Speaking Of

• The new season of Walking Dead begins this Sunday, and I’m sort of at that juncture in the marriage where I can retake the vows or have an affair.
• So of course, me being me . . I’m having an affair with the latest season of American Horror Story. And so far, so very strange with 1984, but I’m cool with it seeing as how it’s a vacation in the ’80’s.
• The ’80’s is where Trump was building hotels and not walls. Seems that a few years ago, he was talking up an alligator filled moat to go along with his wall . . which was MY idea. Only difference is a moat wouldn’t have required a wall. Putz.
• Too many putzes with drivers licenses. I honked at this dude who was trailing an Amish buggy rather than passing it (buggies have slow moving vehicle triangles which allow you to pass). Annoyed, he waved me around him, shortly after which he turned into his driveway. Right turn signals work wonders, if you use ’em.
• Okay, I’m always in a hurry. Which is why I go self checkout at the grocery store. Checkout lines are teeming with delays and the ten items or less lane is a big fat lie. But it’s not like I ain’t down with social dishing. As with the nerdy high school girl manning the deli counter who brought the snark. We engaged in some entertaining banter as she did up my order. Personality wins the day.
• But peeps who shout into their phone while it’s on speaker make me wanna lose it. Bluetooth was invented because the world doesn’t want to hear about Aunt Lucy’s gallstones.
• Which she probably got from eating at McDonald’s. Of course, she won’t admit it was McDonald’s fault because she probably insists she never eats there. Like the half a trillion people it’s served . . . most of whom never, ever go there.
• Why is it that as soon as an individual is legally permitted to rent a car, they no longer fess up to eating at McDonald’s?
• Not my sister, though. She doesn’t give a blessed fuck who knows about it, even if her rationale for certain of her . . umm . . nutritional choices is a tad bit skewed. And Imma give you a for instance from the other night when me and sis stopped off at a convenience store before my birthday dinner.

Sister: They don’t have diet ginger ale, what the fuck?
Me: Get the good stuff . . go crazy.
Sister: Nah, I don’t drink my calories.
Me: Here’s a thought, get regular ginger ale, because we’re eating fried chicken tonight.
Sister: Here’s a thought, walk home.

• And if you’re wrong, don’t play it like you’re right. The way the Raiders are doing when they defend Vontaze Burfict for being a thug. The linebacker was suspended for the season after his latest dirty hit and Raiders players were shocked(!), claiming Vontaze is just misunderstood. Just another example of professional athletes whining that we should believe what they say rather than what our eyes tell us.
• And my eyes are telling me this is my favorite Halloween costume of the season, and I know it’s early, but . . .

• And if you want scary good, my Nashville hot fried chicken birthday dinner with my kids, niece and sister- followed with ghost stories by candlelight? Good as it gets.
• Speaking of good as it gets, the girl went to the Global Citizen Festival in NYC last weekend She shutterbugged me their peach vantage point right up by the stage and snippeted me a tune here and there from various of the powerhouse lineup. And all was right with the world as Freddie held court and my little girl sang to Queen inside a glorious evening.
• I promised myself I’d never post the cover to this song, but Imma break the rules.
• Not like it’s the first time . . .

 

Damn Patriots

I was talking to a friend after the AB circus was cancelled in Oakland, leaving the deranged diva as the most toxic free agent since Kim Kardashian filed for divorce five minutes after marrying some NBA player.

“As long as Brown doesn’t sign with the Patriots, I’m good,” I joked.

“Dude . . Brown just signed with the Patriots . . ” My friend replied.

Of fucking course he did.

If there was any debate as to the most reviled franchise in professional sports, the New England Patriots just won it, again. Seriously . . gimme a more hated group than the boys from the 508. And no, ISIS doesn’t count.

Once upon a time, my beloved New York Yankees held that title with a seemingly eternal grip. In a swath of history that began with the Murderers Row lineup of 1927 and plowed through war torn lineups in the ’40’s, the golden age of baseball in the ’50’s and expansion in the ’60’s, the Yankees remained the most recognizable symbol of enmity in sports. They were immortalized on stage and screen as Damn Yankees, harmonized in Simon and Garfunkel’s Mrs. Robinson and despised by opposing fans everywhere.

They answered an eleven year championship drought- from 1964 to 1975- with a bunch of mercenaries and sons of bitches when the “Bronx Zoo” iteration won three straight pennants and two World Series titles in the late ’70’s. After which came ever more creative rivals to their most hated throne. The Los Angeles Lakers held a time share for most hated team in sports in the eighties, but Magic buffered any possibility of nuclear enmity. The Dallas Cowboys took up Mickey’s mantle in the ’90’s, but not for long enough a time to breach the gap.

The Russian hockey team was hated whenever the Winter Olympics came calling, but that was a matter of Stalin and Sputnik more than sport. The Edmonton Oilers were hated until Gretkzy was traded to America, after which all was forgiven. The Mets moved out of the Yankees basement in the mid eighties and became a renegade team of hate-worthiness, but their hard partying ways derailed any chance of a long term reign.

By the time the James Gang Miami Heat went Banksy on the Association in 2010, it was too late. The Yankees had already lost their Evil Empire to the New England Patriots. And it wasn’t even close.

The nexus of this changing of the guard came in the fall and winter of 2001-2002. The Yankees were at the height of their villainy entering a campaign in which they had added ace pitcher Mike Mussina from the rival Baltimore Orioles to a team that was favored to win a fourth straight title. When September 11th happened, it muted the national hatred for the pinstripes. Some fans even forged a temporary alliance with the Yanks on account of a city’s gaping wound. When the Yankees lost the World Series to the Arizona Diamondbacks, it signaled both the end of a dynasty as well as their title as the most hated team in sports.

We just didn’t know it yet.

In February of 2002, the Patriots upset the heavily favored Rams in Super Bowl 36. To that point, Bill Belichick had been a middling disappointment as head coach and Tom Brady was a little known backup QB turned starter. The irony is that the Patriots shouldn’t have even made it to the Super Bowl that year, but for the “Tuck Rule Game” in which a Tom Brady fumble was ruled . . get this, an incomplete pass. Oh, and the team they beat in that infamous game? Jon Gruden and the Oakland Raiders. You really cannot make this shit up.

Fast forward seventeen years and the Patriots just screwed Gruden and the Raiders again with their signing of Antonio Brown. Unlike that first Super Bowl victory, the Patriots are no longer a feel good story. They have presided over an unprecedented run of success and scandal in the time since, collecting 6 Super Bowl titles, 9 Conference titles 16 division titles and more -Gates than the poshest neighborhood in Hollywood.

So now the most hated team has the most hated player. It’s the sporting equivalent of the Manson family adopting Pennywise. And okay yes . . Tom Brady is probably going to start acting his age this season and the Patriots can’t possibly make it back to the Super Bowl again and oh wait . . hold on I’ve got a phone call. Hey! It’s me calling, from this time last year!

Hey what’s up? Oh really, I said the same shit this time last year? 

Umm . . . never mind.

It doesn’t seem possible that a team birthed by monarch butterflies on a farm (I read it on the dark web) . . a team that once wore uniforms straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting . . a team that calls itself Patriots, could elicit the sort of rage my Yankees once took for granted.

It’s gotten so bad that after my pal Big Papi’s Orioles were basically eliminated from postseason play back in June, he told me he would be rooting for my Yankees to win it all. To which I replied with “Fuck you,”

I wonder if Antonio Brown plays baseball.

 

 

 

 

Heroes Of The Week!

Welp, the NFL decided to come back for another season, so I would be remiss if I didn’t give you some quick shot predictions for betting purposes only. A top five? Why not . . .

1- Antonio Brown will be traded to the Hollywood Wives
2- Jerry Jones’ quest for a Super Bowl comes up short again. So he buys the Patriots.
3- A 350 lb lineman who’s somehow faster than Carl Lewis is suspended for PED’s. Fans and commentators are shocked!
4- The Dolphins win the Nobel Peace Prize for their efforts in peaceful co-existence on the field of play after winning one game, by accident.
5- Roger Goodell announces the league will eventually have teams in London, Madrid, Paris and any other European city that doesn’t give a fuck about American football

Autumn Johnson has one cool name, but his outlook on life is even cooler. The six year old South Carolina boy was saving his birthday money for a trip to Disney World when Hurricane Dorian hit Florida. So he took his money and used it to feed evacuees instead- one hundred in all. Run for office, kid . . please?

An American woman tried to board a plane with a six day old baby in her carry on bag. Authorities at Ninoy Aquino International Airport in Manila detained the woman, who claimed she was an aunt. If only all human traffickers were this dumb.

Sarah Yerkes just published her first collection of poems (“Days Of Blue And Flame”) at the tender age of 101. Proving that time can be a prison or a gift. The choice is ours. (Shout out to the Delectable Q for this get.)

On April 12, Emmanuel Aranda threw a five year old boy over the third floor railing at Mall of America. The boy suffered head trauma and multiple broken bones but is recovering. Aranda was sentenced to first degree attempted murder and will serve nineteen years in prison. Imma pick him up when he gets released . . .

Disney Streaming Service! Just Shut Up And Take My Money!

I didn’t realize Popeye’s chicken sandwich fever was a thing until I read about the imbecile in Houston who pulled a gun on an employee when he was informed they had sold out. This follows the imbecile in Tennessee who sued Popeye’s, alleging “deceptive business practices” after driving all over town looking to score a sammy but coming up empty. Here’s an idea, eat a fucking salad.

Bria Montes pens hand written letters. I dig the posterity of her austerity but I really dig the recipient in this instance: An Odessa, Texas police officer. Montes left the handwritten note along with some flowers on his police cruiser to show her appreciation for his service. The good guys won a day, thanks to Montes.

On Wednesday, Google agreed to pay a $170 million fine after YouTube was found to have been collecting information . . . from children. Which led to this brief conversation:

Me: Shit like this really pisses me off, because I love YouTube.
Mellow Harsher: You don’t have to use the site, you know.
Me: Are you out of your mind?

Police in Glasgow, Scotland foiled a game of hide and seek that was to be played out in a local IKEA after three thousand people signed up on Facebook to participate. They stopped any customers who looked as if they were there to play a game of hide and seek, which is the funniest Goddamn case of profiling I’ve ever heard of.

Crazy cat ladies best move over and make way for Chella Phillips, ’cause she’s got plenty of company. When Hurricane Dorian touched down in the Bahamas, Phillips took 97(!) dogs into her Nassau home, providing them with food and shelter. Just call her the patron saint of paws.

Coming up next week, I’ve got a special September 11th issue featuring nothing but heroes. Because when the good guys win the day, it feeds the world.

Annoyances Post #2,632

I was chatting up irksome things with a fellow blogger this morning, and it inspired me to revisit the ‘Annoyances’ posts I used to do back on my drinking blog. So this evening, I came up with a plan of action. Sit down and set the timer for a couple minutes whilst listing some of the things that annoy me.

Back in the day, (a couple years ago, on my drinking blog) I would’ve supplemented my vitriolic acid with alcohol, nicotine and Oxy.  Sadly, this post was written with nary a performance enhancing drug involved. I seriously miss just how much fun I used to be. And so what if it was eighty proofed with a hallucinogenic chaser and nicotine cherry on top? It still fucking counts.

(Editor’s Note: I went back after my couple minutes was up and added some thoughts to the annoyances that supply a particular curse word or several whenever they come to mind. Because not all annoyances are created equal.)

So without further adieu, I give you some annoyances fresh off the top of my head. With no chemically enhanced originality to flavor things up. And, umm . .you’re welcome?

• White guys who say “My bad” . . . and mean it.
• Nicholas Sparks
• The Rolling Stones insane popularity
• March Madness– The analysts are glorified used car salesmen, the coaches are made men and the best talent goes right to the NBA. It’s a dirty sport . . without the fun. It’s a slap in the face to organized crime is what it is.
• Kristen Bell
• Cart Attendants
• Applebee’s
• Vaping
• Sporks
• BBQ debates– KC says they have the best BBQ while Carolina (pick one) says they have the best BBQ. And I don’t like BBQ. So whatever.
• Sequins
• Mullets
• Apple
• Red Sox fans– Hey peeps, you have four World Series titles in the last fifteen years and you’re still 18 behind the Yankees. The team has a nice core which can possibly win a couple more in the next decade. But the Yankees will match that. Which means your stinking Sawx will still be looking up at the Yankees a century from now. Slow your roll.
• Nipple rings
• People who say “Must be nice . . .”
• Guy Fieri
• People who rant on social media while sitting in their car
• NA Beer
• MTV
• Forrest Gump
• Jenny from Forrest Gump– It figures that in one of the most overrated movies of a generation, Gump has the worst girlfriend. Ever.
• Assholes who rev their engines at traffic lights
• Peloton People
• Commercials
• Stairway to Heaven
• Match Box collectors
• Panera Bread acting like it’s God’s gift to food
• Extreme Couponers
• Public Restrooms
• Painfully specific Starbucks orders
• People who say LOL
• The wanton use of the word Amazing
• Cupcake Wars- This show is subsidized by the Department of Defense in an attempt to subvert the term ‘war’. Thereby making it not only more psychologically acceptable, but downright fucking tasty. And if you consider my opinion to be ridiculous, it ain’t any more ridiculous than a show called cupcake wars.
• McCafe
• Jeannine Pirro
• People who give you dirty looks when you walk in a bar, as if you just walked into their living room
• Running into an ex
• The sound of tapping on a keyboard in a movie or TV show
• Baseball caps with a flat bill

I’m not gonna lie, I could have done this all day long. More than ninety percent of the shit I come across on a daily basis is either irksome or downright fucking annoying to me. I have to believe it’s not healthy to be annoyed by so many things so much of the time.

I guess that’s what therapy is for.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All That Glitters Isn’t Entertaining

I only watched a couple hours worth of Academy Awards the other night, and to be perfectly honest . . it was like watching C-Span. With beautiful people. Maybe it’s me, but the Oscars felt more lacking than the Baltimore Orioles lineup. There was less sizzle than a CPA’s black book. And if not for the lovely J. Lo making the scene, there wouldn’t have been a single boom.

The Queen opening I liked just fine. Adam Lambert has some pipes, and I must admit . . he ain’t in the same area code with Freddie. That is what I liked most of all, because I’m really quite possessive about the former Queen front man. You can cover his shit all you want, and that’s proper . . I respect it. But you’re not going to upstage the ultimate showman. And Lambert didn’t. I’m fine with that.

After that, I might as well have turned on Walking Dead. The fact they went with a self service hosting format thanks to the Kevin Hart imbroglio opened promisingly enough. Getting right to it rather than having to sit through a droning table setting dialogue book-ended by commercial breaks was a refreshing change of pace.

I wish I could tell you I have anything good to say about Sunday night after that, but I’d be lying harder than a Trump appointee. Okay . . yeah, there were moments. Like J. Lo rocking the (almost) century mark as if she is twenty something. And that duet with Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga was a glorious fire. How can you not love that? Unless you’re Mrs. Bradley Cooper, that is. In which case, you went home and started divvying everything up whilst doing real estate searches.

I dig that Queen . .I mean Bohemian Rhapsody won four of the five awards they were up for. And I was really digging Spike Lee in those purple threads. And I dig that he finally won an award after forever. And I dig that a doc about menstrual cycles won, and that one of the peeps involved called it out as such. And I dig Samuel Jackson bringing some much needed coolness to the evening when he reported that the Knicks had finally won a game.

On the flip side, I didn’t dig what I believed to be a weak list of Academy Award nominees for Best Picture. And I didn’t dig how Spike Lee had to throw a tantrum after Green Book won. Come on man, grow the fuck up. This ain’t a Knicks game!  And I didn’t dig the trains . . I mean, what was up with all the trains? And hey, why did Charlize Theron answer all those trains by wearing a curtain? And I really didn’t dig how nobody got uber political. There were a few clever innuendos sprinkled in throughout the show but no blunt force trauma statements of revolution from the tyranny the District is presently under. Make no mistake, I would have been the first one to bitch about bringing politics into the mix. But it would have been fun! 

It’s like this. Sunday night’s Oscars were a preview of what this year’s NFL draft is going to look like. Heavy on the fundamentals but severely lacking in the disco department. I’m glad I tuned in, and even more glad I tuned out before the end. Hey John Bailey! . . Billy Crystal called.

He wants his Oscars back.

 

 

 

 

 

Love . . Actually

Of all the things that are too short, I don’t happen to think life is one of ’em. Coffee breaks are too short. Shirts too. Kit Kat bars? Definitely too short. And Vera Farmiga nude scenes . . much too short.

But the idea that tacos dare trespass our gullets on a Shakespearean tragedy level of infrequency? That there is wronger than a Trump cabinet appointee. On a Deepak Chopra big motion picture level of depressing, in fact. Soooooo . . . me and Linds B did a thing tonight. We fixed up a night out that actually rhymed, with taco.

And we did this tasty thing, without trying.

We hit the 511 Cafe, which is a cute little ditty of a jukebox corner joint that’s tucked into the top shelf of Lancaster City’s kitchen cabinet. Just enough of an out of the way locale to be worth all the fun. The 511 was one of our more beloved memories back inside a time when food searches meant something. As in, Cuban sammy something.

So after sitting down and shaking off the cold weather with a round of funny anecdotes, our waitress made the scene to warm things up in Longfellow cursive. Her name was Pixel, and that should’ve told us everything we needed to know about the evening. I mean, besides being one cool ass name, she brought game.

So me and Linds ordered up our friendly drinks, because . . priorities.

Linds B got things running with a rum and coke. I ordered up a pint of Rogue Dead Guy Ale. And then we threw down a couple more twisted anecdotes and we quibbled over what app to belly dance to. And our quibble went something like this.

We went with zucchini sticks. And Tuesday night was fitting swiftly into its side pocket definition when Pixel let loose with her Lit Chick mad skill set when she re-purposed “Taco Night” in such a way that . . hell, I ain’t seen nor heard of such a bargain since five dollar matinees went extinct.

If you read our blog on any kind of regular, then you are probably down with the fact that our “Search for the Tastiest Taco” thing never got off the ground, seeing as how we are smack dab in the middle of a place that doesn’t rhyme with the left coast. We do savory and sweet just fine in these environs, but tacos? Not so much.

Linds refused the taco come on, seeing as how she ain’t easily taken to sweet talking now that she’s in love. Me? I was saying yes this way . . .

After which, Trump’s wall seemed but a Jack Skellington wet dream to the ‘What Have We Here?’ lunar step we done took. Because the filet was blackened to an extraordinarily sexy bit of spice, pepper and lime whose sole purpose? Was to get me pregnant.

We done got vindicated on a night that had nothing to do with food searches. And so it happened that we were duly inspired by the swift and earnest lever of coincidental fever that led us to a joint that ended up talking us into starting up a brand spanking new food search.

Our rules, this next time.

Because life ain’t too short, so long as you bring the flavor.

 

 

 

 

Doomed Journeys, Beer Logic and Stealing Home

Remember that “Tastiest Taco” challenge me and Linds were supposed to embark on several months back? Yeah well, fuck tacos . . that’s what happened to that challenge.

Because, Cuban sandwiches seem to drop out of the sky in meat and potatoes Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Tacos? Not so much. Our doomed journey began with a mutual friend’s suggestion that we check out a dive bar he frequented. The lead seemed solid enough, and the beer specials were friendly. So we showed up on “Taco Tuesday”. As per the definition, it means that the establishment created a holiday just for tacos. Which means there should have been ample amounts of said tacos on the premises. SO many tacos that if you drew up satellite imagery, Pennsylvania would look like one big fucking taco from space.

Okay, maybe I’m being just a tad bit hyperbolic. But was it too much to ask that we might shake loose a taco or several on a day that was designated as ripe with the little buggers?

We put in our drink orders first, because . . priorities. And besides, the first rule of taco eating is to always be hydrated. And I know, I know . . alcohol tends to have the opposite effect. Which is why you have to drink more of it.

It was a good thing we had our drinks when the horrible truth came down.

“We’re out of tacos . . ” The waitress informed us, as if it was no big deal that we weren’t going to be able to warm our taste buds in tortilla blankets. It would’ve been akin to saying Wednesday lost its hump or Saturday Night lost its fever. The Shakespearean tragedy of it all was lost on her.

Top Five Thoughts on “We’re Out of Tacos” Night? . . sure why not.

5- Is it scientifically possible to ‘run out’ of tacos if you’re a restaurant? I mean, you can run out of tortilla shells . . but if you’re a restaurant and you ain’t got any of the other basic ingredients to a taco? You’re probably out of business.

4- We should have been gifted free beer for the regrettable inconvenience.

3-We went on a taco challenge and ended up on a taco diet.

2- If you run out of tortilla shells? Compensate with flat bread and corn chips . . close your eyes and bon apetit!

1- As a result of this ordeal, I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch Nacho Libre even once. That. Is. Sad.

 

The dive bar was strike one, after which there were another couple strikes in there somewhere . . it’s been a while now. The doomed challenge was not limited to restaurants, either. When I offered to make tacos for my kids, they turned them down. After which I realized I might never eat a taco again.

Sooooo, the winner of our Tastiest Taco challenge was . . . .

Yeah . . I know. But here’s the thing. You know what you get when you ask for a taco at Taco Bell? A fucking taco, that’s what!

At this point, you’re probably asking, ‘Hey Sorryless peeps . . so what’s the next food challenge’? To which we reply, there ain’t one. We’re gonna stick to erotic food stories with no specific main character from now on. We shall simply rejoice in the glory of food as we bang the shit out of it. How much more poetic can you get?

Fast forward to our latest jaunt . . . it was a dive bar, because we’re consistent with our culinary delights. Imma be the provocateur and give up the money shots. I ordered the wings with Chesapeake Bay sweet spice sauce. It was hot and sticky sweet as per the Def Leppard method of doing business. A promising opening act . . .

The pit beef sammy on a kaiser roll was played up on the restaurant’s website as if it was last meal delicious. Sorry but, if that was my last meal I’d skip dinner and buckle up for hell. I picked at it before deciding as to whether I would dive in and it proved dryer than Jason Bateman’s humor, so I decided I would try and revive it with some culinary surgery when I got home and chowed down on my side of onion rings instead.

The girls ordered gravy fries, which is a tasty combination of super foods- essential to a long life . . for your cardiologist. In Quebec, they add cheese curds and call the stuff ‘poutine’, because they’re so much more sophisticated than us ‘Muricans.

The girls got the cheesesteak with bacon crumbles on the side since Linds ain’t the biggest fan of bacon. It got me thinking. Imma order a side of bacon crumbles everywhere I go. Yes, especially Starbucks.

This particular establishment shall remain nameless for a couple reasons. For one thing, we ain’t got much of anything good to say about the place. The food was just ayt and the service was horrible. As I was packing up my sammy to go, I joked with the girls that I should take the plate as a parting shot.

“Take the plate Marc, please . . take the plate,”

As per Ali’s orders, I stuck the plate in my Styrofoam container and made way for the door. Let the record state that Ali was the mastermind of this heist, and I . . the unwitting accomplice. I come from a broken home and I never had a male role model growing up. Unless you count Pat Riley.

I don’t know if this will become a thing, but in the event it does, we might try our luck with tacos again. I really don’t give a blessed fuck about the tacos, but I do loves me some Fiestaware.

 

 

 

 

Pick Six Tuesday (or) Why My Therapist is Underpaid

It’s Tuesday again, which can only mean it’s time for my semi(ish)weekly rant post (again) in which I share with you, my precious readers, a few things that grind my gears. So pardon me while I pet my peeves . . .

Parking Lots– If Dante Alighieri had penned Inferno today? Parking lots would’ve been tucked between Greed and Anger as per those circles of hell. Greed because peeps want their front row parking space and they’re willing to dismember your ride in order to get it. The Anger happens after they use your bumper like a toothpick when they back out of their parking space whilst checking their look and posting to Facebook.

Of course, a tenth circle would totally fuck up the hunchback effect that the number 9 has imbued on our culture, because while 10 is perfect . . it ain’t possess that haunted curlicue of its predecessor. So while Dante never had to deal with parking lots, his writings are proof that he knew such hellish propositions would beset humanity some day.

People who yell ‘Whoo!‘- There is a brief moment at the top of an MTV Unplugged live performance where Eric Clapton steers his six string into the bluesy version of Layla that drives me bat shit crazy. For all the wrong reasons. The crowd erupts in a brief celebration when it recognizes his direction. Buried inside the applause are several ass hats who thought it a good idea to issue the requisite Whoo that all too often makes its way into recordings of live performances. E-Fucking-Nough! Eric Clapton is a once in a lifetime gift from the musical heavens and the best fucking idea you got is to yell Whoo? How unfuckingoriginal can you get?! Stop low browing the high brow stuff! Whoo is something you emit in a dive bar after one too many dollar shots whilst listening to a heavy metal cover band that sounds like frozen vomit. Get that Whoo shit out of here and go back to your dive bar!

Live Performances– If I want to hear crowd noise, I’ll go Black Friday shopping. You know what I don’t want to hear when I’m listening to music? Crowd noise, that’s what. I want the diamond cut sound of that primo shit and I want to inject it straight into my veins, and I don’t want it laced with filler. I want the straight up mad hatter tipping my velvet.

Crowd Shots– Have you ever tuned into a live sporting event to see what the crowd was up to? Me either.

Nutritional Facts Labels– I don’t pay attention to them when I grocery shop, so why in the blessed fig of my Newtonian gravitational pull would I wish to get my reading in at McDonald’s? I’ve never thought to myself ‘Hey self! I gots to get my protein in for the day so Imma quick stop the arches on the way to my physical!’. It’s like this. I’ll have a Big Mac, medium fries and please . . hold the nutritional labels.

Dudes Who Whine– I’ve covered this as far as the crybabies who seem to predominate the sports world, but they’re a small sample size of a larger problem. Because it seems that dudes are whining more than ever. They whine about women, superhero movie endings, fantasy league, chick flicks and musicals, Pretty Little Liars, the curious popularity of cupcakes, having to hold her purse for ten seconds when they’re standing in line at Target, dents on their glam truck, straws, Chihuahuas, Nicholas Sparks, Barbara Streisand, tiramisu, drama, fake tans . . .

I could go on, but then I’d have to explain to you why I might have sipped and supped a couple of these varietals, so lemme tuck this puppy into bed. And Imma do it with a ditty that’s so pretty wit da gritty. (Warning: This doctor’s order ain’t suitable for work or church . . unless you work in an adult film store . . or Congress.)

 

 

 

 

Dragons, Whiners and ‘Zombie’ Flicks

Well . . . fuuuuccckkk! 

It appears Babe Ruth hit the snooze again . . lazy bastid. We are officially living in the radioactive new age of baseball where the Sawx are the dragon in this ancient battle of Sawx vs. Pinstripes. And while I cannot bring myself to root for the Sox, I can and do wish them well. I’ll be an anomaly as far as baseball fans go, seeing as how I will tune in to Astros vs. Red Sox whereas most Yankees fans are making lateral moves into other sports now.

Speaking of . . .

• The Astros were pissed, and rightly so, that the Yankees and Red Sox remain prime time darlings while they battle it out before dinner time. Houston is the champion, and they deserved better. Unfortunately, ratings prevail over all else . . even great teams.

Speaking of . . .

• Ratings . . Regular season NFL games crush MLB playoff games, and I’m not sure what can be done. Baseball has become the new hockey, strictly a niche sport whose regional sectarianism should concern the hell out of Rob Manfred.

Speaking of . . .

• Concerning? How’s about my Dolphins fucking up a 3-0 start to the season with two comedic performances? They had no business being on the field in New England a couple weeks ago, because they did the worst thing a team can do. They quit.

Speaking of . . .

• The business of football is supposedly what’s keeping Colin Kaepernick from getting signed, maybe ever. The Dolphins had their chance last year and instead they gave Jay Cutler a ten million dollar retirement gift to spend the fall in Miami. Never mind that the dude was retired, or that he had checked out long ago. Never mind that, if there was something left in Kaepernick’s tank, Adam Gase might’ve found it. Nope. Our owner Stephen Ross didn’t want to piss off the Cuban contingent of his home town by signing Kaep. So instead, he pisses off the rest of the fan base because it’s painfully evident he has no clue. My team has one playoff win and one division title in the last twenty years, and the immediate future looks every bit as bleak. You can cut players and fire coaches, but none of it means a thing if the owner ain’t doing the job.

Speaking of . . .

• It seems as if the NFL is currently divided into dudes who do their jobs, and whiners. For every Pat Mahomes, there is an Odell Beckham Jr. OBJ is being paid like a franchise cornerstone while behaving like a damn fool. Dudes like him and Antonio Brown of the Steelers talk as if they’ve actually won something. And every time they open their mouths, they’re whining about the horrors of having to be accountable for their actions. Poor. Babies.

Speaking of . . .

• Horrors . . . I’m about done with all the shade being thrown at Rob Zombie these days. Hey, I’m uber excited to see Danny McBride’s vision of Halloween, and I give him props for wiping the slate clean and being true to the original. However . . Zombie’s Halloween was a brilliant rendition and John Carpenter didn’t have to give it his blessing for me to love it the way I do. It’s all cool.

Speaking of . . .

• I didn’t think it cool that SNL had a skit running hard within the same week of Kavanaugh’s endless rant. Matt Damon was spot on, but the timing rubbed me the wrong way. Probably because we’re talking about a young woman being violated here. Celebrities love to have it both ways. They want to be Alysa Milano serious and Matt Damon funny when it’s only the former we should be focusing on.

Well, that’s about it for this time. If you made it through to the end of this post, congratulations! You’re three minutes closer to the end of the Trump administration!

Hey . . . it’s something. 

 

 

 

Losing My Own Personal Cold War

The world seems to be going to Hades in a howitzer. We have the looming specter of nuclear winters, climate expanded summers and a ubiquitous fall from grace in the United States of Twitter.

So why shouldn’t I rail on fucking cart attendants?

Namely, my man Robert. And if you ain’t down with the snark in that sentence, you ain’t read my last love letter to this asshole. You can find it here, but be warned that you will never get back those three minutes of your life. And you’ll never see cart attendants the same way again. Just kidding, we all see cart attendants the same way, don’t we? They’re fucking cart attendants . . they attend to carts. And they’re ain’t nothing wrong with that, but don’t be selling their profession as some kind of Shakespeare novella, ayt?

I guess I’m really not as different as I like to think I am. Because for all the times I grimace at those peeps who need to be liked, it seems I got me some of that DNA as well. I mean, I don’t give a great good fuck if you don’t like me. In fact, I’m plenty coo with it, because let’s face it . . that shit is interesting. If a person doesn’t like me, there’s always this little voice in my head (He sounds like Hugh Jackman) who’s  like Look at you! All hated . . . you must be some King Shit! 

Of course, the feeling is transient and more unstable than a third world bank. After which Hugh Jackman voice is summarily kicked to the curb by Samuel Jackson voice, who says something like Bitch! Get that weak ass shit outta here! King Shit my ass! After which I curse myself for not having any bourbon in my crib.

So it happened again yesterday. More evidence that Robert is fucking with my head. There I was, walking into my local grocer while Robert stood guard at the door, greeting every single fucking person who passed by. As I approached the automatic doors, I checked my phone for no other reason than I didn’t want Robert to think I gave a fuck that he was about to ignore my ass yet again.

Maybe I put too much thought into these interactions, or lack thereof . . I dunno.

Of course, all that chirp ceased as I moved to the doors. Evidently, I am the bubonic plague when it comes to his ability to construct basic sentences. So get this, I smile at a text my pal Q sent me . . . last week. That’ll teach you Robert, you pretentious piece of shit! I got a life that doesn’t need your hello . . bitch.

But nah, Robert wasn’t content with radio silence. Because just as I’m breaching the entrance, he greets someone else. I turn to find the recipient of a hello not named Marc’s and I gotta say . . wow. This Robert asshole is good. Because the other end of his greeting is in a car . . driving . . through the parking lot.

So Robert basically yodeled to this individual a half block away, after which he proceeded to have a conversation with him. Meanwhile, yours truly who is standing punching distance away from him gets some more of the Bruce Willis treatment. And now it’s quite evident to me that I’m playing checkers and Robert is playing chess.

Maybe he’s got more Shakespeare than I’m giving him credit for.