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!

 

 

 

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.