Fashion Tips Just for You

Those of you who've met me know that my fashion sense screams "What's on the clearance rack in the big and tall section at Dillard's?" Even so, I've still had a pretty good track record for predicting the latest trends. This is what I think will take the fashion world by storm in the next year.

Naked is the new black
Ladies, I predict the best accessories you can have in the coming year will be a nice pair of jiggling tits; and why cover them with anything but Mardi Gras beads? Sure, public indecency arrests will skyrocket, as will refused admittance to shops and restaurants, but every day will truly be a party. Really, is their a more noble goal?

Oversized novelty hats for all
In the next year, you don't exist in the world of fashion if you aren't wearing a gigantic sombrero or an extra large foam cowboy hat. Rumor has it that Chanel and Armani are rushing their own versions of these ludicrously large hats into production in time for the Fall runway shows. One fashion insider, who wishes to remain anonymous, states "Our goal is to take the propeller beanie out of the carnival midway and onto the runways of Paris and Milan." Look for those caps that hold cans of beer to be modified to fit bottles of Evian.

My "Kuntucky" line of clothes will be all the rage
"Fat Heterosexual Designer Rules Fashion World": That will be the headline when I drop my Kuntucky clothing line and "Kunt" is on the chest and ass of every teenager and college student in North America, Europe, and parts of Asia.

Other trends to watch include: Pointy-toed fairy shoes; pants made from locust shells; the fake-arrow-through-the-head accessory; pierced elbows; growing your toenails long like a crazed recluse; and not wiping your nose when it runs.

Print this post and save it. Look at it in a year and you'll be amazed at how many of these predictions came to pass.

"...lead a simple life in a quiet town..."

I'm back, mainly because those idiots at Best Buy were dumb enough to give me enough credit to purchase a laptop. I'm still on dial-up, but that should be okay for now. After all, I'm known for my patience.

The first Friday I was back in town, my old friend Wu drove up from Nashville to hang out with me. We went to an outdoor bar, drank Maker's Mark at bargain-basement prices, watched a few Jerry Springeresque fights break out (this was truly a diverse crowd of various ages, races, and social classes, so who punches one another: young preppie white girls), and swayed unrhymically to bad music. As the night progressed, I stopped drinking because I noticed Wu had no intention of slowing down. He drank like Babe Ruth after a bad game.

To make a really long story just plain long, by the time we got back to my house Wu was unconscious to a degree just below "coma". I couldn't wake him up, so he slept in the passenger seat of his car. By a miraculous act of God, he didn't choke to death on his own vomit. Or anyone else's.

The next night Dr. Chingasa and I took the short bus to Titty City. We went to a strip club, in other words. Breasts were gazed upon.

After my camping excursion, I and several friends and evildoers went to a downtown entertainment complex where I purchased the strongest drink I've ever consumed; and that's saying something. A woman walked up and talked to me, I'm guessing because she was so drunk her eyes functioned as funhouse mirrors, making me just tall instead of tall and fat. Either way, she said to me "My name is Brtyuswx." That's what it sounded like to me. I know it started with a 'b', but after that I have no idea. She continued: "Have you ever met a girl named Brydsdfez before?" No, I had to admit, she was the first. She "danced" with me for a few minutes, and by "danced" I mean "grinded her cute little butt into my crotch" but then her party left and I went back to my strong drink.

For the sake of my liver, I might have to move back to Vegas.

Looks like I made it...

Long story, but I'm in rural Indiana this week. I've found internet access in the middle of nowhere but don't have much time. Thanks everyone for the comments and kind words and I'll try to write a longer post this weekend at a friend's house.

In other news, George Bush molests goats.

One more for the road...

I was on the Strip Saturday night, the last time I'll ever be there as an official local resident. I was standing at the bar ordering a drink when I had this approximate conversation with a girl seated to my left:

she: "You're tall. How tall are you?"

me: "Six-six."

she: "That's tall. Where are you from?"

me: "Louisville, Kentucky."

she: "Is everybody from Kentucky tall?"

me: "No, I'm the only one."

(Yes, in print she seems completely vapid; but in her defense, she did have some awesome tit-tays).

she: "I'm drunk...don't pay attention to me, I'm drunk. I'm short and I'm drunk."

me: "I'm on my way to drunk. (pause) Where are you from?"

she: "New Mexico."

me: "Is everyone from New Mexico short?"

she: (changing the subject) "Who lives in Kentucky anyways?"

me: "Just myself, my family, and the squirrels we hunt for food."

she: (thrusting her beer at my top shelf margarita in a pathetic attempt at toasting) "Here's to (unintelligible drunk chick banter)."

me: "Here's to people of all heights living as one."

She laughed, probably not at what I said but because a beer bubble went up her nose, and then her friends came by and wisked her off to karaoke or bikini bull riding or whatever.

Here's to you, short big-tittied drunk stupid girl from New Mexico. At least you were friendly, and hell...maybe you're a genius when you're sober, I don't know. I do know that I'll never run into your kind in Louisville. Every once in a while someone will come down for the weekend from Indiana or Ohio, but tourist-wise that's about it. Most of my short big-tittied drunk stupid girl conversations will be with locals from now on, for better or for worse.

Why are local weathermen such morons?

I was watching the news last night and came to a conclusion that shook the very foundation of my core beliefs: The American Metereological Society is a fraud. I know, that may be the most controversial opinion ever voiced on this blog, but there it is, unfiltered.

Why are all local weathermen so stupid? Really, if they're going to be insipid, at least have them be nubile young co-eds from the nearest community college (i.e. strippers). But no, they're always middle-aged guys wearing a suit from the clearance rack at Value City and sporting a glaringly bogus toup that looks like shag carpeting from a flophouse circa 1978.

Last night, our brain-dead weatherfuck told the Las Vegas viewing public "Cooler air is on the way for next week." He laughed insincerely before and after saying this. Apparently, although it will be in the one-hundreds this weekend, temperatures early next week will be in the low to mid nineties. He illustrated this by showing the "lower" temperatures as arctic blue blocks of ice, complete with icicles forming off of them.

95 degrees, huh? Bring in the plants and break out the parkas, kids...Winter's back with a vengence!

Our esteemed anchorman, who reminds me of a non-regional, unfunny Ron White, actually said, "So (Chip or Skip or Ace or Champ or Boss or whatever trite weatherman name he had), aren't those so-called lower temperatures actually normal for this time of year?"

"Yes they are," the weatherman stated matter-of-factly, unaware that he was being called out.

The female anchor simply sat in silence and smiled in a way that somehow made her tits jiggle. That's why she makes the big bucks.

Rename my blog...and other subjects

I still can't get my computer to work; I'm using my roommate's. I don't have a lot of time to obsessively linger on the internets like I usually do, so that's why I haven't replied to comments. Thanks everyone for the kind words...

To answer a question, yes I plan to still post when I move, even if it's once a week at friend's houses until I get a computer and internet service.

Which brings me to the main purpose of this hurried post: Help rename my blog. I liked the name viva las vegass, because it told the reader I was living in Las Vegas, and it has the word "ass" in it. However, since I'll be living in Louisville, Ky in less than a week, this dumping ground of half-realized thoughts and vulgur incoherencies needs a new handle.

The candidates thus far:
Loserville
Kuntucky
the bluegrASS state

Do you like any of these? If not, give me your suggestions. I'm open to any ideas. I have to go now. My roommate is very gassy and if I don't leave this room I'll probably vomit.

Router....down!

I'm typing this at a Kinko's for Christ's sake. In case you haven't noticed, and judging from the amount of comments on my last post, you haven't...I have been without internet service at my house for the past two days. I have nothing clever to say about it, just letting the four people who still read this rag know I'm out of commission.

I seem to get very few comments when I viciously slam a political figure, be it Ted Kennedy or Clarence Thomas. Thanks for the support.

In closing, I hope my router is fixed so this crappy post isn't the last official viva las vegass entry until I leave town.

June's Right-Wing Douchebag of the Month

It's still early in June, but not too early to name Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas Right-Wing Douchebag of the Month.

In 2000, Thomas cast the deciding vote in Gore v. Bush, giving Florida and the Presidency to our current "leader". To be fair, all of the Justices selected by Democratic presidents voted in favor of Gore, and all selected by Republican presidents chose Bush. How surprising. But Thomas shouldn't have voted. The day after Bush was declared the winner, Thomas' wife Virginia was named director of the Bush White House Transition Team. Conflict of interest, anyone?

But the one thing, in my opinion, that forever brands Judge Thomas as a world class douchebag, occurred during his confirmation hearings.

After a day or two of testimony and questioning regarding sexual harassment allegations against him, Clarence Thomas announced that the proceedings were nothing more than "a high-tech lynching of an uppitity black man."

Bravo, because it worked. As soon as those spineless pseudo-liberals on the Senate Judiciary Committee heard the word "lynching" they backed the fuck off.

As a white man, I may have no right to say what I'm about to say, but it's my dying blog, so here goes. A lot of people made sacrifices and risked their lives so Clarence Thomas could have the opportunities he's had in life. A lot of civil rights martyrs actually were lynched; lynched as in hung from a fucking tree by a wild mob of hilljack savages, not inconvenienced by millionaires in front of television cameras.

Those people gave their lives so one day Clarence Thomas could go to Yale and become a lawyer and eventually a judge. He repaid them with a constant stream of piss throughout his judicial career, always siding against them in favor of interests that would have, just decades before, denied him the right to vote. But the mothercuntfucking moment he was in trouble he played the "lynching" card. FUCK HIM.

I'll never forget a picture I saw of Clarence Thomas standing between Senators Jessie Helms and Strom Thurmond, his arms placed around two of the most notorious racists and segregationists our country has known.

I actually shouted at the picture "Hey, Thomas, THOSE GUYS FUCKING HATE YOU. They don't think you're human because of the color of your skin. They don't want your children to go to school with their grandchildren."

Clarence Thomas knew they hated him, but he stood there with a big smile plastered on his face, openly defecating on the graves of those he would one day use to save his ass.

A Guide to the Summer Concert Season

Season-wise, it won't be summer until June 21st, but it's after Memorial Day so summer is here, damn it. Summer means big rock concerts. Festivals, superstars, reunions; all at prices that could reach into the hundreds. I'm going to miss the Pearl Jam concert for which I have tickets, unless I want to spend five hundred dollars to fly back to Vegas for the show.

If you're going to a BIG SUMMER CONCERT, here are some tips from someone who's been to a few.

-Get drunk in the parking lot
Do you enjoy paying six to ten dollars for a tiny plastic cup of watery, mass-produced domestic beer? Of course not, unless you're a regular of the Las Vegas club scene. Bring a cooler of good beer, or a bottle of bourbon. Or a gallon of embalming fluid and a large straw.

-Know your crowd
Wanna see girls flash their boobs? They'll eagerly comply at Ozzfest. Not so much at an Amy Grant concert. For those with a fetish for hairy female armpit, I hear the Indigo Girls are touring this summer.

-Do not stare directly at the opening act
Really, it will only encourage them to play longer. No one wants to hear "deep album cuts" from a Scottish punk-bagpipe quartet. I once saw an opening act where the lead singer had the nerve to ask the audience to sing along to a song no one had ever heard. He had a thick accent, and he said "Repeat after me: Eghoa addlieadlg, dueqztd." The crowd turned on him after that.

-To kill downtime, play a game
When I saw 10,000 Maniacs in concert oh-so many years ago, I played a little game called Find the Black People at the 10,000 Maniacs Concert. I counted three, and they were all with Caucasian dates. In other words, there were no black people at the 10,000 Maniacs concert of their own free will.

-If the band you're seeing plays more than one song that's over ten minutes long, you're a damn dirty hippie
This is more a rule than a tip, but it needed to be said.

-Take advantage of 'The Man'
Some venues charge an extra five-to-ten dollars PER TICKET for parking, so if the show's in your town or you don't have too far to travel, don't carpool. If four of you are going, drive four cars and take up the four parking spaces that rightfully belong to you.

-Pretend to be a narc
I always like to approach a group of people who are smoking pot, look at them quizzically, and pretend to say something into my wristwatch. They almost always scatter.

-If a woman who shakes violently and has scratched her forearms bloody offers to blow you in a Port-a-Can, turn her down
Really, just take my word on this one.

-Don't buy bootleg t-shirts
The first time you wash a bootleg t-shirt, it will shrink so much it won't cover Verne Troyer's junk.

-Ladies, don't fall for the ol' "blow a roadie first" trick
Invented by a Black Sabbath road manager back in the seventies and perfected by Motley Crue's tour support over a decade later, the clever scam of having to perform oral sex on a scuzzy roadie in order to meet the band has but one flaw (other than having an unwashed, diseased cock in your mouth): If you smell like roadie lovin', even Tommy Lee won't fuck you.

Have a great Summer Concert Season!

Oh, you'll get fucked, but not in the good way...

Last month, right before I decided to move back home, I signed up for a trial subscription to an online dating service called true.com. It was one more futile gesture in my tragicomic attempt to NOT DIE ALONE; or at least ONCE AGAIN HAVE AN ORGASM IN THE PRESENCE OF ANOTHER HUMAN BEING.

True.com has been a disaster from the start. They email me several times a day with what they call Flirt Alerts, and yes, it is as stupid as it sounds. Yesterday they sent me the profile of a woman who lives in Torrance, California. She's beautiful, blonde, and a former Laker girl. The email was titled Is She Your Type?

Yes, she is my type, but so is Jessica Alba. I have the exact same zero percent chance of dating either of them. For one thing, true.com knows how old I am. Really, I told them. I'm four years older than the oldest guy the Laker girl will date. And besides, she was a Laker Girl. I wonder how many times Kobe Bryant punched her in the face during semi-forced sex? I'm a peaceful man; I can't compete with that.

Two days ago I received a standard form rejection from a lady: "I'm pursuing another connection at this time, but thanks for your email." That's just fine, except I never emailed this woman. I had no idea who she was.

I think true.com randomly emails people claiming to be other members. So now, thanks to their ethically questionable business practices, I'm being rejected by someone I have absolutely no interest in. There's nothing worse than thinking "I've just been turned down by someone with no redeeming qualities whatsoever."

This is the end of internet dating for me. Soon I'll be back to Louisville where my true love can be found stumbling out of a bar at 4am, smelling of stale cigarettes and questionable suitors.