My memory isn't what it used to be, okay? Yeah, some shit went down in the aught-six; I just don't remember what happened in a specific month. However, I feel obligated to put this shit-all year out of its misery, so here are my vague recollections of the past 365.
January It was sort of cold, but since I lived in Vegas, not as cold as it was where most of you lived; or as cold as it is where I live now. I think I got my w-2's in the mail. And I may or may not have fucked a midget.
February At least two less days of shittiness than your average month. Also, since February is Black History Month, I was treated to a four-hour B.E.T. retrospective on the career of Sir Mix-a-lot.
March If there were flowers in Las Vegas, they would have started to bloom. Instead, a group of Florida State coeds in town on Spring Break showed me their tits.
April If God didn't want me to spend the entire month sitting alone in a local's casino playing penny slots and drinking free bourbons, then why did I do it?
May I visited Irvine, California, the open herpes sore of Orange County. And me without my Valtrex.
June I moved back to Louisville, leaving behind a minor gambling addiction and half of my blog traffic.
July Tired of unemployment, I resorted to re-employment at the liquor store where I worked before I moved to Vegas. Surprisingly, it isn't any better the second time around. And I may or may not have fucked a hare-lip gal who works at Shoney's.
August Perhaps the schweatiest month on record. Insert your own I schweated like...joke here.
September I got even older. Young ladies sent me pictures of their boobs. One pair was so fantastic I had a minor heart attack, but it was worth it. Also, I attended Lebowski Fest and drank like Mickey Mantle on St. Patrick's Day.
October Uh, odds are I wrote something really hateful about Lindsay Lohan.
November I celebrated Thanksgiving Day by eating turkey and sending smallbox-infested blankets to the nearest Indian casino.
December For Christmas I got the greatest gift a man can receive: A latex mold of Bea Arthur's vagina.
My brother was in town for Christmas, and he reminded me of an amusing thing that happened to us about five or six years ago.
He and I were about to go out one Saturday night when he pulled into a Thornton's Gas Station to fill up his car. As he stood by the pumps, I got out of the car to go inside and get a Coke.
I had just stepped out when I heard my brother yell "HOLY FUCK! RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!"
I ran without question, because my brother isn't a jumpy person. If he was running through a parking lot at full speed, screaming at the top of his lungs, he had a god damn good reason for doing so. I was thinking he spotted a sniper or worse yet, an ex-girlfriend.
As I followed behind him, I heard him say, "YOUR CAR IS ON FIRE! YOU'RE GOING TO BLOW THIS PLACE UP!"
When I ran past the building I saw a Thornton's employee out of the corner of my eye, rushing outside with a fire extinguisher. "FUCK SHIT GOD DAMN YOUR CAR IS ON FIRE!!!"
There was a lot of screaming and running about, just like in the film Raising Arizona.
What my brother had seen was a young woman pull into the gas station, right next to the pumps, about a foot from where he was standing, with flames shooting out from the hood of her car. Why did this woman decide a gas station was the best place to park her flaming automobile? I guess the Nitroglycerine Plant was too far down the road.
Once I was behind the building, I looked around the corner to see the poor frantic Thornton's employee extinguish the flame, preventing dozens of people from being blown to smithereens. This guy was a hero; a reluctant hero, but a hero nonetheless. I hope they gave him a quarter raise or a bulletproof vest, something in recognition of his bravery in the face of unimaginable stupidity. I wonder if he has a blog? I'd like to hear this story from his perspective.
This is Miss USA, Tara Conner. Ladies and gentlemen, she is living the American dream.
Tara was born in tiny Russell Springs, Kentucky (population 2,4oo). She went on to become Miss Kentucky and later Miss USA. One of the perks of being named Miss USA is getting to live, rent free, in a fancy Manhattan townhouse.
So Tara did what any beautiful young girl from a two-stoplight backwater town would do if put in her situation: She went god damn insane!
According to every news source in North America, Tara quickly began frequenting Manhattan nightspots. She drank to excess, even though she's underage; and she also allegedly did cocaine, made out with chicks in public, and had sex in a men's room. Yes, Miss USA reportedly got banged in a public shitter. That's quite a story for some guy to tell. His friends will never be able to compete.
"Dude, what'd you do Saturday night?"
"Well, I fucked Miss USA up against a urinal at Sky Bar. What did you do?"
"Uh, I got a sack of White Castles."
Underage drinking, cocaine use, promiscuity...she's like an attractive Lindsay Lohan.
And it gets better. One of the girls she made out with was Miss Teen USA Katie Blair.
Relax, people. Katie is "good teenage" (eighteen), not "jailbait teenage".
Miss USA getting it on with Miss Teen USA is the kind of recreational lesbianism our Founding Fathers had in mind when they bloodthirstily stole this country from its original inhabitants. In fact, Ben Franklin wanted recreational lesbianism to be an official inalienable right, but the motion was vetoed by that sanctimonious windbag Alexander Hamilton.
Back to the present, Tara got caught and is of course headed to rehab for her "drinking problem". What, does anyone think she needed beer goggles to find Katie attractive? "Oh, I'll need a few more vodkas. You're gross." Give me a fucking break.
It was nice of Donald Trump to give Tara a second chance. In other words, he hasn't fucked her yet.
Somewhere in Manhattan, as you read this, Tara Conner has an invitation to Trump's apartment, and his maid is busy cleaning all of the bathrooms.
This may explain why I'm such a fucked up adult. This is the cast of The New Mickey Mouse Club. The show only aired for about a year, sometime in the Seventies, and I only saw a handful of episodes, but it seriously scarred me. Look at these fucking Disco-teers! And get a load of those outfits. That's a lot of polyester.
The original Mickey Mouse Club, from the Fifties, became a cultural icon for the first generation raised on television. It was replayed in syndication for decades afterward.
The one from the Nineties, called MMC in all of its faux-hipness, continues to ruin music to this very day by introducing Justin Timberlake, Christina Agulera, Britney Spears, and other talentless urchins to a nation of easily entertained simpletons.
What was the culture significance of the short-lived and long-since-forgotten New Mickey Mouse Club? Well, it ruined my life. And it also gave us Tits McGee's favorite person, Lisa Whelchel, who went on to megastardom as Blair on The Facts of Life. She's the one in the second row wearing the kelly green prison jumpsuit.
A few other thoughts regarding The New Mickey Mouse Club:
-With its ethnically diverse cast, the show proved that blacks and Hispanics are just as capable as white kids of being stomach-churningly enthusiastic.
-If anyone ever tries to give you a Mousketeer hat that isn't the traditional black model, punch that person in the face.
-This show was a major component of President Carter's controversial "Complete and Utter Disco-ing of America" initiative.
-All of the girls on the show are now in their early forties; and all of them but Lisa Whelchel will blow you for bus money.
Monkey said she liked to hear stories about crazy customers, so she wins the "Choose my next post" contest, as her suggestion came on the heels of the sex-crazed senior citizen who infested our store this past Saturday.
The old lady in question, who told several of us that she was eighty-one, and had a thick German accent that suggested she may have once blown Hitler, asked me to help her find some prune wine or licorice whiskey or vermouth with Matlock's picture on it or some such elderly staple.
"Here you go, ma'am," I said, handing her a bottle of swill.
"I'd like to sit on your lap and bounce up and down," Auntie Nazi said as I wished God would cause the earth to open up and swallow me whole.
I know this is exactly what she said, because she repeated it about a dozen times.
It got worse for a coworker. She walked up to him, started stroking his beard, and said, "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"Yes," he replied, swallowing the small amount of vomit in his mouth.
"You should go home and rub your facial hair on her tits." (Yes, she said "tits". No polite euphemisms for this horny old broad).
Yeah. She'll love that. Then maybe he can buff her cooze with steel wool.
What is going on in this fossil's mind? Does she make wrinkle-porn in her spare time? I can just see her in a sex shop:
"Do you have the new mothball scented KY jelly?" *******
Oh, another question: Is there anyone less entertaining than Cedric the Entertainer?
It's contest time. Everyone loves contests, except for stupid people. And I have two contests this weekend.
Contest One: Give me a DJ name If I'm going to continue to amuse myself with this fake DJ thing, I need a DJ name. Right now it's T-Rok, but if I'm going to get to the next fake level, I'll need something better.
Contest Two: Choose my next blog post Folks, it's almost over. I'm spent creatively. Obviously, or I wouldn't be writing about contests. Please help me choose a worthy subject to write about (if not worthy, at least offensive).
The winners will be notified by Pony Express; or in the event one of the winners is from beyond the grave, a seance will be held. I'll post the results Monday.
I think there were only four people in Las Vegas who weren't DJs. Seriously.
The girl who sold me my morning coffee at Starbucks? "You should check out my set sometime." I was already checking out her set every morning, but she was talking about something else.
The guy at the stereo store showing me receivers? "I spin at this local place on Thursdays. I'm old school, though. Nothing but vinyl." And an audience of nothing but jaded gambling addicts playing video poker around the bar, trying to ignore Mr. Old School and his Fischer-Price record player.
I'm trying to superficially infiltrate the DJ culture my own damn self. I often tell strange women that I spin at an obscure bar on the weekends. I'm usually drunk when I do this, so it amuses me to no end; even though no one in Louisville gives a Shriner's shit about DJs. No one, and I mean no one, cares. DJs who are treated like celebs in Vegas couldn't hail a cab in this town. I'd get a lot more play pretending to be the bass player of a shitty Led Zeppelin cover band.
However, I always get a response when I say "Stop by next Saturday and I'll put you on the list." Man, people LOVE to be on the list. Cover in Louisville is five bucks, max, but nothing makes people happier than the idea of not having to pay it.
So, for those of you keeping score at home:
A "celebrity" DJ in Vegas spends his weekends dining at fine restaurants, spinning at swank clubs, and bedding a bevy of hot club chicks.
I, on the other hand, down my inexpensive bourbon drinks and laugh to myself at the thought of a woman who won't sleep with me wandering drunk through the Highlands neighborhood looking for a bar that doesn't exist.
I went to a party Saturday night, but the house was chock full of humorless, jaded hipsters. I like my hipsters jovial and care free. Can't one appreciate both the Velvet Underground and a good vagina joke? It was painful to watch how hard these people tried to act cool. I'm all for ironic detachment, but this was a party, not a midnight gathering around Andy Warhol's grave.
We didn't stay there long. We ended up at the Mag Bar, where the hipsters are happy to be drinking strong adult beverages. Maker's and Coke is a solid drink, people. I also saw my future wife there that night. Notice I said I "saw" her. I didn't meet her, but I will. I just have to show up again and hope she's there. Hey, it's a remote possibility. This isn't the unobtainable fantasy of a guy who has become so introverted he can't even approach a stranger when good and liquored up. Or maybe it is. Yeah, it is. Shut up.
At about 3am I was knocking on the front door of Erin's and Jason's house. Hey, the lights were on, and they party til the early dawn. They graciously turned down our late-night dining invite, so we headed to Denny's without them.
The Denny's near the campus of the University of Louisville, at 3:3o am on a weekend night, is a freakshow of Barnumian proportions. In fact, the Bearded Lady was there, as were her just as hairy but less famous sisters. I wouldn't have blinked if Martians had walked through the door.
Of course, it's always the "normal" looking ones you have to watch out for. Two vapid cleavage-showin' sorority girls sat at the table next to ours, leading to this snippet of conversation:
Girl one: "Where's (frat boy whose name escapes me)?"
Girl two: "Oh, he found out I've been cheating on him, so he called me a dirty whore or something."
Girl one: "He should just get over that."
Well, I only have a problem with his semantics. Unless she charged the other guy for sex, she's a dirty slut, not a dirty whore. In all fairness, though, anyone who dates this girl and thinks he's the only ship in the port is fooling himself.
I remember thinking, as I sat there eating my Fat Guy Breakfast Slam, that those girls would have been a damn hoot at the dour hipster party.
In what had to be a subconscious decision to torture myself for blog material, I attended a Flea Market Sunday afternoon at the Kentucky State Fairgrounds.
Here is what I learned:
-The perfect accessory to go with bad skin and too much makeup? That would be massive cold sores. Ahhh...back to basics.
-A woman was buying her infant a one-piece jumper with Git R Done written on it, and local authorities didn't immediately seize the baby and sell it to people with better taste. That's what should have happened. Oh, and the woman should have been beaten in public to discourage others from following her lead.
-The morbidly obese in wheelchairs and parents pushing strollers are allowed to run over the able-bodied and/or childless. Resistance is futile, as their numbers are legion.
-It isn't wise to walk up to a man wearing a t-shirt which reads Eat. Sleep. Kentucky Football. and say "Is that their off-season training regimen?"
-NASCAR and metallic license plates? A winning combination!
-Who needs UV protection when sunglasses are five for a dollar?
-Traveling Flea Market vendors are the new carneys (except there aren't as many Asian carneys).
-It is unwise to attend a Flea Market when suffering from a massive hangover. I wasn't there very long, but I contemplated murder about a dozen times. Only the numerous opportunities to purchase fudge kept me from committing multiple homicides.
-The entire enterprise reeked of desperation, out-of-control consumerism, and fried dough.
This is my blog friend Brooke's "dream engagement ring". Her rich handsome future husband is going to take time out from his job, CEO of the Universe, to knock down her front door with his enormous penis and hand her this rock. Good for her.
I personally do not own one piece of jewelry, unless you count a cheap watch as jewelry, and you wouldn't if you saw this watch. I don't like jewelry; I consider it a huge waste of money. If other people want to spend their hard-earned cash on shiny objects, that's their right.
But I do have a major problem with the engagement ring scam. I think diamond rings are a ridiculous luxury that has nothing to do with love and commitment and everything to do with well-executed brainwashing courtesy of the world's jewelers.
"Gee honey, wouldn't you rather take a nice vacation or buy enough clothes to last the next few years?"
"No. I want a ring with a diamond the size of Ted Kennedy's head."
"Why don't I just burn several thousand dollars? At least the heat from the fire would keep us warm for awhile."
Okay, so I'm never getting married. I don't care. It's not like they're lining up, ring or not. The madness has to stop somewhere. What if people start demanding expensive, useless items for other occasions?
"Honey, I know I'm seven months pregnant, but I want a solid gold i-pod, or so help me Christ I'm having a back alley abortion."
And men can get into the act as well:
"Dear, if you expect me to mow the lawn, I'm going to need a pair of boxer shorts made of fabric from the Shroud of Turin."
I realize I'm pissing into the wind here. Like Brooke said when I told her of my objections, "Fuck you, Todd. I want my ring."
But first, the disclaimers This is just my opinion based on the finite number of bands I've heard. I'm sure there are worse groups out there, such as every all-white Reggae band that ever played a frat party, but if they don't have a record contract and I've never heard them, I can't exactly put them on the list.
Also, I'm ranking bands only, not individual performers, which explains the absence of Kenny G.
Poison There were probably worse hair metal bands, but no one epitomized the "image first, talent last" philosophy more than these androgynous hacks.
Fall-Out Boy The Poison of fake emo (or "psuemo"). "Oh, we're upper-middle class. Poor us. We have a curfew and can't use dad's credit card at Hot Topic." A benevolent deity would create a special strain of pestilence just to unleash on the lead singer.
Black Eyed Peas If there was such a thing as a Shitometer, it would break if pointed at the Black-Eyed Peas. Anyone who likes them should have their pea-sized brain harvested for scientific study.
Kottonmouth Kings I don't believe marijuana causes brain damage, but I do believe it causes this group to write the same horrible song over and over.
Seven Mary Three So many shit stain "grunge" bands to chose from, but these turds edge out Silverchair because the guys in Seven Mary Three were old enough to know better. On the bright side, if you have twenty dollars and a floor to sleep on, they'll play at your house. Or clean it.
Crash Test Dummies The singer's coal-shaft deep voice combined with nonsensical lyrics to reinvent the Prince of Darkness as an effete nancy-boy. Whoever recorded this travesty should be beaten with a bag of brass doorknobs.
Creed Every time frontman Scott Stapp did his overwrought Jesus Christ pose, a puppy died. If your puppy died while this band was still together, it's his fault. Please seek swift, old testament-style retribution.
Phish All hippie jam bands suck to those of us who don't do drugs, but I choose Phish as the worst over the Grateful Dead and Dave Matthews Band because theirs is the flavor of Ben and Jerry's I like the least.
98 Degrees actually a group, not a band, because a band plays instruments. I also hate N'sync for spawning 21st century minstrel show Justin Timberlake, but being a fourth-rate imitation of something that was lame in the first place gives these guys top honors. Wasn't their CD released like two days before boy bands were officially over?
Insane Clown Posse Whenever these "artists" play the Louisville area, they're always booked at an abandoned barn in some nearby rural county, so their white trash fans can spout racial epithets and get fuckbrained on hillbilly heroin without fear of reprisal from minorities or law enforcement officers.
I guess I should have called this post "The First Ten Crappy Bands I Could Think Of", but oh well. What do you think? Who did I leave out?
I love these bad album covers. This one aims for the coveted dirty old man demographic.
Julie looks like a happy birthday girl, doesn't she? Who wouldn't want to be the object of John Bult's inappropriate lust?
He's doing this right, though. He took her to a nice place with a piano and tablecloths, he had a mug of beer to steady his nerves, and he's holding her hand as he whispers to her "Whatever you do, don't tell your dad."
This album contained the hit single "She Wanted a New Car; She Got an Old Cock".
I've read a lot of blogs, being a guy with no life and all, and I've come across the following scenario a few times recently:
"So I was in bed, naked and ready to go, but the guy had a really small penis, so I sent him on his way."
Ladies, I don't blame you for not wanting a sex life with needledick, the bug fucker. I know you aren't accustomed to trolling for nub cock. But if pinky-penis is lying in your bed with his barely noticeable hard-on, would it kill you to just go ahead and fuck him? You were going to anyway before you found out he was rockin' the hamster junk. Be a sport...lay back, close your eyes, and let him hump away. Not only won't it hurt you, you probably won't even feel it. Get some rest, do your taxes in your head, enjoy a nice flavored martini, watch an infomercial on late night tv, and give the guy another six months of memories before he inevitably hangs himself in microphallic shame.
Really, if I was down in Vagina Valley giving a woman the ol' two fingers "come hither" motion and I was able to go in up to my elbow, I wouldn't leap to my feet, exclaim "YOU HAVE A HUGE PUSSY!" and leave. Fuck no, I'd go ahead and throw the hot dog down the hallway. If she has a hugina, I'm stirrin' some paint, baby.
I've avoided the big honkin' giner by simply asking on every first date, "You don't have a gaping canyon of a snatch, do you?" Hey, it works. You ladies should ask "You aren't packin' like my five-month-old nephew, are you?" This will help you avoid any embarrassing and/or disappointing encounters in the future.
I'd like to write for Saturday Night Live, so I could create a character based on my coworker called Tim: The Guy Who Thinks Everyone Is Gay.
This guy seriously thinks everyone is gay.
"Dude, I think (male coworker) is gay, man."
Really, all I want to do is sling some cases of liquor and go home. I don't care what anyone does as long as they aren't blowing goats in the men's room. So I usually reply, "Did he tell you he was gay?"
"No, but (vague description of allegedly gay activity)." This could be anything, by the way. The guy could have stylish hair or fashionable clothing; any aspect of a person not fully endorsed by Charles Bronson will immediately be questioned by Tim: The Guy Who Thinks Everyone Is Gay.
His SNL nemesis could be The Guy Who Doesn't Think Anyone is Gay. I've known people like this; which usually leads to this conversation:
"Man, Bob just came out. He announced that he's gay."
"No shit. Everyone already knew that."
"Really? I never would have guessed."
"What? Don't you remember the time we walked in on him sucking that guy's cock?"
"Yeah, but I just thought he was a crack addict. You know, sucking a few dicks to get him some rock."
There have been worse skits on Saturday Night Live.