When I was growing up, the two dirtiest words in the English language were "Victoria's Secret".
If a girl walked in there, it meant she was coming out with something painfully sexy. Like see a doctor if this lasts more than 9 hours sexy. It would have lace and frills and straps. It would be better than football - like if football games tasted like bacon.
But now? Half the shit that comes out of that store is less scandalous than a Tyler Perry movie.
I wrote before about how music has become watered down - but now even our porn has been infiltrated by granny panties and support bras.
I was looking through a Victoria's Secret catalog the other day (for research) and saw the word comfort.
COMFORT!
Now they are worried about lingerie being comfortable?
Well smack my ass and call me Susan. And not in the good way.
Do you think this beard is comfortable? Hell no! But I know it makes the little phillies feel all tingly in their girly bits.
No, I suffer everyday with my face lingerie and now Victoria's Secret is worried about comfort.
I'll tell you what's not comfortable.
Having this thing for 9 hours.
Maybe I should see a doctor.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
A Case For Thanksgiving
Santa is a bully.
First he makes lists of who is "naughty" and "nice" and then gives coal to those that are "naughty".
Isn't breaking into someones home and spreading coal around a crime? How can that be ok? I mean if he is leaving gifts it is easy to look the other way - but when he is doing the equivalent of taking a dump in your stocking - I think the authorities should be involved.
But looking past all of that (and some obvious labor issues with those elves and animal cruelty with the reindeer) - dude can't even just take his full month of celebration and songs and guys dressed up like him at the mall.
Nope.
Santa has to crawfish all of Thanksgiving's thunder.
And without the thunder, what does Thanksgiving really have?
So lets take a look at Thanksgiving, and what makes it the greatest holiday on earf.
Food. Duh. Thanksgiving is all about food. And awesome food at that. Turkey, mashed potatoes, pie - that spread is like porn to me. I want to rub the mashed potatoes all over myself and shower it off with gravy.
Alcohol. What is Thanksgiving without beer? You have to wash all that food down with something. Not to mention you have to get drunk enough to get out of washing dishes. It is like a race - who can get a full 6er down before it is time for dishes. (Hint - I' m going to win.)
Football. Sorry about that - I didn't mean to MAKE YOUR FUCKING HEAD EXPLODE. Food, beer AND football? If dessert is a stripper I'll be concerned that I actually died at some point and have now gone to heaven.
Yelling. A by-product of football and beer. As well as relatives. On Thanksgiving, yelling at the TV is an older traditional than pumpkin pie. The Native Americans actually taught us about this right before they showed us corn.
Napping. All that yelling, food and beer catches up with you quick. Then it is time to nap. This is also a defense mechanism against doing the dishes. Here is a hint - grab the cutest kid under the age of 5 and make them fall asleep on you. Little kids are like home base in freeze tag - if you have a sleeping kid on you no one will bother you to get up. Finally, a use for children.
What now, Santa? Take your jingle bells and your ho-ho-hos and get in line.
Otherwise you might find coal in your stocking this year.
First he makes lists of who is "naughty" and "nice" and then gives coal to those that are "naughty".
Isn't breaking into someones home and spreading coal around a crime? How can that be ok? I mean if he is leaving gifts it is easy to look the other way - but when he is doing the equivalent of taking a dump in your stocking - I think the authorities should be involved.
But looking past all of that (and some obvious labor issues with those elves and animal cruelty with the reindeer) - dude can't even just take his full month of celebration and songs and guys dressed up like him at the mall.
Nope.
Santa has to crawfish all of Thanksgiving's thunder.
And without the thunder, what does Thanksgiving really have?
So lets take a look at Thanksgiving, and what makes it the greatest holiday on earf.
Food. Duh. Thanksgiving is all about food. And awesome food at that. Turkey, mashed potatoes, pie - that spread is like porn to me. I want to rub the mashed potatoes all over myself and shower it off with gravy.
Alcohol. What is Thanksgiving without beer? You have to wash all that food down with something. Not to mention you have to get drunk enough to get out of washing dishes. It is like a race - who can get a full 6er down before it is time for dishes. (Hint - I' m going to win.)
Football. Sorry about that - I didn't mean to MAKE YOUR FUCKING HEAD EXPLODE. Food, beer AND football? If dessert is a stripper I'll be concerned that I actually died at some point and have now gone to heaven.
Yelling. A by-product of football and beer. As well as relatives. On Thanksgiving, yelling at the TV is an older traditional than pumpkin pie. The Native Americans actually taught us about this right before they showed us corn.
Napping. All that yelling, food and beer catches up with you quick. Then it is time to nap. This is also a defense mechanism against doing the dishes. Here is a hint - grab the cutest kid under the age of 5 and make them fall asleep on you. Little kids are like home base in freeze tag - if you have a sleeping kid on you no one will bother you to get up. Finally, a use for children.
What now, Santa? Take your jingle bells and your ho-ho-hos and get in line.
Otherwise you might find coal in your stocking this year.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Suit Up
I've figured out what I want to be when I grow up.
When I was younger, all I wanted to be when I grew up was a dinosaur. Well, we can all see how that worked out.
But now, NOW I know what I want to be.
I want to be one of those old guys that wears suits everywhere he goes.
You know what I'm talking about - those little old guys with gray hair that seem to be shrinking right in front of your eyes. Like if you turn around their clothes are suddenly going to be way too big and the shoes three sizes bigger than their feet. It is like they are being baby-anized. Or part of some new horrible movie - Honey, I Shrunk Your Grandpa.
How many suits do these old guys own that they can wear them to the grocery store or the dentist? Do they collect them over the years? Why don't old ladies wear bridesmaid dresses everywhere?
It just doesn't make sense.
But it is my destiny. I want to get up in the morning, spend 30 minutes getting my entire suit put on, walk out to get the paper and then come back home and have to change.
I want to be the Barney Stinson of old guys.
So now that I know what I want to be - I just have to figure out how to be it.
But how do I realize my dreams? How to I become this new person?
I researched online and the only advice I could find was this -
"Dress for the job you want, not the job you have."
That doesn't seem like it would work at all.
When I was younger, all I wanted to be when I grew up was a dinosaur. Well, we can all see how that worked out.
But now, NOW I know what I want to be.
I want to be one of those old guys that wears suits everywhere he goes.
You know what I'm talking about - those little old guys with gray hair that seem to be shrinking right in front of your eyes. Like if you turn around their clothes are suddenly going to be way too big and the shoes three sizes bigger than their feet. It is like they are being baby-anized. Or part of some new horrible movie - Honey, I Shrunk Your Grandpa.
How many suits do these old guys own that they can wear them to the grocery store or the dentist? Do they collect them over the years? Why don't old ladies wear bridesmaid dresses everywhere?
It just doesn't make sense.
But it is my destiny. I want to get up in the morning, spend 30 minutes getting my entire suit put on, walk out to get the paper and then come back home and have to change.
I want to be the Barney Stinson of old guys.
So now that I know what I want to be - I just have to figure out how to be it.
But how do I realize my dreams? How to I become this new person?
I researched online and the only advice I could find was this -
"Dress for the job you want, not the job you have."
That doesn't seem like it would work at all.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Online, Out of Tune
The internet killed music.
Hear me out.
What we have now with the internet is the ability to find any song by any artist at any time. I don't have to go to record stores, or meet kids at shows, or get mixtapes from random people to find good music. I just log on and surf the internet for 10 minutes and BAM - I'm cool. Or cooler. Wait, what's cooler than being cool? Ice cold?
No, in today's world - the indie kids are connected - the hip-hop purists hear every demo tape. I can be into the alt-country scene in Austin without ever leaving my living room. Hell - I can tell you every B-side to some Norwegian metal bands entire catalogue without them ever leaving their country.
I can log onto Youtube and see some emo kid in his room covering Dashboard Confessional songs and crying over his girlfriend.
Play him off, keyboard cat.
And what do we get for all of this?
The Black Eyed Peas.
Kenny Chesney.
NICKELBACK.
You see - there is no one left to demand good music. We are all off listening to our XM Radio and our iPods filled with indie-rock dance songs. All that is left is the vanilla. The lowest common denominator. Fall-Out Boy.
The trend setters have gotten what they wanted - they've gotten a constant stream of the good stuff. They have an IV filled with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
But what has that left? A barren desert of auto-tune and ring-tones. Radio stations now just have to play a song, any song (I'm looking at you "Party in the USA") enough times - and people will like it. They will like it because they think they are supposed to like it. They flip on every station and that song is there, it becomes familiar, regular, it becomes engraved in "their" collective heads until we have something like "All Summer Long".
But I don't blame the masses.
No, I blame the internet.
But I can't stay mad at the internet; not after it has given me so much free porn.
No, I have to blame the man who INVENTED the internet.
That's right.
Al Gore ruined music.
Hear me out.
What we have now with the internet is the ability to find any song by any artist at any time. I don't have to go to record stores, or meet kids at shows, or get mixtapes from random people to find good music. I just log on and surf the internet for 10 minutes and BAM - I'm cool. Or cooler. Wait, what's cooler than being cool? Ice cold?
No, in today's world - the indie kids are connected - the hip-hop purists hear every demo tape. I can be into the alt-country scene in Austin without ever leaving my living room. Hell - I can tell you every B-side to some Norwegian metal bands entire catalogue without them ever leaving their country.
I can log onto Youtube and see some emo kid in his room covering Dashboard Confessional songs and crying over his girlfriend.
Play him off, keyboard cat.
And what do we get for all of this?
The Black Eyed Peas.
Kenny Chesney.
NICKELBACK.
You see - there is no one left to demand good music. We are all off listening to our XM Radio and our iPods filled with indie-rock dance songs. All that is left is the vanilla. The lowest common denominator. Fall-Out Boy.
The trend setters have gotten what they wanted - they've gotten a constant stream of the good stuff. They have an IV filled with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
But what has that left? A barren desert of auto-tune and ring-tones. Radio stations now just have to play a song, any song (I'm looking at you "Party in the USA") enough times - and people will like it. They will like it because they think they are supposed to like it. They flip on every station and that song is there, it becomes familiar, regular, it becomes engraved in "their" collective heads until we have something like "All Summer Long".
But I don't blame the masses.
No, I blame the internet.
But I can't stay mad at the internet; not after it has given me so much free porn.
No, I have to blame the man who INVENTED the internet.
That's right.
Al Gore ruined music.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Eat Your Heart Out
Me: My Dad ate beef hearts for dinner last night.
Coworker: heh heh
Me: You think I said "bee farts" don't you?
Coworker: Maybe.
Me: I can't imagine bee farts would be very filling. In fact, most would argue the trouble of getting a bee to fart in the general proximity to your face isn't worth the trouble.
Coworker: Not to mention the science involved with trying to cross pollinate a petunia with kidney beans.
Me: But they sure are delicious.
Coworker: heh heh
Me: You think I said "bee farts" don't you?
Coworker: Maybe.
Me: I can't imagine bee farts would be very filling. In fact, most would argue the trouble of getting a bee to fart in the general proximity to your face isn't worth the trouble.
Coworker: Not to mention the science involved with trying to cross pollinate a petunia with kidney beans.
Me: But they sure are delicious.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)