I know you get tired of hearing this, but...

man, am I glad it was The Big Bopper on that plane instead of Waylon Jennings.

Also, eat it, Marshall Tucker Band.

Nothing goes down smoother than bottled anger

I am used to being the surliest guy on the cake. But recently, someone at work seems to be taking more than that person's share of the frosting.

I haven't snapped at any anyone in weeks. Maybe months. The poacher of my surl beats me to the punch every time. Then I get all confused and go up to the snappee later and say things like, "What the fuck was that about? I wouldn't let anyone talk to me like that." Since when do I side with the innocent?

Well, I've got a foolproof plan for tomorrow: I'm wearing normal work clothes. Collard shirt, slacks, clean shoes and maybe, just maybe, a belt. Not wearing sweatshirts and pajama bottoms always pisses me the fuck off. I'm a copy editor for criminy's sake. Cleaning up nice ain't something we know shit about. So I'll be coiled and ready for the first person who makes eye contact with me for more than my comfort zone of a half second.

And fuck forbid anyone ask me to do actual work.

I won the lottery!

Probably.

I bought tickets, and as the saying goes, "If you're in it, you mos def win it."

Here's a representation of one of the tickets I bought.




And here's a representation of me when I collect my winnings:





On the count of three, I want you start sucking up to your soon-to-be-rich-and-superior friend.

1...

2...

3!



You fucking peasant.

Ham, wine, Chinese and cheese

So the movers are coming in the morning. No big deal. A rather large percentage of my friends in the area have hurt their backs significantly in the new century. And I'm more than happy to pump a little money into the great American economy (China ain't getting the jump on us if I have anything to do with it).

But I was feeling guilty about not being able to pack my shit myself, especially considering I never fully unpacked when I moved into this place. Meaning there wasn't a whole lot to do. Part of the reason is that I ran out of boxes, which is a testament to how much I've accumulated over the last nine months, because I kept all of my boxes from the last move. And let's be frank, where's a guy gonna find empty boxes in this day and age?

The guilt was starting to get to me, and I thought about plucking a few boxes from my weekly anti-war Box Bonfire Jamboree, but damn it if I'm not just really, really anti-war. Every box goes a long way to getting us out of Iraq.

Just when I thought the intensity of the guilt would crush me like that neighbor kid's leg when he thought he'd found the perfect hide 'n' seek hiding place under my car. It was partly my fault. I was so hungover that I thought it was a weekday and that I was late for work. So I ignored the bump and the screams as I sped off into the afternoon.

Shit, let me start over. Just when I thought the intensity of the guilt would crush me, the good lord came down from heaven above and kung-fu kicked me square in the lower back. On that day, I truly believed. Because now I could really ham up the injury so the movers wouldn't think I'm a spoiled richie rich. Besides, I thought I'd set out wine and cheeses for refreshments to show my appreciation for their work. And not the cheap stuff either. Oh mercy, no. I feel like I need to show my peers that I am capable of fraternizing with the help.

Gotta go. My driver has promised to take me to a real blue-collar bar like he goes to.

We've all wanted to try it, but don't do it.

I know this isn't funny. And I promise I'm not laughing.

SÃO PAULO, Brazil (AP) -- The Rev. Adelir Antonio de Carli has been missing since Sunday, when he lifted off from the port city of Paranagua strapped to 1,000 balloons.

Paragliding instructor Marcio Andre Lichtnow, who gave courses to de Carli three years ago, described him as a "headstrong, anxious individual who was always in a rush."

"After two or three months, I asked him to abandon the course because of these personality traits, which are not the ideal profile for a paraglider," Lichtnow said. "So what happened comes as no big surprise."

The 41-year-old priest lifted off wearing a helmet, an aluminum thermal flight suit, waterproof coveralls and a parachute.

But less than an hour in, de Carli told his support crew by satellite phone that he would not be able to complete the planned flight to the city of Dourados, 465 miles away, according to team member Jose Carlos Bom.

Rescuers in boats, planes and helicopters were continuing to search off Brazil's southern coast, near where a cluster of yellow, orange, pink and white balloons was found floating in the Atlantic.

Lichtnow said de Carli phoned him days before liftoff.

"I told him that the winds would carry him all the way to South Africa," Lichtnow said. "He said he had studied everything very carefully and that he would go ahead. I honestly thought he was joking."

Is this real?

Where can I buy this device?

I had a vision of my own death

I'm walking down a sidewalk in a part of town I've never seen, in a town I've never seen, in a country I've never seen, on a planet I've never seen.

Coincidentally, this place has rats too. The rats gnaw at my shoes to get to my succulent toes. Mosquitos as big as large mosquitos swarm my head and go to work.

The pocketknife, which I was demonstrating on one of Old Man Johnson's apple trees when Old Man Johnson came out of nowhere and I had to suddenly stick it in my pocket unfolded, is unfolded in my pocket and sticking me in the testicles.

Crazy coked-up celebrities run in my direction and fire their various handguns, shotguns and rifles at me with a surprising rate of success.

The head god of each religion known to Earth demands a sacrifice of me. Therefore, I'm split into a million pieces and burned or eaten or crucified or launched into the sun or suicide bombed or drowned or killed with kindness.

All of my visions have come true. Well, I've only had one before this one. I predicted that I would be slaughtered by a bunch of gods. And this new vision seems to confirm that.

I miss the days

I miss the days when it didn't seem like much was riding on the presidential election. Remember how much fun we had in 1992 when the race was between a Republican dud, a hillbilly and a crazy Texan firing his guns in the air? And again in 1996 when Bob Dole ate Viagra like popcorn, went around chasing a teen Britney Spears with his rigid cock and then staining blue dresses and blaming Bill Clinton? What a prankster! We laughed about that for years.

Even 2000 was a ride down a lazy river as we thought about which candidate we would want to drink beer and snort coke with. But things went sour when the Supreme Court didn't believe the ballots, and nothing has been the same since. The Democrats were determined to win the next one no matter what. Realizing that, the president, who was suddenly tasked with leading the world through a healing process after 9-11, thought better of it and decided the healing would have to wait. It's kind of like if... Actually, it's not like anything. Anything at all. It's disgustingly incomparable and reprehensible. I mean really groundbreaking subhuman behavior. And I feel like I'm besmirching the good name of subhumans.

Anyway, my point is that as much as Bill and Hildog want us to believe that a drawn-out race to the nomination is great for democracy and great for the country, it's not. The only way it is in any way positive is that the Dems sure as shit won't allow this to happen again.

[pause while i fetch a beer]

Damn. No beer. This must be some kind of "cold turkey" rehab.

My real point is that there's nothing like seeing the two Democrats in their worst light so far while Johnny Mac gets a free ride even though he's 103 years old and doesn't know the difference between Sunnis and Shiites. I'm not well-versed on the topic either, but I ain't running for president at an age when I should be tombstone shopping.

I also miss other days though. Like back when fried chicken was seen as good for the heart.

Baby got back problems

My back is back to around 80%. As most of you recall, last week I sustained a devastating injury lifting a burning car off of a nun's baby. Since then, there have been a lot of things I can't do and a few new skills I've been forced to learn in place of those things.

Things I can't do
1. Cut my toenails.
2. Get out of my car comfortably.
3. Feed myself like I normally do.
4. Self-fellate.
5. Move furniture.

Corresponding new skills
1. Catch small forest mammals with my talons.
2. Maneuver a car down the aisles of grocery store.
3. Use utensils.
4. Knitting.
5. Conveying sincerity when I tell friends I wish I could help them move, but...

I've had to overcome several obstacles, and no matter how modest I am, I can't hide the fact that I'm a true American hero for my efforts. And like all other role models in this great land, I'm zonked on pain pills.

Unemployment is my favorite word with 'employment' in it

I'm not one for working.

I mean, I do it and all. But I don't live to work like the rest of you. I understand that most of you are usually trying to get away from your spouse or significant other for 8-10 hours or more at a time every chance you get, but I have a happy home life of movies, music, wine, beer, pajamas and the occasional fried catfish.

So what I'm asking is, why don't you all chip in to support me in the comfortable lifestyle to which I've grown accustomed? Hear me out. That might mean you have to work overtime to stay out of financial straits. And, BOOM, just like that you have another 4-6 hours away from your nagging such-and-such of a wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/relative (for you incestocrats [just made up that word and may use it again in the epic political blog I daydream about at work instead of working]).

Everyone's happy. You get to work a lot. A whole lot. And I get to take frequent naps, drink in the morning AND the evening, watch all those good movies you'll never see because you have to watch crappy commercial fare as a compromise to the tastes of your middling mate. And I can gain the weight you would be gaining if you weren't busting your ass day and night to keep your head above water. And frankly, you already owe me the monetary equivalent of 35 lbs. above healthy.

Scratch all that. Who wants to see a video? This is back when movie trailers were much, much cooler than they are now. For the keen eye, you might see a line that's not in the released movie. How do I know? Because I've fucking watched the fucking movie over 100 times. That's not fucking hyperbole. So back off, man. I'm a scientist.

Vitamins are the devil's business

If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: Once you're too old to take delicious Flintstones vitamins, you shouldn't take any vitamin supplements anymore because they'll eat you alive from the inside out. And I don't think that's exaggerating this story at all.

As Bill Cosby taught us, everything you need is in chocolate cake.

Apologies to Jon Bon Jovi

In my previous post, I left the impression that his cameo at a Bruce Springsteen concert was, in fact, a curse. That could not be further from the truth. Mr. Jovi, uhhhh... I mean Mr. Jonjovi... Mr. Bon Benji... whatever, goddamn it, is legend in his own right.

I grew up listening to Bon Jovi, like any good Gen X American. The coolest of our tribe will say that stuff is wack and claim they were listening to Sonic Youth, Echo and the Bunnymen, and Brian Eno or something. As if I should feel ashamed for listening to Bon Jovi, Billy Ocean, Huey Lews and the News, and the soundtrack to Beverly Hills Cop I & II.

The truth is Bon Jovi rocked the 80s. And not just the sexual fantasies of your older sister. Or gay brother. Or divorced mother. I'm a-talkin' about everyone who loved 80s mainstream radio unconditionally, including the morning zoos, the late-night request-a-thons, and the sleazy DJs who made appearances at the mall or skating rink to seemingly score underage tail. Those were the fuckin' days. Ronald Reagan was a god, and dissent was unheard of. We didn't trouble ourselves with things like secret wars in Afghanistan. Some secrets are meant to be kept. We only had time to rock out to Motley Crue and Def Leppard and rap out to Run-DMC and the Beastie Boys.

I had some jokes, but I got distracted by the videos on fucking YouTube. What was my point? Oh... Bon Jovi kicks ass. He even kicks ass solo:

Best show or bestest show?

Bruce Springsteen is the best of all worlds: substance, politics, rock. The only other things I like are sleep and food, and I usually kill two birds with one stone by using Nyquil as a salad dressing. And then eating the two birds before I pass out.

I teared up a couple times. Once during Lonesome Day, the first song on his first album after 9-11 when Bruce came forward to help with the healing. Unlike those douchebag hack musicians who wrapped themselves in the flag and used the dead as an excuse for xenophobia and indiscriminate hate-filled threats of vengeance, such as putting boots up asses. Those guys have the right as Americans to say that shit. But they are expressing grossly unAmerican sentiments, no matter how in step they are with our government's unAmerican policies.

The other emotional moment, for me, came during Last to Die. As in, who'll be the last to die for a mistake? And through it all, Springsteen's songs and high-energy live show serve to remind us what's great about America and why this country is worth putting in the time to make it better. I forget that sometimes.

In a much more alarming moment during the show, a young no-goodnik somehow got on stage, and before security could get him off, he'd sung most of Glory Days with Bruce. I didn't quite catch his name. Jove Bon Jonny. Bonnie Ju Joe-Jack. Joey Jo Jo Junior Shabadoo. I don't know. Some kid from Jersey anyway. But to be fair, before the show I wished for Bruce to play Glory Days. And like all wishes on a monkey's paw, it came with a curse.

The End.

Here's a video.




Here's a live cut from back in the headband days. I always dug this song, but now I'm at the age when the song actually resonates with me. And freaks me out. Did I ever have any glory days? (P.S. I can't explain or justify the cameo by Father Time.)

I've paid the cost to perform with the Boss

It's not often I make it to a Bruce Springsteen concert. At my current rate, I see him once every 32.5 years. So the next time I see him, he will be in his 90s and probably not on top of his game. That's why I'm excited to see him this time.

I haven't decided what song I'll be duetting on... maybe Brilliant Disguise. Or She's the One. Maybe I'll just sit in on accordion during Sandy. My understanding is that every audience member gets to participate in some fashion. I'll even settle for dancing in a bikini during Rock & Roll All Nite. Wait... that's what happens at Poison concerts that are pretending to be KISS concerts. Sorry for the confusion, Boss.

Anyway, I can't wait to see what I do.



Update

I sang and traded guitar solos with Bruce on The Ghost of Tom Joad, as seen here (although he calls me by another name):

10 Movies I Saw for the First Time in College and Wish I Could Go Back and Watch Again for the First Time

1. Reservoir Dogs
2. Trainspotting
3. Hard-Boiled
4. Welcome to the Dollhouse
5. Desperado
6. Armour of God II: Operation Condor
7. Pulp Fiction
8. Mean Streets
9. Dr. Zhivago
10. The Wild Bunch
Bonus: The Last Waltz

I can't really vouch for the accuracy of that list. I'm sleepy.

How many backs could a back back back if a back back could back back?

"Give it to me straight, doc."
"You'll never walk again."
"But I walked in here. I'm standing right now."
"I never said I was a good doctor. How are you treating your back at the present time?"
"I took a page from the Heath Ledger Book of Pharmaceuticals and Mixology."
"Well, what do you need me for? You're two steps ahead of me."
"I thought you could tell me if I need physical therapy or steroids or whatever."
"You don't need steroids. You already have the strength of 10 men."
"Ten dead men?"
"Yes. Dead or dying."
"Is there anything else you can recommend?"
"Have you thought about getting a pre-owned back?"
"No."
"You know who has a strong back? Horses. Horses do."
"Is it possible to get a horse back?"
"I don't see why not."
"Where'd you go to medical school?"
"Don't change the subject."

Karma... she is a bitch

So I'm putting on my socks this morning, as I am wont to do each day. During the first sock, I feel a minor pain in my lower back. This is not all that unusual because I'm not very flexible and I think lifting with the legs is for pussies. So I ignore the pain and go for sock number two, the money sock as it is known in my household. That's when everything went to shit.

My back felt as if god were wringing me out like a sponge. I then found every movement excruciating. I also found the lack of movement equally excruciating.

After all of my years of mocking my friends with bad backs and ruptured discs and horse-kicked spines, I'm finally getting my just desserts. (Eating dessert also hurts right now.)

I somehow got in my car and went my doctor's office to see if I could get something to expedite the healing process. Something like morphine. And that's when the real humiliation started. First, I got on the scales and found that my weight has increased exponentially since the last time I weighed, which I wouldn't have thought humanly possible. Second, I had to admit to being an old man who gets injured by dressing himself. And third, the cute nurse gave me a shot in my ass. No reach-around.

Anyway... I'm at work. Each word I type is more painful than the last. The doc loaded me up on anti this and anti that, plus some Darvocet. But I'm going to treat myself the way my ancestors did: with a bottle of Jack and a two-dollar whore.
Well... a bottle of Jack.

Breaking news: Some old guy dies

Little-known B-movie actor and star of the screen classic Soylent Green died over the weekend. Charlton Heston, whose film work was so poorly received that he had to take a second job as head of the National Rifle Association, keeled over from brain confusion disease disorder (BCDD) more commonly known as "Going Off the Rails on a Crazy Brain."

To a younger generation, Heston was known as Prof. Walter Finley in the 2001 Jean-Claude Van Damme vehicle, The Order, co-written by the multitalented Van Damme himself. But to hardcore movie buffs worldwide, Heston will always be known for his ability to out-Mexican Mexican actors in such films as Touch of Evil and El Cid.

In a now-famous incident, controversial documentarist Michael Moore sabotaged Heston at his home for the anti-American-rights flick Bowling for Columbine. Long after the interview but shortly before the release of the film, Heston announced that he suffered from "Crazy Brain," thus provoking an outpouring of hatred for Moore even though Heston was still leading the NRA at that time and should seemingly be expected to answer questions regarding his leadership, but who am I but a lowly ol' Internet obituarist?

In the final CT scan of Heston's head, his brain cells can be seen in an alarming state of confusion. And now these scan results provide the last footage we have of America's last living overactor. Wait... I'm getting word that Jim Carrey ain't dead yet. Well, here it is anyway:



Heston is survived by a whole fuckload of guns.

shuckin' and jivin' in court

if you read this whole story by the Associated Press, i think you'll see it's pretty goddamn tabloidy.
also, i'll give you that chris rock is animated on stage. but "outlandish"????

just because he's up there speaking the truth with conviction and energy and fiery rhetoric?
here's one dictionary's definitions of outlandish:

adj.
Conspicuously unconventional; bizarre. See Synonyms at strange.
Strikingly unfamiliar.
Located far from civilized areas.
Archaic Of foreign origin; not native.

chris rock truly is a bizarre, uncivilized savage.

But with your wrinkled _____ I can't be your loverrrrrr

We got our tickets for the movie and stepped inside. We both went to the lobby, we both went to the lobby, we both went the lobby to get ourselves a snack. The menu offered fruit drinks. "How do you make a fruit drink?" I asked to my fellow movie watcher. "I don't know. How?" "That's as far as I got with that joke. But I'm sure I can think of something." This isn't the movie we saw. I wish I could watch this movie on the big screen every day for a year. Gotta get back to frying catfish. Enjoy.

If you thrust more than twice, you're playing with it

Finally, some good news:

A survey of sex therapists concluded the optimal amount of time for sexual intercourse was 3 to 13 minutes. The findings, to be published in the May issue of the Journal of Sexual Medicine, strike at the notion that endurance is the key to a great sex life.

Not to brag or anything, but I can beat their lowest time by a minute and a half.

Movies are about to be great again

Where have I been? my audience has been asking for the past week.
Well, I say to both of you, I've been busy. Busy developing a film production company with my good friend M.Wing.

We will be fully self-contained: writing, producing, casting, shooting, editing, scoring, promoting, distributing, award-accepting.

Do we know anything about the film business? As I told my saintly grandmother when she asked the same question, fuck no. But I've seen Weird Science nearly a 30 times, so I think I've got the hang of it.

Of course, our first step will be to learn how to operate a goddamn camcorder. Them things has a lotta buttons. Our second step will be to write our Oscar speeches.

Mine will start like this:

I'd like to thank God for original sin, without which, hardcore porn never would have been given its own Oscar category here in the futuristic year of 2010. But I'd like to blame God for allowing the creation of the movie Original Sin that, while giving us a good overhead shot of Angelina Jolie filled up with Antonio's Banderas, was a fucking horrible movie. And I'd like to again thank God for the inspiration that comes from shit like "Original Sin" and makes us realize that we will never be the worst filmmakers out there.

And so forth.

We have a lot of work to do before any of this actually comes to fruition. And you, readers, have a lot of taste to develop if you're going to enjoy our films. Get to work!