Monday, November 29, 2010

Obligatory "Are Parents Crazy or WHAT?" Post

This is the kind of family Thanksgiving, I could get down with.
Pandas fix everything.

Maybe it's just the handsome in me that doesn't like to be around other people, or maybe it's that when I'm on vacation I don't like ever having to get out of this bathrobe, because I dare you to try and name another kind of clothing that is soft like a beach towel but still has pockets big enough to hold two grilled cheese sandwiches and a liter bottle of Diet Mountain Dew. But whatever the reason, what I'm trying to say is I didn't want to go to Thanksgiving dinner in the first place, so the fact that I ended up there is pretty much my holiday gift to my parents, which is actually a good thing because now on Christmas Morning I don't have to mumble some lie about getting robbed again this Christmas Eve, and who would have thought the notorious Christmas Eve Bandits would strike 6 years in a row, as I hand them my hastily wrapped gifts from the convenience store.

And it's not that I don't LIKE my parents, because SOMEONE is going to have to leave me money when they die, it's just that they are not fun people to be around, and by "not fun" I mean "a hard and completely depressing look at how life can sneak up on you and steal your soul via years of pointless toil" and to double-down in the depressing department it was also my Dad's 70th birthday, which is apparently the age where people spend a fair amount of time sizing you up visually and wondering if you'll keep shrinking and thus enable them to get you a child's coffin instead of a pricey full-size one. Oh shut up. Like you've never cut a corner in your whole life. When he was taller I used to imagine we'd be able to find a funeral home that for an extra 50 bucks would be willing to saw off his legs and then he could be sent to his final resting place in a tiny coffin, hugging his beloved legs to his chest. Trust me. It's what he would have wanted.

Another fun thing about dinner at my parents is they seem to always have fewer teeth than the last time I visited, and definitely fewer than people want to see when chewing food, and I don't pretend to know what the fuck is going on in that house that makes people lose teeth like a motherfucker, but part of me hopes Fight Club -style brawling. That would be awesome. If I knew my Mom and my Dad were going to go all Tyler Durden on each other I would totally make it a point to drop by when I DIDN'T need money. The easy bet would be on Dad, because he is so accomplished and has such a storied history of beating the shit out of those weaker than him, but he's got that weak heart and like I said...he's shrinking. His reach wouldn't be what it used to be. Mom, on the other hand, has been drifting up into the "heavyweight" bracket for a while now and she has 40 years of bitterness to pack behind each punch. No wonder when Dad smiles it looks like a cartoon piano. Will he get dentures? Hell NO! Why would he when he can still use the 5 1/2 teeth he has left to make every meal the visual equivalent of watching a sick dog root around inside a whale carcass that someone left on the floor of an abandoned ironworks where they've been storing cow manure in the off-season.*

So I went and I ate and the food was good and they made sure to tell me everyone they know is dead now, and sometimes they repeated themselves and they did all this at a volume close to the one that causes hearing damage because they are both becoming deaf as posts, so of course it's a better solution to scream everything rather than go and get hearing aids, but that's okay because they no longer communicate with one another in any form other than insults and sarcasm punctuated by long periods of ignoring each other and passive-aggressive stares. Now I understand why all those shitty religious groups were so up-in-arms about gay marriage. God forbid we queer up the sanctity of THIS motherfucker. I look at my parents and three things occur to me. 1) I wish I wasn't looking at my parents. 2) They should maybe have divorced back when they didn't take quite so much joy in imagining out-living each other. 3) I need to get to the Dentist as soon as possible, because as the great Will Smith once said "Aww Hellll No!"

If you didn't bother to read all that, here are some foxes bouncing on a trampoline.

* I don't know if manure actual has a "season". It always seems like it's ripe to me.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Open Letter Addressing the Giant Head of Emilio Estevez

Dear Head Chief Grand Scout Eaglemaster or Whatever,

I just wanted to thank you in the most sarcastic way possible for hosting a scout overnight at the local hockey arena. It seems that your willingness and desire to torture the adult volunteers has reached a new low. Now I know you like to tell people that parents chaperone these events to share with their children the rich history of scouting, but we both know we're only there to keep the rapers* away. If I didn't think my son were in perpetual danger of having to dole out weepy handjobs to you perverted fucks, I would just have stayed home and drank myself into a misdemeanor like I had planned. But alas, that was not what was meant to be and instead I had to watch our crappy minor league hockey team get housed** by some other crappy minor league hockey team, both competing rigorously to obtain some trophy or plaque or whatever that I continue to not care about. Go team!

I would like to point out that before you host events like this, you might want to get the kids boned up (heh...get it? because you're a pedophile!) on professional sport team cheering vernacular because the one kid next to me was yelling shit like "PUT THE PUCK IN THE NET!!" That sir, is a one-way ticket to Wedgie-town if another kid who had spent a little less time behind the business-end of an inhaler had overheard him. The same kid also yelled "USE THIS TIME TO YOUR ADVANTAGE!!***" during a power play. While I'm sure this idea had never occurred to the professional athletes on the ice below, it maybe didn't need to be screamed in my ear and then punctuated with a 150 dB blast from a vuvuzela. I tried to teach him to yell less specific things like "NICE JOB!!" (only really sarcastic in case you don't understand the rules) or "DO YOU FUCK YOUR MOTHER WITH THAT SLAPSHOT?" (because it's so gentle.) The kids seemed thankful for my suggestions, so I feel I've done MY good deed for the day.

Also, I understand the thrill the kids would experience by getting to sleep on the floor of the arena under the Jumbotron, but maybe using thicker boards to cover the ice would be a better idea next time, because you would think they were dying of hypothermia the way some of those little Bobcat scouts were carrying on. Granted they didn't have the insulating warmth of alcohol to help see them through, but that's no excuse to keep me up all night. And what's this bullshit about no one being allowed to go to the bathroom without a "buddy". I have to say, that is a pretty good way to spring the old "something between my legs is itchy and my hands are too big" trap, but really, can't you just join the priesthood or something. (Priest joke! Hey-O!) And speaking of Jumbotrons, was it really the best idea to play "The Mighty Ducks 2" as your "bonus feature-length movie"? Watching Emilio Estevez run around delivering insipid lines to puling, semi-retarded 12 year olds for an hour and a half is a punishment straight out of a Kafka short story. All it needed was something weird and German to happen and it would have been perfect. Like a llama with an eye patch should have rode in from the right side of the screen and then committed suppuko with a rusty nail while singing a badly dubbed version of "Adelweiss".****

And finally, I'd like to mention that putting 300 people at the bottom of a giant bowl after giving them lots of bad stadium food and beer and then telling them to go to sleep, is Nazi-like in it's efficiency for producing farts. I swear the whole bottom of that arena was filled with a 2 foot thick cloud of methane by 3am. I was afraid to go to sleep for fear I would sleep with my mouth open and swallow one. Never mind the nearly constant chorus of barking colons as more and more poots galloped loudly into the night. I haven't heard that much intestinal distress since your mom announced she had herpes to the crowd at the carnival's pie-eating contest*****. It was like the whole stadium was filled with crickets. Only these crickets had really bad breath that smelled like asshole.

Thanks for the experience. I hope your testicles swell up like balloons.

Hugs not Drugs,

* "Rapers" is Becky's word. She says the "-ist" implies a level of professionalism like in "artist" or "racist" that rapers don't deserve. Seriously. How many of them even get to go pro?

** "Housed" is still a cool word right? ...RIGHT?

*** This part of the story is 100% true.

**** Sometimes you don't realize a paragraph is off-the-rails until it's too late to do anything about it.

***** Favored Winner for Best Analogy of the Year, I bet

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Bearing Up: How to Use Puns In Titles To Trick People Into Reading Your Silly BS

When I was growing up, back in the days before I was stunningly handsome and sure maybe I played too much D&D, and drank too much Mountain Dew, but those were wild times of no sex and no drugs and just enough rock-and-roll to make us think a Quiet Riot Iron-on was the same as a concert t-shirt, my friend's Dad had a saying. And that saying was "Sometimes you get the bear and sometimes the bear gets you." And yes, I totally know that was totally a line Sam Elliot says in The Big Lebowski, so shut up, Gene Siskel...I know the goddamn score. My point is, I've been waiting the better part of 30 years now to either get the bear or to have the bear get me.

I should have known it was a load of horse puckey, and in this case I'm saying "puckey" instead of "shit", because as Becky pointed out, I'll never get Blogger's "Blog of Note" if it's all dick and periods and vagina and swears up in this mothereffer. Maybe I'll make a code. Like "pop-tarts" equals "vagina", and "Uncle Richard" equals "cock" and "pickles" is code for "shit" and "twat" could be code "anal penetration" or something. But I digress... It WAS horsepickles about the bear.

The thing is, it's never even come up yet where I would HAVE to fight a bear. I's like I'm not even living. Second of all, if I did have to fight a bear, it probably wouldn't be like my chances were 50/50 as the saying implies. They would be more like 10/90, where the "10" is "I emerge surprisingly triumphant because bears hate tickle fighting and slapping and they find the sight of someone running away screaming like a girl highly unsettling" and the "90" is "Kurt gets eaten, digested and then pickled out some unknown time later, his only possible recourse being that he gave the bear wicked bad gas."*

Also, if I did have to fight a bear, I'm pretty sure I would cheat. If it was up to me to pick the kind of dual we would have, I would totally pick something that required thumbs like "consecutive zippo lights" or "hitchhiking". I would never pick anything that required teeth or unicycles. Also, I would want to pick the kind of bear that would get me. And maybe your gut says "koala" but I know better, because the only reason those little fuckers are so placid is because they are stoned out of their minds on Eucalyptus. No. I would pick a panda, because there is a good chance they wouldn't even want to fight and would instead grant me a wish. That's how it goes with pandas according to top researchers in the field of Adorable-ology. Also if I could fight a cub, that would be awesome. Like one of those little pink blind ones. I could totally be on the right side of "get" if I was fighting a newborn panda cub.

Sometimes I type for a long time and don't go back and read until I'm done. This is maybe not the best practice, because sometimes I get hysterical posts about dinosaurs, and other times I get weird, disjointed posts where I talk about the bear fight I want to get in someday. I guess that's why this blog seems so down-to-Earth. It's a real slice of life. And the life it is slicing is extremely attractive to the opposite sex and ready to get in a baby panda fight at the drop of a hat.

See? If anyone tried picking ME up like that it'd be "go time" as in " go to the bathroom in my pants in self-defense" time.

* This raises the age-old question "Does a bear pickle in the woods?"

Monday, November 1, 2010

Mammbership Has Its Privileges

To Whom It May Concern;

Hello. My name is Kurt, and that's all you need to know. It has come to my attention that your organization, The Itty Bitty Titty Committee, is a ladies-only club and that is so racist against men I can't even stand it. So in hopes of getting you to rectify this situation I have sent along a copy of my resume, which is at least 1/3 true by this point, a lucky rabbit's foot, and 6 pieces of gum I found in the bottom of my college backpack. Don't think of it as a bribe. Think of it as a "hiring chance enhancer". I think that given your long history of being vagina-only, making me "VP of Wang" is the right move for your organization.

The thing is, I know for a fact that you've been around for more than 30 years because I first heard about you in 3rd grade shortly after Ron Barbowitz told me, in very hushed tones across the urinal divide, that Emily LeFevre had just been inducted. He laughed, but I didn't think it was funny, because obviously this was some sort of secret society that I had never heard of, and it totally wasn't even in the yearbook next to the picture of us "Mathletes!!" or anything. I don't know HOW long you guys have been around, but unless you want the NAACP or the ACLU or PETA or whatever up your ass you better get me on board right away.

If you look at my qualifications you can see that I am very handsome and clever which can serve your group in a bunch of different ways, and while some people might describe my chest as "mooby" I think we can all agree that those are just my six-pack waiting to migrate south for the winter, and in fact I totally meet your "itty bitty" criteria for titties. Hey! That's a problem too, because i totally tell women that I am opposed to the objectifying of women because that gets me laid a lot, so making breast size a membership criteria doesn't really work for me. Could we change the name to the "Great Big Wang With Sensitive Feelings Committee". I think chicks would dig that even though it doesn't rhyme as good.

In conclusion, check out how tall and lean I am when I stretch all the way up to the ceiling on my tiptoes. Like 8 feet tall. That means that I can totally dominate whatever your rival organization is (The Fuzzy Wuzzy Pussy Commuzzy?) in basketball, or Skip-Bo© or peeing initials in the snow. I'm so serious about this that it's ridiculous. I look forward to hearing from you.

Stay Perky,

PS: My girlfriend just told me you weren't a real organization and that it was a way for boys to humilate girls who developed their boobs early. So pretty much ignore this letter.

PPS: Where did I mail this to, even? That's right. I'm a riddle inside an enigma's* asshole. (*Cue Inception Vuvuzela....BWWAAAHHHHMMMMMM!!!*)

*Your Mom is an enigma.