Archive for April, 2014

I’m Writing A Children’s Story

April 27th, 2014

Last night, I attempted to write a children’s short story. I think it went well. I haven’t gone back to reread the first draft yet, so maybe I’m wrong. Crazy things happen in the middle of the night. Fever dreams of creativity. Sometimes they work. Sometimes they don’t.

 

I don’t have any interest in publishing it but I would like to put together a children’s book for my cousin’s children for Christmas. Late April is a good time to get started on this. It’s a story that I’ve written that features them but stars the family dog. If you are a regular reader of this blog, you will be shocked to learn that my short story only has three f-bombs and one c-word. (j/k)

 

I think it would super neat to have an actual book that I can give kids for Christmas. Like an actual book that they can flip through and look at. With my words in it and some drawings to accompany the words. How cool would that be? It would be the most awesome thing ever. It would be my greatest gift ever. It would be something that I made.

 

So I guess the pre-production on this has begun. Hopefully I can pull this off, unlike my musical career.

I Gave My Mom Away

April 26th, 2014

Ole!

 

I have given away my mother to a family of gypsies. The negotiations were tense at times and up to the last minute. The gypsies wanted to give me three shirts in exchange but I held out for at least two packages of socks and a winter coat. In the end, I ended up with a Fear Factory hoodie and two packages of socks and the gypsies got my mother.

 

After the goods were exchanged, we celebrated with a drink of Thunderbird wine and listened as the elders competed in a “tall tale” contest. The gypsies have a game where the one who can spin the biggest yarn without corpsing or smirking gets to wear the mangy Viking helmet. The winner was Old Man Nebbins who told a tale of an Jewish dwarf who developed the mail-order cigarette business without ever leaving his Hooverville hut.

 

My mother is quitting her job and taking up with the gypsy clan now. When I asked them where they were headed, one of them said something about Malta. I didn’t know that was a real place. He told me Malta was where Popeye was shot. I didn’t know Popeye had ever been shot, much less been a real person.

 

He was talking about the movie Popeye, directed by Robert Altman. I asked my mom how she felt about going to Malta (wherever that is) but by then she was passed out from drinking half a wine cooler.

 

I’m a big boy now. My mommy is leaving me. I have to cook my own stew in a can from now on. I have to open my own mail in spite of being desperately afraid of it. Mommy always made the stew and opened the mail and protected me from the scary news that disoriented me. Mommy taught the cat how to call pizza delivery. The cat won’t respect me and the gypsies won’t take it. Smart gypsies.

 

I don’t want you to go, Mom. I’m not ready for the world. The world is Lord Of The Flies for me when you’re not here.

 

My Fear Factory hoodie doesn’t fit. 🙁

 

Mom?

 

Momma?

 

 

 

 

Mom?

Guitarmaggedon

April 23rd, 2014

I wish I played guitar. I can’t play guitar. I don’t play guitar in my band. But if I did, I would just smash the shit out of my guitar. Every chance I got. I want to smash guitars. Not because I hate guitars. Guitars are great. But it’s fun to break guitars.

 

Have you ever seen Pete Townshend destroy a guitar when he’s playing with the Who? It’s amazing. You envy that guy. Isn’t it fun to smash a guitar? How would you smash a guitar? Would you stick the neck between your legs and do a tombstone piledriver on it like the Undertaker? Would you use the guitar to trash the rest of the stage? Would you destroy the drum kit and amplifiers?  Would you break the guitar in two?

 

I wouldn’t waste time breaking one guitar at the end of the show. I would break a guitar in between every song. I wouldn’t even wait for the end of the song. Let the rest of the band keep playing while I smash my guitars.

 

I have a lot of anger.

 

 

I Give Up, Miley Cyrus Wins

April 17th, 2014

Dear Miley Cyrus,

I have always hated you. Even before you were born, I hated you. Ever since you were a glimmer in your father’s sack, I have hated you. I hated you because I hated your father, who sang a song about an achy, breaky heart. I have never forgiven him for it, and I cannot forgive you.

 

But you win, Miley. You win because I give up. You win because I want to fuck you. Is this what you wanted, Miley? For me to want to find you fuckable? Well, guess what. You got it. Finally.

 

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Look at that pose. In the animal kingdom, this is known as a breeding posture.

 

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You look like King Joffrey in a g-string but you keep repeating the big lie long enough and eventually people start to believe it. Are you ready for the missionary position? Miley, are you a squirter? What else do you have in your arsenal?

 

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Phallic imagery FTW! You got your ass hanging out of a bikini, you’re riding hot dogs, you’re in female ejaculation position. You should sell adult diapers at the merch table for all the people who don’t want their cum to leak out. Every cheap trick in the book.

 

I grabbed three pictures from the Bangerz tour Miley is on. I didn’t include the Terry Richardson photos. This is a process that began long before her VMA performance with Alan Thicke’s kid. I am the American consumer and it is my job to be seduced into buying useless stuff. The promotion machine gets me thinking about Miley’s private parts and somehow that is going to spur the economy. Jobs get created because people like me day-dream about the shape of Miley Cyrus’s balloon knot.

 

Jeez, it’s like no one remembers Madonna’s Blonde Ambition tour.

Smooth Sailin’

April 15th, 2014

I thought I knew what it meant to have a difficult year.

 

Dammit, I’m ready for some smooth sailin’. I’m ready to sit in a convertible with the top down and feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. I’m ready to hear all my favorite tunes on the radio and a hot babe behind the wheel handling the stick shift.

 

Can I get a blowjob in my Camaro going to Heaven? Can it be Jada Stevens giving it?

Finding a work-safe picture of Jada Stevens is like looking for a needle in a stack of interracial porn

Finding a work-safe picture of Jada Stevens is like looking for a needle in a stack of interracial porn

 

I’m going to fill out a Make-A-Wish form. 36-year-old morbidly obese type 2 diabetic with depression and anxiety seeks to meet white girl porn star with big booty. Sex desired but not necessary. Must be willing to hold my hand while I weep and contemplate my life’s direction.

 

Smooth sailin’, folks.

 

Just Like That, He Was Gone

April 8th, 2014

Mary and the Colonel went to New Orleans this weekend for Wrestlemania XXX. My envy was so strong it was practically coming out of my pores. Then their car’s transmission broke down after the show and they couldn’t leave. As of my writing this, they are still down there waiting on transmission repair in the faint hopes of leaving the Big Easy in time for 5pm rush hour.

 

Because of their predicament and the good fortune of WWE doing its’ live Monday night show in New Orleans, they also got to watch Monday Night Raw. Their connections are very good. I envy them. I watched from the comforts of my favorite chair here in Fordsville. I got to see the Ultimate Warrior make his return to Raw.

 

And then. . . the guy died less than twenty-four hours later. The Ultimate Warrior died.

 

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B-b-but he’s not supposed to die. He’s the Ultimate Warrior. That’s not someone who is supposed to die.

 

I literally posted a 400-word blog about the Undertaker losing a match and how it affected me. I literally said, “this is not about some guy losing a match, this is about life”. Change. Loss. Mortality (though I didn’t say it explicitly). I wrote all of that heart-wrenching prose about a wrestling match and then the Ultimate Warrior dies and now I feel terrible.

 

Some people will never understand wrestling or why anyone who ever reached puberty would still care for it. I’m gonna tell you what I honestly think, having watched this stuff for most of my life. Wrestlers are some of the best entertainers. They have to combine elements of live theatre, circus risk-taking, and soap opera acting. The most successful wrestlers will get paid nowhere what the most successful TV or film actor makes and all an actor has to do is hit their mark and know their lines (or read them off the forehead of the intern who’s standing in for their closeup). Actors think it is a big deal when they do some of their own stunts.

 

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If these people are willing to take these kind of risks for my entertainment, I feel like they deserve my attention. I feel like they deserve more money, better quality of storyline, and to be treated with respect for portraying the superheroes and villains we cheer for or against.

 

After the initial shock wore off, I texted the Colonel: “Aren’t you glad the car broke down? You got to see the last Ultimate Warrior appearance in person.” It would have been funny if it weren’t so sad.

Pat Sajak Facts

April 7th, 2014

Pat Sajak, host of Wheel Of Fortune, is sixty-seven years old. Pat Sajak has hosted Wheel Of Fortune since 1981. Pat Sajak is a three-time Daytime Emmy award winner for Outstanding Game Show Host and a winner of the Daytime Emmy Lifetime Achievement Award.

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Pat Sajak has two children with his wife Lesly. Before he hosted Wheel Of Fortune, he worked as a TV weatherman in Los Angeles and as a DJ in Nashville before that. Before that, Pat Sajak was a soldier in the United States Army.
Pat Sajak was sent to Vietnam to serve his country.

Pat Sajak has seen some shit.

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Pat Sajak has seen piles of dead Vietnamese children.

Pat Sajak has many kills from his time of Vietnam.

Pat Sajak gunned down crying Vietnamese toddlers with a cigar in his clenched smile.

Pat Sajak has smoked opium out of the barrel of his own military-issued rifle.

Pat Sajak started a “Khe Sahn Bayonet & Knife Club” in which he was the president and sole member.

Pat Sajak has been chemically castrated since 1997.

Pat Sajak is not a sex offender. He gets chemical castration because he “enjoys the challenge of the body fighting against itself”.

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Pat Sajak signed a deal to write his autobiography, but the deal was called off after initial drafts were found to be as impenetrable as the text of James Joyce’s novel Finnegan’s Wake.

Pat Sajak still remembers Vietnam. Fondly.

Pat Sajak has a human skull in his private bed chamber. Some say it belongs to the previous host of Wheel Of Fortune, Chuck Woolery. This is not true. Chuck Woolery is still very much alive as of April 2014.

No one knows the identity of the skull in Pat Sajak’s private bed chamber.

Pat Sajak is not a member of the Bohemian Grove.

Pat Sajak is too hardcore and balls-to-the-wall for the Bohemian Grove.

The last time Pat Sajak unsheathed his knife, George Will had to be taken to the hospital.

Pat Sajak loathes College Week on Wheel Of Fortune.

Pat Sajak hates fatties but loves short-stacks.

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Pat Sajak is 8% teeth and 92% farts.

Pat Sajak finds Matt Drudge to be “an incorrigible pussyhound”.

Pat Sajak gets prank calls from Alex Trebek in the middle of the night.

Pat Sajak is a men’s rights’ advocate.

While he was a disc jockey in Nashville, he helped break a hit record. That record? “Kung Fu Fighting” by Carl Douglas.

 

Moving On After Change

April 7th, 2014

I turned thirty-six in March. Wrestlemania has been an event for thirty years. The Undertaker has been a part of the WWE for twenty-four years. They have been around so long that I feel like they have always been there. I distinctly remember the Undertaker’s debut, which was not at Wrestlemania but at Survivor Series in 1990. He came out as a mystery tag partner for Ted DiBiase’s team and proceeded to decimate everything in his way. It was only by brawling with Dusty Rhodes all the way to the back that he managed to be counted out and leave the match.

 

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This man they called the Dead Man, the Phenom, the American Bad-Ass. He was a wrestling mortician with thick pancake makeup on his face, standing nearly seven-foot. After defeating his opponents, he would put the losers in a body ba, as funeral music played.

 

Wrestlemania became his standard showcase. He developed an undefeated streak. Twenty-one Wrestlemania appearances, twenty-one decisive victories. He defeated five WWE Hall Of Famers and twelve WWE World Heavyweight Champions. Later in his career “the streak” became the story, as his opponents struggled to be the first to defeat the Dead Man at Wrestlemania.

 

I write all of this because the Undertaker finally lost at Wrestlemania XXX, to Brock Lesnar, the former UFC champion. I’ve been grieving.

 

 

Go ahead and laugh. A part of my childhood is going away. Guys like me watch wrestling at age 36 because of how it made us feel when we watched it at age 12. Remember when Michael Jordan retired the second time in 1998? Multiply that by the end of The Sopranos. That’s how I feel about the Undertaker losing at Wrestlemania. This is the end of something. This is not merely about a guy losing a match. It’s about life and change. Things that you think you will never end suddenly ending even though you knew they needed to end. Everything has a time that’s supposed to come. A forty-nine year-old supernatural mortician with a mohawk lost to an ex-UFC champion thirteen years younger than him. In with the something, out with the something. I’m missing a few key words.

 

We probably won’t see the Undertaker anymore after this. He does not need to wrestle anymore. Perhaps he cannot work a match to his own high standards anymore. What ever his reasons are, they are probably sound. He isn’t gone or dead. He’s just hanging up his tights and boots, riding off into the sunset.

 

Every day, people are born and die and they are all a part of a story. You are part of someone’s story. Not just a footnote. You’re a pillar. Who is in your story? Aren’t you thankful they are there? On an admittedly superficial level, the Undertaker has been a part of two-thirds of my life, and a part of many other’s stories. Sunday, he wrote out his own ending to that story. Life continues after change, we have to move on through the tears.

A Rejection

April 1st, 2014

Ted Jun

Account Director, Business Development

McGarryBowen

515 N. State St.

29th Floor

Chicago, IL. 60654

 

March 23, 2014

 

Michael Farmer

“Head thought haver”

Prophet, LLC.

50 Ridge Road

Fordsville, Ky. 42343

 

Dear Mr. Farmer

 

Thank you for submitting your Pizza Hut commercial proposal. We have received it and reviewed its contents and relative merits.

 

Although we found your idea of infamous photographer Terry Richardson as a spokesperson for Pizza Hut intriguing, we have concluded that it might clash with Pizza Hut’s family-oriented manner of presentation. For this reason, we have to reject your proposal.

 

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To that point, we could not in good conscience approve a commercial in which Mr. Richardson is taking pictures of two teenage girls in sheer white undergarments eating pizza. We are also pretty sure that covering them and eventually Mr. Richardson in white powder (dried pizza dough, as you helpfully informed us) through a series of quick cuts would fail to meet broadcast standards.

 

We were perplexed, Mr. Farmer, as to why you insisted you could, in your words “totally get [Mr. Richardson]” and then supply what we learned to be a 555 phone number under his name like they do in Hollywood movies. Do you think we are not aware of film tropes, sir?

 

In addition, you seem to lack any understanding of real-world budgeting. For example, your choice of “Fat Bottomed Girls” as a soundtrack would probably run in the low six-figure range to license. It would not cost, as you put, “$300”.

 

In closing, I’d like to personally thank you for your joke of a proposal and would like to encourage you to submit again when you have another wacky, improbably idea featuring a celebrity you claim to know but not really.

 

Regards,

Tom Jun

McGarryBowen