Cap It All Off

All kinds of things going on right now. I'm being paid at work to do little more than color. I kid you not, I am formatting spreadsheets for the right color scheme because that's what the cockholsters want. PigTit wants it that way, and from what can only be a serious lack of oversight, or a serious and untreated head injury, PigTit has attained of level of authority at the Death Star. Like most of the management around there, he was handed his job as a reward for, you know, not generally bothering anyone. The squeaky wheel gets the shift-supervisor position. The bulbous, pink wheel gets the better money and a full meeting schedule. And he gets to smell like pennies and eat with his mouth open at the age of 46. Oh why not... I wasn't hungry anyway.

I think it's funny to see how things have changed in the past year. I've spent another year on the path of self-enlightenment, learning more about myself through comedy than anywhere else. I need to watch my sets again, open minded, so that I can hear what I'm saying and see if there's a tag-line or 19 I can come up with. Also, it's important for me to judge myself. It seems redundant, I mean, 200+ peeps laughing at and hooting for my humor stylings, that seems like enough justice for a comedian. But if you're cheating the Man In The Mirror, you have to ask yourself why you're playing Backgammon against yourself. Get a date, with anyone, even if they're ugly. Or if you want REAL fun, e-mail me and we'll go down to the Open Mic on Monday night, sit in the back and rip on crappy comics. That's about as much fun as you'll ever find. Some things never change.

The first half of this year treated me like it caught me fingering its daughter in the hut tub. That's wrong. Hot tubs are bad places for sex. Good for the rev-up, bad for popping the clutch. Mostly though, I had some times there where I felt like I was running just fast enough to not get caught by Life's Camaro, barrelling down on me with BTO blaring - B-b-baby you just ain't seen nothin' yet... It wasn't always so horrendous. There have been a lot of moments I barely remember with some great people that I will never forget. But between the news of my dad, the tribulations of my friends, and getting out of a relationship I had stress with a capital "WHAT THE FAWK?" But things are turning around, and I'm staying off drugs. Only caffeine, alcohol, and whatever the doctor prescribed my downstairs neighbor who leaves her door unlocked when she goes to the mailbox. Side effects be damned, I was figuratively backdoored by the Fates! I don't know what she was prescribed but it's regulating my flow. Tender nip-nips, though.

It's really nice to get things wrapped up, though. I've recently taken to Feng Shui, which a lot of folks think is simply a crap-ton of lies and sage-scented hooey. The real deal is that anybody with a few positive thoughts and the right mindset will be able to generate the right areas in their lives. Or if you think that you're someone who always gets screwed over and the world is out to get you, you'll eventually behave in a way that makes people bail or dump on you. I know that I can only take so much arm-punching and put downs before the I show someone the door while kicking 'em into it. Then you Feng Shui that door, likely in your "Helpful People and Travel" gua (area, in New Age Hype) and if you get things in order, there will be more order in your life. And if you step to me right now, I have all the means and reason in the world to show you how animals take dominance in the wild. Marking my territory? Yeah... violently. Just ask the woman downstairs who tried to take her pills back. Caught me on the come-down.

Have you ever seen a woman sit on a balloon? Mmmmm, now we're talkin'.
That was weird.

Yesterday, a bus in the Dave Matthews Band caravan pooped in the Chicago River. Perhaps this is the beginning of a new DMB. Finally shedding their envi-rock-mental poncho in favor of hip-hugging leather pants and scat shots. Still, they'll never match Led Zeppelin at the Edgewater Hotel. What, you haven't heard about that? Oh crap, look it up! Off to my parent's gua. I'll be over at Laughs tonight. Damn, you are gorgeous.

Let's make oat.

Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

New Feature on Sunday!
Hey kids, make sure you tune in for the first installment of a new feature, "Yo, Scott Weiland!"
The drug-abusing, mascara-wearing, stage-slithering lead singer of Velvet Revolver and formerly of Stone Temple Pilots and I sat down for tea last week. Turns out that Scott, or "S-Dub" as he hates being called, loves my blog. But he's not allowed to use the internet very often, and wants to share his message of love, hope, and reality-skewing with the world. So if you have any questions you'd like to ask Scott, email him Right Here, and I'll post his answers on this site. I'm positive that Scott Weiland is going to answer your questions.

(Internet Owner's Note: This sounds like a crap-ton of crap, but hey, keeps the kid off the street. Help him out.)

Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Hit The Showers

Nice weather, huh? I love this crap. We need it, that's for sure. If you look around you'll notice that our streets were looking a little bad, our forests were in need of moisture, and for the sake of cheese, did you smell the drifters? I'd call them homeless, but that's like saying they're looking for a permanent residence at the time. Nah, they want beer and to street-pee. Who doesn't? Public urination is a privilege afforded to those who sleep in their own filth. Don't take EVERYTHING from them.

The rain has helped me sleep. For the last two weeks, while it was Africa hot out, I was fighting this MF'er of a chest cold. It was hard enough to breathe without the dry air spackling mucous to my bronchii. So then it starts to rain and BINGO I'm over it. I'm not telling my doctor, though. My cough meds have codeine in 'em! Another SlackLung & Rum Punch, por favor. And now it's pouring out. It's actually motivating me to write more jokes. Or join the Merchant Marine... steal away on a gunship, a barkentine. Something heady, square-rigged to the fore and aft, half-rigged at the main and the mizzen, cut from steel and forged from the hearts of angels... what the f*ck am I talking about?

I had a great weekend. Thursday at the Moonraker in Kent. Great f*cking set there. Monster set. Friday in Everett, opening for Brett J - "Playin' the Hits." There's an understood idea within the African American comedy community that it's okay to perform "Street Jokes," those that we tell each other "on the street" or are found more on the internet these days. Watch any comedy show on BET, it's all over the place. Makes me ill, frankly. Anyway, did that, it was fun, made a couple extra dollhairs.

Spent a few hours on the town, realizing that the bar scene is a game for men who have no idea what the bar scene is about. It's actually kind of sad to see a guy in his 30s working at a bar he doesn't own. That's my take on it. Unless the guy has major respect from the industry, such as Murray at ZigZag, widely believed to be the best 'tender in Seattle, then a 33 year old tilting his head and raising an eyebrow when a girl asks for yet ANOTHER LemonDrop is creepier than a Jeffrey Dahmer cookbook. Fonzie was a molester, but at least he was fictional.

Content removed.

I'm off to an acupuncturist today. I'll tell you about it when I can feel me eyes again. Let's make out.

Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Couldn't Have Said It Better Myself

Man, this guy's got the right idea.

I'm a dick.
===============

Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.