I mean, it could be just me, but the suit and the kid does give him some level of... cleanliness. I'm currently taking bets on when next he punches out a papparazzo or jams a needle into his arm to squirt his blood at someone. Odds? Takers?Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Pic Post: Doherty Watch, Day 2!
I mean, it could be just me, but the suit and the kid does give him some level of... cleanliness. I'm currently taking bets on when next he punches out a papparazzo or jams a needle into his arm to squirt his blood at someone. Odds? Takers?
The Inevitable Blacklash
I was reading an article yesterday on HuffPost about how the honeymoon between the media and presumptive Democratic presidential nominee Barak Obama might be coming to an end. It was quoted in the article that Obama has been coming off as "arrogant" as of late.
So hold on for a second here? You mean to tell me, this guy, who just about every media outlet (aside from probably FOX News) has been fawning over for the last twelve months is just now starting to get a little cocky? Really?
I recall an episode of The Daily Show where Obama was a guest, and as we was being teased into the show by Jon Stewart, they played "Halilujia," as if he was the democrat's Messiah.
And you're upset he'd developed what you may think is a "complex?"
Truth be told, Barack Obama is the Democratic Party's Second Coming, and with good reason. Here you have this Kennedesque politician (gasp, a minority at that! I'm sure the ACLU creamed their pants when he became the front runner, finally picking up Hilary's limp swollen head, placing her open mouth on the corner of a curb, and stomping her into oblivion, ala "American History X" or that one episode of the last season of "The Sopranos") who for the first time in almost a decade doesn't come off as either a boring college prof robot or a dick who talks out of both sides of his mouth. You have a candidate with a spine, good looks, and a plan.
The motherfucker went to Germany, and put more people in one place than a Scorpion's concert.
He's a rockstar, and yeah, maybe he's getting a little bit of a big head over all of this shit. I mean, while he's speaking to the krauts, his chief rival, John McCain is doing a club show in Wilkes -Barre, PA in some shoe factory or some shit. I mean, seriously.
But then again, who seems more down to Earth?
I did a little soul searching on that question, as in, who would I be more comfortable with as president, the rockstar or the everyman? Who would lead us better?
Back in 2003 or 04, a poll was taken and Americans stated that they'd be more comfortable sitting down at a bar and having a beer with G-Dub than John Kerry. Bush was more approachable it seemed, and at that point in our Nation's History, we hadn't totally fucked ourselves in Iraq "too hard" yet.
Based on this, (and some other things I considered that will remain in private) I want a rockstar for a president. Clinton was a rockstar, Regan was a rockstar, from what I can remember, Kennedy and both Roosevelts were rockstars. The country needs a cocky coxswain to steer us on a right course, not some swinging dick that you wouldn't mind having a beer with.
You could argue that Bush is/was cocky and arrogant as well, but he didn't become that way until he locked down his second term, and no longer gave a flying fuck about his administration. He basically treated his second term and the country like I treat my beat to shit 1998 S10, where I know it needs a lot of work if I want it to last another few months, but fuck it, I'm getting rid of it soon anyway, why not beat it into the ground a little harder for a goof?
Media: Let Obama be. When and if he takes the throne, he's going to have a lot of work cut out for him, so why not let him play up the part a little bit, and give the world the idea that America's still on track wth being a little pretentious, a little arrogant, and a little dashing all in one. Let him have his swagger and loose tie. Let's be progressive for once and ditch the whole "Old white guy as president" thing. I mean, yeah it's safe, but only because we've never experienced anything else.
Let the old white guys do their thing with running Mtv, The GAP and Congress. Let's put a rockstar on the stage and watch him perform.
So hold on for a second here? You mean to tell me, this guy, who just about every media outlet (aside from probably FOX News) has been fawning over for the last twelve months is just now starting to get a little cocky? Really?
I recall an episode of The Daily Show where Obama was a guest, and as we was being teased into the show by Jon Stewart, they played "Halilujia," as if he was the democrat's Messiah.
And you're upset he'd developed what you may think is a "complex?"
Truth be told, Barack Obama is the Democratic Party's Second Coming, and with good reason. Here you have this Kennedesque politician (gasp, a minority at that! I'm sure the ACLU creamed their pants when he became the front runner, finally picking up Hilary's limp swollen head, placing her open mouth on the corner of a curb, and stomping her into oblivion, ala "American History X" or that one episode of the last season of "The Sopranos") who for the first time in almost a decade doesn't come off as either a boring college prof robot or a dick who talks out of both sides of his mouth. You have a candidate with a spine, good looks, and a plan.
The motherfucker went to Germany, and put more people in one place than a Scorpion's concert.
He's a rockstar, and yeah, maybe he's getting a little bit of a big head over all of this shit. I mean, while he's speaking to the krauts, his chief rival, John McCain is doing a club show in Wilkes -Barre, PA in some shoe factory or some shit. I mean, seriously.
But then again, who seems more down to Earth?
I did a little soul searching on that question, as in, who would I be more comfortable with as president, the rockstar or the everyman? Who would lead us better?
Back in 2003 or 04, a poll was taken and Americans stated that they'd be more comfortable sitting down at a bar and having a beer with G-Dub than John Kerry. Bush was more approachable it seemed, and at that point in our Nation's History, we hadn't totally fucked ourselves in Iraq "too hard" yet.
Based on this, (and some other things I considered that will remain in private) I want a rockstar for a president. Clinton was a rockstar, Regan was a rockstar, from what I can remember, Kennedy and both Roosevelts were rockstars. The country needs a cocky coxswain to steer us on a right course, not some swinging dick that you wouldn't mind having a beer with.
You could argue that Bush is/was cocky and arrogant as well, but he didn't become that way until he locked down his second term, and no longer gave a flying fuck about his administration. He basically treated his second term and the country like I treat my beat to shit 1998 S10, where I know it needs a lot of work if I want it to last another few months, but fuck it, I'm getting rid of it soon anyway, why not beat it into the ground a little harder for a goof?
Media: Let Obama be. When and if he takes the throne, he's going to have a lot of work cut out for him, so why not let him play up the part a little bit, and give the world the idea that America's still on track wth being a little pretentious, a little arrogant, and a little dashing all in one. Let him have his swagger and loose tie. Let's be progressive for once and ditch the whole "Old white guy as president" thing. I mean, yeah it's safe, but only because we've never experienced anything else.
Let the old white guys do their thing with running Mtv, The GAP and Congress. Let's put a rockstar on the stage and watch him perform.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Your Children Are Not Precious
I often go back and forth with the idea of having my own children. Some days I'm thrilled with the idea of extending my lineage, another generation of proud people who happen to share my last name. Other days, I gag at the idea of bringing a defenseless child into this world. This is usually brought upon by seeing how other people interact with each other on our shared planet. Do I really want to subject another living person to having to deal with 6 billion dicks, pussies and assholes?
I find myself and the RM sitting down at the local KFC/Taco Bell here in town, and there's a mild circus going on. There's two women, having a conversation at table, completely oblivious to the five or 6 five-year-olds tearing the eatery apart, running amok in the restaurant, jumping on seats, throwing food, and other wise being undisciplined in public.
When I see situations like this, with the kids screaming at the tops of their lungs unchecked and treating the indoors like the outdoors I get tense. I stare and hatred builds inside of me. After many years of living on this earth, I've come to terms with the fact that the public spaces I inhabit do not necessarily belong to me and me alone for my own enjoyment, but to everyone else as well, but some things done in public are just too outrageous for even the most jaded observer.
You child unleashed is one of them.
I can't fully explain how deep my hatred goes for children when I see them just... going crazy for no reason. And yes, I understand the two mothers in this situation are probably on vacation, which means that for the rest of the god-fearing public, we're just going to have to endure the frustration of ridiculous kids ruining our lunches and giving us head aches, because god forbid a mother on vacation lift a finger to discipline a child of their own in public. But my rage is being pushed to a limit where it's likely I will pluck one of these little rug rats by his ears, and punt him through a glass window should he get within grabbing distance to me, is obviously not a concern to anyone but myself and maybe my roommate.
Attention: Your child is not a precious little being who in his heart and soul holds all that his sweet and innocent in this world. No, your child is an unrelenting asshole. Your child is the equivalent of a dickhead at a party who does nothing but blather on, story after boring story about his life, which no one cares about. Your child is an awkward example, and directly in relationship to, your poor parenting and inattentiveness. If you never really planned on having a child, or perhaps thought it was a trendy thing to do because your so-called friends from high school whom you've not been in contact with in over five years suddenly started to squirt them out last year, then the publics' resentment and loathing for you is your penance for bringing to life a sonic, ear splitting bomb in a stroller.
Thanks, you worthless cunt.
This is what I fear the most, in having children someday. I do not want to become the person who no longer gives a shit about whether or not their child is jumping up and down on public furniture or choking to death on a toy from a happy meal. I know my personality, and when I get completely frustrated with an individual, where I can no longer see a potential for change in attitude or behavior, I no longer give a shit about them. If you want to be a little asshole in public, go ahead son, that shit is on you. Fuck it.
My roommate is a prime example of this; I've done everything humanly possible to help him meet girls. I've both torn down and boosted his ego. I took him shopping for outfits, I've literally walked girls, gorgeous young women, to him and introduced them. I've given him pointers, pick up lines, and observational critiques... and yet he still refuses to change his attitude or traits. He assumes that something will just come along and take care of it for him.
Your child is exactly like my roommate - your child is needy and requires someone to follow behind him or her and close cupboard doors after them, wipe their asses, and tell them that their special and unique and no one is exactly like them. Bullshit. Your snot nosed little bastard or bitch, with their Bob the Builder over alls or pink Barbie tiara respectively is just another douchebag in the making. In fifteen years, it's likely that they will kill someone in a drunk driving accident, or fail out of college or go on welfare. They will neglect to pay their bills and hit their wives or husbands.
They'll be despondent and unappreciative to life's little things, and we'll all have you to thank, you cheap remorseless cocksucking uncaring piss-poor lay of a parent. Your genitalia should be revoked, you careless cad.
God help you, should I ever run into you and your brood ever again, because I will probably slit all your throats, systematically, in a way that I have yet to figure out, but give me some time and I will come up with the most psychologically damaging plan I can think of.
Trust me.
I find myself and the RM sitting down at the local KFC/Taco Bell here in town, and there's a mild circus going on. There's two women, having a conversation at table, completely oblivious to the five or 6 five-year-olds tearing the eatery apart, running amok in the restaurant, jumping on seats, throwing food, and other wise being undisciplined in public.
When I see situations like this, with the kids screaming at the tops of their lungs unchecked and treating the indoors like the outdoors I get tense. I stare and hatred builds inside of me. After many years of living on this earth, I've come to terms with the fact that the public spaces I inhabit do not necessarily belong to me and me alone for my own enjoyment, but to everyone else as well, but some things done in public are just too outrageous for even the most jaded observer.
You child unleashed is one of them.
I can't fully explain how deep my hatred goes for children when I see them just... going crazy for no reason. And yes, I understand the two mothers in this situation are probably on vacation, which means that for the rest of the god-fearing public, we're just going to have to endure the frustration of ridiculous kids ruining our lunches and giving us head aches, because god forbid a mother on vacation lift a finger to discipline a child of their own in public. But my rage is being pushed to a limit where it's likely I will pluck one of these little rug rats by his ears, and punt him through a glass window should he get within grabbing distance to me, is obviously not a concern to anyone but myself and maybe my roommate.
Attention: Your child is not a precious little being who in his heart and soul holds all that his sweet and innocent in this world. No, your child is an unrelenting asshole. Your child is the equivalent of a dickhead at a party who does nothing but blather on, story after boring story about his life, which no one cares about. Your child is an awkward example, and directly in relationship to, your poor parenting and inattentiveness. If you never really planned on having a child, or perhaps thought it was a trendy thing to do because your so-called friends from high school whom you've not been in contact with in over five years suddenly started to squirt them out last year, then the publics' resentment and loathing for you is your penance for bringing to life a sonic, ear splitting bomb in a stroller.
Thanks, you worthless cunt.
This is what I fear the most, in having children someday. I do not want to become the person who no longer gives a shit about whether or not their child is jumping up and down on public furniture or choking to death on a toy from a happy meal. I know my personality, and when I get completely frustrated with an individual, where I can no longer see a potential for change in attitude or behavior, I no longer give a shit about them. If you want to be a little asshole in public, go ahead son, that shit is on you. Fuck it.
My roommate is a prime example of this; I've done everything humanly possible to help him meet girls. I've both torn down and boosted his ego. I took him shopping for outfits, I've literally walked girls, gorgeous young women, to him and introduced them. I've given him pointers, pick up lines, and observational critiques... and yet he still refuses to change his attitude or traits. He assumes that something will just come along and take care of it for him.
Your child is exactly like my roommate - your child is needy and requires someone to follow behind him or her and close cupboard doors after them, wipe their asses, and tell them that their special and unique and no one is exactly like them. Bullshit. Your snot nosed little bastard or bitch, with their Bob the Builder over alls or pink Barbie tiara respectively is just another douchebag in the making. In fifteen years, it's likely that they will kill someone in a drunk driving accident, or fail out of college or go on welfare. They will neglect to pay their bills and hit their wives or husbands.
They'll be despondent and unappreciative to life's little things, and we'll all have you to thank, you cheap remorseless cocksucking uncaring piss-poor lay of a parent. Your genitalia should be revoked, you careless cad.
God help you, should I ever run into you and your brood ever again, because I will probably slit all your throats, systematically, in a way that I have yet to figure out, but give me some time and I will come up with the most psychologically damaging plan I can think of.
Trust me.
Lazy Sunday Pic Post: Doherty Watch!
This guy is a wreck. He looks how I feel most mornings I spend hung over...
In all seriousness, I understand that British guys are supposed to be pasty as fuck, but seriously, this guy is a shade paler than most corpses.
In all seriousness, I understand that British guys are supposed to be pasty as fuck, but seriously, this guy is a shade paler than most corpses.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
RIP DAFT
It all started about a month ago, really... the end of June. I had just gotten back from my trip to Laconia when my bike started to have problems.
It was run of the mill-type shit: I'd be cruising along and all of a sudden the RPMs would just drop out. I'd be doing about 70 mph at 6000 RPM and I'd go down to zero, nothing on the throttle, the needle on the tact wouldn't so much as shudder.
So I'd pull to the side of the road and check everything out. It would turn over hard, and I'd have to wait a while before it'd even start at all. So there I'd be, waiting on the side of the road for my bike to make up it's mind if it was going to start or not. It was dangerous and frustrating.
Over time (the span of about a week) the problem seemed to get worse. Added to the fact that I also dropped the bike in the parking lot after I slipped on a patch of sand while backing it, I really couldn't ride at all. It was enough to make me want to take a hammer to the damn thing and beat it until either it or I was broken.
The last straw, really, came about a week ago, when I was trying to limp the bike home from work, some 50 miles away, when it just died at the halfway point. I had to call for a tow, because the bike simply would not move another inch and when I was told that it'd be at least a two hour wait for the right guy to show up with the right equipment (in all actuality, when the guy did show up, he didn't bring the right shit anyway) I did what any good biker would do, and pushed the bike under the shade of a big tree, fold his jacket up under his ass, lean back against the bike and take a nap.
Once I got the bike to the shop, they said they'd take a good look at it. I described the problem as best I could in my layman language, and they told me they'd get it taken care of. One hundred and forty dollars and an oil change later, I pick up the bike only to have it do the exact same thing to me as it did before. Consider the camel's back to be broken.
So I brought it back that same day and complained that I was being charged for basically nothing. The guy behind the counter shrugged sheepishly and said "well, we ran it all day yesterday, it ran fine..."
"Did you 'run' it, or 'ride' it... there's a difference," I said back to him, still clutching my helmet, drenched in sweat from my kevlar jacket and jeans.
"Ran it," was the response.
So the bike's been sitting in the shop for a week, and I finally get a call on it. They tell me that the bike's currently in pieces, and it's going to need a 1500 dollar part if it ever hopes to see the road ever again.
What the fuck. Seriously. I only owe like 2500 on this goddamn thing. I bought it to SAVE me money, not become a fucking money pit.
I tell him on the phone not to bother with ordering the part. Just put the bike back together and I'll come by and pick it up. For the labor, I owe 600 dollars. All for him riding the bike down the road, tearing it apart, and putting it back together. Six hundred dollars.
The guy I bought it from told me he took exceptional care of it, did all the maintenance himself and it was in great condition, given the mileage. I should've been more dubious of the purchase when I thought I was getting a great deal.
So now the plan is to float the bike back to Maine, trade it in for either a new model (I do have my eye on a BMW K 1200 S....) or something that's certified pre-owned. Either way, I'm dealing with a dealership from now on.
This scar from this burn will never fade.
It was run of the mill-type shit: I'd be cruising along and all of a sudden the RPMs would just drop out. I'd be doing about 70 mph at 6000 RPM and I'd go down to zero, nothing on the throttle, the needle on the tact wouldn't so much as shudder.
So I'd pull to the side of the road and check everything out. It would turn over hard, and I'd have to wait a while before it'd even start at all. So there I'd be, waiting on the side of the road for my bike to make up it's mind if it was going to start or not. It was dangerous and frustrating.
Over time (the span of about a week) the problem seemed to get worse. Added to the fact that I also dropped the bike in the parking lot after I slipped on a patch of sand while backing it, I really couldn't ride at all. It was enough to make me want to take a hammer to the damn thing and beat it until either it or I was broken.
The last straw, really, came about a week ago, when I was trying to limp the bike home from work, some 50 miles away, when it just died at the halfway point. I had to call for a tow, because the bike simply would not move another inch and when I was told that it'd be at least a two hour wait for the right guy to show up with the right equipment (in all actuality, when the guy did show up, he didn't bring the right shit anyway) I did what any good biker would do, and pushed the bike under the shade of a big tree, fold his jacket up under his ass, lean back against the bike and take a nap.
Once I got the bike to the shop, they said they'd take a good look at it. I described the problem as best I could in my layman language, and they told me they'd get it taken care of. One hundred and forty dollars and an oil change later, I pick up the bike only to have it do the exact same thing to me as it did before. Consider the camel's back to be broken.
So I brought it back that same day and complained that I was being charged for basically nothing. The guy behind the counter shrugged sheepishly and said "well, we ran it all day yesterday, it ran fine..."
"Did you 'run' it, or 'ride' it... there's a difference," I said back to him, still clutching my helmet, drenched in sweat from my kevlar jacket and jeans.
"Ran it," was the response.
So the bike's been sitting in the shop for a week, and I finally get a call on it. They tell me that the bike's currently in pieces, and it's going to need a 1500 dollar part if it ever hopes to see the road ever again.
What the fuck. Seriously. I only owe like 2500 on this goddamn thing. I bought it to SAVE me money, not become a fucking money pit.
I tell him on the phone not to bother with ordering the part. Just put the bike back together and I'll come by and pick it up. For the labor, I owe 600 dollars. All for him riding the bike down the road, tearing it apart, and putting it back together. Six hundred dollars.
The guy I bought it from told me he took exceptional care of it, did all the maintenance himself and it was in great condition, given the mileage. I should've been more dubious of the purchase when I thought I was getting a great deal.
So now the plan is to float the bike back to Maine, trade it in for either a new model (I do have my eye on a BMW K 1200 S....) or something that's certified pre-owned. Either way, I'm dealing with a dealership from now on.
This scar from this burn will never fade.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Television's New Low
Since about 1999 reality television, the type of tv shows that depict "average people" consorting in all sorts of nefarious behavior, has been a staple in most house holds. What started with "Survivor" a battle of the fittest to combat elimination at the hands of your fellow contestants, has morphed into an obvious incantation of greed, which at it's root, is reality tv.
Vh1's "I Love Money" is about as grass roots as one can get, in the realm of greed-fed reality television. The formula is unsurprisingly simple: Take the most notorious cast offs of every Vh1 inspired "I'll Fuck a Has-Been for Fame/Love" show in the last two years, and strip away all the bullshit. There's no decrepit former gangster rapper to suppress your gag reflex around, nor a balding middle aged one hit wonder with a love for bandanas and scarves. It's simply the money these contestants will (again) prostrate themselves in front of while Americans sit at home and watch and wonder how much more embarrassing can this all really get.
News flash America: It's can't. This is it. This is the last stop on the Freak Train, make sure you bring all your belongings with you and have a great day. Stand clear of the closing doors.
The show is literally a who's-who of scandalous characters, mixed in with some other also-rans who didn't make the cut the first time around. There's Toastee, the Flava of Love cast-off of obscure ethnicity who may or may not have posed nude on the internet. There's Pumkin, the venomous spitter, who will forever be remembered for her attack on I Love New York's New York, and then fled cartoonishly towards a camera, wide eyed as a 7 foot tall black bitch (who easily could've been confused for Wesley Snipes in drag) clawed her backside into
ribbons.
There's also some of the contestants from the various I Love New Yorks. Minuscule Chance, as well as all around weird white guy Mr. Boston have been resurrected to compete in ridiculous challenges that seem to be left over from last season's "Road Rules/Real World Challenge: The Gauntlet Inferno of Herpes IX".
But beneath all this lacquer is a commendable effort being made on Vh1's behalf: They're cutting through the bullshit. When I watch a marathon of episodes where a bunch of strippers vie for Brett Michael's attention, I know it's complete bullshit. No one can fall in love with someone after knowing them for three weeks, while also plotting to kill a houseful of other demented and poorly supervised strippers. The body's chemistry does not work that way, no matter how much free alcohol and coke you give these people on a daily basis. So with the veneer gone, all that's left is greedy sociopath's battling gladiator-style for our entertainment.
We've gone completely full circle from the days of the Romans- where slaves and Christians would be led out towards lions and panthers and a crowd of people would watch. The drama would be played down and the violence played up, that's really the only difference when I watch a grown man named '12 Pack' stuff floating 100 dollar bills into a tiny little pair of swim trunks on cable television.
I say bravo to Vh1 for having the balls to do what no other television network has been willing to do in ten years; call America on the bullshit of reality television, while at the same time, calling itself on it as well.
Vh1's "I Love Money" is about as grass roots as one can get, in the realm of greed-fed reality television. The formula is unsurprisingly simple: Take the most notorious cast offs of every Vh1 inspired "I'll Fuck a Has-Been for Fame/Love" show in the last two years, and strip away all the bullshit. There's no decrepit former gangster rapper to suppress your gag reflex around, nor a balding middle aged one hit wonder with a love for bandanas and scarves. It's simply the money these contestants will (again) prostrate themselves in front of while Americans sit at home and watch and wonder how much more embarrassing can this all really get.
News flash America: It's can't. This is it. This is the last stop on the Freak Train, make sure you bring all your belongings with you and have a great day. Stand clear of the closing doors.
The show is literally a who's-who of scandalous characters, mixed in with some other also-rans who didn't make the cut the first time around. There's Toastee, the Flava of Love cast-off of obscure ethnicity who may or may not have posed nude on the internet. There's Pumkin, the venomous spitter, who will forever be remembered for her attack on I Love New York's New York, and then fled cartoonishly towards a camera, wide eyed as a 7 foot tall black bitch (who easily could've been confused for Wesley Snipes in drag) clawed her backside into
ribbons.There's also some of the contestants from the various I Love New Yorks. Minuscule Chance, as well as all around weird white guy Mr. Boston have been resurrected to compete in ridiculous challenges that seem to be left over from last season's "Road Rules/Real World Challenge: The Gauntlet Inferno of Herpes IX".
But beneath all this lacquer is a commendable effort being made on Vh1's behalf: They're cutting through the bullshit. When I watch a marathon of episodes where a bunch of strippers vie for Brett Michael's attention, I know it's complete bullshit. No one can fall in love with someone after knowing them for three weeks, while also plotting to kill a houseful of other demented and poorly supervised strippers. The body's chemistry does not work that way, no matter how much free alcohol and coke you give these people on a daily basis. So with the veneer gone, all that's left is greedy sociopath's battling gladiator-style for our entertainment.
We've gone completely full circle from the days of the Romans- where slaves and Christians would be led out towards lions and panthers and a crowd of people would watch. The drama would be played down and the violence played up, that's really the only difference when I watch a grown man named '12 Pack' stuff floating 100 dollar bills into a tiny little pair of swim trunks on cable television.
I say bravo to Vh1 for having the balls to do what no other television network has been willing to do in ten years; call America on the bullshit of reality television, while at the same time, calling itself on it as well.
What The Guy Sitting Across From Me on The Bus, Reading 'Maxim' Magazine, Is Probably Thinking:
Dude.
Dude.
DUDE...!
Oh my god, dude, seriously, this chick is so fucking hot. Look at her tits, and her legs and her ass. Damn. I wish I could find a girl like that. And she looks so natural too. 'Maxim' girls are so REAL. They don't air brush their models, no way.
I mean, I guess there's a number I can text and she'll get it, but it'll probably go through some sort of screener or something and get all fucked up in the process.
Let's see, what else is in here...
Wow, this chick is hot too. Where does Maxim find all these hotties, seriously dude? I mean, I live in this big city and I never see chicks like these. They must all live out in Long Island or something. Wow, look at this car on page 57. If I had a car like that, I could totally bang a chick like the one on page 93...
Let's flip ahead to the fashion section. Or should I say fag-tion section. Heh, seriously, who wears this shit? See, this is where Maxim gets it all wrong. Girls don't want a guy who dresses like he's attending some board meeting or something. Chicks want a dude who keeps it real. Like how I keep it real with my t shirts and jeans and Adidas sneakers.
Oh, the best part, the joke page. Hahaha, 'what did the lesbian vampire say to the other lesbian vampire? See you next month!' Hahaha, where does 'Maxim' come up with this stuff, seriously dude!
This has to be the best men's magazine ever. I mean, it's the only men's magazine I've ever really looked at. I mean, I looked at a 'GQ' one time at the doctor's office in the waiting room, but it seemed kinda gay to me. But 'Maxim' gets me. Maxim knows what every 19 year old needs to be told. Without Maxim, I'd probably never score hot chicks.
Or have the chance to, I mean.
Oh, what's back here... an Axe Body Spray sample. Dude that smells awesome! I'm so going to buy that shit at the Duane Reade next time I go in to pick up my allergy perscription. And I'm going to make sure I spray half the bottle all over myself too, just to make sure people can smell it and be like 'oh my god, what's that awesome smell?' from across the room. And then I can be all like "it's me dude, that awesome smell, it's me."
It's orangy dude, like an orange grove. That's probably what California smells like. And Cali's full of chick's dude. Hot ones.
Is that dude reading over my shoulder? What the fuck dude! Get your own 'Maxim', you dick... that's so not cool -to read over someone's shoulder. He's going to try to steal the pick up tricks in here and talk to that brunette up front over there before I do. Hold on, let me just finish reading this... It says I should 'break the ice' with a joke. Apparently, chicks like it when you insult them right off the bat. I should say something like 'Your hair looks better up,' or 'that's really not your color' because it takes them off their guard and it's better than 'hey can I have your number because I think you're hot,'
It also says something in here about only paying for the first date, and unless she brings you home for some 'hot bangin' after the first date, all bets are off. Ok, phew, ok, is she looking over here... wait, let me ... ok, no, I think she's checking out that other guy. Or did she just miss her stop? Or is she looking at the cover of the 'Maxim' to see Jennifer Love Hewitt's picture? I don't know.
You know what, I'm not going to talk to her after all. She's not nearly as hot as the Hometown Honey on page 122.
Dude.
DUDE...!
Oh my god, dude, seriously, this chick is so fucking hot. Look at her tits, and her legs and her ass. Damn. I wish I could find a girl like that. And she looks so natural too. 'Maxim' girls are so REAL. They don't air brush their models, no way.
I mean, I guess there's a number I can text and she'll get it, but it'll probably go through some sort of screener or something and get all fucked up in the process.
Let's see, what else is in here...
Wow, this chick is hot too. Where does Maxim find all these hotties, seriously dude? I mean, I live in this big city and I never see chicks like these. They must all live out in Long Island or something. Wow, look at this car on page 57. If I had a car like that, I could totally bang a chick like the one on page 93...
Let's flip ahead to the fashion section. Or should I say fag-tion section. Heh, seriously, who wears this shit? See, this is where Maxim gets it all wrong. Girls don't want a guy who dresses like he's attending some board meeting or something. Chicks want a dude who keeps it real. Like how I keep it real with my t shirts and jeans and Adidas sneakers.
Oh, the best part, the joke page. Hahaha, 'what did the lesbian vampire say to the other lesbian vampire? See you next month!' Hahaha, where does 'Maxim' come up with this stuff, seriously dude!
This has to be the best men's magazine ever. I mean, it's the only men's magazine I've ever really looked at. I mean, I looked at a 'GQ' one time at the doctor's office in the waiting room, but it seemed kinda gay to me. But 'Maxim' gets me. Maxim knows what every 19 year old needs to be told. Without Maxim, I'd probably never score hot chicks.
Or have the chance to, I mean.
Oh, what's back here... an Axe Body Spray sample. Dude that smells awesome! I'm so going to buy that shit at the Duane Reade next time I go in to pick up my allergy perscription. And I'm going to make sure I spray half the bottle all over myself too, just to make sure people can smell it and be like 'oh my god, what's that awesome smell?' from across the room. And then I can be all like "it's me dude, that awesome smell, it's me."
It's orangy dude, like an orange grove. That's probably what California smells like. And Cali's full of chick's dude. Hot ones.
Is that dude reading over my shoulder? What the fuck dude! Get your own 'Maxim', you dick... that's so not cool -to read over someone's shoulder. He's going to try to steal the pick up tricks in here and talk to that brunette up front over there before I do. Hold on, let me just finish reading this... It says I should 'break the ice' with a joke. Apparently, chicks like it when you insult them right off the bat. I should say something like 'Your hair looks better up,' or 'that's really not your color' because it takes them off their guard and it's better than 'hey can I have your number because I think you're hot,'
It also says something in here about only paying for the first date, and unless she brings you home for some 'hot bangin' after the first date, all bets are off. Ok, phew, ok, is she looking over here... wait, let me ... ok, no, I think she's checking out that other guy. Or did she just miss her stop? Or is she looking at the cover of the 'Maxim' to see Jennifer Love Hewitt's picture? I don't know.
You know what, I'm not going to talk to her after all. She's not nearly as hot as the Hometown Honey on page 122.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
It Doesn't Say "Stop" Fucktard.
Jim's had a busy week at work, so his posts have been thin at best. We on his editorial staff forgive him. I mean, the less he writes, the less we have to run around fact checking, and the less legal has to do, period.
Anyway, enjoy his rant. -ed.
I hate driving in this ridiculous state.
If you've grown up in New England, outside of Massachusetts, you'd freely associate terrible driving with any car with Mass plates. You see those white and red tags anywhere, even in-state, and you know that there's likely an asshole behind the wheel.
First before I go any further, let me state for the record that I'm a horrible driver. It's because I think every time I get into traffic I'm manauvering around the track at Darlington International Speedway. I tailgate, I don't use my signals, I speed, I make lane changes at the last second. I freely admit to doing these things.
What makes me a hypocrit to a certain extent is that people in this goddamn state do not know how to YIELD. What compounds this fact is that every ten feet on this fucking Hook, there's a fucking rotary.
Let me play out the scene as it typically unfolds in front of me: I'll be driving home from work along this one particular stretch of highway, and I'll be approaching this big rotary. There will be about five cars ahead of me, and I'll look towards the left, where traffic on the rotary should be coming from.
But there's no traffic. Nothing. Maybe a lonely fucking tumbleweed will be blowing across the road, but that it. It looks like some post-apocalyptic waste land.
And yet, I see break lights. I see a shit ton of red lights, lighting up, and the guy out front of everyone, with his MA tags, has come to a complete hault.
IT'S A FUCKING YIELD! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?! IT SURE AS HELL DOESN'T MEAN STOP, BECAUSE IF YOU WERE TO STOP, THERE'D BE A FUCKING STOP SIGN, YOU INFECTED DICK!
So naturally, everyone slams on the breaks and it causes a back up in traffic. It's enough to make me want to go down to the zoo, kidnap a monkey, crack open it's skull, scoop out it's brains with a melonballer, and then proceed to poop into the skull cavity.
The way a rotary is supposed to work is that everyone just... goes. You just enter traffic seamlessly, and then leave traffic when you get to your little exit. You leave, someone else gets on. Granted, this isn't always the case, because large volumes of traffic can hinder the easy off and on of a rotary, but when there's zero traffic, you should just GO.
I see this as a problem too with highway on ramps in this state. Granted, they're ridiculously curved (like my cock) so seeing on-coming traffic is a little tricky, but coming to a complete stop at the yield sign at the end of the ramp is dangerous.
I'm going to be coming in behind you at about 65 mph, my cell phone in my one hand, a Dunk's ice coffee in the other, screaming at my roommate who for the 18th time this month has forgotten to do his share of the dishes, all while getting blown by my girlfriend to a soundtrack consisting of nothing by 80's hair metal, turned up to 11. I'm not expecting you to be sitting there, meagerly waiting your turn to join the fucking circus that is driving in Massachusetts, I'm going to be a Tomahawk Missel and your back end is going to be some Insurgent's asshole.
Just get out there, that's what I do. I come screaming around the corner at a high rate of speed and just say "fuck it." They have breaks, and it's a yield. Granted, I'm supposed to be giving way, but there's nothing there saying I'm to come to a complete stop- as far as I understand traffic laws. And I was a cop.
Anyway, enjoy his rant. -ed.
I hate driving in this ridiculous state.
If you've grown up in New England, outside of Massachusetts, you'd freely associate terrible driving with any car with Mass plates. You see those white and red tags anywhere, even in-state, and you know that there's likely an asshole behind the wheel.
First before I go any further, let me state for the record that I'm a horrible driver. It's because I think every time I get into traffic I'm manauvering around the track at Darlington International Speedway. I tailgate, I don't use my signals, I speed, I make lane changes at the last second. I freely admit to doing these things.
What makes me a hypocrit to a certain extent is that people in this goddamn state do not know how to YIELD. What compounds this fact is that every ten feet on this fucking Hook, there's a fucking rotary.
Let me play out the scene as it typically unfolds in front of me: I'll be driving home from work along this one particular stretch of highway, and I'll be approaching this big rotary. There will be about five cars ahead of me, and I'll look towards the left, where traffic on the rotary should be coming from.
But there's no traffic. Nothing. Maybe a lonely fucking tumbleweed will be blowing across the road, but that it. It looks like some post-apocalyptic waste land.
And yet, I see break lights. I see a shit ton of red lights, lighting up, and the guy out front of everyone, with his MA tags, has come to a complete hault.
IT'S A FUCKING YIELD! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?! IT SURE AS HELL DOESN'T MEAN STOP, BECAUSE IF YOU WERE TO STOP, THERE'D BE A FUCKING STOP SIGN, YOU INFECTED DICK!
So naturally, everyone slams on the breaks and it causes a back up in traffic. It's enough to make me want to go down to the zoo, kidnap a monkey, crack open it's skull, scoop out it's brains with a melonballer, and then proceed to poop into the skull cavity.
The way a rotary is supposed to work is that everyone just... goes. You just enter traffic seamlessly, and then leave traffic when you get to your little exit. You leave, someone else gets on. Granted, this isn't always the case, because large volumes of traffic can hinder the easy off and on of a rotary, but when there's zero traffic, you should just GO.
I see this as a problem too with highway on ramps in this state. Granted, they're ridiculously curved (like my cock) so seeing on-coming traffic is a little tricky, but coming to a complete stop at the yield sign at the end of the ramp is dangerous.
I'm going to be coming in behind you at about 65 mph, my cell phone in my one hand, a Dunk's ice coffee in the other, screaming at my roommate who for the 18th time this month has forgotten to do his share of the dishes, all while getting blown by my girlfriend to a soundtrack consisting of nothing by 80's hair metal, turned up to 11. I'm not expecting you to be sitting there, meagerly waiting your turn to join the fucking circus that is driving in Massachusetts, I'm going to be a Tomahawk Missel and your back end is going to be some Insurgent's asshole.
Just get out there, that's what I do. I come screaming around the corner at a high rate of speed and just say "fuck it." They have breaks, and it's a yield. Granted, I'm supposed to be giving way, but there's nothing there saying I'm to come to a complete stop- as far as I understand traffic laws. And I was a cop.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Special 'Lazy Sunday Pic Post' Five Days Early!
As the new iPhone 3G hit stores last Friday, this group of soon-to-be consumers in Tokyo wait in line while wearing animal masks. Instead of horses and polar bears, maybe they should've gone with sheep...?The jokes write themselves, people.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
You're An Idiot, Vol 1.
Sometimes people don't know they're completely retarded. Other times, people around said idiot don't realize that person is completely inept in all facets of life, either. The latter is the case of Carlos Mencia.
So I figured that I would start breaking down ways to tell if you yourself, or someone you love, is a collossal idiot. This month: How Your Choice in Movies Makes You an Asshole.
My roommate tends to go see a lot of movies because he's only 19 and there's not much else the poor boy can do legally in these parts. As a by-product of this, he sees a lot of shitty films, only, he doesn't realize what a shitty film is.
Tell tale signs you're watching a shitty film:
-Stars Mark Walhberg in a leading role (excemption: "Boogie Nights")
-Is from "two of the six writers of 'Scary Movie'"
-A Wayans touched it.
-Star mugs for the camera every chance they get, during the preview.
What's unfortunate is that the majority of the American movie-going population falls under the same umbrella as my hapless roommate. No one really knows what a shitty movie-going experience is. Sure, they can be annoyed as they sit in the theatre by other patrons/sticky floors, but they neglect to realize that what's on the screen plays a large part in dumbing themselves down.
I pay a lot of attention to film reviews, but mostly I can just tell if a movie is going to be utter shit. I can see the preview either at the theatre, or on tv, and just know. It's hard to explain, and yes, it's just short of judging a book by it's cover, but I know when there's a film not worth my ten dollars. It has a certain stink to it; an aroma that's not unlike dead fish under a hot sun.
I've also been wrong before too, but not often. I had both written off "Gladiator" and "Ironman" as forgettable summer "blockbusters" and pleasently surprised how much I enjoyed those two films. "Gladiator" is actually one of my all time favorites. And I've missed the call too, thinking "The Kingdom" last Fall's forgetable Jaime Foxx-middle eastern terrorist cash-in pic was going to be epic, but found it was largely disappointing.
This was an actual (albeit paraphrased for these purposes) conversation I had with my roommate a few weeks ago:
RM: Dude, let's go see 'Love Guru!'
(He constantly tries to bait me into going to movies. Honestly, I feel awful that I don't go with him, but given his taste in film, I'd rather inject rat poison directly into my eyeballs)
Me: Umm, no.
RM: Why not?!
Me: Because it looks terrible, Mike Meyers is a one trick pony who thinks that because he dresses in various fat suits and costumes, he can fool movie goers into thinking he's talented and has range as an actor. His latest film only reinforces that. Except for the first Austin Powers, each one of his films to date is basically a stretched, unfunny SNL skit.
The RM gives me a blank stare.
RM: Ok, let's go see 'Meet Dave.' I know you want to see that!
And I appriciate his enthusiasm. I really do. But again, to infer that I 'want to see' 'Meet Dave', the abysmal Eddie Murphy - 'Men in Black' - Bootleg - Vehicle, is somewhat insulting.
Me: No.
Rm: Sigh, why not?
Me: Have you seen the previews of that movie?! I'm not going to subject myself to another one of Eddie Murphy's ego-tripped-tipped yawnfests. You know why all of his movies in the last ten years have starred just Eddie Murphy playing different characters? It's because no other actor in Hollywood will work with him. He's an enormous asshole, and he continues to make films that make me want to eat a bagel laced with broken shards of glass and AIDS needles.
RM: Well, I'm gonna go, peace out.
And so he goes, and sure enough, two hours later, this is what I get:
RM: Yeah bro, "Meet Dave" sucked.
In other news, I tell my roommate that the stove top is hot, he touches it, gets burned. More at 11.
Seriously though, I browse through rottentomatoes all the time, and read through the (obviously) bad reviews for some of these films I know to be bad. I don't know why I do it, I just do it. Maybe I'm reinforcing my talent for picking stinkers a mile away, or maybe I like seeing a man being kicked while he's down. Regardless, what blows me away is some of the POSITIVE reviews that are kinda sprinkled over the critics review pages for movies that should otherwised be banned from viewing.
This gem from the 'Hancock' page:
"Smith proves again, he's the king of summer blockbusters in this truly genius alt-concept of Super Hero (his caps) genre movies!" -Kit Comner, Ain't It Cool News.
Now I understand studios sometimes pay off film critics to write "good reviews" on what the studio will know to be a film DOA at the theatre. But I mean, these people look like complete assholes next to the other 97% of the critics, who were not being paid, who actually wrote down what they thought.
Only if you were say, a President of the United States, had an approval rating hovering around 26% and still thought you couldhelp the presumptive GOP candidate would you be a bigger idiot.
So I figured that I would start breaking down ways to tell if you yourself, or someone you love, is a collossal idiot. This month: How Your Choice in Movies Makes You an Asshole.
My roommate tends to go see a lot of movies because he's only 19 and there's not much else the poor boy can do legally in these parts. As a by-product of this, he sees a lot of shitty films, only, he doesn't realize what a shitty film is.
Tell tale signs you're watching a shitty film:
-Stars Mark Walhberg in a leading role (excemption: "Boogie Nights")
-Is from "two of the six writers of 'Scary Movie'"
-A Wayans touched it.
-Star mugs for the camera every chance they get, during the preview.
What's unfortunate is that the majority of the American movie-going population falls under the same umbrella as my hapless roommate. No one really knows what a shitty movie-going experience is. Sure, they can be annoyed as they sit in the theatre by other patrons/sticky floors, but they neglect to realize that what's on the screen plays a large part in dumbing themselves down.
I pay a lot of attention to film reviews, but mostly I can just tell if a movie is going to be utter shit. I can see the preview either at the theatre, or on tv, and just know. It's hard to explain, and yes, it's just short of judging a book by it's cover, but I know when there's a film not worth my ten dollars. It has a certain stink to it; an aroma that's not unlike dead fish under a hot sun.
I've also been wrong before too, but not often. I had both written off "Gladiator" and "Ironman" as forgettable summer "blockbusters" and pleasently surprised how much I enjoyed those two films. "Gladiator" is actually one of my all time favorites. And I've missed the call too, thinking "The Kingdom" last Fall's forgetable Jaime Foxx-middle eastern terrorist cash-in pic was going to be epic, but found it was largely disappointing.
This was an actual (albeit paraphrased for these purposes) conversation I had with my roommate a few weeks ago:
RM: Dude, let's go see 'Love Guru!'
(He constantly tries to bait me into going to movies. Honestly, I feel awful that I don't go with him, but given his taste in film, I'd rather inject rat poison directly into my eyeballs)
Me: Umm, no.
RM: Why not?!
Me: Because it looks terrible, Mike Meyers is a one trick pony who thinks that because he dresses in various fat suits and costumes, he can fool movie goers into thinking he's talented and has range as an actor. His latest film only reinforces that. Except for the first Austin Powers, each one of his films to date is basically a stretched, unfunny SNL skit.
The RM gives me a blank stare.
RM: Ok, let's go see 'Meet Dave.' I know you want to see that!
And I appriciate his enthusiasm. I really do. But again, to infer that I 'want to see' 'Meet Dave', the abysmal Eddie Murphy - 'Men in Black' - Bootleg - Vehicle, is somewhat insulting.
Me: No.
Rm: Sigh, why not?
Me: Have you seen the previews of that movie?! I'm not going to subject myself to another one of Eddie Murphy's ego-tripped-tipped yawnfests. You know why all of his movies in the last ten years have starred just Eddie Murphy playing different characters? It's because no other actor in Hollywood will work with him. He's an enormous asshole, and he continues to make films that make me want to eat a bagel laced with broken shards of glass and AIDS needles.
RM: Well, I'm gonna go, peace out.
And so he goes, and sure enough, two hours later, this is what I get:
RM: Yeah bro, "Meet Dave" sucked.
In other news, I tell my roommate that the stove top is hot, he touches it, gets burned. More at 11.
Seriously though, I browse through rottentomatoes all the time, and read through the (obviously) bad reviews for some of these films I know to be bad. I don't know why I do it, I just do it. Maybe I'm reinforcing my talent for picking stinkers a mile away, or maybe I like seeing a man being kicked while he's down. Regardless, what blows me away is some of the POSITIVE reviews that are kinda sprinkled over the critics review pages for movies that should otherwised be banned from viewing.
This gem from the 'Hancock' page:
"Smith proves again, he's the king of summer blockbusters in this truly genius alt-concept of Super Hero (his caps) genre movies!" -Kit Comner, Ain't It Cool News.
Now I understand studios sometimes pay off film critics to write "good reviews" on what the studio will know to be a film DOA at the theatre. But I mean, these people look like complete assholes next to the other 97% of the critics, who were not being paid, who actually wrote down what they thought.
Only if you were say, a President of the United States, had an approval rating hovering around 26% and still thought you couldhelp the presumptive GOP candidate would you be a bigger idiot.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Lazy Sunday Pic Post
Since moving in together, The Lady and I's pillow to person ratio has grown exponentially. I have no idea why this is, but I think it has something to do with science.
See here:
This was my bed right when I moved in.
This is my bed, as of this morning. What the hell happened?
See here:
This was my bed right when I moved in.
This is my bed, as of this morning. What the hell happened?
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Short Fiction: Immigrants and Out of Towners: On Loan
Julian’s Bar and Grill sat at the cross section of
Surrounding Carpicize were remnants of the old Capasso Regime, life long members who each equally shared a distaste and distrust for their new Diva. Martina De Rossi, though was in attendance at the funeral, many found her inaccessible and isolated.
“For twenty-two years I stood by Don Giovanni with all the decisions he made, I did my best to help steer this family in the right directions. But this I will not stand for,” Carpicize said from the head of the table. He was in his fifties, but looked forty with his jet black slicked back hair and narrow face. He wore a dark black and maroon suit, his fingers shined with various rings. Down each side of the table were senior members of the Family, each in their late 30s to early 50s, some fat some super skinny; killers and hustlers and thieves sitting around. Everyone not trusting the other more than they could see each other, especially in these tempestuous times of instability. “I will not have an outsider, especially a little girl, take control of the family. A family I worked so hard to bring back from the edge of death!” And Capricize slammed his fist down on the table, emotion splayed out all over his face. He received applause from the thirteen men sitting around him.
“But could it be so bad? I mean, I hear she’s done wonderful things for the Panera Family in
“You think this is good for us? She’s not a fuckin’ war-time capo even! The fucking Don’s funeral is front page news on the fuckin’ Post and Daily News! The fucking melanzane can read, Bobby! They’re going to know we’re a fuckin’ rudderless ship! Maddon’ if my father was alive to see this shit!” And Carpicize was standing now, leaning over the table. The fat faced Mafioso turned red and faced forward.
Carpicize sipped some wine and cleared his throat. “Now understand me here, I’m not saying I should be the boss, but I’m saying that the boss should come from within. And this little principessa needs to go.” His eyes grew wide to make sure everyone got the message. “She needs to go before she grabs on to too much. She needs to go before she meets with any other bosses in any other families. No allegiances can be made, nothing. She needs to be taken out, sooner the better for everyone.” And everyone dumbly nodded along.
“I know some guys up in
“Ok, we’ll talk here in a minute about that.”
Sean Clark walked into the 4-7’s Command Condo and found himself looking at the faces of NYPD’s top brass. He stopped short, slowly closing the door behind him, as three men in deep blue suits sat with their elbows on their knees, cups of coffee in their hands.
“Where’ve you been?” Captain Ramirez said from his office.
“Uh… I had a date?”
“The Commissioner wants a full report on the going ons with the Capasso Family since you’ve seemed to cozy up with this … new capo.” Ramirez said in a hushed tone.
“Heh, I got some news for you then,”
“Well, whatever news you do have, the boss has been waiting for an hour to hear it. I hope for your ass’s sake that this news you got is going to be good.”
“Oh, just you wait…” And
“Ahem, um, sir this is Officer Sean Clark, who’s been working on the Capasso Case.” And Commissioner Kelly extended his hand and
“Looks like you’ve been worked over officer,” the Commissioner said.
“Yeah, you could say that,”
“So what’s to report?”
“Heh, get ready for this,” and
“With the Capasso Family floundering as of late, Don Giovanni decided to look outside for some help to redirect the flow of money into the family. As we know, the Italians have been slowly pushed out from the major money making schemes in this city. But such is not the case in
“That this lady capo is the new boss of the Capassos?” The commissioner said in slight awe.
“Yeah. That means it’s now the De Rossi Family,”
“De Rossi? What do we know about this De Rossi?”
“She’s twenty-four, Canadian National, has a huge apartment on the Upper East Side, well guarded. She’s somewhat clueless as to how much shit she’s in,” and
“Is this credible information?” The Commissioner asked.
“Our CIs are some of the best in the business,” Ramirez said.
“I’ll give you the short version,”
“’The Carpenter’? That’s a funny nickname,” one of the men with the Commissioner said. Ramirez and Clark exchanged a look.
“A ‘Carpenter’ in mafia-speak,” started Ramirez, “is someone who makes bodies disappear. ‘Painters’ do the hits, ‘Carpenters’ get rid of the bodies.” Ramirez said low.
“Oh,” said the man.
“Anyway gentleman, what course of action do we take in light of all of this?” The commissioner asked.
“Well, there’s pros and cons to the situation,” Ramirez started. “We could let them take De Rossi out. She’s the only real leadership element in their organization, and let Carpicize take over. He’s an ineffectual leader, and most of the Capasso Family is too dumb to understand that. Without strong leadership we could bury the major crime family members by the end of next year, and the scraps we don’t get will easily fall in with other families and pollute them from the inside. The other option we have is that we protect De Rossi and use our man here,” and Ramirez nodded to
“How close are you to this De Rossi, officer?”
“Um, I’m uh,”
“She’s taken a liking to him, you could say that,” and Ramirez smiled. The commissioner nodded knowingly.
“Then I say we use our asset here to get in close. I don’t see a need to draw blood over this issue. If things get too hot, we can offer her protection, maybe even turn her into a state’s witness, especially if she’s being chased around this city by trigger happy wops. From here on in, your officer wears a wire,” and the commissioner stood and his men followed.
“Uh sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea,”
“Heh, if you’re going to be hanging out with your new girlfriend all day, officer, you’re going to be getting us some prime cut information, and that’s that.” And the commissioner shook hands with Ramirez and Clark and let himself out.
An hour later
“Hey,” he said as he answered.
“What are you doing tonight?” She asked. Her voice was rich and the accent always put a smile on his face. He looked around the empty condo, Ramirez had gone home for the night already, leaving him to type up some reports that he didn’t really want to do.
“Nothing, just hanging out, why what’s up?”
“I’m having a late dinner with Jack Carpicize at Tavern on the Green in
“Yeah, what time do you want to meet up?” He could instantly hear the happiness in her voice.
“Dinner’s at ten, so be there before that, ok? I guess he’s already reserved a table, so just use his name when you get there, ok? And make sure you look nice,”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” and he closed his phone, got up and started looking through his dressier clothes.
Tavern on the Green was the
Clark arrived a little late wearing a black suit coat, designer jeans and a button up shirt that he left a little unbuttoned at the top. Even though it was night time he wore his Ray Ban aviators to help conceal the bruises on his face which were still healing. Under his expensive clothes he wore his Glock 19 on his waist, no holster, and deep down against his skin he had the tiny wire going from just under his throat down to the little digital recorder at the small of his back. Even wearing it made him excited and jumpy. He was sweating and swearing under his breath.
He walked in and the maitre d asked him if he was with a party. He gave the name Carpicize and was instantly shown to a table in the way back where Jack the Carpenter and Martina De Rossi were already seated, drinking wine and nibbling on an appetizer.
“There he is!” De Rossi said, a little tipsy already. She stood and gave
“Hey,”
“Controllarlo” and he pointed to
“No Jack, no, you’re not going to pat down a friend of mine in front of me. That is a great insult where I’m from!” The goon stood behind
“Well, welcome to
He pulled it out by the grip and showed it to Carpicize. The Carpenter nodded and pointed to the table. A few of the other diners gasped at the sight of the weapon but there wasn’t much fanfare.
“You weren’t going to use that thing on me tonight, were you sonny?” He asked across the table.
“No,”
“I didn’t think so, but for dinner, I’m going to hold on to it, ok?”
“That’s fine, as long as I get it back,”
“You know, I didn’t even want you here tonight, I wanted this to be a meeting of Family members, to discuss the direction of the Capas-, excuse me, the De Rossi Family. And now I get to look at your Mick face all night while I try to enjoy my chicken spiccola,”
“Ugh, you’re such an ass,” De Rossi said from her seat, and forked a ravioli into her mouth. Carpicize smiled at her and turned back to
“What is it you do in
“I do a little bit of this and a little bit of that,”
“Mm, I love a guy who thinks I’m so stupid to think I don’t know when someone’s avoiding a question,”
“Last time I checked Mr. Carpicize, I didn’t report to anyone at this table. I’m just hear on loan,”
“Yes, yes, isn’t that the trend lately. Outsiders coming into town on loan, it’s very interesting,” And De Rossi cut him a look from over her wine glass. “Anyway, I’m going to talk in Italian to Ms. De Rossi now, so if you’ll excuse us for a moment?” And he turned towards Martina. They began to converse in Italian, and the exchange became very heated.
“I’m sorry it has to be this way, Mr. Capricize,” and she began to walk and wobble her way out of the restaurant. Carpicize smiled at
“Why don’t you go catch up with your mistress, lap dog?” And
Outside Martina De Rossi was standing in her heels and dress, lightly touching her face with a napkin she took from inside.
The truck came to a stop in front of them, and Michael (or was it Michael Anthony?) got the door for them.
“What’d he say to you back there, in Italian?” He asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Bullshit, you’re not gonna tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell, so why bother?” The truck slowly pulled out into traffic.
“Well, Martina, I know something’s wrong, you’re crying. What’d he say?”
“Nothing, I’m fine!”
“What’re you talking about? I’m asking you right now what he said!”
“But you wouldn’t do anything about it! There’s nothing you can do!”
“Listen to me, just tell me what he said and I’l” And suddenly there was a screech of tires and the driver, Michael or Michael Anthony cursed aloud.
“Merde!” And the front of the
“Are you ok?”
Suddenly gunfire burst outside and people started to scream.
He sat up and pulled De Rossi into the back of the truck again, where they had started out, telling her to stay down. He pressed her head down to his knees, and drew his pistol out from his jeans and tried to see what was going on outside. More gunfire, automatic sounding started to cut through the SUV, loud metallic pings and pops. Glass shattering around them.
He glanced up and saw a man in a black ski mask running up to the car and he got ready. The rear door where they were sitting came flying open and a man in a leather jacket with a ski mask leveled a shotgun at them.
“Go go!”
“A gun, no! I don’t do guns!” She yelled over more clattering of machine gun fire.
“This is not an option, take the fucking gun Martina!” And he shoved it into her hands. He bent and picked up the pump 12 gauge shotgun and racked another round into the chamber, catching the unused shell in his hand and recycling it back into magazine tube. He looked back at De Rossi who was holding the pistol awkwardly and prayed that they got out of this alive.
Things got quiet with just the sound of crunching glass and cackling of fire. Slowly
“Come on, we gotta move!”
“Stop here,” and they pulled in behind a large granite block in the park. Sirens were approaching and
De Rossi was crying and slumped down against the rock.
“Ok, let’s get out of here,” and pulled De Rossi up.
They got back to her apartment, after taking a long hike to the north end of the park, and then a bus over to the UES. Once they got up to her place via private elevator,
He stalked around the three floors of her apartment with a fireplace poker and when he was satisfied that they didn’t have anyone waiting for them here he came back and got De Rossi.
They both had a drink in her library, by candle light and she clung closely to him. He played with her hair until it seemed like she was asleep.
He tried to move from under her, but when he did, she clung to him tighter. He sighed and then picked her up and carried her back to her bedroom where he laid her flat on her bed.
The bedroom had a big king sized four poster bed with sheer sheets hanging down. It also had a wall of floor to ceiling windows that showed the entire city and park lit up.
“You can’t go!” She said sleepily.
“I gotta,” he said back to her.
“Noooo” and she trailed off.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,”
“But I don’t want to be alone, stay.” And she tugged dangerously at his shirt by the wire. He groaned.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea Martina,”
“Why not? Do you have a girlfriend back in
“No, it’s not that, it’s”
“So stay.” She looked into his eyes, hers being so dark in the low light.
“Lemme go change in the bathroom then,” and she let him go and he walked over to the bathroom which was roughly the size of his first apartment in
He stripped down to his boxers, tucking the wire into the back pocket of the jeans and came back out. She opened up the bed for him and he slid under the sheets next to her. He found her naked already and before he could say anything, she kissed him hard on his lips, her fingers tugging at his boxers.
“Why did you bother to keep these on?”
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
'Gonzo' Doc Trailer
Go see this. See it twice actually. And when it comes out on dvd, buy five copies of it.
G-Dub's Itinerary for July 8th, 2007
It's not like our current President has much to do now-a-days, since all the focus is on the up coming election. So what does he do all day? I was handed this exclusive itinerary from a confidential source. Check it out.
0945- Just wakin' up, tell Laura to get us some coffee, the Mini Page, and to let the dog out.
1030- Half-way finish my Sodoku For Kids, decide on which tie to where with what suit.
1130- Finish getting dressed, pick out blue tie with gray suit. Laura makes me put the brown shit kickers back.
1200- Send out one of the guys to get some wings from Hooters for lunch. At the same time, have Mitch in Secret Services drive by Arianna Huffinton's house all slow-like a few times. Heh-heh.
1245- Write letter on Presidential Stationary to FOX News, ask why they haven't picked up that Colbert fella from Comedy Central yet. He's good.
1315- Log on to WOW, try to build my Elf Paladin to level 75.
1555- Call up the girls, ask if they're still virgins.
1610- Walk down to the basement and see if Dick's battery needs to be changed out.
1705- Reorganize 'Top Friends' on my Myspace page, move McClellen to bottom of list!
1730- Dinner in front of tv
1845- Browse craigslist for fishing poles, new aids.
1930- Have someone explain to me what 'Katrina' was all about anyway, make plans to stand next to some sand bags in midwest flood zones for pictures.
2000- Private viewing of new Indiana Jones movie in theater, try to put moves on Laura during the boring parts.
2200- Call England, see what Tony's been up to. Rip on that new guy that took his job.
2245- Lights out, sleep with clear conscience.
0945- Just wakin' up, tell Laura to get us some coffee, the Mini Page, and to let the dog out.
1030- Half-way finish my Sodoku For Kids, decide on which tie to where with what suit.
1130- Finish getting dressed, pick out blue tie with gray suit. Laura makes me put the brown shit kickers back.
1200- Send out one of the guys to get some wings from Hooters for lunch. At the same time, have Mitch in Secret Services drive by Arianna Huffinton's house all slow-like a few times. Heh-heh.
1245- Write letter on Presidential Stationary to FOX News, ask why they haven't picked up that Colbert fella from Comedy Central yet. He's good.
1315- Log on to WOW, try to build my Elf Paladin to level 75.
1555- Call up the girls, ask if they're still virgins.
1610- Walk down to the basement and see if Dick's battery needs to be changed out.
1705- Reorganize 'Top Friends' on my Myspace page, move McClellen to bottom of list!
1730- Dinner in front of tv
1845- Browse craigslist for fishing poles, new aids.
1930- Have someone explain to me what 'Katrina' was all about anyway, make plans to stand next to some sand bags in midwest flood zones for pictures.
2000- Private viewing of new Indiana Jones movie in theater, try to put moves on Laura during the boring parts.
2200- Call England, see what Tony's been up to. Rip on that new guy that took his job.
2245- Lights out, sleep with clear conscience.
Monday, July 7, 2008
I'll Take A Hot Cup Of Kharma, With Skim And Light Foam...
Honestly, when your business charges 4.00 USD for a cup of fucking coffee, no matter how fancy your despondent 19 year old employee behind the counter makes it, you're business is in line to get whacked.
Earlier last week, the (vastly inferrior, in my humblest of opinions) coffee chain Starbucks announced that for the first time in the company's history, it was going to close some of it's locations, six hundred to be exact. These closings mean that now Manhattanites will be forced to wait in line for a double mocha vanilla latte for approximately two minutes longer.
If you couldn't tell yet, I have zero fucking sympathy for the Seattle-based coffee chain. With the on-set of a recession, gas prices hovering around what some snobbish prick would pay for a cup of hi-test coffee, and the country continuing to spin around the bottom of the toilet bowl, any one could plainly see that Starbucks was fucking itself in it's Colombian-imported asshole.
According to NYT Business editor Brad Stone, alot of Starbucks' trouble stemmed from piss poor real estate decisions. Apparently, the folks at the helm of the good ship Starbucks thought it'd be a good idea to put locations within spitting distance of each other. You know, just in case the five minute waiting line was too long at one store, you could literally walk across the street to the other location, and wait five minutes over there.
I know this for a fact because I used to go to school in Manhattan's Clinton district, what used to be known as Hell's Kitchen. I would get off the subway at 57th and 7th (Q, R, N, W lines), and hoof it three blocks west and two blocks north. In that span of time, which was usually a fifteen minute walk, I would see no less than five fucking Starbucks. Two more if you counted the two inside the Time Warner building (one actual store on the ground level, another inside the Barnes and Nobles on the third floor.)
Coincidently, this is the trend that Starbucks' Board of Directors wanted to take across the country. According to Stone's article, Starbucks planned to have 1000 unit locations in the state of Florida alone. One thousand fucking Starbucks. Are you serious?!
I'm from a small town in Southern Maine, population hovering around 20K annually. I can think of three Starbucks within five minutes of each other back home. Christ.
So The New York Times' Stone thinks it's the location that drove Starbucks to kill 600 of it's own stores. It's not, though it could be seen as circumstantial evidence that would lead one to believe so. No, it's the fact that people, even the ridiculous Upper East Siders, in their lavish 39th floor 9000.00 USD a month apartments in Manhattan can no longer reasonably spend the amount of money they once were on something as frivilous as coffee. Not when you can go to any deli or sandwich shop or little cart parked on the sidewalk next to a newsstand, and get a cup of regular-ass coffee for a dollar.
All you're paying for at Starbucks is the status symbol. The ability to walk around with a cup in your hand, in a little gay sleeve, that says "hey, I can afford to drop 5 dollars on this cup of bland, watery coffee with some fucking milk foam on it." That's all. In the heirarchy of fucking coffee chains, Starbucks is the fucking lowest. It really is, as far as taste, price, employees, everything; if I had a score card for every commercial chain coffee joint I'd ever frequented, Starbucks would be dead last in all catagories.
You know, Starbucks does serve just a regular cup of coffee for about a dollar, maybe a little more. It sucks. And when you order it, as in "can I just have a plain-ass cup of coffee please?" You get a funny look from the cunt behind the register, a completely filled cup of black shit, and a finger pointing to where the cream and sugar is.
How the fuck am I supposed to work with this shit, Gretchen? You do realize that if I try to add creamer to this ... giant cup of hot blackness, I'm going to spill it all over the place, right?
And it's a horrible, terrible, burnt-to-shit French Roast.
I was subject to Starbucks for the three years I lived in NYC. For some reason, they have about a million Starbucks (also, strangely - just about a third of the people I met while living in NYC worked, or had worked for a Starbucks... weird) in the city, but only four Dunkin Donuts. So when I was pressed for coffee (and I drank a lot more of it then than I do now for some reason) and I coudn't find a small diner or deli, I had to go to Starbucks.
And while waiting in line, I'd sooner be driving a rusty nail through my cheek, to pin my tongue to my opposite cheek.
And you have these people, with their ridiculously long orders to the robot-like kid behind the counter. Some trendy bitch in a fur coat and gloves sounding off what seems like a grocery list than a coffee order:
"I'll take a decaff, skim-only, double foamed, chocolate and vanilla latte with a twist of lemon and a little bit of cinnamon. Oh, a little whip creme too!"
I understand now, why NYC has such heavy restrictions on firearms.
Back to the point at hand though, Starbucks shot itself in the foot by trying too hard. Literally like Britany Spears, Starbucks pushed itself to the point of actual implosion, caving under the weight of it's own celebrity. One could see the backlash from a mile away. How long did you think stupid Americans were going to continue to try to impress each other with cardboard cups?
How long were we going to pretend the emperor wasn't really naked and the coffee really didn't suck?
Earlier last week, the (vastly inferrior, in my humblest of opinions) coffee chain Starbucks announced that for the first time in the company's history, it was going to close some of it's locations, six hundred to be exact. These closings mean that now Manhattanites will be forced to wait in line for a double mocha vanilla latte for approximately two minutes longer.
If you couldn't tell yet, I have zero fucking sympathy for the Seattle-based coffee chain. With the on-set of a recession, gas prices hovering around what some snobbish prick would pay for a cup of hi-test coffee, and the country continuing to spin around the bottom of the toilet bowl, any one could plainly see that Starbucks was fucking itself in it's Colombian-imported asshole.
According to NYT Business editor Brad Stone, alot of Starbucks' trouble stemmed from piss poor real estate decisions. Apparently, the folks at the helm of the good ship Starbucks thought it'd be a good idea to put locations within spitting distance of each other. You know, just in case the five minute waiting line was too long at one store, you could literally walk across the street to the other location, and wait five minutes over there.
I know this for a fact because I used to go to school in Manhattan's Clinton district, what used to be known as Hell's Kitchen. I would get off the subway at 57th and 7th (Q, R, N, W lines), and hoof it three blocks west and two blocks north. In that span of time, which was usually a fifteen minute walk, I would see no less than five fucking Starbucks. Two more if you counted the two inside the Time Warner building (one actual store on the ground level, another inside the Barnes and Nobles on the third floor.)
Coincidently, this is the trend that Starbucks' Board of Directors wanted to take across the country. According to Stone's article, Starbucks planned to have 1000 unit locations in the state of Florida alone. One thousand fucking Starbucks. Are you serious?!
I'm from a small town in Southern Maine, population hovering around 20K annually. I can think of three Starbucks within five minutes of each other back home. Christ.
So The New York Times' Stone thinks it's the location that drove Starbucks to kill 600 of it's own stores. It's not, though it could be seen as circumstantial evidence that would lead one to believe so. No, it's the fact that people, even the ridiculous Upper East Siders, in their lavish 39th floor 9000.00 USD a month apartments in Manhattan can no longer reasonably spend the amount of money they once were on something as frivilous as coffee. Not when you can go to any deli or sandwich shop or little cart parked on the sidewalk next to a newsstand, and get a cup of regular-ass coffee for a dollar.
All you're paying for at Starbucks is the status symbol. The ability to walk around with a cup in your hand, in a little gay sleeve, that says "hey, I can afford to drop 5 dollars on this cup of bland, watery coffee with some fucking milk foam on it." That's all. In the heirarchy of fucking coffee chains, Starbucks is the fucking lowest. It really is, as far as taste, price, employees, everything; if I had a score card for every commercial chain coffee joint I'd ever frequented, Starbucks would be dead last in all catagories.
You know, Starbucks does serve just a regular cup of coffee for about a dollar, maybe a little more. It sucks. And when you order it, as in "can I just have a plain-ass cup of coffee please?" You get a funny look from the cunt behind the register, a completely filled cup of black shit, and a finger pointing to where the cream and sugar is.
How the fuck am I supposed to work with this shit, Gretchen? You do realize that if I try to add creamer to this ... giant cup of hot blackness, I'm going to spill it all over the place, right?
And it's a horrible, terrible, burnt-to-shit French Roast.
I was subject to Starbucks for the three years I lived in NYC. For some reason, they have about a million Starbucks (also, strangely - just about a third of the people I met while living in NYC worked, or had worked for a Starbucks... weird) in the city, but only four Dunkin Donuts. So when I was pressed for coffee (and I drank a lot more of it then than I do now for some reason) and I coudn't find a small diner or deli, I had to go to Starbucks.
And while waiting in line, I'd sooner be driving a rusty nail through my cheek, to pin my tongue to my opposite cheek.
And you have these people, with their ridiculously long orders to the robot-like kid behind the counter. Some trendy bitch in a fur coat and gloves sounding off what seems like a grocery list than a coffee order:
"I'll take a decaff, skim-only, double foamed, chocolate and vanilla latte with a twist of lemon and a little bit of cinnamon. Oh, a little whip creme too!"
I understand now, why NYC has such heavy restrictions on firearms.
Back to the point at hand though, Starbucks shot itself in the foot by trying too hard. Literally like Britany Spears, Starbucks pushed itself to the point of actual implosion, caving under the weight of it's own celebrity. One could see the backlash from a mile away. How long did you think stupid Americans were going to continue to try to impress each other with cardboard cups?
How long were we going to pretend the emperor wasn't really naked and the coffee really didn't suck?
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