"I'm an alligator, I'm a mama-papa comin' for you. I'm the space invader, I'll be a rock'n'rollin' bitch for you." David Bowie from "Moonage Daydream"
The dreams in the Asylum are vivid. Powerful images of the world that I was once a part of. Now, the nurse, that dastardly woman, keeps me medicated enough to know that I am no longer a part of it. I live now in the dream. My reality skewed into unrecognizablility. These dreams aren't like those pleasant vignettes from Love American Style, they drip with innuendo, smell of desperation. Other beings, other worlds, I amongst them.
What would you do if the world was suddenly over run by an alien race? I'm not talking about a Democrat world versus Republican. Not Mexicans taking over. Not the Taliban. I mean, from space, actual extraterrestrials. ET with an attitude problem. Cloverfield. Indepence Day. War of the Worlds type invasion. What type are you?
Are you the hero? The man (or woman) with the big red S on your chest, wanting to save the day in colorful spandex. Standing chest out on the precipice of a Gargoyle screaming at the martian horde. And who do you choose to save? The spouse, the girlfriend, the boyfriend, the old neighbor that constantly calls the cops on you for having the stereo too loud when you knew well and good that the 4 setting on the volume knob couldn't be heard outside your living room let alone across the lawn into her kitchen littered with cats in heat. Jesus Ladie, learn to love Led Zeppelin like the rest of us. Oh, sorry, what was I, oh yeah, who would you save? Being the hero is a lot of responsibility. It's much harder than trigonometry.
Are you the damsel or dude in distress? Let's say the gang from Planet Z comes to Peoria and drops a Volvo on your house and you are trapped inside under the un-deployed air bag compartment, safest car my ass. Anyway, how far would you go to free yourself? Hours of screaming for help, extraordinary amounts of energy trying to reach a cell phone that is just out of your reach, or do you use a Bic disposable razor to hack a limb off and crawl to the nearest free clinic, cause you know the emergency room is gonna ask you for an insurance card and wouldn't you know it the Volvo is on top of your wallet. If you're gonna be in distress, please be calm when you call me, hysterics aren't gonna get me there any faster.
Are you the fuedalist? One more roll in the hay with Marissa Tomei like the beginning of Before the Devil Knows Your Dead and then, sweet death comes to all of us. I mean there are worse ways to go out. She has great nipples, a killer ass and a wicked laugh, but is that really how you want your ticket punched? So that, assuming there is a DMV like afterlife, you are forced to stand before some women that would rather paint the toe nails of her cat than talk to you and tell her that you didn't try to find shelter, help a single soul, instead you made one last batch of baby batter and waited for the death ray to strike. I can't imagine that would get you any points with the big guy.
Are you the clown. The one that cracks lame jokes til the end. Humor has it's place in a catastrophic event, no doubt about it, but once the punchlines stop being funny, say, the second the mothership turns the afternoon sky into a glowing light show of doom. There's no room for the clown in my town, I need a bevy of liquored up red necks with plenty of artillery. Luckily, I live in the South where I am surrounded by them, so I'm feeling pretty safe.
Are you the first to die? You know this person by their positive outlook on life. Their empirical sense that the sliver lining is the best part of the storm. They are usually in love with someone new or they have just gotten their significant other pregnant. These are easily the most annoying people that we all know and part of wants to thank Alf and his pals for having the common courtesy of giving the rest of us a Rocky vs. Thuderlips chance while sending our irksome chums to the great gig in the sky first.
Or are you the zombie? Only slightly less bothersome than the happy first to die, are the ones that can't get their shit together no matter what. Yes, it's traumatic. Work it out with your therapist after we survive, deer eyes? These people slow the whole group down, it's a wonder they don't get shot by friendly fire. Seriously, pick up the pace, Cruella, we're trying to outrun Spock and Warf, get a move on!
As for me, well, I'd like to think that I would be a semi-heroic clown. Sure I'd crack wise now and then, but I'm pretty sure I would kick some Starman ass.
What about you? What would you do if the aliens attacked?
Dixie Cup of Love: Salma Hayek, my favorite alien.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The Pillars
"all wet hey you might need a raincoat, shakedown dreams walking in broad daylight, three hun-dred six-ty five de-grees burning down the house" Talking Heads from "Burning Down the House"
I got a pass to get out of the Asylum for a trip to watch my nephews Little League game. They bound me up like Hannibal Lector and made the nurse push me around, I guess they didn't want me to slit the throat of an umpire over a bad call. It was worth it. To watch a murder of nine year old crows playing the great pastime in inspiring, when you add danger to the mix it becomes downright thrilling.
The other night I was preforming my Uncle duties by attending what i was sure would be another thrill-a-second game of walk, steal three bases on past balls, and score nine year old Little League. There is about as much action in these games as there is in televised golf, without the witty banter of the whispering commentators. If it wasn't for the reasonably priced concession booth and my nephew being a rock star on the diamond, I would have been bored beyond tears. By the look of the parents littering the bleachers, yelling like over caffeinated stage parents, this game was the best the team had looked. I seemed to be the only one in Stage 5, active daydreaming, boredom. Then the danger came into play.
On the other side of the right field fence a plume of black smoke started to rise, a mushroom cloud of despair. The area behind the field is what those in the "big houses" consider the ghetto. Trailer parks and 100 year old homes that are standing up because of pride and little else. These inhabitants had very little to begin with and the fire wouldn't bring a windfall of insurance coin. As the cloud of choking blackness billowed out over the field, causing much distraction for the pastime playing pre-pubescent Padres, ash started to rain down onto the ballpark. Pieces of someones charred hopes and dreams drifting down from the sky like soot covered snow, dark, warm, ominous. Covering the diamond in a fine layer of ironic tragedy. While the well to do played organized community sports, the slums burned.
The sound of the approaching fire brigade quelled the concerns of the baseball moms and dads. It wasn't concern for the neighborhood, but their SUV's, parked in the ghetto adjacent lot that caused their fret. Yes, they were pillars of the community. I have no doubt that the same jackass that bitched that the top of his Mercedes was down will be the first to stand in front of a badly mocked up tally board for a photo-op at the rebuilding fund raiser. The hypocrisy is astounding. As shallow as the image obsessed parents were, the kids did something that amazed me.
They played.
They didn't get distracted by the anarchy of the moment, there was a game to play, a "W" to be put in the win column. Nothing like a fire could sway them from the game they loved so much. I actually admired them. I only wish that I had that kind of dedication, such resolve. A lesson about focus was taught to me by the unlikeliest of sources, normally ADD riddled children. Who would have thought?
Have you ever been inspired by surprise? What are people so self absorbed and only seem to care if someone else is watching?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Boys of Summer
PS - As you notice we have a new nurse in the Asylum. Everyone say hello to Dr. Dot. She is amazing, go to her sight and you will see what I mean, she's way more than just a pretty face.
I got a pass to get out of the Asylum for a trip to watch my nephews Little League game. They bound me up like Hannibal Lector and made the nurse push me around, I guess they didn't want me to slit the throat of an umpire over a bad call. It was worth it. To watch a murder of nine year old crows playing the great pastime in inspiring, when you add danger to the mix it becomes downright thrilling.
The other night I was preforming my Uncle duties by attending what i was sure would be another thrill-a-second game of walk, steal three bases on past balls, and score nine year old Little League. There is about as much action in these games as there is in televised golf, without the witty banter of the whispering commentators. If it wasn't for the reasonably priced concession booth and my nephew being a rock star on the diamond, I would have been bored beyond tears. By the look of the parents littering the bleachers, yelling like over caffeinated stage parents, this game was the best the team had looked. I seemed to be the only one in Stage 5, active daydreaming, boredom. Then the danger came into play.
On the other side of the right field fence a plume of black smoke started to rise, a mushroom cloud of despair. The area behind the field is what those in the "big houses" consider the ghetto. Trailer parks and 100 year old homes that are standing up because of pride and little else. These inhabitants had very little to begin with and the fire wouldn't bring a windfall of insurance coin. As the cloud of choking blackness billowed out over the field, causing much distraction for the pastime playing pre-pubescent Padres, ash started to rain down onto the ballpark. Pieces of someones charred hopes and dreams drifting down from the sky like soot covered snow, dark, warm, ominous. Covering the diamond in a fine layer of ironic tragedy. While the well to do played organized community sports, the slums burned.
The sound of the approaching fire brigade quelled the concerns of the baseball moms and dads. It wasn't concern for the neighborhood, but their SUV's, parked in the ghetto adjacent lot that caused their fret. Yes, they were pillars of the community. I have no doubt that the same jackass that bitched that the top of his Mercedes was down will be the first to stand in front of a badly mocked up tally board for a photo-op at the rebuilding fund raiser. The hypocrisy is astounding. As shallow as the image obsessed parents were, the kids did something that amazed me.
They played.
They didn't get distracted by the anarchy of the moment, there was a game to play, a "W" to be put in the win column. Nothing like a fire could sway them from the game they loved so much. I actually admired them. I only wish that I had that kind of dedication, such resolve. A lesson about focus was taught to me by the unlikeliest of sources, normally ADD riddled children. Who would have thought?
Have you ever been inspired by surprise? What are people so self absorbed and only seem to care if someone else is watching?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Boys of Summer
PS - As you notice we have a new nurse in the Asylum. Everyone say hello to Dr. Dot. She is amazing, go to her sight and you will see what I mean, she's way more than just a pretty face.
Friday, April 18, 2008
A Reason To Wake Up
"It's Saturday Morning, And who's gonna play with me? Six in the morning, baby I got a long, long day ahead of me" The Eels from "Saturday Morning"
There was a bit of a flare up during the evening meal that led to my being tethered down when the nurse came in with my dose of tranquility. I had to requests. One that she itch my nose, the other to turn on Fox News so I could get my fix of hysterical laughter. She wouldn't touch me and turned on some cartoon program about a third world girl and her mentally challenged dog. Hell would've felt like a vacation in paradise.
When I was a wee lad, freshly out of diapers, off the teet, and starting to form my own opinions, I watched cartoons at an addiction level. There was no 12 step program for this affliction, I had to deal with it mano-e-mano. But I couldn't quit. It was too marvelous of a time to be a connoisseur of the celluloid. The animated treats were complimented by a morning bowl of ultra sweet dry cereal that magically turned the milk chocolate by the time the overly processed flakes were consumed. Yet, that cereal would not have been as sweet without the cartoons.
There was Josie rocking with her Pussycats, Penelope Pitstop was dealing with her Perils, a dog became a Superhero (UnderDog was there to save the day) and a dog that knew Kung Foo (Hong Kong Phooey was the one way before Neo). And those weren't even my favorites. There was teams. Tom and Jerry, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Heckle and Jeckle, Beany and Cecil, and Dastardly and Mutley. There was Tom Slick, SuperChicken, Dudley DoRight, Casper the Ghost and Popeye the Sailor. Classics like Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Woody Woodpecker and Felix the Cat. I loved them all.
I loved Magilla Gorilla, Grape Ape, the Laff-o-lympics, George of the Jungle, Tennessee Tuxedo, Chilly Willy, The Pink Panther, the Superfriends, the Flintstones, the Jetsons and of course Scooby Doo.
In between the main events we were educated by Time for Timer and the legendary School House Rock. Who can forget The Preamble, Elbow Room, Mother Necessity, The Three Ring Government, I'm Just a Bill, A Noun is a Person, Place of Thing, Lolly Lolly get your Adverbs Here, Unpack Your Adjectives, Conjunction Junction, 3 is the Magic Number, My Hero Zer0 (which was so sad), Ready or Not Here I Come, Telegraph Line and my personal favorite Interplanetary Janet. And those are just the one's I remember.
Right after cartoons, we were spoiled by the drug addled minds of the grown up shows. The live action fare. The World of Sid and Marty Kroft. Oh my God, if you tried to air these shows now you'd be put on a child endangerment watch. Sigmund the Sea Monster, HR Puffinstuff, The Lost Saucer, Electro Woman and Dyno Girl, Dr. "fucking" Shrinker, Wonder Bug the talking dune buggy, Shazam, the Bugallo's, Lidsville and the grand champion of them all The Land Of The Lost. It's amazing we all don't sit around in drug fueled comas.
The point is I watched a lot of TV.
What were your favorites? Did I miss some, I know I did?
Dixie Cup of Love : The Scooby Gang!
There was a bit of a flare up during the evening meal that led to my being tethered down when the nurse came in with my dose of tranquility. I had to requests. One that she itch my nose, the other to turn on Fox News so I could get my fix of hysterical laughter. She wouldn't touch me and turned on some cartoon program about a third world girl and her mentally challenged dog. Hell would've felt like a vacation in paradise.
When I was a wee lad, freshly out of diapers, off the teet, and starting to form my own opinions, I watched cartoons at an addiction level. There was no 12 step program for this affliction, I had to deal with it mano-e-mano. But I couldn't quit. It was too marvelous of a time to be a connoisseur of the celluloid. The animated treats were complimented by a morning bowl of ultra sweet dry cereal that magically turned the milk chocolate by the time the overly processed flakes were consumed. Yet, that cereal would not have been as sweet without the cartoons.
There was Josie rocking with her Pussycats, Penelope Pitstop was dealing with her Perils, a dog became a Superhero (UnderDog was there to save the day) and a dog that knew Kung Foo (Hong Kong Phooey was the one way before Neo). And those weren't even my favorites. There was teams. Tom and Jerry, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Heckle and Jeckle, Beany and Cecil, and Dastardly and Mutley. There was Tom Slick, SuperChicken, Dudley DoRight, Casper the Ghost and Popeye the Sailor. Classics like Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Woody Woodpecker and Felix the Cat. I loved them all.
I loved Magilla Gorilla, Grape Ape, the Laff-o-lympics, George of the Jungle, Tennessee Tuxedo, Chilly Willy, The Pink Panther, the Superfriends, the Flintstones, the Jetsons and of course Scooby Doo.
In between the main events we were educated by Time for Timer and the legendary School House Rock. Who can forget The Preamble, Elbow Room, Mother Necessity, The Three Ring Government, I'm Just a Bill, A Noun is a Person, Place of Thing, Lolly Lolly get your Adverbs Here, Unpack Your Adjectives, Conjunction Junction, 3 is the Magic Number, My Hero Zer0 (which was so sad), Ready or Not Here I Come, Telegraph Line and my personal favorite Interplanetary Janet. And those are just the one's I remember.
Right after cartoons, we were spoiled by the drug addled minds of the grown up shows. The live action fare. The World of Sid and Marty Kroft. Oh my God, if you tried to air these shows now you'd be put on a child endangerment watch. Sigmund the Sea Monster, HR Puffinstuff, The Lost Saucer, Electro Woman and Dyno Girl, Dr. "fucking" Shrinker, Wonder Bug the talking dune buggy, Shazam, the Bugallo's, Lidsville and the grand champion of them all The Land Of The Lost. It's amazing we all don't sit around in drug fueled comas.
The point is I watched a lot of TV.
What were your favorites? Did I miss some, I know I did?
Dixie Cup of Love : The Scooby Gang!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Like Seabiscuit
"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you (Woo woo woo). What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson? Joltin' Joe has left and gone away" Simon and Garfunkel from "Mrs Robinson"
My eyes opened to a startling, all be it wondrous, sight. The nurse was sitting on the nearby electro-shock treatment apparatus with her right leg bent like a dirty version of Anne Bancroft in the Graduate. Her loins must have had a four alarm fire burning because she was eyeing me up, eyebrows bouncing, and eye lashes fluttering. I could almost hear the Barry White in the background. A lesson in seduction was about to be learned.
At the tender age of twenty-two I thought I knew all there was to know about seduction. The divide between what I thought I knew and what I really knew was wider than the Atlantic Ocean, but I was clueless. Sure I had gotten over on a few girls using my then trademarked combination of wit and booze, but when I met Kathy that all changed.
She was my senior by twenty years with a great set of thick, cherry red lips. I remember those mouth guards like I remember short division, it's ingrained in my brain whether I want it there or not. She was built like a crystal vase, smooth, round in the proper proportions, able to keep my pistol and stamen straight for great lengths of time. Those were some hazy years for me as Captain Morgan and I were just getting started on our life together, but I recall with total clarity every inch of her form.
Kathy was a teacher, not by profession, but by ability. On our first libidinous lesson she was completely about me. Asking constantly if I liked a certain touch or wiggle, letting me know that it was okay to say no. Lavishing me when I groaned as the words failed me. I felt like a stud horse being milked dry of my worthy seed. As I lay twitching in the afterglow Kathy whispered in my ear that our next encounter would require seduction on my part. No problem, I was at an all time confidence high.
Two nights later she returned to find booze and dinner waiting for her arrival. We ate in near silence and I was sure it was going according to plan. After dinner I suggested we move tot he bedroom when she grabbed her bag and headed for the door. I was mystified. She informed me that though the meal was excellent, I hadn't seduced even a kiss from her plump lips, let alone the entire Mr. Toad's Wild Ride experience. She gave me homework.
I asked around to women that I knew and trusted. What did they find sexy, romantic, how could they be seduced. For another night with her I would have scaled the mountains of Tibet to ask the Dalia Lama himself for some pointers.
A week later she returned, I was sure that I was prepared. A fire roared in the fireplace, roses were strewn about the entire apartment, candles flickered, and the stereo played some smooth jazz at a barely audible level. I greeted her at the door, taking her coat and wrapping my arms around her from behind. I whispered in her ear that she looked incredible. Smelling her neck I took a quick kiss to taste her perfume. We walked to the table and I proceeded to feed her grapes and chocolate covered strawberries, engaged in conversation but never letting my eyes off of her. When the moment felt right, I kissed her with a head of passion, taking hold of the hair at the base of her head, gently pulling it back to kiss her neck, her collarbone, and down to the cleave of her blouse. Her sighs and oohs were enough to tell me that it was time to move to the main event.
I asked questions, I followed instructions, and I made the whole experience about her pleasure, as she had done for me. She taught me things that I still do to this very day. She showed a young boy how to treat a woman, how to romance, how to perform seductions. For that I will always have a place in my heart, down in the cockles, for my very own Mrs. Robinson.
Dixie Cup of Love: The Educators.
My eyes opened to a startling, all be it wondrous, sight. The nurse was sitting on the nearby electro-shock treatment apparatus with her right leg bent like a dirty version of Anne Bancroft in the Graduate. Her loins must have had a four alarm fire burning because she was eyeing me up, eyebrows bouncing, and eye lashes fluttering. I could almost hear the Barry White in the background. A lesson in seduction was about to be learned.
At the tender age of twenty-two I thought I knew all there was to know about seduction. The divide between what I thought I knew and what I really knew was wider than the Atlantic Ocean, but I was clueless. Sure I had gotten over on a few girls using my then trademarked combination of wit and booze, but when I met Kathy that all changed.
She was my senior by twenty years with a great set of thick, cherry red lips. I remember those mouth guards like I remember short division, it's ingrained in my brain whether I want it there or not. She was built like a crystal vase, smooth, round in the proper proportions, able to keep my pistol and stamen straight for great lengths of time. Those were some hazy years for me as Captain Morgan and I were just getting started on our life together, but I recall with total clarity every inch of her form.
Kathy was a teacher, not by profession, but by ability. On our first libidinous lesson she was completely about me. Asking constantly if I liked a certain touch or wiggle, letting me know that it was okay to say no. Lavishing me when I groaned as the words failed me. I felt like a stud horse being milked dry of my worthy seed. As I lay twitching in the afterglow Kathy whispered in my ear that our next encounter would require seduction on my part. No problem, I was at an all time confidence high.
Two nights later she returned to find booze and dinner waiting for her arrival. We ate in near silence and I was sure it was going according to plan. After dinner I suggested we move tot he bedroom when she grabbed her bag and headed for the door. I was mystified. She informed me that though the meal was excellent, I hadn't seduced even a kiss from her plump lips, let alone the entire Mr. Toad's Wild Ride experience. She gave me homework.
I asked around to women that I knew and trusted. What did they find sexy, romantic, how could they be seduced. For another night with her I would have scaled the mountains of Tibet to ask the Dalia Lama himself for some pointers.
A week later she returned, I was sure that I was prepared. A fire roared in the fireplace, roses were strewn about the entire apartment, candles flickered, and the stereo played some smooth jazz at a barely audible level. I greeted her at the door, taking her coat and wrapping my arms around her from behind. I whispered in her ear that she looked incredible. Smelling her neck I took a quick kiss to taste her perfume. We walked to the table and I proceeded to feed her grapes and chocolate covered strawberries, engaged in conversation but never letting my eyes off of her. When the moment felt right, I kissed her with a head of passion, taking hold of the hair at the base of her head, gently pulling it back to kiss her neck, her collarbone, and down to the cleave of her blouse. Her sighs and oohs were enough to tell me that it was time to move to the main event.
I asked questions, I followed instructions, and I made the whole experience about her pleasure, as she had done for me. She taught me things that I still do to this very day. She showed a young boy how to treat a woman, how to romance, how to perform seductions. For that I will always have a place in my heart, down in the cockles, for my very own Mrs. Robinson.
Dixie Cup of Love: The Educators.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tazed and Confused
"I don't know why I feel this way, I don't know if its right or wrong, to laugh at misfortune, darkness can never last too long, when you laugh in its face." Oingo Boingo from "Only Makes Me Laugh"
The nurse had a devilish grin on her plasticine mug when she sauntered in with my dixie cup of joy. I know that I should have just accepted the Looney Tunes smirk without a word, but that cat killing curiosity got the best of me. I said "What's so funny?", she said "Knock, knock." I played along "Who's there?" She then punched me square in the snout, then cackled like the Salem witch that she is. I had no idea why this was so funny.
I've been spending a lot of time ruminating over the finer points of what is funny. Little kids running into closed sliding glass doors, that's funny. Kids shitty their pants in the fertilizer section of Home Depot, slightly ironic, but mostly sick. Witnessing this desperate cry for his mothers attention I was taken aback, and afront for that matter. Not by Little Lord Defecation, no I was awed by the hysterical laughter that this act of self humiliation elicited from his seemingly insane mother. It was like watching Britney Spears and Mommie and Me. I wanted to help the tyke out, but I was out of ammunition and a little tipsy, not a good time to be wielding firearms at the home improvement center. Instead of orphaning the child I did what any quasi-sober person would do, I opted to buy fertilizer later.
People falling down with the ingestion of mass quantities of alcohol is funny. Drunk people crashing through a glass table at the pub, quite possibly the funniest thing in the world this side of Hee-Haw. The drunk in question was an off duty cop, adding one more layer of levity to the whole event. If you can't stand up after consuming the whiskey equivalent of a Big Gulp you shouldn't be in the bar, officer. And the punchline was watching the police that the bartender called dealing with their fallen comrade. You, me, and Richie Sambora would have been arrested on the spot,. but the table dancer of disaster got a ride home. That made me sick.
After being ring side for these two epic displays I still don't know if I have a grasp on what is funny. My two year old nephew is a giggling, laughing basket of happy when I make duck noises, girls at the mall think its creepy. Where's the line? If I hear a tale about a knucklehead having his sack of man-stones hit with a tazer, I'm on the floor with tears pouring down my face, but when I'm the one getting tazed in the basket, well actually, I'm on the floor with tears pouring down my face. Yet somehow its not the same. One way is funny, the other more painful than watching a marathon of the View.
The concept of funny seems to be unique to each person. Some people laugh at Andy Dick, while others just find Andy to be a dick. Some people think that prop comics are a hoot, and these people need to be put to sleep like unwanted pound dogs. Some people think that laughter is the best medicine, but if I have a leg torn off by a thresher please give me morphine and leave Carrot Top in the lobby.
What makes you laugh? What's funny?
Dixie Cup of Love: Fucking Clowns.
The nurse had a devilish grin on her plasticine mug when she sauntered in with my dixie cup of joy. I know that I should have just accepted the Looney Tunes smirk without a word, but that cat killing curiosity got the best of me. I said "What's so funny?", she said "Knock, knock." I played along "Who's there?" She then punched me square in the snout, then cackled like the Salem witch that she is. I had no idea why this was so funny.
I've been spending a lot of time ruminating over the finer points of what is funny. Little kids running into closed sliding glass doors, that's funny. Kids shitty their pants in the fertilizer section of Home Depot, slightly ironic, but mostly sick. Witnessing this desperate cry for his mothers attention I was taken aback, and afront for that matter. Not by Little Lord Defecation, no I was awed by the hysterical laughter that this act of self humiliation elicited from his seemingly insane mother. It was like watching Britney Spears and Mommie and Me. I wanted to help the tyke out, but I was out of ammunition and a little tipsy, not a good time to be wielding firearms at the home improvement center. Instead of orphaning the child I did what any quasi-sober person would do, I opted to buy fertilizer later.
People falling down with the ingestion of mass quantities of alcohol is funny. Drunk people crashing through a glass table at the pub, quite possibly the funniest thing in the world this side of Hee-Haw. The drunk in question was an off duty cop, adding one more layer of levity to the whole event. If you can't stand up after consuming the whiskey equivalent of a Big Gulp you shouldn't be in the bar, officer. And the punchline was watching the police that the bartender called dealing with their fallen comrade. You, me, and Richie Sambora would have been arrested on the spot,. but the table dancer of disaster got a ride home. That made me sick.
After being ring side for these two epic displays I still don't know if I have a grasp on what is funny. My two year old nephew is a giggling, laughing basket of happy when I make duck noises, girls at the mall think its creepy. Where's the line? If I hear a tale about a knucklehead having his sack of man-stones hit with a tazer, I'm on the floor with tears pouring down my face, but when I'm the one getting tazed in the basket, well actually, I'm on the floor with tears pouring down my face. Yet somehow its not the same. One way is funny, the other more painful than watching a marathon of the View.
The concept of funny seems to be unique to each person. Some people laugh at Andy Dick, while others just find Andy to be a dick. Some people think that prop comics are a hoot, and these people need to be put to sleep like unwanted pound dogs. Some people think that laughter is the best medicine, but if I have a leg torn off by a thresher please give me morphine and leave Carrot Top in the lobby.
What makes you laugh? What's funny?
Dixie Cup of Love: Fucking Clowns.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Three Rows Above a Cloud
"Every man has a place, in his heart there's a space, and the world can't erase his fantasies" Earth, Wind and Fire from "Fantasy"
It dawned on me that the nurse probably had a queue of flower toting suitors trying to sample her affections. She's attractive in a Morticia Adams with a fake tan way, morose but ultimately comely. More attractive than her surgeon enhanced physical self would have been her occupation. Hello, Nurse! Its a sizzling slice of nine-to-five. Right near the top of the fantasy causing vocations. Up there with naughty librarian, sexy stewardess, or Female police officers. It got me thinking about how a job can influence ones curb appeal.
The was never a time in my Dungeons and Dragons playing youth ( and you can bet my Wizard rocked some ass ) that I thought I would have a job that would make my scary facade desirable. Turns out I was as wrong as Lyle Lovett dating Julia Roberts. For 5 years I was employed in a manner that made me sexier than Javier Bardem sporting that quaff in No Country For Old Men. I was the bouncer.
Being the gatekeeper at an ale house is power. In the wrong hands its dangerous, but in the right set of mitts that power opens doors to myriad adventures and chances for experimentation. Ladies were on the menu for me for the first, and sadly only, time in my life. Famous athletes were not just patrons of the establishment, but they were my friends. Rock stars were inviting me to Vegas and backstage at concerts. Even Charlie Sheen, the Machine, knew who not to fuck around in my bar. It was fame on a small level, but enough to wet the old whistle. And once you get a taste for something like that a thirst, unquenchable and all-consuming, begins to build.
The first time that my "recognition" factor paid off I was at Angel Stadium. My beloved Minnesota Twins were in town for a three game set against the Halos. I worked in a bar literally across the street form the arena and w2as given a freebie ticket by one of the many greasy, unwashed scalpers that I dealt with every game day. This was no great seat, if it wasn't' the Twinkies I would have passed, but to support my team I figured, nose bleeds be damned, I'm going to the game.
Upon entering the Orange County baseball cathedral I spotted yet another of the bar's regular customers, Tracy. She was a cook, that's really all I knew about her at the time. Didn't know where she worked, just knew she was a pretty girl with a million dollar set of dimples. She gave me a quick hug and asked where I was sitting. Pointing to a chair three rows above a cloud my head lowered in shame. But Tracy had a better deal for me. Turned out she was the head chef at the Diamond Club, an exclusive members only clubhouse located directly behind home plate. It was a restaurant and bar, with in your seat waitress service, prime rib, full blown menu, it was plush. My new best gal pal escorted me down to a seat that, you know when you've watching a game on TV and there's always that obnoxious guy talking on his cell phone in the first row right behind the umpire, that was me. What Up, Minnesota! For a Twins game. Paradise, found. Before leaving she slipped me her number , pecked me on the cheek, and said that she had always noticed me at the bar. Hard not too being that I was 6'6" and standing in the doorway, but she meant "noticed".
After that day whenever I went to a game I sat in the Diamond Club. She would bring me special treats like beer and these killer nachos of her own creation. We planned to go out on a date, but it wasn't going to happen until the end of the season, because if it didn't work out, I didn't want to lose my ball game privileges. We did date, it didn't work, but she still took care of me at the ball park. The power of the doorman.
Ever had a job that made you feel sexy? Been treated better than you deserve because of what you do or did for work?
Dixie Cup of Love: Chef Tracy.
It dawned on me that the nurse probably had a queue of flower toting suitors trying to sample her affections. She's attractive in a Morticia Adams with a fake tan way, morose but ultimately comely. More attractive than her surgeon enhanced physical self would have been her occupation. Hello, Nurse! Its a sizzling slice of nine-to-five. Right near the top of the fantasy causing vocations. Up there with naughty librarian, sexy stewardess, or Female police officers. It got me thinking about how a job can influence ones curb appeal.
The was never a time in my Dungeons and Dragons playing youth ( and you can bet my Wizard rocked some ass ) that I thought I would have a job that would make my scary facade desirable. Turns out I was as wrong as Lyle Lovett dating Julia Roberts. For 5 years I was employed in a manner that made me sexier than Javier Bardem sporting that quaff in No Country For Old Men. I was the bouncer.
Being the gatekeeper at an ale house is power. In the wrong hands its dangerous, but in the right set of mitts that power opens doors to myriad adventures and chances for experimentation. Ladies were on the menu for me for the first, and sadly only, time in my life. Famous athletes were not just patrons of the establishment, but they were my friends. Rock stars were inviting me to Vegas and backstage at concerts. Even Charlie Sheen, the Machine, knew who not to fuck around in my bar. It was fame on a small level, but enough to wet the old whistle. And once you get a taste for something like that a thirst, unquenchable and all-consuming, begins to build.
The first time that my "recognition" factor paid off I was at Angel Stadium. My beloved Minnesota Twins were in town for a three game set against the Halos. I worked in a bar literally across the street form the arena and w2as given a freebie ticket by one of the many greasy, unwashed scalpers that I dealt with every game day. This was no great seat, if it wasn't' the Twinkies I would have passed, but to support my team I figured, nose bleeds be damned, I'm going to the game.
Upon entering the Orange County baseball cathedral I spotted yet another of the bar's regular customers, Tracy. She was a cook, that's really all I knew about her at the time. Didn't know where she worked, just knew she was a pretty girl with a million dollar set of dimples. She gave me a quick hug and asked where I was sitting. Pointing to a chair three rows above a cloud my head lowered in shame. But Tracy had a better deal for me. Turned out she was the head chef at the Diamond Club, an exclusive members only clubhouse located directly behind home plate. It was a restaurant and bar, with in your seat waitress service, prime rib, full blown menu, it was plush. My new best gal pal escorted me down to a seat that, you know when you've watching a game on TV and there's always that obnoxious guy talking on his cell phone in the first row right behind the umpire, that was me. What Up, Minnesota! For a Twins game. Paradise, found. Before leaving she slipped me her number , pecked me on the cheek, and said that she had always noticed me at the bar. Hard not too being that I was 6'6" and standing in the doorway, but she meant "noticed".
After that day whenever I went to a game I sat in the Diamond Club. She would bring me special treats like beer and these killer nachos of her own creation. We planned to go out on a date, but it wasn't going to happen until the end of the season, because if it didn't work out, I didn't want to lose my ball game privileges. We did date, it didn't work, but she still took care of me at the ball park. The power of the doorman.
Ever had a job that made you feel sexy? Been treated better than you deserve because of what you do or did for work?
Dixie Cup of Love: Chef Tracy.
Monday, April 14, 2008
The Huckleberry
"Can't break free from the the things that you do, I wanna walk but I run back to you, that's why I hate myself for loving you" Joan Jett from "I Hate Myself for Loving You"
There is this awkward chemistry between the nurse and I. Call it love/hate or desire/loathe whichever you prefer, but the truth is our relationship is more host/parasite. We need each other to survive. Without her I am medication free, a state no one wants to witness. Without me, she doesn't exist at all. The figment would stop being imagined. Either way, sick of her, lusting for her, despising her, for all that I still need her.
Misogynist - (noun) - One who hates women.
I got an email yesterday that upset me to tremors. The author of the hate-o-gram was upset that I, gasp, took a stand pro-stripper in a comment I wrote at this persons blog. I defended what a difficult way it was for these women to make a living, how they are looked down on by society, that kind of thing. And this blogger wondered how I could say such things when there is so much "misogynistic shit" posted here at the Asylum. WTF? I was floored like Leon Spinks fighting Mike Tyson.
Do I come off as a vile woman hater? Pro drug, sure. Hater of American Idol, absolutely, not a fan of the retarded Hilton Girl, guilty as charged, But a misogynist?
I like to think that I portray an interesting, sometimes entertaining, character, that of inmate #4815162342. But here's the thing, I only stay in the role for one paragraph, those of you who read this daily know that. One time, experimenting, the whole blog stayed in the inmates voice. It was horrible. I thought of deleting it, but that would defeat its purpose. There was a lesson to be learned from that essay. Have fun with the Asylum but remember that its just my imagination. So I have tried to be real and honest about the tales I spin. Granted liberties are some times taken to increase entertainment value, names are changed to protect the ignorant, I mean innocent, and I tend to swipe from those that have written before me. Not in a plagiarizing way, but expanding on their ideas with thoughts of my own. But I never felt like I put Baby in the corner.
Disliking a celebrity most have fuel this scribe to blast an email at me, referring to me as "a good story writer" like I wasn't a good writer, just a story teller. I don't like celebutanes. Lohan, Ritchie, and the retarded Hilton Girl I find as worthless as journalists without a paper to write for. My counterpart must be a fan, how else do you get off calling me a misogynist? I didn't think I was going to write about this today, I had a laugh riot blog about The Nanny ready to rock, the high road was going to be taken. Fuck that. Gloves off, you wanna fight, I'm your huckleberry.
This person claim to be a straight forward fact obsessed journalist, which is obvious if you ever read their attempt at a Britney Spears joke. But this bargain basement Bob Woodward feels the need to defend opinions. If you have the slightest bit of opposing view, they shoot an email at you, or erase entire blogs because one of their commenter's got the best of them. Its as pathetic as Britney Spears in a size 2. Now that's a good Britney barb, or was it misogynistic, you decide.
Do you agree with this person? Do I come off as a misogynist?
Dixie Cup of Love: Right to Disagree.
There is this awkward chemistry between the nurse and I. Call it love/hate or desire/loathe whichever you prefer, but the truth is our relationship is more host/parasite. We need each other to survive. Without her I am medication free, a state no one wants to witness. Without me, she doesn't exist at all. The figment would stop being imagined. Either way, sick of her, lusting for her, despising her, for all that I still need her.
Misogynist - (noun) - One who hates women.
I got an email yesterday that upset me to tremors. The author of the hate-o-gram was upset that I, gasp, took a stand pro-stripper in a comment I wrote at this persons blog. I defended what a difficult way it was for these women to make a living, how they are looked down on by society, that kind of thing. And this blogger wondered how I could say such things when there is so much "misogynistic shit" posted here at the Asylum. WTF? I was floored like Leon Spinks fighting Mike Tyson.
Do I come off as a vile woman hater? Pro drug, sure. Hater of American Idol, absolutely, not a fan of the retarded Hilton Girl, guilty as charged, But a misogynist?
I like to think that I portray an interesting, sometimes entertaining, character, that of inmate #4815162342. But here's the thing, I only stay in the role for one paragraph, those of you who read this daily know that. One time, experimenting, the whole blog stayed in the inmates voice. It was horrible. I thought of deleting it, but that would defeat its purpose. There was a lesson to be learned from that essay. Have fun with the Asylum but remember that its just my imagination. So I have tried to be real and honest about the tales I spin. Granted liberties are some times taken to increase entertainment value, names are changed to protect the ignorant, I mean innocent, and I tend to swipe from those that have written before me. Not in a plagiarizing way, but expanding on their ideas with thoughts of my own. But I never felt like I put Baby in the corner.
Disliking a celebrity most have fuel this scribe to blast an email at me, referring to me as "a good story writer" like I wasn't a good writer, just a story teller. I don't like celebutanes. Lohan, Ritchie, and the retarded Hilton Girl I find as worthless as journalists without a paper to write for. My counterpart must be a fan, how else do you get off calling me a misogynist? I didn't think I was going to write about this today, I had a laugh riot blog about The Nanny ready to rock, the high road was going to be taken. Fuck that. Gloves off, you wanna fight, I'm your huckleberry.
This person claim to be a straight forward fact obsessed journalist, which is obvious if you ever read their attempt at a Britney Spears joke. But this bargain basement Bob Woodward feels the need to defend opinions. If you have the slightest bit of opposing view, they shoot an email at you, or erase entire blogs because one of their commenter's got the best of them. Its as pathetic as Britney Spears in a size 2. Now that's a good Britney barb, or was it misogynistic, you decide.
Do you agree with this person? Do I come off as a misogynist?
Dixie Cup of Love: Right to Disagree.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Green Envy
"Your love gave me a such a thrill, but you love can't pay my bills, I want money." Flying Lizards from "Money"
The nurse was waving around her paycheck stub, trying to quell the heat as the Asylum was saving dough by not allowing the air-conditioning to run on Sunday. The flimsy piece of paper was doing nothing to refresh her, just causing enough of a breeze to streak the mix of caked on Max Factor and sweat that covered her potato. But what I saw made me sick to my drug filled stomach. She was making a grip of greenbacks for torturing my soul. The vomit was creeping up my esophagus.
So the usually worthless throw away section of the Slow's newspaper had something in today that made me wretch. It was one of those lists that shows the respective earnings of a number of average human beings and of course, to rub our collective noses in it, the mother lode that some "celebrities" are breaking their backs carrying to Wachovia. Does it bother me that Katherine Heigl of TV's "Grey's Anatomy" makes $11 million bucks? No, she works a series, plus shoots movies, does commercials, the girl works her bouncingly buoyant boobies off. Do I think it's fair compensation compared to the $24 thousand that a Nebraska flight attendant makes? Of course not. But there were some numbers and people on this list that chapped my ass like horseback riding in the buff.
Doctor, and I use that term as lightly as I calling Sylvester Stallone an actor, Phil rakes in $90 million beans for telling fat women that it isn't their fault they are hefty, its their inadequate spouses fault. I'm as pro women as the next quack, but selling out ones own gender in a scam to separate the delusional from their hard earned quid is usually reserved for Revival Churches in tents. Oprah invited this miscreant into your homes, not mine because I believe that watching Oprah causes cancer, and you drones are floating this guys boat to the tune of eight figures, nearly nine. For Shame, America.
Chris Barnes makes $313,000 a year at his job. That's not a truckload, but it could certainly fill a Mini-Cooper. And what does this right handed wonder do in order to bank those greens? You'd think with the hint that he would perhaps pitch baseballs, no. Professional masturbation, no, come on if that was a job, I'd be the Bill Gates of Self Flogulation. No, this pinhead makes over a quarter of million bucks a year bowling. Are you shitting me? Bowling? I'm pretty good at lawn darts, but I don't know that America would pay me a wooden nickel to watch.
Now compare that to a personal assistant in Minot, North Dakota who makes $17,800 for her 365 days of hard work. That's below poor. And she lives in North Dakota which is already like being given a prison sentence, I hope she has to wait on some douchebag professional bowler for a living. Because I'm pretty sure when he says "I need you to polish my balls." she could have an excellent sexual harassment lawsuit payout coming.
There were other assorted numbers that made my brain hurt. Oprah Winfrey's gravy boat is worth $250 million smackaroos a year, Tiger Woods pulls down $115 million. 50 Cent makes the most of being a thug with a cool $33 million, guess it ain't that hard out there for a pimp. Ryan Seacrest whores himself out for a paltry $12 million and that's not much for ones dignity. But there were two that made me convulse.
Miley Cyrus. Hannah "friggin'" Montana. The hell spawn of the Icky-Sticky Goop singer robs the working class for $18.2 million dollars at age 15. Do I feel like an underachiever of Bart Simpson levels or what? That's ridiculous. Now, with Miley I will admit, she's pretty wholesome good role model material so far. But that kind of coin and those stage parents are going to cause I twisted drug bender that will make Lohan look like a AA veteran. I can't wait, and I hope I'm her dealer, cause I'm get every last dime of that sack of Benjamin's.
But the most insulting to me, to all of us. Trouble. That's the name of hotel heiress Leona Helmsley's dog. DOG. The pooch pulls down, hold on to something, $12 million a year! For licking its own balls. Which answers that age old question of why does a dog lick its sack, because apparently if you have the right shallow brained owner you can mint. Hear that Ruff Stuff, start licking your way to a fortune now.
Do you find this disgusting? Do you think people in entertainment (except writers) are overpaid?
Dixie Cup of Love: Eileen Welsh a teacher from Delaware who makes $13,000 a year. What's wrong with this country?
The nurse was waving around her paycheck stub, trying to quell the heat as the Asylum was saving dough by not allowing the air-conditioning to run on Sunday. The flimsy piece of paper was doing nothing to refresh her, just causing enough of a breeze to streak the mix of caked on Max Factor and sweat that covered her potato. But what I saw made me sick to my drug filled stomach. She was making a grip of greenbacks for torturing my soul. The vomit was creeping up my esophagus.
So the usually worthless throw away section of the Slow's newspaper had something in today that made me wretch. It was one of those lists that shows the respective earnings of a number of average human beings and of course, to rub our collective noses in it, the mother lode that some "celebrities" are breaking their backs carrying to Wachovia. Does it bother me that Katherine Heigl of TV's "Grey's Anatomy" makes $11 million bucks? No, she works a series, plus shoots movies, does commercials, the girl works her bouncingly buoyant boobies off. Do I think it's fair compensation compared to the $24 thousand that a Nebraska flight attendant makes? Of course not. But there were some numbers and people on this list that chapped my ass like horseback riding in the buff.
Doctor, and I use that term as lightly as I calling Sylvester Stallone an actor, Phil rakes in $90 million beans for telling fat women that it isn't their fault they are hefty, its their inadequate spouses fault. I'm as pro women as the next quack, but selling out ones own gender in a scam to separate the delusional from their hard earned quid is usually reserved for Revival Churches in tents. Oprah invited this miscreant into your homes, not mine because I believe that watching Oprah causes cancer, and you drones are floating this guys boat to the tune of eight figures, nearly nine. For Shame, America.
Chris Barnes makes $313,000 a year at his job. That's not a truckload, but it could certainly fill a Mini-Cooper. And what does this right handed wonder do in order to bank those greens? You'd think with the hint that he would perhaps pitch baseballs, no. Professional masturbation, no, come on if that was a job, I'd be the Bill Gates of Self Flogulation. No, this pinhead makes over a quarter of million bucks a year bowling. Are you shitting me? Bowling? I'm pretty good at lawn darts, but I don't know that America would pay me a wooden nickel to watch.
Now compare that to a personal assistant in Minot, North Dakota who makes $17,800 for her 365 days of hard work. That's below poor. And she lives in North Dakota which is already like being given a prison sentence, I hope she has to wait on some douchebag professional bowler for a living. Because I'm pretty sure when he says "I need you to polish my balls." she could have an excellent sexual harassment lawsuit payout coming.
There were other assorted numbers that made my brain hurt. Oprah Winfrey's gravy boat is worth $250 million smackaroos a year, Tiger Woods pulls down $115 million. 50 Cent makes the most of being a thug with a cool $33 million, guess it ain't that hard out there for a pimp. Ryan Seacrest whores himself out for a paltry $12 million and that's not much for ones dignity. But there were two that made me convulse.
Miley Cyrus. Hannah "friggin'" Montana. The hell spawn of the Icky-Sticky Goop singer robs the working class for $18.2 million dollars at age 15. Do I feel like an underachiever of Bart Simpson levels or what? That's ridiculous. Now, with Miley I will admit, she's pretty wholesome good role model material so far. But that kind of coin and those stage parents are going to cause I twisted drug bender that will make Lohan look like a AA veteran. I can't wait, and I hope I'm her dealer, cause I'm get every last dime of that sack of Benjamin's.
But the most insulting to me, to all of us. Trouble. That's the name of hotel heiress Leona Helmsley's dog. DOG. The pooch pulls down, hold on to something, $12 million a year! For licking its own balls. Which answers that age old question of why does a dog lick its sack, because apparently if you have the right shallow brained owner you can mint. Hear that Ruff Stuff, start licking your way to a fortune now.
Do you find this disgusting? Do you think people in entertainment (except writers) are overpaid?
Dixie Cup of Love: Eileen Welsh a teacher from Delaware who makes $13,000 a year. What's wrong with this country?
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