Hey gang,
I know I shouldn't post this. I know that you have to be a total nerd to laugh at this, just like you know it.
And yet, here we are. A Darth Vader rap.
Is that what it's come to?
Yes, I'm afraid it is.
His Holiness Pope Salty I
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
The Anniversary Waltz, or What Day Is It?
Hello fellow patients,
My one-year anniversary is this week.
I know this because my girlfriend told me.
Ladies, I don't want to burst your bubble on this one or anything, but dating anniversaries are something us guys just don't keep up with. It's not that we don't want to; it's just that we don't have the mental capacity. That's the reason marriage was conceived in the first place. (Okay, maybe "conceived" isn't the best choice of words here. Not that it doesn't fit. It fits too well. Really, people. Enough with the breeding. Have you been in the express lane at Wal-Mart recently? I mean, all you want is to buy your whipped cream, dog collar, black socks, and copy of High School Musical 3, so you can enjoy a nice evening at home, and you're stuck behind the 19-year-old girl breaking out the food stamps to buy Sugar Puffs for those 6 goddamn kids she's got bouncing around the buggy like sub-atomic particles in a supercollider...)
What? Too nerdy? Okay, let me try again...
...those 6 goddamn kids she's got bouncing around like the collective sweaters of the Jefferson High School varsity cheerleader squad trying at the annual homecoming pep rally...
I'm sorry. What was the question?
No really. What was the question. I forgot what we were talking about.
...Oh yeah. Anniversaries. The whole reason weddings were conceived, other than as an excuse to get strangers to buy you presents, is so guys can remember anniversaries. Even though the groom is nothing more than a prop at a wedding, and the service could be run just fine without him, and even though the day is nothing more than a blur of "stand here", "say this", "take your picture there", "go say hello to this family member that you either can't remember or can't stand", and "go over there", maybe with an "I do" thrown in there somewhere, he still knows something important is going on. He's dressed up in a tuxedo and nobody has died.
Well, nobody other than his sex life, but he doesn't know that yet...
No, what he does know is that this day is important, it's all about her, and if he doesn't want to see that sex life die even faster than it already will, he better remember that day.
That's why the smart guys always put their weddings on a day they can already remember. Her birthday (apparently we're supposed to remember that too), Valentine's Day, Halloween, April Fool's (not a good idea, by the way, no matter how appropriate it may be...), something like that. Any day that will stick in you mind. Take October 7, for instance. It's her special day. And the fact that 10-7 happens to be the score of the Iron Bowl that year that you and your buddies drank too much Jagermeister after the game and you ended up going home with a girl that could not have possibly been the same one you woke up with, and that you swear to this day must have been swapped out on you in the middle of the night, because you went to bed with Marilyn Monroe and woke up with Marilyn Manson, and...
...it's not important. What's important is that you have a tool for remembering your special day.
And by "your" I of course mean "her"...
...but don't ever say that.
Ever.
The point is (Editor's note: There's a point?) (Author's note: Yes, there's a point, smartass. Just 'cause I don't remember what it is doesn't mean it doesn't exist. After all, if a tree falls in the woods, and you're there, but you're too fucked up to remember why you're in the woods in the first place, much less some shit about a tree falling, does it mean that there's no point?) (Editor's note: WTF?) (Author's note: Exactly my point.) that married guys have this big elaborate ceremony just to help cement in their tiny male minds that this is an important day.
Us single guys ain't that lucky.
I've been in countless relationships over the years, some of them even lasting more than overnight, and I have yet to figure out what event constitutes an anniversary in a relationship. Sure, back in the day, your parents could mark that day on the calender when they shared a malted at the corner drugstore, or whatever people did back then, but these days it's not that cut and dry. If you're like me, you've never once had a relationship begin with a first date. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I know how relationships even start. It just seems like you go from the state of not dating to the state of dating, without any real clue how it even happened. And yet, somehow, in that blur, she is always able to pinpoint an exact day that is your anniversary.
So what day is it? Is it the first time you met? The first time you kissed? The first time you made love? It's all so confusing. Which is why I strongly recommend, ladies, that you try to make all these events occur on the same day. You know, to avoid confusion.
But if your lady wasn't considerate enough to simplify things for you like that, you're stuck figuring it out on your own. Well, not exactly on your own. She will give you subtle little hints, hints like...
Yes, you got her.
Or do you? I sure don't. We're expected to remember all these little things like her favourite colour, how she likes her coffee (Dammit, Salty, you know I don't drink coffee! You must be thinking of your ex-girlfriend! I knew it!), the name of that one bitch at work that she just can't stand, her mother's name, and so on and so on. We're even supposed to remember to change our MySpace status (For the record, mine still says "single". My girl's does too. That's probably the only reason we've made it a year.), and to remember to take out all the girls' numbers from our phone, or at least change them over to guys' names so she won't notice, and on top of all this, we're supposed to remember some arbitrary date when something may or may not have happened twelve months ago?
It's all too much.
For the married guys, it's simple. Your life ended years ago. You have little enough going on in your day that you can devote some brain space to remembering a date on the calendar. For us single guys, though, all you can do is poke and hope. Which is probably how you ended up with a girlfriend in the first place.
I guess what I'm trying to say is...
...Happy anniversary, baby.
Whenever the fuck that is...
His Holiness Pope Salty I
My one-year anniversary is this week.
I know this because my girlfriend told me.
Ladies, I don't want to burst your bubble on this one or anything, but dating anniversaries are something us guys just don't keep up with. It's not that we don't want to; it's just that we don't have the mental capacity. That's the reason marriage was conceived in the first place. (Okay, maybe "conceived" isn't the best choice of words here. Not that it doesn't fit. It fits too well. Really, people. Enough with the breeding. Have you been in the express lane at Wal-Mart recently? I mean, all you want is to buy your whipped cream, dog collar, black socks, and copy of High School Musical 3, so you can enjoy a nice evening at home, and you're stuck behind the 19-year-old girl breaking out the food stamps to buy Sugar Puffs for those 6 goddamn kids she's got bouncing around the buggy like sub-atomic particles in a supercollider...)
What? Too nerdy? Okay, let me try again...
...those 6 goddamn kids she's got bouncing around like the collective sweaters of the Jefferson High School varsity cheerleader squad trying at the annual homecoming pep rally...
"We've got spirit..." [bouncey, bouncey]
"Yes we do..." [bouncey, bouncey]
"We've got spirit..." [bouncey, bouncey]
"How 'bout you??!!"
"Yes we do..." [bouncey, bouncey]
"We've got spirit..." [bouncey, bouncey]
"How 'bout you??!!"
I'm sorry. What was the question?
No really. What was the question. I forgot what we were talking about.
...Oh yeah. Anniversaries. The whole reason weddings were conceived, other than as an excuse to get strangers to buy you presents, is so guys can remember anniversaries. Even though the groom is nothing more than a prop at a wedding, and the service could be run just fine without him, and even though the day is nothing more than a blur of "stand here", "say this", "take your picture there", "go say hello to this family member that you either can't remember or can't stand", and "go over there", maybe with an "I do" thrown in there somewhere, he still knows something important is going on. He's dressed up in a tuxedo and nobody has died.
Well, nobody other than his sex life, but he doesn't know that yet...
No, what he does know is that this day is important, it's all about her, and if he doesn't want to see that sex life die even faster than it already will, he better remember that day.
That's why the smart guys always put their weddings on a day they can already remember. Her birthday (apparently we're supposed to remember that too), Valentine's Day, Halloween, April Fool's (not a good idea, by the way, no matter how appropriate it may be...), something like that. Any day that will stick in you mind. Take October 7, for instance. It's her special day. And the fact that 10-7 happens to be the score of the Iron Bowl that year that you and your buddies drank too much Jagermeister after the game and you ended up going home with a girl that could not have possibly been the same one you woke up with, and that you swear to this day must have been swapped out on you in the middle of the night, because you went to bed with Marilyn Monroe and woke up with Marilyn Manson, and...
...it's not important. What's important is that you have a tool for remembering your special day.
And by "your" I of course mean "her"...
...but don't ever say that.
Ever.
The point is (Editor's note: There's a point?) (Author's note: Yes, there's a point, smartass. Just 'cause I don't remember what it is doesn't mean it doesn't exist. After all, if a tree falls in the woods, and you're there, but you're too fucked up to remember why you're in the woods in the first place, much less some shit about a tree falling, does it mean that there's no point?) (Editor's note: WTF?) (Author's note: Exactly my point.) that married guys have this big elaborate ceremony just to help cement in their tiny male minds that this is an important day.
Us single guys ain't that lucky.
I've been in countless relationships over the years, some of them even lasting more than overnight, and I have yet to figure out what event constitutes an anniversary in a relationship. Sure, back in the day, your parents could mark that day on the calender when they shared a malted at the corner drugstore, or whatever people did back then, but these days it's not that cut and dry. If you're like me, you've never once had a relationship begin with a first date. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I know how relationships even start. It just seems like you go from the state of not dating to the state of dating, without any real clue how it even happened. And yet, somehow, in that blur, she is always able to pinpoint an exact day that is your anniversary.
So what day is it? Is it the first time you met? The first time you kissed? The first time you made love? It's all so confusing. Which is why I strongly recommend, ladies, that you try to make all these events occur on the same day. You know, to avoid confusion.
But if your lady wasn't considerate enough to simplify things for you like that, you're stuck figuring it out on your own. Well, not exactly on your own. She will give you subtle little hints, hints like...
"Do you know what next week is?"
"You haven't forgotten about Tuesday, have you?"
"So what are we doing tomorrow night, you know, for our Special Day?" (Notice the capitol letters here, fellas. That is capital "don't", capital "fuck", capital "this", capital "up". Got it?)
"Hey dickhead. It's our anniversary. You're taking me to dinner, and then for a martini, and then back home for two hours of foreplay. And no, I don't count balancing the beer on my head while you watch Robot Chicken to be foreplay. Bring a miner's hat, 'cause you're gonna be down there a while, Sporty. Ya got me?"
"You haven't forgotten about Tuesday, have you?"
"So what are we doing tomorrow night, you know, for our Special Day?" (Notice the capitol letters here, fellas. That is capital "don't", capital "fuck", capital "this", capital "up". Got it?)
"Hey dickhead. It's our anniversary. You're taking me to dinner, and then for a martini, and then back home for two hours of foreplay. And no, I don't count balancing the beer on my head while you watch Robot Chicken to be foreplay. Bring a miner's hat, 'cause you're gonna be down there a while, Sporty. Ya got me?"
Yes, you got her.
Or do you? I sure don't. We're expected to remember all these little things like her favourite colour, how she likes her coffee (Dammit, Salty, you know I don't drink coffee! You must be thinking of your ex-girlfriend! I knew it!), the name of that one bitch at work that she just can't stand, her mother's name, and so on and so on. We're even supposed to remember to change our MySpace status (For the record, mine still says "single". My girl's does too. That's probably the only reason we've made it a year.), and to remember to take out all the girls' numbers from our phone, or at least change them over to guys' names so she won't notice, and on top of all this, we're supposed to remember some arbitrary date when something may or may not have happened twelve months ago?
It's all too much.
For the married guys, it's simple. Your life ended years ago. You have little enough going on in your day that you can devote some brain space to remembering a date on the calendar. For us single guys, though, all you can do is poke and hope. Which is probably how you ended up with a girlfriend in the first place.
I guess what I'm trying to say is...
...Happy anniversary, baby.
Whenever the fuck that is...
His Holiness Pope Salty I
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Newswipe (British Satirical News Show on BBC4)
Hey gang,
While wandering through Cyberspace looking for music to stea... ...um, no, wait... ...looking for gay por... ...no, not that... ...let me start over...
While wandering through Cyberspace looking for the perfect Easter e-card to send to my grandmother (Editor's note: It is possible that the author is full of shit, unless he normally sends e-cards to those that passed away years ago. We suspect that the gay porn answer is closer to the truth, but getting the truth out of this fucktard is about as easy as getting a gay blogger to come out of the closet, if you catch our drift...), I came across this clip from a new British comedy show called Newswipe.
Newswipe, from what I was able to research, is a spinoff of another Brit-com, Screen Wipe, both of which star some guy named Charlie Brooker. The closest thing to compare it to would be The Daily Show, I suppose, but it is done a little differently, and the comedy is drier and more, em, "British". Still, it's pretty damn funny.
The clip posted here is a segment on the differences between British and American newscasts. While it hits pretty much everyone, the stuff on Fox News is the funniest, at least to me. It's not as much political humor as it is making fun of the media.
If that kind of stuff sounds interesting to you, check the clip out. If you dig it, you can watch full episodes at www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00jhp50.
HHPS1
While wandering through Cyberspace looking for the perfect Easter e-card to send to my grandmother (Editor's note: It is possible that the author is full of shit, unless he normally sends e-cards to those that passed away years ago. We suspect that the gay porn answer is closer to the truth, but getting the truth out of this fucktard is about as easy as getting a gay blogger to come out of the closet, if you catch our drift...), I came across this clip from a new British comedy show called Newswipe.
Newswipe, from what I was able to research, is a spinoff of another Brit-com, Screen Wipe, both of which star some guy named Charlie Brooker. The closest thing to compare it to would be The Daily Show, I suppose, but it is done a little differently, and the comedy is drier and more, em, "British". Still, it's pretty damn funny.
The clip posted here is a segment on the differences between British and American newscasts. While it hits pretty much everyone, the stuff on Fox News is the funniest, at least to me. It's not as much political humor as it is making fun of the media.
If that kind of stuff sounds interesting to you, check the clip out. If you dig it, you can watch full episodes at www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00jhp50.
HHPS1
Friday, April 10, 2009
Fermirotica (from xkcd)
This comic, sent to me by Daniel, is entitled "Fermirotica". It comes courtesy of a site called xkcd (www.xkcd.com). It's nerd humor, for sure, but a lot of it is pretty funny, and if you don't get some of them, that just means you're not an uber-nerd, and you should feel pretty good about that. It's kind of like getting the American Idol question wrong on Trivia Night. In certain cases, ignorance truly can be bliss.
The scary thing about this particular comic is that the math is correct. However, the truly sad and pathetic thing about this comic is that I know the math is correct. See, if you think of the area around you as a circle of radius r, with circumference 2*pi*r, then...
...then you should consider going into engineering. Not so much because you have the brains for it as because you should be able to save enough time by never getting laid to put the study time in.
I know this because, luckily, I live around engineers. Engineers never get laid, which means that Xf would be zero, and a zero in the denominator pushes the answer to infinity, except on a TI-89, where it says "cannot compute" or some shit like that, which leads to the conclusion that...
...that I'm not getting laid either.
Check the site out, though, if slightly filthy, highly nerdy humor is your thing. It's like Revenge of the Nerds as a comic strip.
Seems kind of redundant, doesn't it?
HHPS1
Tools of the Tirade: Your Source for "All Things Funny"!
Hey gang,
I have decided that, this being my big-time official-type website and all, that I should have some sort of official-type website theme. Since "immaturity" is a big vague, and "ravenous drug use" is liable to ruffle the wrong feathers, I have decided to go with...
I have decided that, this being my big-time official-type website and all, that I should have some sort of official-type website theme. Since "immaturity" is a big vague, and "ravenous drug use" is liable to ruffle the wrong feathers, I have decided to go with...
All Things Funny
What does an official-type theme like "all things funny" entail, exactly? Does it merely mean the occasional comic, video clip, or link to other funny sites, mainly used as a cheap ploy to get my site to pop up on more Google searches, or is it something more: A devotion, nay, a passion, for the art of humor, a quest to search the globe, mining the land for Giggles, Laughs, and Grins?
The smart money, of course, is on the former. I don't really even know what that last part means. "A passion for the art of humor." What-the-fuck-ever.
So, now that we have established what is going on here, namely a marketing tactic, let's move on to the details. The web, as you know, is more than a source of free porn; it is a place to look for things to occupy your time while waiting for your free porn to download. And occasionally during this process, I come across something funny enough to share on these pages.
This is all theoretically, of course. The reality is, the time between porn downloads is perfect for watching free porn. Besides, my keyboard got too sticky to use years ago.
But yours didn't.
For this reason (and because of my sheer laziness), I am inviting you to send me your suggestions. Send me links to anything you find that makes you pee a little. Comic strips, clips of stand-up comics, anything good, I'll watch it all.
(Editor's disclaimer: Note the author said "funny". That rules out anything by Dane Cook, Larry the Cable Guy, or Carlos Mencia. If you find video of these guys getting hit by a bus or sodomized by a rhino, send it in. Otherwise, let's try to go with stuff a bit more underground, and a bit less, um, lame.)
So send in your links. It's time to get to work.
What, you don't expect me to, do you?
His Holiness Pope Salty I
Monday, March 30, 2009
Finally! Something Besides Words!
Hello fellow patients,One of the harshest critiques I have received so far came from a girl I know, who was kind enough to point out the biggest problem with my ramblings with a conciseness that I could only dream of having...
"I hear your blogs are pretty funny, and I looked 'em up one time, but there was way too much reading..."
Point well taken.
So, in an effort to make these pages appeal to the mainstream American consumer, I am proud to present...
Pictures!
There. Now you can say you've read over a thousand words today.
I'm trying to decide, though. I took this photo in Rome, and I can't decide which lie I want to associate with it...
#1: To find the nearest government building, look for the "government in action" roadsigns, convieniently located around the city.
#2: In an attempt to cut down on the problems associated with casual sex, the city of Rome is unveiling its new "You don't actually believe he's not married, do you?" ad campaign.
#3: Look, honey! Even the signs know you're full of shit!
#4: Limbaugh X-ing
Feel free to make up a lie of your own. You could use the practice, especially if you're planning on going out this weekend.
His Holiness Pope Salty I
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sprout Time
(Editor's note: The following post was originally published, under the title "Where The Fuck Is My Taint?", in October 2007 issue of The New England Journal of Medicine. Do not read it until you have read the previous post, Health Care Begins at Home, which is right under this post. Otherwise, it will seem like just a bunch of immature dick jokes, and you will not fully appreciate the science involved.)
Hello fellow patients,
...and welcome. Today marks our first installment of our new medical feature, entitled...
...um...
Actually, I haven't come up with a title. It's not that I haven't given it any thought, although I haven't. I just thought it might be fun to see what you guys can come up with in the way of a clever title for this new, potentially life-saving series. I hate to use the term "contest", since most of you are too much of a pussy to send in your suggestions, and because "contest" implies "winner", which implies "prize", which implies "me spending some money on you fuckers", which simply isn't going to happen. So, let's just call it a brainstorming session, or some other bullshit like that, and leave it at that.
As I hinted at in the previous rambling, which I just know you guys read before starting this one, today's health topic is men's health, and more specifically, the concept of sprout time. Since we are all new at this, and don't know what we're doing, myself in particular, perhaps we should start with a simple question:
Going by what you hear on TV, men's health can be summed up in one word: prostate. Of course, there is more to men's health than the prostate. In fact, the prostate does not exist. The prostate is a myth made up as an excuse to talk you into letting people stick their fingers in your ass, just as the G-spot is a myth designed to trick you into spending more time than necessary with the vagina. We've all had that girlfriend, or friend with benefits, or guy you met that one time at that gay bar in Atlanta who said "it doesn't make you gay to experiment" and "don't worry; it'll be our little secret", who told you how, by massaging the prostate at just the right time, you could experience the ultimate orgasm.
Well, trust me, it's not true. I've thoroughly researched it, and after countless trips to Atlanta, I can say unequivocally that the prostate doesn't exist.
You don't even want to know what your proctologist is really up to...
So, if the prostate doesn't exist, what else have you not been told?
You haven't been told about sprout time.
Here's the facts: The male body produces both testosterone and estrogen. Testosterone is the male hormone. Testosterone does manly things like growing hair on your chest, producing semen (It's not just for breakfast anymore, ladies!), and renting Steven Segal movies. Estrogen, on the other hand, is responsible for womanly things such as regulating the menstrual cycle, producing vaginal lubrication (It's not just for breakfast anymore, fellas!), and getting out of traffic tickets. These hormones are so different, and so powerful, that an overabundance of the opposite sex's hormone can produce actual physical effects in the body. That's why transvestites are so good these days. Those tits look real because they are real.
Unfortunately, that cock's real as well.
For those of us who are not trying to trick straight men in bars (Damn you, Brianna!), fluctuations in opposite-sex hormones are nothing to worry about. A mild upswing in your estrogen level generally does nothing more than give you a peculiar craving for a nice Chablis. But in extreme cases, a sudden surge of estrogen can cause severe physical changes, the most severe being a sudden hermaphroditic transformation.
In other words, sprouting a...
(Editor's note: Despite our best efforts, we have been unable to determine the proper spelling for this word, which is pronounced like "badge" with a "v". "Vadge" looks kind of silly, and "vag" seems like it should rhyme with "rag". Sure we could use the anatomical term "vagina", but that's kind of icky. And "va-jayjay" is out. We saw Oprah use that term once, and we have been scarred for life as a result. We've toyed with the idea of "tulips", or the even more clever "two-lips", but in the end, we've decided to go with the classic "twat", mainly because our girlfriend hates that word. It's the simple pleasures...)
...twat.
Trust me, this is a bad thing. Some of you might be tempted to try to sprout one, either because you aren't getting laid or you've always wanted to be able to oblige when someone tells you to go fuck yourself, but it doesn't work that way. If you think about where the various parts are, and how they do and don't bend, you'll quickly deduce that hermie is not the way to go.
The important thing to know is that estrogen, like most hormones, is produced as a reaction to stimuli. Estrogen, being a female hormone, is produced as a reaction to female stimuli. How much estrogen is produced depends on the stimulus. Walking past a Bath and Body Works creates a little estrogen; sitting through Cirque de Soleil, you might as well be funneling the shit.
Like with exposure to radiation, estrogen level is an issue of both the severity of the stimulus and the time of exposure. Since estrogen-producing stimuli of various degrees are all around us, scientists have devised the concept of sprout time as a method of determining how long a male can be exposed to a given stimulus before sprouting. Some stimuli, such as R. Kelly songs, have relatively long sprout times that can be measured in hours, while others, such as the 2009 North American Tour of the long-running musical Cats, coming to the Mobile Civic Center next month, can be measured in mere seconds.
As you may have guessed, sprouting does not generally occur among single men, since only those in relationships are regularly subject to estrogen-producing stimuli. In order to protect against sprouting, it is important for men to be informed of the sprout times of any activities their women are subjecting them to (Curiously, sprouting does not occur among gay men, despite overexposure to estrogen-producing stimuli. While not fully understood, it is suspected that this has something to do with the prostate. At least that's what I was told in Atlanta...). Men should be advised, before being exposed to estrogen-producing stimuli, to ask their partner about the risks involved. For instance, if your girl wants you to sit down and watch Sex in the City with her, be sure to ask, "What is the sprout time on this?"
If she does not know, make her look it up. Be sure she gets the right one, too. You don't want the sprout time for an episode of the series just to discover you have to take a break from watching Sex in the City: The Movie to go pee sitting down. It'll give you a minute to check the scores on ESPN, which will help produce testosterone to counteract against potential estrogen exposure.
Especially if you've got money on the game...
So, in conclusion, men in relationships should be aware of the sprout times of anything their women try to drag them into. Because while she may want to share the world with you, I'm guessing she doesn't want to have to share tampons.
His Holiness Pope Salty I
Hello fellow patients,
...and welcome. Today marks our first installment of our new medical feature, entitled...
...um...
Actually, I haven't come up with a title. It's not that I haven't given it any thought, although I haven't. I just thought it might be fun to see what you guys can come up with in the way of a clever title for this new, potentially life-saving series. I hate to use the term "contest", since most of you are too much of a pussy to send in your suggestions, and because "contest" implies "winner", which implies "prize", which implies "me spending some money on you fuckers", which simply isn't going to happen. So, let's just call it a brainstorming session, or some other bullshit like that, and leave it at that.
As I hinted at in the previous rambling, which I just know you guys read before starting this one, today's health topic is men's health, and more specifically, the concept of sprout time. Since we are all new at this, and don't know what we're doing, myself in particular, perhaps we should start with a simple question:
What is men's health?
Going by what you hear on TV, men's health can be summed up in one word: prostate. Of course, there is more to men's health than the prostate. In fact, the prostate does not exist. The prostate is a myth made up as an excuse to talk you into letting people stick their fingers in your ass, just as the G-spot is a myth designed to trick you into spending more time than necessary with the vagina. We've all had that girlfriend, or friend with benefits, or guy you met that one time at that gay bar in Atlanta who said "it doesn't make you gay to experiment" and "don't worry; it'll be our little secret", who told you how, by massaging the prostate at just the right time, you could experience the ultimate orgasm.
Well, trust me, it's not true. I've thoroughly researched it, and after countless trips to Atlanta, I can say unequivocally that the prostate doesn't exist.
You don't even want to know what your proctologist is really up to...
So, if the prostate doesn't exist, what else have you not been told?
You haven't been told about sprout time.
Here's the facts: The male body produces both testosterone and estrogen. Testosterone is the male hormone. Testosterone does manly things like growing hair on your chest, producing semen (It's not just for breakfast anymore, ladies!), and renting Steven Segal movies. Estrogen, on the other hand, is responsible for womanly things such as regulating the menstrual cycle, producing vaginal lubrication (It's not just for breakfast anymore, fellas!), and getting out of traffic tickets. These hormones are so different, and so powerful, that an overabundance of the opposite sex's hormone can produce actual physical effects in the body. That's why transvestites are so good these days. Those tits look real because they are real.Unfortunately, that cock's real as well.
For those of us who are not trying to trick straight men in bars (Damn you, Brianna!), fluctuations in opposite-sex hormones are nothing to worry about. A mild upswing in your estrogen level generally does nothing more than give you a peculiar craving for a nice Chablis. But in extreme cases, a sudden surge of estrogen can cause severe physical changes, the most severe being a sudden hermaphroditic transformation.
In other words, sprouting a...
(Editor's note: Despite our best efforts, we have been unable to determine the proper spelling for this word, which is pronounced like "badge" with a "v". "Vadge" looks kind of silly, and "vag" seems like it should rhyme with "rag". Sure we could use the anatomical term "vagina", but that's kind of icky. And "va-jayjay" is out. We saw Oprah use that term once, and we have been scarred for life as a result. We've toyed with the idea of "tulips", or the even more clever "two-lips", but in the end, we've decided to go with the classic "twat", mainly because our girlfriend hates that word. It's the simple pleasures...)
...twat.
Trust me, this is a bad thing. Some of you might be tempted to try to sprout one, either because you aren't getting laid or you've always wanted to be able to oblige when someone tells you to go fuck yourself, but it doesn't work that way. If you think about where the various parts are, and how they do and don't bend, you'll quickly deduce that hermie is not the way to go.
The important thing to know is that estrogen, like most hormones, is produced as a reaction to stimuli. Estrogen, being a female hormone, is produced as a reaction to female stimuli. How much estrogen is produced depends on the stimulus. Walking past a Bath and Body Works creates a little estrogen; sitting through Cirque de Soleil, you might as well be funneling the shit.
Like with exposure to radiation, estrogen level is an issue of both the severity of the stimulus and the time of exposure. Since estrogen-producing stimuli of various degrees are all around us, scientists have devised the concept of sprout time as a method of determining how long a male can be exposed to a given stimulus before sprouting. Some stimuli, such as R. Kelly songs, have relatively long sprout times that can be measured in hours, while others, such as the 2009 North American Tour of the long-running musical Cats, coming to the Mobile Civic Center next month, can be measured in mere seconds.
As you may have guessed, sprouting does not generally occur among single men, since only those in relationships are regularly subject to estrogen-producing stimuli. In order to protect against sprouting, it is important for men to be informed of the sprout times of any activities their women are subjecting them to (Curiously, sprouting does not occur among gay men, despite overexposure to estrogen-producing stimuli. While not fully understood, it is suspected that this has something to do with the prostate. At least that's what I was told in Atlanta...). Men should be advised, before being exposed to estrogen-producing stimuli, to ask their partner about the risks involved. For instance, if your girl wants you to sit down and watch Sex in the City with her, be sure to ask, "What is the sprout time on this?"
If she does not know, make her look it up. Be sure she gets the right one, too. You don't want the sprout time for an episode of the series just to discover you have to take a break from watching Sex in the City: The Movie to go pee sitting down. It'll give you a minute to check the scores on ESPN, which will help produce testosterone to counteract against potential estrogen exposure.
Especially if you've got money on the game...
So, in conclusion, men in relationships should be aware of the sprout times of anything their women try to drag them into. Because while she may want to share the world with you, I'm guessing she doesn't want to have to share tampons.
His Holiness Pope Salty I
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Health Care Begins at Home (originally posted on MySpace)
Hello fellow patients,
Health care begins at home.
It's a phrase you hear all the time. Don't believe me?
Health care begins at home. See? There it is again.
But what does it really mean? In the old days, it meant doing the little things to make sure we were living healthy. "An apple a day keeps the doctor away" was what we were always told, and for good reason: Nothing like a few draft ciders to help you forget you're too goddamn broke to go to the doctor (Just because we're the only country in the industrialized world that doesn't provide free health care to its citizens (at least the ones who aren't lucky enough to be in Congress or prison) does not make universal health care any less Communist. Freedom isn't free, and neither is that walker, Granny. AIG bonuses don't grow on trees, ya know...).
These days things are more complicated. Sure, you can't give yourself an MRI, or perform brain surgery on your sister (I'm really sorry, mom...), but that doesn't mean you can't still do those little things to keep yourself and those you love healthy right at home. Whether it's checking your breasts for lumps, watching your calorie intake (Note I said "watching", not "reducing". We may not have health care, but we got McGriddles. Eat up, Porky, or the terrorists win.), checking your neighbor's breasts for lumps, or simply putting on a condom before getting that around-the-world from the twenty-dollar hooker you picked up downtown with the noticeable track marks and even more noticeable Adam's apple, there are plenty of things you can still do to keep your body running like the well-oiled machine it was (Pick from one of the following terms based upon whether or not you prefer to burn in eternal damnation.) [designed/randomly evolved] to be. I myself take the precautionary measure of self-medicating every chance I get.
(Author's note: You will notice I did not include exercise in my list of ways to stay healthy. Exercise is not a way to stay healthy. Sex should provide all the physical exertion you need in life. It's not your fault that you're fat; it's your partner's. They should be putting out more. In other words, if you see someone exercising, it's a sign they aren't getting any. The polite thing to do is to offer sex to this person. "I see you're doing sit-ups. Wanna fuck?" is considered proper etiquette in such a situation. Running is a sign that someone's being chased; call 911 immediately. Jogging is a sign of mental illness; no one in their right mind runs less than top speed if they're being chased, and running at any speed unless being chased is, to use the medical term, retarded.)
The world of modern medicine is progressing at a break-neck pace. Every day, researchers are finding new medical miracles in everything from male enhancement to penis enlargement. And occasionally, between finding more and more ways to help rich white pricks feel better about their tiny cocks (I don't think the Extenze is working, there, Prescott. Maybe you should try the Porsche.), modern medicine even finds new treatment for actual sicknesses. These advances, however, are not worth discussing, since your HMO will not cover them. Don't worry, though, you're not as fucked as you think you are (Editor's note: Yes you are.).
Why? Because health care begins at home.
The Internet is an invaluable tool for home health care. There are places you can go online where, with just a few clicks of the mouse, you can find out if those pills you found in your grandma's medicine cabinet will give you a buzz. But did you know those same sites offer advice on your health?
I sure didn't.
Well, I may not be a doctor, but I'm pretty sure I took a health class in elementary school, and I do watch reruns of House, which I reckon makes me just as qualified to offer online medical advice as anyone else. And because I care, and more importantly, because I saw how many hits WebMD gets, I'm going to start spewing forth chunks of medical wisdom right about now...
Health care begins at home.
It's a phrase you hear all the time. Don't believe me?
Health care begins at home. See? There it is again.
But what does it really mean? In the old days, it meant doing the little things to make sure we were living healthy. "An apple a day keeps the doctor away" was what we were always told, and for good reason: Nothing like a few draft ciders to help you forget you're too goddamn broke to go to the doctor (Just because we're the only country in the industrialized world that doesn't provide free health care to its citizens (at least the ones who aren't lucky enough to be in Congress or prison) does not make universal health care any less Communist. Freedom isn't free, and neither is that walker, Granny. AIG bonuses don't grow on trees, ya know...).
These days things are more complicated. Sure, you can't give yourself an MRI, or perform brain surgery on your sister (I'm really sorry, mom...), but that doesn't mean you can't still do those little things to keep yourself and those you love healthy right at home. Whether it's checking your breasts for lumps, watching your calorie intake (Note I said "watching", not "reducing". We may not have health care, but we got McGriddles. Eat up, Porky, or the terrorists win.), checking your neighbor's breasts for lumps, or simply putting on a condom before getting that around-the-world from the twenty-dollar hooker you picked up downtown with the noticeable track marks and even more noticeable Adam's apple, there are plenty of things you can still do to keep your body running like the well-oiled machine it was (Pick from one of the following terms based upon whether or not you prefer to burn in eternal damnation.) [designed/randomly evolved] to be. I myself take the precautionary measure of self-medicating every chance I get.
(Author's note: You will notice I did not include exercise in my list of ways to stay healthy. Exercise is not a way to stay healthy. Sex should provide all the physical exertion you need in life. It's not your fault that you're fat; it's your partner's. They should be putting out more. In other words, if you see someone exercising, it's a sign they aren't getting any. The polite thing to do is to offer sex to this person. "I see you're doing sit-ups. Wanna fuck?" is considered proper etiquette in such a situation. Running is a sign that someone's being chased; call 911 immediately. Jogging is a sign of mental illness; no one in their right mind runs less than top speed if they're being chased, and running at any speed unless being chased is, to use the medical term, retarded.)
The world of modern medicine is progressing at a break-neck pace. Every day, researchers are finding new medical miracles in everything from male enhancement to penis enlargement. And occasionally, between finding more and more ways to help rich white pricks feel better about their tiny cocks (I don't think the Extenze is working, there, Prescott. Maybe you should try the Porsche.), modern medicine even finds new treatment for actual sicknesses. These advances, however, are not worth discussing, since your HMO will not cover them. Don't worry, though, you're not as fucked as you think you are (Editor's note: Yes you are.).
Why? Because health care begins at home.
The Internet is an invaluable tool for home health care. There are places you can go online where, with just a few clicks of the mouse, you can find out if those pills you found in your grandma's medicine cabinet will give you a buzz. But did you know those same sites offer advice on your health?
I sure didn't.
Well, I may not be a doctor, but I'm pretty sure I took a health class in elementary school, and I do watch reruns of House, which I reckon makes me just as qualified to offer online medical advice as anyone else. And because I care, and more importantly, because I saw how many hits WebMD gets, I'm going to start spewing forth chunks of medical wisdom right about now...
I think you should take something for that.
See, isn't that good advice? Come to think of it, I'll be right back...
...
...Okay, now where was I? Oh yeah. Medical advice.
That's right, folks. Cancel that doctor's appointment; drop your health insurance. You're going to find all the medical advice you need right here on these pages.
Well, not these pages. You'll have to go to my new official-type website, www.toolsofthetirade.blogspot.com (Editor's note: In the absence of a big red "You are here" arrow, we hope you have figured out on your own that you are already at my new official-type website. This part is primarily for the MySpace moronotards that haven't joined us over here yet.), to get the information that just might save your life. The first installment, a piece on men's health called Sprout Time, is being put together right now.
So head over there and check it out. You look like you need the exercise...
His Holiness Pope Salty I
Thursday, March 19, 2009
A Word From the Pit Crew (Thoughts on Love, Marriage, and NASCAR)
Hello fellow patients,
and...
and...
It was the last one that really got under my skin. Is that it? Are the only two options married and alone? An option that means I never get laid, and one that means I'm alone?
Okay, that one was a bit too easy. But you get my point. What it boils down to, as you well know, is grandchildren. There seems to be a certain age when parents develop an addict-like craving for grandchildren. Perhaps it is their desire to see you put through the same shit you put them through. Perhaps it is they are beginning to face their own mortality, and the continuation of the family tree is seen, in some delusional way, as a victory over death.
Whatever it is, it's fucked up. My dad is more concerned about my getting laid than I am, and it creeps me out. Really, guys, it's better to just tell your folks you're gay. Even if you have to go as far as to bring a guy home and make out with him at the dinner table, it's worth it. Sure, they might disown you, but is that so bad? At least you won't have to deal with the grandkid conversation again.
And who knows? You might meet yourself a nice man out of it.
But I digress...
...So, where was I? Oh, yeah. Taking a drive.
I would have liked to have taken this drive off a bridge, but I was in my girlfriend's car. She doesn't like it when I leave my underwear on the bathroom floor, so I'm guessing she really wouldn't care for me leaving her car at the bottom of Mobile Bay. No, this drive would serve only as a momentary reprieve from the issue, not as a solution for it. My girlfriend's car only has a cassette player in it (Yes, I'm aware that makes me a bad boyfriend, but I think it should be obvious by now that she's not that picky. And let's keep it that way, okay? The last thing I need is someone telling her that she could find a man who doesn't write shit about three-ways and gay porn.), so I was stuck with the radio. I got in the car and was immediately pelted by the top-40 station...
Great. My dad's got Beyonce' pressuring me now.
My girl's totally cool. She's never made even the slightest comment about getting married. Of course, that's probably because she knows she doesn't have to. Between my family and Beyonce', that one's pretty much covered.
So what about my side? I know I'm not the only guy who isn't out ring shopping as soon as he has three good dates. What about us? Do we get a say? Don't we get to have our voices heard? Considering all the pressure on us to get married, we must have a pretty good reason why we fight it. There must be something worth fighting our women, our families, and Beyonce' for. But who's going to tell our side? Who's gonna lay it all out there and explain, once and for all, why we try so hard to wait until the very last minute to enter into wedded bliss?
Me, that's who. And how am I going to explain it?
NASCAR.
Perhaps I should elaborate...
You see, ladies and family, we fellas see life as a NASCAR race. And not just because it is the same thing, over and over and over and over again, with a horrific death in a flaming ball of carnage being our only hope of sweet, sweet escape. Not that at all. No, we see life as a NASCAR race, with wedded bliss being the finish line. The ultimate goal is to cross the finish line just as that last drop of fuel is being burned. If we can draft our way through our relationships, conserving the fuel of love as much as possible, while avoiding the yellow caution flags of dry spells, and the ten-car pileups of STDs, we might just see it through to the final lap of engagement, and ultimately the checkered flag of our wedding day, and get to taste the sweet white milk of our first night as man and wife (Sorry 'bout that last analogy. I'm having a bit of trouble getting Ken out of my mind...).
Confused? Me too. I don't know shit about NASCAR. I'm just trying to get more Google hits.
Let me try again. See, what a guy really wants is to marry the last hot girl willing to have sex with him. That may seem shallow, but it eliminates the one fear that keeps guys from jumping on the marriage bandwagon: The fear that, as soon as we tie the knot, we're going to get that phone call...
"Remember me? I'm the hot chick that you saw on the subway this morning. I know this may seem forward of me, considering I didn't even give you a second glance, much less get your phone number, but me and a couple of my friends are having a dick-sucking contest, and I could tell by your sizeable bulge that you are ample enough to provide enough of a challenge to be the judge, and so..."
Hey, you have your knight in shining armor; we have our blowjob-contest girls. It's all a matter of perspective. We all have our fantasies. It's just that yours are courtesy of Disney, while ours are made by Vivid (Google it, ladies, if you're confused. And download the results of your search. Your man will appreciate you for it.).
Don't get us wrong. It's not that we don't love you, or don't think that you're beautiful. It's just that even the fanciest sportscar loses resale value as soon as you take it off the lot, and we've put a lot of miles on you, and...
...Perhaps I have said too much. I see the looks I am getting. I think maybe it would be best if I tried a different approach, one that will get the parents off my back, keep my girl from knowing about the whole subway blowjob-contest thing, and settle this "when are you gonna get married" shit once and for all.
Now what did I do with Ken's number?
His Holiness Pope Salty I
p.s.: I would appreciate it if you would not give too much thought to the fact that I don't have dick-sucking contest chick's number, but I do have Ken's. "Don't ask; don't tell", that's always been my policy.
HHPS1
I've read somewhere that like 80 percent of all homicides occur among family. If that number seems a bit high to you, give your parents a call. By the end of the conversation, not only will you feel that 80 percent is too low, you'll be contemplating doing your part to adjust the statistics.
It was in that state of mind that I hopped into the car this afternoon. I'd just spent an hour talking to my dad on the phone. We were talking about my girlfriend, which of course means we were discussing my need to settle down. I have made two big mistakes with my girlfriend: One, I've kept her for more than a month, and two, I've proven to my dad that she actually exists by letting him meet her (Imaginary girlfriends may not be as much fun to play with as real ones, but you can't beat 'em when it comes to dealing with the fam. It could be argued that, considering everything, imaginary ones are better. Especially if you're bad about forgetting to take the porn out of the DVD player.). Mistakes like these inevitably lead to conversations consisting of statements such as:
"So when are you two going to settle down?"
and...
"You know you're not getting any younger..."
and...
"If you like her, son, you need to get married. If not, you should leave her."
It was the last one that really got under my skin. Is that it? Are the only two options married and alone? An option that means I never get laid, and one that means I'm alone?
Okay, that one was a bit too easy. But you get my point. What it boils down to, as you well know, is grandchildren. There seems to be a certain age when parents develop an addict-like craving for grandchildren. Perhaps it is their desire to see you put through the same shit you put them through. Perhaps it is they are beginning to face their own mortality, and the continuation of the family tree is seen, in some delusional way, as a victory over death.
Whatever it is, it's fucked up. My dad is more concerned about my getting laid than I am, and it creeps me out. Really, guys, it's better to just tell your folks you're gay. Even if you have to go as far as to bring a guy home and make out with him at the dinner table, it's worth it. Sure, they might disown you, but is that so bad? At least you won't have to deal with the grandkid conversation again.
And who knows? You might meet yourself a nice man out of it.
But I digress...
...So, where was I? Oh, yeah. Taking a drive.
I would have liked to have taken this drive off a bridge, but I was in my girlfriend's car. She doesn't like it when I leave my underwear on the bathroom floor, so I'm guessing she really wouldn't care for me leaving her car at the bottom of Mobile Bay. No, this drive would serve only as a momentary reprieve from the issue, not as a solution for it. My girlfriend's car only has a cassette player in it (Yes, I'm aware that makes me a bad boyfriend, but I think it should be obvious by now that she's not that picky. And let's keep it that way, okay? The last thing I need is someone telling her that she could find a man who doesn't write shit about three-ways and gay porn.), so I was stuck with the radio. I got in the car and was immediately pelted by the top-40 station...
"If you like it then you should'a put a ring on it..."
Great. My dad's got Beyonce' pressuring me now.
My girl's totally cool. She's never made even the slightest comment about getting married. Of course, that's probably because she knows she doesn't have to. Between my family and Beyonce', that one's pretty much covered.
So what about my side? I know I'm not the only guy who isn't out ring shopping as soon as he has three good dates. What about us? Do we get a say? Don't we get to have our voices heard? Considering all the pressure on us to get married, we must have a pretty good reason why we fight it. There must be something worth fighting our women, our families, and Beyonce' for. But who's going to tell our side? Who's gonna lay it all out there and explain, once and for all, why we try so hard to wait until the very last minute to enter into wedded bliss?
Me, that's who. And how am I going to explain it?
NASCAR.
Perhaps I should elaborate...
You see, ladies and family, we fellas see life as a NASCAR race. And not just because it is the same thing, over and over and over and over again, with a horrific death in a flaming ball of carnage being our only hope of sweet, sweet escape. Not that at all. No, we see life as a NASCAR race, with wedded bliss being the finish line. The ultimate goal is to cross the finish line just as that last drop of fuel is being burned. If we can draft our way through our relationships, conserving the fuel of love as much as possible, while avoiding the yellow caution flags of dry spells, and the ten-car pileups of STDs, we might just see it through to the final lap of engagement, and ultimately the checkered flag of our wedding day, and get to taste the sweet white milk of our first night as man and wife (Sorry 'bout that last analogy. I'm having a bit of trouble getting Ken out of my mind...).
Confused? Me too. I don't know shit about NASCAR. I'm just trying to get more Google hits.
Let me try again. See, what a guy really wants is to marry the last hot girl willing to have sex with him. That may seem shallow, but it eliminates the one fear that keeps guys from jumping on the marriage bandwagon: The fear that, as soon as we tie the knot, we're going to get that phone call...
"Remember me? I'm the hot chick that you saw on the subway this morning. I know this may seem forward of me, considering I didn't even give you a second glance, much less get your phone number, but me and a couple of my friends are having a dick-sucking contest, and I could tell by your sizeable bulge that you are ample enough to provide enough of a challenge to be the judge, and so..."
Hey, you have your knight in shining armor; we have our blowjob-contest girls. It's all a matter of perspective. We all have our fantasies. It's just that yours are courtesy of Disney, while ours are made by Vivid (Google it, ladies, if you're confused. And download the results of your search. Your man will appreciate you for it.).
Don't get us wrong. It's not that we don't love you, or don't think that you're beautiful. It's just that even the fanciest sportscar loses resale value as soon as you take it off the lot, and we've put a lot of miles on you, and...
...Perhaps I have said too much. I see the looks I am getting. I think maybe it would be best if I tried a different approach, one that will get the parents off my back, keep my girl from knowing about the whole subway blowjob-contest thing, and settle this "when are you gonna get married" shit once and for all.
Now what did I do with Ken's number?
His Holiness Pope Salty I
p.s.: I would appreciate it if you would not give too much thought to the fact that I don't have dick-sucking contest chick's number, but I do have Ken's. "Don't ask; don't tell", that's always been my policy.
HHPS1
A Message for the "Manager" of Fabachers (originally posted on MySpace)
Hello fellow patients,
The letter posted below was originally written last week and posted on MySpace. I did not post it here because it is not the type of thing I would normally consider to be Tools of the Tirade material; it was nothing more than me venting about losing a job. My intention was to post the letter on the MySpace page of the bar that canned me, but I discovered that I had never added them as a friend, and something told me they wouldn't be interested in accepting a friend invitation from me.
They're stupid, but they're not that stupid...
While my letter did not have its desired effect of driving the owners of the bar to suicide, it did seem to strike a chord with a lot of people. Perhps I shouldn't have been, but I was surprised to find out how many people got a kick out of what I thought no one would appreciate other than me. For this reason, I have decided to post the letter here.
Those of you not familiar with the bar scene in Mobile, AL, will not recognize the name of the bar (I intentionally left the names of individuals out), but hopefully you will be able to relate to the situation enough to get a laugh or two out of it.
I suspect that Mobile has not cornered the market on idiot club owners...
To the new "manager" of Fabachers,
I have to admire your meteoric rise to power.
Who would have known you could go from someone nobody's ever heard of before to the manager of a nightclub in a matter of two weeks?
Here's the thing, though. Sleeping with the owner may give you the power to run a bar, but it obviously doesn't give you the intelligence. If it did, you might have figured out that maybe it's not a good idea to run off your entire staff in less than two weeks. Sure, you can tell the owner that the bartenders were stealing from her, but it does seem a bit odd that this "theft problem" seemed to arrive right about the same time that you did. Sure, it's possible that all these people were running scams at the same time, but in life the simplest answer is often the correct one, and it doesn't take a genius to connect the dots.
Are we supposed to believe that it's just a coincidence that the money in question passed through your hands before it got to the owner? Anyone with half a brain can see it.
Of course, love has a tendency to cloud one's judgment. We've all been there. So I don't blame the owner for trusting you over logic.
Just don't expect anyone else to.
Of course, I didn't steal anything from you. I'm just a DJ. But I happen to be a damn good DJ, and an experienced one at that. So allow me to use that experience to fill in rather wide gap between what you think you know and what you actually do know. Since this gap is so cavernous, I'll put it into table form so you can follow it easier.
You can count, can you?
1. If you are going to use genre terms to describe what you want, you might want to make sure these genres exist outside your delusional mind. "New-age rap" is not a style of music. Rap is a very broad term that encompasses many different styles of music, the common thread being spoken-word rhymed vocals. New-age is not a musical term at all.
2. Since we've already established that "new-age rap" is not a musical genre, it's probably safe to say that "new-age rap rock alternative" is not one either. The only time an intelligent person might use that phrase is after slamming the refrigerator door too hard and spilling some poetry magnets on the floor.
3. If the DJ is nice enough to attempt to extrapolate your request, ignoring the fact that you would apparently lose a battle of wits with a wheelbarrow, you might want to pay a bit of attention. In other words, if you're going to criticize what the DJ is playing, saying he needs to play something like Akon instead of this "techno", you might want to be sure that Akon is not what is playing at the time. You're already looking like a jackass; no point screaming "hee-haw! hee-haw!" on top of it.
4. If you are going to later tell the DJ to pack his stuff and leave because "everybody is complaining about the music", you might want to be sure that a song requested by one of this "everybody" you allegedly found time to individually poll between making drinks is not playing at the time. Granted, it is possible that someone would complain about a song that they themselves requested, but only if they had the brain the size of a chick pea.
You know, like someone who would ask for "new-age rap rock alternative".
In other words, cover your lie better. Considering the fact that you've already run off all the bartenders, I would like to think that even someone as obviously talented and skilled as you are would have trouble putting together a comprehensive list of patrons' musical preferences in between fucking up their drink orders.
I know this is all a bit complicated, and probably making your ear-balls hurt, so let me make it more simple for you: You told the DJ to leave because he was playing too much techno and not enough stuff like Akon...
...while Akon was playing.
Dumbass.
5. This is the most important one...
Enjoy this while you can. Even the most lovesick owner is only going to put up with some jackass running her club into the ground for so long before she wakes up to you. And if not, you're not going to get much pleasure from running a bar that is out of business.
You've already got half of Mobile wanting to beat your ass. Don't worry; I'm not one of them.
You're not worth the trouble.
His Holiness Pope Salty I
They're stupid, but they're not that stupid...
While my letter did not have its desired effect of driving the owners of the bar to suicide, it did seem to strike a chord with a lot of people. Perhps I shouldn't have been, but I was surprised to find out how many people got a kick out of what I thought no one would appreciate other than me. For this reason, I have decided to post the letter here.
Those of you not familiar with the bar scene in Mobile, AL, will not recognize the name of the bar (I intentionally left the names of individuals out), but hopefully you will be able to relate to the situation enough to get a laugh or two out of it.
I suspect that Mobile has not cornered the market on idiot club owners...
To the new "manager" of Fabachers,
I have to admire your meteoric rise to power.
Who would have known you could go from someone nobody's ever heard of before to the manager of a nightclub in a matter of two weeks?
Here's the thing, though. Sleeping with the owner may give you the power to run a bar, but it obviously doesn't give you the intelligence. If it did, you might have figured out that maybe it's not a good idea to run off your entire staff in less than two weeks. Sure, you can tell the owner that the bartenders were stealing from her, but it does seem a bit odd that this "theft problem" seemed to arrive right about the same time that you did. Sure, it's possible that all these people were running scams at the same time, but in life the simplest answer is often the correct one, and it doesn't take a genius to connect the dots.
Are we supposed to believe that it's just a coincidence that the money in question passed through your hands before it got to the owner? Anyone with half a brain can see it.
Of course, love has a tendency to cloud one's judgment. We've all been there. So I don't blame the owner for trusting you over logic.
Just don't expect anyone else to.
Of course, I didn't steal anything from you. I'm just a DJ. But I happen to be a damn good DJ, and an experienced one at that. So allow me to use that experience to fill in rather wide gap between what you think you know and what you actually do know. Since this gap is so cavernous, I'll put it into table form so you can follow it easier.
You can count, can you?
1. If you are going to use genre terms to describe what you want, you might want to make sure these genres exist outside your delusional mind. "New-age rap" is not a style of music. Rap is a very broad term that encompasses many different styles of music, the common thread being spoken-word rhymed vocals. New-age is not a musical term at all.
2. Since we've already established that "new-age rap" is not a musical genre, it's probably safe to say that "new-age rap rock alternative" is not one either. The only time an intelligent person might use that phrase is after slamming the refrigerator door too hard and spilling some poetry magnets on the floor.
3. If the DJ is nice enough to attempt to extrapolate your request, ignoring the fact that you would apparently lose a battle of wits with a wheelbarrow, you might want to pay a bit of attention. In other words, if you're going to criticize what the DJ is playing, saying he needs to play something like Akon instead of this "techno", you might want to be sure that Akon is not what is playing at the time. You're already looking like a jackass; no point screaming "hee-haw! hee-haw!" on top of it.
4. If you are going to later tell the DJ to pack his stuff and leave because "everybody is complaining about the music", you might want to be sure that a song requested by one of this "everybody" you allegedly found time to individually poll between making drinks is not playing at the time. Granted, it is possible that someone would complain about a song that they themselves requested, but only if they had the brain the size of a chick pea.
You know, like someone who would ask for "new-age rap rock alternative".
In other words, cover your lie better. Considering the fact that you've already run off all the bartenders, I would like to think that even someone as obviously talented and skilled as you are would have trouble putting together a comprehensive list of patrons' musical preferences in between fucking up their drink orders.
I know this is all a bit complicated, and probably making your ear-balls hurt, so let me make it more simple for you: You told the DJ to leave because he was playing too much techno and not enough stuff like Akon...
...while Akon was playing.
Dumbass.
5. This is the most important one...
Enjoy this while you can. Even the most lovesick owner is only going to put up with some jackass running her club into the ground for so long before she wakes up to you. And if not, you're not going to get much pleasure from running a bar that is out of business.
You've already got half of Mobile wanting to beat your ass. Don't worry; I'm not one of them.
You're not worth the trouble.
His Holiness Pope Salty I
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