Friday, February 23, 2007
How about some news about war or terrorists?
While initially intrigued, I'm completely sick of both the Anna Nicole and Britney media circuses. Not only has this been dominating the internet gossip pages I frequent, but it's been all over CNN and every paper. Well, every paper except the elitist Times which always insists that the only news fit to print is about serious (ie: boring) stuff, like the economy or Scooter Libby or the war in Iraq. Excepting the Post and Daily News coverage concerning Prince Harry's impending deployment, the tabloids have no interest in Iraq. Rather, they are milking the biggest stories in America for every last drop, and today are gambling on what the average NYC subway rider wants to hear more about: the crazy judge giving Anna Nicole's rotting corpse to her five-month-old daughter or Britney and her new Gollum haircut opening a can of golf umbrella on some paparazzo's SUV.
At least with TWO big stories, the dueling tabloids can each run with a different topic. I guess the Daily News had to go with Britney, since they pretty much shot their wad with respect to awesome Anna Nicole headlines several weeks ago when it first broke that she'd gone to that heavenly methadone clinic in the sky:
Too bad I don't need to buy either paper to find out what's been on the internet so extensively that I'm completely losing interest. Seriously, I'm so fucking tired of this crap that I said a prayer of thanks when I got a little Anna Nicole and Britney relief in the form of Harry Potter's penis. Mercifully, there shouldn't be any new breaking stories about these two until the paternity hearings get heated up and Britney checks out of Promises (either to give some tell-all interview with Matt Lauer about her recovery or to hit up the lezzie bars in search of some fellow meth-and-ecstasy-fueled orgy partners). Right now the only remotely interesting thing I can think of in terms of shit I haven't heard about these stories is that Kimmie, former fat purple-haired lesbian assistant, will be talking to "The Insider" about Anna Anna Anna Anna Anna Nicole. I WANT to care about these stories, so until Britney's back out on the streets terrorizing the tattoo artists and gogo dancers of Los Angeles or we know who Dannielynn's baby daddy is, stop the bombardment already!
At least with TWO big stories, the dueling tabloids can each run with a different topic. I guess the Daily News had to go with Britney, since they pretty much shot their wad with respect to awesome Anna Nicole headlines several weeks ago when it first broke that she'd gone to that heavenly methadone clinic in the sky:
Too bad I don't need to buy either paper to find out what's been on the internet so extensively that I'm completely losing interest. Seriously, I'm so fucking tired of this crap that I said a prayer of thanks when I got a little Anna Nicole and Britney relief in the form of Harry Potter's penis. Mercifully, there shouldn't be any new breaking stories about these two until the paternity hearings get heated up and Britney checks out of Promises (either to give some tell-all interview with Matt Lauer about her recovery or to hit up the lezzie bars in search of some fellow meth-and-ecstasy-fueled orgy partners). Right now the only remotely interesting thing I can think of in terms of shit I haven't heard about these stories is that Kimmie, former fat purple-haired lesbian assistant, will be talking to "The Insider" about Anna Anna Anna Anna Anna Nicole. I WANT to care about these stories, so until Britney's back out on the streets terrorizing the tattoo artists and gogo dancers of Los Angeles or we know who Dannielynn's baby daddy is, stop the bombardment already!
Labels: Britney Spears, large exclamatory font, media whores, ranting
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Britney might kill us all
I'm so glad this insane, out-of-control bitch is in rehab after seeing this picture. Homegirl looks like she might eat the motherfucker toying with her panty line because he's there and she's hungry. However, anyone not living on the recently demoted Kuiper Belt body Pluto knows that Britney is hungry only in the sense that she might eat you for bad publicity.
She might be taking entirely too much vitamin E and doing her part to subsequently bolster the Bolivian economy and fund guerilla insurgents battling for de facto control of Colombia, but Britney Spears is NO JOKE. Did you ever see Dune? Because this fierce hooker looks as though she's about to grab her crude yet effective Fremen blade and engage her tattooist in mortal combat to negotiate ancient intergalactic feudal family bullshit concerning planetary fiefdoms and control of the spice trade. Don't fuck with House Atreides! Holy God, I just fully revealed my nerdiness. Next I'm going to start making "Battlestar Galactica" references, a la "Britney looks like she could be one of the five unrevealed Cylons!" I need to not blog when drunk alone after spending the entire night bonding with LL Cool Jew about how she meets friends in the Dirrty Dirrty based on well-placed references to lembas bread.
Regardless, would YOU fuck with that? I surely would not.
She might be taking entirely too much vitamin E and doing her part to subsequently bolster the Bolivian economy and fund guerilla insurgents battling for de facto control of Colombia, but Britney Spears is NO JOKE. Did you ever see Dune? Because this fierce hooker looks as though she's about to grab her crude yet effective Fremen blade and engage her tattooist in mortal combat to negotiate ancient intergalactic feudal family bullshit concerning planetary fiefdoms and control of the spice trade. Don't fuck with House Atreides! Holy God, I just fully revealed my nerdiness. Next I'm going to start making "Battlestar Galactica" references, a la "Britney looks like she could be one of the five unrevealed Cylons!" I need to not blog when drunk alone after spending the entire night bonding with LL Cool Jew about how she meets friends in the Dirrty Dirrty based on well-placed references to lembas bread.
Regardless, would YOU fuck with that? I surely would not.
Labels: alcoholism, Britney Spears, epic geekery, oh the horror, PWT, ridiculous absurdity, stank vaginas
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Million dollar scabies
Recently the woman who refused to shave Britney's head has been dragging the hair around to "Entertainment Tonight" and any other media outfit that will allow those biohazardous synthetic tresses on set. It seems she spied a golden opportunity and tried to sell this crap on eBay. eBay, adhering to their policy not to allow auctions selling biological or chemical weapons of mass destruction, pulled the listing. Undaunted, the entrepreneurial owner of the alleged hair set up a website to sell it for the low, low price of one MILLION dollars.
While I'm all for capitalism and I'm not hating on this salon owner for aspiring to be counted among what Destiny's Child calls "all the mamas with profit dollas", if this sells fora cool million a hundred thousand ten grand one C-note 5 bucks, I'll be astounded yet again by the sheer idiocy of the average American consumer. How exactly could you make any money off this shit except by selling it to a monumentally stupid buyer after convincing them it's a winning business venture? Unfortunately, there probably IS some trashy moron out there who just won Powerball or something that will plunk down an obscene sum of cash for this worthless crap which MAY be an infectious hazard. God bless America.
I was hoping that my favorite city paper, the NY Post, would have an awesome exclamatory front page headline about this bullshit "opportunity." Instead, it seems they've chosen to focus on the busted selection of wigs she's chosen to sport since getting the Smith College first-year womyn's studies major/G.I. Jane coif, although they neglect to mention that this look was shamelessly stolen from Deputy Johnson on "Reno 911!".
On a totally unrelated note, the Post and Daily News are BOTH all over how Pay-Rod and Derek Jeter broke up. The Post got it wrong because the headline SHOULD be "A-ROD COMES OUT".
I defy anyone (JerseyGirl) passionately arguing against the fact that these two were trading reach-arounds up until Jeter's brief showmance with Jessica Biel to say so now. Not only are they not friends anymore, but what Pay-Rod specifically said was, "You go from sleeping over at someone's house five nights a week, and then you don't sleep over anymore." He should have added, "And then your boyfriend--I mean, teammate--is on Perez Hilton playing football on some Puerto Rican beach with that hot-assed bitch who used to be on '7th Heaven'. I've learned that when someone says, 'I'll never leave you, Alex' they are A FILTHY LIAR! Wait...I miss you, Derek. I'll never find anything as special as what we once had. Call me!" This is otherwise known as BREAKING UP. Apparently, they hit a rough patch (AKA last post-season, when the only balls Gay-Rod was hitting with his bat were Jeter's) and had a bit of a lovers' spat. Now Jeter is sending Gay-Rod to voicemail and slutting around Hollywood to inspire jealousy. Man, I hope the Yankees suck this year on account of gay drama involving the shortstop and third baseman. Better yet, I hope one of them buys Britney's hair to give the other as a peace offering, and then they both die from the as-yet-undescribed super-virulent strain of the clap it carries. That would kick so much ass.
This is it, the opportunity of a lifetime. You can be the proud owner of Britney Spears’ hair, extensions, the Omega clipper used to cut it all off and even the can of Red Bull she was drinking at the time. You also get her blue Bic Lighter and this valuable domain and website to use for publicity purposes. This is the Ultimate Britney Spears Experience! It is a piece of history that can not be duplicated!It might be the "opportunity of a lifetime" for the salon owner to unload a permanently nit-contaminated set of clippers, but that's it. I would also argue that the "Ultimate Britney Spears experience" would be doing a shit-ton of ecstasy and having a lesbian orgy with a platoon of washed-up Vegas hookers in a pig trough filled with Cheetos, but I guess that's a little tougher to orchestrate and sell. In case that sales pitch didn't convince you that the cheap extensions Brit sheared off, along with a Red Bull can that actually touched her herpetic lips, a lighter, and the EXTREMELY valuable domain "buybritneyshair.com" are worth your hard-earned MILLION DOLLARS, take a gander at the goods themselves.
A portion of the proceeds will be donated to various charities. The winner will have the choice to remain anonymous or to use this for publicity purposes.
If you are SERIOUS about purchasing please do the following:
Please send an email to buybritneyshair@yahoo.com and include your name, company name (if applicable), email, phone number, and address. We will contact you A.S.A.P. Any submissions that do not include ALL of the required information will be discarded.
While I'm all for capitalism and I'm not hating on this salon owner for aspiring to be counted among what Destiny's Child calls "all the mamas with profit dollas", if this sells for
I was hoping that my favorite city paper, the NY Post, would have an awesome exclamatory front page headline about this bullshit "opportunity." Instead, it seems they've chosen to focus on the busted selection of wigs she's chosen to sport since getting the Smith College first-year womyn's studies major/G.I. Jane coif, although they neglect to mention that this look was shamelessly stolen from Deputy Johnson on "Reno 911!".
On a totally unrelated note, the Post and Daily News are BOTH all over how Pay-Rod and Derek Jeter broke up. The Post got it wrong because the headline SHOULD be "A-ROD COMES OUT".
Labels: Britney Spears, capitalism, celebrities, fuck the Yankees, gross, large exclamatory font, oh the horror, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ridiculous absurdity, vulgar display of faggotry
Saturday, December 30, 2006
2006: The Year of the Slut
It's that time again: the year in review. Here are the top hits that I knew about for the year - lovingly dubbed "The Year of the Slut" by my buddy Garbo. NEW YEAR'S EVE: We rang it in with more than good cheer. It's Rack's birthday, assholes, so the New Year is the least important of the relevant events. There were spankings from a Bettie Page look-alike, potfulls of thrice-spiked cider, a Harppon-employee (ergo free beer for three solid days), make-out sessions on linoleum floors, probably table-dances (can't remember), and more drastic instances of misbehavior. Well worth the drive and looking forward to the sequel tonight.
THE FIFA WORLD CUP: If you forget about the TOTAL shock of its outcome, the raucous good times of floating boozily through Irish bars in Manhattan, and the really remarkable number of hookups that invariably accompany this sort of endless social event, the title goes to Zinedine-I'm'a-fuck-your-face-up-Zidane. I was so drunk for a month that I couldn't feel my face when he cracked skull on the field, but I sure felt my jaw drop. Right into my next beer.
THE O.J. BOOK: Don't matter if Murdock prints it or not, which is great because he won't. But what FUCKING SHIT WAS THAT. Just when we thought that this pivotal post-Rodney King, pre-Dialo racial moment couldn't get any weirder, we are reminded why models and football players are not allowed to speak.
SADDAM HUSSEIN: [...]
AMERICA VOTES: The Democrats swept the nation in the 2006 elections. The outcomes hangs in the balance to see what can get done in this political gridlock, as our Commandante in Chief struggles with English and leadership, and the threat of any level of disaster to a Democratic Senator can upset the balance, but hell - the victory parties have been unrivaled.
TEJ OFFENSIVE: An evil plot to silence Razzy is foiled. Still ugly. But foiled. NOICE!
PLUTO DEMOTED: After millienia of devoted service, Pluto is kicked back down the cosmic ladder to middle management. No gold-plated watch. Just the outer ranks of outerspace. Qouth my father, "It throughs astrology into a tailspin." All I wanna know is, who's fucking head can I cut off for this? MY SALARY: In contrast to Pluto's diminished status, my shit hit a seismic spike. make no bones about it: it pays to be experiential. Fingers crossed for my bonus, when I can finally silence those rat bastard credit cards.
NORTH KOREA'S NUKES: Bless.
MY MOM IS DONE WITH MENOPAUSE: Score!
NASA: Three cheers for these poor sons of bitches for getting their shit together. They saved their funding, they pulled off three launches and they're thinking big on four for next year, they got shit on Mars, and they actually studied their data to apply it to the Orion - shit is rosy for America in SPACE Space space. Here's to you, JFK. TEACHER'S HIGH SCHOOL REUNION: My buddies Teach and Tubby hit their South Kakalaka high school reunion where the Most Popular Guy in their class, piss drunk and hard up for cash, tried to sell Tubby a dime bag. Almost simultaneously, M.P.G.'s remarkably drunker girlfriend made a confession to Teach that she and M.P.G. had met on MySpace, and requested discretion. Both bits of news hit the floor about eight minutes later. Luckily, M.P.G. was involved in a fist fight at the punch table for other reasons, and was forcibly ejected by security.
PLASTIC SURGERY: That is, my grandmother, at 80, has decided to close the door on face lifts.
MICROSOFT VISTA: At long fucking last, Gates takes a cue from Apple. If it ever comes out, we'll maybe have computers we can use. After all, the only criticism comes from Forbes.com is that it's not "people-ready". Quote they, "The new system is bloated and overly complex. Why wait?"
JACK BAUER: First of all, Keifer Southerland's career is officially saved. After Flatliners, we weren't sure, but things are on the up and up for the son of the Donald.
STEP DOWN: Lance Armstrong abdicates. David Beckham steps aside. Rumsfeld is out. But Jigger's back, bitches, and that's all that matters.
NATURAL DISASTER: 2004 gave us the Thai tsunami. 2005 was back with a vengeance with hurricanes so extraordinary, Katrina included, that we ran out of letters and had to start with the Greek alphabet. Fingers crossed that we make it through the next seven hours.
SNAKES ON A PLANE: Best line ever, forgive me if I paraphrase, the Samuel L. wrach delievred: "Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!" I mean, after holiday travel, who isn't?
SMOKING GUN: Paris announces it will shortly ban smoking. I can't hear you.
TOM CRUISE: L. Ron strikes again. But on Oprah this time.
JACK PALANCE & GERALD FORD: Rest your souls, gents.
WATCH OUT, WILT CHAMBERLAIN: Cuz Kobe Bryant is the close saludatorian on all your titles, bro. But in this instance, I'm only talking about the game against the Raptors.
PAUL McCARTNEY: He gets that one-legged hooker to stand down, and also Rack and I stood within eight feet of him at JFK. He fucking smiled at her. Eat that, Beatle lovers. And also, no more Beatles died this year. With any luck, Death will focus on the Bay City Rollers for a while.
K-FED-ED: I need not say more. Free at last, Miss Britney, to reclaim your battered rock stardom.
LOYD IS GONE: With his charges mostly resolved, the renovations mostly done, and his rent mostly paid, Loyd is no longer employed as the Schnieder of the Blythewood Fallon household. No more advances on the paycheck, no more half-assed networking attempts of the dental laboratory technology, and no more visits for fucking nothing at 7 am. My parents fired his moochin ass, Pax Fallonia regained. Fuck that last unhung door.
BLYTHEWOOD, S.C.: Maybe y'all 'on'y know 'bout Doko, but Blythewood is on the climbin track this year. There are now five - count them, five - stoplights in my one-stoplight town. Four gas stations, three hotels, two grocery stores, partridge and shit, and a high school. And not just any high shcool. in its first year out of the gate, the highly anticipated Blythewood Bengals spank fat AAA-ass to take the state title in their first season. First of all, this just don't happen. And second of all - this just don't happen. Let's hear it for country ass in motion. 
JACK SPARROW: He lives, and so does Keith Richards, steadily enough to pop up in the next Pirates of the Caribbean. This is a monumentous occasion, and let us give thanks for both.
THE DA VINCI CODE: The American public still spends money on Tom Hanks. Cuz after all, life is a box of chocolates. And that's what Ron Howard gives his boyfriend.
BORAT: Ali G's years of underground genius finally make him some fucking money. High five. PINK TUTU: That is, my mom suggested that I wear one while I do dishes. This may sound insane to some of you, but the reality is that, had you placed a bet ten years ago as to which one I do first, you'd'a a fifty-chance of winning. Now that I support myself, I do, on occasion, wash dishes, so she was just testing the limits. Rest assured, though, that if your bet was on dishes, you won.
THE REAL WORLD: My sister is a college ga-gaduala, got a real job, and has a really good relationship in the works. And she has the CUTEST DOG. Gold medal for my bitch.
PLAYING THE FIELD: The Duke Lacrosse team is back. Into what, you ask? Remains to be seen.
PARIS HILTON: Still fucking famous, someone help me understand.
MICHAEL RICHARDS: Fuck bird flu. This erstwhile semi-celebrity gets foot-in-mouth disease by bringing back that old Ku Klux favorite joke, LYNCHING BLACK PEOPLE. Lest we think En Vogue's "Colorblind" made headway, beware ye hostile stand-ups and Seinfield hasbeens.
MEL GIBSON LEARNS TO DRIVE SLOWER: The miracle is, Russell Crowe's been off the grid for too long for comfort - watch out, 2K7.
REHAB: Robin Williams and Keith Urban. Their tell-all novel will def sell out.
MARGARET SANGER: The morning after pill cracks the glass ceiling. OU812 and RU486 step aside for drugs and concepts with names.
LOCAL DOG DISCOVERS ASPIRIN: As New York canines make confessions to their therapists, South Carolina native pooch Toby renews his own lease on life with aspirin for his arthritis, and gets back to his bee-biting, possum-cornering, car barking, ear scratching, and Alpo at seven[-ish].
TORINO: The Flying Tomato takes all.
MARDI GRAS: It happened, motherfuckers. And so did the Jazz Festival. Big fuck you, Mother Nature. Our boozing ceases not.
MR. T.: Sheds chains and still has TV career. I pity the naysayin' fool.
GET YOUR GAME ON: X-box 360 or Nintendo Wii, that is - either way, these gadgets had folks in line like it was a Star Wars premier - and fortunately, with better execution.
RESPITE OF THE SITH: Thanks be to the benevolence of Baby Jesus, George Lucas remained silent on the scriptwriting front, and our minds were able to rest from bungled romantic space operas. The capacity of Americans to show affection and have feelings dramatically rises. HD-DVD VERSUS BLU-RAY: Either begins or continues "taking digital perfection to a higher level."
NEW MEXICO: Chosen for Branson's Virgin Galactic SPACE Space space flight landing dock. Just a $20K deposit and you too can be on the waiting list to look at a lot of stars and then a whole lot of fucking sand. So spake my hero Han Solo, "This ain't like dustin' crops, boy. "
MADONNA REINSTATES SLAVE TRADE: But the kid will invariably get an awesome track suit from H&M in exchange for his daddy.
THE BIG RED HOOTER: Mal discovers the cocktail of the year, from across the great waters. Two shots tequila, one shot amaretto, fill the shit with pineapple juice and splash in some grenadine. Drunk dial me after three. I FOLD: After a decade of arbitrary resistance, I finally agree to watch Buffy: The Vampire Slayer with my family. My sister doesn't home and fucks up the plan, but the concession stands.
NATIVITY: The Greatest Story Ever Told. Told again. And again. And again. You guys ever heard of this guy, Jesus? Wicked plot. CANCER: Not cured. Again. Raz, you're still up.
BRANGELINA: Still being seen. Again. Good news is, whatever Brad's doing has put an end to her making out with her brother on-screen.
ON HUMAN BOND-AGE: Daniel Craig returns for a James Bond renewal in Casino Royale. He can't drive stick, he's afraid of water, and hates guns just like what'sit in Layer Cake, but goddamnit he's hot, and Sean Connery didn't protest, so it's all good. At least Bond lives on.
JONBENET RAMSEY: Still dead. But we got a revisitation with the possibility that her killer had finally been located. Since it turned out to be shoite, we have great hopes for more thrilling updates in 2007. And by the way, she's buried in the same graveyard as my old Georgia family.Labels: alcoholism, assholes, Britney Spears, crime and punishment, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, Johnny Depp, Kevin Federline, movies, Mr. T, Razzy Haters, smoking, tragedy
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Election? What election?
Who gives a flying fuck about the shifting balance of power in Congress when YESTERDAY BRITNEY SPEARS FILED FOR DIVORCE FROM KEVIN FEDERLINE!!!
Even better than voting and doing my civic duty yesterday was getting a text from LL Cool Jew reading "Britney files 4 divorce from K-Fed!"
The internet is blowing up about this, and Perez Hilton has even coined a totally awesome new term for Federlame:
Even better, YouTube now has video of the FedEx appearing on MuchMusic (Canada's MTV), talking about how supportive Britney (aka "the wife") is of his career as a piss-poor rapper and instigator/body slam fodder for WWE superstars. The BEST part is when Kevin, while filming some type of reality show, receives a text informing him that Spears just filed for divorce. Now THIS is my kind of reality show, because it doesn't get more real than the look on his face. You almost expect him to start screaming "I'm melting! I'm meeeellllllllltttttinggg!!!!", or possibly making that squeaky, farty noise that helium balloons make when they develop a slow leak. I could watch this part of the video over and over.
Other highlights of this video include Kevin showing off how he retooled the engagement band he gave to Britney into a tacky-ass pinky ring, says that he only goes out partying when he's "beefing with the wife", treats the disinterested audience of Much on Demand (MuchMusic's "TRL") to a showcase of his "music," and talks about how much Britney believes in his talent and the notion that "together we take over the world"...all on the same day Britney's lawyers dropped off her petition for dissolution of marriage down at the courthouse.
Given the barrage of juicy divorce details forthcoming, I could care less about the Virginia and Montana Senate races. This shit is NOT going to be amicable, y'all, but it IS going to be fucking entertaining. And the betting window is OPEN if anyone wants to wager how long it will take FedEx to sign up for the next installment of "The Surreal Life" and/or "Dancing with the Stars."
Even better than voting and doing my civic duty yesterday was getting a text from LL Cool Jew reading "Britney files 4 divorce from K-Fed!"
The internet is blowing up about this, and Perez Hilton has even coined a totally awesome new term for Federlame:
Even better, YouTube now has video of the FedEx appearing on MuchMusic (Canada's MTV), talking about how supportive Britney (aka "the wife") is of his career as a piss-poor rapper and instigator/body slam fodder for WWE superstars. The BEST part is when Kevin, while filming some type of reality show, receives a text informing him that Spears just filed for divorce. Now THIS is my kind of reality show, because it doesn't get more real than the look on his face. You almost expect him to start screaming "I'm melting! I'm meeeellllllllltttttinggg!!!!", or possibly making that squeaky, farty noise that helium balloons make when they develop a slow leak. I could watch this part of the video over and over.
Other highlights of this video include Kevin showing off how he retooled the engagement band he gave to Britney into a tacky-ass pinky ring, says that he only goes out partying when he's "beefing with the wife", treats the disinterested audience of Much on Demand (MuchMusic's "TRL") to a showcase of his "music," and talks about how much Britney believes in his talent and the notion that "together we take over the world"...all on the same day Britney's lawyers dropped off her petition for dissolution of marriage down at the courthouse.
Given the barrage of juicy divorce details forthcoming, I could care less about the Virginia and Montana Senate races. This shit is NOT going to be amicable, y'all, but it IS going to be fucking entertaining. And the betting window is OPEN if anyone wants to wager how long it will take FedEx to sign up for the next installment of "The Surreal Life" and/or "Dancing with the Stars."
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, comeuppance, Kevin Federline, LL Cool Jew
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Hood Sweet Hood
I sooper dooper la la love to love Bed Stuy. And not just because that's where I keep all of my stuff. I heart the old architectural gems crammed between LMI ghetto-blocked, Fedders-AC'd single family apartments. Heart the "Influential Women of Brooklyn" mural that shouts out Margaret Sanger. Heart the way beer [sandwich, trash bag, cat food, ramen, super glue] costs half what it does in Man-a-hattan. Heart the way people hang out on their stoops, keep dogs in the fenced in front yards, and even keep a few junk cars stashed in the back - just like bein home back in Kakalaka. And of course, I heart that whitey stays away. Mostly. (Begone, honkey, begone! High thee to the Willy-B!)
I gotta fess up, though, that a big chunk of why I get that special feeling out of living here is that it reaffirms something I've long suspected: the television didn't lie. Life really is like this. All that archetypical cable-portrayed bullshit came from somewhere, and I've hit a main nerve. Observe.
Fix-it Guy. Fix-it Guy lives on my block. He retiles, he hangs shingles, he repairs TVs, he cleans yards. Shovels snow, retools misbehaved plumbing, changes transmission. He borrows five dollars and he calls people "dude," to make fun of my white ass. He takes in the stray cats and still lives with him mom. I cruise home at any hour and my man is on the street with a wrench and some fucking twine reassmbling a television set that he can turn on without electricity. At nights he works as a barback at some rough and tumble queer joint, somewhere deeper into the hood. I have some untouched VIP passes awaiting myself and ten of my closest intrepid adventurers to go see what it's all about. Next time my microwave starts to leak plutonium, I'm packing that mofucker into a diuffel bag, rounding the bitches up and headed off to Starlight to see what it is.
Schneider. Unfortunately, Fix-it Guy has competition in the Boy next Door - Trinidad's answer to One Day at a Time's Schneider, complete with tool belt and laugh track. Comes in through the front door unannounced with a 22 of Guiness and some lilting tail of block bullshit. Two hours later, after he finishes the brew and a humble blunt, he heads in to the bathroom for 15 minutes of ceiling repair and leaves immediately, his drying handiwork taped up under a black garbage bag. He brings gifts like extra stereo speakers and grenadine, and for a while, he lived in the basement. Now he's done a runner, somewhere Upstate. But not before he replastered the ceiling.
Kools. People smoke them. I mean goddamn everybody.
White People. Roommate, a blond, has been referred to as Britney - for the once-glamorous and sweet-assed pre-Fed Ms Spears. She has been summoned with, "White meat! Come to me!" I have been addressed as "Asal" by the Yemen crew, for "sweet," but also as "Snow Ball," and one incredible time, a girl on her stoop just clucked at me loud as hell.
Store/Church Names. No editorializing: Mr. B's Black Power Variety, Homie Boyz Fried Chicken and Pizza, Fu King Chinese Food, Morning Dew Industrial Church of the Light of His Son, Bambi Day Care and Hair Salon. Nuff Said.
Guy on the Corner. See "Booty."
Cops. Not a rumor: cops hate black people. I thought this was true before, but y'all, the shit crackles.
The _____ Van Club. Conversion vans are the hottest ticket in this slice of America, fools. Make no mistake. The owners convene, brand their wehicles with vinyl logos, airbursh "Fruit Loops" or "Shawntelle" across the back. It could be "The Gold Suns of Glory Van Club," or "The K-unit Van Club." Contributing to the beautification of your street with righteous rims and paisley curtains, glimmering and shimmering in the late summer sun. Magnificent.
Booty. And I don't mean ass. I mean that's somebody's name. I mean Guy on the Corner, there all day and most o fthe night. A neighborhood insitution. You wanna find somebody? Ask Booty. You need to see someone who knows you? Find Booty. 'Bout 5"1' with a platinum grill, a real slick smile and witness to everything that happens in the script. I put this to anyone who offers the "Pirates or Ninjas" debate at a party.
A tree. Every block has a tree. In many cases, just one. If it has several, construction will down them like Vietnam vets until you got, you guessed, a Tree Growing in Brooklyn. Thank God people read.
Lest one confuse this marvelous screenplay with Life in Brooklyn, think on Bay Ridge. Willamsburg. Park Slope. For me, even day toliving showed me the way. I used to live in Bushwick, see, the heavy Latin edge before all the factories became lazy musician/hack artist lofts. Plenty of charm, Bushwick, but harder to translate, and altogether lacking the daily zing of life in the hood. Chocolate the toothless lech of a security guard took off when they finished construction. Johnny, the ex-punker, ex-jukie dealer of miscellany - books, swifter wet jets, safety pins, whatever - got hit by a car and vanished for the winter. Kids who opened bottles with his teeth at the grocery store foudn other interests. Not the Stuy. New adventures, daily, but a ready cast and plenty of reliability - a clockwork testament to the 70s film industry, a time machine of city wonder. Quentin Tarantino is a shit talker, and too interested in LA and Kung Fu - but from time to time, you have to realize that from the outside, you start to see that he does have a point.
What do you do?
Get back to the tube for some higher education.
I gotta fess up, though, that a big chunk of why I get that special feeling out of living here is that it reaffirms something I've long suspected: the television didn't lie. Life really is like this. All that archetypical cable-portrayed bullshit came from somewhere, and I've hit a main nerve. Observe.
Fix-it Guy. Fix-it Guy lives on my block. He retiles, he hangs shingles, he repairs TVs, he cleans yards. Shovels snow, retools misbehaved plumbing, changes transmission. He borrows five dollars and he calls people "dude," to make fun of my white ass. He takes in the stray cats and still lives with him mom. I cruise home at any hour and my man is on the street with a wrench and some fucking twine reassmbling a television set that he can turn on without electricity. At nights he works as a barback at some rough and tumble queer joint, somewhere deeper into the hood. I have some untouched VIP passes awaiting myself and ten of my closest intrepid adventurers to go see what it's all about. Next time my microwave starts to leak plutonium, I'm packing that mofucker into a diuffel bag, rounding the bitches up and headed off to Starlight to see what it is.
Schneider. Unfortunately, Fix-it Guy has competition in the Boy next Door - Trinidad's answer to One Day at a Time's Schneider, complete with tool belt and laugh track. Comes in through the front door unannounced with a 22 of Guiness and some lilting tail of block bullshit. Two hours later, after he finishes the brew and a humble blunt, he heads in to the bathroom for 15 minutes of ceiling repair and leaves immediately, his drying handiwork taped up under a black garbage bag. He brings gifts like extra stereo speakers and grenadine, and for a while, he lived in the basement. Now he's done a runner, somewhere Upstate. But not before he replastered the ceiling.
Kools. People smoke them. I mean goddamn everybody.
White People. Roommate, a blond, has been referred to as Britney - for the once-glamorous and sweet-assed pre-Fed Ms Spears. She has been summoned with, "White meat! Come to me!" I have been addressed as "Asal" by the Yemen crew, for "sweet," but also as "Snow Ball," and one incredible time, a girl on her stoop just clucked at me loud as hell.
Store/Church Names. No editorializing: Mr. B's Black Power Variety, Homie Boyz Fried Chicken and Pizza, Fu King Chinese Food, Morning Dew Industrial Church of the Light of His Son, Bambi Day Care and Hair Salon. Nuff Said.
Guy on the Corner. See "Booty."
Cops. Not a rumor: cops hate black people. I thought this was true before, but y'all, the shit crackles.
The _____ Van Club. Conversion vans are the hottest ticket in this slice of America, fools. Make no mistake. The owners convene, brand their wehicles with vinyl logos, airbursh "Fruit Loops" or "Shawntelle" across the back. It could be "The Gold Suns of Glory Van Club," or "The K-unit Van Club." Contributing to the beautification of your street with righteous rims and paisley curtains, glimmering and shimmering in the late summer sun. Magnificent.
Booty. And I don't mean ass. I mean that's somebody's name. I mean Guy on the Corner, there all day and most o fthe night. A neighborhood insitution. You wanna find somebody? Ask Booty. You need to see someone who knows you? Find Booty. 'Bout 5"1' with a platinum grill, a real slick smile and witness to everything that happens in the script. I put this to anyone who offers the "Pirates or Ninjas" debate at a party.
A tree. Every block has a tree. In many cases, just one. If it has several, construction will down them like Vietnam vets until you got, you guessed, a Tree Growing in Brooklyn. Thank God people read.
Lest one confuse this marvelous screenplay with Life in Brooklyn, think on Bay Ridge. Willamsburg. Park Slope. For me, even day toliving showed me the way. I used to live in Bushwick, see, the heavy Latin edge before all the factories became lazy musician/hack artist lofts. Plenty of charm, Bushwick, but harder to translate, and altogether lacking the daily zing of life in the hood. Chocolate the toothless lech of a security guard took off when they finished construction. Johnny, the ex-punker, ex-jukie dealer of miscellany - books, swifter wet jets, safety pins, whatever - got hit by a car and vanished for the winter. Kids who opened bottles with his teeth at the grocery store foudn other interests. Not the Stuy. New adventures, daily, but a ready cast and plenty of reliability - a clockwork testament to the 70s film industry, a time machine of city wonder. Quentin Tarantino is a shit talker, and too interested in LA and Kung Fu - but from time to time, you have to realize that from the outside, you start to see that he does have a point.
What do you do?
Get back to the tube for some higher education.
Labels: BK, Britney Spears, hilarious shit, NYC, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Britney's grrrrrreat
Britney Spears loves her some tigers, to the point where she's made over her website. Gone are the faeries, bubbles, and stream of consciousness musings about the beauty of the tiger. Now there's pretty much no content at all except a combo of growling and heavy breathing as Britney's face is superimposed over that of the Cincinnati Bengals mascot. I guess she's trying to convince us all that she has gone from admiring tigers for their "mysteriousness" to actually becoming one, if it's possible for tigers to be greasy gum-chewing sows who subsist on Ho-Hos, chicken fingers, and various flavors of Sonic fruitades.
Oh, and in case you're like me and you furtively listen to Britney's music in secrecy and under the cover of darkness, there's also a clip of what is presumably her newest jam after that. It is a piece seemingly titled "Rebellion," which I'm ashamed to admit that I kind of like. I'm already trying to think up dirty karaoke lyrics to it, but I don't think I'll ever come up with something as good as the "Fuck Me Baby From Behind" I once sang to "Hit Me Baby One More Time."
Anyway, go experience Britney's tiger fetish for yourself, and see if you have as hard of a time as I do deciding whether to laugh at her foolishness or be totally creeped out:
http://www.britneyspears.com/
Oh, and in case you're like me and you furtively listen to Britney's music in secrecy and under the cover of darkness, there's also a clip of what is presumably her newest jam after that. It is a piece seemingly titled "Rebellion," which I'm ashamed to admit that I kind of like. I'm already trying to think up dirty karaoke lyrics to it, but I don't think I'll ever come up with something as good as the "Fuck Me Baby From Behind" I once sang to "Hit Me Baby One More Time."
Anyway, go experience Britney's tiger fetish for yourself, and see if you have as hard of a time as I do deciding whether to laugh at her foolishness or be totally creeped out:
http://www.britneyspears.com/
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, hilarious shit, PWT, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Kevin Federlame sucks
Everyone has probably seen this by now, but I just had to put it up here because it is SO FUCKING LAME it almost defies belief. This is Kevin Federline's debut live performance at Sunday's Teen Choice Awards. Note a couple things:
1. Does Britney Spears EVER stop chewing gum? It's almost like she's trying to be a living caricature of herself. Who would have thought that the hottest piece of ass on the planet three years ago would now be less appealing than tweeker prostitutes in the trailer park down the street from my parents' house in Puyallup? She should have just embraced her resemblance to a character from Pink Flamingos and strolled out on stage eating Sonic chicken fingers and belched into the microphone to introduce her man.
2. All of Kevin's lyrics are gibberish about how he's into "rich livin' and fast cars." Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't you NOT brag about how much money you have when the entire world is of the opinion that you got said wealth by repeatedly impregnating the human equivalent of a greased sow? I mean, when Young Jeezy talks about chopping the top off his Lamborghini everybody rolls their eyes since he's probably worth 500 grand, tops, but at least he can attribute it to getting his grind on and earning it with some good old-fashioned elbow grease in the trap.
Anyway, without further ado:
1. Does Britney Spears EVER stop chewing gum? It's almost like she's trying to be a living caricature of herself. Who would have thought that the hottest piece of ass on the planet three years ago would now be less appealing than tweeker prostitutes in the trailer park down the street from my parents' house in Puyallup? She should have just embraced her resemblance to a character from Pink Flamingos and strolled out on stage eating Sonic chicken fingers and belched into the microphone to introduce her man.
2. All of Kevin's lyrics are gibberish about how he's into "rich livin' and fast cars." Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't you NOT brag about how much money you have when the entire world is of the opinion that you got said wealth by repeatedly impregnating the human equivalent of a greased sow? I mean, when Young Jeezy talks about chopping the top off his Lamborghini everybody rolls their eyes since he's probably worth 500 grand, tops, but at least he can attribute it to getting his grind on and earning it with some good old-fashioned elbow grease in the trap.
Anyway, without further ado:
Labels: assholes, Britney Spears, celebrities, Kevin Federline, PWT, rap
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