I Be ILlin

What the fuck is a Cantata?  Is it a fruit?  Is it the fruit they extract all the taste out of to make that tasteless, calorie-less, almost-generic-orange-like-carbonated-beverage in the non-swill swill isle at your local grocer’s locally owned and overpriced emporium?

Ding Dong Kim Jong IL II is Dead!  That was about as hard to see coming as watching Peter North finish off a facial with a pair of Bausch & Lomb Astronomical Field 4.2 11 x 80 binoculars from two pearls of a necklace away.  KJII had already been proclaiming he wasn’t dead for years.  And, his third name is IL.  And it wasn’t an abbreviation for the home state of his favorite professional sports team.  More so than everyone else, this dude was destined to die.  I’ll tell you what I found really creepy about him.  KJII was always dressed liked the crazy dictator who just finished a segment showing Letterman some animals from the Pyongyang Zoo.  I get that it was supposed to be some kind of military motif, but the vibe was far less authoritative than it was “I got this shit on sale after I toppled the government of the Bananna Republic!”  Actually, upon further review, review, review, review, review…….. which is being caused by this seizure inducing cycle of repeated clips of KJII, it appears his chosen attire seemed to be a cross between a Bass Pro-Shop Jumpsuit and something Trekkish.  Functional.  It allows you to carry some of the tools necessary to keep oppressing millions of your people, while simultaneously fucking with several other world governments thereby affecting global diplomacy.  Nerdy.  You get a kick out of the hidden pockets, velcro, extra zippers, snaps and places to hide the type of shit you would have to kill yet another member of the would-be free press if they found out and tried to report it.

A thing about the Holocaust just came on the History Channel.  Before it started, it warned there would be pictures, videos and frank discussions.  It’s the fucking Holocaust!  It’s not like you can talk about that shit with pie charts, sock puppets with cocks, and Power Point demonstrations with cartoon characters.

The only real difference between an assailant and essayist is that the former physically takes out his aggression on someone, and the latter takes theirs out on a piece of paper.  The majority of the time, they both leave someone hurting, pissed off and wishing they could either kick their ass or write a complete sentence with correctly spelled words to convey just how they felt.

Christopher Hitchens gave up believing in breathing this week.  I wonder what the first drink he ordered at the first bar he found was wherever he ended up.  My next question is, who did he piss off 1st?

“The Presidential Suite” at the Broadway location of Embassy Suites in Nashville, Tennessee is quite the value for a mere $229.00 American.  You get a large living area that is adjacent to both sleeping quarters.  It’s got a table to do business of whatever flavor on it.  You can set up your laptop, break out your brief, chop up some lines and call some hoes.  The tables big enough and the motherfucker is sturdy.  The couch is a decent size.  It’s upholstered in a fabric that doesn’t immediately irritate the skin.  The 42 Flat Screen t.v. is nice.  The remote control has been dumbed back down into the late 80′s for some reason.  It is not too far off from needing a fucking wire attached to it.  It has channel and volume buttons.  There are individual button numbers which I was told have been known to confuse the less presidential by making them futiltly attempt to take advantage of free long distance dialing while all the long really only skipping between the History Channel, HGTV and ESPN.  The bathroom is a little weird.  You could barely shit one president in it at a time, much less the required Secret Service Agents.  It only has a normal size tube.  There is a mini-living appliance area.  It’s kind of like one corner of your room was designed for midgets.  Everything is smaller.  The refrigerator is the size of a microwave.  The microwave is the size of a shoebox.  The coffee maker is smaller than the bag of coffee it purports to be able to brew.  You do get a pretty good free breakfast with this here abode.  It’s omelets, pancakes and all the swine related products the eye can see.  So, I highly recommend getting your William Henry Harrison on next time you come to Nashville.

JIS


Thunk and Go Nuts

Seeing the morning after drinking makes you wish you were disbelieving.

The first step towards being a community activist is to come up with a hair style people will either remember, be unable to forget or be afraid of making and pissing off.

Taxidermy is always taking it up the ass.

Slap a Santa suit on the Republican Presidential front runner, force him to eat some Taco Hell and you’ve got the potential for a new holiday classic: The Gingrinch That Stole the Election.

Have you tried to use this Siri thing on the iPhone? Based on its ability to understand what I say, they should have just named it My Wife-I.  Siri-ously.  It’s just like marriage.  I spend more time explaining what I didn’t say or didn’t mean with that than I do actually saying anything.  I need Siri counseling.

I don’t use my account at all, but if I did, I’d write No Fat Tweets on Twitter.

Barry Bonds was sentenced to 30 days house arrest, community service and a fine less than the average cost of each steroid injection he lied about using that led to his conviction for obstruction of justice in Federal Court.  The judge postponed imposition of the sentence to allow the house’s lawyers to appeal what they believe to be a travesty of realty.

Accessed molester and former Penn State assistant football coach Jerry Sandusky was in court this week for his preliminary hearing.  In a surprising move, his lawyer waived the hearing saying he did so to get the evidence against his client sooner, and to insure his bond remained the same.  Sandusky refused to comment and sped away from the court house in what appeared to be the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile.

If a transvestite dies in the woods, does it confuse the bear who’s trying to take a shit?

I saw a guy on Pawn Stars try to hoard something the other day.  A Storage Wars guy had Holmes remodel one of his lockers.  American Pickers busted the myth that couches can’t fly when properly fitted with wings.

The Turtleman‘s grandmother and my grandmother were sisters.  As such, to glom onto the fame of a relative I’ve never met, I’m getting my own show called Lawyer Man on Tru TV next fall.  I’m going to travel around western KY and brave such dangerous territories as District, Circuit and Juvenile Court.  I’m going to dive right into jails and see what in the hell people who pay me have been wrongfully accused of.  The camera is going to show viewers how I use my bare hands, Rolex watch, fancy suits and shoes to convince prosecutors and others I must know what in the hell I’m talking about.

My thumb blew out.

JIS


Oh Oh, Dominos

I just ordered a pizza on my cellphone from Domino’s store #1487.  According to my fancy virtual “Order Tracker,” some pizza pusher named Derek put it in the oven at 9:12.  Oh, wait a minute.  That crazy bastard Derek then checked my pizza for deliciousness at 9:18.  The deliciousness checks are now complete.  But I don’t know if that means he stuck his finger or his dick in it.

How is the Internet keeping track of the progress of my pizza?  I can’t believe it can be cooked this quick with him continually updating its Pizzafacebook status so regularly.

I’ve become a little worried about Derek.  It’s now 9:23, and he hasn’t told me what’s going on.  He hasn’t asked me to repost his deliciousness check, or if I’ve ever eaten a delicious pizza cooked by someone who’s name started with the letter D.  He hasn’t posted any video of my pizza cooking, being taken out of the oven or put in a box.  And I haven’t got any invitations to Deliveryville or Pie Wars.  I mean, he could at least send me something saying my pizza went into the oven with a whole bunch of other pizzas that are now trying to get back together after graduating from High Temp High.

The progress of my pizza has now officially stalled at Step 4 on the pizza meter.  Step 5 is the last step left, but it’s a doozy.

Wait a minute.  My phone just updated and it appears Derek is still telling everyone my pizza was checked out to be delicous at 9:18.

Hell yeah!  It’s 9:30 and some dude named Kevin “just left the store” with my order.  I’m glad Derek suggested that Kevin and I meet.  I’m sure he is a nice guy.  I can’t wait till he gets here.  I have so many questions the website doesn’t address.  What flavor automobile does he drive?  How many stains will his uniform have on it?  Will his hair be long and greasy, or short and sparse?  What will he think about the fact I’m wearing my wife’s pajama pants, an Angry Birds t-shirt from Wal-Mart and my Halloween costume Big Lebowski robe?  The suspense is fucking killing me.  It’s now been five minutes since my order left the store, and I only live 1.9 miles from this particular Domino’s.  Should I call 911?  I lost the number for the Pizza Police.

Thank whoever.  Kevin showed up with my pie at 9:40.  He was about 5’6″ with a mustache that had a Mr. Bubble’s vibe.  He bought a pair of glasses, but was obviously wearing the free ones.  Kevin took pride in his appearance and did not have any visible stains, wrinkles, moth holes or Taser marks.  Kevin was very professional, cordial and gave me some type of coupon I lost instantaneously.  The last update of the website didn’t mention I discounted the value of the coupon.

All in all, I’d recommend sitting on your fat ass and using your phone to order a pizza.  You don’t actually have to talk to anyone.  You can see what you’re ordering.  Some random motherfucker you’ve never heard of keeps you up to date on all the goings on of your pizza.  It’s like a paid acquaintance is making you a short-term friend who will help get you through your temporary pang of hunger.  Then, just as soon as whoever told you they were making it, whoever else brought you the labor of your texting, it’s gone.  You fucking ate it.  Great experience.  Just hope that your fingers aren’t too fucking fat and greasy to enjoy it.


Remotely Uncontrolled

On Channel 306 HDNet the other night, there was some show called Celebridate.  I didn’t watch long enough to know who the celeb was, or where they and their date went.  I did see a quick montage a tois of the three datetestants.  One had a tattoo on her shoulder that looked like the artist had used an Etch A Sketch.  I can’t remember anything about one of them.  My favorite though was the girl who said she wanted a guy who could make her laugh because she loved to laugh.  Who the fuck doesn’t love to laugh?  There are only two times in a person’s life where they do not love to laugh.  The first one is if you’ve already been laughing so much that continued chuckling will cause a bodily event resulting in a pooling of fluids, or whatever the last substance entering your giggle googler being spit across the room.  The second one is is a situation in which fun must be suppressed like a fart in an elevator.  Come to think of it, if you are the one trying to hold it in or just gave in to temptation, what is funnier than a fart in an elevator?

Not to stand up comedian out, but what’s the deal with actors wearing bulky jackets in hot weather?  I first noticed this phenomenon when Keanu Reeves wore that Mexican woven surfer rug thing during the Summer in Speed.  Sure, he only applied it to a taut t-shirt over his rather ample upper torso Bill and Ted’s, but he’d have to have fucking delusional expectations to think he was going to stay cool in that thing during the Summer in L.A. Yet another instance of the above mentioned outerwear idiocy, is the alleged soon-to-be-former Mr. Will Jada Pinkett-Smith in the original M.I.B.  He’s parlaying around NYC during robbery and carjacking season wearing a jacket made out of tarp like material used by construction workers to keep shit dry, and rappers to keep themselves dry after clock’n hoes.

I went back to HDNet to watch something called Deadline! Unrated, the “100 Percent Happy Endings” edition.  The info button on the remote says it’s about “Breasts of all kinds, including Burlesques, pole danger and calendar girl.  Entertainment, High-Def, CC.”  I didn’t know the Info button had such weird taste in tit size.  Every set of tits on this show is more circular than Rick Perry’s reasoning.  These womens’ boobs are faker than the McAnimal that is slaughtered to produced the McRib.  If they don’t got some jiggle and sag, tell her to put up them salt water bags.  Titties ain’t supposed to be a replacement for that weird black-handled-spring-thing people in the 80′s swore by.

As I’m trying to cleanse my head of all these looney thoughts, a relatively unknown friend of mine on SpaceFace just sent me a Farmville request.  It came through and finagled my whole style on my iPad like a text message.  I have never played Farmville in my life.  The only thing I know about it comes from an episode of 60 Minutes I watched.  I want to be clear, the dude that thought up people paying to keep video vegetation alive is a genius.  I bear him no ill ville.  I just don’t understand why this one quasi anonymous chick keeps requesting I do something with Farmville.  Even though I continue to immediately delete these requests, I keep getting them.  Each one comes with her profile picture to the left of the request like a teaser for the next episode of Guilt Acres.  Whereas you get confirmation or denials of your requests to be friends, there must not be any records kept or notifications given for immediate deletions of Farmville requests or this chick would have sold my friend base to the gubmint.

Platoon is on whatever 519 AMAXHD.  I find it ballsy whoever that is has the guts to show a Nam movie with the Nutty Sheen in it in light of recent events.  If there was a Platoon Redux, the closing scene would be that crazy fucking warlock pissing on the Vietnam War Memorial.  Mark, highlight, underline, italicize, copy, paste or whatever my words.  That crazy motherfucker will be in a porno movie within the next year.  If he was born lucky, it will be a one man tour de force entitled “Two and a 1/2 Men”.

When a titty flick is on, why does the description even list the actors or attempt to describe the plot?  If it is a true tit flick, you may have seen the tits before but you can’t associate a name to them.  If you are up at the time of morning tit flicks come on, you aren’t hitting the info button to get plot summaries.  You’re hitting it for ratings and film lengths.  Just cause its an MA, it doesn’t mean you’re going to be able to stay up long enough to jerk off to it.

Channel 530 is Starz in Black.  I don’t know if this has just sprung up overnight or what.  I had no clue there was such a channel.  The only reason I found it is because I’m watching CB4.  Like jerking off, on one hand, I get ethnic channels.  On the other, they just don’t feel right.  I eat tacos.  I listened to rap in its infancy and understand everything about this movie.  I like egg rolls.  I will throw down on some sushi.  I didn’t learn to like all that shit from a bunch of different fucking t.v. channels.  I didn’t learn to be fat from the Food Network.  That shit is genetic.  I refined and honed my honkeyness without a channel dedicated to not being able to dance, having a flat ass and liking rap music.  But, at the same time, where is Honkey T.V.?  Unless you’re in a foreign country speaking a non-indigenous language, I think the idea of a TV channel related to your ethnicity is a non-necessity.  At the same time, if you can get that shit on TV, go for it.  I mean, goddamn, I’ll watch any fucking channel that periodically shows Roadhouse or Point Break.  Is ignorance an ethnicity?

Airline bottles of alcohol are a rip off.  But they do fit nicely in the pockets of a robe though.  This allows for them to be hid from a spouse, significant other, employer or religious leader.  And, drinking airline bottles makes you feel like you aren’t drinking that much.  Of course, that myth is debunked after there’s a Hansel and Gretel like trail of bottles left in your wake.  All I’m saying’ is, don’t rule them out just because they’re overpriced.  You may find them handy.

I’ve gone back to HDN.  Girls Gone Blue Ball is on.  This whole series is so fucking stupid I can’t take it.  I have no idea what the point of seeing drunk chicks in bikinis is unless it is in person and you’re single or ensconced with said wearer.

I’m trying to stay awake for Art Mann Presents, which is the next show.  He’s a funny bastard.  I’ve got a theory he is Joe Flaherty‘s unclaimed son.  I sent him some long-winded Slingo-filled email about a year ago, and he responded with a comment about it being funny.  I then replied to his response, but there was no reciprocation.  I chose not to go any further for fear of being charged with cyber stalking.  A SWAT team may burl up into my crib and stop me from watching if I stay conscious long enough to view it.

“I’ve never seen girls go this wild.”  That is a direct quote from someone labeled as a West Cost Cameraman in the Girls Gone Wild Fiefdom.  I’d have to think it is a total fucking lie that a dude who films drunk chicks for a living has never seen anything nuttier than some titty flashing.  That lying bastard has seen chics having sex with chics who were having sex with other chics while waiting in line to have sex with him just to get on camera.  I’ll say this, the dude who owns the whole franchise looks Munsterish since he was sprung from prison after his short stint for going wild and not paying taxes.  Another weird thing about the dude is someone forced him at gunpoint to engage in a “homosexual themed video” on January 22, 2004.  What does it say about you if your burglars take all your shit, and before leaving, break out the camcorder and force you to go to the really wild side?  When you think about it, you must really have fucked with someone because you’d think the homosexual acts you performed at gunpoint were performed on a practicing homosexual.  Unless you live in a particularly rough part of San Francisco, I’m guessing these burglars brought entertainment with them.  Now that’s Karma.