Friday notes

-In the soul-crushing world of online dating, every single woman with children writes "My kids are my life." That's great and all, but JUST ONCE I'd like to read "I don't give a shit about my brats. Who wants to party?"

-As a college basketball fan begrudgingly watching the NBA playoffs, I have one question: Why doesn't LeBron James just take the ball and barrel through the lane every single play? He can do whatever he wants - travel, knock standing defenders down - and the refs will never call it. Ever. How does Cleveland ever lose a game?

-Apparently someone named Ashley from Rock of Love Bus was in town last night at some douchey bar. Why wasn't I informed of this? I had my Axe body spray ready! I want to see this girl naked, mostly because it's rumored she has the names of guys she gave genital warts tattooed all over her body. She's what happens when step-dads have boundary issues, folks.

-When California goes completely broke, what pithy one-liner will Governor Ah-nuld pull out of his ass to get a cheap laugh from the assembled media? I'm guessing "I'll be back...in bankruptcy court." And then maybe he'll refer to the judge who freezes all of the state's assets as a "girly man." That's always comedy gold.

-Yeah, that's all I got. First post since Monday and this is it. Sorry.

Fear their t-shirts!

Every sports fan base will wear t-shirts to support their favorite team, but University of Kentucky fans have to be the t-shirt-wearingest motherfuckers on the planet.

This t-shirt celebrates the fact that Kentucky fired their semi-retarded basketball coach, a man with the personality of an anvil, and replaced him with John Calipari; a good coach, a great recruiter, and someone I've despised for well over a decade.

Predictably, since God hates me, Calipari has quickly assembled the best set of recruits since John the Baptist and Jesus played for Jerusalem U back in the year 27. I guess that explains the "Fear Our Future" part of the t-shirt.

Are you all afraid? Because you should be very very afraid! I expect this very conversation to occur in households throughout the country:

"Are you ok? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"No. I'm not ok. I'm frightened. I'm just plain scared, is all."

"Worried about losing your job? Is there a health concern I should know about?"

"No, it's worse. Much worse. The...(begins sobbing)...the John Calipari era has started at Kentucky."

"OHMYGOD! NO! Sweet lord above this isn't happening. What have we done to deserve such a fate?"

"You know what we have to do, don't you?"

"Yes. We have to kill ourselves."

"I'll get the knives."

And I'll go ahead and guess the "Envy Our Past" sentiment doesn't apply to the brief tenure of the aforementioned moron coach they just canned. Nobody envies that, not even prisoners.

Should fans of really shitty teams wear t-shirts that read "Laugh at Our Past. Weep for Our Future"? That would be the new hipster uniform faster than you can down a cold PBR!







In order to explain this t-shirt, it should be noted that Louisville coach Rick Pitino is also Italian, but apparently a lesser Italian than Calipari. Damn the rapier wit of the University of Kentucky athletic department!

Seriously, since Calipari seems to have a creepy Single White Female-ish obsession with Pitino, he probably designed this himself.

I eagerly await t-shirts proclaiming the team's star forward, Patrick Patterson, "The Best Black Guy in Kentucky." And by "eagerly await" I mean "dread".

How can American Idol end when I didn't know it began?

The internet is all aflutter today because this tremendous douche lost American Idol to some other poppy clown shoe. That's fine, because I thought it ended like a month ago. I have absolutely no interest in this lame garbage so it didn't bother me while it was being broadcast.

Unfortunately, even though the TV season is over, the real annoyances are just beginning.

They're going to throw this guy, who looks like an unholy union between Jimmy Fallon and Edward Scissorhands, into a studio with a team of producers and a computer that makes sure he sings in tune. They'll do the same thing with the actual winner, good ol' whatshisname.

Soon after, when I've been lulled into a false sense of pop culture security, their crappy, soulless karaoke music will be released and I won't be able to escape it. They'll play it on TV during sporting events, they'll play it where I shop for food and drink, they'll play it when I'm forced to meet family members at chain restaurants.

This is the reason American Idol is the worst show in the history of television. My Mother the Car and Cop Rock didn't have a fucking aftermath. Even an overrated shitfest like Sex and the City at least had a benign aftermath: increased consumption of Cosmopolitans.

I would like to see next season's American Idol telecast end with the winner getting pummeled unconscious by whatever band Jack White is in at the time. If a woman wins, a group of female wrestlers can do the job. Now that I'd watch.

This Just In: Dane Cook Still Sucks

This is the "cutting edge" artwork for Dane Cook's new CD/DVD/World Tour/Comedy Central Special/Mancunt Pads. He is a marketing genius, that Dane Cook. He isn't funny, but you already knew that, didn't you?

The other day at work I spotted a quartet of young men who I immediately named The Four Man-Whores of the Douchepocalypse. These guys had popped collars, bottle-tanned orange skin, and bling from the Mr. T starter kit at Kay Jewelers. I'd bet a million dollars that all four of them are HUGE Dane Cook fans. His ill-conceived comedy shoutings flow through their veins like Jagermeister (better known as "Douche Juice") and Axe Body Spray. In an ideal world, I could walk up to one of them and say "Is there a tasteless swill beer I can help you find, Mr. Every-single-thing-that's-wrong-with-society?" Then my magical cartoon mallet would crush him into a pile of guts and Hollister clothes. Only then would I turn to his friends and shout "Now go, and tell all the other douchebags what you saw here today!"

So yeah...Fuck Dane Cook.

Buy this stuff

Today is Endorsement Day at the ol' Feathered Mullet. Am I selling out? Oh, I would...but no one's buying.

These shorts are available at Old Navy stores throughout North America and online at oldnavy.com. Buy a pair. They are the most comfortable "lounging around the house" shorts ever made by children in an overseas sweatshop.

Don't act like you don't own any "lounging around the house" clothing. These shorts are perfect for watching a Beavis and Butt-head marathon on MTV Ocho while eating Kirstie Alleyesque amounts of deep dish pizza. You see, the elastic waistband is, much like the boyfriend of a really hot chick, especially forgiving.








Unfortunately for you, these breadsticks aren't available nationwide. You can only get them at one of the two semi-conveniently located Impellizzeri's Pizza establishments in Louisville.

Look at these perfect breadsticks, literally swimming in a pool of garlic butter. Why do all other breadsticks suck compared to these? Why do they all just sit there not as crispy on the outside nor as chewy on the inside, mocking me with their mediocrity? And why, for the love of clogged arteries, are they NOT swimming in a pool of garlic butter? Fuck you, shitty breadstick maker!

On Monday nights it's half-priced app night at Impellizzeri's, which means you can get an order of the best breadsticks in the universe for three dollars. Take the money you save to buy the comfy elastic-waist pants from Old Navy. You're gonna need 'em.




Sorry, but you can only get the world's best Nitro Porter at Cumberland Brews, also here in Louisville. This beer is so good and easy to drink that it'll sneak up on you and you'll be shouting at hippies to "wash your pits and groins, for the love of my olfactory senses!" before you know what hit you.







I am now going to torture myself by recommending something I can't afford: An Apple laptop.

I used to mock Apple users for paying so much more for a computer. I used to call my friend Alisha "Applehead" (and I also made fun of her for using a Macintosh. HAHAHA). Now I finally realize what she knew all along: the PC is one of the most shoddy products in the history of complete and utter shit.

The most unreliable American car ever built is still ten times better than the average PC that runs on Windows, yet GM is going bankrupt while Bill Gates rubs one out into million dollar bills. I am so tired of my PC freezing up for no fucking reason! And I'm "lucky" enough to have Windows XP. I pity the poor fools who are stuck with Vista, the Yugo of operating systems.

So after I get a better car and an HDTV I'm going to get a Mac notebook. In other words, I'm never getting a Mac notebook. *sigh*

Stripper Wisdom

Okay, I went to a strip club Saturday night. However, in my defense, THERE WERE NAKED GIRLS THERE!

I was sitting at a table when a young "club employee" sat down next to me. I thought she was going to ask me to spend lots of money on her. Instead she just started talking like a stripper all hopped up on uppers. Some of her memorable quotes:

-"I hate it when a guy farts while sitting at my stage, because hey...I'm the one with her asshole showing. Who do you think everyone's going to blame for the smell?"

-(Grabs another stripper's tit) "That never gets old."

-"Strippers love candy. The next time you come here, fill your pants with candy. Strippers will take the candy right out of your pants."

-"I really hate guys who wear Ed Hardy. They're always dicks."

This may have been the gem of the evening:

-"I still like watching the other girls take their clothes off every night, even though...you know...I show my pussy for a living."

Sure, Bill Clinton made it possible to be both liberal and a boob enthusiast, but the feeling that there's a touchy uncle in this girl's past is very troubling to me.

Why can't I get just one...nacho cheese chalupa?

A few years ago I was shocked to hear "Blister in the Sun" by '80s New Wave survivors Violent Femmes used in a Wendy's commercial. You know who else was shocked? Violent Femmes bassist Brian Ritchie, who issued the following statement: "For the fans who rightfully are complaining about the Wendy's burger advertisement featuring Blister in the Sun, (singer) Gordon Gano is the publisher of the song and Warners is the record company. When they agree to use it there's nothing the rest of the band can do about it, because we don't own the song or the recording. That's showbiz. Therefore when you see dubious or in this case disgusting uses of our music you can thank the greed, insensitivity and poor taste of Gordon Gano. It is his karma that he lost his songwriting ability many years ago, probably due to his own lack of self-respect as his willingness to prostitute our songs demonstrates."

Wow. Ouch. Funny thing, the band didn't break up; they continued to tour. In fact, I saw them play a free show in downtown Louisville that summer. When "Blister in the Sun", the band's most famous song, was played, Brian Ritchie left the stage, leaving a roadie to play bass.

I wonder what Mr. Ritchie thinks about another Femmes song, "Add it Up", being used by Taco Bell? I laugh whenever I see the commercial because the line everyone remembers from this song is "Why can't I get just one fuck?" Seems an odd choice to sell ersatz gorditas.

Strangely enough, the sexual frustration echoed by "Why can't I get just one fuck?" is equalled by the culinary frustration when a consumer wants edible Mexican cuisine but fast food is the only available option. In both cases one is likely to settle for a cheap, easily attained, poorly presented taco.

Is the Kentucky Derby anymore depraved than everyday life?

As this lady would tell you if she hadn't slipped into an alcoholic coma Saturday night, this past week was Derby time in Louisville.

No one outside of the state really cares about the Kentucky Derby, but that doesn't mean we can't party here. And we do. It's the only time of the year we get celebrities and tourists in town, but we locals manage to have a good time despite them.

The 1996 film Swingers was funny and all, but it completely ruined tourism in Vegas. All of these years later, groups of dumb young men walk around with the inflated sense of importance so thoroughly mocked in the movie. Of course, these dudes don't realize they're a walking parody. They never do.

Since I doubt frat boys from the northeast have read Hunter S. Thompson's The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved, I can't put my finger on what ruined the Derby tourist. Oh, wait...it just came to me: Society ruined them. Some people went to Mardi Gras, saw what happened, then bought a jaunty hat and headed to Louisville. Or they watched a Girls Gone Wild dvd. Or they caught every "Naughty Nurse" night at the local hook-up joint.

This isn't to say that I don't enjoy it all. I'm an observer and I love people watching. If I can ever get out of the retail bidness I might even make a long-overdue return to the Infield. I'm too old to wrestle in mud, but I'm not too old to watch other people wrestle in mud.

As far as celebrity watching, I'm not connected enough to get VIP access at the fancy parties. There are no celebrities in my Derby 2009 memories. When I left work Saturday, I went to an annual party at a friend's house. Great food, friendly people, my world-renowned mint juleps....but no celebrities. Later in the evening, none of the people who closed down the brew pub were celebrities; nor were there any Hollywood types at the dive bar or late-night pizza joint. We may have stepped over Paris Hilton passed out by a gutter on our way back to the car, but we weren't sure.

"Hey, is this Paris Hilton passed out by the gutter? I'm gonna take a piss on her."

"Don't do it. If it isn't Paris, she might not be able to afford to get urine stains out of that dress."

I'm not buying

The other night on the way home from dinner I stopped to browse at my local branch of a national bookstore chain. Barnes and Noble? Nope. Borders? Not quite.

It was Books-A-Million, the RC Cola of bookstores. They should call it Customers-A-Dozen, because the joint's always empty. I soon discovered why.

I made the mistake of walking up to a young, perky woman at the unfortunately named Joe Muggs Cafe (get it? like "a cup of joe". HAHAHAHAHAHA. Die). I asked for a medium iced mocha.

Perky gal: "Are you sure you wouldn't like a large? Only fifty cents more and you get an extra four ounces." She said this in as condescending a tone as possible, because obviously medium is really only for suckers who don't know the concept of value.

Me: "No, medium is fine. Thanks."

Perky gal: "Could I interest you in one of our baked goods? I baked the cookies myself this evening." She really said this.

What I wanted to say: "Really? You put some frozen cookies in the microwave to thaw? All by yourself? You're like a slightly less-retarded Rachel Ray."

What I actually said: "No thanks."

Perky gal: "Do you have a Millionaire's Club Card?"

Me: "No."

Perky gal: "Would you like to sign up for one (doesn't give me a chance to answer)? Right now it will only cost 18 dollars instead of the regular price of 20 dollars."

I just want an iced mocha. An iced motherfucking mocha. Put some ice and milk in a fucking cup, press a button to make espresso, add the espresso to the iced milk, give it two squirts of chocolate syrup, and if you don't mind, stir. I'm sure it'll be the tast-tast-tastiest mocha since Bing Crosby shared a drink with Danny Fucking Kaye.

Me: (grunt while shaking my head 'no')

Borders, a bookstore with actual customers, gives their discount card away for free. I still don't have one, because they track your purchases and I never wanted Dick Cheney to know how many books I purchased with the words "Bush" and "treason" in the title.

A few minutes later, she heads toward me with my drink. I can almost taste both the iced mocha and sweet sweet freedom. But she isn't done.

Perky gal: "Would you like to sign up for two free magazine subscriptions?"

What? Jesus. Who is this girl's boss, Alec Baldwin's character from Glengarry Glen Ross? I can only imagine his motivation techniques:

"You see this custom-made Joe Muggs apron I'm wearing? It cost more than your fucking car!"

"Who am I? I make seventy-five cents an hour more than you. That's who the fuck I am!"

Can any of this be good for business? This upsell bullshit was undoubtedly proposed by some corporate drone who doesn't have to deal with the public on a daily basis.