Sunday, April 26, 2009
This poor bastard...

I don't take a lot of pictures with my cell phone, but when I saw this standing in front of the liquor store this past Saturday, I had to capture the moment.

Yes, that's a human being dressed as the Early Times Mint Julep, the Mickey Mouse of Upper South alcoholics. Early Times is a cheap, horrible whiskey, aged not in charred oak barrels but in used pauper coffins. Their pre-mixed mint julep tastes like gargled Scope from the mouth of Gary Busey. It's the one served at the race track during the Kentucky Derby; and is the main reason generations of tourists hate the drink to this day.

It was unseasonably warm this weekend and this unfortunate fellow had to stand in the baking sun and get mocked by Bud Light drinkers. I'm hoping he gets paid $50 bucks an hour to suffer such indignities; or at least has a nice girlfriend with a raging "whimsical inflatable suit" fetish.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The personal blog is dead
There is nothing difficult about blogging. Really, any schmoe can do it, as this very blog has proven since 2005. However, there is a slimy underclass of sub-schmoe, the kind who vote multiple times on American Idol and are actually intrigued when they see Dane Cook's name above the title of a film. They have a vacant look about them and their collective breath reeks of Olive Garden's Zuppa Toscana.

To these dolts, blogging was just too darn complicated, what with the paragraphs and all. This being America, there is always a safety net for devotees of the lowest common denominator. In the online world, that safety net is Twitter.

Finally, thanks to Twitter, I can know what everyone is doing at all times! And it takes no creative effort on their part to inform me. Could life get any more living-worthy?

Well, there is a tiny fringe group of the sub-schmoe set, the people who ate paste as children and think Michael Jackson is innocent. What are they to do with Twitter's imposing 140 character limit? They're too busy getting Larry the Cable Guy tattoos and home schoolin' their youngins to deal with such a Tolstoyesque literary demand. I'm here to rescue them.

World, I give you "Todder". Yeah, the name sucks but I invented this crap so I get to name it. What is Todder? One character. One lousy character. That's all you get or deserve. For example, say a girl you know sends you this Todder:


What does it mean? Jesus, do I have to do everything for you? Obviously, she was finger-banged by the night manager at the hog rendering plant and graded the experience an "F" because the pig shit under his nails gave her a nasty 'giner infection. Duh.

-Despite the title and content of this post, I'm going to continue to blog, at least for now; but when Todder makes me a millionaire I'm outta here.

In other words, I'll be blogging for a long time.

Monday, April 20, 2009
Way to tear down history, New York Yankees
I don't watch a lot of baseball these days, but I look at highlights on ESPN, and I just saw something I heard last year but had forgotten about: The New York Yankees are playing in a new stadium.

That's right, THEY FUCKING TORE DOWN YANKEE STADIUM! Remember "The House that Ruth Built"? Gone. Remember the place where a dying Lou Gehrig reacted to his farewell ovation by stating "Today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth"? Well, there wasn't a Hard Rock Cafe in that dump, so it had to go. The stadium that gave the sports world Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, and Joe Dimaggio didn't have any martini bars or walk-in cigar humidors, so it was deemed worthless.

I'm no fan of the Yankees, but I understand history; and this is just taking a huge shit on baseball history. The new stadium's defenders say "It's a replica with more amenities." Fuck that. Anyone who thinks a replica equals history probably works for the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce.

And folks, the Yankees of today, when you consider their payroll versus playoff success, suck. Their history was all they had going for them, and they tore it down for extra corporate suites.

So what's next? Now that Yankee Stadium is gone, when does Fenway Park go? When will the fans who think the Green Monster is a left field wall get crushed by the executives who know that money is the true Green Monster? And how long are the new owners of the Chicago Cubs going to let the bars surrounding Wrigley Field sell all of the overpriced pre-game drinks? Right now a guy who only travels by limousine is thinking a new stadium with several lounges and tacos by Rick Bayless would make him a lot of money.

And he'll probably get the taxpayers to build it for him.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Does anyone know a good lawyer?
If you don't want a brush with the law, DO NOT walk into a crowded KFC and shout "COLONEL SANDERS HAD A DREAM WHEN HE STARTED THIS RESTAURANT, AND YOU PEOPLE ARE RAPING HIS CORPSE!"

Really. Just take my word for it.

-Sorry. That's all I got. I'm extremely depressed right now. Carry on.

Friday, April 10, 2009
Unhinged rant, anyone?
To paraphrase Full Metal Jacket's Gunnery Sergeant Hartmann, "The Kentucky Senate is the kind of legislative body that would fuck my city in the ass and not have the god damn common courtesy to give us a reach-around."

Allow me to explain. Recently, the federal government was kind enough to give the undeserving state of Kentucky 440 million dollars in stimulus money. I expected a windfall for the city of Louisville, which is the economic center of the Commonwealth of Kentucky. Sure, being the economic center of Kentucky is kind of like being the least douchey person at a Dane Cook concert, but it is what it is.

I must have had that twenty-four hour retarded thing that's going around to actually think that the hillbillies who run this backwoods-ass state would miss an opportunity to cornhole Louisville. They were nice enough to give us eight percent of the money. EIGHT PERCENT. And I'm sure if we don't properly pucker up to these yahoos they'll dismiss us as spoiled city folk.

Well, this is one spoiled city folk who is tired of pretending to tolerate the hicks who make this state a fucking national joke. And I'm not talking about the average yokel who is too poor and uneducated to know better. My rage is directed at their political leaders.

According to this editorial, Republican Senate President David Williams made sure his district got the largest percentage of federal money, eighteen percent for 78,000 people.

Let's take a look at Senator Williams's district here. What are they going to do with all of that money, build a wall around their shitty little towns to keep the Tennesseans out? While they're at it, why not give every one of them a solid gold corncob pipe?! Who the fuck cares about Louisville and our crumbling infrastructure. Hell, when one of our ancient bridges collapses and dumps hundreds of rush hour drivers into the Ohio River, we'll get a mention on national TV!!!

In a crazy coincidence, the second largest percentage went to the district of Democrat Ed Worley, the Kentucky Senate Minority Leader. Here's his insignificant district. You get that same picture when you do a Google Images search for "middle of nowhere".

And really, I'm not a heartless bastard. This wouldn't bother me as much if the money actually went to improve the quality of life in rural Kentucky. But it won't. It never gets to the people, at least in a significant way. That federal money will be used to line the pockets of rural politicians and their corporate friends. How do I know this? I live in this fucking state, that's how I know. All of the taxes collected from the city of Louisville for all of these years, and the politicians never use the money to help people out in the state. For example, do you think they're going to protect coal miners? Fuck and no. Making their jobs safer and less cancer-y would cut into coal company profits. Not gonna happen. And forget about improving adult education. The powers that be like their constituants scared and illiterate. It's easier to steal from them that way.

Sunday, April 05, 2009
Another Saturday night
A lot of people who know me think I hate country music; and that's true, in a way. I hate "new" country, which is nothing but twangy pop played by preening Nashville models. Give me Johnny Cash, Hank Williams (Senior) and local semi-legends Johnny Berry and the Outliers.

I saw them at Seidenfadens bar last night. It was an interesting evening, to say the least. We arrived early enough to snare seats at the bar, knowing it would be asses-to-elbows crowded as soon as the hipsters woke up and realized it was the first Saturday of the month.

The band played in front of a large window. They weren't through their second song when some crazy woman, who I assumed was a potentially dangerous street person, started doing an insane person's dance in the street right next to the window. She was doing "The Monkey" I think, only the monkey was all loopy on malt liquor. And she was giving everyone the double middle finger, the clever clever girl.

When the band's drummer accidentally made eye contact with her, the nutty lady ran into the saloon, grabbed a microphone, and began singing a barely coherent song. Only Hitler deserves such abysmal karaoke; we sure didn't. Then she traded insults with a jeering, increasingly angry crowd. When someone suggested she take her crazy ass home, she replied "I'M NOT CRAZY. I HELPED DELIVER BOTH OF HIS KIDS!" and pointed toward the bartender.

I quickly turned my head and looked at the bartender. He embarrassingly nodded. It was true. The babbling wino had pulled two children out of this guy's wife. Only in Louisville could there be nary a difference between a ranting street lunatic and a medical professional.

The bartender then politely asked her to leave, and a potential angry mob situation was averted. Everything was fine, the music was good, the beer was cold; but then all of a sudden I'm surrounded by hipsters WHO SMELL LIKE FRIED DOUGH.

These people smelled like Elephant Ears! Was there some sort of hipster carnival in town last night that would make these twentyish boys and girls reek of State Fair food? And why do people who stink love to get as close to you as possible? At one point I shouted "Hey, Funnel Cake, leave a little room for the Holy Spirit" but no one heard me.

They spread out a little once the bartender gave them their precious cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Okay, I'm about to make an official Death Wore a Feathered Mullet Half-Assed Generalization: If you drink PBR, you're a fucking dolt. It's horrible swill that actually tastes like the can it's in. Shave your lumberjack beard and have a real beer for once in your life.

And the weird thing is, I had a great time last night!