Babies having babies

I have had it up to *HERE* with people talking about their pregnancies.

Shut up, Barky.

I have a neighbor who lives behind my house. I actually have quite a few of them. I've never actually taken the time to meet any of them. This has been the case because:
#1.) I'm kind of a jerk, and
#2.) I'm not home that much anyway. When I am home, I'm usually in some sort of vegetative state on my bed eating one of Little Cesaer's Hot 'n Ready $5 pizzas and watching a movie. That's what happens when you have two and a half jobs.

Speaking of being in a vegetative state, though, the time that I am not eating said pizza and/or watching a movie, I am asleep. Ah, yes... Sweet, sweet sleep. Most nights, I have ridiculous dreams. Last night's? Sure! I dreamt that Rachel Briggs and I were stock clerks at Kroger and discovered a windfall of baby diapers and ice cream bars that we were going to steal and sell on the black market. After our successful venture into the world of organized crime, we went out and sung Christmas carols. This sounds like it very well could be the sequel to Safe Men. How awesome would that be?! Very. Very awesome.

It's dreams like the aforementioned one that cause me to wake up singing aloud the words to "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!" which has now been in my head since I woke up some four hours ago. If you're doing the math and not paying attention to the stupidly inaccurate time stamp on this here blog, you may deduce that this puts me up somewhere in the range of five o'clock in the morning. It's not like I had anything to do that early this morning. I entertained the idea of going running that early but that was too early... plus this Inland Tropical Storm NeverSeemsToEnd rain we've been having has severely curtailed my athletic endeavors over the past week and a half. What in the world could have awoken me from my slumber?

A barking dog owned by the neighbor who lives behind me.

It's my job to overcome questions (it's not really, because I'm not a salesman) so I know what your first one is: "How did you hear the dog? Don't you sleep with your windows closed when there's 134% humidity?" Under normal circumstances, I would have socked you, dear question asker, in the teeth for asking such a dumb question. Of course I do. My finely honed ears pick up most everything. That and I have to sleep with my window open right now because our air conditioning system is fucked up at the moment. The good and bad of having inexpensive rent, I suppose.

So this dog continued to bark and I continued to lie there awake. The only thing that I could think of were ways to extract my revenge. Why? Because I'm a hell of a dude. None of my ideas seemed to be very good:

#1.) Dogfighting. This has been looked down upon in recent years. Plus, this is the dog that I would be using to fight. She's afraid of water. Seriously. Also, the Rados might get pissed at me.

#2.) Yelling out, in typical East Nashville fashion, "SHUT THAT DAMN DOG UP!"

#3.) Feeding the dog milk chocolate. That's a little too sadistic, even for me.

So, as I listened to Wonder the Never Ending Barking Dog, I came up with an idea that solves almost all my immediate problems: an ice cream truck route. It would give me another job, another source of income, free ice cream, and I'd get to annoy the hell out of my neighbor with "The Entertainer" at an insane volume and on permanent repeat. I've been fervently hunting on craigslist...

Also, I wouldn't be singing Christmas songs in September. It's a win-win for me. And if I could only find that real life windfall of diapers. I'm becoming more and more diabolical by the minute...

P.S. Additional points to whomever gets the sitcom referenced in the title of this blog. Maybe even some free ice cream, too. Maybe.

Don't Hassel the Hoff

David Hasselhoff is a drunk.

That being said, I'd still like to party with him.

Stamp out ingorance

Let me temper this entry by writing that I am not a fan of the United States Postal Service... Especially the one in Inglewood. They are the model of inefficiency. That being said, I went to the post office yesterday on my way home from work. I needed to buy a stamp. That's right. One stamp. 44 cents. When in the hell did sending a letter get so damned expensive? I don't send that many pieces of mail so I don't care that much but I remember when postage was half of that.

I also remember when pop only cost a dime and you could go to the nickelodeon and see two pictures and a news reel. "Those were the days..."

I was hoping beyond hope that the post office would still be open when I got off of work. That maybe they were open until 6 o'clock like so many banks are. That maybe I could catch a dude inside who would be willing to sell me one stamp so that I could mail in my car payment thus allowing me to continue to go to work for the next four weeks and race around afterwards hoping to get to the post office the next month and do it all over again.

Now, I know what you're all thinking: "Why don't you just buy a book of stamps? That way you don't have to keep going to the post office." Books of stamps invariably get lost in the black hole that is my bedroom. I'm fortunate most days to find a clean pair of underpants in there. Monday, for example, I couldn't find any so I went commando. Sexy.

I got out of The Family Truckster and started walking toward the door. It looked unlocked! Hooray! I was actually excited to go in to the post office. There was but one other car in the lot and I knew, I KNEW, I KNEW that it had to be one lone postal worker getting ready to end his or her shift. I was jovial. I was excited. I was going to make this person's day! Most days, I don't get to do that.

I bounded out of my debt machine car and towards the front door. Being ever vigilant, I locked my car with my key fob. I always lock my car. I had my car broken into about 10 years ago and it's about the worst feeling in the world. Anything that I can do to deter theft of my personal belongings (i.e., my Louisville Slugger that I keep nestled between my console and passenger seat), I am pretty much all for. Being obsessive with locking my car, I always confirm said locking by pressing the lock button again, thus emitting a pleasant "honk, honk" from my car and even further putting my mind at ease.

And so I did.

"HEY! THAT'S DAMN RUDE!" A voice from behind me shouted. "HEY!"

I live in east Nashville, so having some dude yell in my direction is not entirely uncommon. Usually, it's some dude getting ready say "Hey, lemme ask you a question..." and then proceeding to ask me for 44 cents for the bus. Strangely, that's the same cost as a postage stamp and for being somebody who hordes his pennies in a jar in his bedroom, I am not one to give up my beloved change so easily. Dudes don't need to lie to me... You're using that money to go get a beer. If it weren't for me having to spend my money on postage, I'd be using it for the same thing, so I don't fault you entirely for trying. In that respect, homeless dudes are like drunk chicks at the bar... 'Cept for they probably don't go "Wooooooo!" as much. I mean, they are homeless after all.

Back to my story.

"HEY!!! DON'T YOU KNOW IT'S RUDE TO DO THAT?!" I turned around in a fervor getting ready to punch this dude square in the jaw. "IT'S VERY RUDE TO HONK YOUR HORN AT SOMEBODY."

Some dude hanging out at TitleMax (they of the "Get your title back with TitleMax" jingle) next door got mad because I decided to lock my car. Being someone who has worked in the world of sundry financial services, I all too well know the clientle; this confirmed my satisificatory locking.

I kept walking. I couldn't get to the post office door fast enough. And, it was open! Huzzah!

This, however, was truly temporary and fleeting for two reasons:

1.) The door to the inner sanctum post office counter was locked and the lights inside were turned off, and

2.) Homeboy followed me inside the lobby.

He continued with his civics lesson: "DON'T HONK AT PEOPLE!"

I replied: "I wasn't honking at you. I was locking my car."

He stood there, dumbfounded. "You can lock your car with your keys?!"

"Yup. It's pretty bitchin'." I figured if I was gonna piss off an old, black Southern dude, I was gonna go whole hog.

"Man... what'll they come up with next?!" he replied.

"I'm gonna leave now." And out the door I walked.

I thought Obama was gonna fix all of our racial and social problems. I thought he was going to be a great communicator (as long as he's got a teleprompter). I thought he was going to bridge the gap. Not only between Giants fans and non-Giants fans the nation over but between all people. I mean, he's done a great job of communicating to the US that he thinks Kanye West is a "jackass" [Writer's note: Way to go, Mr. President! Seriously. I don't much care for this administration but you nailed it on the head with that one.] But he's done little to educate lifelong Tennessee residents on this new fangled door-locking technology. Maybe that wasn't covered in the automaker bailout. Well, clearly it wasn't. Supporting iniativies to educate the less fortunate about key fobs must have gotten vetoed or pigeonholed or other-ed along the way. No matter.

Oh, and I didn't get my stamp. I had to go to the post office on my lunch break yesterday to do it.

Longer hours... That's all I'm asking for.

I did give this guy the ol' one-two as I drove away. Just to be nice.

Keira vs. Kanye. Keira wins every time.

I was going to write a damning blog about Kanye West being a giant douchebag but it wouldn't have been insightful. We all know already he's a douchebag.

I was then going to write a blog about how this is the best publicity that Taylor Swift ever could have received. CNN is going to show coverage of some weak ass awards show every 37 minutes and she's gonna sell a shit-ton more records.

No, I am above all that.

What I am not above is providing you with a link of pretty much every Keira Knightley picture known to man. There's too much negativity in the world. I'm just trying to spread some love and make the world a better place.

Through pictures of Keira Knightley.

That's right.

Fashion can make some people puke

Having Ellen Degeneres as the new judge of American Idol makes about as much sense as a gay dude judging a women's beauty pageant. Of course, America's already been down that path before and that turned out fuckin' great!

Speaking of gay...

Last night, I was over at Sam's (manly bar) watching football (manly sport) when I got a phone call from Micah (kinda manly except for when he runs around the house naked and giggles) who is in town for an extended weekend. Turns out he and his wife were right next door at POSH for a fashion show. Actually, the show was being held on the street next to POSH. Now, for the uninformed lot of you, POSH is a store that I can't afford to shop in and while I often decry the world of fashion at large, I semi-secretly wish that I could afford to shop there. If there's one thing I know about life, it's that broads like gents that wear their $347 pair of jeans as well as their unkempt beards. If there's two things I know about life, it's that women like to be called broads. If there's three things I know about life, it's that it's damn hard to get a properly poured pint of Guinness in this town except for, of all places, Cabana where I ultimately ended up last night for Colson's birthday party. Cabana is not very manly at all. Even less so than naked giggling racoon eyes Micah.

As I was standing there talking with my friend and former roommate about Obama's speech to the nation about Awesome Chili Cheese Fritos health care reform, the aforementioned fashion show began.

Remember who's writing this by the way. Perhaps the least fashion forward man you are ever likely to meet. I'm talking "sweatpants + roller skates = first date attire" type of guy. Let's hear it for unneccesary quotation marks!

A voice over came over a set of loud speakers. Something about the dawn of time. And the beginning of man. And how we came to be. And romanticism. It reminded me of "Stonehenge" from This is Spinal Tap. I was hoping that some little people were going to come out dressed in some sort of elfin outfits in which to frock. I immediately thought that this was going to be the best fuckin' fashion show of all time. Easily the best that I had ever been to. I mean, the new line of Russel Athletic Wear comes out soon (they're partnering with Rollerblade for a unique fall look is what I'm hearing) and I went to their show a few weeks ago and it was off the chain! Oh, how excited I was!

And then David Beckham showed up. On a fucking horse. With a sword. Part of that is a lie. But a dude that looks an awful lot like David Beckham did show up. On a fucking horse. With a sword. You know... David Beckham? Football Soccer player? Has a movie named after him starring the greatest actress in all the land? Married to that anorexic chick from Spice Girls? Yes! That dude! I'd post a picture of him on here but I think I've exceeded my quota for homoeroticism for at least the next 8 days or so.

I'm not too sure what fashion has to do with medieval outfits. Unless this was a fashion show for Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure 3: The Search through the Last Several Years for Alex Winters' Career I'm at a complete loss. Maybe chalk this one up to ignorance or me failing to see the big picture but I just didn't see the correlation. Even the techno beat remix of "Ave Maria" didn't quell my confusion.

I stayed for the whole thing because, well, why the hell not?! The size negative infinity lady models were nice to look at and wonder what they looked like naked. The part where the lady sitting in the VIP section in the front row projectile vomitted from drinking too much organic wine which we were informed has "215 less chemicals than regular wine" [Writer's note: I don't know if projectile vomitting lady is a good advertisement for the wine or not.] was pretty sweet. But really, at the end of the show, I just wanted to run out onto Belcourt Avenue and stomp the little buildings that were set up with cute little lights in 'em.

Maybe if I would have made some sort of Godzilla like noises. Breathin' fire. Wompin' shit with my bad ass tail. [Writer's note #2: Don't make any "In danger of being crushed by a dwarf" jokes or I will destroy you.] That sort of thing... Then maybe it would have been okay. But discretion is the better part of valor and I decided to let David Beckahm, Jr., ride off into the street lights sunset with his dame while I promptly went over to Cabana and enjoyed my pints. Besides, I don't know how many other middle aged women were there that would have been eager to projectile vomit on me. That would have been a quick end to my night and I had plans of making an ass out of myself and ain't no one was gonna stop me.

And no one did.

Keep it... I've got a Pitbull now!

I was driving home last night from job number two and a half (I now have a vested interest in keeping score at bar trivia nights - free pints, free french fries, twenty bucks) and was headed north on I-65. You may be wondering what exactly I was doing on that particular stretch of interstate when the easiest and quickest way for me to get home is Ellington. It's called 'not paying attention' and that's exactly what I was or, rather, was not doing. In fact, I didn't even realize it until I got to about Trinity Lane or so. This proved both tempting and problematic. Tempting because every time I drive down Trinity Lane I want to stop at Checker's/Rally's and buy a Buffalo Chicken Sandwich for $1. Problematic because I knew if I did get off the freeway that I would go get said sandwhich and invariably have dreams about being chased through a forrest by Foghorn Leghorn while carrying a spatula in one hand and the keys to a 1974 Chevy Nova in the other. I mean, stranger things have happened.

However, had I not been a dunderhead and missed my exit, I would not have seen a billboard which has inspired this entry. Call it providence 'cause I'm inspired.

The billboard of which I speak was for a local radio station in town. I think it calls itself "The Party". It plays 'party' music. You know... Like "Party in the USA" by Miley Cyrus and "Rock the Party" by P.O.D. and "Party all the Time" by Eddie Murphy and so on and so forth. Really, though, it only plays the first of the aforementioned artists as indicated by the three other artists on the billboard:

(A highly airbrushed) Kelly Clarkson,

Daughtry, and

Pitbull

I have no idea Pitbull is. How he got on a billboard is even further beyond me. I'm pretty up on my shit, too, so I figured I'd have heard of him.

After thinking "Who the hell is this dude?" I ran through the veritable encyclopedia in my head of things that have to do with pitbulls.

Entry number one: Griff Tannen's Pitbull Hoverboard from Back to the Future 2. [Gee, thanks ketzer.com for watermarking the hell out of that picture. I'm specifically not directing readers to your site because of it.] That thing was bad ass. I actually always wanted one. As a matter of fact, my Uncle Mike promised me one for Christmas in 1989. Twenty years and exactly zero Pitbull hoverboards later, I am still waiting. A good thing to be associated with; way to go Mr. Pitbull!

Entry number two: Michael Vick. This seemed unlikely that the shitty noted quarterback and a burgeoning rapper might some how be connected. I googled it. They're not.

Entry number three: I don't have an entry number three.

So, I got to work today, where all of my good internet research is done, and looked up this Pitbull dude. He sucks. The last time someone tried to rap about Miami, we got this which turned out to be as dangerous as a buffalo chicken sandwich from Checker's/Rally's.

Then it all became clear. I knew where I had seen this Pitbull fella before: he was making those awesome buffalo chicken sandwiches at Checker's/Rally's!!! Seriously. Look at this guy! He's a damn paper hat away from slingin' some chili fries in my direction. And he's a music star?!

Whatever happened to a little image? A little pizzaz? A little *oomph*? I want artists to look like they care about what they look like... Not like Dr. Evil with a goatee. I want artists that have a little pride in themselves. I don't want to listen to some dude rap about beachfront property and a weak ass football team. Nobody wants that.

And there he was... billboardin' it up.

I do take solace in one tiny little thing: the fact that I make as little money as I do with my two and a half jobs is tempered by the fact that Pitbull is a mere paternity suit away from working until 11 o'clock at night the rest of his life and asking me if I want my fries "loaded".

Ladies of Miami, you have a job to do.