We’ll Start the War From Right Here.

Howdy.  I mulled over so many different titles for this blog.  It was tough, because this is one of those “personal” posts, revolving around the events in my personal life.  Specifically, about the recent decision (not mine) to end the eight-year run of the TNT Morning Show on 98.9 the Bear, Ft. Wayne’s legendary rock station.  I thought of the words used by Rob Roy’s wife: “Whatever cannot be helped must be endured.”  I thought of  T.S. Eliot: “This is the way the world ends.  Not with a bang, but a whimper.”  But those both have such a depressing finality to them.  Instead, I chose something that better reflects my attitude.  The title I settled on was used by Brigadier General Teddy Roosevelt, Jr. (Yes…President Teddy Roosevelt was so bad-ass that his seed was strong enough to kick a hole in the Nazi fortress of Europe) who, upon finding that Allied plans had gone amok during the chaotic D-Day landings decided to tell his troops that, fuck it all…”We’ll start the war from right here.”  And that’s what I have decided to do, in a metaphoric sense.  Things didn’t work out the way I’d planned.  Doesn’t matter.  I have a job.  I have a microphone.  I have a voice.  And goddammit, I’m not going to sit here in the sand with bullets whizzing over my head and cry like a baby.  Just ain’t my style.  Plus, I get to use the word “goddammit” again.  That is such a bonus.

Here’s the thing.  Our COO-types recently made the decision to do away with the classic rock programming on our sister station, 92.3 the Fort.  Instead, that station will now carry a simulcast of news-talk powerhouse WOWO.  As a result, some of their staff was let go.  Others, reassigned within the company.  And the syndicated Bob & Tom show was going to either be left without a station or gobbled up by a competing radio station in this market.  Uh-oh.

So the decision was made.  From my past experiences as a program director, I know it wasn’t an easy one.  At one point, the powers that be thought better of it and shelved the idea of putting Bob & Tom on the Bear.  Then they waffled.Then they re-committed.  At another point, our program director took a stand saying he could not and would not be part of this decision.  Cooler heads talked him “down from the ledge” and he’s still our boss, thankfully.  So they broke the news to myself and my co-host, my partner, my friend, Barry Thickk (may not be his real last name.)  And it was like being hit in the gut.

But there is and was a silver lining.  I was told that I could either take a generous severance package, probably much like the one given to my long-time compatriot and class-act Drew Cage, or stay on and do the custom-created 1p-4p time slot on the Bear.  Let me be absolutely clear about this: this radio station thought enough of me to carve out an on-air shift where one had not existed before.  They could have easily cut their ties with me, said “good game” and shown me the door.  It’s happened before.  It will happen again.  That’s radio, baby.

Now, I’m also not stupid.  I know that this company likes to hedge their bets.  If, by some chance, Bob & Tom don’t “work” on the Bear, the bigwigs want a safety net.  They want me and Barry around, just in case.  For the record, I think B&T will be a huge asset to this radio station.  Yep.  I said it.  Imagine most (let’s say 75%) of their audience following them to the Bear.  Then add, say 50% of the TNT Show audience (it will likely be much more than that.)  On a huge 50,000 watt signal.  And followed by the amazing Jenna, myself, John the Mexican (the most talented jock in the midwest.  No hyperbole.  He makes me laugh.  Hard.) and then wrapping up with the night-time horniness of Barry Thickk (okay, NOT his real last name.) well…that’s the recipe for an unprecidented powerhouse rock station the likes of which hasn’t been heard for decades.

So now the war starts in earnest.  I haven’t done a solo radio show in over eight years.  So now I bang the rust off my blades and put on the gear.  So now I go out for a regular shift.  So now I’m on the checking line.  No matter.  I’m going to throw my weight around, shut down the other team’s scorers, and God willing put the puck in the net a few times myself.

Next summer I will have been doing professional radio for twenty years.  Eight of those years were as co-host of the TNT Morning Show.  Had I not landed the TNT gig in January of 2004, there’s a good chance I would have been out of radio altogether.  It had become tiresome and political.  Too many consultants, too many budget cuts.  Doing morning radio again gave me new life.  I was able to just enjoy the whole awesomeness of it all.  On a bad day, I flipped on a mic and told jokes while listening to rock music.  That, my friends, is a good gig.

But now, with my mornings free for the first time in almost a decade, I intend to branch out.  More writing.  And I mean REAL writing.  Maybe I’ll try working on a stand-up routine.  I know for a FACT that I’ll catch up on my masturbation.  (Making the bald man cry whilst Barry peers over the console divider is not as easy as you’d think.)

So, in closing, I’ll simply say thanks.  Thanks to everyone who listened, everyone who offered support and encouragement, and certainly to my loving wife and family.   As Stan “The Man” Lee would say…Excelsior!

Tweetin’ Ain’t Cheatin’

Quick blog time…nothing major to report, other than some of the blogs I follow have been absolutley dynamite lately.  Damn, there are some good writers out there.  Check out a few on the “Blog Roll” to the right of this page. BTW, “Blog Roll” is not only my favorite sushi, it’s also a fancy new way to say “links section.”

Recently a couple of people nominated me for something called the “Shorty Awards.”  At first I was offended, but as I like entering (and winning!) short-penis contests, I looked it up and found out it’s actually something completely different!  It’s a Twitter contest (?) and apparently everybody in the gorram ‘verse gets nominated.  I honestly don’t usually care much for this type of contest, and since I’m in the radio category with people like friggin’ Seacrest I don’t stand a chance in hell anyway.  But I figured since someone might want to vote anyway to strike a blow for the common man (boy, that sounds dirty) then they should be well-informed.  So here are some of my Tweets from the last couple of weeks.  After reading them you may choose not to vote after all…

I’m a badass. I order my pork chops “rare.”. Mmmm! Bloody pork!

Ima go down on my FleshLight tonight. Because I’m a gentleman.  (Ed. note: it was somewhat awkward trying to explain a Fleshlight to our 98.9 the Bear Rock Girl.)

I’m starting a movement to call the “landing strip” on a lady a “pusstache.” You heard it here first.

It occurs to me that 2012 Me could knock 1996 Me out with one punch. Fffffuuuu…

I should aim for that freakishly giraffe-like neck...

Ahhhh…I can FINALLY take my pants off in peace!!

@Jerrdog989 will be glad to know that the company has replaced the 30-grit sandpaper TP in the restrooms with an old Be-Dazzled llama pelt. (Ed. note: seriously, the paper in the “pooping” bathroom was like a cheese grater on your anus/taint area)

C’MON, REF! CALL THAT! FACEMASK ON LSU!! (Sorry. I have no plans to watch the game. Just wanted to feel included.) #tollride

Just took a box of Enzyte and six Viagra. Any ladies wanna play flagpole sitta?

Don’t do it! Don’t put your dick in there! (sorry…meant to type “cock.” Stupid auto-correct!)

Here’s a tip from Uncle Turner: instead of getting a fake tan, just roll around in a pile of Cheetos! Feel good about yourself!

Duckface + fake tan = fail.

Can’t seem to wake up, which is bad, since i’m tweeting in my sleep and my house is on fire.

Oh, dear. It seems I have inadvertantly stepped in some dub. (Ed. note: it was somewhat awkward explaining “dubstep” to my wife)

Wow…I just realized that today was the first day in forever that I WASN’T shufflin’.

I just gave myself an award. Bet you’re jealous.

Back in '06 I used the FUCK out of the web!

IT’S CHILI TIME!!! (Ed. note: it WAS chili time, and I devoured two bowls of it.  It was good.  That’s all I wanted to say about that)

“fast” food. Oh, that’s funny.

I wonder if any parents will choose not to take their kids to Cedar Point this year because it’s in Sandusky, OH…

It has always bothered me, BTW, that the Banana Splits song totally ripped off the hook from “Buffalo Soldier.” Yes, I’m serious.

Poop isn’t supposed to scream, is it? I think something is horribly wrong…

Ha! I feel so stupid. I keep writing “aztec” on my checks. (Ed. note: Mayan calendar joke alert)

I really dig Sublime. Too bad most of their fans are fucking stupid.


Sorry, everyone. That last tweet was to my youth pastor buddy.

Another million-dollar idea: capitalizing on the “whitening” craze with these new products: super-whitening coffee and cigarettes. (menthol)

There you go.  A primer, if you will, for my Twitter experience.  Was this a crass attempt to win a stupid award?  No.  This was a crass attempt to gain more Twitter followers.  HA!!  Seeya next time, suckaz!

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!





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.