Mitch Hedberg, Dead At 37.

As of last night when this was originally written, the passing of Mitch Hedberg had not been confirmed. This morning, sadly, it has been. Mitch Hedberg, well known and loved stand-up comic, is dead. He was 37.

Mitch is one of the most-quoted, most-copped comics of the past 10 years. The rest of this entry will cover that topic. Heart failure is being noted as the cause of Mitch's death. Apparently he was born with a defect in his heart.

Mitch had is own way of doing things, especially in the past few years. Mitch was famous for less than 10 years. Less than The Dave Matthews Band. Less than Snoop. And he's gone now.

Nobody will ever see Mitch again. That is what really stinks, on many levels. He was talented. He was a good person, from all I'd heard. He was a phenomenal comic. I hope this will begin the downstroke of people copying Mitch's style of drawling, simplified, peripheral brilliance. I hope it will begin the outpouring of stories of what a great guy he was. Appreciate his work and his life. I have removed some of the stuff I had on here about Mitch's personal life, out of respect for a Person, and because he could have died with a cup of green tea in his hand, or a turkey-baster full of smack in his veins, neither would matter to how much he meant to comedy and to what kind of person Mitch was.

My condolences go out to Mitch's family and his real friends. He had a talent so recognizable that we won't see it again until an open-mic'er steals his persona and nicks his material.

To those who stood by while Mitch destroyed his body and career, my middle finger goes out to you. He was your bank account, your dealer, your hook-up, and you can look forward to an eternity in Hell, where every night you host an endless open mic where everyone goes up and "does Mitch."


Terry Schiavo also died this morning. That's for another time, but I really wish politicians and people in tank tops would leave her alone. The question here: If you were Terry Schiavo, would you want to die with dignity, or be kept alive to keep your parents from feeling bad?
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(Now back to the original blog)
In my quest to find out who is and is not dead (IS: Johnny Cochrane, Nietzche, Comedy. IS NOT: You, Me, Comedy) I happened upon an exchange of words in the alt.comedy.standup newsgroup in the Usenet world. To spare you the boredom, it's where comics get together and let their egos go wild as they post messages while doing what comics love to do best: Not be interrupted. Perhaps only the comics who read this blog will get any joy out of this, but I figure it's worth sharing.

First off, the topic of Stealing in Comedy. Here are some highlights:

• "Joke-eoke," as in Karaoke. I believe Killorn notified us of this last week, and it's been noted by one comic who started the thread in the forum. He basically was saying that there are so many guys working in comedy these days that you don't even have to be a comic to get work. What is a comic? I can't really define it, but I will say this: If I could get the same pay from comedy that I do from my crappy day job, I would have ass-wiped a signature on my 2 Week Notice a LONG time ago. But Comedy doesn't pay well because, here, catch the 22, there are so many guys working. Question: How do so many guys become funny enough to go on the road? Answer: Who said they were funny?
  
• Being Unique on stage, being a truth of yourSELF. A quote from the thread:

We need to look at how famous comics selected and developed their personas. Study what "Larry the Cable Guy" did to build his persona. Because jokes come and go, and can't be protected, but a strong, recognizable persona is like a signature and everyone can smell it if somebody tries a forgery.

Basically, as a performer, you are yourSelf, turned up a notch or two. I have heard guys from Portland talk to me in the whitest, most Eddie Bauer'ed tone you can imagine, then go on stage with a slightly Southern-fried accent in order to affect the persona that makes their jokes work. Question: Are they faking it in order to be funny? Answer: Who said they were funny?

• Stealing is addressed in the thread. It goes from the Vaudeville days through to Buster Keaton getting hacked by Red Skelton, hacked by Benny Hill, hacked by whomever. I've heard the freakishly popular Larry The Cable Guy (Dan Whitney, doing a character) do twists on street jokes (those are the ones you get in your e-mail from the official workplace funny guy/gal!) And it's rampant. Here's another quote from one JJay Boyd:

Hell me and the 2 comics I am on the road with had 2 off nights in the
pacific northwest.... we did some open mic nights.. EVERY comic from
this town? Was stealing.. (short of ONE tall girl who had the guts to
do her own stuff and was very promising).. One guy was doing Andrew
Dice Clays Nursery Rhymes but as Jimmy Stewart... so I guess in his
mind thats DIFFERENT. (sic)

Does anybody know if JJay Boyd has been through Seattle? First off, saying "EVERY comic" in "This town" of the Pacific Northwest (narrowed down nicely, thank you JJay) steals is a very broadly sweeping statement. However, at an open mic I'm betting a fair amount of the personas seen on stage were direct lifts of well-known acts. And the open mics around here are usually testing grounds for people getting their rocks off without the intent of pursuing stand-up, and/or a few actual working comics either working out a few new bits or getting their rocks off with the intent of pursuing chicks in the audience. The ONE Tall Girl may very well have been the inimitable (it's a good word, relax) Lizzy Pilcher. Just giving props where props be due.

• Currently bored as shit with that thread (read it yourself) I summarize the stealing thread with this: I always want to be told if something I do on-stage is a lift. There is something called "parallel development" where a topic is viewed in a similar light by different people. A bit I wrote the 2nd month I'd been on-stage is pretty similar to one done by Greg Giraldo (no more links for now, look him up) so I dropped it. I will write more. Other than that, and this goes for any situation in life, don't be afraid to protect what is yours, and don't be afraid to be classy in doing so. You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, that's what my gramma used to say. She always had very crunchy honey. (see, writing Hedberg is easy)

I have been party to "blog wars" in the past. They are really f*cking stupid. I learned that if I have a problem with someone it's better to find a resolution the old fashioned way, but when they live in an apartment it can be tough and dangerous to drop the flaming crapsack at their front door.
That's a joke.
ANYwho, here's a "blog war" of sorts, a thread flaming if you will. Two guys get into it with each other, and it's really really dumb. Not only do they keep saying "Go away" or "I win," THEY KEEP RETURNING TO THE POST. Insecurity is that voice that tells you to check, one more time, to make sure the door is locked. It's a minor form of insanity, and it's a great lesson in growing up.
Stand back and watch them windmill at each other. I'm really embarrassed to say I ever got involved in that shit.

Anywho, I'm off to bed now. I've been writing for over an hour.

The Moral Of The Story Is This:
If you're going to steal someone's act, and that person's on-stage persona, instead of trying your hardest to be original, make sure you also cop their off-stage habits.
In the corporate world, stealing someone's ideas is called "Middle Mangement."

Good night, get home safely, and remember to tip your cows.

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Imagine That

REPEAT, for those of you who ain't gone to vote yet:
My friend Ryan Hamilton is a finalist in the Sierra Mist "Next Great Comic" contest, and after listening to the other dudes, he's got a really great chance at winning. Please check out that site and vote for Ryan. I entered that contest, and didn't make it to the finals. I am really freaking happy that Ryan did. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, myself included.

ALSO, imagine this:
You have been hired to write a tell-all under a fictional name. The story you tell will be close to real life, but you get to embellish it here and there. So you mine the core hell of your daily existence, even if it's small, and deliver some work that weakens some people's knees. They read it and say "You dated someone who called you THAT?" or "You had a boss who wanted to do what?"

Now imagine that either of those people steps forward to sue you for slandering them. Not only did they out themselves as the a-pipes in question, you never mentioned their names so they can't really lay claim to anything you've earned. Why can't they just be happy to be famous and leave you out of it?

I've had a wicked-sweet stomach flu for a good 29 hours now. I'm holding on to food longer, so by this weekend I should be able to leave the house for more than 45 minutes with the confidence that I won't need to be within shouting distance of a restroom.

The more you advance at anything in life, the more you will be accosted by people who are trying to cut you down. That is their jealousy, envy, and ugly green hat to wear. Keep walking. Don't miss your appointment getting into a shouting match with somebody who only knows how to shout. You got a life to live. Now go be the best ClownHooker this town's ever seen.

I am outta here.

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Because It Matters To Some

Wow, we finally got past Easter! I always go so crazy with the shopping and the parties. Lots of my friends are way into Easter, the whole dressing up and traditional feast and what-not. You probably have no idea what a pain it is to coordinate a re-creation of The Last Supper, costumes and all, but the majesty is something else. Some of the people to Dan "Jesus '05" Crandall's left got snarky when I missed a line. Say what you will, Geoff The Baptist asks for little, but if I want unleavened bread, Stacey "Iscariot," I will fuggin' ask for it. Biznatchalacka!

Saturday night was a fun evening out. Killorn O'Neill, Tony "Man Handy" Moser, Queen Alicia, and The Geoff Lott Experiment all tripped Cap Hill-ward to catch Tony opening for Doug Stanhope. It was a disjointed affair, but overall, an entertaining evening. We arrived 45 minutes prior to the doors opening. The normal conversations started up, namely, the problem with the Homeless in Seattle. Not the Homeless Problem (i.e. we can see them), but the reasons that people become and remain homeless. Is it lethargy? Apathy? Scurvy? Perhaps they aren't taking advantage of the many programs designed to help people without homes rectify their situations. The flip side is that if every homeless person DID, there wouldn't be enough room, nor caseworkers, since the business of helping people who need it pays turds, unless you're a doctor. And no, insurance companies don't help people.

So the crowd files in and one dickwad is wearing sunglasses. Saturday night it was raining that sideways, sidewalk-clearing, eye-poking rain. But he's "in costume" to party. At the bar he ordered a "really tall, uh.... dude... Red Bull-Vodka." The bartender held up a small rocks glass and said "this is as tall as we go here." Shades McBallhair says "Yeah, I'll take three." Perhaps you're seeing the kind of crowd that was on-hand. Yes, there was at least one guy with a bandanna, West Coast Choppers jacket, and goatee yelling "Git 'er Done!", which continues to cement it's place in the entertainment world as the new "FREEBIRD!" I think if anybody yells it, as a comic, you HAVE to do 3 street jokes everyone's heard as punishment.

After the show I talked with Doug for a second. I MC'ed a show for him two years back at the Underground, and he was very cool to me. That was the consensus opinion, how laid back and cool Doug was the other night. Two years ago I watched a drunken Doug nail down 75 minutes of hysterical comedy at that show. The other night he wasn't drinking much, turning away shots and espousing the fact that he needs to give his body a rest after 20 years of debauchery. He did a pretty masterful job of wrangling the crowd, which had gotten sauced and rowdy. As he told one beer-farting frat hump in the first row "You have to be a special kind of douchebag to be that f*cked up at 8:20 on a Saturday night." I spend a lot of time watching comics for different reasons. I'm still learning a few things. I learned a lot about how just remaining calm and calling the situation for what it is will eventually sink in with people. I don't think many of the people knew that Doug had been a comic long before The Man Show or the Wild Girls thingy started. 80% of the crowd was there to see what was gonna go down, the others just kept looking around for an appearance by Joe Rogan or a tit, but I repeat myself. I wonder if people pull that shit at Henry Rollins' spoken-word shows. Once they went with Doug, it was easy as pie.

Except for that one really dumb, attention-needing whore-ority sister who kept yelling "EEEEW" when the words "Rubber F*ck My Face" were said. It really astounded me. That many guys who own a volume of "Girls Gone Wild" and not ONE frigging Roofie? BULL'S SHIT! He's trying to close up, quiet her down.

In summation, Seattle clubs seem to be in limbo about promoting comedy as The Hippest Of Entertainment, and when you hear the words "Terry Schiavo," be caller 10 to win tickets to the Pope's funeral.

Open Mic tonight. I pray that I can get up early. Judge not, lest ye be funny and unscripted.

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Good Decisions All Around

In looking for some artwork for an angel tattoo I am planning on designing, I found one that reminded me that words in tattoos are never a good idea.

Good. Friday!

Today is Good Friday in the Christian/New Testament Religions. It is the day Jesus was crucified and buried in his tomb, when the ground shook, the seas ran red, and Hollywood found a cornerstone for blockbuster films.

This morning I'm rafting on mixed emotions. It's my family's first holiday without my Dad at home. I have epididymitis, diagnosed last night by a guy who, were it not for introducing himself as a doctor and wearing a white jacket, would have been touching me inappropriately. I am working from home - unquote - today, and I am quite happy to not have to go into the office. I have a ton to write about, but little time to do it. My friend Ryan Hamilton is a finalist in the Sierra Mist "Next Great Comic" contest, and after listening to the other dudes, he's got a really great chance at winning. Please check out that site and vote for Ryan. I entered that contest, and didn't make it to the finals. I am really freaking happy that Ryan did. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, myself included.

I have a hard time asking for things, but I'm getting better at it. I used to suffer through somebody else's moving day, then when it came time for me to get out of the halfway house, I would just make 200 trips in the Buick Skyhawk and hope somebody would want to grab a beer later. I realized this at work recently. I asked 30 managers to each send me a list of who they manage. They sent me Adobe PDFs of charts with 1500 names on them, and said "I'm in this organization." Lazy shits. That added to the confusion. I ask for very little at work, and that's what I get. Since then I realized that I'm not doing anything extra for anybody I work with. Not a new spreadsheet, not a test-run of an application, zilch.

I'm ready to get on with my life. My dad's condition's progression over the past 18 months has got me feeling a little anxious, realizing that life is short, especially if you're going to keep living after what you knew as Life is gone. Thankfully, and oddly so, my dad's condition brings on apathy as if it were the norm, he cares very little about anything, shows few emotions. He likes the Inn he's been moved to. He likes it so much that he doesn't really relax when we're with him outside of it, and usually gets anxious and wants to go back. We cannot reason with him or calm him down much. This is what Is, now. It's a new Normal. It sucks. Being defiant of it will not help any of us move on. There is anger and hate and compassion. And a lot of Love and prayers. And at the end of the day we just hope that Dad's happy and healthy, and that our feelings of guilt and anger subside.

You should leave work early today. Make it a Good Friday.

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It's A Question That Had To Be Asked

Listening to LoveLine right now, and the comedic genius who is Adam "Ace Rockola" Carolla is fielding a question from a caller with either a drug problem or... who am I kidding... AND a head injury. For sure, the kid's got a bunk smoke detector that's chirping at 1-minute intervals, Adam timed it a second ago. How punk is Adam? The guy don't even gots a website, BE-AH-YATCH!

The kid on the phone said he was getting some sort of allergic reaction after getting oral sex from his girlfriend.
The guest says "Dude, you're allergic to fellatio?"
Adam asks the question I wish that had to be asked, from a comedic standpoint but would never fly on stage:
"How long before America's got a black kid named Fellatio? Or whaddya think, think there's already one family out there named a kid Fellatio?"

I had to share that with you, it simply could NOT go by the wayside.

Reacharound Jackson

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Testing, Testing, Is This Thing On?

By now we all are aware of the Terry Schiavo case in Florida. I expect it to be a punchline in many comics acts very soon as they attempt to appear edgy and "Stanhope-like." But here's how I figure we can end the debate.

Terry Schiavo's brain activity is near zero. Her EEGs are at zero, showing no thoughts or firing of neurons towards cognition of surroundings and Life as defined by medical experts. Her spirit, her aenima has left. Her body is being biologically wheelbarrowed each day by people who are split between dying with dignity, and hoping for a miracle. The Congressman on Capital Hill who is heralding the re-insertion of her feeding tube is also the biggest supporter of the Death Penalty, so that doesn't seem to work out for me. Both subjects, in that case, are being removed from life support by judges.

Anyway, if you wanna see if Terry's still alive, play her an audio cassette tape recording of the works of the inexplicably popular "Larry The Cable Guy."
If she does not react, there's your answer: She's Fine.

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Comedy, Harmony, Tony Moser's Bottom Lip, And My A.D.D.

I would like to give a giant "THANK YOU!" to everyone who came over to Laughs Comedy Live Show And BYOB Lounge this past weekend! You helped sell out both shows, yet had some trouble with the bar staff. I hope you got your money's worth out of the show.

My hair looked really awesome, thanks to Jeni at Salon Rivera in Bellevue. Go check that place out on 3rd and 105th, just to see how tiny a dog can actually be.

Blue (from Canada) was great. He didn't pander Canadian, had a great, loose set that had the crowd going from the start, and really helped kick the night off.

Fahim was Fahim-enal on Friday night, again bringing new and funny stuff to the table. He could really go somewhere with his talents, as long as he doesn't let his mechanical engineering degree trip him up. From his last few blogs, I think he's trying to tank his education so he can go on the road in the next 18 months. Good play, Fahim. Check and mate.

Travis Simmons, hey bud, thanks for doing 15 minutes. Also, thanks for stretching it out over 25 minutes and pushing the end of the show out to nearly 10:45. Again, you took a comedy show and did what you could to make it about you. The best thing I heard from you all night was the sound of your car starting. Be cool to the other comics by not eating that much time with nothing to really solidify your set. Ridiculous.

Didi McCarty had a great set on Saturday night. Everyone was talking about it after the show, wondering who "that first girl" was. She was actually the only girl, unless you count Charles Darby and me. Nice work Didi! I hope you got some ayse this weekend, like you were hopin' for.

Dan Moore eased into a great little set. He's gotten better since he slowed down. At one point he was going backwards. I was surprised, and happily so, to see Dan in attendance and center-stage. Thanks Dan!

Charles Darby did an admirable job with a crowd that couldn't tell if they were ready to laugh or not. I think the bar service threw people off on Saturday night. 3 people making drinks and nobody taking orders or running them, that's what caused the line at the bar. Charles, I hope it all went well at Misty's for ya. Did you see Didi over there?

Yes. I'm kind of a dick.

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Yesterday I was floating in some sort of abyss, emotionally. I didn't have much to give by way of creativity, likeability, focus, or energy. I would just as soon fold laundry and stare at a wall as lay in bed and stare at Pink Floyd's "The Wall" mirror I have hanging eternal on my ceiling. Anything sounded like it would have been fun to do, but nothing was so fun as to jolt me out of my blueness. I had a caffeine rush that kind of got me moving, but after 80 minutes I crashed back to my reality that is Kenmore:
Tomorrow, I have to go to work.

So here I am again. Last night I dreaded this place. And this morning it's been worse than I imagined. This company is paying some people upwards of $85,000 a year to manage 2 people. And those 2 people are self-contained, technical survival units. So basically the Manager is getting a ganglion cash-cyst for hounding holy hell out of me for numbers they don't really fathom. I'm overpaid for a baby-sitter, but underpaid for making a lot of these turds come up smelling rosey.

I read an article last night about the number of thoughts and brain activity quotients people work within during the day. An average person, such as me, has 3,000 to 4,000 thoughts each day. That ranges from associating a shoe with its color to how much money you have left in that jar under the floorboard next to the ammo and canned soups. The most successful people in the world, such as the top-level athletes, investment bankers, stock-swindling muffin mavens, and Travis Simmons, have a different number of thoughts each day. In fact, they have about 1/3rd the number of thoughts. Why is that?
Confidence? Intuition? Fearlessness? It's a "Thought-Act" process, I believe. It's being "in the zone." Playing loose. Michael Jordan's tongue would wag when he was in it. Relaxed performance, the mind has slowed to process what's important NOW, and not what needs to be done on THURSDAY (Ikea trip) nor what went wrong this weekend (rusty build-up on a few jokes). Letting it go and getting NOW handled.

I focus more when I'm writing. Creating. Producing something from my brain's recesses. I feel more balanced with that happening. Blogging, some days, is my only respite from the MBA-tards I work with/for. I've come out of the abyss, and know what I have to do for now. And that is, sigh... work.
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Dave Attell tickets go on sale at NOON today.



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Respite

I have to blog right now because I have no other escape hatch in my day.

So far this morning everyone at work seems to have either the "Short Friday Hurries," cramming as much in before noon so that they can leave early and flop ass-wise into their favorite Starbucks chair, or they're doing what they normally do (nothing, other than annoy me) and therefore they don't actually have to be here, but they would have felt guilty staying at home. I've seen 4 people wearing velour sweatsuits today, and only one of them is female, and that's NoMakeup Sandie who is half-human/half-turtle.

Do not invest in the Orange Jack Phone Company. It is management-heavy, light on leadership, and filled brim-side with too many people who believe it matters. I can't say I'm one of them.

The reporting system I use apparently got corked last night, as it went face-down for an hour, for no reason. Yesterday afternoon I was using Excel, tried to save a monster of a worksheet that was three weeks in the making, and suddenly I get a

"Windows is attempting to install Microsoft Office Professional.

Please wait while the installation puts the brakes on your life."

So, I was using a program within the Office suite, yet it wasn't actually in-use, because it wasn't even installed on the laptop that work shoved off onto me? Every day, The Matrix and 1984 meet for drinks in my kitchen, laughing at the simplicity of Office Space. I am officially burned out on this job as of Wednesday night. I literally stared at a computer screen for 38 minutes straight, blinking but not seeing anything of import or value after that split second of eye-wetting Valhalla.

So anyway, my job sucks, and if anyone wants it, they can have it. Doing the work is not difficult. Finding enough motivation to do it for people who don't remember screaming a request into the phone for it once they get what they want, now THAT will take a special person to fill this chair. I'm looking for a new job, perferably making Dave Attell money for comedy and writing, like $20Gs a pop.

I'm headlining Laughs all weekend. The other night I riffed around at Pegasus with moderate success for 55 minutes, only going through a few real bits. I'm excited to see what happens tonight when I can really drill down into the material and find a new vein of comedy gold. Hope you can make it to a show! 9pm Friday and Saturday.

Pink velour sweatsuit, likely not a new one, probably one that was hanging around since they were last popular. I think she's roller-disco'ing, too.

Live the nightmare.

this blog has been as entertaining as my day at work.

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And Another Another Thing

If anyone thought I was the only person who thinks The Stranger is an incestuously "self-made hipster" rag of Biblically Gay-But-Not-In-A-Homo-Way proportions, check out this week's "I, Anonymous" entry.

Compare it to my previous blog regarding that fibrous melange of lines and pictures.

And then wipe your pipe with the local music reviews. And the "Drunk Of The Week" horsecrap of a feature is probably just a bunch of their exes they want to out for being tanked too often. Real drunks don't get their pictures taken while awake. Get with the program.

I stand by my previous quote that "Celebrity I Saw U" is the only thing in that diaper-liner worth reading.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

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How To Tell When Somebody Is Lying

You know that feeling you get in your gut that says "there's no way this prostitute isn't a cop."? Yeah, check in with that.

If someone tells you a trait about themselves, an intrinsic trait, not something visible like pretty eyes or a well-tucked fruit-cocktail, then that person's probably lying to you.

You can usually tell something about somebody because you have a sense of decency and smell to let you in on it. It's a gut reaction to the way someone walks, looks around a room, and picks up the tab every time.

So remember, if somebody has the need to tell you a trait about themselves, like "I'm funny," or "I'm a great guy," or "I don't need attention," the exact opposite is true, and they will be on stage in a few minutes.

Behold the finest knifeholder created. At www.viceversa.com





I Care,
Lott
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Putting The "Con" in Conference Call

I "rushed" into work this morning because, like a lot of days, I had a conference call. The factors of timeliness and building-presence don't affect me emotionally. If I could do my job from home, I wouldn't; I don't want any of these people to know where I live, not to mention that I'd be waist-up naked and likely wine-drunk most of the work day. My focus wanes from moment to moment after the badge scan, even more-so when I know I don't have to be back here for 16 hours.

My "team" is based in California. Perfect. My original boss in this organization is about 12 feet away. The manager I had following her is about a quarter-mile down the road in another building. My current manager is in Calafournee. My next manager will be a naked mole-rat/human hybrid who lives near the center of Sugarloaf Mountain in South America. It helps save $$$ in facilities when the middle-managers are middle-crust dwellers with daylight problems. No cubes, no offices, no badges.

Thanks to technology, I am brought together (interlocking fingers, head tilt, slight smile) with my teammates in California. This conference call is the work-a-day equivalent of a car-wash hangar: Follow the instructions and you can do it yourself! No, now, don't try and throw a curveball, just get it done with and look back at it later to see how many spots you missed. Oh crap, and you've scratched living hell outch-yer protective coat. Wow... was this necessary?

It's the ever-necessary Preview Of The Year's Goals Call. It is vital to have a call of this nature so that we can each look back and say "It was horsesh*t at the beginning, too." As we cover these goals and platitudes to be worked towards, it was made clear to me that the "Scoring" system that a lot of teams are on is based on the work I produce.
And all this time I thought I was powerless.

The work I produce measures workload, efficiency, and trends of each. I pull, format, and produce these reports, or "metrics" if you wanna be corporate about it, for Four teams. I fell into this job as a back-up to the previous guy. The database he built was a house of cards, and one day someone walked by too quickly and it came a-tumbling down. Too bad, because it automated the work I have to do now, with keyboards and mouse-clicks, teeth grinding so hard they barely let any Jameson pass. The work is entered from a raw format into a... hey, wake-up... into a spreadsheet that I have created with formu... hey... are you snoring? Forget this part.

So now here I am. Rock you like a hurricane. My work will affect the scores (imagine grades, but with a mortgage payment attached) attained by many a co-worker. The technician's scores will roll up to the scores hanged by the names of their managers. These are the same managers who, when asked for a list of people they manage, sent me a 3MB org. chart so that my mailbox would be clogged for a week while I found that they manage 2 of 743 people in their regional office. And I get to decide how it all goes!

I have to go now. I am going to send a note to managers to alert them that the scores their salaries and therefore their self-worth are fed from the system that they never use, by people they have minimal communication with, by a guy who is unaffected by how well... or how pathetic... it appears their team is doing. And these folks haven't clued in yet that I can, if necessary, and with fully ethical practices, make it appear that of their 5 direct reports, only 2 of them even work for the company, and that 3 paychecks are all going to an offshore account in the Sugarloaf Savings & Loan Bank for a Mrs. Chandira Rolemat. I found the Golden Ticket, Gobstoppers. Willy Wonka's power is no match for somebody willing to float a Baby Ruth down the chocolate river.

Gotta roll, phone's ringing. Oh look, it's a manager! Unless the first two words uttered are "FREE LUNCH," I see someone with a long Q2 ahead of them.

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I will be headlining the Wednesday Show at Pegasus Pizza in Kirkland, 9:30pm, as well as the entire weekend at Laughs in Bellevue. Shows Friday and Saturday night, 9pm, and one Brunch Showcase Sunday morning, 10-10:30am. Enjoy a blintz!

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Somebody's Trying To Tell Me Something

Monday again?

Last week I printed out an article from The Onion written by a fictitious author, Jim Anchower. Jim's a late-era hesher, living in a world of broken cars, bad weed, broke friends, and low-paying jobs. I don't know if he's ever been a comic, sorry.

So anyway, I forgot the printed version on the tray and somebody left it on my desk some time between Friday afternoon and this morning. I had the article in an e-mail window, which, when printed, had my mail profile name on the top. I'm stupid sometimes.

The funniest part was that somebody had stapled a note as a cover sheet that said:

Hello,

This was left on the printer, and is not the first document like this. Fortunately, it was found and given back to you by somebody concerned for youre well being. If you are having troubles with work or general life circumstances, this company offers these resources to assist.


So here's what I think is so funny:
1- the cover-sheet person thinks I wrote the article, and/or
2- the cover-sheet person thinks my life is the subject of the article, and/or
3- the cover-sheet person thinks I am having a problem with somebody named Wes, not having any beer, scoring bunk doobage, my car breaking down, and getting evicted from an apartment, if they read the entire article, and/or
4- they also think I call myself a "lone-wolf," which I do on occasion, and/or
5- they have zero sense of humor to have never heard or the ability to appreciate The Onion.

I'm too busy making other people think I give a flip about this job, but the person did write my old manager's name on the paper. My old manager would get a huge kick out of the incident, so I really hope they called my old boss, who has not contacted me. But I do have handwriting to match to, so now I have to peruse the fridge to see who wrote on their lunches, because friggin-A, when you're on a suicide watch at work, you need the sustenance that only a meal in a cheese-sauce can provide.

My job sucks and is beneath me. It's time I look elsewhere.
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Whoopadoop Ramanaploop

My current managerial umbrella is open, indoors. You know what that means!
Six more weeks of answering dumb questions.

It is because of their lack of vision that I almost quit about 10 minutes ago. Truly, I envisioned myself standing up, running a program to wipe-clean my computer and network shares, and going to the desks of each person I cannot stand and telling them exactly what I thought of them, their clothes, their laughs, their hair, and why the are a-pipes for bringing a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper and SunChips to a potluck.
It gave me a fantastic erection.

But I can't walk just yet. I am reminded of the funniest Red Meat cartoon for my situation:
Titled, The Buckling Beams Of Your Hopes And Dreams, it takes on great significance today. I cannot imagine working for anybody for 40-ish hours a week to make THEM look good. I'm ready to make a move, emotionally, but financially I'm shackled to the oar of the SS WindBreaker for a while. Row, Row, Row... your... bo(siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh)
Oh yeah, and here's another Red Meat 'toon that sounds like a great idea:
Geoff Lott's Exit Strategy

Instead of having one manager, I am reporting directly to one in California, indirectly to four in Washington, and round-aboutly to 15 across the nation. A secret of management is that the more you know about corporate buzz-words and PowerPoint, the less actual work you have to do. You end up with a little office and a door and a little jaunty walk like I get after a good dump. Because that's what Managers do: Crap.

Managers have a way to escape from my prying questions; that's why I envy the door. It's little more than having your own cell in prison. But the door, it's a good status symbol if you're into meaningless status symbols. That, and it blocks annoying laughter, microwaved BBQ-cod, and I could finally fart in peace. But then again, I don't fart at work for relief, I fart at work for revenge. Thank you broccoli and Lo-Carb Monster. But I would not rip in an elevator, because that should be a capital offense.

I dump you not, there's a misManager at the Executive Admin's desk next to mine requesting to be moved to an office with a window. There's the bigger toilet in the cell I mentioned earlier.

I know they are "busy" with meetings. These are meetings set up by other Managers. The organizer of the meeting probably just read some new book on a Management technique that includes using phrases analogous to getting work stalled, held-up, debated, and then denied. "Synergy" is another word for kissing ass and nodding along. "Mission-critical" means the manager actually had an original thought, and gawrsh-durn'it, that new vending machine is going to be installed, even if it is not needed, budgeted, or filled with broccoli and Lo-Carb Monster.

I'm not meant to be here. I don't mean "here" is in this planet, I mean this place of employment. I extract 5000-item spreadsheets out of an archaic system to them manipulate, format, sort, and pivot the data in them so I can tell managers "Hey, this one guy you manage is working less than Larry King's last wife. Drop the conference call, open your door, and get in the game."

In case you're wondering, YES, I will be filming my last day. And NO, this time there will NOT be news coverage. I learned my lesson: Sell Advertising, as it helps pay for bail.

Take Me Home

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Masturblogtion

I'm happy that more people are using blogs these days. It saves paper. And paper, as we've been told for nearly a decade now, is what trees are made out of. Therefore, not using paper means that trees are not being cut down for diaries that go tucked away, cradling ideas and dreams, funny drawings and fantasies, Polaroids that shouldn't see the light of an FBI Mag-Lite when the Feds come-a knockin' because, brother, that "woman" you met in the chat room wasn't a "woman"... she was a panda.
And now, you're a Panda-pounder, and they have enough trouble getting them to mate with each other, because you're swooping in with your DSL and your Queer Eye sensibilities and delivering not bamboo but Annie's Organic Burritos, the staple of the panda with cash. Look where that got you. Reading my blog, wondering to yourself "This guy either has been reading between the lines, or 30 minutes ago his glycogen levels dipped and he could use a gram of carbohydrates or 20."

"Supposably" is not a word. It was noted as such on an episode of "Friends" back in 1996 or so, when the one in the closet told the mook that the mook's use of "Supposably" was wrong, since it's not a word. It's Suppos-edly or Oppos-able, meaning "Pretended, alleged, or expected" or "to be in opposition to," respectively. I guess Supposably could mean "Expected to Opposed," but we already have a word for that. It's called "Me At Work With Good Ideas."

In the event you hear on the news tonight of an Indian-burn assault in Bothell, perpetrated on a woman in the early afternoon, you can be damn sure that CackleSnatch Sandie has uttered the phrase "Get 'er (sorry, I almost threw up, can't finish it)" and I have reacted appropriately.

If you've never used the =VLOOKUP function in Excel, you don't know what you're missing. Basically, anytime you have a list of data that you want to associate with another type of data, say "State - TimeZone," then you can use the VLOOKUP to quickly make the association for you. The best part is that you get to make the reference sheet by hand, especially if you use Remedy Helpdesk, work for a cheap-ass company, and are really rather drunk at your desk riiiiiiiight... NOW.

I'm headlining at Laughs in Bellevue next weekend. Their website is chips-up right now, but the details are as follows:
Show is at The Ramada Inn on 8th Ave NE and 112th in Bellevue, on the corner. Walk into the lobby, and the club entrance is to the right of the stairs. If you see old people eating Country Fried Steak, you've gone too far.
Friday and Saturday, 9pm, $10 at the door, $5 if you're on my guest list, which means you gotta e-mail me HERE and I'll add you to it.

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Take Me Home

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I'll Give You $5

Today is the 2nd day in a row that I got up and worked out in the morning. I feel really up and at-it this morning. I've also refocused my eating towards some higher-protein, lower-fat, plenty of veggies...
Chimp attack... two headed baby... GAAAAA
This is bullshit. Here's the deal.

NoMakeup Sandie is over 100 feet from my desk right now, hanging half-way into an office. This "Unofficial Office GleeClub Member" is laughing so loud that a guy BEHIND ME just shut his door, and he's at least 117 feet from the offense. A Sandie-dampening door is the only reason I envy management here.
My dilemma is that I know people love to laugh, it feels good. They say laughter is the best medicine. She's over-medicated, she's an addict. We need to have an intervention. I need some help, people.
I can't find it in myself to go up to her and say "Heeeeeey kiddo! How's it going? Sounds like you are having a really, uh... FUNNY day today, yeah? Alrighty, great. As a favor to someone you rarely talk to but can hear every word you say, I'm hoping, oh gosh... I hope this gets really uncomfortable for you, but could you force-jam your head ass-wise until you can see yourself, like in 'Being John Malkovich?' That would really be GREAT! No, no... I'm not here to talk about the John Markovich movie, as you call it. I'm here to try and hold on to my sanity. MMkay? Repeat after me... SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Great then. Wait... why are you laughing? You laugh even when you cry? This has to be Hell, or at the very least, Tumwater."

Here's another problem. She KNOWS she's loud. She acknowledges it, almost prides herself on it. Kind of how Tony Moser prides himself after flopping a set "on purpose." Granted, her resumé states that she was raised in an Abrams tank by braying donkies, but we are nearing a time where we can finally live on the moon or under water with our aquatic mammal brethren, and she's going to be our leader because her laugh can be heard a quarter mile away.

If you have a tactful way of telling her that while her "Up Up UP!" attitude is appreciated while her volume is f*cking-A NOT, send me an e-mail HERE and I'll do what I can to balance myself out. Take care now. I'll be in the file drawer until noon.

Oh gawd, she's got bronchitis now?
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Take Me Home

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Mazeltov!

Hey there BeanieWeenie!
I have a lot going on right now, mentally and emotionally, and one thing I'm trying to do is let go of negativity in my life. Shun it, ignore it, set fire to it. When that fails I'll just turn a mirror to it and hope Negativity starts a fight with itself or flies at its reflection for a while. Negativity is all around our lives in different forms, and unlike somebody getting torqued at a Jimmy Buffet concert, second-hand neuroses just don't pop the same high they once did.

The crappy thing about me right now is that I have seen what other people are doing well, yet sliding on my responsibilities to myself. It's time for me to stop the chatter and move forward on what I want to do. Reality tells me to shut off my brain and go inward. What do I need to do more of, in order to accomplish my daily/weekly goals? That's what I'm assessing right now. What do I really WANT? What can I dedicate myself to mastering within my parameters of "mastershippage?"

While shunning negativity has helped me see what I don't like about People (that's capitalized so nobody starts getting and itchy Comment finger or moving metaphors around on their "RISK-The Blog War Edition" board) as far as Personalities go. I'm wearing glass-colored glasses, but the glass changes color depending on the amount of incoming Goodness. My brain collects positive growth signals like some guys collect Star Wars Figures: Sometimes I appreciate them, but overall I just like seeing a person enjoy what they're doing. Not growing is the equivalent of dying. Better, or worse.

So while I step back and assess what my shortcomings have been, I need to be really honest with myself. I've made some good changes, I have things I want to and will work on, and for the most part, I really hope that stain comes out of the carpet. If I can get THAT up, there's no telling what I'll be able to accomplish. I'm going within for a while, and sharing when I need to. In the meantime, I really hope you get some good things moving for yourself, or at the very least, stop stepping in other people's spotlight long enough to applaud for them. Your turn's right around the corner. Especially if you can get grass stains out of a blood stain off a chocolate/cabernet splotch-like stain.

Don't ask, just feel bad for not accepting the evite.
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Leggo My Ego

I have to begin by giving a warm Thank You to the people who have commented to me, electronically or in-person, about the blog regarding my dad. We are all witnessing loved ones getting older, and suddenly I feel like a grown-up and I wasn't ready for this degree of maturity. But we have no choice. Life brings you a new normal like it's counting to a random number in Hide And Go Seek, and I was lulled to believe I had found a safe, warm place to hide and grow in. Ready Or Not...
The friendship, care, and love people have shared with me is returned to each, and I wish you and your families health and happiness. Be good to those close to you. Some day you may need them without knowing you do. And they may hand you power of attorney.

Okay, get off me, people are staring... wink
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Making a conscious effort to put your self to the side and to listen to someone opens you up to a whole new world. First off, people think you are really nice. This is further evidence against the power to read minds.
Second, you can really learn the subtleties of a personality with how they talk, what they talk about, and how often they use the words "I," "me," and "my mom's only child."
Third, when you are open to a new perspective on life, you begin to take a quick inventory of yourself, and realize that listening to some people is not only a triumph, but a huge mistake.
Finally, if you don't listen and learn about other people, how will you ever be able to manipulate them? And isn't that what you want? Because you just bought a cattle prod and ball-gag off eBay, so let's not beat around the bush, mmkay?
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I'm off to Canada with the Amazing Alicia for her friend Rachel's wedding. All I know is that it's in Whistler, B.C., I'm wearing a new suit, and I finally found my passport after searching for just over 2 years. For those wondering, your passport is good for 10 years. Thank you Sweet Jesus, because my picture shows me with hair and no crow's feet.
My feet are really ugly.
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My new boss recently asked myself what my ideal position and profession would be. I told him that I've always dreamed of being a satirical columnist who gets paid to shed light on nuances of dead-ends in Western Civilization.
He feigned amusement by asking me if I ever proofread other people's e-mails. I didn't have the heart to tell him that my name isn't George. My new boss and co-workers are all in the same office, about 800 miles away in California.
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If you're looking for the hottest releases in Blues Music compilations, classics, and can't-miss discs, you need to go where you KNOW the broken souls of poor, Southern, hard-living black folks can be felt: Starbucks.
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I'm out. Check out the new Mars Volta release, "Frances The Mute." Keep the lights on when ya do it, though. It's non-classifiable music, what David Lynch would call "Uh... this is pretty far out. Punch me in the crotch again." Rock, pop, punk, trip, funk.
Gotta go, the turtles are fighting with the T-rex again.

======================

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

A Quick Lesson In Greed

The former CIO of a large Cellular communications carrier was hired by that carrier to lean it out. That is, cut jobs, costs, expenditures, etc. Why? Because it was top-heavy and hemmorhaging cash to pay for the Officer's flights and a boatload... literally... of contractors and off-shore work. Thus, the boat.

Ex-CIO comes in and does what he's known for: Squashing growth. His contractor buddy mismanages a major project costing the company upwards of $250,000,000, all while the contracting company walks with their full payment.
Losing $250-million cripples the Carrier, while the officers begin saying "work harder, and it will all work out in the end."

The Carrier never gets better, and becomes bait for larger, healthier, more bureaucratic Carriers in the world. Finally, someone bites, and the wounded Carrier's mismanagement of projects for 3 years (only 3 since it split from it's parent company) keep it flopping on the deck of a new owner. The Officers of the company, the same officers who caused the problems nobody could fix, all walk with upwards of $9,000,000 in severance packages, while the CEO walks with over $20,000,000.
Do the wrong thing, cut jobs, become a millionaire.

Some people got $140 out of the deal. And a new boss. And a new badge. And a new set of rules and regulations to learn. And they still have their jobs. Damn it.
So Corrado, Zieglis, and the incestuous Turkish Bath of managerial cronies can gargle my groceries. Hell was created for people like you, and deserve to be locked in a spinning HoneyBucket filled brim-side by Motorhead roadies.

If you don't have EBay stock, buy it now. Corrado is the new CTO at that company, which is losing money and pissing off customers. The stock will drop, someone will try to buy it, the stock will go up, you'll make upwards of $140!
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Two Heads Are Better Than... WHOA....

Why NOT follow up a blog about my dad with stories of freaks and whores?
Because I don't know no bettah.
Plus, This Guy And His Big Throbbing Blog followed a Happy Valentine's Day/Cock-touching command with a picture of his daughter's Valentine.
So enjoy the yogurt.
You bettah/you bettah/ YOU BET.
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Because not many folks believed me or heard of it... here's
a photo of the Egyptian baby with two heads.

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And if you didn't think they were re-tarted ho-bags before, perhaps this story from the AP Newswire about The Britney and The Paris will convince you:
Nevermind the catfight -- make that dogfight -- between Britney Spears and Paris Hilton. London's Daily Mail reported earlier this month that Britney dissed Hilton's Chihuahua, Tinkerbell, by claiming that her own three dogs "are stylin' and profilin'. ... Von Dutch just sent them the coolest little clothes. My dogs are so much cuter than Tinkerbell (Ruff! Ruff!)." Now Brit has backtracked, saying on her Web site that "I hope none of you really took my comments seriously when I was talking about Bit Bit and Tinkerbell. I was just being silly and of course I think that Tinkerbell is very cute."

For those scoring at home, that's another 2 points for the Dark Overlord Of Evolutionary Regression.

Take Me Home

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Time To Make A Move

Attensheeowness...
This blog is not about comedy at all. You may laugh, you may cry, but I didn't want to spring a very important writing about my dad on you without some sort of heads-up.
Okay... enjoy your scone.
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Today, Sunday, February 27,2005, my family and I begin moving my dad out of the home he's lived in for 22 years.
We are moving him into a "long-term care facility," or a "rest home," or an "old age home." My mom, sister, and I are facing these fears like canoeing towards a waterfall. We're pulled and tugged and it's scary and people wonder why we don't just get out and DO SOMETHING... we have. We did. We tried. We tried again. We keep trying. Currents move without you in mind. They dictate.

I'll write more when I can. Right now I have to drive to my home town and... damn it... start saying "goodbye" to another part of my life.
Mrs. Garrett never covered this with Tootie on "The Fucts Of Life."
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Okay, more now.
I've decided that I will be writing more about my dad in this blog instead of the other one, which will have exclusively my dad-related writing. This is part of my life and shouldn't be squirrled away as if it's shameful or undeserving of equal exposure.
If you have not read any of that blog, please do. Especially if you have parents who are getting older, and you happen to love them, or ever have loved them.

One story that exemplifies my dad's nature and method of "dad'ing" has to be our Tackling Dummy story.
When I was about 5 or 6, my dad and I went to a swap meet and bought some old pee-wee sized football gear. Pads, helmet, pants, the whole deal. That Christmas I got a Tackling Dummy. We would head out into the back yard, me in full pads, cleats, and a mouthpiece, my dad in sweats, wielding a football and the Tackling Dummy. The T-Dum was a large blue rectangular column, about 5 feet high, with heavy-weight canvas straps. Full of high-impact foam, it was lightweigt but could pack a wallop when swung properly by a 5'6" Auburn University alum working his way up the ladder at Boeing, and the ranks of Kick-Ass Dad.

Dad would throw the ball up in the air, I'd catch it, then have to get past him and the T-dum without hitting the deck, or being decked. Holy lord, he would just CRANK me with that thing. He'd hit me high, from the side, in the hips, right at my feet, and I go ass over eyelids. Then I'd pop up and we'd laugh really hard about how high I got on that last one. It never hurt, it was always fun. We were both just cracking up the whole time.

3 years ago I was ran into a friend of mine who I played football with in high school. He had gone on to play four years in college, and said how much different it was, where the fun wasn't there as much as you had to be almost robotic about it. Very little screwing around, very little gamesmanship, just a bunch of pissing contests. You lose some autonomy and independence, and unless you're way up on the top of the heap, you aren't shit to anyone. Then it dawned on me...
When I was a kid, I really loved playing football with my dad. I was too big to play pee-wee football, even though I wanted to play every year. Youth soccer leagues don't have weight limits, so I learned to dribble for as many as ten feet before powering a shot at a schoolmate's raised hands, shielding the world from his or her screams. I wanted to win.
But since I couldn't play football with the other kids because of my genetic makeup (low-slung, thick-trunked peasant stock), I was never going to be able to play with the other kids. But I wanted to play football, full-pads, full-contact, full-speed hitting and thumping and getting dirty and knocked down and laughing it off and getting back up.
And my dad gave me that. I didn't realize it until 22 years later that I did play football as a little boy, in a game that had no score on a field that was no bigger than my living room, with a man who would do anything to make his kids happy. It was the most fun I ever had as a kid, and the best lesson I ever learned as a man. He still remembers it, and it never fails to get us both laughing again. I don't know that he grasps the importance and love when I thank him. I hope I've thanked him enough and made him proud of me enough times before his condition advanced to where it is now.

So when I write about how hard it is to see my dad's kind and handsome face blankly-masked behind the second stage of his early-onset Dementia, and how I think about how much he has done for me in my life that I am just now realizing the intent and impact of, I never fail to run a full spectrum of emotions. 3 minutes ago I was laughing about the time he whomped me at the ankles with the tackling dummy, and I flipped in the air and landed on my feet for a "touchdown," (just past the end of the awning) and my dad said "THAT WAS GREAT! HOLY SHIT! Don't say that in front of your mom." But now, I'm crying again.

It sucks to feel this. Helpless and almost hopeless and mad at nature and God and doctors and God again, because I can think of about 50 people who deserve to be stolen by Dementia before it ever sniffed my dad's Grey Flannel. But I have been given a lesson to learn. Among the homework is a little chapter on Perspective. I am sad and angry and crying and writing this because I love my dad, because of the man he's been to me and my family, and the lessons he's taught me. The perspective is that I don't cry, I don't feel one way or another about him, and I don't ever think of or talk about or have people he knows express their love and caring about him, because sometimes dad's aren't ready to be dads, for whatever reason. But he was, I was blessed to be "dad'ed" by him, and HOLY SHIT! He was great at it. And I will always say that, even in front of my mom.

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Take Me Home

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Hey, It's Friday And I'm Busy

I'm fuggin swamped at work wiping noses and hoses, trying to get pegs in holes before I kick off some candy-sweet reports next Tuesdizzle mornizzle.
In light of that, here's what I have to say:

Drinking Games are dumb. First off, alcohol is not a plaything. Second, nothing, not rules nor a win-loss record, should come between you and getting Ozzy-drunk. Third, the rules always change to benefit whichever guy wants you to get naked. That's why I quit playing them at lunch today again.

Stop using the term "assless chaps." And yeah, I know you are all doing it in everyday converstootion. All chaps are "assless," otherwise they are pants. Perhaps they are pants with the front cut out, but if you're wearing pants with no fronts, you probably don't care what they're called, because your balls are showing. Yeah, I'm talking to you, lady, I can see your balls.

I'm out!


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Globally Warmed, Rap Music, And Like, Totally Sorry About The Phone Numbers

This Blog Brought To You By... YOU. I didn't send this link your way. Thank you for taking a moment to read this sack of hooey.
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If ya wanna go see "Be Cool," gimme a "SHITCHYAY!"
"Get Shorty" is one of my top-5 movies. Travolta's "Chili Palmer" is as cool a cat as there's ever been on the silver screen. When he gets a pair of scissors held to his neck during a shakedown by Ray Bones, he flinches ever so slightly, but more because he didn't want his new jacket diced. I recommend watching "Get Shorty," then joining me on March 4th to see "Be Cool." Come on, Vince Vaughn acting like a thugged-out wignutz? Whaddyoo need?
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this is a bit I've worked on and it doesn't seem to be taking hold. here it is in prose form.

Global Warming
The weather in Seattle has rocketed past "gorgeous" and is nearing the gravitational pull of "a little scary." It's been all frozen windows and breath-fog for weeks now. But no clouds in the sky. No snow. No rain. We're looking at a winter drought, a potential Summer drought, and the loss of another ski season.
California is sliding into the Pacific, accumulating enough rain to make most celebrities worry their homes are sliding off the hill. Celebs, meanwhile, dodge phone calls from hacked-out people with digits from Paris Hilton's hacked cell phone. (sidenote, the ho-tard is like 22, okay? she thought it was cool to have Avril Lavigne's #, that's her only crime) California is melting like Chyna's new cheek implants. I mean, my sweet hanging Jesus, BLINK-182 MIGHT BE BREAKING UP!!!

It's got to be Global Warming. OR... as I've suspected for some time, this is Hell.
Perhaps this is what Hell is, eternal fretting over wardrobe and recreational choices. You spent $300 on a Gore-Flex jackamet, grabbed some new Rossignols with boots and bindings, hit the front door and... nowhere to go.
Whatever will we do? OH DEAR GAWD, WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH ALL THIS NICE WEATHER AND FEWER JOBS FOR GUYS TO GRAB ASS ON A SKI SLOPE?
Might I suggest... Evolving? Get outside, take a walk. Move a little. Huh? Hey? Yes? No... okay.
I think it only feels warmer because, in general, people are fatter. Pundits ponder the impact of human existence on the environment while clearing their third buffet plate in Vegas. "Could you turn down the heat? It's creating chloroflourocarbons and ice caps are OH SHIT, BILL, MORE MINI-QUICHE, GO GO GO."
One day we'll find out the cause of global warming: Recycling. Decomposing landfills full of organic material. Oh sure, there's a syringe & diaper-load of it, but it's mostly natural. Put a piece of meat in a plastic bag in the sun for 3 weeks, see what happens. You'll think you're watching Keith Richards in "Bubble Boy 2: Liver And Let Die," and it will stink, but it stopped that cow from flatulating. Now, go bundle up all of those water bottles you've emptied, toss them in your Subescapearuvo, and freeze them. Then break them into millions of tiny pieces. Then melt those pieces down into a blob of Dasanifinian glory, and start molding them into bottles. The amount of energy expended to transport, recycle, and refurbish them there bottles just destroyed the ozone over Washington state.
So quit being a baby sugarplum and throw on your Whore-tex.
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I Don't Tell White Jokes, I Tell Fight Jokes

Pop music and rap music SUCK. They have become formulaic yet more profitable than ever, and therefore will eventually eat themselves. When a boy band is shot with AIDS bullets and a rapper comes out as gay, we'll finally be able to get on with our lives.

Here's how you know rap sucks. First off, these guys want to come off like we have no idea what's going on in tha strizzeets. We ain't know how it goes down on the koneh. Well who the hell is going to tell us? Li'l Jon? The man with catch-phrases like "WHAT?" "YEAH!" and "O-KAAAY!" Is he rapping or getting a ride from his mom? Tell me what's going on then, kind sir, because all I can tell is that, in songs, your stories of growin' up in the projects are best portrayed via the interpretive dances of a large brown ass, or "booty," or "ba-donka-donk," or "bumpercars." I actually looked forward to volunteering with some inner-city youth, what with the rap videos showing how much champagne, jewelry, and fine-ass weed be available.

Second, the TV show "MTV Diary" plays up these diapers with feet like they are new-age philosophers. Listen to an entire rap album, then watch that rapper's edition of "MTV Diary," the tag-line for which is "You think you know, but you have no idea." Right-on, Nas, N.O.R.E. and Fat Joe (named-so because he's, well, ugly). I had no idea. Your music said you came up hard and still lived a fast life of big cars, deep pockets, and rooms knee-deep stacked with ready and waiting poonyatta. I just watched your fat asses sleep off a hangover, tell a fan to f*ck off, and punch a chick in the stomach. You have the money, you should have paid for the morning-after pill, you ass. Your life is retarded, and your biggest problem is that you think you are who the dumbasses at MTV think you are. Yeah, fatty, LeanBack, your knees are taking a pounding.

Even Moby, who once tried to have sex with Earth Day, dropped heat on America's most embarrasing Newlyweds.

You've seen what it's like to live with celebs on all these TV shows. Yeah, there's a camera there and it's not "reality" but would YOU want to wake up to Verne Troyer writing his name in kidney-gin on your wainscoting?

SHITCHYAY you would. OKAAAAAY!

Oh, and Paris Hilton called, she's mass sorry that everyone called your number that she kept in her phone under your name so she could show everyone like you'd signed her yearbook and used the words "Party" and "Love Ya!" The girl's 22. In RichFamily years, that's like 16. In Hollywood years that's around 18. So we'll give her a pass into her Senior Year.

When I say "HO" you say "TARD!"

HO ...

HO ...

SHIIITCHYEEEAAAAAAAAASSS!

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Ron Reid, A Man Among Dumbasses

Last night's show at the Comedy Underground brought out nearly 15 audience members at last count. That number quickly doubled if one stopped to count comics. And there were a couple other performers in attendance who aren't funny. What brought out these beacons of anonymity?
Ron Reid, Manager of the Comedy Underground. Ron has done a lot for comics in the Seattle area, from encouraging them to giving them a shot. He's been an active conduit to some dreams coming true, and an honest and fair judge of talent and progress. He also greeted me by asking "What, was Giggles closed tonight? HA HA HA HA HA!"
Grand volley, Ron. And Yes, it was.

So we gave our shout-outs to Ron when we could, and I was confronted by a performer who I talked a large amount of crap about last year... like >20 words. Like last August. I'm not going to further it along here, but I will say this: I had forgotten about it until they reminded me of it, but they DID send an e-mail to Geoff Brousseau regarding the incident; he wasn't even involved in it.

One of the reasons I don't talk to a number of people in general is the old saying "If you don't have anything nice to say, blog it... or don't say anything." Why waste time, energy, brain space, and the heat of my breath on destroying connections? It would take a good two hours to tell some folks "Your laugh is fake, you aren't funny, your lunch stunk up the kitchen again, and your hair is thinning, Miss."
I have stopped kissing ass, but there's really no reason to throw a shovel-load of negative crap on top of someone and say it smells like "Honesty." Why not choose a kid at a mall and say "Don't judge what's on the outside, because you are ugly and from what I can tell, your parents don't have a lot of money. You will never be popular. You need to develop a personality!"? But I suppose there is a point where I just have to tell people honestly and forthrightly "It's okay that we do not talk. We are not family, friends, co-workers, or business partners. There's no reason for us to interact. Fair enough?"
The other way to go is that I just do what I've been doing; Going on with my life and steering around the potholes.

So hey, if I talked a bunch of sauce about you on this blog and it ruined your ability to get booked into rooms any more than your act did, please tell me about it. If it hurt your feelings, I am sorry. Now we all see what happens when someone comes forth with their opinions. And yes, I can be a real prick, but I'd rather save it for when some dumb ho-bag's phonebook gets hacked and my number is posted all over the internet. Instead, E-mail Me, not Geoff Brousseau, and let me know how what I said got back to a club manager, a booker, and/or a talent agent, and how that ruined, RUINED your comedy career, and/or gave you neck zits. Ya got one week.

Any later, and I'm calling "Bygones."

Thank you Ron, and Good Night.
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Wow... Now THAT'S What I Call A PIE!

We all want a piece of the pie. The pie filling is different for each of us. A la mode? For some, not for others. But we want it.

Sometimes you get a piece as a reward for helping make the pie. Perhaps the pie was your idea to begin with, from the shape to the recipe to the full production and presentation. So you should get pretty much the whole pie, if things were all equal.

Sometimes you are given a piece of pie "just 'cause." You likes pie, the giver knows of your affinity for pie, and why not have a little more?

But there's a giant pie divider that says "No matter how much pie you have, we get some of it. If you want to have ANY pie, you have to share some with others. Not the whole thing, but enough that you'll feel like you are left with crumbs. Some people have NO pie, so enjoy what you get." It's not your fault that some people have NO pie, you're doing the best you can to get yours! And the more pie you get, the more you have to give back. It's the sliding pie-grab scale. Work harder, have more pie in front of you? Prove you made it, and you don't have to give any back. If someone gave it to you, however, not only will the giver have to remove some pie, the HQ of Pie is gonna take a piece of whatever you spread around.

You don't want to throw the pie around, you like the pie. But bills cost pie. Shoes cost pie. Pies cost pie. Every exchange of pie requires a nibble-more than you would like, so that pieholes are filled in homes and roads and schools. It's how the pie goes round, and how more pie comes to you.

Now, you can start making your own pie all you like. It's not an easy endeavor, but if you can turn out enough pies, you will be happier than most folks. Use quality ingredients like blood, sweat, and Granny Smith apples. Use unsalted butter, and only the finest facilities you can afford. Then go on TV with your tiny little twin brother and explain how you did it, so that others will say "YES. If two ewoks can drop on the power of the BananaCream, so can THIS guy who's been up all fuggin' night wonderin' where his pie has gone."
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In the preceding story, for a lesson in social interaction and financial progress, you can remove the word "Pie" and include "Pimpy Sauce" or "PurpleFlake Colombian" or "GroupieLove." You know how it is in the game, man.
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A Weak End to The Weekend

Oh Hey there!
Today is President's Day. People all over the nation are celebrating the majesty of the highest political office in the land by sleeping off a hangover, implanting a GPS chip to their 14 year-old daughter's hymen, and/or a JC Penney 23.5-hour sale! See how much our President's mean to us these days? It's been decades since a President put forth the effort and integrity that would deem him worthy of so much as an adult bookstore's wanking closet let alone a public library. But we're erecting... heh heh heh... them like these libraries are serving overpriced coffee. Yay President! More on that group later.

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I'll back up a little bit, because I had a pretty great weekend that I want to blog/brag (brog? blag?) about. Friday night took soon-to-be Birthday Girl Killoo Run-Run O'Neill, The Magnificent and Warning-Hot! Alicia, Some other guy, and all 3 of Killorn's parents out to a fine dinner of sweet-assed Americana. Yes, she has 3 parents. Dad, Mom, And Wicked Step-Mom. All three are pretty wicked, in a decent way. We sat and ate and drank wine for three hours. Quite decadent, really. Appetizers were crab-stuffed lobster tails. Maincourse was veal-stuffed lamb-shanks. For dessert? Hot Fudge baby! DE-LISH! I talked real estate investing and market leverage for quite some time with Killorn's dad, who is as jocular and warm a man you'd ever want to buy you dinner. Great food, great people, even if Some Other Guy was there. Frick.

Saturday night was the reception dinner for some dear friends of mine, Greg Amer and Valerie Nguyen. Now Valerie Amer. Stay with me... Luckily, Alicia "The Girl Can Dance, Yo" was able to go with me. We ate grilled salmon, filet mignon, and then Salty's tried to get by with sliding German Chocolate cake to us for dessert. Hey Salty's, save it, okay? I had a hot fudge baby not less than 24 hours prior, you think this coconut chunder's going to pass for yum-yums? Then YOU eat it.
It was a great reception. I've known the Amers since 1982, and got to see all of Greg's family, including his younger brother Russ who has been my best friend since '82, except for that year he was on the road with the Charlie Daniels Band. The road changes a Russ. So true. I also had a quaint time with some friends from High School who are parents now, both of them younger than I am. Their son was really a cute kid, though, and was having a great time. It always cracks me up to see kids dancing, because they just put movement to music, no pretense to look cool. Just a bouncing around the dance floor and a big "EAT ME" to the world. Okay, maybe that last part's a little much, but, uh... Congrats Greg And Valerie! Just under 8 years, sweet!

So I'm tired and just want to post this thing. More another time when there's more...

MORE
Hunter S. Thompson committed suicide last night. WTF? Great job by the Denver Post of gently breaking the news. It softens the shock to use the words "Shoot" and "In the head" right in the headline. Apparently the Denver-ites don't have time for details, just the Who and How. Enjoy the Penney's White Sale!

And you thought it sucked going to Sunday School?
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Good Things Happening

The other day my horoscope told me that my current situation of creativity is one of sifting through monotony to find the gold, the shimmer, the heaviest of elements to mold something out of, and warned me that I'm gonna be bored with it for a while. I believed my horoscope, which I usually do when it's good, or at least isn't telling me
You STILL haven't had that looked at? Hope you have a back-up, 'cause that thing is South of cheese as of lunch.

Some comedy co-horts of mine have had some great opportunities lately, which I'm happy for them to have. I'm not saying through gritted teeth or using finger-quotes around Happy; these guys have put in some great work.
First off the bat is Tony "Yeah, I Farted Again" Moser. Tony recently got booked for a sweet gig in March that I'm not going to say much about, but let's just say that if you dig Chop Suey, you should have Hope that Stan has Doug it, too. Tony got hired by a guy named Stan to work at a noodle house in Stanwood. Nice Work, Tones.

Second up is archcomic and recently unblogged, Blaine Reeder. Blaine has been performing for just under 2 years, and spent the dates of February 10-13 as the Feature Act at the Reno Hilton. Blaine is one of the most dedicated comics I know, writing and staging his material on a consistent basis. He puts up with more Open Mics than anyone I know, and hasn't had a drink since the Reagan administration. Big deal that he was paid with a $9 buffet and hot-stone massage from a Dominican tranny, which is twice what you make on most runs around these parts. Congrats Blaine!

Lastly is Gabriel Rutledge, winner of the 2004 Seattle International Comedy Competition and Road Rally Of Seattle. One of the funniest and coolest people I've ever performed with, Gabriel recently performed in front of more than 17 people at the Moore Theater at the Lovers Of Life Ball And Promise Keepers Weekend. Actually, it was like 1,400 people, which is more than 17, true? Okay, so shut up. I wish the best for Gabriel and his wife and child as Gabriel branches off into acting and improv troupes. KUDOS, Good Sir.

Sooner or later we'll all get a piece of the pie, if we have earned it, and we know someone who owes someone a favor and is trying to pay it forward. These guys all have talent. A lot of people in comedy who make it to TV do NOT. TV appearances are not the litmus of talent. Host an awards show, call the viewers "homos" and divide the races consistently, now THAT is talent!

Don't spend time worrying about how big somebody else's pie slice is. While you're looking over there, someone's like clearing your plate, taking your perfectly untouched slice of the pie. A la MODE, you buttcrease!
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What's All Up In A Name? & Pie In Your Pocketbook

Well HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY everybody! Thanks for hitting up the Geoff Lott Blog Machine, where I'll be playing the blog until the blog drops its blog on it's girlfriend's brand new blog! SPLOOOOSH!

Tag, You're Jolanta!
Last night I stopped into a gas & grab, throwing down a couple Washingtons on a Lo-Carb Monster and some nicotine cookies. It's true, you can gain weight when you quit smoking.
The on-duty employee was a blonde gal who was pretty soft-spoken, until I realized that her "spoken" was not English. She spoke in those tones of "I think this is what I'm supposed to say, American big head male." Fine, she's not from here, that's cool by me. Somebody has to work the jobs I don't wanna get held-up at gun point for.

I glance at her name tag to see if she's got a lot of C's and Z's and out of place Y's or L's. Nope. Her name tag read "Jolanta M."
It was all I could do to hold in my laughter. Jolanta M. HA! See, NOW I'm laughing, but fawk... Jolanta M.
I thought "Jolanta M? Is the M necessary? Does the Rose Hill Pump & Dump have more than one Jolanta under surveillance here?"
Disgruntled Patron: I wanna make a formal complaint against that Jolanta that can't speak English!
Fat Manager Thing: Good Luck, Miss. We have like four Jolantas that can't speak English. Did you get a last name or initial?
Disgruntled Flustomer: No... but she couldn't speak English... and she was a white gal...
Fat Manager Lumps: OH! The WHITE Jolanta... she's from another country, miss. Phew, I thought this was gonna turn into a race thing!

Thanks to the M, now it never will!
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Coming Up Later...
The relationships between Politics, Government and Tax Payers via Pie,
and Why You Aren't Calling Him Again.
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And Another Thing

The Strangler is officially the most thematically incestuous publication in the history of print. The only entertainment to be derived from the paper is Celebrity I Saw U, Savage Love (usually), and Police Beat.

Okay, we get it... Seattle and it's unoffical SceneRag are Gay Friendly to the point of ejaculating rainbows.
Okay, the skinnier the lead singer, the more likely the band will knock my mismatched (on-purpose!) socks out of my Chuck Taylor's (on methadone!).
Got it, Republicans want me dead and the Monorail is going to stop the spread of Sudden Infant AdoptedByStraightParents Syndrome.

Part of being hip, cool, with-it, and/or down is that there is no "scene," which is what people who want to seem hip, cool, with-it, and/or down call whichever place they stand around looking bored. You can spot them while they ask the bartender if they have Sumatran Ginger Wine or if the DJ could play the latest EP from the Thomas Fehlman side-project. Unique, great! Pompously peripheral? I SAW U... getting run over and I laughed.

Wallow in your ironically-chosen domestic beers and clove cigarettes, you colon statue of a scene rag, The Stanker.
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What... You Had to Click a Link? Troglodyte.

For the better part of the month I have been harangued by a number of bosses who seem to believe that having a bump in title has also boosted their abilities to communicate without words. So far I can tell when they are confused, ignorant, and over compensated for their work, so I guess their new skills are coming in handy.

There is a push to communicate faster, quicker, now NOW TOO LATE! in our society. Your movies, food, messages, e-mails, gossip, and insulin cannot be delivered fast enough, until it is automatically downloaded into your cerebral cortex and the chip in your spine releases the hormones that signal you just ate, watched yet another Ben Stiller movie, and found out who's been stealing your Us Weekly from the mailbox.

It's moving faster, sure, but it's running down-hill, too. Anything moving downhill reaches a speed at which the acceleration of gravity down the plane surpasses the ability to maintain control of the physical object. It usually takes force from a brake pad, a sail, a rubbery band, some good strong thighs, netting, a creek, rocks, or a bouncer to halt or slow the descent. But until that force kicks in, it's all flailing arms and whitening knuckles in hopes of surviving the crash without being all gross and lizard-looking.

Technology is on that slope, and slippery it is. You don't know you want the next iPlod, which will have songs your favorite artists haven't ever recorded, until you see and read and hear about the next iClod, which has the power to destroy the cellular structure of Ashlee Simpson's vocal chords. You see it and say "YES, that is what I want, and I will have it by next HOLY Lincoln Logs, is it really $675? I better eBay my 2 month-old iBlob ASAP so I can get this new fangled one." Faster. Now. Come on... you're waiting.

Working in the mobile communications industry, I see this all the time. It's one of the factors that leads to burnout in this industry: TECHNOLOGICAL CHURN. That phone you just got, the one with the camera, web access, downloaded ringtones, and for-shit reception? Yeah, it's out of date already. But you got it for like $3 and a decent rate plan, so why not, it's all you need right now, huh? Wait until you see the Nokeepa ON-X1!
It uses the electrical currents in your brain to dial people. You think of someone's name or face, your phone reads it and calls them immediately! It will help you solve so many problems, because even if you hate the person, it will send them death threats, and there's no end to what it can do with the amount of porn it accesses from the internet to send to people you're fantasizing about. A record is kept and sent to you at the end of the month, showing everyone you thought of, what you thought of, and how often they were contacted by your new phone you didn't know you needed until 2 minutes ago. It's already activated, you activated it by thinking of it. You are now running headlong into the future... a Future of Telepathic Communication, interplanetary waste storage, and loss of body hair and functional genitals. Welcome aboard.

Every point of communication filters out some of the original message. Throw in a language barrier, loud music, 2 drunken frat boys, and sprinkle it with some ego, you are missing a fair amount of the message. Few people truly appreciate subtle and intelligent humor anymore, because they are conveyed with a look or a pun or nod. TV is dumbing people down instead of pushing the envelope of mental evolution. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to e-mail a video of Ashlee Simpson getting gang-Cleveland Steamered by the roadies for Slayer.

But you already knew that, because you sent it to me last night.
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Valentine's Day: When You Care Enough To Give A Rip

It's Valentine's Day. An antiquated day that is perpetuated by lovesick secretaries and the Hallmark's and Yankee Candle Companies they split time between on Friday nights.

Love is not now nor should ever be a once-a-year thing. You should be showing people you love and care for them every Tuesday if not twice a week. What's your problem? You want some ass, don't you? Get in the game, but be subtle. Raising an eyebrow when asking, "So... wanna, you know... see a movie?" is the '05 equivalent of flashing. People have gotten lazier, so you have to go one notch over that. Still waters run deep, but so do a big girl's drawers. I've learned so much from my Grampa. Grampa The Butt. Grampa Bay F*ckaneer. The Gromper! Beer me!

You're not out of love, you're not lost without me.
You wanna know what love is, you want me to show you.

First off, you have to love yourself. If you don't love yourself, you're not going to be able to share it with anyone else. Do you love yourself? You should. Because if you don't love yourself, then nobody does, and that's a sad life to live.
Second, do you even WANT to be involved with someone? When I met my girlfriend, I didn't have a choice, I was going to be with her whether or not she had pepper spray left. But sometimes you get taken by surprise in that you have spent the last 3 evenings hanging out with someone. You didn't realize it until someone pointed out to you "Hey, that's a really gross hickey." So if you are enjoying the company of someone, don't get rattled. Just make sure you are fed and rested and properly bathed and groomed in the event there is a need to box your truffles.
Thirdth, get that hickey looked at, gaack.
Fourdth, identify and write down what you absolutely will NOT put up with in a relationship. Count them up. You're really picky, huh? Now toss that and pass your "interest" some of your biscuits on the second date, Maude. Is it going to get weird? What, like you don't know, after all the havoc you've wrought in people's love-lives? Yeah, it's gonna get weird, especially when you suggest "Why don't you put this on?" (reaching for the Lando Calrissian mask)
Fifth, get so drunk that you hallucinate about crapshack rats and call it a night. You're a mess, you hickey-ripened Billy Dee Williams ho-bag.
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Happy Valentine's Day.

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Good Morning Class

Your nation has 100,000 coins.
You owe another nation 200,000 coins, and they want it back. Like before breakfast last Thursday.
So you have to mint more coins in order to pay off some of the debt AND keep coins in circulation. More coins, however, means that they aren't as valuable. Printing another 100,000 coins makes 1 coin worth only half as much as before the coin supply doubled.
Now your currency is devalued, BUT you get to start paying off your debt. But the goods your citizens must buy in order to live haven't changed in price, and your government is not about to drop the prices, because they already gave breaks to the companies selling those goods, and damnit, Government needs it's money to buy more ninja stars and smoke-screen bombs.

Costs seem to go up, but it's mostly because the coin you pay with is worth only half as much because of the doubled supply and the lack of interest in coins with pictures of citizens and stars from syndicated sit-coms on them. Costs aren't up, the coin is down in worth. And holy crapsadillas, that debt! THAT FRIGGIN' DEBT!

So 100,000 coins go to the debt, but they're worth only 50,000 of the original debt, so another 50,000 is owed, and more coins get printed, and we all know what happens when a market is saturated with people who think they're funny... I mean, saturated with coins. The value of comedy, excuse me, golly-polly! The value of CURRENCY drops. The currency isn't worth much, the goods they use to buy aren't being purchased, jobs are lost in the manufacturing sector, and then people get checks from the government. Checks they can exchange for the worthless coins they weren't being paid.

Before the society begins to crumble, there are a few things that can happen to save it:
1 - the debt is forgiven by the creditors, thereby freeing the debtee to generate goods that can be sold and build up their reserves, or feed their hungry, or buy some ninja stars
2 - the nation is weakend to a point that a wealthy benefactor can despotically take the reigns through force or through politics, depending on the community's fear factor when it comes to being hit face-wise with a ninja star, or being told that other nations want to throw ninja stars at its face and its up to the nation to choose a ninja star-shielding superexpert to protect, all while the ninja star-shielder continuously throws ninja stars at other nations faces
3 - Jose Canseco injects steroids into the nation to make it's currency stronger, yet more volatile in a bar fight
4 - the nation quits manufacturing anything of worth and starts getting booked out as a feature comic without knowing what the hell it's doing, and taking any gig it can get for any amount, thereby killing the market price for good comics
5 - the nation spends a weekend at Neverland Ranch, drinks some Jesus Juice, gets its Gross National Product checked out, sells a script deal to USA
6 - the nation allows a tsunami to hit it, thereby taking care of its population control AND financial rebuilding efforts all at the same time

And that's how James Brown beats women and still gets applause on the Grammy Awards Show.
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Last year I went to a Halloween Party for Cats. It was thrown by a cat, in an apartment paid for by a couple of cats, who apparently are doing quite well for not being able to speak English or drive or open a nail salon.
At this Halloween Party for cats, I was surprised at how many of them were dressed like unattractive secretaries.
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Once I decided to stop dating girls, I met a woman. I highly recommend that.

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I can't believe a guy from Klamath Falls was almost able to organize a Mass Suicide over the internet. Just invite them to Klamath Falls and let 'em work it out on their own.
Point B, was anybody going to miss this guy, besides whomever he borrowed the Lord Of the Rings box-set from?



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For The Lovers

With Monday being Valentine's Day, a day perpetuated by the candy and card companies of the world so they stay in business between Christamases, I wanted to give to you a couple pieces of the finest, most sensual words ever committed to the catalogs of historical sexuality. Get a towel, 'cause it's about to get damp...

I give you... TENACIOUS D!

"Fuck Her Gently"

This is a song for the ladies

But fellas listen closely...

You don't always have to fuck her hard

In fact sometimes that's not right to do

Sometimes you've got to make some love

And fuckin' give her some smoochies too

Sometimes ya got to squeeze

Sometimes you've got to say please

Sometime you've got to say hey

I'm gonna Fuck you

softly

I'm gonna screw you gently

I'm gonna hump you

sweetly

I'm gonna ball you discreetly

And then you say hey I bought you flowers

And then you say wait a minute sally

I think I got somethin in my teeth Could you get it out for me?

That's fuckin teamwork!

Whats your favorite poz-ish?

That's cool with me It's not my favorite But I'll do it for you

Whats your favorite dish?

I'm not gonna cook it But ill order it from Zanzibar

And then I'm gonna love you completely

And then I'll fuckin fuck you discreetly

And then I'll fucking bone you completely

But then I'm gonna fuck you hard

Hard
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(for those of you who are into team sports)
"Double Team"

[spoken] Damn, a hard day's rockin'.

Better slip off ma shoes.

Maybe give a little stretch, and a bend.

Dip m'toe inna jacuzzi, behbeh.

Slip out this book: The Buttress of Windsor.

Ho ho ho, who's this? How's it goin'?

[sung]

That's the first thin' I say to you. How's it goin'? Are you flowin'?

Listen honey, Thinkin' 'bout a couple things to say to you,

Showin', growin'.

Man I'd like to place my hand upon your fuckin' sexy ass and squeeze.

And squeeze!

Take off your blouse, And yo' UNNAH PAY-ANTS,

Then take a look,

'Cause here me and KG come naked, Out of the side-hatch,

With the oils and perfume and incense.

Now you're groovin', Put on a cool '70s groove.

A funky groove to fuck to. A funky groove to fuck to.

Me, me and KG, It's all about sex supreme,

We likes to cream jeans. (sex)

Have you ever been worked on

By two guys who are hot for your snatch? (sex)

That's what I'm offerin' you.

You step into our room, And then you smell the perfume,

You lay upon our roundish bed,

And then you feel a tickling on your head. It's KG with the feather

and the French tickler, Look out baby he got the tools.

And then you feel sumpin' down by your feet.

It's me, it's JB, I'm suckin' upon your toes.

We don't mind sucking on toes!

Good luck finding a boyfriend who sucks toe, ow!

Havin' sex with me and KG,

Now you're talkin' double team supreme.

Let's roll! Oh! Ahh, oh!

What! Yeah!

Huh! Nah!

Oh! Ah, that's it, that's right, ohmygah,

oh-I-think-I'm-gonna,

Ohh!

Deht!

Deht!

Eeee!

Splooge!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

And if anyone was offended by the subject matter or words used in this blog, I'm sorry.

Sorry you're such a BORING sack-monkey.

Maybe you need to cut that talk and drop the wok, get into a little hot-n-heavy stir fry of your own, quit judging everyone else for seeing the majestic peaks that are Rage-Kage and the JaBles. Go get your knobs polished.

May you have more screws than a Home Depot. Get drilled.

"Bloggingly-Relevant Sign Off" You stray butthair!

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