Monday, December 22, 2008

The REAL Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before christmas, I'm drunk and alone
flipping through names in my cellular phone
"I'm hung like a stocking, your chimney beware"
I text to some chick, but she isn't there

Nestled all comfy on a couch in the den
On demand movies, in lieu of friends
"A Christmas Story", now there's a good one
Ralphie's like me, we both want a gun

When on the next channel, there's breaking news
Auto-sales plummet right down to their shoes
three thousand lay-offs, maybe four, maybe five
workers are clamoring "that bailout is mine!"

Bollocks I mutter, "I'd stop all those crooks!"
but I'm far too busy checking facebook
a notification, a message, or poke?
a party invite may be my only hope

Some friends are gathering at a bar later on
but they can't be out late, for tomorrow they're gone
they have girlfriends to please and families to greet
I need to do something or I’ll fall asleep

"Hey buddy! What's up? Glad you are here!
This is Kate, we've been together one year!"
She's kinda fat, but I don't make a fuss
she doesn't talk much, which is always a plus

She says "nice to meet you" and I walk away
I'm scanning the bar for way better game
"Not a prize in the bunch" I hiss to myself
"More whiskey I guess, from the top shelf"

I drink 'til I'm witty, 'til my pockets are bare
'til I'm being escorted back down the stairs
on through the crowd, and out of the door
the bouncer decries "You're welcome no more"

He was dressed in a hat, and that made me stop
oh fucking shit, that bouncer's a cop
He took down my name as I sat in his car
too drunk in public, I'd gone too far

"On christmas eve, that's surely a shame"
He said with a slight tone of disdain
I kicked and I screamed and I blamed all my friends
"They're drunk too! Why don't you get them!"

He wrote me a ticket, and said I could go
“No more drinking, get a cab home”
I said that I would but it was a lie
There’s no way I could pay for a ride

The bars were now closed, my friends had all left
They didn’t try to call, not even a text
I find a dark alley and empty my bladder
Laughing “Haha, she’ll only get fatter”

When from the shadows a stranger appears
“Hey you drunk get the hell out of here!”
I reach for my zipper, get some on my pants
To tame such a beast requires both hands

I race for the street, flailing about
For you know that it was, still hanging out
With hand on my crotch, I screamed through the night

Sunday, November 2, 2008


The fear of growing old.

I definitely qualify for this one, but not for the obvious reasons. I'm not that fond of my mortality, but I understand it. If death is really just a more violent type of falling asleep, I'll welcome it with open arms. I am pretty tired. No more bills. No more stress. Most importantly - no more fucking expectations.

But enough about how great being dead would be...

Since I'm turning 23 next week, the cold stark walls of reality seem to be closing in at a very distressing pace. No more can one say "When I get older I'll..." because one IS older. This is the time where I'm supposed to be super motivated and productive, right? I should be clicking my heels, sprinting at every opportunity like Jesse Owens. My education is complete and the world is my oyster! Huzzah! Huzzah! Celebrat good times. Come on.

No. Its not like that at all. And it never will be. That's why I started this blog with a musing on how great it would be to be dead. Mmmm.

Gaping natural disasters/political uprisings/nuclear wars aside, I pretty much know how my entire life will play out. Stroll through any local cemetary. Even better, watch "Death of a Salesman". The only thing I can say I really enjoy is being young. I like doing young people stuff. Being irresponsible, only having to worry about myself, and the like. In 10 years, I will not be young, thus I'm fearful to think that I probably won't be enjoying life very much. Now your older folks will say "Oh, you'll change". Like last week when I told my Uncle's girlfriend that I see no point in owning any pets and she said "Oh, you'll change". Or when I make it clear that I'd never want a girlfriend, a wife, children, a mortgage, and other very hackneyed shit. "Oh, you'll change". Great. Just fucking great. All of these opinions that I hold very sacred are met with "Oh you just say that because you're young, when you get older...." No. NO. NO. NO.

But it gets fairly obvious that everyone around me is going to fall into that category. It's almost like everything has already happened. Family members will keep getting older and dying. My friends will pocket their first big paycheck, get married, have kids, and move somewhere very boring to save money all in the same breath. Some will probably get killed in car accidents (doesn't everybody know someone who has died in a car accident). Some will just disappear. I'll probably be the funny joke they talk about at dinner. "Whatever happened to Josh?" they'll say smugly as they fork through peas and carrots. "Oh you know he still acts like he's 20" and everyone will have a good chuckle. All because I'm thoroughly unsatisfied with that happening to me. Yeah. Poor fucking me. Not wanting to grow up. What a novel fucking concept.

It saddens me that I know a lot of people who will probably have that exact conversation. I wasn't joking or being facetious at all. Let's say at best I get 60 years on this planet. When I turn 23, that leaves roughly 37 more years of mind fucking myself. I suppose if I got one of those nifty jobs with benefits, I could tune out, get fat, and coast all the way to the grave. I could talk about buying property, erectile dysfunction medicine, taxes, and other boring shit people talk about. CNN bored me when I was 5, it bored when I was 15, and it still fucking bores me. Yardwork sucked when I was a kid, so why the fuck would I want to buy a house? Oh, the equity? Yeah save all your fucking money so your fat kids can have a flatscreen. God forbid they watch their Pixar movies on anything less than a blue ray disc. Can you imagine a life where the highlight of your week was buying a new TV? Oh good fucking christ.

Admittedly, there's no right or wrong way to live your life. If you like middle management or painting houses, fucking one woman, being unappreciated by loud, messy children, then I suppose you're free to do that. It's just wildly depressing to me. I'll turn 23 and all of that shit is going to come clearer into focus. I can fight it off, but one by one I'll watch my entire social circle dry up as friends move on to duplicate their parents lives note for note. It may not happen tomorrow, but its going to happen. Worse off, I've been saying this shit my entire life. But 10 years ago I had that vague hope of "well, something will change" but as you can read, I'm still bitching so that must not be happening. I guess if I had a job, I wouldn't have time to think about this shit. Then again, when I was working all I did was have lucid sucidal fantasies, so I guess that's not the answer either.

I'm just very, very unhappy.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Earth Women for Dummies

Navigating the volatile terrain of the human female...

I'm a creative person, right? I need an outlet, I need to put some thoughts down, so strap yourselves in 'cause away we gooooooooooo...

Let's break the female form into a few categories, because I've learned nothing pisses people off more than categorization. For the sake of this little diatribe, I require the simplicity of labels. Yeah, yeah, you were all brought up differently and I'm sure all the nuances of girl's personality are wonderful, but that's all going out the window for a while. We have 5 different types of girls: hardnosed task-oriented powder kegs, artsy fartsy free spirited dreamers, red white and blue midwestern tom-boys, pompous little wannabe princesses, and self satisfying pleasure seeking crazies of the loose contigency. Did I leave any out? Yeah you'be probably just thought of four or fiver more random examples. Fuck you, I'm writing this.

The hardnosed task-oriented powder keg is a working woman. She's got all the personality sparks of a granite kitchen counter top. She wants it her way, she gets it her way....because quite frankly she's such a bitch no one feels like arguing with her. They're never happy, but that doesn't mean they're sad, they're just writing off their persistent disappointment as professional slackery. They could be making all the money in the world but will still come off as a frosty piece of glacier. Although, they do look great in a uniform. And they are called 'powder kegs' because all that inner 'oh my god i must do better' turmoil could explode at any moment.

The artsy fartsy free spirited dreamer can usually be spotted with a camera (what is the fucking deal with girls and photography? Is it because an image of something imprinted in a roll of film is the only piece of reality they'll ever really be able to control or manipulate?) or book about eastern philosophies. They think they are the reincarnated spirit of Clara Barton or Calamity Jane or Janis Joplin or some other shit. They are usually enchanting in that 'oh I've never met a girl like you before' until you meet 30 more of them and realize the local hemp shop or used bookstore cranks a few dozen out a day. It's ok, they usually date musicians and we all know how that cheese melts.

Red, white, and blue mid-western tom boys are raised in families with a lot of males (father, brothers, abusive uncles) and are usually seen as 'one of the guys' until 'one of the guys' fucks them and blows the whole illusion. These girls are great additions to your social circle though...they'll hang out drinking beer all day and talk about how bitchy other chicks are with you. It's cute. They think they're being all different and independent and not-girly. Like the aformentioned dreamers, its easy to fall for one of these girls because its 'oh man i've never met someone as down to earth as you'...until you meet the next bunch. They're everywhere, usually surrounded by a crowd of guys, and you can never figure who's hitting it because showing affection in public is...afterall...girly.

Pompous little wannabe princesses pretty much explain themselves. They came up either in a rich household, or a very small town, where they were lavished with extreme amounts of attention. By the time they come of age, they are well aware of their appearance's perks, but lack the charm of a dreamer or tom boy and the drive of the hardnosed powder keg.. So they manufacture an attitude, usually copied from something they see on TV about how teenage girls act, and 'wa-la!' they seem fake when you meet them. They always have nice cars though, banging bodies, and if they are fucking anyone its probably some random european guy that leaves you wondering 'whats the appeal?'. It's all part of the decor, something they learned on E!'s 'wild on morocco' or something.

Pleasure seeking crazies of the loose contingency are the most honest of them all. They fuck out loud, so to speak. Every girl has one of these inside of them, buried by all that extra bullshit we've already gone over. See, you may think its sexy when your conservative tom boy reveals her kinky side, but these girls wear it on their sleeve even when they aren't wearing a shirt. You could call them sluts, but these women define themselves by having a good time. In effect, they are more tom boy than the tom boy. Best of all, they are the last ones to get attached or feed you any type of emotional bullshit. You know the movie "Leaving Las Vegas" where the girls says "You can come on my face, just keep it out of my hair, I just washed it." Yeah, it's like that. Business. They are not to be looked down on, because when any of the other girls break your heart, its in these girls' beds that you end up. Poetic, no?Now that I've successfully judged women, feel free to add a whole bunch of other categories...just don't tell me I left any out. If you want to do this than you blatantly ignored my original warning of fucking off. And if you ignored that, whose to say that you glossed over other vital parts of this blog, hmm?

Look girls, I think its great and cute when you do all the little things you do. You have all earned your own special place in the world. Just keep in mind I see through all the charades, the makeup, the attitudes, the stupid way you talk like you're in the movie Clueless or the cute way you talk like you're from Little House on the Prairie, the way you dance or the way you feel like you're above it, the fashions, the hobbies, and of course the middle finger you'll give me when I call you out on all of it. Don't fret though, odds are I'm probably going to marry one of you and settle into that blissfully constant argument that starts at middle age and ends with a flatline. You know the one where we constantly draw lines in the sand about you're a woman and I'm a man, the stuff that makes stand up comedians their small income on the club circuit. It's a beautiful thing.

Me? Well just because I'm reading the labels doesn't mean I'm writing them. I've got my own little square and I'm doing quite well. Ideally, I'd like to be that dashing, tragic, heroic, manic, clever, strong, and hopelessly romantic fellow you see with the beautiful girl. Maybe I'll even be decked in the prerequisite guitar, or on a motorcylcle, or in a really expensive suit, fulfilling that last fantasy of absolute freedom that every woman pines about.

Rest assured though, I'm doing it for the chicks. Even though you are all decorated in the categories above, as stupid and lame and as contrived as they are, you still stir up some damn good feelings. Good fucking god, is there a better reason out there?

I don't think so.

Homeless people can fuck right off!

On any given day, the one block stretch between my apartment and the closest 7-11 has exactly 3 homeless guys on it. Asking for change. They sit pretty much 20yds apart from each other, positioned in front of the exits to different stores. A marvelous tactic, but each day I have to duck my head, wave my hand in a "go away you homeless piece of shit" fashion, and then...almost feel guilty about it. I almost feel fucking guilty because I am ignoring 3 homeless, unemployed, and (most likely) junkie wastes of life on my street en route to getting a dinner *I've* starved for all day.

I'm sorry, but something's wrong with that. I shouldn't feel guilty. Jesus christ, even the foyer to my apartment building...not the lobby...the foyer...the area between the outside door and the door you need a key to access...has the occassional homeless dude crouched in there because its too cold outside. Too cold? Yeah, that's why people have jobs...SO THEY HAVE FUCKING HOMES WHEN IT GETS COLD OUTSIDE. I'm not sure if I've ever encountered a counter-argument to my bitching. Everyone I know pretty much hates homeless people too. Nay, they despise them. So how the fuck does this continue. Why is a guy fucking sleeping in my foyer and no one is doing anything about it? Is it in bad taste to call the police on that? Fuck, I guess its not *THAT* big of a deal, but the point remains: GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE BUILDING I'M PAYING FOR.

I also love the approaches of the homeless. You can always spot them in your peripheal vision a block away. They single you out and say something like "Hey big man, you think you can help me out?" I almost want to jingle the change in my pocket loud enough so hears it and say "NO." Or when they're ex-marines or something, that's funny too. Yeah, use that one. I don't care if you used to be a fireman, a surgeon, a senator, or a puppy. You're homeless. Go away. You want my money? Learn some tricks and entertain me. It's a barter system, asshole. I can't even start to fathom the overweight people in motorized wheel chairs that ask for money. Not only are they beggars, they're fat, they're ugly, and of course - they make me feel the worst. Once again, WHY THE FUCK DO I FEEL BAD IF I DON'T HELP YOU OUT. God damn...fuck this puritan country's imposed system of morality. You can't shovel coal, get the fuck off the train. alleviate my guilt, here's some proposed solutions:

-The diamond trade. Why break the backs of little South African kids when we can ship our strapping homeless population over there with DeBeers work permits. Less homeless, more bling bling.

-Write a book. "Homeless in America" would be 'hilariously insightful' possibly according to Maxim, and Joe Crusty Beard can tour the talk show circuit and fund his meth habit all at once. Hurrah.

-Bring that manned carriage thing to the states. You know, the ones you see in China. Have the homeless just trucking around people in the city, offering cheaper rates than cabs. Why the fuck not.

-Cure depression. All these drug companies make billions on bullshit medicine. I say, sell homeless people off as "friends" to sad people. Think of them as Paid-Mood-Slaves.

-Gas prices too high? Give every homeless fellow in the country a shovel. One fresh tuna salad sandwich goes to the first one who strikes oil. The sandwich would of course be garnished with crack cocaine.

-Include the homeless in our national surveys on obesity. When averaged out, I'm sure the overall weight of americans would drop 30%. Uh...I guess that really doesn't solve the problem though.

These are just a few ideas I'm throwing out there. I left my more radical "FINAL SOLUTION Pt. II" ideas out of it because...well, it's facebook, and I'll save my homeless-into-dogfood machine blueprints for the book. I also think beer companies like Pabst and Schlitz would benefit with more honest campaigns about who drinks they're product. "PABST BLUE RIBBON: It won't make your teeth fall out. That's just a coincidence" or "SEAGRAM'S GIN: Because you didn't do a fucking thing all day." Although, in a way, I guess laying around on the street all day wrapped in newspapers is the most 'liberated' thing a person could do. I guess instead of incinerating them, I should be patting these folks on the back? Could they even be more American than our greatest heroes? Is being a homeless, jobless, drug addled, toothless, street urchin beggar truly living the dream?

Nah. Fire up the ovens.

Ticketbastard (or how AC/DC taught me to appreciate rape)

Yesterday, amidst the 12.5 hours of moving cinder blocks from one pile to another, I found the time to spend $417. On what you ask? Certainly nothing that will improve my mental health. No, I opted to charge a whole week's worth of shit work to my debit card for the only thing worth doing anymore - seeing fucking AC/DC in concert, October 30th, Allstate Arena, fuck (FUCK!) yeah.

It's not as much a concert as it is a religious experience. So, like a battered wife who just blocks out the fact that her husband is a dangerously violent alcoholic, I just won't think about why it cost me $417 dollars....that's right...$208.50 per ticket. Steve and I are the only ones with the financial fortitude and stupidity it seems to spend that kind of money on a rock concert. It's worth it right? It's AC-fucking-DC on what could possibly be their last American tour ever. Dude.

Now in the past I've paid 70 dollars to see The Who...and even 90 dollars to see the Rolling Stones, two fairly big why the fuck does AC/DC cost so much. On ticketmaster, at 10am yesterday when the tickets went on sale, there was only one price: $89.50. Needless to say, I couldn't get through - and after about 30 tries of "Your tickets could not be found", I jumped to Ticketfuckers affiliate Ticketsnow or something, the official "resale" site that is not officially endorsed by the band. Essentially, all the tickets are already paid for before the on-sale time to the general public. Paying only 90 dollars? Mere pipe dreams, my boy. You have to pay jacked up resale prices (like I did) to find a fucking seat. In the end, I had to settle for 2 $175 tickets, the cheapest I could get at ticketsnow.

Then...why is my final price $417? Oh don't be stupid, silly. Convenience charges! I logged on to their website out of my own free will, and as a dubious reward, I should be righteously fucked out of another 50 dollars. It doesn't end there, though. Let's not forget the heavy charge of mailing two paper tickets to my apartment. That's another 20 dollars right there. Even if you go to a in-person Ticketmaster vendor, you still are charged a convenience fee. What the fuck is so convenient about having to drive down to a Tower Records or Jewel Osco to get tickets? You can't buy from the venue directly, so do you have any other choices? NO! You're fucked. Any way you slice the pie, it still gets loaded into a shotgun and blasted right up your ass. Blueberry sphincter, that's what they'll call you.

I ignore these bombardments of thought, however. It's AC/DC, the last band left on my "Why do you make lists about concerts you're attending, jackass?" list. I can't be angry with them. Well, I suppose if their show isn't the audio/visual equivalent of the apocalypse crossed with all the hype and hoopla of the final (and moving) episode of Cheers, I will take to the streets. Waving burning ticket stubs and demanding a refund of the small fortune I spent on them.

To AC/DC, I love you - don't let me down like a woman. To Ticketmaster, I will get my money back you fat wristed wallet fuckers. I will get all of it back and more. You're fucking 'ticketsnow' resale scam is going to hit a fucking brick wall. They're gonna rename the state of Kansas "How bad Josh fucked up Ticketmaster" when I get done with your filthy shit stained cock mongrel asses.

But no, seriously, AC/DC, you're still cool.

Presidential Election '08 Breakdown '08

The purpose of this note is so that no one can ask me who I am voting for.


Why? Well, firstly I'm not even registered. That usually messes me up everytime I go to vote for all those smashing city council celebrities. (Read: Local councils are usually/always made up of: 5 white guys who's dads were in the same council, 3 super-empowered bitter housewives, 1 super motivated black dude, 1 super motivated bitter overweight black chick, and 1 uppity annoying fresh out of college cocksucker of any denomination)

Secondly, government politics not only are boring, they feature people none of us can stand. Remember that fucking kid in high school who had to run for everything in every fucking bullshit high school election? Those are the people that grow up with the notion that they can be president. Do you know what kind of psychology that requires? "Yeah, I'm great, everyone should agree with me. Ooh, what's this? A check? Thank you unnamed charitable organization."

OBama is not super hip. McCain is not a crusty war monger. All that's coming out of their mouthes is the same 'ol drivel that comes out of all politicans mouthes. "Change". What the fuck? OBama can't lower gas prices, which as far as I'm concerned, is the only issue anyone should give a fuck about. He can't. McCain can't either. They're just going to stand on a fucking soap box, roll up their sleeves like a high school counselor, and tell the lowest common denominator of the American population that they deserve better. God its so fucking redundant. And I'm supposed to have an opinion on which one of these fuckers is better? Fuck that. I'm going to judge these people the old fashioned way. Their appearance.

BARACK OBAMA: Yay, the black dude. He's cool by default in that his voice is deeper AND he's got a whole section of clothing dedicated to him at Urban Outfitters. They've been gunning this guy as a celebrity the day he raised his first dollar for a YMCA basketball court. Just because he has a cool name. I'm pretty sure that's it. His god damn wife is on the cover of every fucking woman's magazine on the rack, as if people looking up recipes for cherry cobbler have any fucking right to evern FORMULATE an opinion on the state of the economy. I'm a bit burned by OBama because here in Chicago, his dick's so far down everyone's throat that waiting to see who wins the state of Illinois is not only a bygone conclusion, but a complete waste of fucking time.

JOHN MCCAIN: As charming as any vietnam vet can be, this guy went from being the 'make fun of himself' dude on Comedy Central 8 years ago to a vertiable psychopath. Since every clueless American is having a love affair with OBama, all McCain can do is either...well, AGREE with Barack...which he has done on debates (that makes no sense to me, or the entire history of open elections and democratic government) or polarize his views and be the complete opposite of OBama says. He's done that too. It doesn't make fucking sense. Remember, the visibility of presidential candidates is based on how much money has been pumped into their campaign. You are not voting on the opinions and leadership capabilities of one man, but the personal and professional agendas of the highest bidder.

Doesn't that sound really fucking depressing? Jaded? It probably sounds like exactly what would be coming out of a 22yr old's mouth who doesn't have a fucking clue what he's talking a bout. That's why I'm not voting. Unless the gestapo burn down all my 7-11s, pillage my tiny studio apartment of cds, and smash my bass - I'm just going to assume everything's peachy in Washington.

No matter who wins the election, I'm sure every stand up comedian will still be bitching about whoever the President is. It never changes. People bitched about Clinton, now they bitch about Bush, and soon they're gonna bitch about the next guy in line. Yawn.

And that, ladies and gents, is about as political as I'm ever gonna get.

Profiles in Slurpage

I'll be honest, I go to 7-11 like everyday. Many times a day. It's like on every fucking corner, open 24/7, and has not once tried to sabotage my health with expired goods. It stomps, pisses, and shits on any previous convenience store I have ever encountered. I mean, I'm not on first name basis with the staff yet, but Hadji-Hadji Jihad knows who I am. There's no exchance of pleasantries or anything...just business and commerce. I've got my chicken salad sandwich, and he's pretty much got my total memorized by now. However, the biggest selling point of the 7-11 empire is the one, the only, the motherfucking...


You may just see it as a fountain soft drink, but its much more. The Big Gulp has evolved into a fucking parliament of thirst domination. Gone are the days of Small - Medium - Large. Yawn. That went out the window with the Olsen twins' food pyramid. It almost gets as complicated, but that's why I'm here to lay down the law. Keep in mind, I don't seriously have this information floating around in my head - I have to google this shit. Did you know wikipedia had an article on the Big Gulp? Ha! Of course they fucking did, LOSER!

Let's break it down:

Gulp - 20oz of your favorite poison - This one's for the women. If I see a dude sipping on just a Gulp, I'm gonna smack it out of his probably well-manicured metrosexual douche bag hand.

Big Gulp - 32oz - the original gangsta...and while I respect it, it's still not enough. I've long since gone beyond this one. It's like if your girlfriend got a boob job, but you were always offered the opportunity to play with the "old" version of girlfriend too. Boo! Obsolete!

Super Big Gulp - 44oz - ahh, this is more my speed. Don't get me wrong though, while I can certainly fit a lot of Mountain Dew in the cup, there's certainly been times where I've chugged this sucker empty, leaving me to yearn for...

Double Gulp - 66oz - Jackpot motherfucker. This bad mama jama never lets me down. No matter what, I cannot fit 66oz of fountain soda into my stomach at one time. I just can't. I probably shouldn't even try. Nevertheless, this hallmark of pure American gluttony is the ONLY choice for real, 7-11 going men.

But now it gets complicated. For all the wonderful things 7-11 has done for my life...they have to go throw THIS cog in the wheel:

Ultimate Gulp - 66oz - Yeah. That's right. They dared to jump another level in name value, but didn't even have the presence of mind to up the fucking amount of liquid you could get? What the fuck? Why call it ultimate then, assholes? Well...the Ultimate Gulp is like a giant plastic thermos, shrink wrapped and covered in pictures of NFL players or whatever. You have to purchase the container. Then open it. Pull out the "Free Drink" sticker thats inside. Go fill up your monstrosity. Then check out again and redeem the sticker. Who the fuck would buy it? I admit, I *was* tempted until I got a measure on the ounces. Fuck you, 7-11. You dare to charge me more when I can just buy the Double Gulp instead? Not today, comrade.

I challenge 7-11 to go for the gold. I wanna see a real Ultimate Gulp. 80oz of shut-the-fuck-up and suck me. That's a task in itself, because these giant Big Gulp containers require like 2ft long straws. You don't wanna know how many miles of bright orange 7-11 straws I have in my small studio apartment. I feel bad just throwing them away. Pedro Penniless in the Dominican could probably use them to build a hut or something...or at least fashion the into some sort of bizarre indoor plumbing.

I also feel bad throwing the cups away. Perhaps the only guilt I've ever felt in my life. They're made of fairly sturdy plastic. I mean, this is shit you can keep. I reuse mine all the time, though I still collect more - so my kitchen sink looks a lot like the drink fountain at 7-11. Just pick your size.

However, at my house we only have Super Big Gulp and Double Gulp. That's how I roll, nancy boy.

It's not a downward spiral - it's a straight drop

I heard it on the speakers at some bar. I'm not sure where or when or how drunk I was when it happened. All I know is that it hit me like a ray of sunshine radiated from the golden face of god. It was at that moment everything made sense. Everything fit. Every synapse my brain was firing off in chemically induced disarray aligned for a mere second of total suspended clarity.

"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."

I was, indeed, in the line for the bathroom. I looked over to my left and low and behold, there were *girls* in the line for the bathroom. I understood. They understood. This careful ballet of saturday night lunacy fluttered in perfect harmony as these words shot across the bar's soundscape. Some people were actually singing along. They must have heard it before. To my surprise, a human being must have decided to play this song more than once. Then I thought: Well, this could be happening at every bar, club, and after hours burger joint in the country right now.

"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."

I pondered this sonic epiphany for only a few more mouse heart beats. I moved on to the larger ramifications of the statement. There are, of course, girls in the line for the bathroom. Being in line myself, I questioned silently why my gender wasn't included in this tribal shout but quickly bored myself with the semantics. More importantly, what does this song mean? What can it tell me about myself? What can it tell me about the world in? I was able to deduce several things, as I was still in line for the bathroom and it really wasn't moving as fast as I'd liked it to be.

1. We are, collectively, all waiting for something to happen in our lives. If this rat race of a world is summed up in a single metropolitan dance club, most of us are really just standing in line for the bathroom.

2. A bathroom is relief. Escape. Not only for its obvious biological purposes, but its an oasis among the chaos. It's quieter. You've suddenly gone from a crowd to by yourself in a stall, or at least shoulder to shoulder with strangers who share your predicament. We all know women go in there to talk about the more pressing matters of the day. Point is, it takes you away.

"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."

Unbelievable. My faith in humanity had utterly been shaken to its rocky foundations. This was something I honestly didn't expect when I excused myself from idle bar talk to relieve myself. Still standing in line, I was amazed at what new world had opened up to me in merely a few seconds. My spirit escaped itself, no longer trapped by the confines of a line, society, or the entire human race. I floated, disconnected from the selfish plights of bar going twenty-somethigs, outside of myself and above the madness.My glowing essence finally came to rest by the DJ, the fixture responsible for bringing this delightful nirvana to my being. My amorphis ectoplasmic hands formed two giant hammers, akin to that of Thor's. They solidified into stone as I became a force of pure strength and universal determination.


Top 10 Things to do with a Dead Girlfriend

So it's finally come to this, eh? Little Miss "Seemed like a good idea at the time" mistakenly bumped her head on an airborne toaster oven and has made herself your kitchen's newest floor decoration. Yes, we know it wasn't your fault. Her incessant nagging and unpredicatable criticisms conjured up weird indoor wind patterns strong enough to project appliances at skull-denting speeds. Her impatience with you and your friends meant there would be little blood spatter on the wall. Her talking during Sportscenter inexplicably made the volume of the TV go up at the moment of blood-curdling-scream impact.Whatever the case may be, you've got a dead girlfriend. But before you go all 'call the copsy' on yourself, let's examine the finer points of this situation:

10. Try out that new flying machine you've been building!
Obviously you've been too strapped for cash to pick up an actual crash test dummy. Hell, you couldn't even afford a used copy of "God Shuffled His Feet", the breakthrough effort by the actual Crash Test Dummies. But now, with a little duct tape and balance, the cardboard wings you cut from the box your refridgerator came in and lawnmower engine will finally get its chance at the sky. This is almost guaranteed to work if your girlfriend's name was Amelia.

9. Holiday Picture Time!
Before she gets grave waxy, suit up those red 'n green sweaters and start printing Christmas cards. Even better, caption them with "Sharon wishes she could be here this year, but she's hunting with her estranged Father in Vancouver. Much love!" No one's ever been to Vancouver. It's just that far away and imaginary to be believable. Afterwards just leave her dressed up, wouldn't you want to be found dead wrapped in holdiday spirit?

8. Argh, bills...bills...bills...
Damn the mail man you say! Nothing but poor bank statements and late notices. Well if you're gonna mail those checks (and christmas cards!) whose gonna lick those stamps and seal those envelopes? You have not got the saliva, my friend. It's your lucky day though, as you've got a sack of rapidly decaying salivary glands at your disposal. She *was* the one who convinced you to get H.D. cable afterall, so she should have to pull some of the weight too. It's only fair.

7. Add New Contact? FUCK YEAH!
Obviously Johnny Law and the Coroner's Office Brigade are going to confiscate all of your sweetheart's possessions. Including her cell phone. But are you going to grieve with all of her hot friends at happy hour? Get those god damn numbers now. Anna was pretty smoking for a red head. Your girlfriend did used to get jealous when Kate would talk to you at parties. Stacy was way hot but kinda out of your league...and wasn't she dating that boxer? Then there's Ingrid. She seemed easy. Didn't Kevin sleep with her? Yeah.....Ingrid.

6. Feed the homeless!
Weren't all your friends always giving you shit because you never did any charity work? Well I hear the soup kitchen downtown needs some volunteers, and what a coincidence, you can bring some of your homecooked girlfriend pot pies along with you. I know it might be hard dicing up the girl who used to be so hypnotizing in that little red dress she wore, but then can you really appreciate your girlfriend's curves without battering them with garlic and red win vinegarette, served under sauteed onions and green peppers?

5. Hot or not?
You know that deep down inside, you were always insecure about how good looking other people thought your girlfriend was. No one wants to be that guy with the ugly girlfriend. Well, that's why baby Jesus gave us webcams. Snap a few quick pics (use toothpicks to prop up her smile) and let millions of web surfers arrive at a verdict for you! 7.9? Not bad. 8.4? Heh, alrighty then. 6.5? Aww, she's better than that at least. 9.8? HEY DUDE BACK THE FUCK OFF THAT'S MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND!......Oh, wait.

4. Lego My Eggo, bitch.
So since your toaster oven broke for whatever reason, you've had to make the trek to Sears and purchase a replacement. Sit your girlfriend up in a chair in the kitchen (shouldn't be hard, she was already on the floor there) and have her be witness to you actually cooking breakfast. Remember how she always would bitch at you for not cooking? Well how did these blueberry waffles get here? Make her a plate, and while you guys are enjoying Dr. Phil, ask her if she likes her meal. Then take her plate away and tell her she should stick with the diet. The memories of this moment should make prison bearable.

3. Doesn't she kinda look like Nicole Kidman?
Isn't that what some of your half witted buddies would say? Well, crack out her makeup kit (she probably kept it at your place) and do some A list hollywood work on her. See if you indeed can make her like Nicole Kidman. He skin and bone structure should be a little more malleable. Afterward, once you've nailed the likeness down, call the press and tell them you have Nicole Kidman at your house. See if they care.

2. Get a CLUE.
Yes, it was in the kitchen with the toaster oven, but why not in the study with the candle stick? Or in the parlor with the knife? Invite some friends over and play a game of Clue. You can be the charmingly delightful host, and your house which was once gruesome murder scene, is now a place of alcohol fueled mystery and intrigue on a weekend when most of your friends are out of town. Your girlfriend never let you throw parties, so afterward use her head as a mop to clean the den where the beer bong contest got a little out of hand.

1. Welcome to Wal-Mart!
Duh! Second income! Benefits! Discounts on products that's prices were already so rolled back its ridiculous. All she has to do is not be creepy, so use that box of crayola permanent markers to give her the kind of smile that says "entry level employee, doesn't have a fucking chance at management". Sync up a recorded greeting with the automatic doors, and cram it in the orifice you find most fitting. Realistically, judging from the health and dental breaks, it'll be the best thing you ever crammed in her.

So there ya go. Before your story becomes fodder for Forensic Files or CSI: Baton Rouge, have a little fun. I left out the blatantly redundant options of making a nice throw rug or raincoat out of her. Or even a retractable awning. Come on dude, she was your girlfriend. Use a little god damn imagination.

Disney Land is for Depressed People

What’s so magical about the magical kingdom? Well for the price of a few peasant workers from El Salvador, it can accomplish all the things years of therapy would otherwise do: fulfill all the bullshit unrealistic ideals about your life and finally cement into your skull that a) you are special, b) somebody does love you, and c) you were better off frozen in the mental state of ignorant six year old girl.

I have several qualms about Disney World not relating to my absolute jealousy of their muti-billion dollar empire of essentially creating and destroying children’s dreams. That’s fucking awesome. I don’t like the way people my age and older treat it like an escapist paradise. Like you’re 47 and going to see Bon Jovi because that one song they play reminds of the first time you felt up your 14yr old girlfriend in the back of her dad’s sedan. Some kind of lame nostalgia trip or unnatural opiate that makes everything in the world seem fucking peachy. Thousands of underpaid workers serving overpriced shit food, miserable teenagers sweating inside Donald Duck costumes in the middle of the Florida summer, and rickety carnival rides dressed up to look like shitty Disney movies. And yet, when someone steps foot inside these magical gates, this becomes a world of pure bliss. They might as well prescribe a fucking trip to Orlando right next to your Zoloft.

Let’s avoid the obvious targets of mass consumerism. Hey if I could sell as many t-shirts as Mickey Mouse, I would. I’m going for the throat here. The ’oh I feel like a kid again’ shit. Everyone does this, cause everyone’s a fucking zombie. You know - you *DIDN’T* have to stop playing with Barbies or Legos. You *DIDN’T* have to stop jumping on the bed. You chose to. You chose to grow up. You chose to fucking get a job, get involved in a relationship, pay bills, drink coffee, and be god damn moody. Fuck, when I walk into Wal-Mart I still shoot straight for the toy aisle. A six inch action figure of Captain America is still fucking COOL and if I didn’t enjoy eating so much, I’d fucking still be buying them. I still watch cartoons, I still like my ice cream covered in chocolate and gummy bears, and I still think the local news is boring.

And let’s not forget, the whole time you were a ’kid’ you just couldn’t wait to get older and do all the things grown ups do. Drive a car? FUCK YEAH. Drink loads of beer? HELL YEAH. Drive a car and drink loads of beer? FUCKING HELL YEAH. Look what you’ve moved on to: you have the money and you have the freedom to do whatever you want. You can god damn live at Disney World if you wanted to. Everybody gushes like a twelve year old at a Hanson concert when they go to that big budget amusement park, but when they go to Los Angeles they complain that everyone is fake. WHAT. THE. FUCK. You are knee deep in fake at Disney Land, and its the god damn happiest you’ll ever be? I’m not knocking Walt Disney’s grand vision of bulldozing miles of delicious Orange orchards for a plastic castle. To this day, Space Mountain is the shit and the girl walking around pretending to be Cinderella is hot.

So yeah if the pressures of being all ’grown up’ are grinding you down day by day, interrupt your medication of pills and alcohol with a trip to the beautiful Magic Kingdom. It’ll be like Daddy never slipped his hand up your skirt that one time.

(By the way, he *did* tell all his friends about it)

The Depth of Being Shallow

I must come off as a real asshole sometimes. In fact, all the time. However, just like a mack truck that turns into a giant galactic warrior, there's more to that than meets the eye.

For example, being in this asshole state I am enabled to identify other assholes who may not be as honest in their quest as I am. We exist on the same common battle ground as the rest of the world - eat, shit, fuck, sleep, repeat - it's just that some people don't know how to act in the present of you folk. You being the normal, non-asshole, god-fearing, peachy keen saint that you are. That's the difference between the fun loving "give you a hard time" douche bag that I assume I am, and the obnoxious dipshit who won't leave the bar at last call. So being that I am not better than THAT guy, I am proposing my one good deed that will get me into those pearly gates when the time comes. I will pass down my wisdom on how to point out who that douche bag is, at a distance and early enough, before he or she ruins your evening/morning/day/lifetime*.

It's as simple as looking at what they are drinking.

DOMESTIC BREWS - (Bud, Bud Light, Miller Light, etc) Usually a good indicator of someone who goes out all time...or just doesn't have a whole lot of money. They are the drinking equivalent of guerilla warfare, as you never know how many shots of other stronger liquors they have done, since they're nursing a bottle of piss water. So that annoying drunk asshole can come out of nowhere it seems. If they are just drinkng Coors Light though, they're probably just as exciting as a god damn can of Coors Light. Unless you're friends, avoid.

CHEEKY LOCAL BREWS - I guess here it would be Abita products. Decent beer I must say, and most of the time associated with decent people. That aside, it is just a localized version of the domestc brew dumbshits. They are drinking that because they simply don't know what else to drink - typical of the close minded, ass munching supermen. Don't mistake their pride in their local beer for actual amusement, as its the same kind of thinking that buys a Ford truck just because "well, my dad had one". You're dad had an asshole son, too. And...good god, if they are ever wearing a T-SHIRT pf that beer company, they'll also fill you in how their high school football team is doing even if they are 35. I'm ignoring Dixie beer here because it fucking sucks.

BOTTOM OF THE BARREL MIXED DRINKS: This is fairly easy, as any number of years experiencing the Discovery Channel that is working in a bar, you can figure out what the fuck is going on.Vodka Cranberry's - if its a guy, gay (or extremely John Wayne style straight because he obviously doesn't give a shit). If its a girl, she's either has only been to a bar 3 times of just wants to get fucked up (easy).

Jack 'n Cokes - Guy version of vodka cranberry. Typical of someone rarely in an organized drinking scene that isn't a bunch of liquor bottles on mom's coffee table. Just as clueless as domestic beer guy, only more drunk.

Red Bull/Liquor - Going in for the long haul (drinking for many hours) which means he or she is just trying to get laid.

Tonic Water/Liquor - Probably the easiest drink in the world to sip on, and usually indicative of someone who feels compelled to drink alcohol rather than actually WANTING to.

Anything with milk in it - Idiot.

Girly martinis - Definitely a bitch, and request for fruit means they are still craving food since their abusive boyfriend/husband/father won't let them eat full meals. Otherwise, its a person who went to bar not knowing what they like to drink at all. That's the equivalent of going to a circus and not knowing if you're afraid of clowns. If they ask for a cosmo, say you have never made that before and ask what's in it. They won't know.

Margaritas - This guy thinks he's the life of the party. The optimal word here is "thinks".

Anything on the rocks - Oh he's a real hard ass. He's probably overweight with a little dick. (Editor's note: I am not overweight and my dick is delightfully average)

Random exotic shots - The same person who orders these is the same kinda person who eats chicken tenders at your house and asks if you have any dfhoadfoafhkahfklah sauce. You don't. Because you have never heard of it. Becuase they only make it in Micronesia. DOUCHE BAG.

Jagermeister - I'm so tough rah rah rah dickhead. Worse when combined with...

MID- LEVEL BEERS - Heineken, Corona, Michelob, and so forth. The worst of the worst because this person is presuming they are BETTER than the piss water swilling domestic assholes and more mobile so as to not be aware of the cheeky local brew. As I said, these people will probably also be shooting Jagermesiter or Goldschlager. They might as well be wearing neon signs that say "Don't Talk to Me".

GUINESS - We get it. You're great grandparents' neighbor's uncle was straight off the boat from Ireland. Hooray. Now take off your stupid hat. (Editor's Note: I like my stupid hat)

TOP SHELF BREW - Negro Modelo, Peroni, Sierra Nevada, and assorted ciders. This person thinks they are just the bee's knees because they're older and have moved on past their wilder corona days. In truth, none of this beer is any good, and the person will still fuck you over in true heineken fashion. They'll just have a fancier bottle in their hand.

Really the only safe bet on a decent person is a person who knows what they are drinking and why they are drinking it. If they can't explain either of those things, then they are as clueless as a squirrel in a trashcan. You see, me, I am constantly thinking of what I am doing and I what I look like while I'm doing it. Because I am just so absolutely full of myself and get a little high when my name turns up in one of your sentences.....

and that's why I'm an asshole.

*I was talking about your actual life, not the TV channel, moron.

The Testicular Chart of Music

Some would say music is measured in decibels. Now take out the mathematical prefix of 'deci' and what do you have left? "Bels". Hmm, could this just be a historically mispronounced version of the word....I don't know...


I do belive I am correct. God damnit Josh, you've done it again.

So let's move on to the long overly drawn out task of rating all of music by how much "BALLS" its possesses. We'll start from highest to lowest.

99.999999% BALLS: AC/DC
Let's cut through all the assumed bullshit right here. There is no doubt that the most ballicious music in the world is AC/DC. Somewhere in the congo a newly wedded tribal couple is doing the horizontal hammer to the sound of "You Shook Me All Night Long", "Beating Around The Bush", or "Let Me Put My Love Into You". Never in my life have I ever seen an acoustic guitar onstage with AC/DC let alone HEARD one on an album. Are they guilty of basically rewriting the same song over and over? Yes, but that song is about sex, and probably has a narly guitar solo. The only points they lose in balls is because they recorded a lame soundtrack for an 80s Steven King movie. But even then, that movie was about cars. Cars that killed people.

92% BALLS: Rick James
Now I'm using Rick here as an example of all the pimp masters of funk rock. I could have said a number of people, but Rick has them all beat. First of all, most funk rock requires a certain level of 'talent' per se. White people practice for years to get it, black dudes naturally have it. In the video for "Superfreak" Rick is wearing a bass guitar, know...I don't think he even plays bass guitar. I could be wrong, but he certainly doesn't in the video. What this says to me is that Rick James was so busy doing blow and fucking underage girls that he had the audacity to wear a bass guitar in a completely bass guitar driven song and not even play it. And he still got famous. Are you shitting me? Did I mention he was banging Linda Blair - the girl from the exorcist? He was literally statuatory raping THE DEVIL. He only loses points for co-writing shitty music with Eddie Murphy, right about the time Eddie Murphy stopped being funny.

84% BALLS: Gene Simmons & Paul Stanley & Friends (also know as KISS from time to time)
Always accused of being money hungry merchandising hounds, KISS literally set the standard in male compensation. Fire, blood, hydraulics, more fire, more blood, comics, toys, and so forth. When interviewed for The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years, Gene opted to be in a lingerie store while Paul went the more stoic route and had the camera aimed down at him in bed with several women. Now all of this is pure balls, especially the whole 'take off the signature makeup and still go multi-platinum' move, or the 'we'll organize our own conventions so we don't even have to play music but our fans will still show up, then act surprised when Ace or Peter or any other estranged ex-member shows up coincidentally' move. Not to mention that Gene Simmons has fucked EVERYONE. Literally, everyone. Diana Ross? Done. Cher? Done. That cute girl who lived across the street from the house you grew up in? Done. They only lose points for being in a really gay movie about phantoms or something.

79% BALLS: Wendy O'Williams and The Plasmatics
This chick used to chainsaw cars in half onstage and she didn't even have a penis. When doing her video for "It's My Life" (which Gene Simmons produced, so he probably fucked her too) she performed her own stunt of leaping out of a convertible onto a helicopter-connected rope ladder just before the car plummets off a cliff. How did she eventually bite the bullet you ask? By literally trying to bite the bullet and committing suicide via gunshot by herself in a forest. Now Wendy was only around in the limelight for a short time, and a female, but good god she has more balls then 6 harley davidson engines shoved into a Buick chassy and tied to a rocket shaped like the middle finger. She is only going to lose points in this chart by simply still not being around to murder all the people who flocked to Lilith Fair. Why did you leave us Wendy? So many cars still yet to be chainsawed.

70% BALLS: tie between Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson, and James Brown
Usually a person's balls is determined by simply asking one question. Is this person alive? No. Then follow that question with another question. SHOULD this person still be alive? If the answer is yes, then they simply had too many balls for a single lifetime. Jackie Wilson had a heart attack while performing in Vegas at age 41, left comatose, and still held on for almost 10 more years. Sam Cooke was shot at age 33 by a hotel manager because he burst into her office naked and raving. James Brown beat em all and crackheaded his way to 73. His funeral? A concert. With him laying right in front of the stage. The only drawback to these tremendous singers was that they all honed their voices by singing in church choirs. Church is gay. Sorry dudes. But seriously, put on any of these guys records and then watch American Idol and you should get a bird's eye view on why old people say "Music was better when I was a kid".

60% BALLS: Nine Inch Nails
I'm not going to lie. As pathetic as a song as "Hurt" is, "Closer" has bedded countless "Oh I think I'm so alternative, my daddy doesn't know I'm bad" girls. As stupid as industrial music is, as bad as Trent Reznor's haircut ever was, and as lame as their album titles are (Pretty Hate Machine? Wow, deep) that single song will make girls fuck like they actually want you to fuck them. Novel concept, right? We're treading close to failing territory in terms of Balls, but Nine Inch Nails barely makes the grade. They also lose a lot of points for the bullshit fashion trend they helped exploit in the industrial scene. Fat pale chicks in fishnets and pleather boots? That looks like squeezing cream cheese out of a pair of old black socks. And Trent's hair brings me to my next subject...

54% BALLS: The Cure
Once again I cannot deny that The Cure have a lot of catchy whimsical songs. Robert Smith also has this artsy fartsy attitude that women just seem to swoon for making believe its all a contrived put on. And all his recent Cure reunion comebacks is only further proof that Mr. Depressed Hopeless Romantic is only in it for the dollar bills. Which is great, because that's what earns him his meager percentage of balls. If you can get onstage and whine like a bitch 20 years ago when it WASN'T IN FASHION (hi emo kids, how ya doin?) and make a small fortune then by all means, do it to it. Decent music aside (The Smiths are better, like way better honestly) Robert Smith has also perpetuated ugly fashions that have given women devoid of sunlight the ridiculous notion that they could be attractive. I thought those guys were CURING something. Bad joke. Sorry.

48% BALLS: That one song Bryan Adams, Rod Stewart, and Sting all collaborated on
It was called "All For Love" and you can watch the video on YouTube. Does anyone remember this? Now I've excluded the individuals from this chart because I really can't decide on where to place them. Bryan Adams is fucking brilliant pop rock, but admittedly he's some really homosexual songs. Rod Stewart is pure fucking pimp, but his songs are so soft and wishy-washy you can't really stomach two of them in a row, and Sting....well....that's not hard, Sting has close to no balls. But anyway, they all got together for this MTV gimmicky collaboration and if you ever listen to it, you can feel a vagina start to form where your dick should be. I'm sure for middled aged suburban women this song was like a brand new minivan, but the rest of the world could have been spared. Whoever's idea it was should be taken out and beat with a shovel.

41% BALLS: Elvis Presley
Do you ever notice how Elvis just disappeared in the 60s? It's like when you think of the sixties you think of hippies and vietnam and John Kennedy applying fresh paint to the interior of his car, but you never think of Elvis. He was there in the 50s, fuck he was HUGE, then he was gone, and then by the 1970s he was a broken down lounge singer. That's because he was joining the army, making shitty movies, and figuring out how many more shitty people he could add to his entourage. He could have been the President of Pimp, our Commander in Briefs, but instead he shit it all away. Literally. Your Elvis fucking do you fuck that up. Notice how when you dress up like Elvis these days its a giant joke? That's fucking sad. He loses points for that. For becoming a worthless shell of himself. Watch his 1968 comeback special where he's in a full leather suit. Did you know that he turned himself on so much that night that he actually CAME IN HIS PANTS. 10 years later he's dead because of addiction to pills and ham sandwiches. Man, fuck you Elvis. But at least you'll always be better than...

30% BALLS: The Beatles
Gay. Gay. Gay. Gay. How do you go from the swinging sounds of pimps like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, to fucking annoying British pop. How does Johnny Cash tour the country to zero fanfare at the same time this bunch of bowl cut kids with accents are exploding on the Ed Sullivan show. Do you know how to write a Beatles song? Come up something nonsensical and repeat it in a high pitched liverpool accent. We all live in a Yellow Submarine. I am the Walrus. This is a perfect example of contrived American fads. Elvis pussed out, Buddy Holly was dead, and Willie Nelson didn't give a fuck. Who's left? The Beach Boys? Way to drop the ball guys. Nope, America got stuck with the fucking Beatles. George Harrison was the only ballsy one of the bunch - and you heard about him the least. John Lennon ran off with his girlfriend and made naked pictures and terrible albums. I would have shot him too. Paul McCartney is still making money, but for some reason Michael Jackson ended up with a large chunk of their royalties? How the fuck? Thank god The Who showed up a year later and proved that not ALL of England was gay.

24% BALLS: Anything related to the term Teen-Pop
Backstreet Boys, New Kids on the Block, Tiffany, Brittany Spears, and so forth all belong in this category. Their music is overproduced drivel, and when you think of Johnny Cash flipping off a warden at Folsom Prison and then watch one of these groups' music videos you'll understand this whole BALLS chart a whole lot better. These people are so backwards in heterosexuality that when one of them comes out of the closet no one is shocked, even though this person spent his whole career singing about women! C'mon! If George Clinton came out everyone would lose their shit. If Nick Carter came out, so what? The only points awarded here is that their terrible music somehow makes women want to dance, and that usually is an indicator that they want to do some other more interesting activites. I've danced to this music, I know, but I'm not ashamed because it was a necessary evil at the time.

17% BALLS: Lenny Kravitz
Personally, I hate Lenny Kravitz. I think his songs suck, he's a pompous artsy musician, and yet all he writes are perfect pop radio jingles. He was born into stardom via his mom who was in The Jeffersons. I don't like people like that. You got to have dirty under your fingernails so to speak if you're gonna get onstage and claim to the audience that you're playing rock 'n' roll. Your fancy fucking clothes and repeitive songs are going to sell me on that. Oh you did a song with Slash? Nope, still not convinced. Every song on your new album is about sex with girls? Nope that's like Prince - you still seem gay to me. Obviously though everything Lenny does Prince has done better. Fuck Kid Rock has more legitimate credibility than Kravitz. That's saying a lot. If you feel like you can introduce a musician to your parents and he'll fit right in then something is definitely wrong. It's like no matter how many more random piercings or tribal tatoos you get - you're still safe enough for 12 year old girls to listen to. And safe is not BALLS.

10% BALLS: Today's Pop Rock
I guess it stems from shit like Radiohead and Beck crammed into a blender with Ben Folds Five. Whatever the case may be, it's really gay and the only Balls it gets is because it is obviously making money and pulling chicks to the shows. Why? I have no idea. I could walk right by the singer from Gomez or Cold War Kids in the produce aisle at Piggly Wiggly and have no fucking clue. Fuck he could sit down in front of me and start playing a piano and singing and all I would think is "Wow this sucks, this guy should give up on music". I mean not all music needs to be balls to the wall volume and macho pomp all the time, but it also doesn't have to be mopey pretentious shit all the time either. Maybe its because I only hear the hit singles and the really rocking tracks are on the albums that I'll never buy. Pop rock really stalled out in the 90s once 'grunge' deflated - the world got Creed, 3 Doors Down, and Puddle of Mud. Wow. Man when you line up those 3 bands in the same sentence its really fucking depressing.

They successfully took the most angry, angst driven form of music, ripped its heart out, drew a smiley face on it, and said "Yeah this is still punk rock." I'm not gonna go into the whole "punk is dead" debate because I don't care. That was all a marketing trick too. Listen to The Ramones and then listen to Green Day. Start to get it yet? Somehow Green Day got shuffled under this punk monicker and now sits up in the charts with the heaviest selling rock bands. That inspires more tongue and cheek fun punk like Blink 182 and The Offspring. All well and good, more markets mean more money, but its music for children who haven't come of age yet to have that 'punk is dead' revelation at lunch time in high school. Where the older cooler kid smacks you and walks off in a jacket covered in Exploited and Minor Threat patches. What's worse is that they won't go away. You think they'd just have a few hits and WHAM there you go with another hit album and bunch of terrible new singles constantly on the radio. I'd say their bass player is the coolest one. Talk about a free ride.

0% BALLS: U2
All of you saw this coming. So let's get it over with. Fuck Bono. The end.

Josh and His Issues - December 2007

Issue number 1: Fuck the streetcar. It should have stayed dead. Putting a giant slingshot at Lee Circle that just fired people in the general direction of their destination would be a more constructive form of public transportation. If I can beat the streetcar (on FOOT) to Jackson & St. Charles from Napoleon and St. Charles, then what's the fucking point. So now I like to wear headphones and walk deliberately in the path of the streetcar so it gets stuck BEHIND ME. Ha! Take that you rusty fucking disney ride. You know...we had this technology at the turn of the fucking's time to hang it up. Seriously. And if I ever make it to San Francisco, I'll say the same fucking thing. Tag it and bag it.

Issue number 2: Hippie chicks. Just what exactly does this accomplish? I know it's really novel of you to buy all your clothes from the salvation army, wear purposely ugly dresses, vintage purses that hang down your shoulder like a gym bag, and not manage your hair to set yourself apart from the plastic fake crowd of girls....but c'mon. A lot of you are potentially very fucking hot. Why do you insist of fucking this is up? It's simple, some nice form fitting jeans, a bit of makeup, and a desire to do more than just bum weed off your friends. I have to say, I really should have heeded that warning that Chattanoogah (that can't be spelled right) was a hippie town. Good fucking christ. Do you know what kind of plot I'd have to hatch to get in with those kind of girls. I'd have to pretend to enjoy their shitty music, pretend that I enjoy getting stoned with a crew of losers who collect checks from either a coffee shop, music store, or their parents, and pretend I share their outlook on life as a spontaneous one-with-nature existence. I'm sorry. That's way too much fucking work. Can't I just get you drunk? Please?

Issue number 3: Stores that can't fucking restock. Yesterday I picked up a half gallon of milk because I've got a giant bag of home cooked cookies my mom brought me last week. I want fucking milk and cookies. That's all. So on the way home from the gym, I got half gallon of 2% reduced fat milk. Shame on my for not checking the date. I thought for sure I would not have to worry about these fucking things. It's like checking your eggs at the grocery store to make sure they're not already broken. THAT ISN'T YOUR GOD DAMN JOB. Those fucking hippes from my previous issues are stumbling around your local grocery store breaking down boxes at a snail's pace. They can check the fucking milk. They can check the fucking eggs. So now when I get home, and open the milk - take a sip - WELL HEY! THAT DOESN'T TASTE RIGHT AT ALL. Issue number 3.5: So last week I got food poisoning (and believe me, laying on my basement floor with a rotten stomach and fever, I was fully ready to let go, I had it all planned, after 2 or 3 days, someone would eventually need to collect money from me - hence try to find me - and my bloated carcass would be discovered in the basement - I really really really just wanted to die) and now the forces of evil tainted my milk in a second assasination attempt. Thank god I didn't pour that shit on fruity pebbles or something. I might have just walked outside with a baseball bat and Barry Bonds'd a puppy.

Issue number 4: The weather needs to make up its fucking mind. Yeah I know New Orleans is the 'northern most carribbean (I know that is spelled wrong too) city' or whatever, but its fucking december and 100 miles in any direction the weather is normal. If it wants to be cold, stay cold. I have no climate control to speak of in my apartment. So if the temperature outside keeps carouseling around, there's about 20 minutes in a given 3 days where it is actually comfortable in my bedroom. And please...please don't tell my to just call my landlord. I can't. If he enters my apartment I'm fucked because I broke the door in a drunken rage - there's garbage everywhere - and that 'you need to replace the AC filter once a month' speech is SOOOOOO boring. So my discomfort has been blamed on mother nature instead. It's your fault, cunt.(was "cunt" too much? Eh.)

Issue number 5: Why I am actually writing this blog? Am I really that bored, or even that presumptuous that people would want to read this in between bites from a ham sandwich or finger dives into a bag of cheetos? Has my life sunk that far? I really only walked down to Loyola's library to check my mail and burn some AC/DC on to a cd. Little did I know that they were updating all their computer systems, completely fucking me out of my plan. Which is fine, I understand - any excuse to simply get out of the house and delay the streetcar (or Retard Rail) is good in my book. Buy here I am exiled to using their shitty Macs and typing away. I can't burn a cd, and all I have really left to do is go to park, have a meal, shower, and...uhh...drink? Why should I drink? I drank last night. Oh yeah....BECAUSE NOTHING ON THIS FUCKING PLANET MAKES ANY GOD DAMN SENSE - EVERYONE'S A PIECE OF SHIT - AND I CAN'T BUY A SINGLE PIECE OF FOOD NOW WITHOUT WORRYING THAT SOMEHOW IT'S GOING TO KILL ME.

You know what?

It's christmas.

Fuck it.