Brad Pitt Angelina Jolie Sex Nude Sexing

As we all know, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt had unprotected sex and now she’s carrying his baby. Apparently Brad couldn’t seed the Aniston fields while married. I can’t quite remember what the Pitt-Aniston disconnect was on the baby front, mostly because it’s none the dook of my business and it would probably make me feel dirty and horny at the same time, were I to sit and ponder those two gorgeous creatures engaged in a little Side-Saddle with a Reach-Around Bean-Fiddlin’. Anyway, Brad and Jen never got it together on the baby front. But everything happens for a reason. And that reason is about to be splorched-forth unto the Earth.

Angelina Jolie is hot. She’s not good-looking. She’s not attractive. Pretty is too minute for her. She’s incredible. Like if you tried to describe her, people who had never rotted their brain with a Hollywood product, be it movies or whatever Jonathan Antin puts in his forehead, would say “I deny that a person of such described beauty exists. But if they did, I would want to Feedbag them before a solid session of Wheelbarrowing.” I’ve seen her naked in a movie here or there. Truly a gorgeous woman. She’s the kind of hot that wouldn’t anger you if it were on your new couch, and she was passed out on it in her own urine and vomit. There would be no poo, because hotness that hot doesn’t poo, it expends every last calorie fueling the hot. And whatever style she wears her Hair Down-There in would be considered Fantastic, no matter if it stretched hip to baby-widened hip.

Brad Pitt is also hot. And I say this as a straight guy, Pitt is genetically blessed in the physicality department. He works out, sure, but he’s got good genetics, too. He’s also one of the better comedic actors who is often overlooked (see “13 Monkeys” or the subtleties of Tyler Durden) because, well, he is hot. Funny and hot rarely go together, although funny can make someone hot. Hot cannot make someone truly funny. He’s both. How hot is Pitt? Well, about 6 months ago he BARE-BONED ANGELINA JOLIE, if that’s any sort of indication. Then again, she blew Billy Bob Thornton, everyone’s favorite “High School Janitor-type.” But he couldn’t blow the kind of super-wad that it would take to match hotness to Jolie’s ova, which Pitt had packed away in a climate-controlled testicle-oid for just such an occasion.

Now we come to the baby situation. Jolie’s got a couple of adopted kids, a son and a daughter. Son Maddox is about 5, a Cambodian orphan. Daughter Zahara is about 2, born in Ethiopia, and orphaned after her parents died from AIDS. Africa is really in bad shape, people. So let’s band together and not go there. That’s what Bono is for. Digression! Apologies… So she’s got a couple of imports, showing not only that she has a heart for the world’s needy (see her long list of humanitarian efforts, like putting Thornton’s penis inside of her mouth), but also that she can out-accessorize anybody on the planet. So now she’s gone and trumped even herself by deciding to allow her uterus to carry the child of The Brad Pitt, which is NOT but could be a good nickname for her vagina, which is probably actually named Vagelina Jolie. Reaching, I know. Focus.

She HAS kids. She’s GOING TO have another one, which will officially be sent to Earth to destroy Kevin Federline’s son. But I have questions about it all.

For example, will the hotness amplify on the Jolie-Pitt child, but the child comes out with a professional athlete’s vocabulary? Or will it be the case of magnets with like-polarities, the child birthed as a gaze-averting abomination of nature, complete with a spiked tail, transparent skin, and red beak capable of breaking through a grown-man’s sternum… yet has a flawless mind that can solve every socio-economic problem known to humans long before it takes its first steps, granted that it is not whisked away at birth by the people at Weekly World News, sent by the parents of Jon-Benet Ramsey?

AND…

Will Angelina Jolie go through natural childbirth or go C-section and not risk blowing out her probably flawless and magnolia-scented Brad Pit?

I have to go with Natural, only because she’s a worldly woman. I mean natural as in drug-free, no make-up, hip-fracturing, squatting in a hut with an Aborigine woman chanting over the recently-dispersed amniotic fluid cupped in the hollowed-out shell of a turtle, 57 hours of labor, ass-ripping natural birthing of the Child Jolie-Pitt. Visceral. Animalistic. And somehow that would Up her hotness. She grapefruit-spooned her “Billy Bob” tattoo off, for the sake of Clooney, people!

As for the looks, I think the kid will be gorgeous, and probably go to Cambridge to study zymogenetics and hate everything about Hollywood. Or become a chef in a small Portugal fishing village, cooking meals and sharing the secret recipe of a magical healing pie that was never shown or taught to the child… they just somehow always knew it.

Yeah, so that’s what I was wondering.

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Out Of Office

I'm stuck at my desk at work.
Stuck. On many levels. I don't think I can take it. I'm sober, which is a good thing for everyone involved. I need to get up and get away from this stuff, I can't geek out to any more queries, LEFT OUTER JOINS, or nerd speak.
I can't...
I won't.

I'm trying to look on the bright side of everything lately. I see a downer, and immediately go to the flip-side of it, which can be uplifting. Let's try it a bit.

• My job is boring. But, at least I have a job.
• I have to go to work five days a week to make money. But at least I'm making money.
• I work with a guy who looks like the human form of a fart. At least he's not farting.
• He's farting in meetings again. At least the meeting will be over soon.
• The meeting is running long because he won't shut up. But his experience may teach a lesson.
• He keeps trying to be funny and it's not funny. Funny is subjective, so let his humor roam.
• Why is he greeting people with "Wasssuuup?" His attempts at being hip are dated, but honest.
• I can't breathe, this is too much between his coffee breath and lactose intolerance. This will give you perspective to appreciate fresh air!
• Okay, that's it, I am now going to return fire. At least the stomach percolation will subside.
• Damn, I pushed too hard and now I'm touching cotton back here. I have given everyone a story to tell, AND the meeting is adjourned!

A pantsload to go with me, but at least I get to leave work! I can't believe it came to this but I needed SOMETHING. You can fake a seizure only so many times.

Look for my Cruise Diary in the coming weeks!

If anybody needs me I'll be in the can with a spatula.

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For My Grampa

My grandfather, William "Red" Rider, or "Bill" to his friends, and "Rider" to my gramma, his wife of 57 years, Sunny, has passed away. He went Home last Friday night following a stroke, his second, which occurred last Sunday evening. I was out of the country at the time, and didn't find out until late last night. I feel as though somebody has punched me in the gut. As usual, I hope to publish something here that when you're finished, you'll say "That was worth reading."

To see some pictures and read a bit more about him, please visit the MEM page for him Here.
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Poppy was one of the original Funny People in my life. He was a kidder, a teaser, and a giant of a man. He loved us grandkids just as big. He stood about 6'2" or so, lanky, and always giggling about something else that he thought was funny. He would ask me "Hey Geoffer, what's your favorite cartoon?" and I'd say "Super Heroes" or some such. His standard answer... "Nope, can't like it." Then he'd giggle about getting one over on me. Anything I liked, "nope, can't like it." It never stopped, and it is how I bond with people today: Humor.

I usually saw Gramma and Poppy in the Summer, as they would come out to visit for a couple of weeks. We always had fun, going to movies and toy stores, up to Mt. Rainier, into Seattle, and tons of other stuff I still do for fun from time to time. They lived in Michigan, where my mom grew up, and eventually brought my cousins out with them as they got older. Grams and Poppy were my conduit to the rest of my Michigan family.

Change jingled in his pocket when he strolled about; he never walked anywhere, he was always moseying. That change was fed into many video games by many of his grandchildren, 9 in all, plus 3 great-grandkids. Or as Poppy would say "I don't know what makes 'em so great, eh Heh heh heh." He always had a few quarters to keep us entertained.

He had a distinct smell, aftershave that I never smelled on anyone else as I was growing up. It wasn't until I was 13 that I found the bottle. Old Spice. To this moment and forever I will associate The Spice with Grampa Rider. He smelled good.

He was a stock car racer back before it was regulated, marketed, and commercial. He loved watching the races and taught me a little about what the drivers were actually doing, and going through, in a race. This was back before stock car racing became a punchline, and was pursued with a real passion. He loved cars and the auto industry, as anybody could see in his now epic collection of free t-shirts from auto parts stores, towing companies, and motor oil offers in the greater Kent County area.

As a Poppy, he was a teacher and a friend, keeping an eye on us and making sure we got along. He loved to kid us, called us "Looney Tunes," and was never cross with us unless we deserved it. I didn't see him nearly as much as I would like to have. His passing has given me another perspective of Living, of Family, and of Legacy.

Love ya, Poppy.

All love and prayers to my Gramma, Mom, Aunt Sandy, Aunt Sue, Sonya, Jenni, Amy, Brad, Katie (you owe me $10 from that one thing), Machelle, Chris, and Rich. Miss you guys.


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Cruisin'

This evening I embark on a vacation with my lovely A-list Girlfriend. We're heading to Miami, then on to a cruise ship, and then circling the Carribean for the next week or so! I'm pretty excited for a couple reasons.

First off, I got my ass waxed. I figured it would make me sleeker when trying to outswim the land excursion "guides" who will be trying to gyp me for an extra couple bucks in tips. I know, why swim away from the land guides? Because they are ON LAND, that's why.

Second, after the past few weeks of mundane blathering that has been my life (losing weight, exercising more, saving $) I am beyond ready to take the hell off. A-List and I both and each need a vacation. What better way to do that than get on a boat in the middle of the Carribean? For a week. Together. No where to, you know... go.

Third, I need a rush of someplace new. I believe that a person gets better when they force themselves into new places and experiences BEFORE Life does it to them... yes TO, not FOR. A-List was awarded this trip for her hard work last year, and I'm lucky to be her man, AND hotstacking that pleasure with being the guest she chose to take on the trip! She rules.

Fourth, my old place of employment can now download a picture of my ass and then eat that picture. That has nothing to do with the vacation, but it was fun.

Fifth, I have been coming across more and more passages and articles about the importance of Happiness in life. You can choose to be happy, because of, or in spite of, your circumstances. For too long I lived with the "I'll be happier when..." and that When never fills to the top. It just keeps wallowing between Content and Blah. So I am Happy. The rest of it I will create.

Sixth, some nerd-load at work today tried to be nice to me. First time he ever has done so. He usually barely recognizes my existence. Today he did so, in his "I'm gonna try to be nicer to people" way, by seeing me and saying "Well HEY Tom, I haven't seen you in a while!" Sidestepping the fact that I was sitting 2 chairs away from him 5 minutes earlier in a department meeting, MY NAME IS NOT TOM. I said "Hey CrapSock, it's Geoff." He said, "Oh why did I call you Tom?" I bit my tongue, then he tried to save the moment with "I guess you look like a Tom." Toms have a look?
Apparently... and where that look lacks minorly in SEXY, it makes up for in HUNKY and BRUTISH. I'm devastating.

Seventh, I've dropped 12 lard-bricks this year so far. 6lbs a month of useless fat. My BF% has dropped, I can see an Ab!, and I plan to get in good enough shape where people demand I take my shirt off, but not in a gay way, even if it is in the window of "Jack Banana's Leather Strap Rodeo Roadhouse." Just because, dammit, I'm looking better.

Eight, because I invented motherf*cking INWARD SINGING, that's why!

Ninth, because I'm apparently the only comic in Seattle who blogs. Nobody has anything to write? Well then, I guess I'm the mumbling, disinterested voice of our scene, then. You can't write ANYTHING? Famous isn't waiting for you, GET ON IT.

Tenth, and finally, I'm excited because I get to go with someone I love, who loves me, and because we're ready to get away from everything and just enjoy each other's company. I'll bring ya back some rum or something, because you drink a lot and show your boobies.

Adios, Muchachos. Adios.

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For The Competitive Romantic In All Of Us

Recently I was paid a few very high compliments by comics and crowd members. It's nice to have a perspective from the outside that what I'm doing stands out a bit, or in the very least, is getting the job done well.
"The job," of course, is being really good with a cheese grater and a Shop-Vac (tkm) when some flunky Security Guard wants to ask questions of my friends, like why they were peeking in windows while dressed as Danny Partridge.

Honestly though, a bit of poignancy in the race to the top, from the husband of my favorite blogger, Dooce. Read it HERE...
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Also, this week being The Love Week... f*cking Hallmark & Jewelry stores, forcing a holiday upon us with all the commercialism normally reserved for the religious holidays... I found this story from Anderson Cooper on CNN.com.
In the story, he restates scientific findings that confirm what I've suspected all along.
Love Is A Drug. Between the paranoia, hanging out with people you dislike, the bloody noses, and paying for it from time to time, it's quite a lot like the Booger Sugar.

Love Is A Many Splendored... Mental Illness?
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A Call To Humor!

The fact that more people aren't more into Emo Philips is a testament to the education system of this nation, much like the second season of "Joey" and 99% of MTV.

Below are three Emo mini-performances from the ComedySpeak website. Go to Paul Currington's column (link on the right) to see Russ Amer, circa 2001, with a special guest at the Comedy Underground!


Enjoy Your Emo-ment.
Don't Wear Fur!
The Joke's On Germany
Music Teacher




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Hey Canada, Here's Your Nickelback!

I thought I was going to write a satire piece on the band Nickelback, touting their song writing and fashion and sound while being tongue-in-cheek about it, but I can't. And I have to get these words out or they will continue to gnaw at my optical nerves when they are not busy gnawing at my weiner ligaments.

A couple years ago we saw the glorious end of the band "Creed," who is now some other puss-rock band with a different lead singer who also happens to sound like farting into a coffee can. Creed was a band that came from Christian-rock roots, and even worse, Canada. Canada is not known for its rocking. If you start to say "What about Rush?" I will be elbow-deep in your ass before you get to the R.

Creed was not ever a good band. They were barely tolerable by rock standards. But somebody bought into them. Probably Dave Matthews Band fans who needed something edgier, but couldn't quite handle the deep lyrics of 3 Doors Down, who will be flayed later. Creed slid off the charts when their lead singer, Scott Stapp, decided to pursue other careers, like drunken slob, and/or yelling "I'M SCOTT STAAAAPP!" while being tazered by airport officials. Can we take you high-ah? No. Now finish detailing my car.

3 Doors Down and Creed were shat-forth around the same time. 3 Doors Down has gone on to record pretty much nothing but songs to be played at teen weddings in the Southern states. Perfect, since it was 3DD's music playing a few months prior to the wedding that night at the quarry, when a young tire technician met a tube-top full of daddy issues in a pool of beer. Much like the old saying about the 90 year old man who was asked how things were going, after losing control of his bowels and his ability to get an erection, "I'm not sure what it's called, but it sure ain't living." The flaccid shit-flood that is 3DD, it ain't music.

And now Nickelback... wow.
They answer the question "What would Michael Bolton sound like if he had an electric guitar, a smoking habit, and testicles?"
They answer the question "What should I listen to while I sit in my mini-truck outside the house of the girl I'm stalking?"
They answer the question "What would a band sound like if Metallica had sex with a caribou that just got t-boned by a tourist bus chock-full of under-medicated schizophrenics?"

From the overwrought vocals of the Lead Singer, "Chad The Disgusting" (again with the name, Chad is not the name of a rocking frontman, unless it's Chad Roberts) to the formulaic power ballad guitars of Dipass McSorley and Butt-Finger Groatman, Nickelback is officially on their way to the county fair circuit. Every song sounds the same, every song talks about the same crap, and after a while a person cannot be THAT negative and THAT sad about a life that never happened. These guys sound like a High School Funeral.

Canada has done a great disservice to the world by allowing that band to leave the borders. But then again, sometimes you're not "Presenting" something as much as you are "Kicking it the F out of the lean-to." I guess I would be less aggressive towards this band if they began slipping "Sorry, We're Under Contract" notices inside of every CD they press. Until that day, I shall think of Nickelback while doing shirtless push-ups in my basement, listening to Pantera, finishing my "Iron Maidin" tattoo... oh CRAP...

First person to vomit on Chad Kroeger gets $10, AMERICAN.


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It's Like, You Know, Uh...

One major event prior to the Super Bowl is "Media Day," where 20 players from each team sit and take question after question from reporters. These reporters are sent to the event from around the world. I asked myself this...

How must it feel to a guy holding a recorder, pen, and notepad, not to mention his degree in Journalism or English, to have to spend a week trying to interview grown men who are fumbling their way through their native tongue?

Last season, in a 30-second span of one interview with Terrell Owens, I counted 8 "you know"s, and 23 "Uh"s.

Football - 31
Education - 0


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Assumption Of The Throne

Lately I have read a lot of words, heard a lot of words, and have yet to discount a lot of words, about me, my feelings, my future in comedy, and my own ideas on the injustices in the world. I usually don't tell people these kinds of things, but with all of the statements about my emotional state, the most important thing I can do at the moment is give thee a clearing-up of the sky in which I fly gracefully. It is here now that I tell you, dear reader, what I am talkin' about. Please pass this on to Arnold Jackson at your earliest convenience.

I normally have only 2 emotional gears; Rage, and Drunken Rage. But lately I've felt everything from disbelief to no-f*cking-way. I've also experienced "that guy is what happens when a bad idea has sex with a fart" as well as "and that lady smells it." Another emotion I got hit with was "ennui." It wasn't quite "languid," but overall I was okay with it.

Then I got a few messages from friends telling me that other people have been talking some sauce about the Geofferee, and frankly, that's just telling me that the bulls have taken their dumps. Here are some feelings and things I am not, regardless of what people are saying, blogging, or being retarded about:

Gay, nor any of its euphemisms.
Hateful, no matter how easy it can be.
Hopeful, no matter how little it's brought me.
Lazy, even though I'd like not do a damn thing for an entire 2 hours and just sleeeeeeeeeeep. Scared, even though Silent is often mistaken for Speechless.
Black.
Distraught, at least not about anything other than the Super Bowl.
Far-Right wing, even though a lot of the Left is beginning to represent poorly.
Doubtful, no matter how much crap it's delivered to me.
Bored, even though I'd rather not be at "work."
Presumptive, even though I have a good idea of what's coming.
Violent, and that's considering that a couple mouths could use a good punching.
Confined, but I could use a little more room to move.
Content, since it's more accurate that I am Happy.
Understood, since everyone's entitled to their opinion, especially when they're counter-arguing.
Argumentative, since I can see most everyone's point, until they can't admit the truth.
Pleased, since so many "bloggers" have nothing to say.
And lastly, I am not,
As Concerned as you think I am.

Drunk, now THAT I totally is.


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Larry The Cable, And Really Cool, Guy

This past weekend I had the opportunity, which later turned into the privilege, to meet Dan Whitney. You may know Dan by his stage/marketing/phenomenon-name, "Larry The Cable Guy." Larry's opening act, PJ Walsh, once stayed with another friend of mine, Dave Dennison, and layed some great tix and passes on Dave as a return favor. Cool move #1.

So we go to the show, at the Paramount Theater, a place known not only for its beautiful interior, but also for a noticeable lack of spitoons. However, the crowd filed in. More on them another time. The seats were kick-ass.

Long story - short, for the moment. Here are some highlights, for me, from the evening:

1. Seeing that a stand-up comedy act can sell out 6 shows in a major theater in a major city.
2. Seeing inside PJ's Tour Bus. It's nicer than where you or I live. It's a good sign that comedy is thriving, if you're working for it.
3. After his set, "Larry" was in his dressing room, and remarked that he "felt okay about it but there were some slow spots, and [he is] working on that 20 minutes, so... anyway..." Even the most arguably-popular stand-up in America, a millionaire, a Star, sees his own room for improvement.
4. He is truly one of the nicest guys in comedy. He is a country boy. His act is less bigoted than the majority of guys I've seen, many of them top-tier comics.
5. About 15 minutes into his set, he turns to a lady in the crowd, near the stage, and says "Lady, this is gonna be the dumbest show you ever saw, okay? Good then, we'll keep going." He knows his own act. Deal with it.
6. Years ago he met and did little tours with PJ Walsh. They both worked their way up. Dan takes PJ with him on the road, and takes care of his friends. He also chews long-cut tobacco.

It was a good motivator to get my ass, and my act, in gear, and make my own things happen for the best. And not forget where I came from, because some day I may have to steal their jokes.

Key factors to take with you: Likeability, preparation, slow down just a little more, and do your best to be 100% original. And it wouldn't hurt if you were naturally funny.

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For the record, the sheer mention of the movie "Brokeback Mountain" illicited a hearty round of boos from a lot of people in, but not the entire, audience.

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Whole Lot Of Hatin' Goin' On (for my Football fans)

Terrell Owens, a freakishly talented wide receiver, multi-millionaire, and titanically self-impressed ass-clown said this in November, and I'm paraphrasing but the jist is correct:

"The Philadelphia Eagles would be better off at the moment if former Super Bowl MVP Brett Favre were playing quarterback, instead of Donovan McNabb, who has, like, only one leg and frequently cries when he has hard bowel movements after eating mass-produced soups."

Full Story below...
http://sports.yahoo.com/nfl/news?slug=ap-eagles-mcnabbowensfeud&prov=ap&type=lgns

Donovan McNabb, a strong-armed quarterback, multi-millionaire, and titanically bad Chunky Soup commercializer, was on the cover of EA Sports' "Madden NFL 2006," and quickly fell to the Madden Curse. "The Madden Curse" refers to the past few seasons wherein whichever NFL Star… nay.. SUPER-Star is chosen for the cover usually has an injury befall him within the first 2 games of the season. 2004, it was Michael Vick, who broke his leg in Week One. 2005 was Ray Lewis, who had a torn hamstring or may have even stabbed someone. This year, McNabb got the spot and in the first game, against the Falcons, had a bruised sternum and soon after was felled by a sports hernia.

A Sports Hernia is a tear in the muscles and ligature between the abdomen and the pelvis. You know that "V" shape of the obliques that fitness models get as it disappears down their shorts into musky town? Yeah, McNabb TORE that. And he played through it for a couple weeks until he had too much trouble running around with his giant balls not being fully supported by his rock-hard abalones. He's a tough S.O.B. (Soup-lOving Baller)

So, Owens, the WR, says Favre (pronounced "Freebird") would have been able to lead the Eagles better than McNabb had been leading them. Hey, Owens, a lot of people could have led that team better simply by not having blown out their undercarriage. So why pick Favereer?
Favre, a 15-year vet of the NFL, MVP of the League and the Super Bowl, is a great QB. Any team would be happy to have him under center in a big game. He'll one day be in the Hall of Fame. And Brett Farevere is white. McNabb and Owens are both black. McNabb's response to Owens' comments?

"It was like, it's unreal," McNabb said. "That's like me going out and saying, `Hey, if we had Steve Largent. If we had Joe Jurevicius. It was definitely a slap in the face to me. It was a slap in the face because, as deep as people want to go into it, it was black-on-black crime."

He immediately received a call from multi-millionaire rapper Curtis Jackson, better known as the one-tempo lyricist "Silva Dolla," wherein Jackson told McNabb, "I feel you. This is like that time I got shot 9 times in the F*CKING FACE. How you holdin' up?"
Or the other gang beatings and killings that are commited in predominantly black neighborhoods, the ones that multi-millionaire athletes do not live in. Or it hurt like the many times Donovan was passed over for job interviews as a professional Quarterback, only to have a white QB step in and… what? That never happened? Oh…

I can understand Donovan's mindset, feeling that T.O. just MIGHT have mentioned Favrenugen's name because saying a White QB would be better than a Black QB would then speak down to ALL black QBs. That would be a really, really great move on Owens part. Owens has been nothing but a problem since he arrived in Philadelphia. The city, contrary to that angle, LOVES McNabb. He's up there with Rocky Balboa (a fictional character) and cream cheese (a delicious character). But a CRIME? Not to mention, a RACE-RELATED Crime!

While I appreciate that Donovan mentioned two Seahawks receivers as replacements for T.O., the comments Owens made were in NOVEMBER. McNabb is way overdue to respond to a loutish comment by a loutish receiver who is widely disliked. I can't speak to the sentiment of black culture, saying that a white person could have done something better than a black person. But that's a truly evil, racist, facist notion to put forth. I can see where it would hurt, deeply, because it cuts through the ability, humanity, and dedication of McNabb, saying those traits don't matter as much as the color of the skin of the person playing QB. Something about this issue really made me sick, as I've come closer to understanding how race is still an issue, as much as people being half-tard-assholes is still an issue... but it's not a crime.

Before you call Jesse Jackson, ask yourself THIS:
Is Terrell Owens SMART enough to put that much forethought into a slam on McNabb? It's not like Owens said "We'd be better off with Ryan Leaf." In my mind, it was a comment about ability, a shot at McNabb, and another low-class move by a nearly no-class athlete. By responding the way he did, nobody came out of this looking worse than McNabb.

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And before I go… Joey Porter can eat a bowl of Ass-Flakes with 1% Piss Milk. Talk all you wanna talk, you're gonna get cracked by Mack Strong in between cracks by Steve Hutchinson when you're not getting shit-canned by Walt. I can't wait to see Porter opening for Al Foxx on a speaking tour next year.


GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS GO SEAHAWKS

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The Vicious Circle

Only comics can judge other comics.
But if an audience loves a comic, that’s all that matters.
But if the audience isn’t particularly a “hip” or “smart” group, they shouldn’t be judging comics.
But the audience is who PAYS THE BILLS, and that matters more than anything else.
But you shouldn’t do it for the money.
But have we defined “judging” yet?

Okay, so only audiences can judge comics.
But audiences may not understand that "funny" comes from being able to interweave subtle nuances into a joke instead of having it spoonfed to them.
But it takes more talent and hard work to purposely write a joke that works on multiple levels. But it takes even more work to condense that joke from a big web with intricate details into a more recognizable form of hilarity.
But you should always and only write what's funny to you.
But the audience has to be laughing in order for the “funny” bar to be set.
But the audience doesn’t know what “funny” is the way that comics do.

It's settled then...
Only comics can judge audiences.

What's the point?
Because it's all subjective, and it's all from one's own perspective, comedy is nothing but laughter. Who am I to say what and how an audience "gets" a joke? Suddenly I, Geoff Lott, can read all of those minds at once, and visualize who got what and how? No, and I'd be a pompous ass to say I could.
It turns out a good friend of mine loves Larry the Cable Guy, whom many people cannot stand the sound nor existence of. She likes his "gimmick." She "gets the marketing." She knows he's not "real" and she's okay with that. She sees him as "if a redneck with almost no command of the English language were doing jokes, THAT is what he'd do." It's not serious. And that opened my eyes to all of it.

Comics work from their perspective as children, adults, jilted lovers, ex-spouses, specific ethnicities, ex-convicts, drug users, abstainers, happily married, happily divorced, parents, and - but not limited to - people who see the world differently than most of the people around them. All we want to do is get on stage, do our jokes, have integrity, and get big laughs. It doesn't always work that way.

The rest of it can, frankly, judge my f-hole.

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Super Bowl XL... Holy Crap, The Seahawks Are In It!

I don't have a lot to say about the Seahawks being in the Super Bowl that hasn't already been drunkenly screamed into a women's bathroom from here to Steilacoom.

But I will say this. For his entire career, I have been a fan of Jerome Bettis, shown here leaving Cortez Kennedy in the gravy. Jerome will someday be in the Hall of Fame, I think, as one of the best running backs and men to ever work his way up the charts in the NFL. He was born and raised in Detroit. The Super Bowl is in Detroit. He may retire after the Super Bowl.

Mid-American, Hallmark-loving sentiment reeeeeeeeeeeeeally wants to see Jerome Bettis, RB for the Pittsburgh Steelers, go out with the biggest win of his career in his hometown in his last game. It's a good story line. And the Steelers, how much more American can you get than that gritty, intense, old-school persona in one team?

With all due respect, and for just this one game out of the hundreds he has played...
F*ck Jerome Bettis.
F*ck Sentiment.
F*ck the story lines.
F*ck the Steelers.

Ideally, Jerome Bettis will be tasked with winning the game on a 2-yard grind into the endzone, and will not only fumble, but Biblically shit-flood his pants as Lofa Tatupu falls on the ball with 3 seconds left in the game. That would be about 1,000,000 times more memorable than the "perfect ending" to the guy's career. Walter Payton never even scored a TD in a Super Bowl, and now...
Forget it. The right thing to do is to quit getting dewy-pantsed over the Disney-esque possibilities of the end of Jerome's career. No chance.

GO SEAHAWKS!!!

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The Kind Of Decadence I Can Only Dream Of

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!"

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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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