Archive for the ‘rant’ Category
Beck once sang about having a “Devil’s Haircut in (his) Mind”. Well, a dozen years later, I can finally understand what he meant, for I, too, have a devilish haircut on my mind. The only problem is that it’s on my head, as well.
After a couple of minor financial bombs went off in my face, I set out to find ways to downscale my lifestyle. One of the first things I did in accordance was to go to a cheaper barber. I was excited at the prospect of saving $5 over my regular barber.
After years of going through this ritual, I have a pretty good idea of what works for me and how to communicate it to the guy with the shears. “I’d like a number 5 on the sides and back, and 1/2 inch trim on top”, I said. Read the rest of this entry »
An End Of The Year Editorial On The State of the American Mind:
Looking At Our Lives
I’m Not A Drunk, You Are
There are too many moments these days where I cannot recognize you.
I appreciated you drunkenly pulling me aside this New Years Eve in the safety of your vomit-spewed bathroom to tell me that I have a drinking problem.
Well sure, I seemed to have been functioning well during the office Christmas party, when in fact I had been in a zombiefied black-out vodka state, and yes I kissed the departing CEO of the company on the lips on a dare, and yes I vomited all over the subway platform on the way home in the early evening…
But I think it’s imperative for you to know that, in this relationship, it is in fact YOU who are the drunk.
I may have gotten us forcibly removed from several watering holes by very large black bouncers, but I want you to note something about my drunkeness and your drunkeness.
I don’t sit at home sobbing to myself, complaining about life, and polishing off two bottles of wine all by myself like you do. Read the rest of this entry »
First of all, let me say this: FUCK YOU ALL. (Except for The Bagel of Everything who is not only the h.b.i.c., but also a conscientious objector to The Sopranos).
Was I the only one who watched that horrendous fucking mess of shit, blood and cum that preceded that totally debatable debacle of an ending? Chase’s attempt to tie everything up with a little yellow ribbon was like a rape joke at an open mic night on a Sunday in the fucking Vatican.
You know what woulda satisfied me? A.J. getting blown by the teenybopper and both of them being subsequently BLOWN UP IN THE FIREBALL to the throbbing bass line of Outkast’s Bombs Over Baghdad. Take that you whining fuck! You and your yellow Nissan Xterra! How is it that you’re clinically depressed and suicidal but you have perfectly groomed Prince-like facial hair? Huh? How? Fuck you, you fucking twerp. You could have been a gangster but you turned into a gayer Al Gore, but with way less charisma, but now your dead and both environmentalists and Detroit automakers rejoice. I’ve been praying for your death since the first season. If David Chase had any balls, sense of justice or true talent, this would be the grand prize for eight years of viewership.
Next, Carmella’s spec house is picked up by a tornado which sends it twirling through the air only to crush her and her stupid Porsche Cayenne (aka the gayest car ever), leaving her tacky acrylic nails hanging out from underneath. Janice finds this seeming disaster and eats a dozen canolli’s from Ferrara’s (best in town, trust me), then takes a huge candy-coated shit in Carmella’s cold dead hand to the strains of Whoomp! There it is! by Washington, D.C.’s own, Tag Team.
Then we have sweet, sweet Meadow… sweet, charmed, spoiled stupid, stupid, stupid Meadow… go to med school, go to law school, go to taxidermy school for all I fucking care, so long as you die a slow, painful and gruesome death. Something Coen Brothers… something with a garden tool… like a weed whacker! That’s the one! She goes to home depot to get glass rods so she can hand blow herself a new dildo and she runs into Phil’s nephew’s daughter’s step-son’s S.A.T. prep coach’s assistant pencil sharpener who recognizes her from Cum Catcher Weekly and asks for an autograph. Meadow is annoyed but begrudgingly obliges. But it’s not enough for the intrepid young pencil sharpener known to his close friends as Puke Skyhooker. PS lures the dimwitted Soprano into the garden supply aisle and whips out his newly acquired cordless weed whacker. The plodding, awful beheading begins sending screams throughout the airplane hanger-like mall of tools. The staff pursue the sound but when they arrive to see PS’s artistry, they applaud and give him an orange vest.
Then, the sound fades away and the screen goes black…
Cut to Tony skipping down the street and whistling Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Waters.