With Lovely Woman in the house, there's a steady TV diet of the GNN (Gay-CNN/E!) and MTV reality shows that are unintentionally, and therefore 100-times more, funny. It is from the wafting noises of the programs on these shows I get a lot of info about the various "hot accessories" and "cool pubic hair styles" of the macro-biotic Kabbalah-brities in and around the Hollywood. My Aquarian nature shudders at the imbalanced lives they lead, falsely centering themselves in a made-up universe. My Aquarian nature is also equipped with a hollowed-out molar full of Dichotomy-G32, a chemical that immediately puts me in a pair of Prada slides, sipping freshly-brewed Chilean virgin-hymen Bubble tonics out of cups made especially for Whole Foods, and saying, "Yes, I can appreciate the beauty of that Louis satchel. It is right for the season. It is unique. This tonic is, golly, giving me half of an erection, but only on the left. Huh."
I'm very two-sided. Even with the strongest beliefs in a point of view, I am fully aware of the opposing view-point, and rarely see it as an antagonist. It's part of my nature, and often gets me into trouble. Some people believe that I'm being difficult, while some see me as being stubbornly difficult. Still others find me to be "fascinating" when I'm not "doing pushups during the sermon." Balance, I love it. Which is why I really love how some stars have found a way to balance their "Anybody Would Suck On My Body" status with accessories. And from there, it's all about how decadent you can get. The more decadent the accessory (UP), the more grounded you appear (DOWN).
For example, Paris Hilton had Tinkerbelle. Tink was a dog that could fit in Paris' purse, were it not for her pills. From there, she upgraded to not just a living mammal, but NICOLE RICHIE, who fits into most pill bottles now. Nicole was tired of being the third most-famous snatch on the show, so she chewed through her leash and nearly married a once-fat DJ, Howard Stern. Or not. Her dad is the very famous BB King?
How do you top a dog, and a chihuahua? TWO CHIHUAHUAS... DOY. How the hell do you top that?
Look no further than Angelina Jolie. She's got a Cambodian kid, AND Brad Pitt. AND another baby from Africa. Where does it end? Olsen Twins BackPacks by Labor Day, that's where.
Now those are the kind of accessories that make a dude say "Women ARE from Venus!"
============
Speaking of Books and Decadence, I think it's great that Oprah, who was once making a fat red penny off of her goy-toy James Frey's "A Million Little Pieces," and never questioned, but instead CHAMPIONED, the tale his "memoir" told has come out to say she feels like she was duped. I was worried for a while that Oprah, who is AT THIS MOMENT, simmering in a pan of her own HARPO juicey-juice, wouldn't give a shit about the lies.
Isn't it great that she's thought about contemplating the possibility of giving to charity all the money her book club made from pushing the book?
What a saint that disgustingly "rich for no reason" that woman is. I hope she recovers from her dupey-ness!
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Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Monday, January 23, 2006
More to come... but...
In this morning's blog, my friend Killorn, when referring to her drive to dial-back the veracity of her laugh, used the term "Throat the beast."
Google that, and get back to me on how many returns you get for semi-legal sites in Scandinavia.
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Google that, and get back to me on how many returns you get for semi-legal sites in Scandinavia.
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Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Taste The Future, Again
Last year I did a prediction blog, linked up to your visual cortex RIGHT HERE. My comedy prediction is sadly coming true.
I should do this for a living.
"This" = leering at your mom in her aerobicize unitard. What's up Mrs. Cundiff? Need help with those groceries?
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I should do this for a living.
"This" = leering at your mom in her aerobicize unitard. What's up Mrs. Cundiff? Need help with those groceries?
================
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Name Your Kid For Criminal Success
Naming a child is giving them the identity they will carry through their life. I'll keep this short.
If you want your child to grow up to be a criminal, like a "killed by the authorities" criminal, give him a middle name of Ray. Another one was taken down last night in California. He was 76, and this was the first ever execution by "BOO!"
If you're looking more at your garden-variety assault and burglary, just go for the initials. JT. TJ. RJ. JD. BO. It's cute when he's getting his pictures at Sears, but it's sad when he's there changing tires.
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If you want your child to grow up to be a criminal, like a "killed by the authorities" criminal, give him a middle name of Ray. Another one was taken down last night in California. He was 76, and this was the first ever execution by "BOO!"
If you're looking more at your garden-variety assault and burglary, just go for the initials. JT. TJ. RJ. JD. BO. It's cute when he's getting his pictures at Sears, but it's sad when he's there changing tires.
===========
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Monday, January 16, 2006
You Can't Sue Mother Nature
27,000 new homes built into area hillsides, once covered with trees.
270,000 trees removed from those hillsides.
27 days of rain.
2,700,000 pounds of mud sliding down those now-rootless hillsides, into backyards, living rooms, reflecting ponds, zen-gardens, and garages.
2 turds given by nature when the mud covers the new Acura and dislodges a baker's-dozen of townhomes.
1 very upset cougar in the living room wondering where it's home went. (Cougars have traditionally low credit ratings)
Zero sympathy to muster. But hey, I have a leak in the living room, and I have to deal with the Property managers now, so I am NOT HAPPY.
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270,000 trees removed from those hillsides.
27 days of rain.
2,700,000 pounds of mud sliding down those now-rootless hillsides, into backyards, living rooms, reflecting ponds, zen-gardens, and garages.
2 turds given by nature when the mud covers the new Acura and dislodges a baker's-dozen of townhomes.
1 very upset cougar in the living room wondering where it's home went. (Cougars have traditionally low credit ratings)
Zero sympathy to muster. But hey, I have a leak in the living room, and I have to deal with the Property managers now, so I am NOT HAPPY.
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Saturday, January 14, 2006
A Sure Way To Beat the Rap
Also, if you've ever wondered how to define the term "Preferential Treatment," look no further than the case of Washington Redskins safety Sean Taylor. Taylor was arrested last year for pulling a gun (F*CK WHAT???) on somebody during an altercation. Taylor, who stands 6'4'' and tips the scales at 225+ lbs basically threatened to kill someone with a gun. His hearing was last week, prior to the 'Skins playing in Seattle.
The hearing, held in Dade County, FL (where Sean Taylor attended the University of Miami), resulted in the Prosecutor's request for No Special Treatment being denied, as Taylor's absence from the Redskins game would have caused hardship on both Sean Taylor AND the Redskins, so sayeth Judge Mary Barzee.
The group he was with during the fight in question was fighting another group... over an All Terrain Vehicle.
Since it's all "alleged" behavior, Taylor has not yet sat down for the standard Athlete In Trouble Tattoo, a.k.a "Only God Can Judge Me." Too bad God has all the ATV's He needs, and is not elected to His post by the voters and boosters near the University Of Miami.
Sean Taylor: Professional Ass-bag.
Happy Martin Luther King Day!
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The hearing, held in Dade County, FL (where Sean Taylor attended the University of Miami), resulted in the Prosecutor's request for No Special Treatment being denied, as Taylor's absence from the Redskins game would have caused hardship on both Sean Taylor AND the Redskins, so sayeth Judge Mary Barzee.
The group he was with during the fight in question was fighting another group... over an All Terrain Vehicle.
Since it's all "alleged" behavior, Taylor has not yet sat down for the standard Athlete In Trouble Tattoo, a.k.a "Only God Can Judge Me." Too bad God has all the ATV's He needs, and is not elected to His post by the voters and boosters near the University Of Miami.
Sean Taylor: Professional Ass-bag.
Happy Martin Luther King Day!
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Thursday, January 12, 2006
Geoff Lott... Dead To Comedy?
Rumors of my demise have been greatly and masturbatorily exaggerated.
Last night I started my week of the Giggles Laugh-Off. This competition, like any comedy competition, is as weirdly judged with skewed voting practices as picking "the most F'ed-up Jackson." I was pitted against 15 year-old Ryan Cuddihy, who, when I started comedy, had no idea that some day he would meet, and later beat, me in a comedy showdown.
I will spare the details because comedy competitions aren't about details, and it wouldn't sound gracious, anyway.
I won't be making any wine from sour grapes, either.
What I will say is this:
Ryan had a very good set last night.
I had a very good set last night.
In the end, he had more votes than I did.
The tabloids would have you believe it matters, but like I said last night, votes don't count, not in comedy, not in politics. Not when we're all pawns in the power struggle between the ghost of Jimi Hendrix and the slowly gathering dolphin army.
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Last night I started my week of the Giggles Laugh-Off. This competition, like any comedy competition, is as weirdly judged with skewed voting practices as picking "the most F'ed-up Jackson." I was pitted against 15 year-old Ryan Cuddihy, who, when I started comedy, had no idea that some day he would meet, and later beat, me in a comedy showdown.
I will spare the details because comedy competitions aren't about details, and it wouldn't sound gracious, anyway.
I won't be making any wine from sour grapes, either.
What I will say is this:
Ryan had a very good set last night.
I had a very good set last night.
In the end, he had more votes than I did.
The tabloids would have you believe it matters, but like I said last night, votes don't count, not in comedy, not in politics. Not when we're all pawns in the power struggle between the ghost of Jimi Hendrix and the slowly gathering dolphin army.
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Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Resolved
I awake full of zest, marvelling at the world. Eyes lit with the fires of eons past, as my first conscious breath of the morn pierces the veil of darkness.
Am I awake?
Is this Heaven?
Can I create my own Valhalla right here in this world?
I know the scythe and plow await me, and all I need is to rise, rise to the moment and let the chill of my skin play against the sun warming my sinew.
Will the Universe conspire with me... BRAAAAAAP... WOO, morning gas, what is UP mi amigo? Who's been eating broccoli again? THIS GUY, that's who.
What was I saying? OH RIGHT, the New Year hype.
Perhaps I'd be more into it if I didn't have the notion that the New Year is just a way to remember that you need to buy a new Shetland Pony/Firefighters/Carmen Electra's Pussy calendar.
Perhaps the attitude I carry is the one that numbs it down for me. I want to believe things are renewed. I wish I could look back and close the book on 2005. But I'm not going to do that until my creditors do.
Perhaps I get sick at the dewy-eyed, cocked eyebrow, distance-staring pseudo-philosoBloggers who can't figure if they're trying to make the reader reflect on the previous year (which is summarized perfectly by actions in the month of December), or if those writers just enjoy the smell of their own rose-colored e-turds.
I once wrote in this column that I had hoped to never write something here that was a waste of time to read. I aim, still, to never write anything that is not a reflection of what I'm feeling. And if I have nothing to express, or have to force it, I keep it inside until it's fully bound together and packaged for a drop-ship, steaming, onto the chest of readership.
So as we move into the New Year, I'm going to make a resolution to myself:
Do not be fooled by the marketing, the hype, nor the self-aggrandizing stew that many a human hambone loves to simmer in.
oh...
and stop expecting so much from Owen Wilson's squinty-eyed acting.
Serious gas here, people.
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Am I awake?
Is this Heaven?
Can I create my own Valhalla right here in this world?
I know the scythe and plow await me, and all I need is to rise, rise to the moment and let the chill of my skin play against the sun warming my sinew.
Will the Universe conspire with me... BRAAAAAAP... WOO, morning gas, what is UP mi amigo? Who's been eating broccoli again? THIS GUY, that's who.
What was I saying? OH RIGHT, the New Year hype.
Perhaps I'd be more into it if I didn't have the notion that the New Year is just a way to remember that you need to buy a new Shetland Pony/Firefighters/Carmen Electra's Pussy calendar.
Perhaps the attitude I carry is the one that numbs it down for me. I want to believe things are renewed. I wish I could look back and close the book on 2005. But I'm not going to do that until my creditors do.
Perhaps I get sick at the dewy-eyed, cocked eyebrow, distance-staring pseudo-philosoBloggers who can't figure if they're trying to make the reader reflect on the previous year (which is summarized perfectly by actions in the month of December), or if those writers just enjoy the smell of their own rose-colored e-turds.
I once wrote in this column that I had hoped to never write something here that was a waste of time to read. I aim, still, to never write anything that is not a reflection of what I'm feeling. And if I have nothing to express, or have to force it, I keep it inside until it's fully bound together and packaged for a drop-ship, steaming, onto the chest of readership.
So as we move into the New Year, I'm going to make a resolution to myself:
Do not be fooled by the marketing, the hype, nor the self-aggrandizing stew that many a human hambone loves to simmer in.
oh...
and stop expecting so much from Owen Wilson's squinty-eyed acting.
Serious gas here, people.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Friday, December 30, 2005
Be Nicer, Damn It!
2005 was the year of unrealized Self-Empowerment, a movement that, like most weapons, is going off at all the wrong times. People have mistaken "rightful place in the kingdom of God on Earth" for "I don't gotta say no 'Thanks' or no 'Please' to nobawdy! I'll finish this phone conversation where the hell ever I wanna, you be a ho!"
General rudeness has replaced basic courtesy. I open doors for people, or hold them open, on a semi-regular basis. But I also have about a 2 to 3-second window for people to get in through tat door. I have no idea if it's all the energy drinks on the market, the alley-grade oxycontin, or the fact that people are "living in the moment, like today is the last day of their lives." It's annoying. It has to stop.
So I've come up with a 2-point plan for getting back on the Manners Mobile. I highly suggest anybody adapt it to their own lives (I know I will), and share it with others.
FIRST:
Repeat this phrase to yourself: While I am important, I'm not the only person _____BLANK #1_____
SECOND:
Follow it with this phrase: ... and therefore, I shall not _____BLANK #2_____ because that would be inconsiderate to the world around me, which does not revolve around me, but instead, exists for my benefit, and not vise-versa. And that goes double for ______BLANK #3_______
THE BLANKS!
Blank #1: fill in the blank with the name of whatever FridayOliveCakeChiliBirdFactory you happen to find yourself at after a long night of blowing truckers. Same thing can be used if you find yourself at the grocery store while taking a break from your favorite sport, Booger Rolling.
Blank #2: this is where you are conscious of what you're doing at that moment, whether it be NOT BLOGGING even though you're cluttering the net with your blank archives of banal horseshit and/or "Dreams." It also encompasses elevator farting, blowing salami burps, or not leaving a store when you think getting a better deal on cereal is more important than other people not hearing your 5 year old scream for a coloring book.
BLANK #3: "my (SEX ORGAN YOU WERE BORN WITH THAT GETS YOU IN TROUBLE THE MOST... which for me is my brain)!!!"
See, it's simple. Be in the moment, realize you're not the king of the queen of the MeyerTargetSafeLarry's, and say "Thanks!" when I hold the door open for you. Or you WILL be sorry the next time we're in the elevator together.
Happy New Year? I'll be the judge of that.
By the way, my girlfriend and I have quit smoking, and things are on edge around here. Come by and make sure we're not wearing each other as suits. DO NOT KNOCK, YOU COME IN AND YOU BRING ICE CREAM.
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General rudeness has replaced basic courtesy. I open doors for people, or hold them open, on a semi-regular basis. But I also have about a 2 to 3-second window for people to get in through tat door. I have no idea if it's all the energy drinks on the market, the alley-grade oxycontin, or the fact that people are "living in the moment, like today is the last day of their lives." It's annoying. It has to stop.
So I've come up with a 2-point plan for getting back on the Manners Mobile. I highly suggest anybody adapt it to their own lives (I know I will), and share it with others.
FIRST:
Repeat this phrase to yourself: While I am important, I'm not the only person _____BLANK #1_____
SECOND:
Follow it with this phrase: ... and therefore, I shall not _____BLANK #2_____ because that would be inconsiderate to the world around me, which does not revolve around me, but instead, exists for my benefit, and not vise-versa. And that goes double for ______BLANK #3_______
THE BLANKS!
Blank #1: fill in the blank with the name of whatever FridayOliveCakeChiliBirdFactory you happen to find yourself at after a long night of blowing truckers. Same thing can be used if you find yourself at the grocery store while taking a break from your favorite sport, Booger Rolling.
Blank #2: this is where you are conscious of what you're doing at that moment, whether it be NOT BLOGGING even though you're cluttering the net with your blank archives of banal horseshit and/or "Dreams." It also encompasses elevator farting, blowing salami burps, or not leaving a store when you think getting a better deal on cereal is more important than other people not hearing your 5 year old scream for a coloring book.
BLANK #3: "my (SEX ORGAN YOU WERE BORN WITH THAT GETS YOU IN TROUBLE THE MOST... which for me is my brain)!!!"
See, it's simple. Be in the moment, realize you're not the king of the queen of the MeyerTargetSafeLarry's, and say "Thanks!" when I hold the door open for you. Or you WILL be sorry the next time we're in the elevator together.
Happy New Year? I'll be the judge of that.
By the way, my girlfriend and I have quit smoking, and things are on edge around here. Come by and make sure we're not wearing each other as suits. DO NOT KNOCK, YOU COME IN AND YOU BRING ICE CREAM.
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Tuesday, December 27, 2005
The Gifts Of Christmas Past
THE Holiday has come and passed, and I hope you each got something easily returnable. The fact of the matter is that very few people can shop for us as we get older, unless the shopper keeps an ear and a keen eye open to your style and suggestions. You may need running shoes (turns out I'm a supinating ball-striker), some fierce tops (if you've got good bottoms), or a new gadget that turns on the music, and turns off the rest of your social circle.
A pervasive feeling overcomes many people about 2.5 weeks into December, that harrowing "a Christmas party… a bathroom… a thong… balls?" feeling. This is preceded by wanting to get "something" for "so & so," but you're not sure what to get, and don't want to appear thoughtless by handing over the dollar amount in the form of a giftcard. Instead, your mind plumbs its resin & hops-glazed depths for a twinkling of their personality so you can get them an appropriate guilt trip. Er, gift.
Anywho, I wish I had more to say about all this but I have to go write my "Christmas Is Too Commercial" blog for the Pepsi website, sponsored by Nike's LiveRad campaign to fight obesity in our endangered species.org. Right after I return this "Babe Ruth" baseball card. Hello? I'm 31. I SAID BOOOOOZE, Mother.
Confidential to Steve:
Just because there's less blood in it does NOT mean "it's breaking up." Go home.
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A pervasive feeling overcomes many people about 2.5 weeks into December, that harrowing "a Christmas party… a bathroom… a thong… balls?" feeling. This is preceded by wanting to get "something" for "so & so," but you're not sure what to get, and don't want to appear thoughtless by handing over the dollar amount in the form of a giftcard. Instead, your mind plumbs its resin & hops-glazed depths for a twinkling of their personality so you can get them an appropriate guilt trip. Er, gift.
Anywho, I wish I had more to say about all this but I have to go write my "Christmas Is Too Commercial" blog for the Pepsi website, sponsored by Nike's LiveRad campaign to fight obesity in our endangered species.org. Right after I return this "Babe Ruth" baseball card. Hello? I'm 31. I SAID BOOOOOZE, Mother.
Confidential to Steve:
Just because there's less blood in it does NOT mean "it's breaking up." Go home.
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Thursday, December 22, 2005
Merry Christmas, And Other Offensive Words
So far, nobody has told me directly that they have any problem with me wishing them a Merry Christmas. I wonder if it's all propaganda created by the Reich Wing to drum up religious fervor.
For those who are completely against religion, that's fine, that's your decision.
You have to work the weekend. No days off in the Agnostic calendar, 'cept the National Holidays. If you truly want separation of Church and State, you cannot say "The government said I can take this day off," because that would be observing a Religious Holiday, and my tolerance ends at your hypocrisy.
And I'm reminded again this year that once a year is not enough to do nice things for those you care about. Don't save it up. Give a little bit all year. When it comes this time of the year and I don't get gifts from people, I don't feel bad because I know that I did some other nice stuff for them through out the year. Seriously though, when in doubt, just give me a gift card. I would rather write a "Thank You" card instead of an "Oh, THANKS" card.
Also, if you're sending a card just to send a card, "because that's what you DO," I am okay with being left off the list. Getting one of what was likely 50-53 cards with your quickly-sprawled signature in it makes me feel less like a SugarPlum and more like a YuleLog. E-mail me a "Hi!" and a digital photo of a naked elf. Unless you are giving us original photos on the cards, something cute or funny, no, REALLY, save it!!! What you see as a gesture of kindness I see as tree death and mantle clutter.
I'm happy to be thought of, but try to think when thinking of me. Put some thought into it. Five $100 gifts are better than 500 $1 gifts. Quality, not quantity, unless you're trying to break the "Gifts That Were Laying Around That Fit In Boxes That Were Laying Around" record. Don't be a nutlog and give me clutter. I wouldn't do that to you. I'd help you move your crap, and you repay me with a Jack Osborne bobble-head...
Gawd, people take all the fun out of Christmas.
Only 2 more shopping days left.
F*ck.
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For those who are completely against religion, that's fine, that's your decision.
You have to work the weekend. No days off in the Agnostic calendar, 'cept the National Holidays. If you truly want separation of Church and State, you cannot say "The government said I can take this day off," because that would be observing a Religious Holiday, and my tolerance ends at your hypocrisy.
And I'm reminded again this year that once a year is not enough to do nice things for those you care about. Don't save it up. Give a little bit all year. When it comes this time of the year and I don't get gifts from people, I don't feel bad because I know that I did some other nice stuff for them through out the year. Seriously though, when in doubt, just give me a gift card. I would rather write a "Thank You" card instead of an "Oh, THANKS" card.
Also, if you're sending a card just to send a card, "because that's what you DO," I am okay with being left off the list. Getting one of what was likely 50-53 cards with your quickly-sprawled signature in it makes me feel less like a SugarPlum and more like a YuleLog. E-mail me a "Hi!" and a digital photo of a naked elf. Unless you are giving us original photos on the cards, something cute or funny, no, REALLY, save it!!! What you see as a gesture of kindness I see as tree death and mantle clutter.
I'm happy to be thought of, but try to think when thinking of me. Put some thought into it. Five $100 gifts are better than 500 $1 gifts. Quality, not quantity, unless you're trying to break the "Gifts That Were Laying Around That Fit In Boxes That Were Laying Around" record. Don't be a nutlog and give me clutter. I wouldn't do that to you. I'd help you move your crap, and you repay me with a Jack Osborne bobble-head...
Gawd, people take all the fun out of Christmas.
Only 2 more shopping days left.
F*ck.
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Monday, December 19, 2005
Here, Please... Take My Shit
Nick and Jessica are in the process of getting divorced.
They are millionaires.
They have no children.
They are both moderately talented.
They have contributed to the retarding the legacy of American entertainment.
Supposedly, Nick deflowered Jessica.
Jessica, supposedly, thinks that's a gardening term.
Rumors abound of their dallying outside the bonds of marriage.
Dude, no shit. Who wouldn't mount that hot piece of ass. And her, too! HA HA, FAGTASTIC TURN OF A PUNCHLINE.
It has played out in the public eye, as was planned by Jessica's father, Adolf Mengala Simpsputin.
This way, they are always "so-&-so's ex"wife/husband, no matter how many of their movies go straight to DVD.
I don't pretend to think that anybody reading this was emotionally affected by the split in a negative way. Personally, I celebrated by farting. "Sorry" to the lady in the check-out line, not to mention the old man in the wheelchair I blamed it on. But that second one by the scratch-tickets was not me. I know my smell, that was something not of this earth, at least not of this diet.
As I understand marketing and celebrity life more and more, the more I want to be part of it, so that I can make fun of them publicly. Grand-scale publicly, is what I'm saying. Anybody who takes themselves so seriously in that they can't take a joke, refuse to be nudged by the elbow of comedy, well hey friend, YOU'RE IN THE CROSS-HAIRS. I find lacking a sense of humor about one's self to be a serious character flaw. Being humorless is one thing, but not being able to take a joke about your own clothing/glasses/haircut, or a myriad of other things, well my friend, you deserve to be teased until the scar tissue builds up and you start throwing turds back at the monkies.
In summation, I like dark chocolate, and have since long before anybody started their "antioxidants" campaign, likely the people at Big Antioxidant. If anybody thought that Nick and Jessica would stay married while living a life in the public eye, that person is not the kind of person I want to spend much time around. That's the kind of person who, for what they lack in general intelligence, makes up for in drug-trade promiscuity. And the world continues to turn.
Not that I care or nothin'.
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They are millionaires.
They have no children.
They are both moderately talented.
They have contributed to the retarding the legacy of American entertainment.
Supposedly, Nick deflowered Jessica.
Jessica, supposedly, thinks that's a gardening term.
Rumors abound of their dallying outside the bonds of marriage.
Dude, no shit. Who wouldn't mount that hot piece of ass. And her, too! HA HA, FAGTASTIC TURN OF A PUNCHLINE.
It has played out in the public eye, as was planned by Jessica's father, Adolf Mengala Simpsputin.
This way, they are always "so-&-so's ex"wife/husband, no matter how many of their movies go straight to DVD.
I don't pretend to think that anybody reading this was emotionally affected by the split in a negative way. Personally, I celebrated by farting. "Sorry" to the lady in the check-out line, not to mention the old man in the wheelchair I blamed it on. But that second one by the scratch-tickets was not me. I know my smell, that was something not of this earth, at least not of this diet.
As I understand marketing and celebrity life more and more, the more I want to be part of it, so that I can make fun of them publicly. Grand-scale publicly, is what I'm saying. Anybody who takes themselves so seriously in that they can't take a joke, refuse to be nudged by the elbow of comedy, well hey friend, YOU'RE IN THE CROSS-HAIRS. I find lacking a sense of humor about one's self to be a serious character flaw. Being humorless is one thing, but not being able to take a joke about your own clothing/glasses/haircut, or a myriad of other things, well my friend, you deserve to be teased until the scar tissue builds up and you start throwing turds back at the monkies.
In summation, I like dark chocolate, and have since long before anybody started their "antioxidants" campaign, likely the people at Big Antioxidant. If anybody thought that Nick and Jessica would stay married while living a life in the public eye, that person is not the kind of person I want to spend much time around. That's the kind of person who, for what they lack in general intelligence, makes up for in drug-trade promiscuity. And the world continues to turn.
Not that I care or nothin'.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, December 15, 2005
This Ought To Cover It
There's a "code" on the street about telling people what you're into without having to vomit onto your MySpazz page about it.
It's called
"THE HANKY CODE"
This chart tells you what, and where, the meaning of a hanky is.
http://alt.xmission.com/~trevin/hanky.html
I keep my setlist in my back left pocket. Apparently that makes me an "Aggressive baby head into night farting and getting verbally steamered." Paraphrasing, of course.
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It's called
"THE HANKY CODE"
This chart tells you what, and where, the meaning of a hanky is.
http://alt.xmission.com/~trevin/hanky.html
I keep my setlist in my back left pocket. Apparently that makes me an "Aggressive baby head into night farting and getting verbally steamered." Paraphrasing, of course.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
EggNog Recipe
This is the universal recipe for eggnog:
1 Gallon 2% Milk From A Harbor Seal
3 Cups Maple Syrup
1 Pint of Elf Tears
6 Egg Yolks
1 Nightmare involving a Clown (or a jellyfish, for the non-drinkers)
750ml of Rum to wash the taste out
Garnish with bad breath
Enjoy the Taste Of The Holidays, AND The Taste Of Diabetes!
=================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
1 Gallon 2% Milk From A Harbor Seal
3 Cups Maple Syrup
1 Pint of Elf Tears
6 Egg Yolks
1 Nightmare involving a Clown (or a jellyfish, for the non-drinkers)
750ml of Rum to wash the taste out
Garnish with bad breath
Enjoy the Taste Of The Holidays, AND The Taste Of Diabetes!
=================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, December 05, 2005
Just An Idear
Saddam said in court today that he’s not afraid of execution. The former dictator of Iraq, a sadistic, torturing, madman, who is sure to have Hell waiting for him, is not afraid of to die. He basically is daring them to kill him.
They should not do that. Do not kill Saddam Hussein. In fact, they should start talking to him about what kind of reparations he could make in order to go free. They need to ask him why he thinks he should not be punished. And let him plead that case. And nod along, make notes, nod, note, nod, note. They should bring up the numerous charges of torture, murder, corruption, and scandal, and let him rebut against each charge. And when the talking’s done, they should deliberate for a day or two.
After this deliberation, they should call Saddam back to court, and say “Hey man, you weren’t a very benevolent leader. You did some really awful things. Most of the rest of the world hates you. But some people love you, and would love to harbor you upon your release. So we’re going to release you, and let you fend for yourself.”
Then, as he heads back to the jail to sign the paperwork, he’s greeted by many people on roadside holding signs of praise for him. He gets to the prison, signs his paperwork, and heads for the door.
Which is when the tribunal council says “Nah, we change our minds. We’re going to torture you. Death’s too good for you. We’ll webcam the whole deal, too. Hell, we’re going to have people e-mailing what we should do to you next. High-bidders will be able to tazer you from time to time. You're not gonna Hitler your way outta this one. Buckle up, it’s gonna be a while.”
OR, he can toss salads every day for a month.
The Geoff Lott Administration has begun.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
They should not do that. Do not kill Saddam Hussein. In fact, they should start talking to him about what kind of reparations he could make in order to go free. They need to ask him why he thinks he should not be punished. And let him plead that case. And nod along, make notes, nod, note, nod, note. They should bring up the numerous charges of torture, murder, corruption, and scandal, and let him rebut against each charge. And when the talking’s done, they should deliberate for a day or two.
After this deliberation, they should call Saddam back to court, and say “Hey man, you weren’t a very benevolent leader. You did some really awful things. Most of the rest of the world hates you. But some people love you, and would love to harbor you upon your release. So we’re going to release you, and let you fend for yourself.”
Then, as he heads back to the jail to sign the paperwork, he’s greeted by many people on roadside holding signs of praise for him. He gets to the prison, signs his paperwork, and heads for the door.
Which is when the tribunal council says “Nah, we change our minds. We’re going to torture you. Death’s too good for you. We’ll webcam the whole deal, too. Hell, we’re going to have people e-mailing what we should do to you next. High-bidders will be able to tazer you from time to time. You're not gonna Hitler your way outta this one. Buckle up, it’s gonna be a while.”
OR, he can toss salads every day for a month.
The Geoff Lott Administration has begun.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
The Truth Is...
No matter how thin you slice it, that is still baloney.
Even a blind squirrel gets a nut eventually, if he doesn't die of starvation first.
Love conquers all things, but cannot be trusted with a long-sword.
The best job in the world is not job, but instead, a pastime that brings you money.
The Holiday Season is the only time of year you're not weird for wearing a Santa Hat to an orgy.
The Holiday Season is the only time of year you're not weird for looking like Santa Claus, Mr. FattyBeardy.
Drugs can simulate the feeling of love, but not the special moment of the first fart in front of each other.
Farts can simulate the feeling of relief, but not the special moment of gambling, losing, and "touching cotton."
The Toyota Camry is how you tell traffic "I stopped caring about progress long ago."
The elderly are bad drivers because they appear to not actually know they are driving.
I don't talk about politics for the same reason I broke up with Kelly Jo Hanratty in 2002: They both screwed my Cousin Richie.
Even if Richie and I look alike in a drunken haze in a dark room, you think she'd have noticed his wheelchair.
The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. I'm not sure if that's a double-negative or a call to arms. I'm afraid I'm confused again.
I wish I had the blind drive of confidence found only in the cognitively delayed and in bad comics.
The Backwards baseball cap is how you tell the party "First to pass out gets touched."
You can't choose the branches of your family tree, and you can't set one on fire without the whole thing going up. A little sun, a little water, and hopefully it'll break off under it's own alcoholism. Um, LACK OF DESIRE TO GROW, I mean.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Even a blind squirrel gets a nut eventually, if he doesn't die of starvation first.
Love conquers all things, but cannot be trusted with a long-sword.
The best job in the world is not job, but instead, a pastime that brings you money.
The Holiday Season is the only time of year you're not weird for wearing a Santa Hat to an orgy.
The Holiday Season is the only time of year you're not weird for looking like Santa Claus, Mr. FattyBeardy.
Drugs can simulate the feeling of love, but not the special moment of the first fart in front of each other.
Farts can simulate the feeling of relief, but not the special moment of gambling, losing, and "touching cotton."
The Toyota Camry is how you tell traffic "I stopped caring about progress long ago."
The elderly are bad drivers because they appear to not actually know they are driving.
I don't talk about politics for the same reason I broke up with Kelly Jo Hanratty in 2002: They both screwed my Cousin Richie.
Even if Richie and I look alike in a drunken haze in a dark room, you think she'd have noticed his wheelchair.
The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. I'm not sure if that's a double-negative or a call to arms. I'm afraid I'm confused again.
I wish I had the blind drive of confidence found only in the cognitively delayed and in bad comics.
The Backwards baseball cap is how you tell the party "First to pass out gets touched."
You can't choose the branches of your family tree, and you can't set one on fire without the whole thing going up. A little sun, a little water, and hopefully it'll break off under it's own alcoholism. Um, LACK OF DESIRE TO GROW, I mean.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
What a Joke
Impressions. Poorly.
Racial Stereotyping. Stupidly.
High Volume. Loudly.
High Energy. LOUDLY.
Street Jokes. Sadly.
5 Days of comedy until I finally got my groove back, a little. I placed 5th on Monday in Seattle. Every other night has been sub-par according to my own standards of performing. However, I have set a new bar for taking shots at other comic's acts! Truly, I have surprised myself at the ferocity with which I've lobbed the whispered cannonballs of disbelief upon the ramparts of a few comics. Nothing new, that.
We do that, as comics. It has nothing to do with the comic themselves, it has much to do with the material, the performance. The best place to sit at an open mic is near the comics. We talk more shit than the United States Manure Council... ON CRACK! DOUBLE PUN SCORE! I win again. Unless there's karma to be had. I didn't do it with everyone's act, just a few that seemed to stand out with targets on their overly-puffed chests. Why would I do such a thing? Well, it's fun. It's what comics DO, from time to time. It purifies one's air that may have been fouled by bad comedy, allowing me to breathe.
I know it's been said about me, and I love that. It's justice, honesty, and deserved at times. It's how comedy goes. Comedy is instant karma. Karmedy! See, Killorn, I can do it, too! SMILEY
Graham Clark is funny as hell. You have to find this guy and watch him. Cool, funny, and funny. Not to mention hysterical. Canadian by birth, he's a pick of mine to finish in the top 2 overall.
I will wax-masturbatorily on comedy another time. Before I go, I gotta say this:
I love comedy. I have enjoyed the week with these guys as compatriots and performers, who all know the hope, anxiety, and hate that can go into a show. Even as the shit has been talked and the teasing done, I still admire anybody who takes the time to write and critique themselves for the purpose of getting better at the pursuit of Standing On A Stage and Making Strangers Laugh.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Racial Stereotyping. Stupidly.
High Volume. Loudly.
High Energy. LOUDLY.
Street Jokes. Sadly.
5 Days of comedy until I finally got my groove back, a little. I placed 5th on Monday in Seattle. Every other night has been sub-par according to my own standards of performing. However, I have set a new bar for taking shots at other comic's acts! Truly, I have surprised myself at the ferocity with which I've lobbed the whispered cannonballs of disbelief upon the ramparts of a few comics. Nothing new, that.
We do that, as comics. It has nothing to do with the comic themselves, it has much to do with the material, the performance. The best place to sit at an open mic is near the comics. We talk more shit than the United States Manure Council... ON CRACK! DOUBLE PUN SCORE! I win again. Unless there's karma to be had. I didn't do it with everyone's act, just a few that seemed to stand out with targets on their overly-puffed chests. Why would I do such a thing? Well, it's fun. It's what comics DO, from time to time. It purifies one's air that may have been fouled by bad comedy, allowing me to breathe.
I know it's been said about me, and I love that. It's justice, honesty, and deserved at times. It's how comedy goes. Comedy is instant karma. Karmedy! See, Killorn, I can do it, too! SMILEY
Graham Clark is funny as hell. You have to find this guy and watch him. Cool, funny, and funny. Not to mention hysterical. Canadian by birth, he's a pick of mine to finish in the top 2 overall.
I will wax-masturbatorily on comedy another time. Before I go, I gotta say this:
I love comedy. I have enjoyed the week with these guys as compatriots and performers, who all know the hope, anxiety, and hate that can go into a show. Even as the shit has been talked and the teasing done, I still admire anybody who takes the time to write and critique themselves for the purpose of getting better at the pursuit of Standing On A Stage and Making Strangers Laugh.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
For The Birds
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Fat-ish
I'm on Green Tea and Lipo-6 this morning, a metabolic enhancement pill that has scientifically proven capabilities of loosing the Demons of ADD upon thee. I feel like I could run through a wall, talk to it, or cry. It's rather liberating. It's only a 1/2 dose, too, which makes me wonder how people make it a full day taking up to 6 of these things. I took 1, and just recently finished bare-handedly gutting a cougar. I took it because, normally, it acts much like other speeders to dial-in my focus. I didn't eat breakfast before taking it, however, so now I'm just sitting here doing some full-body muscle contractions in between fits of upper-lip sweating.
My fat content is in the black, that's one positive way to look at it, I guess. I could drop about 20lbs and cut my bodyfat % to 10, which would be awesome. I have abs, I can feel them every time I suck my gut in to strap my belt on. I've always been big, too. I'm broad. Evolution-wise, I figure I'm one of those who would have been hauling stuff when I wasn't fighting it for the amusement of others. And I exercise a lot, at least 4 solid workouts a week. It's time to quit fooling myself and work more cardio into the mix. Why on earth do I need to work my military press back up to 225? Doctor says I'm in phenomenal shape for a Business Analyst, which means, in the past 30 days, I've eaten upwards of 3 salads.
Much of my life seems to be this weird mix of my being less-than-confident in my appearance, always glancing at the roll sitting on top of my belt-line. I'm starting to exercise more for longevity than movie roles. Don't get me wrong, I'd like to be in the kind of shape where it's a crime for me to keep my shirt on, but sooner or later you have to stop working on your Tris, Back, Hams, and Pecs, and work at least a little on your personality.
Here's a good example. There's a guy at my gym who is in really good shape. He's probably early 40's, drives a Benz roadster, no wedding ring, chats up the ladies quite a bit. Tans a lot. So much so that he always smells like burnt fruit. Recently took a leave from the gym for a broken wrist. Here's the topper; Really Bad Toupee! It's a TouPerm. It's a desperate move, and it really kills the rest of his vibe. Last week I walk into the locker room and notice a bad Toupee outta the corner of my sense of humor. I think "oh hey, he's back from his wrist thingy."
I change-up and head out to warm-up, and see Toupee Regular talking to… Toupee The Sequel! Another guy with a toupee, which stopped about a half-inch above his ears, was over working out, and they seemed to gravitate toward each other. I don't know if they went to the same barber or taxidermist, but it was like they had found their perfect gym-match. It was then that I decided that my longevity was 65% Important, Performance and Appearance mixing in at about 35%. I'm realistic about how I look, and it motivates me to work a little harder, eat healthy, and supplement my workouts with the occasional vodka-colonic.
For me, the shit-end of the stick is that some people have never worked out. So they hit the gym for a month, drink only one Mt. Dew per day, cut back Hot Pocket intake to twice a week, and a month later they're down 15 lard-bricks. I then ramp my cardio up to 3 times a week, 45 minutes a stretch, and switch back to the basic compound lifts, and lose 3 lbs, most of it from not drinking beer. So maybe it's my own "system" that is set up more for hard winters and lack of access to dairy products, and I haven't evolved yet to the Balanced line. Overall, I like me. If someone doesn't like me because of the fat on my waist, then they aren't really the kind of person I want to have cups and cakes with anyway.
So I've got Fat to spare. Even though I wish I didn't have as much as I do, at least I'm not wearing it on my bald spot.
Oh shit, I'm going bald?
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
My fat content is in the black, that's one positive way to look at it, I guess. I could drop about 20lbs and cut my bodyfat % to 10, which would be awesome. I have abs, I can feel them every time I suck my gut in to strap my belt on. I've always been big, too. I'm broad. Evolution-wise, I figure I'm one of those who would have been hauling stuff when I wasn't fighting it for the amusement of others. And I exercise a lot, at least 4 solid workouts a week. It's time to quit fooling myself and work more cardio into the mix. Why on earth do I need to work my military press back up to 225? Doctor says I'm in phenomenal shape for a Business Analyst, which means, in the past 30 days, I've eaten upwards of 3 salads.
Much of my life seems to be this weird mix of my being less-than-confident in my appearance, always glancing at the roll sitting on top of my belt-line. I'm starting to exercise more for longevity than movie roles. Don't get me wrong, I'd like to be in the kind of shape where it's a crime for me to keep my shirt on, but sooner or later you have to stop working on your Tris, Back, Hams, and Pecs, and work at least a little on your personality.
Here's a good example. There's a guy at my gym who is in really good shape. He's probably early 40's, drives a Benz roadster, no wedding ring, chats up the ladies quite a bit. Tans a lot. So much so that he always smells like burnt fruit. Recently took a leave from the gym for a broken wrist. Here's the topper; Really Bad Toupee! It's a TouPerm. It's a desperate move, and it really kills the rest of his vibe. Last week I walk into the locker room and notice a bad Toupee outta the corner of my sense of humor. I think "oh hey, he's back from his wrist thingy."
I change-up and head out to warm-up, and see Toupee Regular talking to… Toupee The Sequel! Another guy with a toupee, which stopped about a half-inch above his ears, was over working out, and they seemed to gravitate toward each other. I don't know if they went to the same barber or taxidermist, but it was like they had found their perfect gym-match. It was then that I decided that my longevity was 65% Important, Performance and Appearance mixing in at about 35%. I'm realistic about how I look, and it motivates me to work a little harder, eat healthy, and supplement my workouts with the occasional vodka-colonic.
For me, the shit-end of the stick is that some people have never worked out. So they hit the gym for a month, drink only one Mt. Dew per day, cut back Hot Pocket intake to twice a week, and a month later they're down 15 lard-bricks. I then ramp my cardio up to 3 times a week, 45 minutes a stretch, and switch back to the basic compound lifts, and lose 3 lbs, most of it from not drinking beer. So maybe it's my own "system" that is set up more for hard winters and lack of access to dairy products, and I haven't evolved yet to the Balanced line. Overall, I like me. If someone doesn't like me because of the fat on my waist, then they aren't really the kind of person I want to have cups and cakes with anyway.
So I've got Fat to spare. Even though I wish I didn't have as much as I do, at least I'm not wearing it on my bald spot.
Oh shit, I'm going bald?
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
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