Brave New World
Hi everybody, thanks for coming back.
The entire month of April passed me by without any blog entries, and a lot has happened in the wicked world since March. I don’t know how I am going to tie all this together, but I am going to do my damnedest.
Perhaps the most incendiary thing that happened since we last got together was the death of Trayvon Martin, a black teenager who was shot and killed by a neighborhood watchman of mixed ethnicity (white and hispanic, but kind of looks like an Arab. Go figure.) The event caused a terrible row in the political world, with great distress felt for the perceived injustice of an armed man killing an unarmed teenager. Race relations have been strained, and the whole thing is understandably a morass of anger and confusion. As of yet, we do not completely understand the circumstances surrounding the shooting, so I won’t editorialize… I do not want to piss on the beehive. However, if there is one thing we can learn from this undeniably tragic event, it is that black people love horrible first names.
Racism is indeed a very real and terrible thing. Again it presented itself in the public forum when some fans of the Boston Bruins made untoward remarks about Joel Ward, a black hockey player from the Washington Capitals, on Twitter recently. I, for one, was shocked… to learn that a black guy played hockey.
Ha. I bet you thought I was going to say something profound. Good luck with that, sucka. Anyway, lets go over some silly stuff, though, since shooting each other is not really that funny, and hockey kind of sucks.
I always wanted to be a rock star, but fuck that, I want to be a Secret Service Agent now. Apart from getting kickass aviator shades and an Uzi, apparently, once they cross the southern border, the standard of professional conduct is reduced to the one used by Mötley Crüe roadies. Mountains of yayo and sassy Colombian hookers? Si, senorita! These G-Men leave nothing in their wake except for nosebleeds and the wreckage heaps of Latin women they’ve destroyed in various South American fleshpots and houses of ill-repute. God Bless America! Some people get down on these guys, but not the Man with No Shame. I reckon you have to luxuriate yourself from time to time in order to attain a healthy Qi, as the Chinese call it. Sometimes you just have to say “Fuck it, it’s all about me, baby”, before you drive in the breakdown lane or take a dump in the handicap stall. When life hands you lemons, make lemonade, I say… then pour a whole fifth of Stolichnaya vodka into the lemonade and drink until you’ve forgotten about how your miserable, shitty life gave you lemons again. You can’t always be the nice guy. In keeping with my Qi, I often turn to Confucius, who once mused, “He who is nice boy with woman get many hug, but no bro job”
Speaking of Ancient Chinese philosophers, the Octomom, rendered destitute by the rigors of octo-maternity, is going to be hitting the porn circuit soon. “Hooray!” and “Yes! It is about time” were reportedly shouted by crowds of nobody. Seriously, though, who wouldn’t want to watch a woman (holy shit, look at the alliteration in this sentence) that shit out a litter of 8 children engaged in graphic sex? I mean, apart from me, you and everybody else. I imagine that watching the Octomom in the electric flesh boogaloo with some dude, no matter how well-equipped he may be, would probably be like watching somebody throw a cocktail weenie down a mine shaft. However, if the whole porno thing doesn’t pan out, she can always rent her uterus to any pilots who might need an airplane hanger for a B-29.
I’ve been hitting the gym big time as of late, and I’ve lost a couple of pounds. I don’t need a shooting range to blast the guns, if you know what I mean (winks at girls; girls gag). Actually, I don’t even work out that much, I simply stopped eating all the food I love. I thought I was getting too chunky, and I was reaching a high water mark… quite literally, since I hopped in the bathtub and most of the water poured over the side. It is funny how you see the same people at the gym when you go regularly. There are a few stock characters, like the meatheads, the super-fat guy and the old perverts in the locker rooms. Why do old men love walking around completely naked? Like I need to see some old man’s pendulous breasts, or dirty old ball sack dragging on the floor behind him like a wedding dress. There are a few Jersey Shore types at my gym who usually crowd around this one hussy like a bunch of cavemen who just discovered fire. This girl is built like Jessica Biel, which is to say like Michaelangelo’s David, but with a larger penis. She is probably the most athletic person in the gym, with a million dollar body… and a ten cent face. Most of her workout seems to involve sticking her ass up in the air and doing obscene yoga poses, undoubtedly designed to inflame the loins of fellow gym rats. She was doing some crazy move next to me the other day and I nearly dropped a dumbbell on my head… luckily for me, I don’t keep anything important inside my skull – just some Marlboro tar and a Q-Tip I lost a few years back. Many of the men simply gawk like morons, their dirty mouths hanging open, catching any flies that might be in the gym.
Finally, I recently learned that Kim Kardashian and Kanye West have been seeing each other, and he shall be featured prominently on her shitty television program. A random side note, but I heard that Keeping up with The Kardashians was originally going to be called KKK: Keeping up with Kim Kardashian, but the producers were unable to obtain the rights from the Ku Klux Klan, who did not want their brand and prestige injured by association with the Kardashians. Anyway, the pairing of Kim and Kanye is probably the most significant convergence of evil empires since the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, or maybe since Darth Vader hired Boba Fett. It is kind of funny that Kim and Kanye are dating… not because they are not perfectly suited for one another by virtue of their common talentlessness or whorish pursuit of fame, but mostly because Kanye is a closeted homosexual.
The title of this blog has no bearing on the content, it is simply taken from a Motörhead song that I think kicks ass. See the link below if you want an ear-gasm. I like when the bass and drums join the guitar.
As for me, I am going to put on my Dunce cap and sit in the corner for a while if anybody needs me.
Hugs and kisses,
MJG
Corned Beef and Garbage
Xin chào,
Happy Tuesday, boys and girls. I trust you are all recovered from St. Patrick’s Day by this point. I personally just woke up about 5 minutes ago, but I feel ok… nothing a little black coffee and strychnine can’t fix. The pro at the golf course was very kind for not calling the cops when the sprinklers roused me from my deep and enchanted slumber. After I found my pants, I decided it was blog time. Actually, for the most part, I behaved myself on Saturday…at least that is what I assume, since I don’t remember anything. I actually went to sleep at 8:00 PM, and woke up the next day around 9:30. Not bad. It certainly beats waking up naked in a Motel 6, chained to the radiator with a bottle jammed up your ass. St. Patty’s Day is mostly for amateurs, especially when it falls on a Saturday. However, like Thanksgiving, I do love the celebration of sinful overindulgence. I want to talk about this holiday, and the Irish culture that we Massholes so dearly embrace. When you start hearing those bagpipes, and the booze is in your blood , you just want to bury a battle axe into a British infantryman’s helmet on some Middle Ages battlefield… or at least throw a brick at somebody. Preferably a WASP. I heard that circus clowns are based on Irish people… think about this one for a second. Circus clowns have curly red hair, pasty white skin, big red noses, they wear plaid and they stumble around all the time. It makes a lot of sense to me.
I would not have ventured into the streets of Boston on Saturday were it not for some slick talking by a friend of mine. When I woke up on Sunday morning, it felt like my head was between a blacksmith’s hammer and the anvil. Sadly, I did not make it out to South Boston to observe the parade. It was too bad, because it was a rather nice day. Thank goodness for Global Warming. You know I am kidding , and obviously I don’t believe in that balderdash. It is all just fantasies cooked up by hippies and communists to promote drum circles and such. I’ve said it before, but I don’t trust those environmentalists. People with silver ponytails and names like “Moon” or “Flower” can’t be taken seriously, unless you’ve got questions about strains of marijuana or Grateful Dead bootlegs. Whenever I see some greasy hippy with dreadlocks, it makes me wish I carried hedge shears everywhere I went, just in case there is a need for some ambush barbering. If there is man-made global warming, I am all for it. An early spring following a mild winter? Don’t mind if I do! If it means I never have to shovel snow again, I will burn a pile of styrofoam every solstice to honor my vengeful sun god. It should be pretty easy, too, since I just got a new job at the styrofoam peanut factory.
…back to Southie and the parade. I’ve never felt safe in South Boston, as though at any moment I could have a bottle broken over my head and get my ass kicked… and that doesn’t even account for the men who live there. Simply put, I don’t feel like I fit in. It might be because I don’t have an outrageous Boston accent…or a neck tattoo…or fetal alcohol syndrome. They say alcohol is a very powerful drug. I would disagree, however, and say that alcohol is more like a very powerful magic potion. Do you know of any other substance on earth that can turn a pig into a fox? Or one that makes you as charming, or as good at singing on the sidewalk at 3:00 AM? No, friends, this is hardly a drug; it is a magnificent elixir and cure-all for anything that ails you…except for alcoholism. It doesn’t cure that.
We were out throwing back Guinness on the holiday, all the while sinking deeper into the bottomless depths of drunken shamelessness, and one of the guys at the table ordered the spiciest smelling buffalo wings I have ever encountered. My eyes were watering, and I was getting dizzy from their piquancy. He offered me one, and I admonished him for his bold and reckless selection. I pointed out that one of the main objectives on St. Patrick’s Day is to not shit your pants, and this was extremely counterproductive and not an effective means to an end…unless you’re trying to be mean to your end. I imagine once these Napalm-flavored wings started wreaking havoc on your guts, you wouldn’t even make it to the bathroom before your shoes were full of liquid shit. Also, the next morning when he wakes up after a night of hitting the sauce and he has to go melt the porcelain, he might not like a physical sensation that is probably very similar to somebody putting out a cigar on his asshole.
Anyway, take from this blog what you will. Maybe it was a little bit too scatological (vocab word for you), but I thought it was funny. Next time we meet, I plan to go over hipsters, and the return of the Occupy Wall Street movement. As far as the title of this post goes, back in the day, my grandmother used to cook corned beef and cabbage now and again, which my grandfather would affectionately call “corned beef and garbage”. I wonder if being a jerk is hereditary.
MJG
A Portrait of the Artist as a Dumb Man
Oh, hello again,
This blog is dedicated to Davy Jones, the late British musician. He died about a week ago, and I can only hope that he will be buried at sea, so as to return him to Davy Jones’ locker. Rest in peace, you cheeky monkey.
I had a whole blog written and saved for today, but I accidentally saved something over it and now I have to start from scratch. It was not really funny, though, so I am not that upset. The Valentine’s Day blog got a great reaction, and I thank you for it. The most hits this blog has ever received in a single day was 136, which was for the very first entry back in October. The last blog got 131 hits, which I am very proud of. I am not proud of you deadbeats, though. Second place is for losers, so smarten up. Regardless, one day, after I’ve become famous and I’ve won an Oscar, a Grammy, the Nobel Prize and the Iron Cross, I will not forget who put me on the top of the shit pile.
My 27th birthday was on February 25th and it was a lot of fun. I share that birthdate with Ric Flair and Carrot Top. Oh, and George Harrison, but that guy is a hack compared to the other aforementioned talents. I like to think that I am getting better with age, much like cheese. Except I taste better than cheese, so take note, girls. Cheese probably smells better, however. 27 is not bad for me, since I’ve already beaten the spread. Between my collegiate love of intoxicants and Baconators, I figured I would have checked out around 23. However, serendipity has smiled upon me… so suck on that, probability. Back to the birthday, though. My neighbor was just telling me how funny it was when he heard the music blaring from my apartment at 4:30 AM on February 26th. We were listening to this remix of the 4 Non Blonds song “What’s Up”, which is set to footage of He-man and The Masters of the Universe. It seemed appropriate after my 34th drink of the night. In all seriousness, though, I can’t stop watching that goddamn Youtube video. Saints preserve me, it is like a needle drug. I. Can’t. Stop. As Carl Brutananadilewski once said “It is stuck in my head, and only way I can get it to stop is if I blow it out – with a bullet.”
I was at the bar with some friends (including girls, can you believe it?!) and during the night, one of the girls dropped something on the floor, which then rolled between my feet. Though I would have gladly retrieved the item for her, she leaned forward, with her head hovering over my lap as she searched the floor. I felt very uncomfortable, yet not entirely displeased, as her face was about a centimeter away from my doodle-schwanz. I turned to the girl sitting next to me and said, quite unceremoniously, “Well, I am glad I took a shower today!” The comment was met with mixed reaction by those who chanced to hear it. I thought it was funny.
All right, enough of this bullshit, let’s get weird. Time for some observations, so fasten your seat belt.
Did you hear the big news? Since the dawn of time, man has plodded towards progress. We discovered fire, invented the wheel, forged steel, sent rockets into space and walked on the moon. Finally, human achievement may have reached its zenith, and you know why? They finally fried the McRib. Man split the atom, and now its time to split our pants. The McRib, a scrumptious injection molded patty of imitation ribs made from pork byproduct paste, has finally been battered and fried. Oh, the humanity! I also learned that Burger King is going to start delivering food, door to door. We are officially too fat and lazy for the drive through. We can’t even drive to a window to get food anymore. If you think this country is fat right now, just wait and see. We’re going to blimp out, look back at ourselves in 10 years, and think we used to look like Heroin chic models. Our collective physique about to go from Kate Moss to Jabba the Hutt. We are going to expand like the sun. The obesity rate is going to move faster than herpes in a sorority house. Now I am not trying to say that the end is nigh, but this gastronomical perdition is probably the beginning of our extinction event.
I was thinking about Lent the other day, and how I always hated letting any day pass without eating at least one animal. Fruits and veggies are great, but if something didn’t have a face at one point, why bother eating it? I want my Lenten diet to be the meatiest in the land, with each animal more endangered than the last. Bald Eagle drumsticks, Siberian Tiger spareribs, you name it. It will be a menagerie of flavors until I’ve got that coveted Easter ham locked in my crosshairs. I thought about giving up deodorant for Lent, so as to emulate the time of Jesus… or the current fragrance of the Middle East.
I was thinking about how fat this country is, and the nerve we have. We actually have competitive eating, even though obesity is rampant. There are parts of this world (East Africa leaps to mind) which are so famished that people wash their hands with cattle piss, and would kill just to eat one of your boogers. Somewhere in Ethiopia right now, there is an egg-headed walking corpse who had a bowl of sand for dinner and is one stiff breeze away from death. Meanwhile, back in Milwaukee, we’re still trying to figure out who can eat the most hot dogs. Still, when the famine commercials come on, it always gets me for a few seconds. Then I change the channel and get another beer. How fucked up is this country that I feel worse for the dogs in the animal cruelty commercial than I do for a starving human being? I am not alone in this sentiment, either, so don’t even pretend like I am the only asshole. Maybe if they put the starving children in dog cages and played Sarah McLachlan over the PSA we might learn to care. I doubt it, though.
I can’t believe you people read this crap.
MJG
Hopeless Bromantic
Hello again,
Happy Valentine’s Day everybody. I have not blogged in a month, so this should be a good release. As always, read at your own peril. A lot has happened since I last posted, and because I have not been working on new material, I am just going to cobble together a bunch of random thoughts and pretend it is a cohesive blog entry. In other words – business as usual. My readership had been waning last month, and I became sort of indifferent for a little while. I think it was because I was talking about politicians and world events too much. I am going to stop that…right after one final observation: Isn’t it funny that Mitt Romney is the Mormon, but Newt Gingrich had multiple wives?
You know, Valentine’s Day is probably my favorite holiday, right after all the other ones. It is not that I don’t like rabid commercialism and singing bears, it is just that my love life is always so screwed up. I am not trying to say I am bad with relationships, but if relationships were like race car driving, I would be Dale Earnhardt. I would say it isn’t so much that I am bad with romance as it is that girls are good at figuring out who the idiots are. Consequently, the last time I was naked in bed with a lady was my birth. Just kidding – I was born on a pool table. It could be raining boobs and I’d probably get hit in the head with a dick. I suppose that says more about my luck than romance…though it probably gives you an idea of how deep into the sewer my brain descends. Deeper than most ladies care to promenade, I declare. But hey, don’t get too down, it won’t matter one day when we’re all dead 
You know that old expression, “the heart wants what the heart wants”? Well, between the Superbowl and my recent misadventures with the fairer sex, my heart wants me to be drinking Jack and Coke with a funnel and spraying wrist blood in the bathtub. Sadly, the heart and brain are often at odds with each other, and can never quite get on the same page. When they can’t agree, things go awry, and then Mr. Liver ends up being the one to suffer most. Mr. Liver is usually pretty cool, but he just threatened me with his two weeks notice – something about Foie Gras getting better treatment than he does. It is times like these, when you are mired in despair, that you don’t know quite what to do. I’ve just been so sad that I had to make a change, and I let Jesus come into my life. Jesus is a Puerto Rican guy that sells drugs in Downtown Crossing.
Meanwhile, in other events, I had a couple more observations about recent occurrences. Before you return to the wilds of the internet, I hope you will read on.
They struck down Proposition 8 in California, about a week ago or so, which is a huge victory for gay rights, and a giant defeat for gay relationships. I never understood why gay people lobbied so hard to lift the ban on gay marriage. I thought of it as a legal protection. I know many men who had girlfriends on their backs as they approached their late 20′s, hell bent on matrimony. Imagine if you could just say, “Hey baby, sorry, the law is the law. Let’s watch TV and not talk about this again.” Some folks don’t like the idea of gay people getting married because of the sanctity of marriage. I think marriage is roughly as sanctified as registering a car nowadays. The primary difference being that registering a car is more difficult. They let that ghoulish Kim Kardashian get hitched, what could possibly desecrate the sacrament any more than that freak show wedding hoax? I was surprised by how many people were “shocked” to learn that the marriage was a fraud until the short-order divorce. I think I was more shocked than anybody, having grossly underestimated the number of stupid people in society who will apparently believe anything.
The Costa Concordia ran aground and killed a lot of vacationers. Nothing funny about that, except, maybe, the poltroon captain’s futile claims that he fell off the boat into a pile of life jackets on an escape raft while trying to evacuate the passengers. It is nice to see Italy giving France a little competition when it comes to producing world class cowards. The Captain, Francesco Schettino, is in deep shit. Coincidentally, Schettino means “tuna” in Italian – perfect for the chicken of the sea. It doesn’t really mean that, but wouldn’t that be awesome if it did? He claimed the reef/rock he hit (while trying to impress some tart) was uncharted, even though it had been there for centuries and is probably mentioned in The Bible.
Lastly, Whitney Houston overdosed and died this past weekend. She had one of the best singing voices in music history, and her death was a terrible loss…except to Amy Winehouse, who now has a drinking buddy in hell somewhere. I thought maybe they could re-record some of her classics, like Elton John did when Princess Diana died. He changed the lyrics from “Candle in the Wind” to reflect the life of Diana, rather than the death of Marilyn Monroe, for whom the song was originally penned. I thought maybe somebody could record The Bodyguard soundtrack. Instead of “I will always Love You”, maybe it could be “I will always Turn Blue”. If I could lower the bar any further, I’d be halfway up a Chinese person’s ass by now, or I’d have at least struck oil. Probably not in their ass, though. That is just gross.
Enjoy the romance tonight.
MJG
Elf
‘Ello loves,
This one is for the very lovely Mary (you know who you are) and all the gay vampires out there (somebody else knows who they are).
Sorry there was no blog last weekend. I spent the night at my parents’ house on Saturday, and I did not get back in time for a snappy Sunday post. These posts may be disgraceful and absurd, but a good deal of work goes into them, in spite of any grammatical errors you might find. I’ve been watching the Republican primaries recently, and I thought I might share some of my observations. Now I know what you’re thinking: “Gee whiz, Man with No shame, you’re so smart and handsome and not an asshole, how are we going to keep up with your muscular political insight?” But before you fudge your huggies, know that I would never betray your good faith, and I will not write about anything worth reading. Feel better? I know I do. As you may know, I try to keep away from politics in this blog, because political humor alienates people. If you don’t agree with the political slant of the joke, it just comes across as a frustrating cheap shot. Furthermore, I don’t want to debate anybody in the comments section. Some people cannot be reached (people like me), so there is no point in wandering into that thicket. I don’t like arguing with super liberals, and I don’t like having super conservatives on my side making me look like a fruitcake. One time I got into an abortion debate with a vegan, which was about as fun as it sounds. Abortion is not an issue I even have an opinion on, really. None of my business, I suppose. I quickly ended the debate by asking her why she thought eating scrambled eggs was wrong but abortions are OK. All I want is some consistency. I really just wish her parents had been as enthusiastic about exercising their pro-choice rights as she was, and then we could have avoided this whole sticky wicket entirely.
Just because I don’t want to talk politics does not mean I won’t bash politicians, though. Those worthless colostomy bags all need a good roughing up, if you ask me…which you didn’t. I suppose you don’t want to hear my politics any more than I want to hear yours, but I like to think I am a reasonable, albeit passionate, man. A man of of letters and such, in fact. I don’t know where I fall in the political spectrum, frankly. You may have deduced that I am a conservative, based on the horrible things I routinely spew on you through this blog. I like my taxes low, the terrorists blown to bits, and the murderers riding the lightning, but most everything else is fair game for debate in my mind. I am fiscally conservative, and I like aggressive foreign policy. I believe that we have the finest fighting men in the world, and it pleases me that they are always ready to dole out cold steel and hot lead to any piss-drinking Mujahideen who think we won’t roll on Shabbos. Forget the UN/NATO/internationalism foreplay and let the blood-coated bayonets do the talking. Social matters are a whole different can of worms. You want to smoke crystal meth with a male escort in an abortion clinic? No problem with me, just do what feels right and follow your heart…to the abortion clinic. All I know is that the first candidate to suggest sending Lady Gaga to Guantanamo Bay is getting my vote.
The Republicans are fighting tooth and nail to find a candidate to step in the ring with President Obama. It will be a difficult contest, no doubt, as the boss is a keen politician, no matter what you think of his governance. The current freak show has been dragging on for too long, and the Republicans need to suck it up, pull the bandaid off and nominate Mitt Romney. I think people should have political IQs that correspond to their intelligence. You should only be allowed to be as passionate as you are smart. Fair enough, right? If you have an intelligence quotient of 80, you should not be allowed to exceed 80 with your beliefs, in order to keep the obnoxiousness of ignorant people down a bit. I also think we should redistrict these United States and force people to take a 50 point test in order to choose where they want to live. If you score 100% and get all 50 questions, you get to live wherever you like. If you score 10 points, say, you get to choose from the bottom ten and so on. Since I am really smart, or so my imaginary friend tells me, I would be allowed to live wherever I please. Other people who score poorly would be forced to move to places like New Jersey and New Mexico – which is only marginally better than regular Mexico. As far as our amigos south of the border are concerned, I say bienvenidos. Immigrants make this country great, because they are not fat, lazy Americans. That role is for meant their children, once they’ve assimilated and fully embraced our culture. I would reform immigration, though. My idea is that for every one Mexican we naturalize, we kick out two bad Americans. We can send them up to Canada or Alaska. It just makes sense.
Lets talk about those Republicans, though. The South Carolina and Florida primaries are coming up, which should cull the herd. I’ve never been to Florida, but I suspect it is a strange and terrible place, good for nothing but producing serial killers and episodes of Cops.
I am going to begin with that zippy little gadfly, Ron Paul, who is stone cold crazy. This guy walks into the mental health ward and the patients say “what the fuck is this wacko talking about?”. He is conspiracy-minded, isolationist loon, in my opinion. There have always been conspiracy theorists within the political ranks. Some people believe that the Reagan administration invented crack cocaine and the McDonalds dollar menu to wipe out the black population, but this guy s even wackier. He thinks 9/11 was an inside job, and that the US government should not have locked horns with the Third Reich during the second big one. He probably thought FDR was in cahoots with the Martians or something. I can just picture him on New Years Eve, 1999, living in an underground Führerbunker filled with cans of baked beans and small arms ammunition. There he waited for the impending apocalypse, stalking the compound in nothing but a pair of tighty-whities and a tinfoil hat, armed with a loaded Remington 870 combat shotgun, ready to pump double ought buckshot into the first person he thought might be a Freemason.
And then there is that demented gastropod, New Gingrich. That bloated bastard has been on the scene for some time now, and he has made quite a few enemies in his years, due to his unbridled vileness. Between Newt and Nancy Pelosi, I wonder whether there is a douchebag litmus test for people who wish to be Speaker of the House. That condescending old bag is just as offensive as Gingrich. During the Obamacare debates, she served as the Judas goat that led many junior representatives to their political graves for their support of the unpopular bill. He comes across as a pompous horse’s ass, but he is indeed very smart…perhaps too smart, as his intellectualism tends to run aground once he starts with the crazy talk. He just looks so satisfied with himself. He used to be a vicious Republican attack dog, but now he has this shit-eating grin on his face, the likes of which we have not seen since he had Han Solo, frozen in Carbonite, decorating his palace wall. I think he would like to do something similar to Mitt Romney. His campaign was running very well, until the attack ads started and it blew up like a Mitsubishi Zero on the deck of an American aircraft carrier. He is a mean son of a bitch, and I’d really hate to use the bathroom after him.
That should do. Elf is the German word for “eleven”, by the way.
MJG
Imperfect Ten
Liebe Freunde,
Sorry for the absence of a post last weekend, but it was Christmas, and I was busy stuffing pie into my piehole. The last time I blogged was before the holidays, so I hope you had a merry Christmas. Oh, and a real horrowshow Hanukkah to all my, like, yahoodie droogs. It was our first Christmas without Kim Jong-il, but we got through it OK. Actually, my Christmas was fabulous, and my Grandmother’s behavior over Skype was especially delightful. Her country-fried charm was not lost in translation, and she was as thoroughly offensive as ever. The new year is here, and now it is back into the snake pit for another year of travels and travails. Apart from failing to pour Eggnog over a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, I think I accomplished everything I set out to do this holiday season.
This last month of 2011 was especially successful for my zany little blog, and I wanted you to know how grateful I am that you are reading it. I’ve learned that most people find my disgusting perspective quite refreshing, like a cold beer on a hot Christmas morning, as Homer once mused. I can’t remember of that is from The Odyssey or The Simpsons, but whatever, it is a minor detail. I guess being a shallow jerk it is nullified by my comedic honesty, and for your forbearance and willingness to enable my bad behavior, I am much obliged. I think I bear a foul standard that most others do not even want to touch, but are happy to salute in some way. This much quality has not been jammed into a small vessel since Commodore Nutt took the stage with P.T. Barnum. A million points if you got that.
Actually, one of the only “real” complaints I’ve encountered from this blog occurred the other night. A lovely young woman, whom I had never met before, was introduced to me by a mutual friend. She had apparently been reading the blog on the recommendation of an unrelated, second mutual friend (meaning I am going to keep the pistols holstered for now) and was less than amused by my pontificating, or by the way I vulgarize common sense. Fair enough. I like to think I mostly go after the fifth-columnist wieners in this country, not anybody worth defending, but whatever. She took a few subtle jabs at me, claiming that I was “brave” for posting the content of the blog. Yet, is somebody really brave if he simply does not care about the consequences of his actions? I think the obvious answer is “yes”, and I am probably one of the most heroic people you will ever meet for it. Thanks for pointing that out, lady. Anyway, she and I exchanged words, then she offered to buy me an (ostensibly) reconciliatory drink, which I declined. Normally I don’t pooh-pooh drinks (I usually have the drink then do that in my trousers later on), but I was about to excuse myself from the establishment, since my face was about as red as the obnoxious pants I had on, due to my liberal imbibing. I then vanished into the obscurity of the crowd, having offended the one girl in the place who wanted to talk to me. Nice going, shithead.
The whole exchange was kind of odd, because a different friend of mine recommended I “let loose” and stop “holding back” when I write. I am not sure what else I could write about without actively trying to offend people. I feel like nobody reads this blog and agrees with more than 10 percent of it at any given time, but people are just tickled by the brutality of it all. Even still, this guy wants me to get rude, eh? Well, be careful watch you wish for, Chinaman, because I have enough dirt on you to fill the Mariana Trench.
I guess one of the most remarkable things of this past year is the death of all the bad guys. Osama bin Laden, Muammar Gadaffi and Kim Jong-il all bought the farm in 2011. All that is left is Fidel Castro and and a couple of despots in Syria and Iran living on borrowed time. Those scumbags in the Middle East are still on the front page of the papers, but Fidel is nowhere to be found most of the time. Castro is now like George Steinbrenner in his final years: the family is running the show, and he only shows up to press conferences once in a blue moon, usually in a track suit, and he is kept away from the cameras and the press. While all of these tyrants are most easily united by their common hatred of ‘Merica, many of them were also quite the fashion nuggets.
Muammar Gaddafi was killed by Libyan rebels, and Kim Jong-il died of some undisclosed malady. Much like Saddam Hussein, who was executed in 2006, these men denied themselves no pleasures, and had an eye for fashion. Legend has it Saddam Hussein used to dress up in a cowboy outfit and watch reruns of The Love Boat. His stylish black beret and Tom Selleck mustache were fancied by the whole of Arabia, rivaled only by Muammar Gadaffi’s brilliant pairing of Hawaiian shirts and Captain Crunch jackets. His goatee, Jheri curl and reflective, Georgia State Trooper sunglasses only added to his bold and intimidating public image. What sex appeal! A stud like that makes a guy like George Clooney seem like a bumbling clod. And compared to Kim Jong Il? Well, Clooney has the sex appeal of a fart in the bathtub.
Apparently, the Libyan compounds were adorned with paintings of the tyrant locked in combat with most ferocious wild beasts, often depicting a shirtless Colonel Gadaffi (in order to expose his chiseled abs and toned arms) vanquishing lions and tigers with aplomb. Lets talk about our more lately late leader, Kim Jong-il. This was a man of fashion. Similarly, he also had dramatic portraits of himself in state buildings. Kim Jong-il’s paintings were a little more tasteful, though, with depictions of the leader in a white, First Communion suit, sitting at a Steinway grand piano. That’s class. There is no way around it. Sure, he was a violent madman who brutalized his people, but the guy had style. He was truly an iron fist in a velvet glove. The olive drab, Dr. Evil suit alone must have dampened every pair of panties north of the 38th parallel. Great armies marched before him, and the seething masses bowed and kneeled before his majesty as he impassively gazed upon his groveling people through those sunglasses they give you after laser eye surgery. Do we even need to talk about he haircut? Now that the supreme leader is gone, the most fabulously coiffed megalomaniac in the universe is probably Donald Trump.
Remember the beginning of The Naked Gun? When all the evil world leaders are having a summit meeting about thwarting the United States before Lt. Frank Drebin, Police Squad, shows up and cleans house on Mikhail Gorbachev, Idi Amin, Yasser Arafat and Grand Ayatollah Khomeini? I was always hoping something like that would happen in film to Vlad Putin, Kim Jong-il and the other totalitarians I went over. Sadly, between Leslie Nielson’s death and all these 3rd world events, I don’t think thats going to happen.
Happy New Year. Lets hope the Mayans got this one right. As they say in show business, always leave ‘em when you’re looking good - and it doesn’t get much better looking than this, baby (rubs love handles, high fives everybody in the room)
You know I am right, and you love it.
MJG, his mark, January the 2nd
Holiday Tree
Seasons greetings, readers.
Earlier this week I had some minor surgery to remove a polyp from my left nasal cavity. The polyp, or cyst, actually, was obstructing my sinus and making it difficult for me to breathe and/or snort crystal meth. The surgery went well (which you may have guessed, because you’re reading my blog, not my obituary) and I am on the mend. However, if this blog seems off to you, its probably just the painkillers kicking in and I am in full Elvis mode. Painkillers make you feel goofy for about twenty minutes, but then wear off and leave you feeling kind of stupid for a while… which, of course, is awesome. Apart from the vicious, rectum-tearing constipation or the erectile dysfunction, I could totally understand why people get addicted to these things. I’ve been sitting on my ass watching daytime TV and eating ice cream all week, so things could be a lot worse. I did not want to have surgery, and I would have elected to remove the polyp myself with a little frontier medicine (i.e. a pair of pliers and a bottle of whisky). The holidays are closing in fast, as you can tell from all the obnoxious commercials and shitty music on the radio – although, music on the radio is always garbage, now it simply has a seasonal offensiveness. I used to hate Christmas, but Jacob Marley woke me up and straightened me out a few years ago, and now I’m full of mirth and merriment once more. I don’t especially like snowfall, but when we find ourselves the dead of winter, I always try to watch The Shining and Enemy at the Gates. There is nothing really funny about that statement; I just like those two winter movies.
Here is a special Christmas question for you: what the hell is this “holiday tree” crap we are subscribing to now? Has political correctness and cowardice finally gotten this ridiculous? Why are we calling Christmas trees holiday trees? What holiday does the “holiday tree” refer to, exactly? Do they have popcorn and ornament covered trees in Buddhism now, too? Does this mean Menorahs are now holiday candelabras? The monotheistic religions have their own unique symbols for the big holidays. Christmas has the tree, Hanukkah has the menorah, and Ramadan has the AK-47 and explosive suicide bomber vest. I don’t want to rag on Islam too much, though, I am just going by the instruction manual at the end of the Qur’an. I admire any religion that has simple, understandable rules. In Islam, for example, you must wipe your ass with your left hand, and only use your right hand to punch your wife in the face. Fair enough, right? I like to think that I am pretty open minded about religion, and unlike many bigots, I know that not every Muslim is a terrorist. I also happen to know that every terrorist is a Muslim, but I don’t want to split hairs. Middle Eastern food more than makes up for it, though, and our military drones can even up the difference. However, let us get back to the holiday tree. At the end of the day, could a Christmas tree possibly have anything less to do with the actual holiday? December 25th is supposed to be Jesus’ birthday…shouldn’t we have a cake instead of a tree? I don’t get the resistance to saying “Merry Christmas”, either. Has anybody ever been wished a spiteful or vindictive “merry Christmas”? I wish I knew why we keep acquiescing to cry babies over this stuff. This country is in the passing lane on the road to Idiocracy.
Christianity, Islam and Judaism are not especially foreign to me. I don’t really know a whole lot about polytheism, though, as my greatest exposure to it comes from eating delicious Indian food or playing as Dhalsim in Street Fighter II. Oh, and talking to the cashier at the Cumberland Farms across the street. I forgot how erudite I was there for a second. Random side note, but I had Indian food for the first time just about a year ago, and I think it might be my second favorite behind Mexican food. It has the same gut-busting, spicy quality as Mexican food, and it can force you to declare war on your toilet just as quickly. If you are ever stuck between deciding whether you want Chinese or Indian food, just split the difference and go Thai. It is full of peanuts and peanut oil, though, so watch out if you have allergies. That recommendation is probably the most valuable and sincere piece of advice I have shared on this blog so far.
Merry Christmas.
MJG
