See, here’s the thing about this blog.  Because of what I do for a living (at 98.9 the Bear) I have to watch what I say.  On the air, anyway.  Add to that the fact that I have two kids, ages six and almost-three, and most of my day is spent not saying “motherfucker.”  Too bad, really, as “motherfucker” and “goddammit” aare two of my favorite things to say.  The point I’m trying to make here is that it’s ’bout to get drrty up in this blog.  Because when not plugged into a mic broadcasting to literally DOZENS of listeners or taking my children to a gaddam splash pad or somesuch, I get short-term Tourette’s Syndrome.  Seriously filthy.  So y’been told.

Daddy, why did you call my teacher an ass-whore?

Right off the bat, here’s a recent incident at our fine radio station.  Someone discovered a discarded condom wrapper in the studio. True story.  Some idiot was smart enough to use a condom, but left the wrapper behind.  Perhaps they were trying to be all Kevin Spacey and leave little clues.  Perhaps they were just stupid.  But the amazing thing is this: no one has fessed up to banging someone in the on-air studio, even though THAT’S WHAT DJ’S DO.  Oh, I’ll add this little detail: the condom in question was a Magnum XL.  Yes, the perpetrator is apparently packin’.  Big time.  And yet, collective silence from our 99% male staff (see what I did there?  Male? Staff?)  “What’s that you say, Mister Program Director?  Big pecker?  No, not me!  When I get aroused it’s like a hamster trying to wag its tail!” What the hell has happened to male pride?  Back in the seventies and eighties, dudes were all about chest hair and unbridled male engorgement all over the place. “I don’t even use condoms.  Nossir, I simply grab an old bread bag, some duct tape, and Thompson’s Water Seal.”  Now we have online ads telling us how to increase the size of our junk.  God, we’ve failed as a society.

For the love of God...do NOT search for "huge meat" with your safe search filter off.

When my mind starts a-ramblin’ like this, weird thoughts materialize.  For example, I wonder if old guys generate as much man-sauce as younger dudes?  I’m 41 and have had a vasectomy.  My seed is more like “Seed-flavored Kool-Aid.”  Or so I imagine.  Never been that thirsty, frankly.  But I remember being in my twenties and filling up a pickle jar with my stuff after spending an afternoon with a copy of Swank magazine.  I can only imagine it’s a diminishing return, even if the body keeps making new swimmers.  Old guys probably just release a puff of air, like those things they (for some reason) blow on your eyeball at the optometrist’s office.

Okay, look right here while I fuck with your cornea for no good reason...

Back to the big-meat problem, or for the ladies, the LACK of big meat.  I think that’s a bit of a misconception, the belief that all women want twelve inches of “wrist-thick cock” (I read that description in Penthouse Forum once, and loved it so much that I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to work it in.  Yes, I just said I wanted to work in a wrist-thick cock.  Sure did.) is akin to assuming that all men want to fuck an inflexible hole the size of a quarter.  Not as cool as it sounds.

You know you want it...

Perhaps ladies should be thankful for what they have nowadays.  Lack of quality Mega-Schlong (a new movie on SyFy) isn’t all that big a deal now that men go down with regularity.  I’ve overheard old guys mention that they’ll never put their mouths on “that filthy thing.”  I think there’s more than just the old-school conservatism at work here.  I think it’s that back in the day, say, the late-40’s and early 50’s guys didn’t want to lick punani because they were afraid their hair would get messed up.  Likewise, when ladies had an orgasm (female orgasms?  In the FIFTIES?!?) they would get their hands in all that greasy, sticky pomade and then have to wipe it on the pillow or something,  embarrassing both parties and killing the mood.  And trust me, when it comes to pomade, I know what I’m talking about.

I also happen to be an expert in killing the mood.  Dang.  Wish that had been MY condom wrapper.

White people.

So, yesterday I’m walking to the fridge to get the chilled Heath bar that my Sweet Baby got me and stowed in there for a delicious post-lunch treat.  Before I open the door, my Sweet Baby calls out “It’s not in there. It’s gone.”

Damn it, she was right.  Gone.  Missing.  Absent.  And yes, absconded with.  Bitch ate my candy bar.

It's like looking into the face of God himself.

Now, at that point I couldn’t get too indignant, because after all she was the one who bought it for me.  And, in truth, I had forgotten about it for a couple of days because, well, I just don’t eat a lot of sweets (rum is sort of sweet, but that’s a drink, children.  Different story alltogether.)  But I think she ate my candy bar to get back at me for an argument we’d had.  A very white-person argument.

My Sweet Baby and I had been dsicussing how Katy Perry has joined Michael Jackson as the only two artists in history to have five number-one singles from the same album.  I mentioned how great “Thriller” was, and as God as my witness I meant this to be a compliment, I said something to the effect of “It’s in the same league as GnR’s “Appetite for Destruction!”

No.  No, apparently, it isn’t.  And seriously, “Appetite” isn’t even close.  But goddammit, I was trying to make a point, and she goes and eats my candy bar.  THAT, my friends, is a white people solution to a white people argument.

Before you get all judgy, know this: I have a greater understanding of ethnic cultures than most of my caucasian brethren.  Fact.  Know how I can quantify this statement? Hair care.  I’m the motherfucker who will drive an extra thirty minutes to go down to Rudisill or Petit just to find a Walgreen’s that carries Dax Wave and Groom.  If you know what Dax is, congratulations on passing Race Relations 101.  In fact, I have a cabinet full of Dax, two different kinds of Murray’s pomades (most white people only know it from The Chappell Show) and Tres Flores, which is kind of the Hispanic version of Murrays.  It’s not a stereotype.  It’s fact.

Soul Brother Numba One, Mothafucka!

See, most of you have been to the grocery and seen the “Ethnic” section of hair care products.  Sportin’ Waves, 360, Royal Crown, etc. all right there in a four-by-six section.  I used to think it was a bit racist to have a section called “Ethnic” hair care.  Like, why don’t they just call it “Color for Coloreds” or something.  And I wondered why there wasn’t a “Caucasian Hair Care” section, then I realized that there is.  It’s called “The Rest of the Fucking Store” and more specifically “AXE and any of that Burts Bees shit.”  Really, though, the only truly white people hair dressing remains Brylcreem, and technically that should be in the “Old White Dude” section. (For the record, I highly reccomend Brylcreem for a good Mad Men style side-part.)

Pictured: a lifetime supply

Anyway, I started thinking about how crazy we white folks are.  For example, every time I make a buffalo chicken wrap for lunch, I can’t help but think that “flatbread” is just honky for “tortilla.”  In fact, what we call a “flatbread wrap” is actually just a “boring-ass white people burrito.”  Go down to the Puerta Negra on LaFayette and ask for a flatbread wrap.  You’ll be amazed at how long a hispanic bartender can stare at you.  (Spoiler alert: it’s forever.) Henceforth, I’ve decided that from now on I’ll refer to flatbread wraps as “Eminems.”  See, they’re also white (w)rappers.

Going back to the Heath bar thing.  I think they’re probably white people candy.  (Anything with Toffee in it has to be, I think.)  On that particular day, I settled for a more pan-racial treat: bite-sized (or “Fun Sized” if you’re politically correct) Twix.  They’re good, but they’re no frozen Heath bars.  And don’t even THINK of comparing them to a Skor bar.  “Skor” is an old Viking word that roughly translates into “White Devil Rape Treat.”

The Nordic Willy Wonka

Anyway, I let my 2-1/2 year-old son try  a bite-sized Twix.  He enjoyed it.  Later, I tried to get him to call them “cat turds.”  This plan will backfire when I find him sitting on the couch greedily feasting on an actual sand-covered cat turd.  White people.  We reap what we sow.

I been thinkin’…

Before you start, yes, I know that the title is grammatically incorrect.  I’m trying to sound like a man of the people, you see.  Don’t wanna come acrost (see what I did there?) as some high-falutin’ college boy. 

Anyway, I had some more random thoughts.  They’re not grouped by category, rather it’s ’bout to get stream-of-consciousness up in this piece, y’all! (Am I sounding more grounded?  ‘Cause to me it sounds funny.)

1. No one I know is a pedophile. Yet everybody wants to know how old Carly and Sam are (from the hit show iCarly.)

2. Jennette McCurdy DOB: 6/26/1992

Seriously, the second image that showed up in a Google image search for "pedophile."

3.”Ape Shit” is not a great analogy for something being messed-up and/or crazy.  A better analogy would be “Carrot Top cutting up a baby.”  Example: “Jeez, you should’ve seen Jerry last night after the union meeting.  He went all Carrot Top cutting up a baby!” Perhaps it could be abbreviated CaTCUB.  “The boss went CaTCUB when he found me pooping in the trash can.”

Sleep tight.

4. Remember the show “Speed Buggy?” It was a Hanna-Barbera cartoon that employed the time-tested formula of a bunch of youngsters travelling the country getting into adventures and solving crime.  It was basically “Scooby Doo!” but instead of a giant, somewhat expressive Great Dane, it was a somewhat expressive sentient dune buggy that provided the comic relief. Oh, and instead of a stoner burnout buddy, Speed Buggy’s pal was a mildy retarded mechanic.  Or something. But one thought has stuck with me since childhood concerning Speedy and the gang: why the fuck do you need three people (three!) to ride around in a car that can drive itself?  Jesus, the entire  universe in the “Cars” movies operated without a single human in sight!  Need somebody to wipe your ass, Speedy?  Good thing you’ve got Fred, Daphne, and…oh.  Sorry.  Wrong cartoon.

Not pictured: Velma.

5. Speaking of “Cars,” I wonder how many other people have wondered about the abscence of humans in the post-apocalyptic world of Lightning McQueen and company?  The answer is as simple as it is bleak.  “Cars” happens about thirty years after the events in “Maximum Overdrive.”  Sorry, gang…Emilio doesn’t make it.



Thoughts From the Kitchen…

So I was in the kitchen the other day.  A bunch of stuff ran through my head.  These are some of those thoughts, pretty much as they occurred to me.

I never know how much plastic wrap I have left. It’s so thin! And clear! And there are some things it absolutely will not “cling” to. Ever try to put that shit on a paper plate? Good fucking luck. I have three congealing hot dogs on a goddam paper plate and I might as well throw a tarp over it. I feel like the coroner at a crime scene…”somebody notify this frank’s family. He’s already got that cold greasy shit all over.”

pigs in a blanket

Hot diggity dog!


Which reminds me. What better gauge is there for whether a food is good for you? Look at it in the fridge the next day. If, like hot dogs, it’s covered with pale jelly-like stuff, it’s probably not too good for you. It’s so bad, in fact, that the fat itself is trying to escape. Grilled chicken looks good the next day.Hot dogs? Not so much. On the flip side, you really can’t tell with frozen foods. Ever looked at a frozen chicken breast? Unbreaded? Looks like a goddam pastry. “Honey, why did you freeze these bear claws?”

More food observations. Why is it that some people refuse to eat the crust of a pizza, but will eat a hundred breadsticks. DIPPED IN PIZZA SAUCE. And cheese?

Some people call “grilled cheese” sandwiches “cheese toasty.” these people should be avoided at all costs.

One day I plan on strapping two boxes of Franzia wine to either side of my head with duct tape, sort of like those beer helmets, only much classier. Once my terrifying boxed wine contraption/cosplay is in place, ima head down to Fazoli’s, kick the door open, and yell “I’M DON CORLEONE, MOTHERFUCKERS! AND I’D BETTER GET UNLIMITED BREADSTICKS UP IN THIS BITCH!”

The first Google image search for "Grandma's fridge."

True story, I used to live in Evansville, Indiana and some co-workers and I would frequent this one particular Fazoli’s. We went regularly to this Fazoli’s not because of its location or superior pasta. We went because of Breh Girl. Breh Girl was an employee of this Fazoli’s.
She was maybe in her early twenties. It’s hard to know exactly, because there seemed to be a number of things, well…wrong with Breh Girl. In fact, her name derived from the word she said when she came around with the breadsticks. She’d ask “breh?” and you replied either “yes, please” or “no, thank you” because you’re a polite motherfucker, naturally. Then she’d smile, say “Okay!” and go about her rounds. The greatest thing about Breh Girl was her amazing super-powered Bread Sense (or Breh Sehn) that alerted her whenever someone was in need of fresh breadsticks. It was amazing. I’d be halfway through my baked ziti and realize “I haven’t properly rationed my bread! I wonder if there’s–” BAM! Breh Girl was at my side.

“Breh?” Oh, yes, ma’am! “Okay!”


Pictured: breh

She was like Spider Man and the Flash rolled into one. She was amazing. And what was totally awesome to me was that she obviously had some things working against her. Physical and perhaps (likely) mental handicaps. But god damn, she worked her ass off (and well, might I add) for several years. There are a lot of able-bodied, healthy people out there who find excuses not to work. Not Breh Girl. She rocked. And props to Fazoli’s, too. They hired her and kept her on, and I’ll bet she got “Employee of the Month” a few times. Good for Fazoli’s.

Even if they did pay her entirely in breh.