Saturday, April 3, 2010

Kicking ass and buying meat

I have come to the conclusion that I don't understand people. We have been waiting for months for this kind of weather to come back; and what is the first thing that people feel the need to do? They have to get out of the house. That is not a problem, but when all they do is go shopping and clog up the roadways and grocery stores like it's fucking christmas (bad driving included), it becomes a problem. MY PROBLEM! Old people need to go back to the damn nursing home and get the fuck out of my way. Quit sauntering up the aisles at the store looking for your fucking old people food (I'm too pissed off to think of anything that old people buy) at sub-snail speeds. If you didn't know what you wanted to buy, you should not have left the house. You don't even remember how to drive, so how can you be responsible for feeding yourself or others?! I pity the poor fools who show up to your house on easter to eat canned ham, pickled eggs and wash it all down with ovaltine tainted powdered milk substitute from 1923. Shame on you!And another thing: Quit stopping to catch your breath. There is a reason you lost your breath. It is supposed to stay gone. The only trouble with that scenario is the fact that they would then fall in the middle of the aisle and be in my way even longer! Then there would be the obligatory EMTs... and I would be stuck going ALL the way around the other end of the aisle, when what I needed was just beyond the now dead old lady... What a fucking hassle.

Getting one's hopes up

I'm just a short while away from checking out the closing sale of a central new york staple: Fred Mazza's applicance store. I'm hoping to pick up a cheap roll away dishwasher in the clearance sale. I'm hoping. Hence the title. I know that the stark reality is that I will get there and look around to find one of two things; a piss-poor clearance sale, or an empty showroom. I hate myself sometimes.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

I Have No Clue Who Justin Bieber Is, and Neither Should You.

Who is this boy?

This is an excellent question, don't you think? No? You probably don't. And why don't you? Well, my first guess is that you actually know who this is. What brings me to this conclusion? Well, the fact that my Facebook feed has been filled with complaints about this boy, his character, his celebrity, his whatever-it-is-he-does, tells me a lot. What it tells me primarily is that those of you who can mention him in your Facebook status updates in rudimentary attempts at being clever or funny via insulting posts have failed entirely (at wit, if not life). That you even know his name, know he has some type of career, know he is actually alive (he is, after all, just a little boy) know more about him than you should, is just frightening. And why is it that you possess this knowledge? I don't know, exactly. Perhaps you had/have an out-of-line thing for child actors/actresses and you've been inundated with news about this kid while trying to collect near-risqué images of underage celebrities that you really shouldn't even be looking at. (I'd actually wager that most of you fall in this category, but I'm not one to make unfounded accusations, no matter how hilarious they may be.)

The fact of the matter is, I don't know who Justin Bieber is because I'm actually living in my age bracket. I don't follow nonsensical popular culture because it has no appeal to me. Therefore, I have no reason to complain. The only reason any of you can bitch about this little future burnout/failure/on again, off again homosexual (just saying, Lindsay Lohan has set one hell of a precedent; why shouldn't this guy follow in her footsteps?) is because you care. Before you all start shouting your rabid disagreement, attempting to persuade me that you don't care about anyone who's ever been on the cover of Tiger Beat, riddle me this: why is it that until tonight, when watching NBC, where a promotion for a guy who shouldn't even have a television show--except for the fact that the masses can't handle the atypical, and can only cope with change when it's network-sanctioned (I'm talking about Leno, if you can't tell)--happens to be a promotion for a Justin Bieber guest spot, and this is the first time I'm ever hearing his name mentioned outside of Facebook? Why? Well, I can only assume that this is because you don't have any taste of your own, and so you have no choice but to rely on what's presented by the leading demographic (girls, age 15-23, the scourge responsible for the careers of vermin like Metro Station and whoever sings that damn song with the inaccurate and grammatically maddening lyrics about Helen Keller) as the viable options for entertainment. You know, if you could develop a soul, obtain a personal and unique sense of taste/a real opinion, shun the popular in order to enjoy something that actually has some sort of comprehensible value and make a decision of your own without having it backed by a Ryan Seacrest blurb on E!, you wouldn't know who this 10 year old poser was either, and you'd have nothing to be complaining about.

Personally, I say Justin Bieber can be/do/say whatever the hell he wants, no matter how much Facebook complaining any of you have to do. Do you know why I think that, despite the fact that what he does is absolutely worthless in my opinion (proof being that I don't even know what the kid does/aspires to do)!?[<--Can we get an interrobang here, please!? See Mike's post entitled "This one's for you Justin"] I think this over-promoted diaper-soiler can do as he pleases because it doesn't effect me in any way, shape or form, because my knowledge of entertainment is founded on my tastes, not what SoundScan or box-offices claim is good. I suggest you do the same. I promise, you'll live a happier life, and your Facebook feed will contain things that someone (it's not likely to be me) might actually find clever.


Wednesday, March 31, 2010

This one's for you Justin.

New Punctuation Marks for Grammar Nerds" by Owen Parsons

Check out some other stuff on this site if you've never seen it. There is no shortage of good reading. There is, however, some extremely stupid and not funny content.

Some updates for your day

1.) Everyone but anonymous users should be able to comment now. I hope that is pleasing to you.
2.) I added the adult content warning because Justin and I are about to be parents and I wouldn't want my son or his daughter to be clicking "Next Blog" in a few years and stumbling on this without at least a warning that it might be harmful to young minds. Likewise, I do not wish to subject anyone else's children to this. I actually spent a little time clicking that button and found quite a few blogs that seem to be written by VERY young children (one girl was eight years old).
3.) The NavBar is back by popular demand! There was a piece of code in the template that forced it to be hidden. Mutha fuckin' DELETE, bitches! BOO-yah!
4.) I have to say that managing this blog is tough but fun. I know it's only been a few days. I've had some troubles here and there, but I am working through them. I ain't calling it quits on this bad boy! 

If anyone has any suggestions for additions, I'll hear them. I was thinking of setting up an e-mail address just for this blog so I don't have people jamming my inbox that is already full of shit from Apple, Nintendo and various other large commercial organizations (note: I get no spam. It's all shit I signed up for but that I am too lazy to unsubscribe) that are looking for me to give them my money for their objects of great desire. Any immediate suggestions may be left as comments. I may even look into a separate page here for suggestions if I can figure out how.


Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Fuckin' A.

Bah! Never mind. I'm too fucking pissed off to post what I was going to post. Fuck it.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Modern Vulgarity

So let's face it: vulgarity has become a regular, everyday, nearly acceptable part of our day to day conversation. How many of you actually go an entire day without at least saying the word "jerk?" Not swearing, you say? Tell my brother and his Zest stained tongue that. My grandmother thought it a strong enough word to scrub his mouth until it was zestfully clean, and that was in the mid-nineties. That and a few other words that the majority of us (that is, us born after 1930) would never consider swearwords (like suck, pimp, etc.) were enough to earn us a few whacks with my grandma's flyswatter (it sounds like nothing, but I assure you, with the right flick of the wrist, that shit stings). The point I'm trying to make is that time heals all wounds; especially those caused by the masses and what is deemed socially acceptable for base conversation.Consider this quote from Bill Bryson's Mother Tongue, a book that examines the nature and origin of English: "in almost all cultures, swearing involves one or more of the following: filth, the forbidden...and the sacred, and usually all three" (p. 215).

In the thirties, when my Grandmother would have been a teenager, prostitution being called forbidden filth wouldn't have done enough to express how poorly it was perceived. It was something that was just ignored, especially in the mid/southwest, where my grandmother was raised on a small farm by God-fearing people. Currently, we have phone books in major cities loaded with "escort service" listings; we have a "ranch" in Las Vegas where prostitution goes on...legally, I think? And there's a BBC program (Secret Diary of a Call Girl) that humanizes a very real, very popular, prostitute. While Billie Piper's character in SDOACG (a bad anagram, I know, but I did not feel like typing the title again (yes, I know I've spent more time typing this than I would have the title of that show, but I'm trying to be clever, dammit. Respect my efforts!)) while it may be nothing more than a fictional depiction of a girl trying to make it in the world without a man to collect the dough and dole out misdirected backhands, we can see why the word pimp has lost a great deal of it's impact since 1939. We no longer see it as forbidden, as filth, but as a part of society. (At the time of writing, I'm ashamed to admit I'm actually watching a "professional" wrestling program that features a pimp character. The fans are actually chanting something or other about him pimping as he delivers a speech and has a female actress request he make her his "hoe.")

I realize my example above doesn't do much to explain why other "four letter words" we hear day to day are perceived less as vulgar and more as colloquial, but doesn't this sentence take care of that for me? My over-explanation here is just my way of saying, albeit cautiously (hence the advisory against the explicit being added to the tag line under our title), what's the big fucking deal?


Attention, Fucktards!

Only rare "supertaskers" can balance driving, cellphone use

And I have to suffer because the majority of people are fucktards. I remember the days of driving my Plymouth Laser (a 5-speed stick shift) down the Parkway while on the phone, drinking coffee, and smoking a cigarette... While it was snowing. Uphill. Both ways. Oh, sorry. But holy shit, people. Thanks for fucking life up for those of us who were blessed with mad skillz.

Look here, Google...

I have been very happy with my experience here at Blogger. You have treated me well. I was willing to accept that I needed to have first party cookies turned on to log in. That is fine. I am extremely pissed off, however, that you seem to want me to accept third party cookies. I don't like you setting files on my computer to keep track of certain information, but I was willing to let it go because it's just you. I am generally NOT willing to let third parties place files on my computer even if I have firefox set to delete them when I quit. This is completely unacceptable. I am not entirely sure what I plan on doing about this. But you can NOT rest assured that I am going to sleep on this issue. I will be heard. I WILL BE HEARD!

Sunday, March 28, 2010

No, Sir, You do NOT Rock.

There's this common stereotype tied to the car known as the IROC, the old Camaro model that somehow surged into uber-popularity some time in the late eighties, when Mustangs were horribly boxy and sports cars were only cool if they were imports (you can thank the yuppies for that). While it's hard not to see the appeal of an engine that's actually composed of a majority of real metal pieces--a car that actually generates a few noticeable Gs when accelerating--it's hard to understand why this one car was at one time so damn popular, and why it retains so much popularity even now. (Don't believe it? Google it. Hundreds of thousands of images and entire websites like are keepin' the faith alive, brother.)

While there are a handful of reasons for writing on this phenomenon , it seems time and fate have brought me more than enough reasons to keep the stereotype alive and strong. The first and most hilarious/infuriating: the typical IROC driver. You know this guy. In fact, I'd be willing to bet you know at least two of these guys. One of them is that guy that calls you once a week, telling you he's having "a blast," that he's surrounded by "foxy mommas" at some hole in the wall bar where he's currently exploiting the canned beer special of the night (most likely a Tuesday or Wednesday); you typically ignore his phone call because you won't be seen in public with him. The other version you likely know is a relative of yours. A distant relative, maybe, but if you're Caucasian and American, this guy has likely splintered off your family tree at some point due to lack of gene-pool chlorination. His disposition is similar to the one I just described. The only difference is the two inherent strikes built in to him: his appearance, as above, and the fact that he'd mention being related to you in public (an even more mortifying consequence of spending time with this genetic excrement).

The typical IROC driver, and damn similar to the first guy I can remember seeing in an IROC as a child. The major differences: I remember a Miami Dolphins Jersey (cut in the same fashion) and denim cutoffs (with frayed strings a-plenty). I'm sure the Milwaukee's Best Ice was a staple, though.

The largest problem with IROC drivers is self evident, honestly, and it's proof sits in dilapidated garages everywhere. There is no one more dedicated to living in the past than an IROC-Z owner. In fact, the one Camaro from the era I still see on a regular basis has a vanity plate that attests to this principle (amongst others that I will, of course, conveniently overlook). Nevermind that the car itself is in great shape, only gets driven in the spring and summer seasons and still growls like a Kodiak bear: SICILY84 is having "nothin' but a good ti-ime," "livin' on the edge," with "the songs of yesterday." Can't you just "feel the noize" coming out of those killer aftermarket stereos every IROC seems to be equipped with? You can imagine it, right? A 1984 Camaro with a 2001 Pioneer deck? Why is that so bad you ask? Well, it may not be for SICILY84, but allow me to give you the perfect example:

Let's face it: the majority of IROCs still on the road today look something like this one. They are piecemeal signifiers of a man still longing for the days when mullets and bonfires were the pinnacle of social evolution; a time where Kip Winger was still a feathered-haired god; a time where women could easily be separated into two categories: the shoulder-padded and the available. While a part of me still longs for the days when my mostly black wardrobe and cheeky band t-shirts made me both a rebel and an innovator in the latest in teen-angst fashion, I can admit that I looked, well, flipping ridiculous. I have since moved as far on from those days as I can so as to not sacrifice my dignity on the altar of humiliation. The IROC driver can make so such observation. He sees himself as cool; nay, as cool-est, the superlative of his kind.

Unfortunately for him, the IROC driver is wrong. There is nothing cool about body filler, mismatched body pieces, restoration projects that last longer than 8 years but are still driven regularly, mullets, the last several Motley Crue records, drinking beer that costs less than ten dollars a twelve pack, acid wash jeans, Chevrolet window decals that match the intended primary paint job color of said pathetic restoration project, black and red wolf/tiger/grim reaper tattoos, or public scratching. You say you disagree with me? Disagree with this: this picture was taken on a major local highway in the city I reside around; the speed limit is 55mph, and you'll notice it is raining:

I think you can agree when I say, enough said. Get a door, buddy. Then, get a horse. It's a finer way to get around, and it will match your wardrobe and haircut.


Does the title font look bad?

It looks trrble on my large laptop, but it is all smooth and delightful on the netbook. Trrrrrrrrrrble!