You know what sucks? Getting a bad ass new razor, cleaning yourself up for the night only to shave off a piece of your lower lip. it sucks on a couple levels. 1) I’ve got some real juicy lips and apparently they’re just packed with oodles of blood. So it refuses to close up no matter the amount of tissue I pack on it in hopes of coagulating. And of course 2) I now look like I’ve got some sort of bloody open sore on my lip and we all know what that looks like.
Ugh.
Now I’ve got to preface every conversation I have tonight with this exact story. How boring.
At a time when everyone’s hope seems to be riding on the Obama Presidential campaign, here are a few things I’m hoping for:
Against all odds I’m hoping that The Love Guru doesn’t suck harder than a Thai prostitute. Perhaps it’s some grand viral marketing campaign thought up to make a piece of comedic genius seem like it was written by a team of monkeys with Downs Syndrome, which may seem like a recipe for hilarity but in reality would just be a string of nonsensical consonants.
I’m hoping that someone somewhere trademarks the word, “brother” so that Hulk Hogan can no longer say it every five seconds during his pointless interviews that seem to happen every five minutes on the new American Gladiators.
I wish every night on a star (or a low flying passenger jet) that Joel McHale will accept my many gay marriage proposals telepathically sent though they may be.
Immediately after that I hope and wish that E! will make another reality show about another non-celebrity so that I can watch it and spend all the rest of my hope on yearning for a Hummer to crash through the wall and grind the star to botox-y dust.
Denise Richards you ceased your usefulness the moment you put your shirt back on in Wild Things.
On Sunday I went to this great party at the Water Taxi Beach in Queens. It was about one hundred and fifty degrees in the shade which was all located under this huge tent where we had six awesome DJ’s playing all day.
Many drinks were had, more laughs were laughed and a whole lot of sand made it into places where it shouldn’t have. The best part, however, didn’t come until after the sun had gone down.
Around 9pm the sky started lighting up and dumping rain. Most people fled for cover under the tent and continued dancing. A few friends and I seized the chance and started dancing around in the deluge.
If you’ve never spun and kicked and danced with your arms flailing about you with some of your favorite people while the sky has opened up above you and lightning is crashing down everywhere but on your head…
… you must.
At some point in their lives most people forgot that rain is for playing in. They duck under awnings, carry impossibly huge umbrellas, they’re scared of getting wet. I’ve even seen people get mad at rain, for doing what? Falling? That’s what it’s supposed to do, it doesn’t know how to do anything else.
Next time it’s raining, you can wait until it’s hot if you’re scared of getting sick, grab your MP3 player and head outside. Put on that song that you dance to when you’re all by yourself in your room and dance in the middle of the street.
If you’re lucky, you just might have some fun. I always do and I know I’m dry well before that wears off.
The problem with always being right about everything is that you live your life in a series of only slightly satisfying “I told you so” moments. Sure it’s great to sit there with that smug look on your face as they come to you and say, “oh you were so right about that person,” or “I definitely should have listened to you,” or “you were so right about 30 Rock being the greatest show on television.” But did they listen in time to catch any of season one? No, of course not.
It’s frustrating more than anything.
Not that I don’t completely revel in the “you were so right” moment. That’s nice. But it happens so often that I’ve started to wonder if I’m simply not persuasive enough in my advice giving. Should I use stronger language?
I doubt it. In fact, I’m positive people will refuse to listen correct advice 9 times out of 10. If you give someone good advice their subconscious will recognize it as such and they will promptly ignore it. Humans need to make their own mistakes. They need to proceed down forty doomed career paths in college until accepting that they will never develop the leg muscles of a dancer and accept the assistant manager position at Chili’s. They need to hang out with that mooching douche mallet you warned about for six months until they realize he owes them four hundred dollars and has stolen their dog. They need to run for president and stay in the race for four months longer than was necessary.
So then what is the point of advice? It exists only to make the ones who are giving it smile an evil little smile on the inside, because it is never, ever, heeded.
Take solace, you other know-it-alls out there, we told ‘em so.
I hate talking about politics online. It’s worse than talking about politics at dinner. The only difference is you don’t have to worry about the person sitting next to you intentionally not washing their hands after going to the bathroom and spiking your shared bowl of mussels with finger feces surprise. Instead, online, people can just yap and yap and yap as if their having figured out how to type semi-legibly has magically granted them an honorary poly-sci degree from Harvard, which is only slightly worse than someone who actually has a poly-sci degree from Harvard.
But I’ll make an exception for tonight. This whole primary thing is such idiocy. Hillary should have been out of this race months ago and regardless of the results from tonight’s primaries her prolonged engagement here is a real testament to her being a psycho hose beast.
She’s a pandering corporate sell out who’s tried everything, even the race card (which is basically a reverse race card because she’s touted her being more electable by racists), to get elected and it just hasn’t worked.
The Hillary campaign was basically like a relationship from hell.
You meet this girl online and you hit it off, the whole thing looks great on paper and you agree to meet for dinner. The conversation is good, she’s smart and funny and looks even better in person. She’s a little eager to put out on the first date but what are you gonna do? Turn her down? No.
The sex is a little rough and you wake up with a few bite marks and a whole lot of shame. Then come the calls. She keeps calling and calling. You meet up with her again and realize you’ve made a terrible mistake. She plans a dinner date with her parents, you’ve got to accompany her to a work function. You try to get out of it but she won’t stop calling. You change your phone number after she suggests you get a shared health insurance plan to save money.
She keeps calling and calling and calling.
It’s over you say.
Not till I say it’s over she says.
It’s around this point you either start looking at pictures of your ex (McCain) or start text flirting with that friend of a friend who’s new in town (Obama). Sure she’s inexperienced but you’ve become so jaded with the dating scene in town that just meeting a fresh face makes you excited and hopeful about dating again.
It’s around this point that you find your rabbit boiled in your kitchen at four in the morning.
I’m locking all my coats, shells, windbreakers and sweaters in a large metal container until October.
I’m languishing in my little cubby hole of a bedroom sweating into my sheets and loving every second of it. It’s hot out there, bitches.
I saw legs yesterday. Thousands of emancipated legs on untanned girls singing devotionals about being delivered from their months long servitude under denim masters. Knees, too. So many knees.
If I never see a turtleneck again it’ll be too soon.
There’s nowhere to hide that embarrassing rash anymore, summer’s here my slightly scaly friend, get some ointment. It’s time to revel in back sweat and hair that doesn’t do what it’s supposed to. It’s time to drink outside not because you got thrown out of your house for mentioning out loud how you’d like to dust off Barbara Walters’ cobwebs in front of your wife, but because you want to.
It’s time to make fuck outside.
You heard me. Get on that my friends. Ring in June with a little game of roof top muff bop. Welcome summer like an old friend. An old friend with a vagina.
I saw Indiana Jones 4 last night. I had a great time. If you listen to the critics or eighty five percent of my friends that means I’m a retard.
I’m sorry but people need to lighten the fuck up.
Go back and watch the other Indy movies.
They are not cinematic pieces of art. They are summer fare made for the money pieces of cliched crap. Harrison Ford sweating in the temple of doom is NOT worthy of an oscar. It’s Romancing the Stone with a likable hero, that’s it. That’s all.
This sequal? Just as entertaining as the others.
Get off your handicap accessible horse and chill the fuck out.
Robert De Niro and Al Pacino in an independent movie where they play aging grandfathers who meet every day and discuss their lives, their children, the meaning of life and their thoughts on entering the twilight years. It would be a rousing conversation piece set against a stark minimalist backdrop allowing them to truly flex their acting muscles only through their mastery of their instruments; tone, inflection and composure.
It would be a tribute to their stratospheric talents, their cumulative influence on the industry, their magnum opus.
Or we could see them play cops or robbers again in a sure to be formulaic shit covered buddy movie that makes my testes clench with nausea from just watching the trailer.
I’ve often said that I’m a big fan of hangovers because they’re basically instant-karma. Meaning you suffer for all your sins from the night previous the minute you crack those crusty slits and scream at the light that’s managed to sneak by your window shade.
After all my partying this year I had no hangover. I actually woke up smiling and happy.
But what about the many many shameful sins I’d committed during the three day debauch? Would I be getting a free pass?
Of course fucking not.
I just surfaced from a debilitating throat infection the likes of which I haven’t seen since I made out with a drainage ditch during a bad acid trip in 1997. Like seriously, one of my glands blew up to the size of a small dog and I was having more hot flashes than the entire cast of Desperate Housewives. I was more pale and sweaty than my friend Drew, more lethargic than my roommate and stinkier than… well than I usually am. I tried medicating the normal way, with booze, and that only worked for a day. After that I went straight to the only thing that ever works, Animal Pharmaceuticals.
I just swallowed my first solid food in three days. It was a dog biscuit.
…birthday parties that intrinsically drive you to get balls up hands down wasted?
Seriously. Explain that to me.
I’ve been languishing on my couch all day trying to figure it out.
Not that I normally wouldn’t mix Vodka, Beer, Southern Comfort, Guinness, Jameson, Bailies, Rum, Orange Soda and MDMA… but I think the whole birthday thing might have had something to do with it.
