Oh Joan, why? I was with you when you had a few tucks here and there but this is getting out of hand. Joan, I loved you in “The Wrestler” but it’s time to keep off the operating table, forever.
I like Joan Rivers, I really do. She has thrived in a predominately male industry for decades and paved the way for every female comic working today, like Carrot Top. She’s a salty dame who loves a good dirty joke and she’s more than willing to make fun of herself. I think most people think of her as a useless red carpet interviewer but I think she deserves more respect than that. I know everything.
Having said that, what the fuck is up with her face? She’s looking more and more like Madame every day. If you don’t know who Madame is you need to ask yourself where you went wrong in life.
I was all set to write about something completely different today until a Mighty Mighty Bosstones song started playing at the gym. As soon as the disgusting, throaty, barf bag* vocals of Dicky Barrett entered my ears I instantly knew I would be changing today’s post. THEN out of nowhere some guy walked by bathed in AXE body spray. As I lay there on the floor like a fish out of water desperately trying to breathe while the Bosstones mocked me from the speakers above I realized this was the single worst moment of my life. It was as if all of my fears had become real. I began to cry, the kind of crying normally reserved for children. The kind that turns your breathing in to a series of violent convulsions. The crying along with the AXE that still hung in a thick cloud around me caused me to pass out. “Is this what they mean by the AXE effect?” I thought as the world turned dark and blurry.
I woke up in the hospital (which is where I’m writing this) with tubes and wires covering my body. The doctors told me my body had literally shut down from “an overwhelming amount of sucky shit.”
*I think I stole the “barf bag” description of Dicky Barrett’s vocal style from a review I read years ago.
I’m on the brink of barfing up the lasagna I just ate just from the mere thought of my shins. Thinking of a thin layer of skin over bone makes me asjhgdddddddddddddd… Sorry, I passed out and my head landed on the keyboard.
I hate all areas of the body where skin is next to bone or cartilage without a layer of delicious fat. My ranking from bad to worse is as follows:
1) Fingers – Not horrible but close to upsetting me.
2) Nose – My face hurts just from thinking about the bridge of my nose.
3) Sternum – I want to crawl out of my skin when I think of my sternum.
4) Shins – FUCK OFF!
My hatred of shins began when I was a child and spent most of my summers with bruised and scraped legs. I remember one day when my shoelaces got tangled in my bicycle and I was forced to hobble home several blocks with my boney shins bumping and scraping against the pedals with every step. I’m pretty sure I cried the entire way home while tied to my yellow Schwinn Stingray. Side note: why the fuck did my parents buy me a yellow bike and why didn’t I just take my shoes off rather than limp home like an idiot? I hate myself.
OK, I will explain this one time and one time only… NEVER put ketchup on a hot dog!
The only exception is if you are a child. I have come up with a handy way to know if you are too old to put ketchup on a hot dog. If you are old enough to grow pubes you are too old to put ketchup on a hot dog. It’s that simple. As Maurie Berman, owner of Superdawg, says “Ketchup on a hot dog is an abomination!”
So what is allowed on your precious wiener?
– All-Beef frank, grilled not boiled
– Neon green relish
– Raw white onion
– Yellow mustard
– Cucumber slices
– Tomato wedges
– Shredded lettuce
– Dill pickle spear
– Celery salt
– Hot sport peppers (optional but advised)
– All resting nicely on a steamed poppy seed bun
In Chicago this is known as “dragging it through the garden.” As a hot dog expert I can tell you there are no better hot dogs than in Chicago. New York easily wins the pizza battle but Chicago owns the hot dog.
(said in annoying whiny voice) “But I like ketchup on my hot dogs.” BULLSHIT! Stop embarrassing yourself.
Best Chicago style hot dog: Murphy’s Red Hots – 1211 W. Belmont, Chicago Best fancy dogs: Hot Doug’s – 3324 N. California, Chicago
I’m not sure when the phrase “it is what it is” came on the scene but I feel like over the last year I hear it every day from someone. I can’t quite put my finger on why but it bugs me. It’s the equivalent of saying nothing.
I feel like I usually hear it coming from the puffy mouth of a bikini-clad slut right after she barfs in the refrigerator on “Rock of Love” or some other reality TV whore-fest.
I have a cold, I feel like shit and that’s all I feel like writing. I need a nap. Sorry, it is what it is.
I simply refuse to believe there are more than 14 people watching all of these “dancing with some asshole” shows. There are at least 5 dancing shows on TV right now, probably more but I REFUSE to research it. How is it possible a single person wants to watch dancing? HOW (followed by violent punching of my keyboard)?
I could understand dancing shows being popular in the mid seventies when all those awesomely shitty variety shows ruled the airwaves but in the year 2009? I just don’t get it. How is it possible, when all of society is walking around like they are straight out of Compton, a show about d-list celebrities flitting around in glittery jumpsuits is a #1 show?
Our country acts so fucking macho all the time but these shows have such high ratings that there has to be more than a handful of good old boys secretly watching with a beer in hand and a jar of nacho cheese resting on their fat bellies. Does this cheese fly across the trailer when they stand up in a rage because Rocco DiSpirito gets voted off when Susan Lucci clearly deserves to be sent packing? Does a single tear fall to his Dale Earnhardt sleeveless t-shirt when Ian Ziering nails a flawless Viennese Waltz?
Yeah that’s right, I have a terrible hangover so this post is going to suck balls. When I get a hangover it renders me useless for the entire next day. I literally spent the day sick on the couch (not including when I was sleeping on the bathroom floor).
Rather than try to be creative I will simply tell you about the last time I got absolutely blind drunk. I attended a wedding for a couple I did not know well so I sought companionship from several gin and tonics at the open bar. The wedding reception was followed with a stop or two at some local bars. Sometime around 4am I woke up and punched myself in the face. I guess I’m an angry drunk. During this self-induced face punch my thumb went up my nose causing blood to pour all over the place. Still drunk I stumbled to the bathroom to attend to my nose and to possibly barf. I should mention by this point I was literally soaked from cold sweats. So there I was with my face resting on the toilet seat which was now covered in sweat and blood. The room was spinning and I desperately wanted to throw up but just could not make it happen. For some reason I decided I needed to poop so I stood up on my shaky legs. The next thing I remember was a loud crash that sounded exactly like my head hitting the floor. Turns out it was my head hitting the floor. The crash woke me up so I stood again, pulled down my sweaty, bloody underwear and sat on the toilet. In the meantime my wife woke to a blood soaked bed and a missing husband. She walked to the bathroom and was trying to open the door but I held it closed. What happened next still confuses me. I sat there on the toilet whimpering and speaking pure gibberish. I mean I was sitting there really balling bawling like a crazy person. I never pooped or barfed.
