I woke up this morning suffering from a bout of seasonal depression. It’s like clockwork (haha, boo) every year about this time I become depressed because winter is a terrible time of year. They call it the “dog days of winter,” I think, but I like dogs so that should be changed to something else. How about the “Ebola-ridden skunk days of winter”? That’s better.
Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. Looking back on my younger school days, I can remember the lame way we were taught about the first Thanksgiving like it was a wholesome party on top of Plymouth Rock. They ignored the fact that the Pilgrims had no business being there and the Native Americans would have been perfectly within their rights to shove a hot spear into thou’st rectums; but they didn’t.
My father thought I only liked the song because it had the word “bitch” in it. You can’t avoid it. The word is in the title. The song is “Ain’t That a Bitch” by Johnny Guitar Watson. I guess it was a sneaky way to get away with cursing while singing along, but that’s not why I listened. It was a logical conclusion for him to make given that I was a young white boy living in the comfortable suburbs of Charlotte, NC and the song was about a black man struggling to get by. He’s working forty hours, six long days. They are working poor folks to death and when he pays his rent and his car, he doesn’t have a damn thing left. How could I possible relate to that? But I did. Continue reading
He’s 88 years old and he did an hour and a half. He had a 14-piece orchestra and a few highlight clips of his career that he played throughout the show. He is Don Rickles, Mr. Warmth, and I had the incredible pleasure of seeing him live in Las Vegas. Continue reading
I hate the ads at the top of this website. Huh? Are you bashing the advertisements on your very own site? Yes, with a passion. I agreed to some sort of baloney that I wouldn’t discredit the ads and blah blah blah, but I can’t take it anymore. If they decide I am no longer worthy of the $.0029 per view they pay me, then I guess I’ll have to move to Vietnam and get a job sewing buttons onto underwear for $.15 an hour (a huge raise). I don’t mind the one at the bottom of the page, right now it’s an ad for chips, but the click-bait junk at the top is smelly garbage. Continue reading
Drunkenly, I love to try and relate to cab drivers. Not in some prick way like trying to make the “plebe” driver feel loved. No, it’s my own anxiety that makes me do it. I can’t stand being in the car with someone else in silence. If the dude can’t speak English, then I can justify the silence to myself, but other than that I have to talk. Continue reading
Recently, I was on an airplane. I had to write this post in order to distract myself from the horrors.
This flight is like a doctor’s office waiting room in the heart of Mumbai during a plague outbreak. It’s May; cold and flu season is far behind us and yet the last twenty-five people to get sick are in rows 10-18. I’m in 11 so I have no chance at avoiding the projectile germs being hurled in my direction over the four hours of flight time. I wonder if there is any Clorox bleach on board that I can gargle with? Or maybe the blue toilet water would work? Continue reading