Last night I went to Olympia with Tracy Tuffs for a comedy show at the Bar Code. Had a great show. Tracy will be at Giggles all weekend. I'll be there Saturday night, both shows, 8pm & 10pm, in the event you want to come out and catch a fun, turkey-hangover show.
A few little birdies told me that somebody has been trying to contact me, and that the contacting party was none too happy with something about my blog or whatever. So here we go:
The great birdies who have my phone number, feel free to give it to the person who wants to contact me if they should call you.
And keep any voicemails they may leave you.
Sorry that this is so cryptic. This is a bullcrap matter that needs to be shoveled off, and I'm not mentioning any names or specifics until it's settled. Until then, let's take your picture:
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Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Give Thanks For This, Too
The Neptunes are overrated.
Today is the most travelingest day of the year, and I'm heading to Olympia for an 8:30 show with Tracy Tuffs. Likely arriving at exit 105 with a few bruises, I can't be in a car with anyone for 3 hours. Man, there better be a big turn-out or I'll go bar to bar to recruit peeps.
Worst "Popular" Band Of All Time: The Violent Femmes. Let me go wild. Like a blister on your eardrum. Then I go deaf. Big fans I hope you all die.
Tony Moser authors, or authorED - past tense, the worst blog on the internet. Best name, worst content. It brings a certain indie-vibe, backyard wrestling feel to the blog-stand. Bored with it. Get out of my sight, I'm done with you.
While KD Lang's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is beautiful, Jeff Buckley's version of the homage to love gone strong will haunt you like his untimely death at the age of 27. Yet another genius gone before his time. Jeff's version is a spin of Leonard's, and KD's version is actually Jeff's version. I encourage you to find a copy of it. Lyrics linked below.
Leonard's Lyrics
Jeff's Lyrics
===========
HOLY CRAP. I heard this was funny, but dear God, hast Thou brought forth unto me the funniest blog of all time? It's none other than BRITNEY SPEARS! Read THIS, scroll down to "Letter From Britney." Oh Lord, you are a kind and loving Lord. This makes up for Tony Moser.
It was reported on "the news" this morning that Britney's site had posted a letter about her wanting to start a family and that mothers shouldn't focus on working outside the home. Things are really black & white when you're still young. And from Oklahoma. And dumber than a turd. Please Britney, have that baby (Kevin Federline's specialty is, in fact, fathering children) and be the best stay at home mom ever.
===========
Oh my GAWD, I want PIE.
Happy Thanksgiving, Butter Rolls.
--------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Today is the most travelingest day of the year, and I'm heading to Olympia for an 8:30 show with Tracy Tuffs. Likely arriving at exit 105 with a few bruises, I can't be in a car with anyone for 3 hours. Man, there better be a big turn-out or I'll go bar to bar to recruit peeps.
Worst "Popular" Band Of All Time: The Violent Femmes. Let me go wild. Like a blister on your eardrum. Then I go deaf. Big fans I hope you all die.
Tony Moser authors, or authorED - past tense, the worst blog on the internet. Best name, worst content. It brings a certain indie-vibe, backyard wrestling feel to the blog-stand. Bored with it. Get out of my sight, I'm done with you.
While KD Lang's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is beautiful, Jeff Buckley's version of the homage to love gone strong will haunt you like his untimely death at the age of 27. Yet another genius gone before his time. Jeff's version is a spin of Leonard's, and KD's version is actually Jeff's version. I encourage you to find a copy of it. Lyrics linked below.
Leonard's Lyrics
Jeff's Lyrics
===========
HOLY CRAP. I heard this was funny, but dear God, hast Thou brought forth unto me the funniest blog of all time? It's none other than BRITNEY SPEARS! Read THIS, scroll down to "Letter From Britney." Oh Lord, you are a kind and loving Lord. This makes up for Tony Moser.
It was reported on "the news" this morning that Britney's site had posted a letter about her wanting to start a family and that mothers shouldn't focus on working outside the home. Things are really black & white when you're still young. And from Oklahoma. And dumber than a turd. Please Britney, have that baby (Kevin Federline's specialty is, in fact, fathering children) and be the best stay at home mom ever.
===========
Oh my GAWD, I want PIE.
Happy Thanksgiving, Butter Rolls.
--------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Are We, As a Nation, Sexually Repressed?
I dunno. This picture's been on the Top-5 of Yahoo's Most Popular Photos for like 2 Weeks now:
WHOA
I don't know what to make of it. It's either funny or sick or weird or waiting for a caption. Caption Contest! Winner, chosen by me, gets a beer, paid for by me.
The little rhino is the calf of the other two. Deposit your loads, Peepers.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
WHOA
I don't know what to make of it. It's either funny or sick or weird or waiting for a caption. Caption Contest! Winner, chosen by me, gets a beer, paid for by me.
The little rhino is the calf of the other two. Deposit your loads, Peepers.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
For Thee, On The Day We Giveth Thanks & Eat Till We Crap
What am I thankful for this year?
Hmm. There's a lot. Do I have to pick just one? No? Damn, that'd been a quick-un. Hmmkee then.
I'm thankful that I can walk. 6 years ago I was run into by a Harley Davidson piloted by a beer-drunk speed dealer with 18 teeth and even less money. I bounced off the front of the bike, 10 feet into the air, 50 feet into the street. Having once spent 5 years throwing shot-put, I know 50 feet to be a good distance to be body-checked. All I got out of it, damage-wise, was a broken leg. In light of that, I'm happy that my leg is still attached to my body. I'm happy and thankful that my body still operates about 95% of what it did before the accident.
I'm thankful for my friends. They are good and real people. They are people whom I would travel upwards of 50 miles to watch make-out with pseudo-celebs, just to back their story of having made out with a guy who dressed like a girl who looked like Scarlett Johansson with an Adam's Apple and a Cinnabon addiction.
I'm thankful for my creativity. How else could I go through a day and immediately think of ways to jiggle the handles of people's collective banality without it? Try this, tomorrow when you're in a grocery store: No matter how many items the person in front of you has, ask if you can go ahead of them because you have to go to the hospital or your kid's in the car or whatever. Play it as serious as you can. It's cool, nobody ever double-checks that crap. Live a little, would ya?
Oooh, I like it like dat, she workin' dat back, I 'unno howda ac', Slow Moshun Fuh Meh...
I'm thankful that I got to see a lot of great comedy this year. I wish people would realize that comics, good ones, are telling us what's going on without painting in on the walls. It's a hip civics lesson, a social study with a low-carb beer chaser on the hook. It's small, but oh God, it is so Big. Just go and enjoy laughing, get your knees wet. FEET! I meant FEET wet. Wow, it got a little hot in here.
I'm thankful for being able to do 90 minutes of yoga in a 114-degree room. That's not a boast, I'm just saying I've found my new physio-drug. It's like taking the old Porsche out, getting it lubed up and letting it run open, seeing what it can do with all it's been given, then careening side-assed into an old folk's home asking "If I'm in Heaven, why does it smell like hot nylons and ribbon candy?" You're not dead, you're Zen. Now. In the moment. In this word only. No then. No there. Here. Now. brrrrrreep!
Most of all, I'm thankful that people are reading this at all. I hope it entertains, above all, and if you laugh more than you cry and ask "WHY ISN'T THIS FUNNY? I NEED FUNNY!" that's a gem, moppets.
Bring on the bird. Daddy needs bird. Pie my ass. PIE IT.
History Lesson for another day: White People Are Assholes, and Black Comics Will Let You KNOW!
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Hmm. There's a lot. Do I have to pick just one? No? Damn, that'd been a quick-un. Hmmkee then.
I'm thankful that I can walk. 6 years ago I was run into by a Harley Davidson piloted by a beer-drunk speed dealer with 18 teeth and even less money. I bounced off the front of the bike, 10 feet into the air, 50 feet into the street. Having once spent 5 years throwing shot-put, I know 50 feet to be a good distance to be body-checked. All I got out of it, damage-wise, was a broken leg. In light of that, I'm happy that my leg is still attached to my body. I'm happy and thankful that my body still operates about 95% of what it did before the accident.
I'm thankful for my friends. They are good and real people. They are people whom I would travel upwards of 50 miles to watch make-out with pseudo-celebs, just to back their story of having made out with a guy who dressed like a girl who looked like Scarlett Johansson with an Adam's Apple and a Cinnabon addiction.
I'm thankful for my creativity. How else could I go through a day and immediately think of ways to jiggle the handles of people's collective banality without it? Try this, tomorrow when you're in a grocery store: No matter how many items the person in front of you has, ask if you can go ahead of them because you have to go to the hospital or your kid's in the car or whatever. Play it as serious as you can. It's cool, nobody ever double-checks that crap. Live a little, would ya?
Oooh, I like it like dat, she workin' dat back, I 'unno howda ac', Slow Moshun Fuh Meh...
I'm thankful that I got to see a lot of great comedy this year. I wish people would realize that comics, good ones, are telling us what's going on without painting in on the walls. It's a hip civics lesson, a social study with a low-carb beer chaser on the hook. It's small, but oh God, it is so Big. Just go and enjoy laughing, get your knees wet. FEET! I meant FEET wet. Wow, it got a little hot in here.
I'm thankful for being able to do 90 minutes of yoga in a 114-degree room. That's not a boast, I'm just saying I've found my new physio-drug. It's like taking the old Porsche out, getting it lubed up and letting it run open, seeing what it can do with all it's been given, then careening side-assed into an old folk's home asking "If I'm in Heaven, why does it smell like hot nylons and ribbon candy?" You're not dead, you're Zen. Now. In the moment. In this word only. No then. No there. Here. Now. brrrrrreep!
Most of all, I'm thankful that people are reading this at all. I hope it entertains, above all, and if you laugh more than you cry and ask "WHY ISN'T THIS FUNNY? I NEED FUNNY!" that's a gem, moppets.
Bring on the bird. Daddy needs bird. Pie my ass. PIE IT.
History Lesson for another day: White People Are Assholes, and Black Comics Will Let You KNOW!
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Thank You, Kind Patriot!
I'm walking into work this morning through the back door of the building. It's mostly the front door, since most people park in the back. It's a little before 9am, and I am one of three people arriving to the door about the same time. Due to regulations of insecurity and perceived attention of Orwellian stature, we have Photo-ID badges along with the access badge you wave over the sensor so the door that you don't really want to go through will unlock.
As I arrive to the door I'm on the phone with a misdirected, self-important, and panicking "English As A Form of 3 Languages" efficiency analyst, and not having a whole lot of fun in the process. Efficacy of Communication = More Time For Actual Productivity. The Guy ahead of me waves his badge, opens the door, and I slide in behind him, phone in one hand, pistol-grip flask in the other. Kidding, it was just my notebook from last week's meeting with the Dingleberry 5, er, CONTRACT PARTNERS. ANYway...
The guy behind me, who hopped out of his Saab, tied a scarf around his neck - after, of course, donning a pair of woolen mittens and canvas/courdoroy jacket - for the 24 second walk to the door (all ordered from the LL Bean "Overkill" collection), and was a step or two behind me then says "Hey, sorry, I'm gonna have to ask you to swipe your badge. I know it's crazy, but..."
Yes, "Todd," it is crazy. I've never seen you before. You don't have the authority to command my badge-swiping. I've been here 6 years and have the old-school badge to f*cking-A prove it. Maybe he saw the look on my face and immediately thought "Disgruntled, carrying a black bag, I could be on the 5 o'clock news!"
Sure thing, with the text "Man Beaten Diaper-Bound In Bothell For Attempting Authority." I didn't have the extra hand to swipe the badge, but I figured, what the heck, I'll bother this guy for a few minutes.
I tell my phone conversationist that I need to go due to a security breach, and I hang up. I then pat my pockets and belt-line to find my badge, which was clipped to my belt, but hidden by my jacket. So as he stands there losing his gruntle, I think "I could totally take this guy in a fight," and therefore start the "Gosh, hmm, where... gosh, did I leave it?... well, how about we go to the front desk so I can get a pass for the day. Looks like I forgot my badge this morning." The look on Toddlet's face changes to "Well at least I can save the day." Then he looked at his watch, and the amount of F*cking I was going to do with him shifted up a gear. Every extra 5 seconds I have to spend here is 5 extra minutes for the cause of my slow-down.
We walked to the badging/security station, a good 150 feet from our original entrance in near silence. The guy was annoyed at this point, but I'm a teaching soul, I couldn't let him not learn the importance of not giving a crap about work. Even if I was a guy who was going to shoot the place up, I didn't know him, so before his interruption, he would have been among the survivors. But now, hey, don't I deserve a little entertainment?
I tell the guy at the front that I forgot my badge and this prick to my right stopped me at the back door like a good watchdog. Not in those words, but y'unnerstan'. I draw out the explanation as long as I can, stating I must have left the badge on my desk over the weekend and you know how that happens and then you feel like it's a Catch-22 did you ever read that book it was better than the movie but at the same time... moving on. Finally the Security Guy (he's really not a Guard of anything) says "Uh, what's your extension?"
Gosh... I really hope I can remember it, being 4 numbers and all.
2 combinations later, he dials it and looks up at me, about the same time I, SURPRISE AND HOSANNA, find my badge in my inner pocket!
I swipe it and cruise through the doors up to Boredom Ave. about the same time I notice Saab Taad tilt his head back and inhale deeply in the universal gesture of getting a facial in an adult film. That's right Taad, you're on Carenot Camera! Start counting down from 100 by 4's, cool off, you seem a little disgruntled!
Next time remember that not all of us want to be here, and questioning who I am on a MONDAY MORNING is a great way to have my disregard for your schedule exercised to exhaustion. If I'm here, and I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and a sport coat, 99% chance that I'm supposed to be here. Tomorrow I'm wearing body armor and rapelling through the 2nd-floor conference room window, badge laminated to my breastplate. BINK, access granted!
Then I sat down at my desk and Happy stopped. At least I got to bother a Republican.
=========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
As I arrive to the door I'm on the phone with a misdirected, self-important, and panicking "English As A Form of 3 Languages" efficiency analyst, and not having a whole lot of fun in the process. Efficacy of Communication = More Time For Actual Productivity. The Guy ahead of me waves his badge, opens the door, and I slide in behind him, phone in one hand, pistol-grip flask in the other. Kidding, it was just my notebook from last week's meeting with the Dingleberry 5, er, CONTRACT PARTNERS. ANYway...
The guy behind me, who hopped out of his Saab, tied a scarf around his neck - after, of course, donning a pair of woolen mittens and canvas/courdoroy jacket - for the 24 second walk to the door (all ordered from the LL Bean "Overkill" collection), and was a step or two behind me then says "Hey, sorry, I'm gonna have to ask you to swipe your badge. I know it's crazy, but..."
Yes, "Todd," it is crazy. I've never seen you before. You don't have the authority to command my badge-swiping. I've been here 6 years and have the old-school badge to f*cking-A prove it. Maybe he saw the look on my face and immediately thought "Disgruntled, carrying a black bag, I could be on the 5 o'clock news!"
Sure thing, with the text "Man Beaten Diaper-Bound In Bothell For Attempting Authority." I didn't have the extra hand to swipe the badge, but I figured, what the heck, I'll bother this guy for a few minutes.
I tell my phone conversationist that I need to go due to a security breach, and I hang up. I then pat my pockets and belt-line to find my badge, which was clipped to my belt, but hidden by my jacket. So as he stands there losing his gruntle, I think "I could totally take this guy in a fight," and therefore start the "Gosh, hmm, where... gosh, did I leave it?... well, how about we go to the front desk so I can get a pass for the day. Looks like I forgot my badge this morning." The look on Toddlet's face changes to "Well at least I can save the day." Then he looked at his watch, and the amount of F*cking I was going to do with him shifted up a gear. Every extra 5 seconds I have to spend here is 5 extra minutes for the cause of my slow-down.
We walked to the badging/security station, a good 150 feet from our original entrance in near silence. The guy was annoyed at this point, but I'm a teaching soul, I couldn't let him not learn the importance of not giving a crap about work. Even if I was a guy who was going to shoot the place up, I didn't know him, so before his interruption, he would have been among the survivors. But now, hey, don't I deserve a little entertainment?
I tell the guy at the front that I forgot my badge and this prick to my right stopped me at the back door like a good watchdog. Not in those words, but y'unnerstan'. I draw out the explanation as long as I can, stating I must have left the badge on my desk over the weekend and you know how that happens and then you feel like it's a Catch-22 did you ever read that book it was better than the movie but at the same time... moving on. Finally the Security Guy (he's really not a Guard of anything) says "Uh, what's your extension?"
Gosh... I really hope I can remember it, being 4 numbers and all.
2 combinations later, he dials it and looks up at me, about the same time I, SURPRISE AND HOSANNA, find my badge in my inner pocket!
I swipe it and cruise through the doors up to Boredom Ave. about the same time I notice Saab Taad tilt his head back and inhale deeply in the universal gesture of getting a facial in an adult film. That's right Taad, you're on Carenot Camera! Start counting down from 100 by 4's, cool off, you seem a little disgruntled!
Next time remember that not all of us want to be here, and questioning who I am on a MONDAY MORNING is a great way to have my disregard for your schedule exercised to exhaustion. If I'm here, and I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and a sport coat, 99% chance that I'm supposed to be here. Tomorrow I'm wearing body armor and rapelling through the 2nd-floor conference room window, badge laminated to my breastplate. BINK, access granted!
Then I sat down at my desk and Happy stopped. At least I got to bother a Republican.
=========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
What A Dick!
Ashton Kutcher Tools Around Hollywood In Penis
Full Article and Pictures Here
ASHTON KUTCHER embarrassed two of girlfriend DEMI MOORE's kids when he dropped them off for school in his new supertruck.
RUMER, 16, and 13-year-old SCOUT practically needed a ladder to climb down from the monster International CXT which sells for more than £80,000.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Full Article and Pictures Here
ASHTON KUTCHER embarrassed two of girlfriend DEMI MOORE's kids when he dropped them off for school in his new supertruck.
RUMER, 16, and 13-year-old SCOUT practically needed a ladder to climb down from the monster International CXT which sells for more than £80,000.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
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