Mean Old Ladies, etc.

Oh my God, an old lady was in our office yesterday and she wanted my soul.  She was a soul-eater.  I think.  I’m not really sure.  All I know is that I was leaving the restroom, on my way back to the studio, and GAH!!  There she stood, near one of the unoccupied desks that the sales weasels use/used.

Like this, only less “smiley.”

The desks are mostly unused because they’re moving us all down to another building, see.  The radio station I work for, 98.9 the Bear is owned by a company that holds several radio properties in Ft. Wayne.  Finally, after about twenty years or so, somebody got the great idea to move us all in to the same building.  Cut overhead costs, etc.  One of the hiccups that I foresee is the fact that all of the 98.9 the Bear staff are roughnecks.   No, really.  I know that radio rock jock assholes all try to act like a bunch of bad-asses and hard-charging partiers, but the fact is that this crew is loud, obnoxious, literally filthy, and has little or no sense of decorum or self-control.  They’re going to add us to the mix that includes female-friendly country juggernaut K-105 , female and family friendly Adult Contemporary WMEE, and conservative news-talk WOWO.  I’m stocking up on booze, whoopee cushions, fake blood and vomit, giant rubber dongs, and some anarchist propaganda posters and literature. We’re going to FORCE these motherfuckers to get down with us.

Awwwwwww, shit! Look at these booty-slammin’ crunk-ass mothafuckas right here!!

The only hitch in this plan, of course, is the Mean Old Lady.  It turns out that she works in the South Building.  The same building we’re going to be relocated-to. God damn it, Mean Old Lady is going to be my Nurse Ratched…my Richard Vernon…my Dean Wormer…a nemesis to be overcome and/or destroyed.

Then again, she might just eat my soul.  And flesh.  Oh, she probably loves eating human flesh.  It’s the only thing that sustains her.  She’s probably a thousand years old, and continues to exist simply through force of will and the consumption of human flesh and the wails of infants as she passes by in the night, her long, spindly shadow washing over their cribs like a cold terror…

Wow…I found an image of a crib that is actually scarier than the Mean Old Lady. Thanks, internet!

Anyway, that’s what’s going on in my world.  At least, that’s what’s going on when I’m not doing the Sloppy Swish. I also sometimes try to respond to stuff here and on Facebook.  One young man asked me recently how I got my hair to be so goddam awesome and good-looking.  (Okay, so that’s not an EXACT quote.)  I steered that young ‘un over to Jan Hella at The Rebel Rouser (I still need a bumper-sticker, Jan…hint-hint…) for more tips and vids on how to rock a decent pomp and such, but here’s Uncle Turner’s go-to formula:  start with mostly-dry hair, get yourself some Murray’s or Dax Wave and Groom.  Getcha a dab/scoop a couple fingers’ worth, rub it between your palms until it’s melty smooth, and work it through your hair.  THEN…and this part is muy importante…add a dab or so of either Tres Flores brilliantine or Royal Crown hair dressing. Smooth it through just like the Murray’s/Dax.  This does two things:  it softens the sticky pomade and also adds shine.  It seems like most pomades have an inversely proportionate hold/shine ratio.  The shinier it is, the less holding power and vice versa.  You can use Murray’s to pile that hair to the goddam sky…but it’ll be dull and matte-finished.  You want a little shine.  Trust me.  OTHERWISE YOU BE ACKIN’ DA FOO’!!  (I have not idea where that came from.  Apologies.)  You’ll know you’re doing it right if your hands are a sticky, greasy mess after doing up your ‘do.  Y’done good, son.

The shiny, perfect hair of Jan Hella.

Final thought:  I’m giving serious thought to sporting a mohawk for the holiday season.  A real one, not that fake David Beckham circa 2000 faux-hawk crap.  Shaven sides.  Stiff strip of inch-wide hair jutting proudly.  I made a joke about it, and my friend/coworker Drew Cage said “Dude!  You hafta do it green!”  I laughed and made the remark that I would consider doing it, but alas, I am a 42-year-old man.  An old guy.  A husband and father.  A responsible adult.

“That’s exactly why you should do it,” he replied.

Goddammit.

TEE-VEEEE!!!!

I have been neglecting this blog.  No, really.  Life is crazy and sometimes demands my attention.  But I must confess, I have been recently distracted by something that I usually don’t give a whole lot of time:  television.  I know.  I am so, so sorry.  But I figure you may as well get to know what exactly has been dragging me away from the internets, so here we go…

The Presidential Debates

I must admit, I didn’t even watch the first Presidential Debate.  From what I’ve gathered, Romney won that one cleanly.  Not that it ultimately matters to me, because I seriously doubt either candidate is going to sway my vote at this point, but now and then how they answer or DON’T answer a particular question informs much about their character.  Sometimes you gauge their reaction and say to yourself “hmmm…that’s not the answer I expected.” I did catch some of the VP debate, and was underwhelmed.  Plus, the VP contest is always a chance for the Number Twos to act out and play dirty so that the Number Ones can distance themselves from hateful rhetoric. Meh.  I like Biden.  Don’t know if he’s Presidential Material, but he’s funny.   I was curious to see what sort of tone the second Presidential debate would take, and HO-LEE SHIT.  God DAMN that was entertaining!  Man!  It was literally like watching a heavyweight prize fight.  Several times during this matchup both men were literally on their feet and circling each other like they wanted to throw a punch.  Their eyes measured one another, looking for an opening, waiting patiently for the killing strike.  Ice lasers flew from Obama’s eyes, while in the background Romney’s brood clenched their jaws and threw pure hatred onto the stage. It. Was. AWESOME.  Obama seemed to carry the day, thereby forcing a Game Seven and guaranteeing that I’d tune in for the final act.  Good stuff.

This was seriously about 80% of the debate.

American Horror Story 2: The Creepy Old Rusty Place

I didn’t watch any of the first season, and everyone tells me that I totally missed out.  The show was described by various friends as “Creepy” and “unsettling” to “downright terrifying.”  I need some more terror in my life, so the wife and I settled in to catch the premier this past week.  After watching, I have another word to describe the series, and it is “yawn.”  Sure, it’s the first episode and I know that it takes time to build characters and story.  But it just seems like the producers are counting on the setting (an old 1960’s insane asylum) to do all the heavy lifting.  That, and showing buttocks.  Lots and lots of buttocks on this show.  Here’s the plot: a serial killer is on the lose in the 60’s and this one kid is a suspect so they throw him in an insane asylum where there’s also this reporter lady being held for “ASKING QUESTIONS!” and also Cloe Sevigny loves sex. Oh, and James Cromwell experiments on inmates and Jessica Lange is a hot GILF nun.  The end.  And pro tip/spoiler alert:  if you’re in an old, abandoned, supposedly haunted asylum and you go sticking your arm through an opening in an old cast-iron cell door, expect bad shit to happen.  I wonder if this was somehow supposed to be “Silent Hill: The Series” and they just decided “fuck it” or what, but so far everything is very, very predictable and clichéd. I hope it gets better.  Speaking of getting better…

BTW, this is the SAFEST picture I found after Googling “sexy nun.”

Revolution

Boy, did I want this show to be excellent.  J.J. Abrams and Jon Favreau teaming up for a post-apocalyptic survival story?  Hells yes.  But then I saw the first episode…and the second…and the third…and…and I just about quit.  I like making analogies (see above re: Silent Hill) and Revolution started reminding me a lot of a television adaptation of Kevin Costner’s “The Postman.”  I mean, down to the friggin’ horses and militias.  I was depressed.  But then it started getting a tiny bit better.  The backstories help a lot, and I know they’re trying to draw this story out into something epic, but here’s the problem:  new shows get MAYBE six episodes to establish an audience.  You’d better make me care about these motherfuckers stumbling through Northern Indiana right away.  It’s finally happening, and I like that at least one character that you think is there for the long haul has been killed off.  Good. That adds concern for everyone except the fat neckbeard guy (how the hell are you still fat?!?!  You’re growing you own food now and working your fingers to the bone to survive!!  I call this the Hurley from Lost syndrome) and the annoying Katniss wannabe lead character.  She’s really bad.  Then again, Carl from the Walking Dead was terrible for the first couple of seasons but has finally started to grow into a decent member of the cast (I call this the Wesley Crusher syndrome.) Giancarlo Esposito is wonderful as always, and the C. Thomas Howell-meets-Seth MacFarlane friendly badass uncle is okay.  I’ll give it a couple of more episodes.  And so might the network.

Goddam Apple maps…

The Motherfuckin’ Walking DEAD!!!

THIS is how you do it.  I have enjoyed every season thus far, even as I admit that there have been a few low points.  Basically, every episode set at Herschel’s farm was  drag because, you know…it’s a fucking farm.  I love farms.  I love the smell of corn and soybeans.  Tractors. I fucking LOVE tractors.  However, um…see…there’s this farmhouse and out there across the field are zombies and (spoiler!) Ol’ Farmer Herschel loves keepin’ a crop o’ walkers up yonder in the barn. The characters SIT there. To make another Star Trek reference (because that’s what I DO) this part of the series reminded me of Deep Space Nine.  See, DS9 was great and had loads of wonderful characters, but the whole thing about Star Trek is that that they boldly GO.  On DS9 they boldly SAT THERE. That’s why Walking Dead had to end the last season in such grand style.  It wasn’t just a big ol’ zombie attack, and it wasn’t just a chance to move the story and characters literally and figuratively forward:  it was a metaphor.  Two main characters died, and the good ol’ (somewhat) reliable RV was abandoned to the walker horde. The characters are once again in the wilderness, relying on their skills and one another to survive.  When they finally do settle down again, it’s in a goddam prison.  THAT’S a location with built-in drama.  You know how I mentioned that American Horror Story relied on the setting to create drama?  Shit, son: you ever see “Oz?”  Or “Shawshank Redemption?”  Plus, the metaphor of being safe while also being imprisoned is rich.  It takes on greater significance when you find out that The Governor has basically turned a sleepy small town into a prison.  Oh, TOPSY-TURVY!!  DOWN IS UP!! RIGHT IS WRONG!!  LEFT IS RIGHT!!  NOTHING MAKES SENSE ANYMORE!!  The first episode was great, and I can’t wait to see how the new characters, settings, and developments pan out on-screen.

Carl will never not be in there again.

Okay, there’s my explanation (excuse) for the absence of new blog posts of late.  I’ll try to be better, more attentive to your needs in the future. And I’ll leave you with this fun little prank;  my lovely wife, Heidi, actually did find American Horror Story a bit scary. After the first episode’s conclusion, I went downstairs before her to take a dump.  As a little surprise, I took this creepy baby doll thing that my kids play with and propped it up against the wall at the bottom of the stairs to greet my love with unblinking, lifeless eyes in the semi-dark gloom of our house at nighttime.

Play with me, mommy…

Let’s just say she freaking LOVED it.  My bruises can attest to this.

ZOMBIES!! MARTIANS!! SAME THING!!

Boy, I love zombies.  So much so that I can’t wait for the new season of The Walking Dead, starting this Sunday.  I’m really excited to see if they can continue the momentum that the show built at the end of last season, especially since A) they’re moving into what I call the “good part” of the story from the amazing comic series. Sure, there have been some discrepancies in the television version, but the basic plot lines are fairly intact, and B) the first half of last season was fairly lackluster.  Enough with the fucking farm already.

You know who’s NOT in the house? Fucking Carl, that’s who.

But I digress.

Zombies have taken over the public subconscious so much that it’s almost a running joke.  When you’re at the hardware store with a buddy to pick up a new Estwing roofing hammer, you will invariably pass some sort of garden implement or power tool that will cause one of you to remark “Heh…this would be pretty handy in the zombie apocalypse, eh?”  It’s like we all know it’s coming, so we just try and stay as prepared as possible, except that, you know, IT’S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN.  And if it did happen, Cracked actually outlined how quickly it would fail in this article.   Of course, they double-down and tell you exactly how it could happen here.

Why all the zombie stuff? And to be clear, I’m including the non-traditional style 28 Days Later-style outbreaks in this discussion.  Why now?  Why zombies and not killing machines, like the Terminator?  (Heads-up: all this will change once Spielberg’s adaptation of the incredible “Robopocalypse” novel hits theaters in 2014.  Then, lookout, zombies: there’s a new boogeyman in town.)

One word: Martians.

Pictured: the face of national paranoia as experienced during the House Un-American Activities Committee campaign.

“Wait,” you say to me, holding your hand out in the classic ‘stop’ position. “Martians ain’t zombies.  Unless it’s some B-movie hybrid from the mind of Ed Wood, Jr. or on SyFy.”  True, but you see, the modern zombie infestation is exactly the same as the martian threat of yesteryear.  Why?  Because they are both the analog, the manifestation if you will, of our modern-day fears.
Back in the post-WWII days in the early 50’s, there was something weighing heavily on the minds of every American citizen: hot atomic death at the hands of the damned Communists. This spawned a bunch of “atomic monster” movies, like “THEM!” which were actually really fucking good. (Also, the only country ever nuked…twice…churned out a shload of these films, beginning with the classic “Gojira.”  Not that we should feel guilty about all that unpleasantness.)

Japan has managed to even the score, however, with a metric shit-ton of unsettling weird shit.

Hiding, sneaking behind the obvious “Oh, god!!  Nuclear bombs!” threat was the more sinister, lurking threat of invasion.  Not the obvious “Red Dawn” style invasion, but the subversive “get your kids to like Socialism” sort of invasion.  McCarthyism had everyone checking on their neighbors, and paranoia was rampant.  Movies like “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” and “Invaders From Mars” played on that subconscious fear:  My God, what if the new guy at work is one of THEM!?!  They look like us and act like us, but something is just…off.  It was a trend that eventually evolved and sometimes even questioned the logic of this nationwide witch-hunt for Commies.  Films like “It Came From Outer Space” made us look in the mirror a little bit.  See, in that film the “alien menace” was just an alien whose ship had crashed and the alien dude was just trying to fix it up so he could go home.  Eventually this sort of theme carried over into more modern films like “E.T.” and “Super 8” where they actually go so far as to make the Big Military/Government Machine look like the bad guys.

Not cool, internet. NOT. COOL.

Which brings us to now.  “28 Days Later” premiered in 2002, almost a year after the terrorist attacks of September 11th, 2001.  If you haven’t seen the movie, a guy wakes out of a coma to find the world he knew to be a desolate place filled with formerly-normal humans filled with hate and rage, intent on killing. Every time you get rid of one of ’em, there seems to be a thousand of them right behind, willing to do whatever it takes to end the lives of peaceful humans.

Huh.

Lighthearted fare like “Zombieland” would come later, along with the big-budget remake of “Dawn of the Dead” and the comic/graphic novels like “The Walking Dead” plus a billion other shoddy zombie flicks.  Ladies and gentlemen, I present the theory (I’m surely not the first) that the recent zombie-hype has been driven largely by the national panic and paranoia that has existed in some form since 9/11.  Sure, once a couple of films made money, Hollywood decided to churn out as much similar product as possible.  That’s normal.  But beyond that, there is a whole sub-culture of zombie jokes, zombie costumes, zombie video games, zombie ammunition (it should really be billed as ANTI-zombie ammunition, but whatever) and so on.  Think about the last week that went by that you didn’t see/hear/read some sort of zombie reference.  Impossible since 9/11. This wave of shambling undead has even infected hyped-up news stories like the infamous “Bath Salts Zombies” this past summer. How often did zombies get mentioned before that fateful day in Septmber eleven years ago?  Um..maybe when you played Resident Evil?

Admit it, you shit your pants the first time this happened.

Let’s go back to that video game idea.  The Resident Evil franchise was huge, beginning with the original Playstation One game and seemingly a dozen sequels. But that was pretty much it.  Now you have Left 4 Dead, Dead Island, Dead Rising, and the “zombie mode” add-ons and DLC for every single first-person shooter on the market today.  Wow.  We got kinda carried away, didn’t we, folks?  Several video game reviewers have mentioned that zombies are perfect video game fodder.  Before zombies took over, the only “safe” bad guy in games and movies was Nazi Germany. But even then, either someone had to be the Nazis in multiplayer (which still feels weird to me) or you had to gloss over the fact that these soldiers might not be rank-and-file Aryans, but maybe conscripts from Poland who just want to live to see their families again.  (I tend to over-think the character-development of video game figures.)  Zombies?  Hell, they’re already dead!  Blow their fuckin’ heads off!

Full disclosure: I just couldn’t go an entire blog without some sort of Star Trek reference.

As we move further and further away from the events of 9/11, I’m sure the zombie trend will lose its luster.  Even now, kids don’t have any idea how or why 9/11 happened.  They just know that it’s fun to watch zombies’ arms fall off.  They don’t understand the feeling of vulnerability, like every time you get on that public transportation there might be death waiting for you at the end of your ride.  The all-encompassing fear of the unknown, that your life could end at any moment, at the hands of an enemy you never saw until it was too late.  They don’t get why we sometimes feel like zombies ourselves, so much cattle shuffling through the line at the TSA gate. It’s lost on them.  Perhaps it’s the same way most of you feel when you watch “Independence Day.”  You’ve never lived under the long, cold shadow of impending doom at the hands of the USSR and their millions of megatons of thermonuclear holocaust aimed right at the heart of the good ol’ U-S-of-A.  You just want to see the good guys beat the crap out of the bad guys and maybe see some really cool explosions.  Fair enough.  I’m happy for you.  You get to enjoy those themes without a context.  A new generation of kids has lived safely and securely in the days since September 11th and has no reason to flinch at the specter of a jet airplane on approach that seems to be a little too close to the ground.  They don’t turn a wary eye to the somewhat ethnic guy reading a newspaper at the airport with one earbud in, listening to…something. They live in a world without fear, except those damn zombies on the eighth wave on COD.  Those suckers are brutal!!

Seriously, guys? Did you just re-skin an old Terminator game? Because that’s totally what it looks like.

And you know what?  Good for them.  Because one day their world will be shaken, and some new multi-media meme or theme will crop up and they’ll get to explain to their kids why it’s so poignant and scary. The robot uprising.  It’s coming, man.  It’s coming.

(Seriously, though. Read this book.)

Randomsauce With a Side of WTF and The Lord

Okay, another place holder here.  I’m working on a humdinger.  Not to brag or nuthin’, but it’ll make those Nickelback and Big Bang Theory posts look like that Seahawks-Rams game last Monday night.  But you’ll have to wait on that one, chief.  Patience…

In the meantime, I need to “purge my cache” so to speak.  My wife wants me to do an entire blog on how much I love to say “goddammit.”  I don’t know if there’s enough source material there, but we’ll give it a little test drive.  See, lots of people will tell you that “God Damn It”  is what we call “using the Lord’s name in vain.”  I have empirical  proof that this is not the case: the Episcopal priest that married my wife and me is my star witness.  He told me that every time he smashes his thumb with a hammer or his shin finds the coffee table in the dark of night, “GODDAMMIT!” is the first thing out of his mouth.  This fact in and of itself is not the support for my claim.  It’s just an awesome story, and it’s fun to imagine Father Shane in his priestly wardrobe hopping on one leg and cursing like a sailor.  Oh, in my vision he’s also staggeringly drunk.  He’s Episcopalian, after all.

Pictured: The Rectory at St. Paul's

But his argument backed up my own notions (as all good arguments do.) His rationale was that to truly “use the name of the Lord in vain” is to use His name for your own purposes.  Think “TV Evangelist.”  Or Tim Tebow compelling the Lord to get the ball across the goal line.  Or even praying to win the lottery or cure your disease.  To take it even further (and make a little more sense to me) it is also to say you speak for God, especially when you want others to do your bidding. “God told me to outlaw the gays!  And the single moms!  And the single gays!  And married ones, too!  OUTLAW ALL THE THINGS!!”  It gets worse when you get an ayatollah or other religious leader basically claiming to have a hotline to The Big Guy and The Big Guy wants you to vote for said ayatollah because basically they’re so tight that they’re totally the same person.  BFF!  Yes, claiming to be God would be a fair description of “using the name of the Lord in vain.”  I like to think  that God has more important things (COUGH! DARFUR! COUGH!) to worry about than whether you mentioned his name when you totally slice on the thirteenth.  But that’s just me.  And my priest.

Changing subject.  Why the hell is the light under the escalator green?  It’s ALWAYS green.  The color of glowing evil.  It’s like Minas Morgul is under your feet. Or the Loc-Nar. Think about that for a second.  It’s bad enough that you worry about your shoelace getting caught and ripping your goddam (!) foot off at the ankle in a spinning, whirring, jagged set of evil mechanical teeth.  Maybe there’s also a Nazgul down there.  Or worse.  If you’re old enough, you’ll remember the old trailer for “Alien.”  It was simply a space egg cracking open and evil, glowing, green light-stuff pouring out.  Fuck. That. Aliens, an eternal evil consciousness, and the Witch King are all waiting for you to fall down the goddam steps of the escalator so that they can feast on your soul.  And you’ll totally spill all of your purchases from JC Penney all over the goddam place.  Horrifying.

Third floor: bathware, linens, and the overthrow of humanity...

You guys know that I love old stuff.  I only mention it, oh, EVERY GODDAM TIME I BLOG.  But there are some old things that I don’t get.  Like when we used to think it was acceptable to go out in public in Zubaz pants and aqua socks.  And we did that shit.  Sorry, man…it was the early-nineties.

This shit actually happened.

But old expressions sometimes confuse the hell out of me.  One such turn-of-phrase is “Catch as catch can.” What the FUCK does that mean? I mean, are there other ways to say that without being confusing as hell?  Maybe someone could, oh, I don’t know…come up with some synonyms? Oh, wait! Merriam-Webster has done that for us!  How about some of these: aimless, arbitrarydesultory, erratic, haphazard, helter-skelter, hit-or-miss, scattered, slapdash, stray?

Actually, now that I think about it, I might just start using “catch-as-catch-can” instead of words like “haphazard” (which is equally ridiculous, when you think about it.)  An example: “This sure is one hell of a catch-as-catch-can clusterfuck!”  Or “The Titanic surely would still be afloat if not for that catch-as-catch-can construction!  Goddam Irish!”

"Lifeboats? You want fekkin LIFEBOATS?!"

Anyway, there’s this week’s blog, goddammit.  Sorry if it was sort of catch-as-catch-can.

Watch the Magic Pumpkin! Watch!

I wasn’t gonna blog this soon.  I was gonna take some time and do it up right.  But that ain’t my style, bub. Sometimes an opportunity presents itself, and you grab that big pot of gold and dig in.  (Chili.  Not gold.  In my dreams it’s always a pot o’ chili.)

Firstly, on the little radio show I do, The TNT Show, we play a stupid game called “Getting to Know Ya” wherein we ask the listeners a buncha stupid questions.  There are no right answers, simply good answers.  Savvy?  Good.  On Monday’s show, we asked a guy what his favorite Halloween candy was.  His answer?

Skittles.  Fucking Skittles.

You're fucking with me, aren't you? Yeah. You're fucking with me.

Now, don’t get me wrong:  Skittles are a fine candy.  I love playing the “which colors/flavors work best together” game.  Fan-fucking-tastic, Skittles.  Good candy you’ve got there.  But…it’s HALLOWEEN, MAN!!  I’d be less disappointed if he’d declared in a strong, authoritative voice that “Those crappy peanut-butter-taffy things that get stuck in your teeth are the finest confection known to man.  In particular, I prefer the ones in the orange paper wrappers to those in the black paper wrappers, even though I know them to be the exact same candy.  Perhaps I bear some sort of subconscious racism.  No matter.  Hands-down, those particular treats are the finest in my Halloween bag, make no mistake.  I am as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar on this issue.”

Skittles.  Fuck. No.

See? We're all sort of beige on the inside! Just like Lord Vader!

Another Halloween-themed goodie dropped right into my lap via Facebook.  My friend (and excellent drummer, BTW) Joe had posted the following as his status on this fine Monday: “Still have no clue what I should dress up as for Halloween! Come on smart asses what ya got?”

Oh no he DIH-UNT! Joe got a variety of ha-ha replies, and he nixed them all as being “stupid.”  That’s where I came in.  I wanted to just take a screen shot of his Facebook, but it would’ve been all compressed or worse, too frakkin’ big to display properly.  So what follows is a transcript:

Me: Milton from Office Space.

Joe: So far, Turner is winning

Me: Or Mitt Romney.  That’d be cool.

Me: I know! The Iron Giant!

(non-important person): Snooky!

Me: Papa Smurf!

Me: Mitchell S*****n! (*editor’s note: Mitch is a dealer and hockey guy we know who also digs street drag-racing.  Basically a pimp.)

Me: Two chickens!

Me: A tasty McRib sandwich!

Me: Rhubarb!

Me: The Grinch!

Me: Footballing legend Pele!

(some girl): Papa smurf! Lmao ya go as that!

(another, hotter girl): The Hamburgler

Me: Amy Winehouse!

Me: Daft Punk!

(girl again): Joe Dirt!

Me: Willie Nelson’s bar of soap!

Me: Meatsicle! http://www.foundshit.com/raw-meat-popscicle/

Me: A crablouse!

Me: Rusty’s chin! (*editor’s note: Rusty is a smaller, older version of Mitch*)

Me: A mule!

Me: A mule in a sombrero!

Me: Trivial Pursuit!

Me: Gravy!

Me: Harry Potter’s “wand!”

Me: Cthulhu’s cat!

Me: Top Ramen!

Me: Tron!

Me: The Sugarland Stage!

Me: A pair of Vicegrips!

Me: The Boudoir Bombshells!

Me: Knee-high socks and a bloody pitchfork!

RUSTY: Turner wants you to be a Hipster so you can be Hipster butt buddies with him. (*editor’s note: I actually “liked” this comment.*)

Me: A brown tooth!

Me: Barry Thickk’s Old Navy sweatshirt! (*editor’s note: Barry is my co-host.  He is the dude least-likely to own any sort of Old Navy merchandise that I’ve ever met.  And yet, he does…*)

Me: Ray Finkle!

Me: Soap on a rope!

Me: Pope on a rope!

Me: Hop on Pop!

Me: Flubber!

Me: Flash Gordon!

Me: Crash Bandicoot!

Me: Ned Braden!

Me: Ned Ryerson!

Me: Headless Ned Stark!

Me: Tony Stark!

Me: Tony Hawk!

Me: Dolph Lundgren!

Me: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Lundgren!

Joe: I would like to combine all of these into ONE costume!

And then something amazing happened.  The perky young lady that follows our morning show decided I needed reinforcements.  What followed was beautiful…

Jenna: A salad bar.

Jenna: A guy with hair. (*ed: see, Joe’s bald.*)

Jenna: A robot.

Jenna: A banana.

Jenna: A tampon.

Jenna: Apple-bottom jeans.

Jenna: Boots with the fur.

Jenna: Timmy.

Jenna: Poop.

Me: Tommy!

Me: Scoop!

Jenna: Measles.

Me: Weasels!

Jenna: AIDS.

Me: Kool-AIDS Man!

Me: Pierce Brosnan’s colon!

Me: Colin Powell’s piercing!

Me: Powerman 5001!

Me: Jodie Foster!

Me: Steve Buschemi’s used band-aid!

Jenna: Nell.

Jenna: Tay in the weeeend.

Me: Chicka-pay!

Jenna: Harold.

Jenna: Kumar.

Me: Maude!

Jenna: A chicken ring sandwich.

Me: That’s it. Chicken ring sandwich.

Me: Jenna wins.

AAAAAANNND SCENE.  There was more after that, of course.  Banter.  Mainly banter.  But, wow!  What a way to go out!  Chicken ring sandwich!  I don’t have the slightest fucking clue what that even is, but it’s perfect!  Did she mean to type “chicken wing sandwich?”  Or is this some weird internet phrase to which I am not privy?  Will that be tomorrow’s big meme?  Fuck, now I want a chicken ring sandwich, whatever the hell it is.  It’s too good not to be something.

So, there you have it.  Joe’s status garnered 90 comments by the time I wrote this.  Not too shabby, Joe.  And thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to scroll all the way down that bitch.  I owe you a chicken ring sandwich.  I do. But instead, I’ll give you the quick and easy recipe for the celebrated summertime drink the IdaJoe (named after my boy Joe, who’s Facebook is now the stuff of legend.)  Here ’tis: Over ice, pour three parts Sailor Jerry, one part pineapple juice, and add a splash of Grenadine.  It’s bliss. 

When Joe was younger and had hair, he hung out with better people.

Here’s to you, Joe! Happy Halloween!

 

 

 

Quick and Dirty.

In reference to the title of this entry: THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!  So, there’s that.

Anyway, I noticed a couple of things the other day.  One:  I start wayyyy too many paragraphs with “Anyway…” so I’ll try to get more creative with my transitions.  Two, thanks to you reading this blog (and all the other entries herein) I’m approaching 10,000 views since the beginning of August.  Dayum…I never figured people would actually want to read this!  So in all sincerity, thanks.  And keep spreading the word!  Would it be out of the realm of possibility to see 20,000 by the end of the year?  Or to put it bluntly: can a nigga get a table dance?

Anyway…

So they had me in a “Brainstorming” meeting today to help a client find ways to market a series of sex-type classes for couples.  I shit you not.  They actually WANTED me in there.  Most of my ideas were rejected.  I suggested that the client have a series of classes called “Your Wife’s Asshole Is Like a 9-Volt Battery: You Know You Shouldn’t Put Your Tongue On It, But You Will Anyway!”  I also mentioned that many of us would sign up for a class called “Bitch, It Ain’t Gonna Suck Itself” and also “What The FUCK Was That Noise, And Where Did It Come From?”  I was asked to leave the meeting early.  Their loss!  But while I was bored, some thoughts crept into my had.  Here are some of them…

1. You know what would be terrifying?  Not zombies.  Fuck zombies, man.  They’re slow. (REAL zombies are slow.  28 Days Later was Rage Virus, you imbecile.)  Ah, but what if some mad genius outfitted an army of zombies with Segway scooters?  A horde of undead douchebags with Bluetooth headsets coming after me? I’m OUTTA here, Jack! Get me to some stairs, stat!

While writing this piece, I had NO IDEA that this was already a thing! Seriously, Google "zombie on a seqway." I'll wait.

2. People know I don’t like the show Big Bang Theory (ahem…) but did you know that the guy that plays Sheldon on that show was recently a guest star on iCarly?  True story.  He played a patient in a mental ward, and he was actually very entertaining.  See, sometimes you have to hate the game, not the player.

3. I’m starting a rumor, right here and now, that a big-budget remake of “Smokey and the Bandit” is underway with Michael Bay writing/directing.  Ryan Reynolds has been cast as Bandit, and Emmy Award-winner Peter Dinklage is signed to play Smokey.  In fact, in this remake the name of the character Buford T. Justice has been changed to simply “Smokey” because they want this thing to be as stupid as humanly possible.  I love the Dink, and though I hate to see him belittle himself (see what I did there?) with this kind of role, but dude…strike while the iron’s hot!  (Seriously, though…his Tyrion Lannister is spot-fucking-on.)

TOTALLY not 'shopped.

4. Speaking of “Game of Thrones,” does anyone else think that George R. R. Martin only added the extra “R” initial so that people would call him “The American J.R.R. Tolkien?”  If so, that shit worked, because that’s EXACTLY what everybody calls him.  Maybe he’s just a big railroad fan.  Maybe somebody took his first choice, George H. W. Martin.  I ain’t care, long as he gets to writin’ some more books, y’all!

5. Finally, I learned recently that it was after the Battle of Bannockburn during the Scottish war of independence (the big one) that the esteemed GaGa’s received their peerage, land, and title.  Brave Lord GaGa so confounded the troops on both sides of the battle that Robert the Bruce was able to cement his claim to the Scottish throne by getting wasted and puking all over the Stone of Scone, which became customary at the coronation of every British monarch since.  In fact, the name of the sacred stone comes from the simple fact that scones were all the Bruce had eaten that day.  The English, upon seeing this horrifying display, wrote their digits on a bar napkin and left the field.  The Bruce never even called them back.  Actually, he totally ran into the English army a few weeks later and claimed he’d meant to call but couldn’t find their number.  Oh, and he dropped his phone in the toilet, so yeah.  But he suggested that maybe they could totally hang out one day.

"...the FUCK is he doing?!?"

The End.

Random Pancake Tampons!!

Okay, full disclosure: there are no pancakes OR tampons in this week’s missive.  Sorry for misleading you.  I just thought of the word “random” and then the first two words into my head were pancakes and tampons, so there you go.  Speaks volumes about the state of my mental well-being, eh what?  Forgive me, it’s been a strange week.  I flew a plane, for God’s sake.  Seriously.  They let me have the controls of an actual goddam airplane, and I lived to tell the tale.  See, the lesson was only one dollar…but the landing cost me a hundred-forty-nine bucks!  ZING! (That’s a pilot’s-license-instructor joke.  It absolutely has ’em in stitches at the airport.)  And you know what I learned about flying an airplane (other than it’s fuggin’ AWESOME?) It is EXACTLY like every video game you’ve ever played.  Only, you know, more terrifying when you stall.  Fact.

Oh! Okay, yeah...up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, THEN B-A-Start. Got it.

Anyway, there’s no point to the blog this week.  I just wanted to point out that this place is now conveniently called turnerwatson.com!  How ’bout that!  SOOOO much easier to ignore! Notice that I’ve changed the look a bit, too.  Yeah, that’s me.  Keepin’ it fresh and real like a goddam Wendy’s!  YOU KNOW WHEN IT’S REAL, BITCH!!

One of the other things I did this week was pay one more visit to the Ft. Wayne’s Children’s Zoo.  For the uninitiated, that’s an actual zoo full of animals, NOT a collection of ragamuffins and street urchins.  If that were the case, no one would go to the Africa exhibit because it would be sad and depressing and full of flies.  And the England exhibit would have loveable scamps playing footy and picking pockets while shouting “‘Ello, guv’nah!”  The fish & chips would be bomb-diggity though, yo.

D'awwwww!

Anyway, one of the rides there at the Ft. Wayne’s Children’s Zoo and Orphanage is the Australian Outback River Ride.  Basically, the zoo got a deal on some old Cedar Point log flume ride parts and threw together a meandering little teenage make-out session on water.  It’s kinda cool, and you get to see Black Swans and they always remind me of cheap-but-tasty Australian wine. As the family (the wife, two kids, and myself) wrapped up the ride and got ready to disembark, I had a brilliant idea that would be sure to liven the day of the poor minimum-wage kids running the damn log ride day after day.  I tell you this now at the end of the season so that maybe they’ll forget about it by springtime (as if anyone read this blog anyway, amirite?)

I’m going to need an accomplice, but here’s the plan.  I’m going to get into one of the old Abandoned Saw Mill Mining Town Log Ride Boats (formerly the Australian Outback River Ride) and about halfway through, once out of sight, I’m going to bail out.  Yep.  Leave the goddam path, so to speak and find out if Nedry turned off power in the ‘Raptor paddock.  This is where the accomplice comes in.  He/she will have been in the boat one or two spaces behind me, and I’ll hop in THIS person’s boat.  “That’s it?” you’re asking yourself.  “Big friggin’ deal!  Gosh, I thought there was more to this.”

You also wish there were more to this, don't you? Me, too.

Ah, but here it is!  The reason I need another boat is because I would have left the following items in my original ride:  One (1) mangled athletic shoe, four (4) children’s teeth (My oldest son is losing his baby teeth.  We don’t just throw those away once the tooth fairy comes, do we?) one (1) hunting knife, and five (5) clumps of animal hair (likely from my fat-ass cat, Keyser.) All of these items will be covered in copious amounts of fake blood, or deer blood if one of my huntin’ buddies bags and guts a deer.  I actually just realized that I’ll need a second accomplice to videotape the reactions of the zoo employees, as that’s the whole point: to scare the living shit out of some poor pimply-faced kid who sees a vacant log boat filed with blood, carnage, and signs of struggle wash up on his landing. God, that’d be priceless. “OMIGOD!!  A WALLABY MUST’VE GOT LOOSE AND TOTALLY NOMMED ONE OF THE VISITORS!!!”  Fuckin’ wallabies, man.  They’ll fuckin’ GET ya.

Swear to God, this already existed on the internet. It just happened to be perfect.

Of course, if someone executes this plan before I get a chance, well…as an agent of chaos, I’ll sit back and smile quietly.  Perhaps I’ll even clap, slowly.

And wonder why I never get any work done.