Stud or Dud?

Last night I was walking into a local restaurant to pick up some dinner, right after I had dinner. I was at a work function and we ate at a place that served tiny portions that were really expensive (like $30 for some pollenta with mushrooms), so we just spent a fortune and I was ravenously hungry.

On my way into the other place there was a guy having a smoke, standing by his motorcycle. He was on the phone and his helmet rested in the crook of his arm. As I walked by I saw the "Moustache Rides 25 Cents" sticker and I thought he was cool.

On the way back out I walked by and saw the other side of his helmet, which sported the "Orgasm Donor" sticker. Wow.

I could make some predictions about the guy. He is an all-or-none.

1. He's either super cool or a complete idiot.

2. He's either a 40 year old virgin or gets lots of woozle.

I don't think there's any chance he's in between.

Gold Medal Suckage

Remember when the Olympics was a geo-political forum of international competition? Our differences and agitation were magnified in the arena of sport, and nationalistic pride and bragging rites were on the line.

Today it no longer is about the nation, or even about the team. It is about the "athletes" themselves. If I hear one more whining story about how someone had to get up everyday at the crack of dawn, lace up their shoes and spend 8 hours in training, throught wind and snow I'll puke. If I hear one more story about somebody that endured injury or family loss and still mustered the will to compete, I'm throwing a brick through my television.

For every single one of these whining, typically affluent, wieners that has some lame personal drama, I can find 10000 that are worse. People in my family have been getting up at the crack of dawn and lacing up their boots and getting it done for generations and we don't get medals. If anything we get zero appreciation and if we're lucky we just get kicked in the freaking teeth-- just like 95% of the world. People I know have overcome significant loss to do bigger and better things than shoot around an ice track on a sled or rub the ice in front of a weight with a broom.

You want drama, a sad story, a pathetic hurdle to overcome? How about an interview with the sweat-shop children that make the athletes' Nike shoes for a bowl of rice a week!

The partipants themselves are over-produced, over-important celebrities that don't deserve the accolades they get. It is a selfish display of "look at me, screw the real reason I am here". The hotdog embarrassment of Lindsey Jacobellis is a perfect example. She leads the snowboard race and decides to pull some showoff move over the last stretch, wipes out, and finishes second. She felt that she was more important than the team and broke her focus to soar in her own limelight and the picture on the Wheaties box. In the process others pass by with greater success.

What a metaphor for America.

brutal week

No posts from Schmootzie! I've been up to my eyeballs in weirdness and headaches, and I put the lid on another 13 h workday before I pop the top off of a 12-er of cold ones.

I was thinking, if a starting karate student is a white belt, can they practice between Labor Day and Memorial Day?

Black Eyed Peas Translation

I've heard the catchy little number "My Humps" by the Black Eye Peas. All the kids are listening to it in my neck of the woods. I listen but I can't figure out what the song is about. I figured that parents might be curious what their kids are listening to, so I talked a neighborhood tweaker into translating it for me for a case of beer.

Here it is:

What you gon' do with all that junk?
All that junk inside your trunk?

TRANSLATION: Where are you going with your fat ass?

I'ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,
Get you love drunk off my hump.
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps. (Check it out)

TRANSLATION: You will find intoxicating delight with my generous buttocks, (look at it)

I drive these brothers crazy,
I do it on the daily,
They treat me really nicely,
They buy me all these ices.

TRANSLATION: Everyday I sexually frustrate African-American men and they give me jewelery.

Dolce & Gabbana,
Fendi and NaDonna
Karan, they be sharin'
All their money got me wearin' fly

TRANSLATION: They buy me expensive clothes.

But I ain't askin,
They say they love my ass ‘n,
Seven Jeans, True Religion's,
I say no, but they keep givin'

TRANSLATION: Even though I don't ask for it young men must think of me a prostitute, as they feel they may obtain my favor by showering me in material goods.

So I keep on takin'
And no I ain't taken
We can keep on datin'
I keep on demonstrating.
My love, my love, my love, my love
You love my lady lumps,
My hump, my hump, my hump,
My humps they got u,

TRANSLATION: I can be non-committal and continue to lead men on, feining attraction and wearing clothing that accentuates my ample womanly curvatures.

GUY: She's got me spending.
CHICK: (Oh) Spendin' all your money on me and spending time on me.
GUY: She's got me spendin'.
CHICK: (Oh) Spendin' all your money on me, up on me, on me

TRANSLATION: The fellow is trading his hard-earned funds for the perception of sexual compensation he shall not achieve.

What you gon' do with all that junk?
All that junk inside that trunk?

TRANSLATION: Again, what is with the fat ass?

I'ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,
Get you love drunk off my hump.

TRANSLATION: You will lustily desire my gluteal region.

What u gon' do with all that ass?
All that ass inside them jeans?

TRANSLATION: What are your plans for that ass in them jeans?

I'm a make, make, make, make you scream
Make u scream, make you scream.
Cos of my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump.
My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely lady lumps. (Check it out)

TRANSLATION: You will verbally declare your attraction to my buttocks.

I met a girl down at the disco.
She said hey, hey, hey yea let's go.
I could be your baby, you can be my honey
Let's spend time not money.
I mix your milk wit my cocoa puff,
Milky, milky cocoa,
Mix your milk with my cocoa puff, milky, milky riiiiiiight.

TRANSLATION: Not sure. Dancing and cereal.


There's more, but you get the idea. It essentially is a story about some curvy prick-tease whore that gets stupid guys to buy her clothes and breakfast. Remember when we'd listen to "Wang Dang Sweet Poontang" and the message was not so transparently cloaked?

Todd-- One Nut, No Future

When I was a teenager my family had boxers. Not the underwear, the dogs. One bitch was bred against a good male and puppies were on the way. My little sister was always bugging the shit out of my parents for my mom to have a baby. The plan was my mom would produce a baby brother for my sister and that they'd name it Todd. Great plan, as long as you aren't Todd.

So persistent was the commentary that my parents suggested that we name the first dog born "Todd". The dog was born, it was named "Todd" and it went into the "puppies for sale" basket.

These were show-quality dogs and all were bought quickly, some as pets some as show dogs. Todd showed well as a puppy and had many prospective owners. One judge checked the teeth, checked the ears and the paws. Then she checked the nutsack and found only half a load.

Todd was monorchid, only one testicle descended. The other had to be surgically removed and his show career was over. I suppose if there was going to be a dog named Todd that he'd have only one nut. Later that one would be removed as well, leaving him a eunuch.

It also ended his show career and any hope to sire future generations. Instead, he became a fixture at our house and brought no interest from people that wanted a cute little puppy. We had a several-month old dog without a bag.

We kept Todd, and Todd kept the name Todd. For 12 years my family had a dopey dog with a dopier name.

God Bless Football

Ever since Curt Warner's famous 2000 super game exclamation, "Thank you Jesus!" I started to notice it more and more. Players squat at center field to join hands in prayer. Every interviewed toothless meathead thanks God and/or Jesus for their ability and asks graciously for the power to destroy the other team.

This year many of the Pittsburgh Steelers' players have chalked up their victory to God. I've heard "God blesses Pittsburgh" and all kinds of praise to an alledged almighty that apparently influenced the outcome.

As regular readers know, I am an atheist. I find the fact that people believe that their savior gives a shit about a game played by a bunch of whining, rich, steroid-soaked babies to be rather strange. Do you really think God is going to push that ball through the uprights when he can't seem to put enough crops in the ground to feed the thousands of children that die everyday from starvation? Do you think he completes the pass when he can't even stop the bacteria (that he allegedly created) from infecting the bodies of helpless children? Every single day the Lord fumbles, prayers go unanswered. Loved ones die of horrible disease or suffer painful illness despite the prayers of the faithful. Our cool christian god continues to kick fake muslim god ass on the battlefield. If there was an almighty he/she/it'd have planets to explode and hurricanes to divert. He probably wouldn't give a shit about your stupid game.

If there was a baby jesus he'd cry at the sight of football players praying. With some exception, they live wealthy, self-absorbed lives where greed and ego supercede team or group interest. There are few things less consistent with Christian doctrine than the NFL. No Fucking Lord.

By the way, if "God blessed Pittsburgh" he must hate Detroit, Houston and San Francisco. He also must hate Seattle. He also must not think too highly of Pittsburgh for the last 30 years either. Don't get too full of yourselves. Nobody is listening.

My Cool Bruise

How did I get the lump over my eye that is all black and blue?

In a kick ass way.

I got hit in the head with a gun site after the recoil of a sniper rifle when I shot a high-power round through a film canister of tannerite explosive at 100 yards.

Fuck yeah!

Why I Call it the "Super Bowel"

Unlike the rest of the free world, I hate the Super Bowl ®©TM. Why? Because it takes everything that is wrong with America and everything that is wrong with the great sport of football and sequesters it into an artificial arena of ornate consumption.

I’m a purist. I like football outside, on grass in the cold. A good team can adjust, play with the circumstances. Wind, rain, snow, sleet—how a team can match additional challenges can elevate a poor team or destroy one with a reasonable record (see “greatest show on turf”). Real fans will show up in the frozen tundra. It is a way to weed out the skybox pussies and air-conditioned season ticket holders. It is a way to fill the stands with the dedicated fortitude of people committed to the activity.

The Super Bowl ®©TM sucks because it will always and forever be relegated to a domed superarena, a corporate-name-bearing sterile monstrosity built with the first priority of making money. Games will forever be played on fake grass at 70°F. No wind. No rain.

I call it the Super Bowel because it is the last stop along the productive path that is football season, yet the products within are the most offensive. All of the good stuff has been removed and all that is left is the remains of a great season, polluted with consumerism and commercial exploitation.

Everyone was offended at Justin Timberlake pulling off Janet Jackson’s brassiere. I was offended that Justin Timberlake was allowed in the same building as the The Super Bowl ®©TM! What is more patently offensive? This year fans will have to endure the Rolling Stones and some rap guy. What can be LESS football?

Then the NFL has a formal contract with Coor’s Light, the Official Beer of the NFL? Again a metaphor. Take something inherently good and dilute it to death for public consumption, then tell everyone that they will like it.

I won’t be watching the Super Bowel. I’ll be out in the woods with my dog and wife. It’s normally pretty empty as it is, we should have it all to ourselves.

Fermented Magic

A magical transformation occurred. A tub of urine-colored liquid was inoculated with fungus and left to rot. A week later it went into bottles with sugar. A week later, I drank it. It was my first foray on the road to becomming a brewmaster.

Few would argue that I have not mastered the consumption of beer. Unfortunately I live in Northern Florida and if you don't want Miller Lite, Bud Lite or Coors Lite you're screwed. After over a decade of contemplating making my own, I finally did it.

As mentioned earlier, homebrewing is a geek sport, a way to spend a lot of money to make frothy pee water. I avoided it because I didn't like the stigma and I'd rather be drinking it than making it. It turns something enjoyable into work. In 2006 I broke down and did it.

I made the first batch. Two gallons of home-made intoxicant; controlled spoilage in the interest of generating something to make one feel funny. I bottled it into screw-top bottles and set them in a dark place. For two weeks I patiently waited.

I opened the first one. No "Psssssst" of carbonation. It turned out to be flat. I drank it anyway and it were good. Very good. Flat, but gooooooood.

Since it was flat I needed to open another. It too was flat. I had to drink it. I tried the next-- no carbonation. I couldn't dump it, so I drank it. This progression went on for two gallons of homebrew and I was wasted. The all were flat, so I need to revise my bottling scheme.

I can make a case of beer for about $6.00. 256 ounces, 2.25 gallons, almost 6 liters.

I will never buy beer again.