Archive | March, 2010

Studies in Crap: The Hospital Bed Edition

30 Mar

As some of you already know, I spent most of last week chilling in a hospital bed. Contrary to popular belief, I was not in sex rehab with Tiger Woods, nor was I in drug rehab with a knife wielding Charlie Sheen or his lovely cocaine addicted wife. Being sick and held hostage by the medical community isn’t exactly what I call a great vacation. There are, however, some pretty kick ass perks associated with a $7,000.00 a night stay in a semi-private hospital room. First and foremost, there are the spectacular intravenous drugs. Yes, I said it. Say all you want, but when a nurse awakens you at 2:00am and whispers to you, “Would you like some morphine?”, I dare you to ever utter the phrase, “Drugs are bad!”. When I started this little rambling article, I was sure I had a whole list of awesome things I could tell you about being hospitalized. The truth? Well, that would be a fucking lie. The only other thing I can come up with? Basic cable television. Yes folks, the only good things about being constantly probed, stuck with needles, and awakened every two hours are drugs and mindless cable television. So, how does this differ from most of my typical Tuesday nights? Well, let’s try not to get into specifics here. Anyhoo, during the 96 consecutive hours of mind numbing (almost more than the drugs alone) cable programming, I have come up with some very lame and very possibly startling conclusions. So please, put on your personal protective equipment and frolic with me to a land that I never care to revisit.

1) No matter how many drugs are pumped into your body, Paula Poundstone is not funny. Please, please quit airing her stand-up routines every hour on the hour. You are fucking up my morphine high.

2) Tampon commercials make me feel even less like a woman than I already should feel. Yes, you read that right. I am a manly man. I have facial hair, drink beer, and love watching grown men fight. But, when a tampon commercial comes on during a UFC Fight Night re-run, I actually feel sorry for the women it was created for. And Ladies, these ridonkulous excuses for feminine hygiene propaganda should make you want to fly to Thailand to receive sex reassignment surgery as soon as possible. I’m just saying.

3) Why do all vacuum and/or cleaning commercials feature nothing but women? Talk about some sexist shit. Hey, just a FYI to marketers and commercial producers…I was the one who bought the $600.00 Dyson vacuum cleaner. Not my wife. Why? Simple. I kick ass at vacuuming. I leave these awesome little lines that mimic the freshly mowed outfield at Wrigley Field on opening day.  And what if I want to buy that fucking Swifter thingy that has the vacuum attached? Do I have to ask the lady of the house first?

4) While I am on the subject of commercial rants, I have a real bone to pick with the “Just For Men” hair coloring folks. Your commercials make me want to slap a sleeping baby. There, I said it. I mean, are you fucking kidding me with these blatant attacks on the male psyche? So, let me get this straight. Now that I am old and graying, all I have to do to dust my face and cranium with your magical hair dye and I will instantly get that job promotion and score with hot, younger females? Well, sign me up! I should have started using this crap as soon as I hit puberty. Maybe then, my high school dating career would have been so much more of an adventure!

5) Daytime television summed up in one neato frito word: Cockmeatsandwich. Okay, I realize that is actually three words stuffed together, but it has a nice ring to it, right?

6) Sorry. I had something really important to tell you here, but the nurse came in and hooked me up phat on the morphine drip.

7) I really, really need to start writing for daytime soap operas. I came up with an entire script for a new soap pilot in only four short days. Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone speaks half Klingon, half chimpanzee. Why do all my good ideas come in made up languages?

8) If it weren’t for you, Maury Povich, I wouldn’t have had a reason to open my eyes. Side note: I also wouldn’t know that I am, in fact, the father of Neesha’s baby.

9) No matter how much they try to trick you, no matter how much they lie, those bastards from radiology are just plain evil and wrong. That barium contrast does not take like lemonade! You know what it takes like? Satan’s urine with a splash of Crystal Light.

10) Last, but not least, you will always find out who your true friends and family are when you have to spend time in the hospital. Each and everyone of you know exactly what I am talking about.

Prom Night Blues

19 Mar

I am sure you remember it like it was yesterday. For weeks, maybe even months, the anticipation and excitement consumed your every waking moment. Your tiny teenage brain was lost in a constant state of daydreaming and questioning. “Will he ask me?” “Will she say yes?” “Should we go with other couples?” “How about a limo?” “I think I would look awesome in a blue tuxedo.” “God, I hope he doesn’t think I am going with him if he wears that ugly ass blue tuxedo.” All the hoping, praying, and preparation culminated into one semi-special night. That’s right, Prom Night. You asked her. She said yes. The hard part was over. She gets her nails and hair done. You take a shower. She slides on a dress. You decide not to wear that blue leisure suit and sport a proper tuxedo instead. Corsages and boutonnieres are exchanged. Giddy parents snap off thousands of photos. You and your date arrive to the dance, hand the chaperons your advance tickets, and off you go into that magical land called Prom. All and all, pretty standard and smooth sailing. Now, as stressful as the preparation and anticipation of that night was, (not to mention the stress of just being a teenager in the first place) imagine getting to the door, having the chaperons eyeball you and your date, watch them whisper into each others ears, and deny you access. Stunned, you ask them “What’s the problem?”. They look you square in the eye and tell you and your date, “We don’t like your kind of “couple”.  You try to argue. You try to get a better explanation, but are ordered to leave. You can see the tears rolling down your date’s face. Angry and defeated you make your way back to your car, turn the key, and reluctantly leave. Now, sit back and imagine how that must feel.  A little bit crushing, huh? You see, for a young teenager at Itawamba Agricultural High School in Fulton, Mississippi, the aforementioned scenario never made it that far. For Constance McMillen, she didn’t even get the chance to get her hair done. She didn’t even get the chance to go shopping for that special dress. Why you ask? Because Constance wanted to take her girlfriend to the Prom. As a young teenager, Constance was comfortable enough in her own skin to ask permission from the Itawamba County School Board to have her girlfriend accompany her to Prom. In true blind bigot fashion, the request was promptly denied. The message was loud and clear. “We don’t like or approve of your kind here”. When the courageous Ms. McMillen pressed the issue, the School Board fired back. To avoid so-called “Distractions”, the Itawamba County School Board canceled the entire Prom. Now, not only Constance and her date were denied a proper Prom, but everyone in the school was denied one as well. So, what do you think has happened to Constance at school? Yep, you guessed it. She has been constantly harassed and bullied by the other students.  “Thanks for ruining my Senior year”, barked one student. Imagine the weight on her shoulders. Imagine a whole school coming down on you for wanting to be with her significant other at your Senior Prom. Now that the story has gained national attention, I am sure the pressure has been unfathomable for her. Still, Constance has stuck to her guns and has refused to give up. This, in itself, is just absolutely amazing. As a proud parent of two small children, I can only hope that they grow up to have at least an ounce of courage that this young woman has. As parents, we have a duty to protect and fight for what our children believe in. Gay, straight, or whatever, Constance is setting a wonderful example of strength and dedication. Today, more than ever, Constance needs all the support she can get. So let your voice be heard. Join Constance and thousand of others in the every day struggle for equal rights for everyone. Not just a few. Not just a select. FOR EVERYONE.

Now is the time to rally around Constance and let her know that millions of good, loving people on her side. Take some time out of your day to email, call, or fax the Itawamba Schools superintendent, Teresa McNeece and/or donate to one of the awesome organizations listed below. I implore you to do something. Don’t be silent. Don’t just take this injustice sitting down.  I will hop off of my soapbox now. Now, get out there and make a difference!

E-mail, call, and fax Itawamba Schools superintendent Teresa McNeece (tmcneece@itawamba.k12.ms.us, phone 662-862-2159 ext. 14, fax 662-862-4713) and Itawamba Agricultural principal Trae Wiygul (twiygul@itawamba.k12.ms.us, 662-862-3104). Then join the Facebook page “Let Constance Take Her Girlfriend to Prom.” And, finally, make donations to the Mississippi Safe Schools Coalition (www.mssafeschools.org), which is organizing an alternate prom that will welcome all students, and make a larger donation to the ACLU LGBT Project (www.tinyurl.com/yl9mvkb), which is defending Constance and other gay teenagers across the country.

(A big thank you to Mr. Dan Savage (Savage Love) for posting this important and useful information on his weekly column!)

America’s Next Top Model Recap: The Hetero Male Edition

18 Mar

This may come as a real shocker, but I absolutely love trashy, mind numbing television. Over my entire lifetime, I have probably spent well over a third of my years either sitting on the toilet or parked on my pasty rear watching shows that continually drop my I.Q. ten points with every viewing. As I nestled into my couch cushion last night, I had an epiphany. (Well, epiphany might be kind of a strong word. That would imply that I actually have some sort of intelligence. For arguments sake, let’s just call it a random idea.) Flipping through the channels, I came to the conclusion that the world of reviews and recaps are lacking in one major category: The Male Perspective of Girly TV Shows. Now, I realize that I am most likely part of the minority here. I know there isn’t whole hell of a lot of men out there who watch these so-called girly programs. I, for one, do and I am willing to bet there are at least twelve other hetero guys out there that actually enjoy these shows as much as I do. I mean, what’s not to love? You get everything you need and could ever ask for from these smutty displays of American culture. Rolled into an hour or so, you get a voyeuristic glimpse of sex, girl fights, bitchiness, bar fights, cattiness, alcohol, and all around daddy issues. All you are missing is an occasional monster truck and some soft core porn. Case in point? America’s Next Top Model. So sit back, relax, and let me take you on a journey of what makes up Joel McHale’s nightmares.

ANTM Cycle 14, Episode 2

You knew it was going to happen, you just didn’t know when. Last night’s episode opened with the fabulous Mr. Jay Emanuel informing the current rat pack of  “models” the details concerning their very first Glamour Shot session. As we all know, When Mr. Jay speaks, you listen. Resisting the urge to throw up two snaps in Z formation, Mr. Jay tells the bunch that the during the shoot, they will be completely nude. There is one exception though. They can pick one item to cover up their lady bits with. After a very dramatic countdown, all of the models raced to a scarcely dressed mannequin equipped with basically nothing but accessories. Like vultures devouring their prey, the mannequin was instantly plucked of all its attire. The shoot itself was pretty tame by ANTM standards. No crying, passing out, or drive by shootings. Just a lame set up and some passive aggressive “coaching” from Mr. Jay.

The real meat of the episode came after the requisite and expert catwalk training by the one and only Mrs. Jay. Training people to walk? Absolutely awesome. Specially, when it’s done by a six-foot, five-inch homosexual black man wearing high heels. One by one, each of the contestants were instructed to work the runway while taking of a garment of clothing. Normally, watching women taking their clothes off would be kind of hot. This, however, was in no way hot. Comical, maybe. Hot? No way. Like babies learning to put one foot in front of the other, each wobbled and strutted their lanky asses down the strip of runway. Not to worry, Mrs. Jay was there with his/her witty critique and offered his expert analysis of how each girl could improve said walk. I don’t know about you, but this is extremely comforting to me. When I walk down the hallway of my office building, I often hope and pray Mrs. Jay will be waiting for me at the end. What? We all need encouragement from time to time. Don’t judge me.

So, now all the girl have been taught to walk. What should they do now? Wait! I know. It’s fashion show time. Yes, that’s right. The girls had to walk in newly created threads from none other than Rachel Roy. When Mrs. Roy was first introduced, I must have been half asleep because I was damn sure they announced Rachael Ray instead. I quickly opened my heavy eyes to immediately started to wonder how in the hell Rachael Ray had time to start a clothing line with all that EVOO around. In true ANTM fashion, this would be no ordinary trot down the cat walk. No, no. That would be way too easy. Oh, Mrs. Tyra and Mrs. Jay had something special planned. They would start the contestants off at the top of some stairs. Now, wait just one minute. Stairs? These girls were never taught how to walk down stairs! Immediately, I was concerned for their safety. If the fear of walking down stairs wasn’t enough, once they made it to the actual runway itself, they were to be greeted by not one, but two swinging pendulums. Yes. You read that right. Swinging pendulums. It was as if they were stuck in a giant grandfather clock. Instantly, the plot thickens! As Mrs. Jay would aptly explain to the girls, “It’s all about timing!”. Without much hesitation, each girl quickly scampered down the steps and onto the runway. A few were struck by the swinging pendulums of death, but most of the them survived pretty much unscathed. Well, all but one. The token “big” girl, Alexandra, fell not once, but twice.  I knew the lack of instruction on how to navigate stairs would end up being detrimental  to someone! Poor Alexandra made it down approximately two whole steps before her ass hit the ground. I give her credit though. She bounced up, snarled, and hoofed it straight to the runway. She managed to make it all the way to the end of the runway just fine. The return? Not so much. One of the pendulums smacked her in the back and she came tumbling off the runway. Imagine my excitement level as I witnessed this. You can’t write shit like that! Pure entertainment.

The final Glamour Shot session was just as boring as the last. Not much drama. Boring critiques. Blah, blah, blah. Fast forward to the elimination ceremony! The bottom two girls were an interesting mix. One was a homely, transvestite impersonator with a super curled afro. The second was a bald-headed chick with an accent that sounded like part French, part Down’s Syndrome. So, who would they keep? Do I even need to ask? Of course, they kept the tranny! Why? Who knows. Maybe, just maybe she/he will produce some super fierce photos next week.

New Music Wednesday: Mike Posner Edition

17 Mar

Every once in a while, I run into something that I think the regular Joes and the ordinary Marys of the world need to insert into their daily musical repertoire. While searching the internets this morning, I ran into a snippet on perezhilton.com about this little musical gem, Mr. Mike Posner. In the five whole minutes I spent researching and listening to the tracks available, I can inform you of these nifty details…

1) Once upon a time, Mike Posner was just a lowly college kid.

2) One day, he decided to make some music for shits and grins.

3) Suddenly and without warning, his mixtapes exploded and infested the interwebs.

4) Just like the scene in Wayne’s World, his music was beamed to SATCOM 2, bounced to transmitter 137, and eventually ended up getting sucked into the satellite dish on the back of Mr. Big’s limo.

5) Behold! He now has a major recording contract and is now birthing out funky tracks like two bunnies in love.

So, be nice to your ears. Log on and listen to the soothing sounds of Mr. Mike Posner.

(Personal favorites: Drug Dealer Girl and Cooler Than Me)

Mike Posner (Official Website)

Mike Posner (myspace)

Five Dollar Words

16 Mar

Everybody loves them. They slide ever so smoothly off the tip of your tongue. Effortlessly, they make you feel instantly smarter and slightly sophisticated. They improve your posture, confidence, and overall swagger almost to the point of unintended cockiness. You seize every single opportunity to use them. You silently scoff at and belittle the heathens below you that seem puzzled and confused by the vernacular spewing from your crazy sounding mouth. What am I talking about? The cherished and sometimes feared, Five Dollar Word. At the office, you use them to assert your dominance. While at parties, you wow and impress the room with your witty syntax.  The exhilarating high you get while verbally bitch slapping an opponent compares with almost nothing else in the world. We all have our favorites. Most likely, you have learned and held on to yours since childhood. They have been burnt into the deepest part of your brain, always there for you to rely on in a time of need. Some of us can control them and use them for only good. Others, not so much. The later, accumulate these words and unleash them on innocent bystanders. These verbal assaults are often unprovoked and unwarranted. Over the years, I have often been the target of such blatant logorrhoea (Five Dollar Word). There is no way to escape the lashing of a spiteful physician, lawyer, or even the everyday wannabe English professor. As you stand mired in verbal diarrhea, you think to yourself, “Man, this guy is one pretentious asshole”, until you can run off to find the nearest dictionary. As you feverishly flip through the pages of the latest edition of Webster’s, something odd happens. Unconsciously, you start to learn and harness additional Five Dollar Words for you very own arsenal. Before you know it, you find yourself blabbing and barking to your own subordinates the very same esoteric (Five Dollar Word)  language that just befuddled you moments earlier.  So today, I implore you to break this ugly and asinine cycle. Use these words only for good, humor, and to impress that cute new girl who keeps passing your desk on the way to the copy machine. Until then, wait…What’s that doctor? Um, yes. Well, I, um. I already…Yes, sir. OK, I have to go. Apparently, I have an octogenarian (Five Dollar Word) to attend to.

Broken

12 Mar

Ever painstakingly, she opened one of her stunningly beautiful green eyes. The world around her was nothing but a foggy haze. Across the room, she could make out the faint flicker of a nightlight plugged into a wall socket. Instantly, she could feel the pulsating pain that seemed to circle her entire skull. As she laid on the floor, the cool sensation from the ceramic tiles was almost soothing and eerily familiar.  Without warning, the night’s libations came storming up from the lowest point of her stomach. This time, however, she didn’t make it to the toilet. At that point, she didn’t care. After a futile attempt to clean up the mess, she rested her heavy, wobbly head. Within minutes, she was fast asleep.

A few hours had passed. The rising sun glared through the eastern bathroom window. Its rays beamed through the pane glass and illuminated the small space with a ferocious nature. As the minutes ticked by, the sunlight crept ever so slowly across the floor until it reached her pale,  porcelain skin. The warmth was comforting and a welcomed change from the cold, unforgiving bathroom floor she used as an impromptu pillow. Every single metal object seemed to reflect the sun’s harsh glimmer directly into her eyes. Annoyed and ultimately nauseous, she reached up, placed her hands on the marble counter top, and clumsily pulled herself to her feet. There, staring back at her in the oval-shaped mirror, was a woman she barely recognized.

She wasn’t what you would call a traditional beauty. Her look was more unique in nature. She stood about five foot ten with red, shoulder length hair that appeared to glow when the light hit it just right. Her facial features were petite and very feminine. A few freckles scattered her high cheekbones, the kind of cheekbones that most women would kill for. She was long, lean, and fit. This type of shape came totally naturally for her. So much so, you would rarely find her at the gym or jogging down the street. Her allure was appealing to men and women alike. Her smile could brighten the darkest of rooms. Her laugh could silence the staunchest of critics.

As she glanced in the mirror that morning, she could tell that things had changed. At the young age of 27, her wild lifestyle had finally started to catch up to her. Her green eyes were stained a bloodshot red. Her face was painted with last nights make up, flecks of glitter, and dried vomit. She felt rough. She felt used. Lost in her thoughts, she began the all too familiar task of washing the previous night off and away from her. Gingerly, she pulled open the shower door and in a defeated tone, mumbled to herself  “Today is going to be different”.

As the water ran down her skin, all she could do is stand. The gentle droplets stung every square inch of her body. She ached from head to toe. The sensation was typical, the direct result from the previous evening’s debauchery. This had become an all too repetitive process for her. Over and over she chanted her daily mantra, “Today is going to be different” until the tears were too frequent to hold back.

As she made her way back to her room, she could feel the crumbs from the cold, creaky wooden floor accumulate underneath her wet feet. Her naked body quivered from the drafty windows in her pre-war apartment. Sitting at the corner of her bed, she began to plan the day’s wardrobe. Six minutes had passed, but she was no closer to getting dressed than when she sat down. The goosebumps that covered every inch of her body were the only motivation to finally stand. With a methodical precision, she rummaged through the endless piles of both clean and dirty laundry. One by one, each designer garment slid onto her soft, cool skin.

It was ten minutes until nine. By her calculations, this was the fourteenth day she had been late to work this year. Each act of tardiness was immediately followed with a lame and apathetic excuse.  As usual, she would spend the ride on the A-Train racking her brain for one more clever and deceptively imaginative alibi.

A quick layer of make up and a dousing of perfume was all she needed to complete her transformation. Her black, four-inch Louboutins scuffed the distressed oak floor as she made her way to the front door. As she grabbed the tarnished brass knob and twisted the deadbolt, she noticed the calendar that hung by a sliver of duct tape on the back of the door. Immediately, her eyes were drawn to the date. In her fragile emotional state, all she could do was cry. It was March 13th. An ordinary date to most, but to her it was day she was trying to forget. That day was the reason she had been spiraling towards an emotional hell. She couldn’t believe it was actually making her sob. It had been a full year since he left. Right there in front of her face, the date on the calendar was a harsh and cruel reminder. With mascara filled tears spilling down her face, she took a death breath, steadied her trembling hands, and opened the door.

Bringing the Phunk

8 Mar

Do you like music? Do you like glowsticks? Do you like your music mixed with glowsticks? Then I have just the website for you! My good friend, Mitchel (AKA DJ Wizzo) has just launched a brand spanking new blog/website devoted to the best house, hardhouse, dubstep, breakbeats and everything in-between. It’s loaded with free mixes from local, regional, and national DJ’s. So, do yourself and your ears a huge favor. Log on, click away, and enjoy some truly great beats.

http://phulphunk.com/

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