Friday Night (Busch) Lights

Just like everyone else, I headed back home into a sea of high school friends and hometown charm for Turkey Day. I swear to god I'm going to have a shirt made that says, "Cleveland, Advertising, When Marissa Miller starts returning my phone calls." That way, every time someone asks, "Where ya at these days? What do ya do? Ya getting hitched?" I can just point at my shirt and won't have to stop drinking my beer.

Anyways my old high school won it's 5th state football title in 11 years - meaning the rednecks came out by the hillbillions to mix all that turkey with cheap beer.

The great thing about a small town? When there is reason to celebrate marshal law is enacted. We take over the streets and for no apparent reason, toilet paper every building downtown. The cops give up and people set up coolers and hand out beer to everyone who passes.

But where most people would be happy being able to throw a roll of toilet paper 20 yards down the street - the redneck looks at that piece of bathroom tissue and says, "NO! I can rig up something that could fire that fucker the speed of sound!"

So as I walked down Main street, two beers in hand, I was struck by the most beautifully redneck invention there is - the Toilet Paper Launcher (patent pending).

Ingredients - a leaf blower with a board screwed to the side of it that is holding a roll of toilet paper on a peg at the end. That way - when you turn the leaf blower on - it blows the toilet paper 60 yards down the street and over most small buildings.

In case you were wondering - YES this is a completely necessary invention. You go cure cancer - we're going to have a fucking PARTY!

Gobble, Gobble, Gobble

Would Ya Wednesday on Tuesday....ROCK STAR EDITION

It's time once again for Would Ya Wednesday!...on Tuesday - the Rock Star Edition.

Reee-reee-reeee-wowa-wooooooooooooow

That was me playing air guitar.

I. Rule.

Anyways this is the part where I try to think up funny ways to describe two people doing it.

Tuning your love organs?

Squeezing for sex juice?

I'm struggling today. All I can think about is getting a heaping plate of turkey and rubbing myself down in mashed potatoes and gravy while maybe putting a little cranberry salad down my pants because I like the way it squishes between my thighs.

I REALLY like Thanksgiving.

Oh...the rules - tell me if you would stuff these two people's turkeys and if not, how many alcoholic beverages it would take to do so.

ON WITH THE SHOW!

Rivers Cuomo of Weezer fame
Fiona Apple of Fiona Apple fame

Home Video

I've had it.

I love my job - but I just don't think this 9-5 thing is for me. I've thought it out and decided I am going to take my new life in a new direction.

Sex tapes.

Seriously, why have I been bustin' my back working all these years when all I needed to do was throw up a camera and get busy?

Laugh if you want - but Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian have their shit together. What do you do with your life when you have no discernible talents or ambition?

Sex tapes.

I figure I make this tape and within three days it's on the interwebs. For $19.99 you can download the most passionate, explosive, mind blowing 30 second sex tape you have ever seen.

After releasing the sex tape everything will fall into place. If my math is right, I should have a DUI, failed pop album and an assault charge for attacking a paparazzi by February. A short stint in rehab and then BAM - by next March I will be rich and famous and do what celebrities do - like wear fancy sunglasses.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not going to just throw up a camera and lie there like a dead fish like those two.

Um...not that I've seen their tapes...

Nope, to do this right - I'm going to have to make this a PRODUCTION.

I'm talking multiple camera angles, fireworks, midgets, monkeys, mustaches, an F-15 fly-by, Def Leppard playing in the background, a nine iron, American flag, bald eagle and at the climax I'm going to dismount and throw my arms up in a Kerri Strug Olympic pose while having roses thrown at me.

The way I see it - anyone worth doing, is worth overdoing.

Hugh Jackman Can Suck It!

Might as well address the elephant in the room...

It's A Love Story

I wish more than anything in the world I thought Taylor Swift was hot, because it would give me SOME sort of excuse for liking her songs.

Seriously, I am the lowest life form.

I am supposed to be the Music Nazi. Who am I if I can't judge people solely for their taste in music?

"How's that Bill guy?"

"Eh, he's ok but I think he likes Linkin Park."

I feel like my entire world has been turned upside down by a little blond girl that looks like an alien. Seriously, if you put her face on a hot air balloon and flew over Texas you would have 17,266 UFO sightings. How do her eyes go in that direction? It is like she is doing a really racist impression of an Asian person all the time. Or like my four year old nephew gets to put her eye liner on for her.

Seriously, Nephew, how'd you score that gig and why you holdin' out on me?

I can't even pass off singing along to one of those stupid songs as being a pedophile.

"Hello, I'm Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC. We understand you really like that new Taylor Swift song - mind telling us why?"

"I don't know, I just think it's catchy!"

"You mean you DON'T just want to bang Taylor Swift? You mean you actually like that song?"

"Um...well...yeah, I guess."

"You fucking creep."

Would Ya Wednesday...Tuesday Edition

I would rename this feature but I am addicted to alliteration. And acronyms, LOL.

But for now here we are with another round of Would Ya Wednesday! The Tuesday Edition.

Now, I like to think we are all grown up enough to talk about stickin' our privates in each other, so let's be civil about this.

The rules are pretty simple - I put up two pictures, and you tell me if those people make you want to shoop. Shoop-a-doop. Shoop-a-doop-a-doop-a-doop.

So loosen your belt and your morals...its Would Ya Wednesday time!

Peyton Manning of Indianapolis Colts and every commercial ever fame


and

Victoria Beckham of Spice Girls and nailing David Beckham fame

Real Men of Genius

White-Collar Redneck presents - Real Men of Genius

Real Men of Geeeenius!

Today we salute you, Mr. Real Men of Genius Writer Guy

Mr. Real Men of Genius Writer Guy!

When others would have quit after 472 repetitive commercials, you just keep on chuggin'

Woo!  Woo!

Nevermind that this campaign began in the late 90's, like blue jeans and U2, you believe these ads are timeless.

Did you see the finale of Friends?

Try something new?  Never.  You found your cashcow and you are just going to milk, milk, milk.

Sometimes I cry at night!

So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, oh Man of Genius, because you ARE a genius...and you have the library of tapes to prove it.

Mr. Real Men of Genius Writer Guy!

Cramazicryin

First off just wanted to say thank you Pittsburgh for letting me be in you last night.

That came out wrong.

BloggingJason and I took ourselves a little last second road trip to the steel city for a Drive-By Truckers / Hold Steady co-headlining the ROCK SHOW. Luckily there were trained medical professionals on site to administer help to those who were rocked into kick-drum convulsions. My procktologist is still trying to put me back together after the dual band encore made a mess in my Batman undies.

But enough about my ass.

Something magical happened on the way home. Something that can only happen during a 2am drive through the wooded hills of a school-night road trip. In the foggy haze of Steel City raindrops and basking in our post-rock glow, these two weary travelers set out on a journey through the bowels of the XM-Sirius merger.

It started with a conversation. A tired argument with neither side caring to win and the battle lines not clearly drawn.

Aerosmith's "Crazy" - rock genius or 90's throw-away?

We gave our arguments, pleaded our case and then slipped away without so much as a resolution or conclusion. Somewhere Alicia Silverstone is begging us to continue - this is all she has.

A few more miles, a few more Gin Blossoms songs and suddenly we found ourselves staring down the barrel of Aerosmith's "Amazing".

Suddenly it was clear to us both, there was more in the air than those icy November raindrops. There was the chance to be something special.

This time there was no argument, just a silent realization that we had exactly 47 minutes to achieve a feat so rare and unexpected, most had given up hope. A feat that's time has passed and is now only spoken about in hushed voices or referenced in obscure Youtube videos.

We were sprinting towards the finish line of the Aerosmith Triple Crown.

As "Amazing" wrapped up it's delicious morsel and the radio again shifted to a forgotten tune from a 90's band that is undoubtedly now working at Starbucks (this time in the form of the Spin Doctors), we fell silent. I stepped on the gas peddle, I willed those airwaves to test fate, to challenge the gods and to etch our names forever in the stone of immortality.

And then it happened. As our tired bodies began to give out on hope, as we inched towards our destination, hope trickling out of us like a leaky valve, Steven Tyler whispered to us through the sound of the road, the rain and our waning spirits.

"There was a time,
when I was so broken hearted,
love wasn't much of a friend of mine."

The triple crown.

We started our trip, hopped up on speed and rock, arguing the merits of "Crazy".

We became weary and tired, humming a few bars of "Amazing" as we stared out speckled windows.

But as we neared home, we achieved greatness in "Cryin'".

The Aerosmith Triple Crown.

All done in 2 hours and 17 minutes.

Cramazicryin.

Part of a Balanced Diet

Livin' On The Edge

I don't worry about much in life - as long as I am happy, healthy and have sweet hair I consider life a win.

But I also realize I can't just focus on the right now - when I leave this world, I want to give everyone something to remember me by -

A pretty corpse.

That may seem a bit morbid - but wait until you see me; I'm going to look like a dead Brad Pitt.

When I kick the bucket, I want to look fabulous. I want any girls that turned me down for dates to walk out of my funeral thinking "Damnit - I could have totally nailed that dude - now I'll never have the chance." I want people to walk away going, "I don't mean to seem insensitive, but did Narm use a new shampoo?"

Oh how I'll laugh.

In fact, this desire leads most of my life. I live life to the fullest - but within reason.

Do I want to go skydiving? Hell no! How am I am going to show that girl that turned me down for prom that I was a catch if I am flat?

Same goes for bullriding - yes I will look like a badass for a few minutes but who wants to look my mom in the eye and say, "He looks so peaceful" if I am turned into a huge pile of goo?

No, I have to protect this real estate. God only gave me so much to work with and I'll be DAMNED if I'm not taking it with me.

So to live on the edge, I am going to continue to push my body to the limits of alcohol consumption, test my innards with daily Chipotle intake and, despite Momina Nomina's best efforts, refuse to wear a coat even when it is chilly outside.

Because I'm totally going to kill at my funeral.

Would Ya Wednesday on Thursday

Wow have I sucked at blogging lately. I'm like the New York Knicks of blogging - all the bloated egos but none of the production.

I apologize - I got an election that lasted over four hours and when I called my doctor he said there was nothing he could do. But now that my cousin Barack Obamina is in office - it's time to start asking the important questions - like who do you want to bump uglies with?

Is the proper sentence structure; with whom would you like to bump your uglies? I'm pretty sure I ended with a preposition up there and that is just embarrassing.

If you haven't been paying attention the rules are simple - I post a picture and you tell me whether you want to Wang Chung with that person. If not, then how much tequila would it take (this is research for me so that I can have a bottle handy if I meet any of you ladies - I'm smoooooth.)

And we're off!

Fellas - Rachel Nichols of ESPN sideline anchor fame

Ladies - Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs fame

Let those loose morals shine...

Volcanomina

Girls think guy's are dumb; truth is we are unchallenged. I can't figure out how to not piss on the seat - but if you show me a picture of lava I have already devised a system of levers and pulleys to lower giant objects into the magma.

Who wants to flash fry a turkey?

No?

How about a fucking cow. That shit's potent.

When a guy sees footage of lava his mind goes racing. There should be a safety warning before Destroyed In Seconds begins.

"This program rated M for mature and contains strong language, nudity and fucking lava."

One time I saw a show about lava and blacked out for two hours. When I woke up I had hijacked a towtruck and was using the crane to lower a futon into the Cuyahoga River.

Hey - it isn't lava but it burns.

Lava is one of those things God put on earth for guys to fuck with. It also may have something to do with platectonics - but mostly the stuff about guys. He figures he'll create lava, fireworks and Tabasco sauce to kill off a few men every year and balance out the population.

And is it our fault? We start out careful enough. We take the right precautions and test things out to see how unsafe and how hot...

Shit, cow's done - who wants steak?

Guardian Angels

Thanks to everyone for their suggestions. When I woke up Friday morning I had every intention to be George Michael. I had visions of walking into parties and playing "Faith" on the guitar and watching all the women swoon - but alas, the thought of my precious guitar getting demolished in the freight train that happens when Crown Royal touches Coca Cola made me think otherwise.

Plus I wasn't committed to staying in character and being forced to play with myself in the bathroom.

So then I thought maybe I would be Gallagher. I went to the store, got all the goodies and came home excited about the prospects of demolishing everything in sight with my Sledge-o-Matic.

Then the mustache happened.

It was innocent enough; to get in character I shaved my delicious beard into a molestache. But when I pulled that razor from my newly bare cheek, the cold winds of winter brushing my bare skin for the first time in months, inspiration struck.

How could I turn that mustache down? He didn't want to be part of some elaborate costume - he wanted to shine. I looked him deep in his eyes and granted his wish; because that's what I do, Reader, I make dreams come true.

So off I went, first to a party, then to the land of Meat-heads and Barbie Dolls - a downtown bar.

My favorite part of downtown bars is that they have mathematically calculated the exact number of people to let in to ensure that you will have someone's ass rammed into your crotch the entire time you are there. I feel much safer knowing that my crotch is now using the buddy system with some stranger's ass. The bar was like a pack of sardines; if sardines wore too much hair gel and loved Jager bombs.

As the bar did it's collective crotch dance, fusing our reproductive organs into some sort of synchronized dance, one girl decided that she was no longer part of the group. Instead, she decided that I was public enemy number one - keeping her from getting to the bar for a drink. I have to give this girl credit, she had the determination of Lance Armstrong the way she repeatedly used her ass as a weapon to shove me into the 48 people inhabiting the 3 ft area in which I stood.

After screaming at me repeatedly she reared back and used her ass as a battering ram to clear me out of the way. It was at this point that I accidentally spilled my entire drink on her.

"Accidentally" MIGHT not be the right word choice. "I turned and dumped my entire drink down the back of her stupid Catwoman costume" might be a better word choice. But I am no word smith, so lets stick with accidentally.

After some screaming and name calling, Catwoman disappeared into the night and out of my life forever.

Kidding - that would be a terrible story.

About a half hour later, Catwoman's Meat Head boyfriend, dressed as Fred Flintstone, came up to me and said -

"You hittin on my girl?"

WHAT?

She screamed at me and I dumped my entire drink on her! I must REALLY suck at flirting if that's how it is supposed to go. Here I was, complimenting girls or making a joke, when in reality I needed to just berate them and throw things at them. Who knew my education on women came from trolling the redneck trailer parks back home.

I try to talk Johnny McMuscles out of fighting me, seeing as how I am dressed as a pedophile and he as Fred Flinstone, but he was having none of it.

Just as he was ready to go Barney Rubble on my ass, a giant Garth from Wayne's World came up behind me, looked at the guy and said, "Dude, he wasn't hitting on your girl."

Fred Flintstone glared at me, backed up and gave me the "tough guy stare down" all the way out of the bar.

I turned to Garth, all 6'5" and long, stringy blonde wig of him and he says, "What an asshole."

And then he was gone.

What I am trying to tell you, Readers, is that sometimes life gets you down. Sometimes life finds you with a porn stache and a pocket full of Laffy Taffy, about to get pounded into a bloody pulp. And that is when god sends his angels to watch out for you.

I hope all of you have a Giant Garth that looks over your shoulder when you need him most.

Party on, Garth...