Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Bring on the Rampage of Foliage Death!

All Hallows Eve. I love Halloween. The crisp fall air that tweaks the nipples just enough to feel comfortably erotic... the warm crawling burn that peels off the back of your throat after a shot of bourbon... hiding in bushes with a tazer gun. The fall is simply an enjoyable time of year.
The leaves wither and die. The entire world seems to creep into huddled cracks and wait for the darkness to clear. We hide and wait for the perfect moment to strike... and steal Tootsie Roll pops from helpless children, the revel screaming half-naked through the crisp night air. The howls of dogs calling a passing train are not dissimilar to the howling madness of joy I feel in the twisted nocturnal adventures of Autumn. These are my Tom Waits nights... as I Paw my inside P-coat pocket for a welcome twenty-five cents... only there to know that I'm not broke... or to bribe someone for a cigarette on that long walk home from the bar. The streetlights all sing sermons from the top of the hill and I sit fascinated listening to their words of love. Of course, as we swing on past the sugar coated freakouts of Halloween, we stumbling into the dessert tables, fatted turkeys, and marshmallow dreams of Thanksgiving. The stuffing is scattered with cranberries and rusty nails. Then we follow suit with the golden glisten of Christmas joys... Christmas songs... heated drinks, scarves, and late night stops at Coffee Shops. Wrapping paper and staying under the covers for just a while longer... even taking entire Sundays to stay in bed and work off the strains of chasing down The Heart of a Saturday Night.
Then again, I could be this guy... and never hope to get laid as long as he shall live. It's a shame really... because I'm sure that there is some special place and some special girl for a guy that knows deep down in his heart that Elvis was a Jedi. Crack must be a really fucking awesome high.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Making the Grade

I've rocked it out. I made the runner up list on for their headline contest twice in two weeks. What fun. If you don't know what the hell I'm talking about then get your ass over to and enjoy the insults, racism, and complete idiocy of your fellow brethren. The world is a f#cked up place... and New York is our melting pot of steaming asshole stew. Embrace it.

On with the show:
My mind runs through random train wrecked thoughts at any given point of the day about any given amount of subjects and more than half of the time, they don't have a thing to do with solving the problems of the world (my self-appointed day job). Look, when you are forced to view all of the problems of the world and hoist them on your shoulders in a show of self-important gratuitous torture, your mind instantly reels into the realms of how to fix these problems in the most uncommon of nature... because obviously if the answer were so fucking easy, everyone would be able to do it.
Example: There was a film critic that watched my last little acting gig and likened the character to a "Brad Pitt type of smart-alec charisma." Hey, I was likened to Brad Pitt. Now, if I really wanted to become him I could get married, screw around with Angelina, adopt some babies, have a baby, save the world from poverty, call Bono a lazy bitch (that's just my personal take), and continue to top the A-List with a smile. Unfortunately, I'm more likely to take over where Mr. Ed left off and have a carrot shoved in my ass so that I look like I'm talking. Which brings me to the point...
There I was, brushing my teeth... staring blankly into the mirror... going over the random bits of information that had been crammed into my head the day before. It hit me.
Apparently Adrien Grenier thinks of himself as a B-List actor. "I guess that makes sense," I thought. He's certainly not a D-List. I mean... who would even be on a D-List? Drew Carey? Let's get this straight. Adrien Grenier is a B++ Actor (although he does a lot of standing around and smiling). Even though he is in a hit television show -- produced, filmed, and aired for HBO-- it is still a TV show. It's run through 3 great seasons. Adrien Grenier has a good thing going for him but he doesn't make a soul living acting in film. He's been in quite a few films. Hell, he's been in two Woody Allen Films (albeit, one was as an extra actually playing a member of an entourage). But he's not in the tabloids. Until he plows one through Lindsay Lohan he will more than likely not reach the A-List level that is saved for whether or not Jessica Simpson is screwing someone, why Toby Maguire gets fat and punches people, and why people think we actually give a shit that Mary Kate and/or Ashley is doing blow.
WHAT? Who is Adrien Grenier? PAY ATTENTION! Entourage is an addictive show. I find it fascinating in the way that only an acting dork could. There are facets that the show utilizes like a figure skater tracing a Picasso on a frozen pond. It's crafted to make a thirty minute show free of commercial breaks as exciting as possible. Look, just because you're too fucking cheap to pay for HBO every month doesn't mean that Entourage isn't a good show. They're canceling Deadwood because of people like you and Ian McShane is a fantastic actor. I really thought that he took it in the ass well when he played that gangster guy in SEXY BEAST.
Speaking of taking it in the ass. The last episode of Entourage had this whole gay innuendo thing with Johnny Drama that was hilarious. Johnny Drama by the way is played by Kevin Dillon... and Entourage made him a B List actor. Before he might have been a D--. I mean, he was only known for being Matt Dillon's brother, and for playing the drummer in THE DOORS. F#CK. Do I have to walk you through this everytime?

Then we run into the case of Jennifer Aniston. She rose through the ranks through marriage and the tabloids. Remember how her "top half" went through a transformation in the late 90's early 00's on Friends? I don't either but I've been watch TBS lately and man... at one point she had some big 'ol boobs. Wait, that's not the point. She was on Friends. And even though Friends was a hit "Must See" TV show (that I missed for several years in a row for some reason), she wasn't an A Lister. She was a high B Lister... and her boobs were... sorry. At least I stopped myself.
Anyway, we all know what happened. She had been doing some indie films here and there and then "BOOM" she's doing Brad Pitt. Brad took a while to hit the A List too... along with his pal Clooney. You know, had Jenn said yes to Ocean's Eleven then we could have really seen her take off. Perhaps she would have run off with George instead of Brad running off with Angelina. Imagine the Christmas parties... is that a bong made from a Honey Bear? Oh how clever!
So, she married up to the A List... then she got pity votes for a long time... because that was kind of shitty situation and she is pretty. However, we never really got to see her shine. The tabloids fueled the fire and then all of the sudden she's hopping cities and beds with Vince Vaughn? WTF? I didn't even have a shot! So, Jenn if you're reading this... don't take any of this personally. Too late huh? Damn you Vaughn... damn you... you win again. I will find you Vincent. And we will have a drunken slap fight in the middle of the street.
Vince on the other hand is an A-Lister. I mean, even though it took some time to get this kid on the radar after SWINGERS... I think that we all knew where he was going. Now if we can only get Vince and Jeremy Piven to do a movie together. Or maybe an episode of Entourage where they both waltz over to Nicholas Cage's house and beat him with a soup ladel until he shits dog food, just for making The Weather Man. Yes.... problem solved.

Friday, July 07, 2006

On The Road: The Search for an acting Job

There was a click-clack time clock shifting through the ethos. The soft humanty of it's birth tapped across the hardwood floor like the angelic pitter-pat of mice feet. No one could hear this gentle thunder under the wall of manic hyena laughter spilling from the teeth of barflies and misdirected tramps. The madness flooded my ears with the sick delight of another sloppy Saturday night. Perhaps the mirrored reflection of my work-saddened eyes changed momentarily... but it seemed that no one else had reacted to the final heartbeat of summer. No one else would notice that a child that once yearned for simple happiness--held out the wishful hope for love--chasing a sick American destruction -- yet my Taoist simplicity had died on the barstool. Just the small flicker of a soul... nothing more... nothing less. The barkeep kept pouring downers, the city streets yawned slick with rain. No one moved a muscle. No one batted an eyelid. Stubby fingers raised a cigarette to my lips and I inhailed a celebratory death march.
The years of fruitful adventurous youth had been melting away over wildly consumed pints of fist-pounded beer. The dreams of disillusion and depression had eaten an endless hole into my very being... but luckily there was still a glimmer of belief that somewhere, just beneath the skin, lay a dormant daydream... A shining diamond of hope waiting to be scratched and set forth hemmoraging into the night. Kerouac's ghost spoke in a whisper. I bowed my head to listen.
The memory of BIG SUR made me realize that there was once a man that brooded, searched, poured his heart out over stupid scrawled notebook pages, and drank himself into a warm welcoming fit of soul-destroying death. Was this sad night prowl an attempt to become more like this lonesome traveler or was it simply the case of another lost soul fighting against the world within--the world without--the demons that claw into the meat of your brain and refuse to let go? Jack Kerouac spoke to me, when I needed this common ground more than I needed to throw crumpled dollar bills on the sticky bar top. I needed guidance. I needed something other than dying on the cross of my own dastardly sins... only to be reborn in the devilish delights of lady night.
I needed to understand why I kept two quarters in my Pea Coat pocket... along with a broken cigarette that was the last resort before digging through ashtrays for half-smoked butts. Originally the thought would be that I would never be broke... but for some reason I think that it meant more than that. I walked home on twisted drunken streets, in freezing rain and prayed for snow. I cursed God in mumbled breaths, dodged the slushed whiz of passing cars, and prayed for hope... forgiveness... some way to arrive home so that I may rest my blurry head.
In the morning, amid the pounding unforgiving blood pressure and spinning toils... there was snow. Somehow the small pleasures of tiny forgotten prayers had been answered. A small glimmer of childhood glee returned. Unfortunately the worktime woes of adulthood would chase those smiles away. Throw a hat on, splash water on my face, throw on a jacket, and try not to vomit. These ails, the pains of searching for answers that have no question... How long would this one last? How much longer could I keep this up? None of those questions were pointed down the correct path. None of the answers seemed to matter. For now, there was the small matter of mere survival. I must survive the day... and approach another night. There might be sleep... For now there was work.

Thursday, April 27, 2006


Many never thought that "PortlandIsTheNewAndy" would sink to such lows as to mill through the random idiocy of what has come to be knows as "drink reviews." Look at it this way: If you are to stumble across this page on some random Wednesday afternoon after clicking through the porn links and random blog button half a billion times, then perhaps we can lay-down some knowledge for you poor bastards out there that can only buy something after it has been reviewed or stomped into an ass-puddle by some nerd and his internet portal. For the rest of you... look at this as a resume piece for writing for GQ... or at least what GQ would be if it would stop wearing pink Lacoste shirts, getting facials, spending $500 on a designer belt, and finally grow some hairy man-balls. Enough of this love note... on with the drinks.


First on the list is Cruzan's Estate Dark Rum. I will admit that this relatively inexpensive drink ($15.00 at a reasonable liquor store) has grown to be a house favorite of mine over the last two years of liquid-legal self-medication. I will take this humble opportunity to warn those that wish to purchase this fine product from the shelves of an unassuming local liquor store of it's ever-so-clever underhanded plot to take over the world one madcapped drunkard at a time.
Beware of it's classy appearance. The bottle is slim, the labeling is simple, and the warm honey color of its contents tempt the gullet. The "2-Year" label pimp-slapped on the lower portion of the bottle makes the connoisseur cringe. How could a two-year aged anything be worth it's weight in used chewing tobacco? ...And isn't Rum one of those ingredients in uber-gay drinks with cherries and a fucking umbrella? Yes, it is one of the ingredients but that's usually the "light rum" used with fruity cock-swill drinks and we're not talking about light rum here are we jackass... we're talking about the Estate Dark Rum. Jesus, pay attention.
Aging Rum for two years is acceptable --It's basically moonshine anyway. The dark rum is indeed more flavorful than a fistful of beets... but instead of swilling it right out of the bottle while sleeping in the doorway of an abandoned building while a rabid dog sniffs your balls in search for a morning meal , I would instead suggest mixing it half-and-half with iced tea or coke (and that is coca-cola... drinking the rum without the additional powder-keg will definitely "f" you up to the point of hallucination... and really who needs a marching powder hangover at the age of 30? Unless you're a used car salesman... then I guess we just kind of accept it). Anyway, after a couple of Rum and cokes or mixing it up with some Rum and iced tea one might finally understand the amazingly dangerous mentality of a pirate on the open sea. At some point in the night, once the beads of sweat start to gather in small trickles at the break of your brow, a line snaps that allows the willing to no longer be confined by the acceptable do's and don'ts of modern society. Sometimes it is heard as a soft thud... for others it can sound like the crisp crack of a bullwhip... However, there is no turning back. At this turning point, swinging across the ocean by a sea-salt tattered rope from one boat deck to another --through thick walls of cannon smoke and musket fire-- with a knife in your mouth and a crazed look in your eye sounds like a pretty good idea... And if you feel so inclined to re-create this analogy by the swimming pool please make sure someone else is there to witness it (and call 911 shortly after you split your face wide open with a knife blade). If you find yourself in the kitchen starring at the Sylvania light gleam coming from the steak knifes for too long, don't listen to the monkey on your back that has firmly sunk it's teeth into your shoulder... gnawing and twisting away at your flesh. Pay no attention to the membrane under your skull that feels as though a fire set by genocidal maniacs has scorched across your brain popping the top of your head off like the cap on a steam pipe. Just add some lime, a few more chunks of ice and try to relax... the raping and pillaging should be done in the comfort of your own home.
In other words, it's a good time.
***** (five star mad pirate drunk)

Next on the list is one of my favorite little Asians... aside from Kelly Hu. Gekkeikan (try saying that while fitshaced) Sake (pronounced: sah-kee) is easily attainable, though not that often purchased for casual drinking at home or in the colorful manic streets and/or bars. I mean, seriously... when is the last time you called up all of your friends on a Friday night and said, "Yo, B, I'm having a house party. Don't worry about food an' shit... but you're going to have to bring your own Sake, beeyatch." It might happen in Yokohama or Kyoto with all of those brilliant hip-hop Japanese surfers that I saw in Lost in Translation but it does not happen in reality (It does however happen in Memphis when I throw a party... because when you get down to it, it's Memphis and we will drink whatever the hell you have in the house. I've seen people do shots of Red Wine Vinegar... which brings us back to the point).
Sake is light in color (usually clear - the cheap stuff will have a light yellow tint - either that or I've been drinking pee) and usually light in taste. You cannot judge the taste by the scent. Gekkeikan Black and Gold is perhaps the best quality inexpesive "rice wine" you can pick up for under twenty dollars. It's best served warm in tiny little Japanese shot glasses or wooden cups. It is also quaintly referred to as, "The Ninja" in our little circle of friends that likes to make up cutesy little bullshit names for all of our problematic drinking excursions. The Reasoning: It's Japanese (actually it's made in California), it's dressed in black, and it has a tendency to sneak up on you while your sitting at a table -- coming in for a whispered kill stroke when you rise to stand while on your way to the bathroom. You could swear that you've been hit in the neck by a poisoned blowdart after a nice warm karafe of Sake and a belly full of sushi.
However, Sake can be used in a variety of mixed drinks to give you a little taste of the Orient on a lazy Sunday afternoon. One of my personal favorites is the Sake Mohito. A Mohito is a Cuban drink usually served with Rum, sugar, water, ice, and crushed mint leaves. So, replace the rum with sake and you've got your freaking Sake Mohito. There are also Sake bombs which are shot down the gullet in rapid succession with beer or the "Ninja Please" variation done with Colt 45 Malt Liquor (which I do not recommend. Colt 45 taste like pitbull feces).
After a long evening of throwing down tiny goblets of sake, one is prone to karate chop a random stranger in the neck or flail around an apartment with flying kicks and nunchaku with very little precision and loud Bruce Lee screams -- even though Bruce was Chinese American and not Japanese -- Perhaps you like Toshiro Mifune better? There is very little chance of nursing a hangover the next day (unless you happen to mix it with the aforementioned malt liquor) so you can feel free to slug away and call a rickshaw to take you back to the pagoda.
****(four star drunk for the sneak attack)

Once upon a time Heineken was a fine "krafted" German beer that won the world over with Jack Nicholson like charisma. Hell, even President Kennedy drank Heineken (of course he also porked everything with two legs). Heineken is a man's drink. There are very little women that are fans of the cat pee like taste of this fine German beverage but occasionally you can find the bright green glass bottle in the hands of a girl singing Weezer's Buddy Holly song emphatically into the open end of a "drown Heiny." These instances died somewhere around five years ago but with the massive sales of iPods, I'm sure these events will be making the party rounds again very soon. One might ask, "Why in the f#(k would that happen? Weezer's last two albums blew goat balls." Because us "Thirty to forty-types" (not to be confused with thirty-somethings) like to re-live the painful drunken moments of our college days when, MTV was truly music television, and found a new fascination with the Fonz.
Now, would the Fonz have poured an ice-cold Heineken down his gullet, wiped his mouth with satisfaction, pumped his thumbs in the air and replied, "AAAAAAAAYYYYYYY"? Damn right he would. However, Arthur Fonzarelli only lives in TVLand reruns... and the newest of new brews that Heineken has to offer is German-engineered for the current generation of beer guzzlers that likes to watch their figure. Heineken light has been introduced as the dance club drinkers beer of choice. I've seen the commercials... and I've tried the beer. You know what? It ain't bad. However, it's beer. Unless you're drinking something that hits the palette with an earthly, oily froth that is reminiscent of a Monk's brew... beer is simply beer. After three they all pretty much taste the same. By the way, Mr. Heineken... you're not cheap. When you pay $15.00 to get in the club or bar... you don't want to pay $5.00 a pop for a Bud Light, much less $6.50 for a Heineken. It's beer. I might as well take the empty bottle to the toilet, fill it back up with used urine and pop the top back on so that the bartender can re-sell that shit at $6.50 a pop. We just want to get a nice little buzz, have a few laughs, and some prospects for getting laid... not raped via pocketbook.
Ok. It's beer. It's decent. You need an opener to get the top off of the damn thing... Does that mean it's better because the bottle is childproof? I don't know. I'm drunk and confused.
**1/2 (pretentious picnic drunk)

First of all, let me start out by making my position on this drink crystal clear. I come from the land of long nights, drinking cheap ass coffee from greasy spoons and smoking Lucky Strike (non-filters)-- sharing my time with the toothless rejects of modern society... truck drivers, janitors, broken-down shoe salesmen, construction workers that live paycheck to paycheck, meth freaks, and hairy waitresses that could be "fixed-up" with no more than a $100 and a cheap bottle of champagne. I've lived a small portion of the Tom Waits broken circus of dreams, where the veal cutlet can walk down to the end of the counter and beat the shit out of your coffee because it's too weak to defend itself (credit Tom on that one, not me). I know what coffee is. I know that you don't walk into a mall and spend $4.95 on a powdered concoction that they add hot water to, stir, pour in some caramel flavoring and top it off with whipped cream and chocolate syrup. That is not coffee. I don't wear yellow dyed shorts and Ambercrome flip flops. I don't spend half of my paycheck going to Starbucks because of some dire need to feel trendy and hip. If I'm going to pay five dollars for a cup of something it's going to be a shot of bourbon... and I'm not going to question my sexuality afterward.
Now, with that said... I have recently had a cardboard cup filled with this overpriced "hot chocolate" purchased for me. The taste is bitter. The rush doesn't come quick enough... and for some reason I want to smoke a clove cigarette with it. It's too bitter, too sweet, too expensive... and then... I had to go to the bathroom in a rush of cold sweats and jittery bowels.
This drink is a laxative. It's that simple. They top it with chocolate swirls and whipped cream to put a nice little disguise on it. Look a man can wear a dress but when you get down to it, once you're through making-out and the lipstick has been smeared, there's a penis involved... and it better not belong to someone else. Now, the drink is a good kick in the pants... literally. However, after all of the clawing the walls and uncomfortable gurgles, heavy panicked breath, and bowl splatter, I rose from my seated position and had the best rush I've had in a long time. I felt a good six pounds lighter, my pants fit better, and my blood seemed to be tingling with a mad flow of caffeinated "high." I understood why people get this drink. It's a five dollar fix... call it "poop heroin." The after effects were amazing. However, you go down like a drunken sailor in about thirty minutes. The crash it awful... but for some reason just after lunch you have the abnormal urge to purchase another one. Starbucks is evil. I'm certain that there is some dastardly evil-plot relationship between MapQuest, HopStop, Starbucks, and Tom Cruise. Use this drink as a last resort... because you have to be very close to a bathroom within 15 minutes of consumption. Subway bathrooms are not acceptable... unless you're looking for anonymous gay sex and topical ass diseases. The coffee substance/drink however, does do it's job.
**** (eye opening sobriety)

That concludes our first PORTLANDISTHENEWANDY drink review. More shall come... as I wander the streets in a drunken haze jotting down notes in my Kerouac notebook and pee on your car. Long live the drinking!

Thursday, April 13, 2006

The humanitarian efforts of Hollywood

An Open letter to Stars and starlet:

Dear Hollywood,

There comes a time when the latest Hollywood fad becomes a remarkable flaw in humanitarian characteristics. I could go on and on about these "starlet's" rampant shopping sprees scattered amongst the various shops of Sunset Strip (or even their angry disbelief that the paparazzi won't leave them alone while they shop, visit Starbucks, and buy $400.00 cowboy shirts from Hugo Boss). I could take on the issue of irresponsible claims made towards prescription drugs or even the semi-religious cults that brainwash our lovable, picturesque film personalities. I will leave those issues for another day and another time. I will instead take this letter of opportunity to address an issue that far exceeds the regulated stupidity that seems to consume those fortunate enough to have a multi-million dollar paycheck for acting.
We've all seen Brad Pitt's new found love for wanting to help out those less fortunate countries of squalor by adopting their skinny, homeless children of poverty. I understand that you live in a world where a camera follows your every bowel movement. When you travel to a country that doesn't have DVD players, iPods, or MTV I'm sure that there is a fascination that these people have no fucking clue as to who you are or why you're there. They simply see a white man with money. Money opens eyes. Money buys food and water... money apparently also buys babies. However, we're not talking about a kitten, a rolly-polly puppy with worms, or even those damn Sugar Glider monkey/squirrels that you can find at a flea market. We are talking about a child.
Yes, these children may be given a better life through your acts of "heart-felt kindness." You can welcome them into a world of posh designer clothes, Xboxes, Mohawk, and something to eat other than dirt and rice. Normally that's a good thing. I mean, Bono has worked his ass off to bring the awareness to the destructive nature of Aids but I don't see him adopting any Aids babies (though I could be wrong about this in the next few days). Oh, and Bono... if you're reading this... shut the fuck up and make music... or at least something decent like The Joshua Tree.
Adopting a child from a foreign country has become as fashionable as buying a designer bag... but when you get tired of the kid you can't sell it on ebay. This is a human being, with emotions, choices, sexual preferences, and a whole hell of a lot to learn. I don't think that these celebrities are the best role models for children in general. Just follow the trail of where we've been before:
First we had lesbian celebes adopting children (because two gay men adopting a child would never be allowed... penises scare people), then there was that weird "fathering" incident with David Crosby, then the latest celeb baby boom, and weird names like Apple, Moses, Satangela...
I swear to God, if Paris Hilton adopts a child and puts it in a handbag there is going to be hell to pay...
Do you see where I'm going? I realize that it's hard to live a "normal" life once you make a bit of noise on the silver screen. You get chased by photographers, run into people with your Mercedes Benz while on your cell phone, rent out entire "family pizza joints" and get pissed off because someone video tapes you, marry someone and divorce them a week later... then marry your co-star, say things that get twisted around by the press and have to write an apology letter. It's a tough gig to be so rich and famous. I realize that you can't get drunk in public (Sienna Miller). I realize that you can't go to a Beastie Boys concert. I realize that every time you walk the dog someone is waiting for you not to pick up the poop so that they can sell the picture of you in sweatpants to some half-baked rag of a tabloid for $10,000. But please... please... stop adopting children from foreign countries... Unless there is some kind of conspiracy to cross breed the children and make a super-human race of robot like actors that are betrothed to wed, breed, and build a time machine to save the past. People around the world are going to think that America can buy anything as fashion accessories... including people. How cool would it be to show up at the red carpet premiere of Miami Vice with two adopted children in tow? Oh, what will they wear? Is that Osh-Kosh?!
Stop. Just stop. Go buy a motorcycle and crash it into Gary Busey's house.
Oh, and celebrities like Cary Grant were classy guys. They were seen in public looking as good as they were on screen. It's not acceptable to lounge around in basketball shorts, t-shirts with the sleeves cut off, and a ball cap while you stumble through on-coming traffic eating a bagel. Take some fucking pride in yourself... you're a movie star... wear something decent when you're out in public.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

the third multi-annual parade of pictures taken from random blogs

Jesus climbed to the top of the mountain and looked down upon the land. He thought to himself, "This will be the coolest bass jump ever. Of course, it has to be... for I am the lord and no previous jump from any point shall reach anywhere near the point of being as cool as this jump... I have spoken and it will be so..." The lord had a way with words. He stretched his arms to a painful length, a pose that reminded him of his previous attempts at extreme sporting. The scars on his hands and feet were a constant reminder of what happens when you "Punk" the Roman Empire.
It was time for his third coming (because the second coming of Christ happened somewhere around the 70's... and the Lord brought Disco). With his arms stretched across the heavens, Jesus leapt from his hallowed peak and bass jumped all the way to Earth. His third visit would prove to be the "illest vacation ever."

When Jesus hit the ground he instantly regretted the choice of bass jumping. "Ascention was sooo much sweeter," he stated in a muffled huff. He had landed face first in a random Illinois suburb and there was a draft. His robe had gotten wrapped around his head, the breeze was good for a while. "There is nothing like a cool breeze on the dangles... this is what makes the world a decent place," said the Lord.
Jesus dusted himself off and turned to see a young teenage boy aghast with excitement.
"Dooooode! That was the harshest landing I've ever seen. You landed so hard it blew your pants off!"

Jesus laughed at the thought of wearing pants. Pants simply got in the way of his extreme sport lifestyle. Once before, when Christ had tried pants, he found them too constricting... and the leg of his Levi 501's managed to become entangled in his motorcycle's powerchain, which really screwed up his landing. Although Jesus was the king of the "big air," he still had a difficult time sticking the landings...
"Navin, that is a sweet scooter," sayeth the Lord.
"S'ats right it's a sweet scooter," replied Navin the youngest of the brothers Johnson, "This thing is hella tricked out and is .05 points just below illegal. I gotta keep it street legal or moms will ground me and take away my allowance. If the cheddar gets cut off, I've got to run the pink slip on this thing and I cannot afford to lose this scooter, yo."
Jesus nodded in assured acknowledgement. "Much respect, Navin," Jesus retorted, "Much respect. However, you should not bet on racing, my son. The big 'G' doesn't really approve of such deeds. I mean, I ain't gonna tell him what you're doing with your scooter... but you should probably be curtailing your racing habits."
"Doesn't God always watch us?" Navin asked with a concerned scrunch stretched across his face.
"Yes, he is always watching... but last week he's really been into Nascar... and all hell is breaking loose. That's why I had to come back to Earth. To set things 'scraight'."
"I'll help you, Jesus,"
said Navin. "We can use my scooter to track down the evil-doers... doees... duers... how do you say that? ...Evil Dudes, and smite them back into righteousness."
"Word," Jesus smiled. Navin and Jesus would work together to right the evils of the world... the prophecy had now begun.
"Let's be blood brothers," Navin exclaimed.
"Do you really want to cut your hand? I mean, I'm good... still got the holes from the nails and everything... but that kind of sucked, so you might want to avoid that," spoke the J-man.
"Oh, wait... what if I drink your blood? Does that make me a vampire? I don't want to be a vampire because then I wouldn't be able to go out during the day... and the 7-11 store doesn't stay open all night... and then I'd have to get lights for my scooter to race at night... drinking your blood won't make me a vampire will it?"
"Gee... I never thought of it that way," pondered Jesus, "Well, let's just go to the church and drink some vino instead. They say that red wine is my blood, so that should work. We might want to get you baptised or something too. And if there are going to be Vampires, we'll need holy water. I got the cross thing taken care of though."
"You're pretty smart, Jesus,"
smiled Navin.
"Dude, I know."
Jesus hopped on the back of Navin's scooter and they rocketed across town to the Catholic church. Within the church they would find "the blood of Christ" and only then could Navin and Jesus become blood brothers.... because being a vampire would suck. The scooter came to a slow whine as they made the corner in front of the cathedral.
"Is this the place?" asked Navin.
"Sho' nuff," replied Jesus. "This will work out well. I know the guy that runs this place. He is a real righteous dude."
Navin and Jesus marched up the stairs toward the doors of the cathedral only to find that the door was locked.
"Isn't this your dad's house?" Navin asked.
"Yeah, but he's not home today... it's Tuesday. He's probably making spaghetti."
"Well, how do we get in?"
"Dude... I'm Jesus... I have a key."

Jesus noticed a sign adjecent to the roadways just in front of his Dad's house. He laughed so heartily at the sign that milk came out of his nose... and he hadn't drank milk since Feburary of 2003.
"That's false advertising," Jesus said aloud.
"Whatever do you mean of Lord of Lords?" queried Navin.
"Dad's not hangin' out in the sky. He's on vacation in Florida. Last week he was playing skee-ball in Jersey."
"Oh, like that movie that Kevin Smith made?" Navin chuckled to himself.
"Yeah, kind of like that," Jesus replied, "But he didn't dress up like Alannis Morrisette. He prefers to go out dressed up like Fabio. He's just fascinated with that 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. I mean, he's God and he doesn't know how they make it taste so much like Butter. "
"What does that have to do with Florida?"
Navin asked.
"Shut up, dude. Do not question my dad... he works in mysterious ways."
Jesus raised his arms to the heavens and there was a great crack and rumble. The melodic harmony of angelic voices made Navin's heart soar. The doors creaked and opened wide allowing them access to the interior of the church.
"Show me how you did that," said Navin.
"I'm not really sure how I did it," Jesus said, "I've been able to do that since the age of 13. It really comes in handy after a night of healing and putting leppers back together. It doesn't work too well with Zombies though. But anyways... I'm pretty bad about losing my keys... you know... they don't make these tunics with pockets."
Just then a mighty growl echoed through the chambers of the cathedral.
"I'm hungry," Navin cried.
"It's okay... we'll get some bread and you can eat me... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I'm funny," Jesus joked. "Let's go make a sandwich." be continued.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

the second multi-annual parade of pictures found on random blogs

"If there is a God, and he's paying attention... he can stick his big toe up my ass, there is no way I'm going to tell my father that I take it in the pooper," Duke screamed across the lanolium fields. Although he was a seasoned war veteran after decades of fighting the villanous armies of Cobra, he still preferred the non-sanctioned red jump suits over the olive drabs. "Drab... that doesn't even begin to explain the way those baby-shit green mandibles sit on my hips," he was often heard remarking. Everyone dealt with his openess in "this man's army" because in a pinch, he was the best man in a fox hole... if you know what I mean.

There was a very uncomfortable day in late Spring of 2007 when Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston happened to sit side by side on the park bench adjacent to the lake... both breast feeding their new sons. Even then, the man in her life couldn't resist the temptation of those mammoth boobs. Secretly Jen felt hollow inside. So she stabbed Anglina in the "babymaker" with a nail file.

On his 21st birthday, Raymond finally came out of the closet, tucked back his manhood, put on his "pretty dress" and went out for a night on the town with his dark skinned boyfriend Cocoa Channel. Cocoa had already taken the initiative to get the horomone injections and the "tits" were coming in nicely. Neither of them minded that there was still penis involved in the equation... actually they preferred it... and so did the bearded woman in their life. They would never have to cry in the closet again. Guiness for everyone!!

"If you put on a dress I'll take you out for the biggest steak dinner you've ever seen. Mississippi won't know what hit 'em," Earl stated with a drunken feverish grin. Christmas was the one time of year when all were jolly and he could get some 'poon from that God-fearin' wife of his. They had only been married for two years but his dear Prudence had already let herself go. She didn't cook too much... but she did love her soap operas. At least this way he knew that his wife would always be his. And Earl did like his jelly rolls... "I like big butts and I cannot lie," he snarled as he spit a rancid tar-like substance into a styrofoam cup.


1. "I don't care how pretty she is... somewhere there is a guy that is utterly tired of her stupid whiny bitch-ass bullshit."

2. "Shut the fuck up when the game is on... and get me a beer."

3. "I don't care about your needs. I'm a man and when I finish you swallow."

4. "I will go Ike Turner on your ass so fast."

U2 had been stretching their popularity for decades. Their one and only fan no longer wanted to hear Bono rant and rave about hunger and Aids. Here merely wanted the sweet southern guitar swirls of Lynard Skynard.
Little did U2's only fan know, that in fact he was at the opening night showing of "Uncle Fester's Transvestite Interpretive Dance rendition of Godzilla vs. Mothra."
A lot of lipstick was smeared that day. Nothing breaks my heart like crying transvestites.

Apparently Spanish ninja's look like a penis.

This is John Travolta's other nerdy habit. He likes to dress up like Uma Thurman's character in Pulp Fiction, invite Tom Cruise over to the house, strap one on, and dry hump 'ol Tom on Oprah's couch. The key to the outfit is comfortable shoes.
Then he eats a life sized waffle and shits out a 747 sized turd... named DeAngelo the Fecal king of Mondavia.