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Welcome to my utmost random thoughts on random shit that really doesn't matter much.
Behold the glory of my mind takinga dump.
~ Sticks, Stones and Funnybones ~
Part 36 - The Pro
The Pro
Mike Tyson is selling himself for cash. No, it’s true. Who would have thunk it? This time he’s not taking dives in rigged games or beating up bums on cable prime time television… no, this time he’s actually prostituting himself up at the Heidi Fleiss’ Ranch for Women.
I was wondering how that would play out.
“Hello, ma’am, and welcome to Heidi’s Celebrity Ranch for Women. How can we accommodate you?”
“Well, I would like to see a list of your services before I decide.”
“Naturally, ma’am. First room on your right is the Mel Gibson room – by the way, you’re not Jewish are you? – where you will be treated to a raving monologue by a drunk celebrity – no names named, but it’s not Bonaducci – and then clumsily fondled for a few minutes before he passes out with bad breath.”
“I think I’ll pass on that one.”
“OK, ma’am. Then we have the Patrick Swayzee room, where you will be danced and romanced in a perfect dream in lace and silk, showered in kisses and beautiful poetry. You will need to wear this twelve inch strap-on, though.”
“Eh, no... He’s too prissy for me. I would like to be beaten and raped by a big 300lb lisping negro hopped up on Viagra. Do you have any of those?”
“Very good, ma’am. That would be the Mike Tyson Suite. There is a first aid kit in the bathroom, and you have to sign this waiver. There, there and there. And please fill in this organ donor card. Thank you for shopping at Heidi’s.”
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The Sick
I love how media is referring to Kevin Federline as “Fed-X” these days. Not to brag or anything – who, me? – but I saw this coming ages ago, name and all:
Now Britney will make a comeback as some sort of “serious” Jewel-like pop artist, and inevitably tank like MC Hammer in a world without crappy VH1 shows - because, unlike Christina Aguilera, the fucking chick can't sing for real. She had a tiny window of opportunity there for a while to produce some quality porn, but now, years later, I feel she is even missing out on the Milf niche, as she is still trying to speak like a dumb little redneck girl with a grown up woman’s post-pregnancy stretch marks zig-zagging her spent belly. Can’t airbrush porn, kids.
The fact that she is out bar-hopping with new best pal Paris Hilton should really say it all. Where else do newly divorced single two-kid moms go to win the respect of adoring fans and upcoming custody hearing judges? Right, to shady clubs, snorting lines of coke off some Cuban club owner’s dick in the men’s room, as Paris is throwing up in the next stall over. Brilliant move, kid. Those white trash hick genes come bubbling out like gas out of a teacup poodle’s ass. Fed-X might even get the custody of those two brats, you know. Wouldn't he be happy to actually win that case? No, didn't think so. Let madonna adopt the brats and have it over with.
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The Solution 1
NASA wants to place a billion mirrors in space to save Earth from a stampeding greenhouse effect. The mirrors will face outward, reflecting sunlight back out into space, and thus decrease the amount of dangerous radiation slipping through our thinning atmosphere. Maybe that will finally send Paris Hilton into orbit, so she can get her narcissistic fix away from humanity. Maybe she’ll take Britney with her. I’d watch that shuttle explode in a heartbeat – popcorn with extra salt and butter, please.
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The Gig
Eddie Van Halen has enlisted his own 15-year old kid, Wolfgang, as the band’s new bass player. He is replacing long time original bassist Michael Anthony for the upcoming 2007 tour. The band has still not revealed the new VH vocalist.
Motherfucker… With three parts “tru” Van Halen blood running through the four-piece band, chances are that whatever singer they do pick will have to ride by himself in a little trolley tied behind the huge VH tour bus, as the band roams the countryside looking for a festival of stoned enough rednecks to still appreciate Eddie playing the wrong song, drunk off his ass.
I hear East Jesus, Idaho, is nice this time of year, guys. Maybe if you got Sebastian Bach to sing for you he could hook you up with a barn dance or something? I hear he has mucho connections in the backwaters of America. He is after all a real rock star. You might have to change the name of the band to “Sebastian Bach featuring Van Halen”, though. Small sacrifices for limited success, right? Because, after all, he put the VH in VH1, kids.
Idiots…
David Lee Roth, in all his fucked up craziness, still has more Van Halen in his asshole than all of the real Van Halen family tree has combined. I would (not) like to know how it got in there, though.
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The Afterthought
So we had an election a couple of weeks ago - or rather, a lot of elections - around the country, and the Democrats won here and there, and now everybody thinks it will make a damn difference. Dream on, kids. Instead of fucking us over like the Republicans have done for some time, the Democrats will debate whether they should or not, and exactly how much the Republicans are to blame for the Democrats not being able to make a single decision for the next four years or so.
A nation at war needs a Democrat Congress, like the world in general needs George Bush.
We have already had both Nona and Carman discuss the election results, so I don’t have to (thank God), but I would just like to point out that I like how the term “Democrat” somehow implies that we live in an actual democracy. As if these politicians were actually “of the people”, just recently booted up from the daily 9-5 grind of the suburbs into supreme governship of the country. If anything, we live in a two-party oligarchy, halfway to dictatorship, because Americans are too fucking stupid to vote for anything other than the two big parties dangled in front of their bloodshot eyes.
The illusion of “power to the people” is still in effect, courtesy of all of you dumbasses voting for people who are nothing like you.
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The Solution 2
By the way, Colin Powell has officially dubbed the Iraq conflict a “civil war” now. I like how that changes things. We went after Osama in Afghanistan, made a left into Iraq because of WMDs, found nothing but a ragged dictator in a “hole in the ground”, and then started a 200 billion dollar civil war instead. Can we go home now? These assholes seem to have the war-part covered by themselves.
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The Holiday(s)
Thanksgiving was all right in Graceland, but, as always, the holiday also signaled the beginning of the much dreaded Christmas Season. I don’t get that. When I was a kid we used to put up the tree and decorations a few days before Christmas and then keep them up for a couple of weeks, making Christmas a very exclusive and limited time of joy and glee (and all that shit). Here we are in November and every damn radio station is playing “Dominick the Donkey” and mall Santas are accosting passers-by with flyers and coupons, while plastic trees and gaudy wreaths are hung from every lamp post by Cuban immigrants in Bermuda shorts. I walk inside the door at home and a thousand red scented candles make the house smell like a cheap whorehouse in Bethlehem on Christmas morning. It’s fucking November, people! I am still having my goddamn turkey sandwich! One fucking holiday at a time, please.
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The Man
Working for The Man, in Corporate America, is a new experience for me. I have always had very relaxed jobs in very rock’n’rollish atmospheres, and now I have to wear black slacks and a nice shirt. Hell, I had to run out and buy three shirts before my first day of work since the one I owned was from 1999 and 40 lbs ago. I have one of those key card name tags in a snazzy string around my neck and get to boss people around, but I am still owned by The Man in the end. He points, I go. That sort of thing. I was already transferred from one store to another and now I will be starting a new place tomorrow, trying to get a sinking store into shape for the Holidays. I have a feeling these people are going to use me as some sort of pit-bull from now on. Most people here in Florida are too damn nice, and almost apologize for making a sale or pushing for products. I am not that nice. Really. I honestly fucking hate you.
I am not entirely happy with how this working shit interferes with napping, belly-button picking, fridge-raiding and air-guitar playing either. Part of me wants to revolt and just quit so I can go back to being a Dead Rebel Bum.
To be continued… (I am sure)...
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