Archive for July, 2011

2nd Attempt At July Wrap-Up

July 31st, 2011

Let’s start at the end. The recording of a new Technology Vs. Horse EP that started the other day. Five songs. Bass and drums were laid down. I finished two vocal tracks. Next week, I will finish the other three tracks. Guitar and keys will also be finished. Release date? Not sure.


Still haven’t received Kickstarter money. People keep asking me. Haven’t got it, but I have the bank statements to prove I haven’t received the funds yet. $540 or thereabouts.


ROSI’s Skate Or Bust 3 took place on July 23rd. We raised about $3,000 for American Cancer Society’s “Making Strides Against Breast Cancer”. Two pickup teams playing against each other. The Milk Maids vs. The Bad Mammogrammers. Milk Maids won 110-107. A great night.


Last jam of the bout.


Photos by Cory Layman


I had a tooth extracted the week before in Owensboro. The upper right molar on top, farthest back. It was broken and needed to be pulled out. Several days of pain meds and stitches that dissolved after about a week. Gauze in mouth to soak up the blood and pus. Antibiotics out the wazoo. I have the tooth here in a pouch of my table. Mom doesn’t want to keep it. She has a collection of my baby teeth. This one isn’t as cute.


Two days after the surgery, I went to watch my ROSIs participate in a lumberjill wrestling match in Evansville. I’ve written about this before but I didn’t have the photos to show it. Here are a few more of Cory’s fantastic photos from that particular event.


ROSI surrounds the ring


ROSI's Andre'a The Giant dumps Lady Vendetta back into the ring


ROSI models the NFW World Championship. Photos by Cory Layman.

July Wrap-Up

July 31st, 2011

So I’m sitting here in hopes that the government will work out a debt ceiling compromise that will not cause a default and thus MASS CHAOS in the streets. I met two people yesterday who didn’t know about the situation. Tried to explain it to them. I wanted to strangle them with their first-world problems and nattering about where they wanted to go to eat.


Where do you want to eat?

I don’t know. What do you want to eat?

(wait ten minutes while Internetting and gaming)


You wanna go for seafood?

I don’t want to get dressed up.

I’m as dressed as I’m going to be today.

(ten more minutes of annoying waiting)


I guess I should get dressed.

This internet is so shitty today.

(ten more minutes)


Are you gonna get dressed?

I don’t know. . .

(so on and so on)


Two out of touch little shits who were up the asshole of Mother Convenience. Not aware that the shit could go down on 12:01 Wednesday morning. I wanted to throttle them with their annoying drawls and pre-diabetic conditions. I hope they lose their feet from nerve damage. “My feet are cold.”


Your feet are cold because you’re a fat fuck and your circulation is nil. I know. I’ve been there. Sometimes I’m still there. Put some socks on, stupid. You’re slowly dying.


This was supposed to be a wrap-up of July’s activity. Instead this has turned into a rant about two people who were actually very nice to me when I was at their place recently. How do you think that guy would have felt if I told him he had diabetes? Probably would have looked at me like I was a fuckhead and stayed in denial. Can’t blame him. Truth is ugly. I’m not even a doctor. I just understand. Physical empathy, because I don’t have a lot of emotional empathy.


I’m not the fattest person I see anymore. That’s a relief. There are some really fat people out there. Morbidly obese people who have my empathy. Worse off. Going the wrong way. I understand all too well. I can’t help them because I am still a very fat person on the journey to fewer pounds. My body changes, I look like a melting snowman. Eh. The body’s molecules change every seven years. My seven will be up in two more years, when I turn 35. Egads. I’m not the guy I was at 28, I know this. Thank God. What a fat prick.


I’ll weigh myself in September. Promise.

I’m Busiest On The Weekend

July 26th, 2011

Sunday through Friday, I’m usually at home. You can’t see me, I’m not in your town. I’m miles from everything and nearly everyone I like.


I got 21 spam comments since I last logged in. I’m not always on here, you know. Sometimes I need downtime, too. I have a show on Wednesday with TVH. I’ll probably spend the night because they wanna practice the next day for a Saturday recording session. Probably a good idea. Life aint bad, but I wish I could teleport. I wish for that everyday. Somehow big business would find a way to make that expensive, too.


Obama and the Reps are fighting over Social Security. Getting down to the nitty gritty and it’s very possible that August 1st will be a bad day for people who receive that program, myself included. There oughta be revolts in the streets.


Sometimes I get the feeling that a lot of those Tea Partiers actually don’t hate Obama personally any more than they hate the rest of the government, particularly the Congress. I think if they would, they would also throw all the bums out and I can’t necessarily disagree with that notion. But that’s my imagination. From now on, every US President will be compared to Hitler in a public forum. People are not smart. Libs not smart. Conservatives not smart either. Very very bad. Me get dumb typing this.


John Boehner may be the worst drunk in Congress since Eugene McCarthy. Yes, even worse than Ted Kennedy. No, that can’t be. Kennedy killed a girl once.  Mary Jo Kopechne. Look that up. The powerful can get away with a lot. Dominique Strauss-Kahn, for example. His people have done a lot to mess with his accuser. She came out in public to make her case. She should not have to have done that. Do you believe the face of rape when it looks at you with tears in its’ eyes? Admittedly ignorant, but I’m as sure of DSK’s guilt as the public was of Casey Anthony’s guilt. Perhaps that is my basic distrust of the rich and powerful at play. They can get away with practically anything. They will pay their way out of the fire if they can. Practically the justice system’s equivalent to the 99% tax bracket. A large difference between what is known and what can be proven in a court of law. I hope to hell they throw the book at DSK. I hope the country stands up and takes a chunk of its’ representatives asses should this Social Security deal not get done. If my grandparents have to go without next week, what happens? Your grandparents, too.

Just Kidding. I Try To Get Laid Sometimes.

July 24th, 2011

After jokes, where do you go. I go to more jokes. There is no second gear for me after jokes. If I were a car, First gear would be jokes and second would be more jokes. Third gear would be “So, uh. . . what do you think, eh?”


You know something? That sounds not-as-terrible as I thought it was. Don’t get me wrong, it’s neither failsafe nor would be it preferable to my favorite mode of picking up girls which is being so naturally charming that girls just fall in love with me. This has not happened more than once. Maybe not even once but the girl liked me enough for sexytime so it worked. I was such a charming lad that this girl one time was actually into me for about three weeks. Which is long enough for any relationship.


But as far as jokes, jokes and then the proposal goes? Eh, could be worse. I could make a joke and then lay a bunch of bullshit lines on a girl, and then ply them with drinks. Or I could pull a Troy McClure and tell them about the famous people who are my friends. And that won’t work. I have tried. I tried a lot in 2002 when I was on a TV show, and again in 2007 after I’d been on a US tour. It doesn’t work. I would have to be Kid Rock to pull that kind of shit off.


I’d like to end this with a joke.


Q:Why did the chicken cross the road?

A:Because I need some pussy juice on my moustache or I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.


You think that’s funny? Great, what are you drinking?

I’m Not Trying To Get Laid

July 21st, 2011





I don’t try to get laid anymore. I stopped trying long ago. I am single and I don’t get laid so much these days.


Don’t get me wrong. I loves to get me some layin’. But seriously it’s too much effort to get a chick to let me put my hands down her pants. So ehh, that’s what I say.


Once upon a time, the word “no” would be responded with the word “please”, or “c’mon” or “how about you just watch me j.o.” but on the rare times I ask, “no” is responded with “okay, then. . . no means no, motherfucker (under my breath)”.


And let’s make a distinction between “don’t get laid” and “can’t get laid”. Oh, I can certainly get laid. Oh, yes I can. Whoo-boy. If I wanted to, I could drive to some backwater and throw a hump into this 47-year-old ex-crackhead with emphysema who stalked me on Facebook. If I wanted to, I could probably find a warm, wet mouth on the other end of a rest stop bathroom stall in Morgantown. But how could I live with myself?


There are some lays that make great stories: a midget stripper, former First Lady Barbara Bush, or even a deaf shemale/recovering alcoholic I found on Twitter. All of these would make for great stories and none of them would want to “be in a relationship” with me on Facebook. But some stories are just too sad to laugh at. There are some stories that can’t be told with a smile on your face.


So rather than face the regret, I decide to avoid the fringe of human sexuality (even if the orgasms are better).

ROSI meets NFW!

July 18th, 2011

Don’t drive while under the influence of Lortab. Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, here are some notes from ROSI’s appearance at New Focus Wrestling’s “Red, White, Black & Blue” event at the Metro Sports Complex in Evansville. The ROSIs were supposed to be lumberjacks in a women’s match between Lady Vendetta and Epiphany.


Some notes I took during the night’s festivities.


I’ve seen probably three GWAR shirts since I’ve been here.

An old lady brought noise makers and an airhorn. Dear God.

10 minutes into the show, Master Rich and T-Bolt called each other gay.

The soundman was playing “Born This Way” before the show started.

T-Bolt sang the National Anthem. It felt strange to hear a bad guy wrestler sing it. I admit to giggling just a bit. Need I remind you I was on Lortab.


Eight matches on the card. First one is the German War Machine vs. Bobo Brazil, Jr. I laughed a little too hard when Bobo won with a schoolboy rollup. After the match, Bobo cut a promo where he talked about surviving two heart attacks and a stroke and also plead with the menfolk in the audience to “take care of your wife”. Five stars.


There was a tag-team match next. All four participants wore black wifebeaters. The airhorn lady also brought two rubber chickens and a towel that had “CRYING TOWEL” written on it in marker. A “CHICKEN” chant has started. The bad guys won after some cheating. Don’t remember the names of the guys in the match. Five stars.


Madman Pondo came out for the third match and called someone in the audience gay.

Third match was a fatal 4-way with Madman Pondo, 2 Tuff Tony, and a couple of guys I can’t remember. 2 Tuff Tony hit on one of the ROSIs in the locker room before the show started… “What d’yoo say me and you about 10 o’clock tonight?” Madman Pondo won the fatal 4-way. I can’t remember what happened. Five stars.


Master Rich came back out for his tag match and stood on the turnbuckle looking at the ROSIs, mouthing “call me”. He came to our bout on the 9th to promote this show. Five stars.


Vic The Bruiser hit a guy with a bag of Oreos over and over again. It was the highlight of my night. Five stars.


T-Bolt came back out for a match against the Nighthawk, who looks like one of the Road Warriors if they were in a white-power militia. Bobo Brazil, Jr. came back out to yell at T-Bolt and Nighthawk rolled him up for the pin. T-Bolt is a fan of ROSI and will probably come to the next show. We should have him sing the anthem at the bout. Five stars.


Lincoln Moseley of N-V-US autographed a McDonald’s drink cup. I also saw an old fat woman bite her son on the hand. The same son was shoved by Vic The Bruiser after his match. Before the main event, J-Millz called ROSI a “bunch of desperate skanks”. I left before the end of the match between him and Rob Conway. Five stars.


There is also the matter of the ROSI lumberjack match but I’m going to wait until I see the pictures to talk more about that. It was a great moment and the crowd ate up every bit of it. But Cory’s pictures need to be seen to be believed. I give him credit for wearing the kilt at a wrestling show. I guess Roddy Piper paved the way for him and his ilk.

Mom Blogzzzzzzz….

July 14th, 2011

I know a woman who has maintained her blog for a few years and she posted something saying recently about not writing anymore at least for a while. I figure that’s a good deal. Because she’s a mom who writes a Mom Blog. I don’t know who the hell wants to read Mom Blogs. Perhaps other Moms Who Blog like to read these things. Why? Is it because they feel better when they read them, like maybe they are not alone in their stresses or victories or failures or pain or joy? Perhaps. But I’d rather read condom instructions. In Spanish.


One thing she wrote in her farewell post is that it’s difficult to come up with new content all the time. I am certainly sympathetic to that, having been at this blogging thing for about seven years now. You think it’s easy to come up with new stuff to say all the time? Hell to the naw, as someone once said. Especially with the burden of raising a couple of rugrats.


I have better things to do than read about you and your kids. I’m sorry. I hate to be a bastard about it. I have zero interest in parenthood and the obstacles inherent in making little Jimmy a productive member of society before kicking him out the door at age eighteen. I also don’t think you can force the writing out of you. You have to let it fly out of your fingers. No one is paying you to write this dreck, most likely. So do it at your leisure. If I somehow miss a week or three, there’s enough stuff I’ve written that folks can look up should they feel like it.


Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of people who are tired of reading “lonely single person blogs” and I’ve posted more than a few of them. Just like some people want to run screaming from “fat-girl-talking-about-sex blogs”. I need to meet some of those types, though. We could both use some new stuff to write about.

Beat The Reaper

July 11th, 2011

based on a dream. . .


It is a mean coincidence that the man who wrote “Why Does It Hurt While I Pee?” was in the fight of his life against prostate cancer. Never mind that “Pee” was inspired by some tour-bus banter about venereal disease, this was a bit cruel especially to people who knew enough about Zappa.


Before he died, he finished an album titled Civilization Phaze III, the penultimate track of said album was titled “Beat The Reaper”. Zappa claimed the song was about yuppies trying to live forever via aerobics and whatnot. It’s hard not to think about “Beat The Reaper” without thinking about the withering man in his chair. His trademark goatee and mustache faded into a grey-black beard. Too tired to stand and shave.


Most anyone who lives long enough plays “Beat The Reaper” in their own life. Get sick, terminally ill and fight to hang on. Chemotherapy, drug cocktails, surgery upon surgery, the entire works. “Beat The Reaper” was more than a composition or a commentary on yuppies who wanted to stay young and healthy. It is the game we all play once we are dropped out of the womb.


Zappa had earned enough money in his lifetime that his fight was more elaborate. Like a prize fight, he attempted to dictate some of the terms of battle. To this, he decided that “Beat The Reaper” was not only his objective, but also his composition. On top of that, his battle to stay alive and conquer cancer was his composition, or at least a movement in his output macrostructure. One last piece of the conceptual continuity puzzle.


To this end, Zappa hired a team of technicians and medical staff to help him in his quest. They would build a game they could not defeat. “Beat The Reaper” was the game, inspired by the dual muses of trying to fight terminal illness and the Sega Genesis and Super Nintendo that Zappa’s daughter played when she wanted to take her mind off her father’s progressing sickness.


Zappa’s console for “BTR” would take up two large rooms. One was for Zappa, withering away in his chair, but still with a sharp mind playing a strategic effort that he might have called “bionic chess” to a engineer, offhanded.


This was the final gambit for a sick, desperate man. If Zappa could somehow turn it around in his waning moments and literally beat death, he would be able to show the world. He had tried for years and been taken into the entertainment world as just another cog, albeit a dicier one, and sued like the dickens to get out of it. A lifetime of advocating not overthrowing the present systems but infiltrating them and phasing out the bad folks who were wrecking the whole thing for their own finances. And yet, nobody took him up on it because that would have been too hard. Easier to play a martyr than to stay behind the scenes to affect real change in life and society. If he beat death, they would have to listen to him. The entire world would want to know how to beat death, too. They’d also have to take into consideration a lot of ideas they probably wouldn’t like under different circumstances. One last chance to change the world.


Like Super Mario World, “Beat The Reaper” had a few bosses that the player would have to defeat in order to progress to the next level. Zappa picked out the level bosses he would have to defeat before hand: Garth Brooks, George Michael, Whitney Houston, and Madonna. This would not be a physical fight, although one would assume a Mario-Koopaesque battle between Zappa and George Michael would have to be entertaining on some level.


This was mental warfare, another of Zappa’s terms. Each level grew progressively difficult. The next-to-last boss was Madonna, wearing her pantsuit from the video for “Express Yourself”.


Come on girls, do you believe in love? Well, I got something to say about it, and it goes something like this.

– spoken intro to “Express Yourself” by Madonna, 1989


I sit and laugh at fools in love. There aint no such thing as love. No angels singing up above today.

– lyric from “I Aint Got No Heart” by The Mothers Of Invention, 1966


Can you imagine. . . Zappa vs. Madonna in a battle of wits? Madonna, beautiful blonde and surrounded by her Truth Or Dare entourage of dancers and backup singers going brainwave to brainwave against a lone Zappa, sitting in a chair with his legs crossed and a Winston cig between his fingers (if he could beat the reaper, he figured he could keep smoking).


Madonna is not a stupid lady. For all her flaws and foibles, she is not an idiot. And yet her greatest asset was the sheer amount of power behind her. She had come out of the “Like A Prayer” controversy with flying colors, seemingly unstoppable. Perhaps the biggest star on the planet at the time, even if Whitney Houston’s Bodyguard soundtrack was the biggest hit of 1992 and 1993.


If Zappa was going to combat the sheer wall of hype and noise protecting the Material Girl, he would need to summon reserves of energy. Of course, he never really fought Madonna, just an avatar by his request and generated by the technicians and engineers he added to his payroll. Not only were they supposed to build the game for him, they were kept on to help him play it. There were too many controls, and someone needed to do the legwork while Zappa directed them and kept his mind sharp for mental (he denied it was a “spiritual”) battle.


Madonna was dispatched, albeit less easily than previous bosses. She was stymied, her dancers and singers still flailing behind her, only now more impotently. Their collective output had no impact on the man. He had entered into a coma.


For this contingency, Zappa and his team had planned ahead. The final level had begun, which it would for any dying person. But Zappa had been better equipped than most. All the effort and fighting had stoked his intensity. He had lost a lot of weight, his eyes sunk in. “And now for my final act, I will attempt the impossible. . .”. The final level would be Zappa’s fight alone. No engineers could help him. Doctors monitored his vital signs through the end as he lie on what would be his deathbed.


We all know how it ends. December 4th, 1993. Frank Zappa died. His family put out a press release saying Frank had gone on “his final tour”. No way of knowing if he met the Reaper and kicked and screamed all the way out or whether he accepted his fate and decided not to attempt the impossible. Perhaps he accepted that the world was on its’ own. Even if he had somehow won, beat the reaper and achieved immortality, the world would still find a way to reject him and his message. They would probably call him an Anti-Christ and he’d have to hock the message of immortality and world peace on infomercials not unlike the Pocket Fisherman or whatnot. Is that any way to treat a genius?


We can guess that Zappa ran into a reaper not interested in logic, reason, a well-made argument with valid points or even pleading. Can you imagine the dark figure of Death sitting there discussing the perks and failures of the human race? Arguing its’ inevitable decline and the need for someone to help them out? There is no telling, but for all we know, Zappa made a deal with Death. Not a deal to avoid it, but a business deal.


Can you imagine. . . how a meeting with Death could end in a handshake agreement?

Is This Poetry? I Hope Not.

July 11th, 2011

You told me that in another life you could see yourself dating me.

But we don’t have another life.

We’ve only got the one we have.

And, I gotta tell ya, dearie. . .

This life sucks.


Right now I can point you to a guy who’s thinking about getting a tattoo of Miranda Cosgrove from iCarly on his balls.

But not until she dies.

He wears women’s pants and has bacon bits in his teeth.

He actually listens to LMFAO and has a soulpatch with bacon bits in it.

He has a LiveJournal where he writes iCarly fanfic. Most of it isn’t even erotic.

That guy? He’s dating a girl right now.

A real girl, too. Not one he paid for that’s made of vinyl. Nope, a real girl.

Although he keeps the vinyl girl he paid for in a closet, locked away when she comes over.



More Stupidity In The Presence Of Women

July 11th, 2011

Would you like to hear a dumb story? It doesn’t matter if you don’t because I’m gonna tell you a dumb story.


I tried to talk to a girl at a bar Saturday night and it did not go well. All I know is that I did most of the talking and I was discussing Kevin Federline at great length.


Remember Kevin Federline? The guy who married Britney Spears, who tried to be a rap star with a song called “Popozao”? Yeah, that guy. I was talking to this girl about him. I don’t really know why.


Just talking about this guy will keep you from getting laid.


Oh, wait, now I remember. I was being jukebox troll and decided to see if “Popozao” was on the jukebox because the guy next to me said he’d shit if any Kevin Federline was on it. Turns out there was no K-Fed and I was bemoaning this, as the jukebox troll who wants to ruin good time vibes by playing songs no one likes.


This girl and her friend walk by me during this rant. I rope them into my madness and share a story about a time I was in San Diego doing a show and K-Fed was across town at a gig that got cancelled because only seven to nine people bought tickets.


This girl was nice enough to humor my idiotic rant but moved along politely with her friend after a mutual introduction. That was that. She looked pretty in her beret, too. I’m such a dope. I should be on medicine that will embolden my low amounts of social adeptness. Oh, wait. They have that and it’s called beer. I hate beer.


I guess the moral of this story is celebrate your failures, especially if you think they would make good stories.