It's Mother's Day

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Hey, what do you know? It's Mother's Day today! Everyone is calling their mom and wishing her a great day. Probably calling all their friends and relatives with kids and doing the same. Writing odes to their mother on their blog, facebook, myspace, etc.

I'm not going to do that here.

Why?

Because my mom is great. She's the best, actually. Way better than your mom. (IN YOUR FACE!) But who wants to drop by my TGOD to see my chubby Mexican ass write a sappy blog post about my mom? The answer is nobody. Asi, mi madre probablemente. But not the rest of you hijo de putas.

So instead I'd like to write about other moms. Shitty moms.

The mom who holds me up at the grocery store because she's paying with a check. You, mom, should lose your kids for that. Too severe? No, definitely not. Honestly, it's getting ridiculous. Why don't you drive your Plymouth Horizon home, get on your typewriter, and type a reminder to yourself that if you find the time this weekend after Jazzercize you should hop on the Commodore 64 and search the internet for ways in which the world has moved on since 1988. Don't forget to save it all to a floppy disc you fucking idiot.

The mom who believes that having a kid and placing them in a stroller means they no longer have to pay any attention to the people around them. Congrats, mom, the fat 3rd shifter racist you married finally humped a baby into you and now that you've cranked her out and refused to get rid of your baby weight you now take up enough space just by yourself to shade entire blocks and while I'm happy your actually out walking with your baby it doesn't mean that you're any better than any of the rest of us blocking the sun and using your stroller like a fucking battering ram you inconsiderate bitch.

The mom who continues to bring kid after kid into this world when she can't house, feed, clothe, and basically parent the ones she already has. Yeah, you know who you are. Maybe I'm wrong for thinking this way but if you have more than three children below the age of 3 I don't think it's out of the question to expect you to, oh I don't know, STAY AT HOME AND RAISE YOUR FUCKING KIDS! If I see one more picture of the octomom wandering around with coffee and shopping bags and ZERO FUCKING CHILDREN I'm going to get really angry.

(And you wouldn't like me when I'm really angry. There's all sorts of swear words and punctuation goes right out the window. I turn green and get even more muscular. My shirt rips. It's scary.)

The mom who brings her kid anywhere other human beings are located when the kid is coughing like a three pack a day smoker with chronic bronchitis. You, mom, deserve to lose your kid and get punched in the uterus as a warning that should you decide to crank out yet another germ factory/future gas station attendant maybe you should think twice about it and there was one other thing...I can't remember what it was...OH YEAH, STOP BRINGING YOUR SICK FUCKING CHILD OUT IN PUBLIC WITH YOU BECAUSE YOU CAN'T GO WITHOUT YOUR 64oz ICED COFFEE AND APPLE FUCKING FRITTER YOU FAT DISGUSTING SELFISH ASSHOLE!

Thank Jebus my mom is the best mom in the world.

Love you mom, thanks for not sucking like so many other moms do.

Now off to start working on a Father's Day post.

Yeah, I Know

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Yeah, yeah, yeah, I don't write anymore. I know this. Now you've come all the way here and all I've done is post a video.

Waaaah.

RAP CHOP!

Dream Weaver

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You've been gone too long in the midnight seaaaaa.

Oh wait, that was Holy Diver not Dream Weaver.

At any rate, I woke up groggy and in need of the only thing that gets me going in the morning when my girlfriend is still asleep. Diet Mt. Dew from the can. Oh, sweet nectar of the non-alcoholic gods, how I cherish thee. You see, my girlfriend needs special coffees with things like pumpkin spice crystals, gingerbread shavings, or juju-berry essence. All organically grown from the farthest reaches of the earth and brought to the Americas on bamboo rafts by people who smell of patchouli. The ingredients, hand-ground by the types of women normally seen in National Geographic and mixed by baristas who have lived no less than six months with Shaolin Monks. The cups are recycled by ninjas only and swirling sticks are whittled to specifications by the grizzled mountain men of Appalachia. It's the kind of thing you can't buy in the grocery store (Because it doesn't taste the same) or make at home without a $400 espresso machine, brawn, and eye of newt. I just need a Diet Mt. Dew from the can.

We used to have to go get coffee for her each morning when she was in town. This was absolutely brutal during the winter. In fact, because I'm such a great guy I bought her an espresso machine a while back so she wouldn't have to walk outside in the cold each morning when I wasn't there. She hates the cold as much as she loves her lattes. The bonus, of course, was we didn't have to go when I was there visiting. Here was always a different story. But now that she lives here with her espresso machine mere strides from our bedroom, there is only one remaining frustration I have in the morning hours.

Having interesting dreams cut short by my alarm.

Normally I remember a little bit of my dreams when I arise. It's not always the bulk of my dream, and I certainly don't have crystal clear memory of them all the time, but I dream every night and usually have a clue about what was happening. What absolutely kills me is when my mind concocts a story for the ages but purposely back-fills the story with all the good stuff so my alarm goes off just as I'm getting to the payoff. It seems to happen with crazy regularity.

It sucks not to know if the BoyGenius was able to successfully trap the mini-elephant before it further destroyed my room in the basement of my elementary school.

What? Exactly.

Don't ask why I was living in the basement of the elementary. It's a long story and let's just leave it at this: I didn't do anything to the meat in the sloppy joes and everything would have been fine if Mrs. Satterfield hadn't seduced me. But again, that's not the important part. What happened to Captain Torso, my mini-elephant who flipped and began rampaging through my school which for some reason was now also my home?

Do you know how hard it is to get moving in the morning with so many unanswered questions? It would be like only watching up until the moment you were about to find out who Kasier Sose was and then shutting it off. Over and over and over.

The other night?

Why could Elizabeth fly?

How come she morphed into a giant Care Bear that attacked me in a sporting goods store also designed for giants? Thankfully I was small enough to hide from her and her other ginormous Care Bear friends, but what happened after that? Did I find a way to kill her? Because she was clearly going to stop at nothing to see me dead. And why was she only going to kill me by GCBPS (Giant Care Bear Paw Suffocation) and not by using one of the guns I saw her wearing around her waist?

Have you ever been attacked by a giant Care Bear version of your girlfriend wearing the outfit of a bandolero? Didn't think so. Let me tell you, it's pretty fucking scary.

And let's not even bring up the many frustrating instances where my subconscious decides to interrupt the start of sex just long enough in my dreams that my alarm sounds before it's (Using the official medical term) "Go Time!"

It's a basic dream formula that breaks down as such:

- Girl I want to have sex with is all up on my shit
- Girl and I interact with other people in my dream for a bit
- Girl and I head to a bedroom
- A friend is in the room and inadvertently cock-blocks me
- We hang out for a few
- A mini-elephant tramples through the room, destroying everything
- We find another room
- Bed is gross
- Leave in search of another, more classy room
- Can't find one
- Evil Giant Care Bear girlfriend flies by the window
- Alarm goes off

You probably have the same problems, I'm sure.

I guess I should get used to it. It's been happening for so long now I suppose I know it's coming. And I guess it's saved me a few times as well. It's no secret that the occasional fatty or mongloid somehow finds themselves in the enviable position directly in front of my thrice confirmed huge junk. In these cases my alarm has become invaluable.

Unfortunately, at the 2005 Bash at the Boathouse there would be no alarms. At least not until I woke up and was astonished (Dare I say...Alarmed) to finally see what the girl I'd been courting all drunken weekend actually looked like.

Let's just say I couldn't have weaved a dream that scary if I'd tried.

Mormon Jesus

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Every time you see him, Mormon Jesus is so hype.
He's dope on the floor and he's magic on the mic.

(This one goes out to AVA, Tyco, Heavy Beavy, and Air Samp)

What's Better?

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What's better than Whiplash the Monkey riding his trusty steed dog around the ring?

Whiplash the Monkey riding his trusty steed dog around town delivering delicious tacos to unsuspecting people!



You're welcome.

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God I Hate People So Much

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Kwame Kilpatrick, if you can recall, is the former Mayor of Detroit. He did all sorts of illegal shit while in control of the city, including banging his chief of staff while married. He abused city funds, fired good cops to cover up his shady dealings, cost the dying city millions of much needed dollars, and acted like a complete jackass when he was caught and ultimately thrown in jail.

Well, as we all know from watching the news, sports, or out our front window, people who suck almost to a tee never stop sucking. And Kwame, recently released from jail, has jumped right back on the bandwagon.

An article from the Detroit News and Free Press website states that Kilpatrick's lawyers have sent a so-called Demand Letter to Skytel, which is apparently a precursor to a person seeking damages in an eventual lawsuit. This Demand Letter, um, demanded that Skytel pay Kilpatrick 100 MILLION DOLLARS for releasing the text messages which ultimately helped uncover the fact that Kwame Kilpatrick is a thug douchebag who cheated the system, his wife, and the city of Detroit out of millions of dollars and what little positive reputation it might have been clinging to.

It's nice to see people who truly understand how to take responsibility for their actions. Never mind that he's a felon, that he cheated on his wife, that he fired good people to cover up his criminal activity, that he may have allegedly had a hand in a stripper's killing, that he assaulted a police officer, and on and on and on.

Why shouldn't he sue for a hundred million dollars? He was clearly wronged. I mean, if Skytel never releases the text messages nobody could have ever proved he was an adulterer, felon, or douchebag.

He was wronged! He's a victim!!!

Honestly, Kwame. Not that you're reading this. But if you are. Would you please just fuck off and go try and be a decent human being for a while? Show a little humility and a little effort to repair what you damaged instead of blaming everyone else and going the way of the lawsuit.

Or just get in a bus accident. I'm good either way.

Parlour Magazine (Where the picture above is from) had put up a great time-line a while back. Here's a snippet and the link to the full thing. It's impressive, you should really click through and read the whole deal. Also, remember while you're reading this that he now feels he deserves 100 million dollars from Skytel because it led to all of this biting him in the ass like it should have.

2002
- Kwame is elected mayor of Detroit to much acclaim and fanfare (we admit it, we loved him).

- After being elected mayor of Detroit, Kwame allegedly throws a party, with strippers, at his state-owned official residence, the Manoogian Mansion. According to former members of his Executive Protection Unit (EPU), his wife Carlita comes home to find Kwame with the strippers and attacks one of the girls.

- Kilpatrick is found out to have charged over $210,000 in credit card bills. What was he buying? Spa massages, Moët, etc. He ended up paying the city back $9,000.

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Doing Things

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I won't lie to you, dear reader.

(Often, at least)

But this proud black man couldn't be happier as he scrambles like Michael Vick to line up a place to live, work for his girlfriend Qwa'cinda, (Who maybe he'll just call Q) a resolution to Q not currently owning a vehicle, and a way to stop himself from dropping F-Bombs when he plays basketball with the mormons.

And no, blogger, I'm not going to go all the way back up there to capitalize the word mormon. If you want to do it so badly you just go ahead and make the adjustment automatically. In fact, if you're so smart why aren't you already doing it? Doesn't it pain you to see me not capitalize so many deserving words? I'm a serial non-capitalizing muthafucka, muthafucka!

Maybe I do it on purpose, blogger. Huh? Have you thought about that? (Put that in your pipe, and smoke it mister!) Doesn't feel good when someone tells you how to do things, does it? Make suggestions constantly?

Since we're on the subject of suggestions, maybe you could load a goddamn picture into the post where I want it and not automatically up at the top of each post. Listen, monkey. When I want you to dance, you dance. I can't be cutting and pasting pictures of Nicholas Cage's bird hair all goddamn day long, you know. (Hat tip: Film Drunk)



So, with that out of the way I think I can move along.

It's time I do something nice for everyone. Why? Because I'm trying to offset Karma so I don't have retarded babies some day. You've read my blog for a while now. You're an accomplice. Maybe you should do something nice for someone too. You can never be too sure.

The other day I held a door for a really slow old lady. I mean, this bitch was slooooow. I understand if you're pulling an oxygen tank around you probably have emphysema. I get it. But the thing is on wheels for crying out loud! There's virtually no resistance to it. Just hold on and move your ass through the door, it's cold out!

OK, so maybe I just ruined that good deed. But there was also the fat smelly guy who delivered the food for me yesterday and got a larger than normal tip. I'm sure he'll just go spend it on food, the fat fuck, but that was nice, right?

Damn. I think I see a zero sum pattern forming.

Well, let me tell you a story about why I'm giving you this gift below today. I was trying to get Q to move here and it went sort of like this...

C'mon baby, just move here.

Come here now!

Baby, come here.

Come.

Here.

Come, baby.

Come, baby. Come.



(Turns out these guys still perform. As little as four months ago these guys were performing this and their other hit Zeunga Zang live. FOR PEOPLE!)

I hope Q enjoys it here. I plan on taking her each night to this soundtrack. I'll have her get herself ready in the bedroom and I'll wait in the hall during the initial buildup, possibly doing pushups and situps to tighten things up and get a little glisten going. Then, and my timing will have to be perfect with this, but I'll open the door dressed as a Viking Warrior...



...and just as K7 says it I'll "SLAM THE DOOR, BOOM!" as I enter the bedroom, simultaneously disrobing and leaping twelve feet into the bed in one fluid motion.

It's going to be magical.

And you're welcome.