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!

 

 

 

Ah, These Kids Today…Part 2 (Electric Boogaloo)

So, yeah.  I have a couple of boys.  Simon is six, Rhys is almost three.  Good kids.  Spoiled rotten, but hey, that’s the fault of me and the missus.  Do I want to beat ’em sometimes?  Sure.  People without kids always say “That’s HORRIBLE!!  How can you even JOKE about abusing your kids?  They’re all God’s little angels!”  People that have kids know better.  Oh, do we ever.

 

The face of evil.

 

My kids are what we in the parenting industry like to call “all boy.”  Dirt, guns, fights, hockey, farts, couch-cushion forts…the whole nine.  Initially, I wanted a boy AND a girl. My sperm refused me, and now I have two li’l Terminators.  I have friends with daughters that have mentioned to me that they love their little princesses but intend to suture up their lady parts until well after the girls’ twentieth birthday.  I then remind them that without access to the vagina, kids will find all sorts of interesting places to put penises.  This usually results in my friend taking a swing at me.  The truth hurts.  Usually me.

Sorry! I meant your OTHER daughter!

My kids will make it to teenagerhood, provided the “tooth fairy” doesn’t put too much Benadryl in their juice (go the fuck to SLEEP already!!) and cause them to lapse into a coma or worse. I do not look forward to those years.  I do not look forward to those years because I have worked at a public pool.  We’d work the pool in the summer and then open the public ice rink in the fall.  I got to witness the teenage population up close, and it ain’t pretty.  Ever see the Harmony Korine/Larry Clark film “Kids” from 1995?  Might as well have been a documentary.  Kids fucking, kids doing drugs, kids stealing, kids beating someone with a skateboard, kids giving each other AIDS.  I saw just about all of that shit take place whilst working for the man to put a little change in my pocket.  Used condoms in the parking lot, empty bottles of whiskey and porn mags in the restrooms….legit, yo.  I mean, hell…that was the early 90’s.  I can only imagine kids today are already into gang-bangs and making their own snuff films. “Um…Timmy ran away, mom.  Yeah.  By the way, does dad have any of the following items: lye, a hacksaw, gloves, and a section of garden hose?  I’m asking for a friend.”

Best. Science project. Ever.

And the jailbait.  Don’t get me fucking started on the jailbait (and please, lord…don’t let me get caught fucking the jailbait.)  Swear to God, the other day I was shopping for Halloween costumes for my children.  At the same time and location, a mother (I guess?!?) had her two thirteen-ish looking daughters checking out SLUTTY HALLOWEEN COSTUMES.  Slutty Pirate, Slutty Cop, Slutty Schoolgirl (which is ironic, since these two WERE Slutty Schoolgirls) and so on.  The mom (?) asked one of the workers if they had any of these costumes in a thirteen-year-old size.  The woman told her that yes, in fact, they were in stock, but warned her that these slutty costumes RAN A LITTLE SMALL.  Yes, these whoreish costumes (complete with thigh-highs and extra slut sauce, whatever that is.  Okay, I made that part up, but still…) were made to fit PRE-TEEN GIRLS!!  What the fuck sort of parent lets their daughter go out in such an outfit? “Oh, I like your costume, dear!  What are you supposed to be…Rape Bait?” Or better: “Mom, does this skirt show too much underaged gash when I cross my legs?” HOLY SHITBALLS!!!

Dude...she's like twelve.

I actually have a solution to the pedophilia problem.  Seriously, this thought has crossed my mind.  Let’s pass some sort of legislation or maybe even just suggest strongly that Victoria’s Secret can no longer sell yoga pants with words like “Pink” or “Love” or “Cram Your Sausage Here” on the ass to anyone UNDER the age of eighteen.  Maybe even take it further and make it mandatory for college-aged sluts to wear these pants so that they can be more easily identified.  The chlamydia rates would drop sharply. 

DUDE! TWELVE!!

Yes, I know there are male sluts, an that’s a discussion for another time,  one probably involving Ed Hardy and tight Hollister shirts.  I might even get into another double-standard:  guys who mention how much they like that saucy little Sam on iCarly are branded as creepy pedophiles.  Thirty-eight-year-old women that get all self-lubricated at the sight of a seventeen-year-old Taylor Lautner are seen as women “in their prime” looking to get one last statutory rape in before menopause. Uh-huh. Fair and balanced.  That’s me.

Sexy as FUCK.

 Seeya at the mall, kids…