?
Domestic terrorism.2.How do you react emotionally?
Generally with disgust.3.Do you agree or disagree with PETA's overall message?
Do they even have an overall message? Some of their specific messages, like handing out buckets of blood and comic books saying "Mommy murders dogs", leave me relatively speechless.4.Do you agree or disagree with how PETA presents that message?
You could safely classify me as part of the "disagree" group.5.Are (or were) you a vegetarian?
No. I thoroughly enjoy meat in all of its delicious variety.6.Do you own any pets?
Um...yeah. The current pet count is 14. 7 of those are of the dog and/or cat variety. The rest are decorative - birds and fish and suchlike.7.What rights over animals do you think humans should have?
All of them.8.Is experimentation on animals always wrong? Sometimes wrong? And if permissable when, what types of experiments, and how should they be conducted?
No, experimentation on animals isn't wrong. It is necessary for scientific advances and to promote certain economic factors. That said, I use Aussie hair products partially because they don't do animal testing. I'm happy to support a cosmetics company that goes through the expense of alternative product testing. That is MY choice as a consumer.9. To what uses can we put animals? (Pets only, aide animals etc.)
Animals should be put to whatever use can be found for them. Pets, farm animals, food source, guide dogs, helper monkeys, medical and biological testing. Whatever works.10. Including PETA, what animal rights groups (if any) do you support?
I don't support PETA in any way, shape or form. They are reprehensible. Come to think of it, I don't support any animal rights groups. Animals don't have rights. I do support our local animal shelters.
Summary:
All of that above makes me look like I torture bunnies for the fun of it. That is completely untrue. I torture bunnies for the large cash rewards.
Heh. Just kidding, it really is just for the fun of it.
There I go again. Serious now...
Animals are not people. They do not have rights. However, people do have the responsibility to care for an animal when they accept that burden. If you get a pet you have the responsibility to care for that pet. It is the dog's owner who is responsible for making sure that dog doesn't bite a kid. It is also that dog owner's responsibility to feed and shelter the dog. The way that a person (or a company, for that matter) cares for his animals says a world about him.
PETA disgusts me on many levels. They are so over the top with propaganda and bald-faced lies that it amazes me when otherwise intelligent people fall for their bullshit. They openly give money to ELF, a known terroristic organization. They promote illegal action by their members. They encourage assault and sabotage. I do not for the life of me understand how they have escapted federal prosecution on racketeering and domestic terrorism charges.
PETA animal shelters are not no-kill shelters. Isn't that the height of hypocrisy? PETA shelters in Florida kill more animals every year than all other shelters in Florida combined. Instead of finding homes for animals they spend millions of dollars on child propaganda every year. They truly disgust me.
There was a pleasant surprise for us this morning. The bosses brought in a load of high carb breakfast substances. The danishes were typically yummy. My favorite is the cheese danish. The cream cheese-like filling on these helps to mitigate the unbearable sweetness of the pastry and sugar shellac resulting in bakery goodness that is not quite so sweet that I can't eat it.
And there were bagels. Bagels of many varieties and with loads of butter, cream cheese, lox and other toppings available. When I entered the break room and saw this plethora of chewy Jewy breakfast goodness I immediately started salivating. There's nothing quite like a good bagel to start out the day.
And these were nothing like good bagels.
I look funny in my car. I'm a taller guy, but I drive a smaller car.
So when I wear my helmet, I can't really turn my head all that much. But I'm really just trying to illustrate for you how gangly, gawkily large I am in relation to my car.
As you might have assumed, or already know, I like to work on and in my car. I enjoy it, I'm not neccesarily quick or extensively practiced at it, I just know enough to cause some damage.
Today I replaced the rear speakers in the car since they were getting older and starting to sound like ass. I like music almost as much as I like cars, and I love nothing more than listening to it. It's got to be perfect sounding, not neccesarily always in that new crisp digital way though. If I'm listening to something older, maybe recorded live in a jazz club somewhere, I want to hear the place it's being recorded in. Sometimes that means it's not all ones and zeroes, scrubbed clean, or in sharp focus; and a really good system will bring all the important texture out.
So there I am, backseat folded all the way down, front seats pushed all the way up; shoehorned into an area with the cubic footage of a shopping cart. Spacious hey? I mean, I've got big stupid hands with thick knuckled fingers; and I'm in the lotus position or some shit trying to unscrew bolts the size of hairpins. I'm sweating, I got my damn knees up in my face because that's the only way I can get in the car, and I can only turn the fucking socket wrench like 130 degrees at a time because of the angle of the rear glass. At one point, I had to put my feet through the sunroof and lay back with my head reaching into the trunk to just so I could see what the hell I was doing.
Then it struck me. The breeze (remnant of the recent storm) blew my goddamn trunk down, and one of the spindles struck me right in the nose. I let out a yowl, blinded by the sharp poke. It felt like a damn tazer to the shnoz; it was bringing tears to my eyes. I immediatley try to sit up, succeeding only in thumping my head soundly on the bottom of the rear deck. I groan and hit the floor of the trunk, completely hemmed up by the submission hold my car was inflicting on me.
My old boxing coach used to say, "Sometimes you just take a defeat and learn from it. Pain is the best form of negative reinforcement." I say, I bet 10 to 1 that crotchety fuck never got poked in the nose.
Next time, I'm going to find a skilled midget to do this kind of shit. Those tiny bastards have no idea what a blessing that is. Imagine all the shit I could fix if I was their size! And it wouldn't stop at car repairs either. I bet those fuckers can crawl up in a dishwasher and replace shit without ever having to slide the big bastard out from under the counter. I guess it's just all about perspective.
But time enough to give birthday wishes to Jen and Harvey. And for Harvey, a little something special.
Burger (age 3 as you know) has a vocabulary problem. Specifically, he's been using words that should be reserved for grown-ups. More specifically, words that should be reserved for grown-up political pundits and/or grown-ups who just hit their thumb with a hammer. We are working on correcting this antisocial behaviour but sometimes it just blows right up in our faces.
[Burger and Bacon are bouncing on the trampoline. Bacon makes contact with his brother (most likely by intention but that couldn't be proven in a court of law) and Burger responds.]Burger: You're an asshole!
Lovely Wife: What did you say? You get over here right away young man!
[Burger makes his way slowly over to Lovely Wife, defiance writ large upon his brow.]
Lovely Wife: You do NOT use words like that! If you have a problem with your brother you work it out with him. If you can't do that, bring it to me. There is no excuse for swearing.
[Burger mumbles something under his breath. It's clear we have not achieved "buy in".]
Lovely Wife: I'm serious, Burger. Do not use cuss words. Do you even know what an "asshole" is?
[Burger brightens noticeably.]
Burger: Yeah! I do! Bacon's an asshole!
I fear he has discovered our primary weakness. We are functionally unable to discipline him when we are laughing our asses off.
Just a short while ago President Bush took responsibility for federal shortfalls in Katrina relief efforts. Now what are the odds that all of the people who were screeching about "only wanting to hear him take responsibility" will shut their foam flecked gobs?
Yeah, that's what I thought. I'll go buy a lottery ticket instead.
Tommy Lee, of Motley Crue 'fame', has his own goddamn idiotic reality show now. Yes, after climbing to the apex of his popularity in early 2002 as the man who gave Pamela Anderson hepatitis-c, Tommy Lee is back and wishes to reclaim his crown as the king of complete idiocy.
I know, it's impossible to think that Tommy could ever surpass the entertainment milestone he established when he banged the absolute crap out of his wife on video; but we are once again beholden to this thespian virtuoso. How, you say? How does one outstrip such a legacy? Apparently, by building said reality show around your midlife enrollment in a four year college.
So if you didn't get enough of Tommy's retardedass shenangians back in '86; or back in '99 when he and his wife released their little home video - he's back for your viewing pleasure.
You know, and the thing of it is, his college life seems to suck. I haven't seen any drugs, drunkedness, fights, road trips, keg stands, ramen, crazy parties, hell - the fucker's not even broke; an equal component in my college experience to the others listed here. What a shitty show.
But then again, what could I possibly have expected.
There's a storm a few days off the coast that's taking aim at my area here. It's nothing to really worry about as of now, just barely a category 1, a twinkle in Katrina's eye.
Which is why I'm going to the beach tonight. I'll post some pics later.
So, here are some photos of the break I surf at most. They alternate, a normal day and then today, so you can get an idea of what's going on. And at this point the storm is about 200mi away. Weeee!
Normal: 
Balls to the Wall: 
Normal: 
Balls to the Wall: 
If all elephants are large, and some elephants are pink, are all pink elephants large?
The answer, of course, is yes.
Let’s try another one.
If Sean Penn roams New Orleans in a sinking johnboat with his photographer and press people, does that make him a flaming asshole?
And if, on top of that, he ‘comes ashore’ and roams the streets carrying a loaded shotgun like a wild buccaneer, does that upgrade his status to “one incredibly fucked-up individual nearing the level of political omnipresence only previously held by Bono”?
Yes. Yes, it does.
Does he look bat-shit crazy or what?
h/t: Drudge
I’ve been around the block a few times, but never in my life have I seen someone get handed their ass more completely. Sweet Jesus!
If you drink twelve bottles of Stella Artois and play high stakes poker with these guys you will lose your money. I speak from experience. My old lady did better than I did and I consider myself semi-pro.
It was a distracting game in many ways, what with most of the crowd drinking some nipple drink that looked like a BJ without whipped cream, and the total disregard for my dignity.
At one point I was peeking at my cards when a shrill, deafening siren erupted from the other side of the room. It sounded like a burglar alarm going off.
Binx threw his cards down and started yelping.
“It’s the weather station! It’s the weather station!”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I asked.
Everyone was frozen in their seats wondering if it was some kind of toxic mold detector gone off or if we needed to pull out the gats.
Binx, beside himself with excitement, jumped from his chair and ran across the room. He was staring down at what looked like an answering machine.
“Severe storms! Dime sized hail!”
I realized he was reading off of some kind of ticker tape that the machine was printing. No one had the gumption to actually get up and go see.
“It’s the weather station,” Mrs. Binx said. “He likes to monitor the weather. It almost never goes off…this must be something serious.”
The rest of the crowd seemed nonplussed.
“Shit,” said. Binx. “It’s two counties away.” He seemed genuinely sad about that.
The evening is foggy after that point, but I distinctly remember losing and eating an entire bag of Chex Mix which substituted for my dinner. I seem to remember declining the offer of a bowl and pouring the contents into my mouth.
Sunday morning we had to pick up the kid from the rents. I still hadn’t had a meal so we figured we’d go to out to lunch at a Mexican place I like that serves extreme margaritas. We arrived at the rents to find the kid wearing makeup. The kid’s only five and I realize they like to play dress-up and what not, but she looked like she had black eyes. I also smelled something foul but couldn’t put my finger on it. The look on my face must have said it out loud.
“Oh,” Nanna said, “She really stinks. You’re going to have to drive with the windows open.”
“What?”
“You have to drive with the windows open. She put on perfume. A whole lot of it…all different kinds.”
And right she was. We had to drive with the fucking windows open because the kid smelled like the inside of a termite fumigation tent.
We gave her two baths, used every kind of soap we had, every shampoo. It barely made a dent. This morning when I got in the car to go to work I was overwhelmed by the remaining stench. There’s no getting rid of it.
Not only that, but now I think I reek of it because people have been looking at me funny since I walked in the building. I hope these fumes aren’t fucking flammable.
I don't really know what to say to this. I'm sure you can imagine my reaction to this person's little brain fart. My favorite quotes? Read 'em and weep:
Next thing you know I'm watching movies like The Prince and Me or First Daughter where the heroine doesn't sit around and wait for the prince to do his job of saving her, but she does it herself, and even if the prince does help, they don't get together and live happily ever after. Oh no! She decides she's going to go live life independently and keep in touch by postcard. See you later Prince Charming. WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO?
This is damn feminism and those hippie liberals telling women they can do whatever they want, whenever they want. Live your life. It's your body. Do your thing. Well you know what, that's a lie. Women can't do everything.
This is setting up little girls all over the world for major disappointment. We were made to be rescued.
I really like that last one. She lays down the fact here that for some reason she must have a savior man in her life; without it, she's incomplete. Now, don't get me wrong. I think chivalry, when used in absence of the condescending nature which this young woman seems to enjoy, is a great thing. I mean, I was raised on treating women a certain way. But I wasn't raised on this aspect that a woman should remain helpless, and be proud of it; only to truly fulfill her greatness by being saved by a man.
And I'd love to have some opinions on this, from men and women.
Victor here because Jim is ignoring his blog again. And since he was so thrilled with the results of the last test I took for him, I decided to do another one for him, by using the Very Scientifical method of just clicking on whatever the hell I feel like. Today, we learn which Classic Leading Lady good ol' Jim would make. It's in the extended entry, but I'll give you a hint: Mommie Dearest.
Sometimes you see that lone person in a bar. They'll be mulling over their drink, or maybe they'll be toying with it seductively, or watching the game, chatting with the barkeep. But we've all seen them, and there are a few that you can mark right off the bat; without ever talking to them, you already know what's going on.
Girl sitting up front, drinking a top shelf apple martini - "I'm spending someone else's money."
Guy sitting up front, drinking a top shelf apple martini - "I'm sucking someone else's dick."
Husky drunk girl next to the tap drinking dollar drafts - "I got kicked out of this bar for knocking a guy's teeth out once."
Husky drunk guy next to the tap drinking dollar drafts - "I stock groceries at Walmart. And my shift starts in half an hour."
Guy, shot of whiskey and a beer, both gone in less than a minute - Probably just robbed a bank.
Gal, surrounded by other gals, drinking Zima or Michelob Ultra - Just turned 21, trying not to ruin her GPA.
Guy, two fingers of single malt on two rocks, not stirring, gently sipping - Needs to take his bottle of Johnny Walker and get a room. This is a bar dammit, not a library.
Gal, cigar, gin and tonic - "If my ex could see me now."
Guy, early fifties, lots of rings, cigar, gin and tonic - "Did I tell you I was All-American back in '76?"
All this talk is making me thirsty. Shank out.
Alright. Everyone here does something weird, maybe even something others would consider revolting. Those dirty little secrets we try to hard to keep from other people. Maybe you lay silent farts in public places, quietly crop-dusting your way across the office lobby. Or maybe you're that sick bastard who whacks it to pictures from National Geographic. Me? I pick my nose. And eat it. Keeps me healthy. Fact of the matter is, I've been eating those little bastards my whole life (well, not all of them) and I'm the healthiest person I know, hands down.
Anyways, what's yours?
Bacon turns five today! It's hard to believe. It seems like just yesterday I was sitting on Lovely Wife's maternity bed gazing down at her beautiful exhausted face and his pink little wrinkled one.
He's growing up so fast. Worse, he's growing into me. He's the animal lover, the joker, the tool freak, the occassionally incredibly stubborn ass. Infinite mischief in a smiling wrapper.
Bacon is the one who always wants to help me with projects, the one who always proudly displays his latest biological finds. He's also the one with the penchant for drawing on every surface of our home with whatever is handy - and bringing Burger into his plots.
And just like Daddy, he's begun to use his little tool set to dissect things. Like Burger's electric guitar, his own R/C car, and some other cleverly hidden object that I've found only the screws for.
We butt heads a lot, probably because we are so similar in the stubborn department, but he's a genuine treat and I cherish this time when he looks up to me and wants to emulate me. Is it possible to get through the teen years with this intact? God, I hope so.
Happy fifth birthday, Big Guy!
Bacon shares his birthday with lots of famous people including Peter Sellers (of Pink Panther fame), Pink (the musician, and what's with the "pink" theme here?) and Boudicca, who turns four-oh today. At least that's what she says. Having met her, I'm fighting to come to grips with that. My personal age-o-meter pegs her at the low thirties.
Happy Birthday Bou!
UPDATE: Another famous birthday shared with Bacon. Today is Ted's special day, which he will no doubt celebrate by playing with something highly flammable.
I conned Jim from Snooze Button Dreams into playing a round of How Many Beers. Let’s see how he’s done:
1. The fat chick from Facts of Life
Natalie from Facts of Life? Hell, she’s just a cleverly disguised hottie. I’ll say three beers, just to loosen things up. But I’d be thinking about “Tootie” while I nailed her.
Damn…That’s at least six pack for me. Maybe if I just got back from a nudie bar...
2. Miss Hathaway from The Beverly Hillbillies
Miss Hathaway would depend. Are we talking the scarecrow from the TV show or Lily Tomlin from the movie? [We’re talking about the scarecrow—ed.] I’d bang Lily in a minute just so I could brag through the rest of my life that I screwed Eunice. The other one scares me. And she looks all dry. We’d definitely need several hours of tequila shots and a well placed tube of KY.
But you’d do it. See for yourselves ladies, there may be a sliding scale, but so far nothing’s off the chart.
3. Penny Marshall
Penny Marshall…hmmm… I don’t think that’s possible. Her balls would get in the way.
I stand corrected. There is a point where Jim draws the line. I’d probably do it if I was assured she wouldn’t speak during the event. That voice…uhhh.
4. Chelsea Clinton
Chelsea Clinton? Are you kidding? Have you seen a picture of her lately? Hot damn, she’s taggable as hell! Zero beers required for Chelsea.
A new precedent! He’s willing to tag this one stone-cold sober. Folks, this is dramatic, ground- breaking blogging. I’m on the edge of my seat for this next one…
5. Oprah Winfrey
Oprah Winfrey would require three consecutive keg stands. But I’d be thinking about “Tootie” while I nailed her.
Interesting…I might have to start asking about more specific sexual acts in the future.
6. Julia Louis-Dreyfus
Julia Louis-Dreyfus would have to be taken stone cold sober. You need to keep your reflexes about you to avoid cutting yourself on that razor sharp nose.
Yeah, I’d probably do this sober too. Shit, that’s what the dimmer switch is for. Again, I’d have to be assured of no talking.
7. Margaret Cho
Margaret Cho. Margaret Cho. Cho Cho Cho. The ticket to ride that train costs a six pack with a Viagra shooter plus bloodletting to the point of unconsciousness.
I’m with you there, brother. I was thinking black tar heroin.
8. Ethel from I Love Lucy
Ethel was a fiery thing. High spirits, tight dresses, nice tits and a cushiony backside. But she was used to resisting the advances of young, strapping, hot men with voices like silver. I’d probably need to get her seriously trashed on highballs before I got into her panties.
Holy cow. I’m not sure I’d go there, but if I did, it would have to be something special. Like the inverted buck-crab, or the fourth posture of the perfumed garden. You know, so I’d have a good story to tell later.
Well, there we have it, folks. Let’s have a big round of applause for Jim, he’s been a great guest, if not a little disturbing. Next up, we’ll ask the ladies.
Even if I was strip-club drunk—and watching porn—there’s just no way I’d tag Greta van Susteren. Everybody needs to draw the line somewhere.
I’m happy to announce that How Many Beers will be a regular feature of this blog going forward.
So I'm lying in bed, trying to sleep but I can't. I'm just kind of wandering through my mind, picking up old memories, dusting them off, and giving them a listen. For some reason I think of the few fisticuffs I've been in, and this little turn of phrase drops out of nowhere. It kind of rolled like thunder, low and far away at first, then gradually louder and clearer until it was booming and echoing in my head. Anyways, I couldn't think of a story worth telling that would incorporate it. Well, maybe I'm just too tired to really hash one out right now, but here's the phrase in bold, given in context:
That jackass spit on my mother, so I had no choice but to beat him barnyard ugly and shithouse stupid.
I can't make much sense of it, but it wouldn't go away. It's got a cadence to it, poetic meter - it practically does the Charelston right out of my mouth as a matter of fact. I think you could even split it up into two phrases, using either the barnyard ugly or the shithouse stupid. But when it came crashing through those saloon doors between my subconcious and concious mind, it came in blasting from both barrels, so I kept it that way.
Well, there you have it. Now you know what keeps me up at night. Cheers.
Friday - Left work early as per my usual summer Friday ritual. ONe day, they'll fire me for it, but until then I persist. Went to the beach, surprisingly great conditions - four to five feet, clean sets. I tried not to suck at surfing for about an hour, gave up and went to the body board for the remainder. Met some friends for beer and pool later that night, closed the bar, fell into something soft (a bed? couch? closet floor?) sometime in the wee hours.
Saturday - Saturday morning and afternoon never really existed. I got out of bed just before five, cooked up some fine gourmet food for the woman and watched movies.
Sunday - Volleyball and beer from noon until about six. Then I had abrief work-related meeting. I don't remember it being to productive because I could only think about getting back to volleyball and beer, but somehow I finished everything I needed to. There was a return to youthful reverie (and not so much to volleyball) sometime around nine pm. I fell asleep in the car and woke up in my bed.
Monday - Minor housekeeping issues, catching up, preparing for the onslaught that will be the next four days. I have finally completed a keystone ananlysis and research project (hence the Sunday meeting of the minds) that I've been working on with a team for the past year or so; and will be beginning another six month project immediately after my presentation a week from now. So I took the time Monday to build up a little momentum for what should be an interesting few weeks.
All three boys have done the bulk of their growing up here in Atlanta but only Burger was conceived and born natively. Sometimes it shows.
Me: Everybody ready? Let's get in the van and get going.[Kids begin climbing into the vehicle.]
Me: Woah there, Burger! You've got to finish that soda before you get in the van. Drink it or toss it.
[Burger looks up at me like I am a complete moron. A complete moron who has deeply offended him.]
Burger: It's not a SODA. It's a COKE.
I ended up holding it for him while we drove home. It being a COKE and all, we couldn't let it go to waste.
Day 1: Waited all day for the cable guy, afraid even to go in the shower in case he came. As usual, he showed up with five minutes to spare in the six hour window I was quoted. During the six hour wait I ate an entire package of Oreos. When he finally did show up he was clueless and no help whatsoever. I offered him a can of Coke and he was visibly angry that I didn’t have diet. Day one completely wasted.
Day 2: Woke up with a pounding headache. Bought a new home theater system and spent seven hours trying to hook it up. Two more trips to the store for extra cables that cost almost as much as the system. One trip to the liquor store that was well worth it. Went to a Mexican themed party and ate a lot of shit with ground beef, rice and beans. Hosts put on a home video of their latest vacation and turned off all the lights. I debated making a scene about the video and the banality of all participants. Choose to leave quietly instead without saying good bye. Took my bottle and slammed the door loudly. By 9:00PM was in safe harbor on my couch.
Day 3: Woke up with the running shits. Spent another five hours trying to hook up the home theater system, in between running to the shitter and lying on the couch moaning. Watched hazy TV and steamed over hours lost setting up home theater incorrectly. Had insomnia and debated the value of my life for several hours.
End report.
Today started out...interestingly.
Bacon: Daddy! I made Yu-gi-oh cards!Me: You made them?
Bacon: Yeah, look!
[Bacon brings over a stack of paper with random drawings and numbers on them]
Me: Oh! I see. Very nice, buddy.
Bacon: This one is a dragon monster. Look at how many life points he has!
Me: Wow. That's a tough monster there.
Bacon: And this one has WHORES!
Me: Whores?!
Bacon: Yeah, whores on the top AND the bottom!
Me: Um...
Bacon: See? And he can stab with them!
[Bacon presents one of his drawings, proudly pointing to the features in question.]
Me: Oh! Horns!
Bacon: Yeah. Lots of them! I wish I had a bunch of whores too!
Me: Well that goes without saying.
I need more coffee.
Diamond Dave here, throwing in his two cents worth.
My wife works at Georgia Tech at night. She was witness to some of the relief efforts going on there for the storm refugees from La/Miss. Some of the things she heard and saw concerning these efforts upset her greatly. Here is a copy of the email she sent me, which she also sent to various news organizations:
I had the dream about the horseshoe crabs again last night.
I haven’t seen a horseshoe crab, living or dead, in at least fifteen years. The horseshoe crab, for those ignorant of such creatures, is basically a great big 300 million year old sea spider with a hard shell and a scary underbelly. The more educated amongst you [cough] might know them by the name Limulus Polyphemus.
The dream is always the same. I’m at the beach in my trunks, standing at the waters edge. I am precariously balanced on one leg, standing upon the hard back of one of these critters. My opposite leg is bent at the knee and raised, like Ralph Macchio in the crane stance. When I look toward the incoming breakers, ten of thousands of these creatures are emerging from the sea and are headed directly for me. Every few seconds a wave breaks at my feet, washing over my crabby footstool and threatening my fragile balance. As more crabs emerge toward me, threatening whatever menace they harbor, the closest specimens flip themselves over to expose their devilish looking underside, the part that I’m afraid of.
I always wake up as I lose my balance and fall into crabs.
I have no idea what significance this dream has in relation to my life. My childhood experience with these creatures was limited to picking them up by the tail and whacking other unsuspecting children in the back as hard as I could. They’ve got some weight to them and a big crab could easily send a twelve year old to the ground if you swung hard enough. I remain puzzled and disturbed, even at this late hour of the day.
It seems there’s a key element missing from the martial law in New Orleans. You can’t declare martial law when there’s no actual martial aspect. That’s the key element. It’s like calling out “Bingo!” when you haven’t actually filled your card.
“Storm victims were raped and beaten, fights and fires broke out, corpses lay out in the open, and rescue helicopters and law enforcement officers were shot at as flooded-out New Orleans descended into anarchy Thursday.”
I don’t know how many hours it’s been since this catastrophe started but it looks like they're edging closer to Lord of the Flies every day.
Rape? All I can say is that I’ve never seen a more comprehensive advertisement for gun ownership in my life. The scariest part of this whole thing is how many days have gone by with no law and order.
I’ve never been a moving to Montana kind of guy, but seeing how the government (at every level) has handled this fiasco I might have to do a re-think. What if this was dirty bomb? It’s become quite clear that in times of desperation you should be prepared to protect your family because no one will do it for you.
And while most of us are civilized people who respect our neighbors and our community, it’s clear that not all of our society has reached that plateau. We obviously have members of society who are parasites, void of all decency and human compassion. Animals who would take advantage of a desperate situation and prey on others at levels beyond comprehension.
I can’t help but think what would happen if a small nuke went off somewhere in America. Right now I’m wondering what the response time would be if we were invaded by a hoard of Canadian coin collectors, and if they’d be able to take several states before FEMA, the Feds and Barney Fife collaborated on a plan to stop the carnage.
I know that among the cops and guardsmen on the scene there are probably many fine men, heroes even, who are going above and beyond their duty. I know there are citizens who are helping their neighbors. Good men standing tall. But I’m not too impressed with the people running the show.
I fully realize that the media is showcasing the bad news. But if you’re one of those people who believe that when a catastrophe strikes in America, 10,000 navy seals led by John Rambo will immediately swoop from the sky carry your ass to a nice cozy B & B with fluffy pillows--you’re delusional.
More:
• Police snipers were stationed on the roof of their precinct, trying to protect it from armed miscreants roaming seemingly at will.
• "They have quite a few people running around here with guns," he said. "You got these young teenage boys running around up here raping these girls."
• Charity Hospital, one of several facilities attempting to evacuate patients, was forced to halt the effort after coming under sniper fire.
Convinced yet?
Mass hysteria gripped Atlanta yesterday. It started with a broadcast by Governor Sonny "Not the chicken guy" Purdue. In a move that could best be called ill advised, he went on the air to say that the fuel supply to northern Georgia had been compromised but people were working on it and it would all be back to normal in a couple of days.
People freaked. There was a generalized run on the gas stations. Prices started skyrocketing.
Sonny went back on the air to say there was no emergency and that people should calm down. The compromised fuel supply was actually only 20% of our normal fuel delivery (most of our fuel is shipped in and then trucked), it was only a temporary problem, the worst that could happen would be a two day shortening of Atlanta's normal 10 day fuel reserves. People should stay home and play with their kids instead of spending hours in a line at a gas station.
This message came way too late and did nothing to counter the alarm generated by his earlier message. By then prices had topped $3.50 in most places and some stations were running out of gas. People freaked more. Prices went higher. More stations ran out of gas. People went into gas panic frenzies.
The panicked jackasses continued the run on gas through the rush hour and later. By the time it was over the price of a gallon had spiked over $5 in some locations. The highest I saw on my ride home was $4.19.
This morning the talking heads were out. The AAA regional manager explained that in the best of circumstances if everybody filled up on the same day we would likely run out of gas in the area. Fortunately only about 60% of the people in Atlanta are morons so we are in a shortage situation now instead of a crisis situation.
On my way into work this morning about 80% of the stations were out of gas. The ones that did have some left were selling for between $2.89 and $3.19 with one discrepant station still trying to get $4.09. None of them had many customers, of course.
Stupid people irritate me. Stupid people who affect my life anger me. Stupid people who affect my life by costing me money really piss me the hell off.
For more on the situation see Trey about The Price of Gas or my Lovely Redneck Wife about the Crazy People.
Flaptrap is dead. Long live the Voluntary Redneck!
Anybody had word whether people in other countries give two shits about the worst disaster to strike America in the last hundred years or so?
***Update***
Of course I've donated. You?
