Creepy guy buying lumber: "You married?"
Female Home Depot associate: "Yes."
Creepy guy buying lumber: "Are you happy?" (Said as luridly as humanly possible)
Female Home Depot associate: "Yes."
What the deuce? What result was this guy looking for? Did he expect the woman to swoon at his smooth delivery and feathered mullet? Did he think she'd say "No, I'm not happy with my husband and his non-Trailer park haircut and his unwillingness to harass strangers. Let's have unprotected sex in the parking lot"?
What possesses someone to think they have the right to say whatever they want to someone who's just trying to get through another crappy shift at work? I wanted to scream out "This isn't a swinger's club, motherfucker! The sawdust on the floor and her orange apron should have clued you in."
There are days, I promise you, when someone doesn't annoy me; those are the days I don't leave the house. I'm seriously considering a career in the growing field of in-home trinket assembly.
Now, I'm against this, because it was totally random and it could have been me. I'm a big goofy looking giant. Even in a crowd on the Strip, I stand out like a turd in a punch bowl. And these people were just innocent bystanders, just trying to do their jobs or shop for food or buy touristy trinkets.
The key is to harness the rage of these future prisoners for the common good. I'm talking about Controlled Vicious Beatdowns. Yes, with CVBs, at last justice would be swift and unmerciful; and I, as CVB Director, would chose who gets them.
Doing seventy-five in a school zone? Welcome to a town called Vicious Beatdownsville.
Doing twenty when the speed limit's forty-five? Prepare yourself for a VB, and since you're most likely old, a shattered hip.
Writing a check at a retail establishment? How do like the taste of your own blood, motherfucker?
Are you white and just referred to your white friend as "My nigga"? You'll enjoy an old school ass whippin', home-biscuit.
Did you just ask me who I think will win American Idol? I'm not going to give the "stop" signal until you're already dead.
I'd also like to be able to force parents who can't control their children to give them up for adoption and/or overseas slavery. "MMOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!! I WANT THESE NIKES! I WANT THESE NIKES! IIIII WWWAAAAAAANNNTT THEEEEEEESSE NIIIKKKEEEEEES!"
A week later, he'll be making the fucking Nikes.
Those of you aware of the liberal slant of this blog may be thinking "Hillary Can't Win" refers to her unfair treatment by the Right Wing Hate Machine, led by Rush "Worthless Hypocrite Drug-Addicted Sack of Fuck-Runoff" Limbaugh and Bill "Sexually Harass My Subordinates" O'Reilly; but you'd be wrong. Oh sure, they treat her like a minority in 1956 Alabama, but that's to be expected. Getting mad at Rush Limbaugh for slandering a liberal is like getting mad at a skunk for stinking.
Actually, I mean Hillary can't win, as in if we put our hopes on her to regain the White House, Jeb Bush may be inaugurated in January 2009.
Yeah, I'd vote for Hillary, but guess what? I've voted for an assortment of Democratic losers in my life, beginning with Michael Dukakis. I'm of the mindset that I'm FUCKING TIRED OF VOTING FOR LOSERS! I want to win the next election, and I don't think Hillary Clinton can win in a general election.
To begin with, it's a fact that the Democrats need a few red states, or just one if it's Ohio, in addition to the ones Kerry got in '04, and I don't think any of those much-needed states will go for a woman as president.
Now, before my lovely, intelligent female readers desert my blog like fans of good music at a Nickelback concert, let me make myself perfectly clear: I think a woman is fully capable of running this country; I just don't think a woman can be elected at this time. I hope I'm wrong, but I don't want to be proven right and have another Karl Rove puppet in the White House.
Am I underestimating the American public? Have I spent too much time observing the mulleted, scooter-bound human pork rinds at Wal-Mart and Home Depot to imagine a nation willing to elect Hillary Clinton as Commander-in-Chief? As always, your opinions are welcome; or if they differ from mine, begrudgingly tolerated.
Note:Vast, if you want to express your opinion, please email or call me. Thanks.
My blog is a year old today. Yes, one year ago today viva las vegASS was started by a man with a vision. But he died, and I took over; and it's pretty much licked the formaldehyde off of John Dillinger's preserved cock ever since.
Oh, blogs are so cute when they're 1. Viva isn't potty-trained yet, but he can walk, which means he now shits himself while running at full speed. And he just said his first word: "Cunt". It brought a tear to my eye.
And now highlights of the first year of viva las vegASS, in convenient timeography form.
April 22, 2005- The first entry is posted at vivalasvegass.blogspot.com
April 22, 2006- In an unconscionable act of hubris, the first birthday of viva las vegASS is mentioned as if anyone gives an eighth of a fuck.
Well, those are the highlights, folks. I can only hope the next year is as time-wastingly pathetic as the first.
These two hot rockin' ladies are Nina Gordon(L) and Louise Post. They had been friends since childhood when they formed Veruca Salt. In the mid-nineties, they released two full-length CDs and one CDEP, each of which made me very, very happy.
Unfortunately, the friendship didn't last very long once they became famous. Allegedly, one of them started dating the other's ex boyfriend, and they split up with EXTREME PREJUDICE. They haven't spoken to each other since.
One of them was dating the other's ex? Jesus, that is such a chick reason for ending a friendship.
I hope all of my old friends and all of my exes are having a giant gang bang right now....ALL INPUTS!!! Who cares? Everyone is someone's ex.
Louise Post still fronts a bastardized version of Veruca Salt, while Nina Gordon will release her second solo effort this summer. They're both OKAY, but without the two of them together it's not the same.
C'mon, ladies: It's time to bury the hatchet and start making music together again. Or at least appear together on a girl on girl webcam site.
When you're good and drunk, there are some foods that just hit the spot. When I lived in Louisville, on the nights I'd drink like Nick Nolte on his birthday, there was nothing better than LaBamba and their "Burritos As Big As Your Head". Yes, White Castle is great, as is Fatburger out West; but nothing compares to the culinary gangbang that is a LaBamba Super Burrito.
If you live in Louisville, Chicago, Columbass, or a college town in Illinois, Indiana, or Wisconsin, there's a LaBamba near you, you lucky bastard. For the rest of us, we can only dream of the savory delights.
So, does anyone have a favorite food when they've had a few too many? For you non-drinkers out there (freaks), do you have a favorite late-night snack? Talk to me, people.
I was actually worried because I've run out of blog ideas and now my blog sucks the foul-smelling, gangrenous cock of Satan himself. How ridiculous is that? I'm not a trained seal performing for applause and dead fish. I'm not being remunerated for my efforts, so if this blog is sinking fast, I just don't give a fuck.
The utter incompetence and indifference of the people who work at my assigned Home Depots was starting to piss me off. Why did I let it bother me for even a nanosecond? My job is a fucking joke. So now if I ask them to bring something down from the overstock because the shelf is empty or tell them about a blatant safely violation and they ignore me, well GOOD FOR THEM. They know their job is meaningless and have embraced it, and now so have I. The best thing about having a shit job is if you lose it, you can honestly say "I just don't give a fuck."
As long as someone doesn't crash into me, I'm through worrying about the horrid driving habits of others. If someone wants to weave in and out of traffic like they're running in the NEXTEL CUP OVERCOMPENSATING FOR A TINY PENIS 4OO, well, I hope when they crash into a wall they're wearing their seatbelt, because the wife's vibrator can't mow the lawn. Otherwise, I just don't give a fuck.
A few of the other things I now just don't give a fuck about:
-The inexplicable yet overwhelming popularity of American Idol (I hope Cletus wins).
-The attitude of the French.
-The upper-middle-class background of ninety-nine percent of dirty, smelly hippies.
-And finally, the fact that all women I date ultimately find me undesirable. Really, what am I going to do, change? At my age? I just don't give a fuck (And neither do the women I date).
"The male employees were very aggressive toward one another and kept calling each other 'dog'. It made for a rather uncomfortable shopping experience."
In other words, "I'm so white I should never leave the house."
I went to my neighborhood Von's Supermarket, purchased a few items, and walked toward the exit with a group of random strangers. As we walked past the ever-present bank branch, I spotted a posted ad and read it aloud: "'Stop in for milk, bread, and nest eggs.'" I laughed and read it again, then said to a couple trying their best to avoid me, "See what they did there? That's quite clever. They said 'nest eggs' because the bank is in a grocery store. It's a pun."
The woman, to her credit I suppose, chuckled politely, but the man gave me a look that was an odd combination of hatred, confusion, and fear.
I might have to do this more often.
Late morning, Starbucks
I had to work a later shift on Wednesday, so I went to Starbucks before work for a cup of life...er, I mean coffee. Everything was okay and I was settling down to enjoy my life-sustaining elixir when I couldn't help but hear the following from a "man" on his cellphone.
"Bitch, are you fuckin' finished talking? No? Then shut the fuck up. Shut...Shut the .... Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up, bitch. Why are you still talking, bitch? Shut the fuck up."
He continued on and on with his misogynistic mutterings completely oblivious to the women and children who were trying to enjoy their overpriced liquid crack. I got up to leave and he was still going on and on. I'll give that bitch credit, though...she obviously wasn't shutting up.
Early evening, Port of Subs
For those of you unaware of the Port of Subs franchise, it's a unique establishment. Only teenagers with bad skin are allowed to make your food, and only bimbette bleach-blonde chicks who can't add or subtract are allowed to operate the cash register. Whereas Subway has Jered as a spokesman, Port of Subs is promoted by a hare-lipped gypsy on a unicycle. But that's not the point of this.
If you ever find yourself in a P.O.S., DO NOT order a Caesar salad. There is no romaine lettuce in the building, so they use shredded iceberg sandwich lettuce. Okay, then DON'T CALL IT A CAESAR! This salad must have been named after one of those sorry-ass Caesars who inherited the throne as a child and perished from the bloody flux soon afterward. But that's not the point of this either.
I was not enjoying my salad when trouble walked through the door in the form of three sideway's-tilted-non-cootered-hat-wearin'-KFed-wannabe-motherfuckers and one of their girlfriends, who admittedly had a great body but also a face that made me think at any minute they were going to draft her to start making meatball subs. All was well, but then sooner than a throng of hillbillies can chant "JERRY! JERRY! JERRY!" ol' pox face decided she didn't like the way her boyfriend was talking through his non-cooter to the semi-literate but clear-faced cashier, so she decided to make a scene.
"Why don't you ask that bitch out, then!" she bellowed as she made a dramatic exit from Subway's down's syndromed cousin.
He replied something vaquely KFedish in nature and proceeded after her. I have no doubt someone's trailer home was rockin' from some hot make-up sex that night. Or he ran her down with his Camaro. Either way.
After work, Wal-Mart
Yeah, I know I deserve whatever horror awaits me when I enter a Wal-Mart, just because I walked through the door in the first place. However, hear me out. I selected three or four items and immediately went to the Self-Checkout. As soon as I put my stuff on the counter, this little douchebag and his trollish wife walk up behind me and the guy starts seriously invading my personal space. First of all, he lets his shit intermingle with mine, even though they have those little plastic shit separators. He's like a red cunt hair away from me as I scan my items. It's not my fault this pesky Napoleon-complex-having cocksucker is a grown man who isn't even five feet tall, sports a Dirty Sanchezesque shitstache in lieu of real facial hair, and has a raging oxycotin addiction; give me some fucking room!!
Oh, but the final cuntcockshitbastard straw was when he started scanning his items as I waited for my receipt.
"Excuse me, I'm not finished."
"Hey, it's still printing my receipt."
The entire time he kept swiping the same item over and over, until I, in a fit of rage I haven't had in years, grabbed the item from his hands, tossed it in the direction of his cart, and screamed "I'M NOT FINISHED YET!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I'm sure from the look on his face he had a shit stain in his pants that matched the one above his lip. As I made my escape before I killed him, I could hear him curse me in Esperanto, so maybe communication was a problem, but in no society on earth is what he did acceptable. Of course, I also felt bad about the way I reacted. Despite my blog rantings, I go out of my way to be polite to strangers. It is never, ever ever ever reciprocated, but I do it anyway. I hold the door open for people who it WOULD FUCKING KILL TO SAY "THANK YOU"; I let people merge into traffic and never get the little wave. That day, I could be polite no longer.
And unlike the places they're coming from (New York, New England, etc.) Las Vegas has NO REDEEMING QUALITIES OF ITS OWN! With the exception of a three-mile stretch of tourist trappery, it has NOTHING. It doesn't have the culture of Manhattan, the history and grandeur of Boston, the thriving neighborhoods of Chicago. All we're getting is increased traffic, dwindling natural resources, and the worst citizenry in the entire United States; a virtual who's-who of douchebags and the worthless whores who love them.
I shouldn't put all of the blame on the old people, though. The young people of this town are just plain fucking stupid. I suppose I could have picked a wittier way of stating that, but it's all I have right now. And the few who can actually breath with their mouths closed are arrogant cunts who think they're much smarter than they really are.
Of course not everyone in town sucks. I think it's safe to say that if you live in Vegas and are reading this, I know or know of you and am quite fond of you. Sorry to say, though, you're outnumbered.
It doesn't matter anyway. I'm stuck here. I don't have enough money to uproot and move. I feel like someone who's sinking in quicksand, but incredibly slowly, like half an inch a week. I've never felt so helpless and frustrated in my entire life.
The man pictured is Pete "Big Elvis" Vallee, a five-hundred pound Elvis impersonator who works on the Las Vegas Strip. The other creature is obviously the decomposing corpse of Strom Thurmond, exhumed and dressed in female garb for this occasion.
I mention Big Elvis because I was reading something in the Las Vegas Weekly the other day that caught my eye. A local ambulance company reports that in the past six months they've had approximately seventy-five runs in which the person they had to transport to the hospital weighed over six-hundred pounds. That's Big Elvis and a supermodel, folks. It's enough to make the ambulance company invest in a new ultra capacity model to handle its more porcine clientele. No lie.
Of course, some of those were probably repeat customers. My guess is if you weigh six-hundie, you most likely spend a lot of time at the hospital. I thought about that story this past Friday and while two of my friends went to In-n-Out for lunch, I opted for a salad with the dressing on the side. The way I like food, if I don't watch it, in a few years that's me without the ability to carry a tune.
Despite the title of this post, which I meant as a joke, this is not a personal attack on Big Elvis. I saw him interviewed in the local media and he seems like a nice man who enjoys what he does. But does he have to eat himself to an early grave to satisfy a bizarre marketing niche? Learn more about the legend that is Big Elvis at www.bigelvis.biz
Note: For those of you who don't read blogs on the weekend, scroll down and join the anti-Tom Cruise bandwagon.
Tom Cruise must be stopped!!!
Haven't we all had just about enough of Mr. Scientology? With his sham marriage, arrogant attitude regarding subjects he knows nothing about, and kooky-ass religion, Tom needs to be brought down a notch or two.
That is why I'm starting a grass-roots boycott of Tom Cruise in general and more importantly his big summer blockbuster Mission Impossible 3. I urge everyone reading this to avoid seeing MI3 and any movie Tom Cruise makes in the future.
I know that's not a lot of people, but if everyone who reads this (including lurkers) would post a Boycott Tom Cruise message on their blogs, and urge everyone who reads them to do the same, etc..etc... well, that still wouldn't be a lot of people, but it's a start, damn it. If you don't have a blog, email or IM all of your friends and urge them to join the boycott.
Please post a Boycott Tom Cruise message on your blog! Let the revolution begin.
This is Dario Herrera. When I came to Las Vegas on October 1, 2002, he was a Clark County Commissioner, a heavily-favored candidate for a U.S. congressional seat, and a rising star in the Democratic party. In fact, earlier that summer, as a visitor to Vegas, I had read an article predicting that he would one day be a vice presidential candidate.
A little over a month later, thanks to ethics allegations regarding a company that employed his wife, he lost the congressional election by an overwhelming margin to a then-unknown Republican.
Oh, but that was only the beginning for this guy. While he was County Commission Chairman, he met strip club owner Michael Galardi, who decided it would be fun and profitable if his establishments were delivered from pesky rules and regulations. To that end, he started paying Dario for favorable votes.
In addition to money, Dario was given whatever he wanted at Cheetah's Strip Club; and apparently he wanted lapdances and blowjobs. Yes, the strippers sucked his cock. Two of them have already testified in court that their boss, Michael Galardi, instructed them to take one for the team in the form of stepping up to Dario's mic.
Oh, I should have been a politician. No one ever says to me, "Todd, we would like our product to be displayed more prominently in this store. Candy from Scores will now swallow your salami." Yeah, Dario got caught and is looking at jail time, but the blowjobs, man...the blowjobs.
This is a short list of artists who would have never made it past the first round of American Idol and would have been insulted by that lame-ass douche Simon.
I know everyone has different musical tastes (I don't like all of the people on this list), but I think original artists who actually write their own songs deserve a little more respect than Carrie Cunting Underwood.
Why is this show still popular? The "bad singing" auditions are funny for about a minute, then it feels like laughing at retarded people. It is sad that not one friend or family member had the scrote-nuggets to tell them they're all dreadful.
After America gets to bust its collective nut snickering at the weak, the "real" show begins, and that's just karaoke for people too young and/or anti-social to step into a bar.
I much prefer an honest-to-Buddha karaoke bar. They serve drinks there, members of the opposite sex are present, and the talentless hacks performing other people's material are delightfully free of affectation and have never met an agent or image consultant. But best of all, if someone like Simon makes a shockingly cruel but somehow unfunny comment, he can quickly be ripped apart limb-from-limb mob justice style.
Someday this shit will run out of its own flatulent gas, but until then, every time some dolled-up trailer tart clears the anonymous-encounter-jizz from her throat and warbles "I Will Always Love You", our society slips a little further into the cesspool. I'm usually all for that, but not this time.
It's Family Guy Monopoly!!! Holy shit. How big a dork am I for thinking this is the coolest thing since Mary Kate Olsen went to rehab? I can't wait until this is collecting dust in my closet (It's probably been twenty years or more since I played a game of Monopoly, after all). Still, I must have one. If someone buys this for me, I'll write a post about how great that person is and I'll reopen my fiction blog to feature a story with he or she as the protagonist. Fuck, that's crappy incentive. Sorry, I don't have a lot to offer.
This past Saturday it was the middle of the afternoon and I was bored, which is a rather common occurrence in my life. Suddenly, I remembered that I had a postcard good for a "Mystery Gift" at the "Rewards Center" of a Station Casino near me. Oh, who can resist the lure of the mystery gift? I headed almost immediately to the Green Valley Ranch Resort to claim my treasure.
It was a fanny pack. Mystery solved.
But it's so much better than the fanny pack pictured here. It's a darker, more manly shade of blue; and instead of Tough Traveler, the corporate logo for Station Casinos is boldy emblazoned on its front. This way, it not only says "I'm a tool who's one step away from the dreaded man purse," but also "I may in fact be a degenerate gambler."
At first I'll admit I was a tad disappointed. Why couldn't they have given me something I can use, like a martini shaker or a saw that cuts through human bone? But the more I think about it, the more stoked I am to own this promotional giveaway! Seriously, think about its many uses. Okay it has one use: storing things that won't fit in my pockets, but imagine what I can put in this handy contraption. They include:
-my cell phone. Now when it rings, instead of inconspicuously reaching into my pocket to answer it, I can make a public spectacle of myself by digging around in this crotch-level carryall.
-drugs. I don't do drugs, but I can't think of a better time to start. How bored would I be if I spent my free time stumbling about the seediest areas of Las Vegas, looking for my next fix? Not very.
-the ashes of Jessica Tandy. Yes, I recently stole the ashes of Jessica Tandy from the Jessica Tandy Museum in Pasadena. Now I have a place to keep them until I make it back to Louisville and spread them over the grave of my grandfather, who was a huge Jessica Tandy fan.
-my dignity. If I wear this couture abortion, my dignity can be held in a very small space.
While at the Green Valley Ranch, not only did I score the fanny back, but I had enough bonus points on my Station Casinos card to get a free salad at the cafe. You want my life, don't you?
I was rummaging through a bin of discount DVDs when I heard something coming from the television monitor hanging from the ceiling a few feet away from me. A man, in a Southern-enough-to-sound-folksy-but-no-so-Southern-as-to-seem-inbred voice, was reading a list of Wal-Mart employees across the country who've "moved on"; and gee, the company sure is going to miss them and wishes them all the best.
Okay, what difference does it make in the life of Nurleen Toadstool of Cockfight, Alabama that I, a disinterested party in Las Vegas, know that she finally got tired of being scheduled thirty-one hours a week so Wal-Mart didn't have to offer health insurance so she went out and found a job at the rendering plant just outside the county line? If I may answer my own rhetorical question, it does not a fucking thing for Nurleen's life. It's all about how Wal-Mart wants to be perceived.
Wal-Mart spent time, effort and money producing this video (the down-home, neighborly Ned Flanders narrorator didn't come cheap, I'll bet) so the public would think it cares about its employees.
Oh, the guy kept going on. He announced promotions, birthdays, anniversaries, births, employee picnics and award ceremonies; all so Cletus the Slack-jawed Shopper will hear it and think, if only on a subconscious level, "Wal-Mart is a great place to work."
Obviously, if Wal-Mart really cared about its workers they'd be paid better and offered insurance, but why tell you something you already know? Instead, I offer the Wal-Mart message I'd like to hear:
"Well, the following associates across this great land of ours finally succumbed to the bitter mix of desperation and humiliation only experienced by working retail and took their own lives:
Danny Wilson of Ratturd, Texas, was found hanged to death in the family barn. Best of wishes to Danny's family. Hang in there, folks.
"Paula Moss of Pfffffft, Kentucky, blew her brains out in front of her five children and common-law husband. Looks like the oldest daughter is going to have to drop out of school and take her mom's job at Wal-Mart. Oh, the circle of life..."
Have a great weekend, blog readers. I care about the quality of your free time. No, I really do.