bad grandparents, ballet, dope, drugs, FDR, fun with foreigners, ghost baby, grass, headlines, hemp, homosexuality in ballet, ignorance--it's what we do, JFK, Joe Biden, marijuana, minky moo, Neil Patrick Harris, Orange County, poor people, prostitution, Puerto Rico, reefer, sweet sweet cheeba, War on Poverty, weed
In which we respond to real headlines without first bothering to read the articles.
Why nobody calls when you apply for a job ~ Because–and I mean this in the nicest way possible–you fucking suck.
7 Crippling Parenting Behaviors That Keep Children From Growing Into Leaders ~ Well, actually crippling them is one, obviously.
Neil Patrick Harris is happy to host the Emmys ~ ‘Happy’ is obviously code for gay. Think about it: who would actually enjoy hosting the Emmys?
‘Ghost baby’ born w/o blood in Orange County ~ That’s a ‘vampire baby’ you nitwit.
Police sting prostitutes after recent attacks on sex workers ~ “We’re protecting these women by aggressively prosecuting them for selling something they’d be perfectly within their rights to just give away.”
Why ‘war on poverty’ not over ~ ‘Cause there are still poor people left alive?
Grandpa Saves Himself, Leaves 3 Young Grandkids Behind… ~Gramps didn’t get as old as he has by taking a lot of unnecessary risks.
8 College Degrees with the Worst Return on Investment ~ Smaktakula has two of them!
JFK and FDR had 1 weird trick that can let you retire 100% tax-free. ~ And yet they both were forced to work right up until the time of their deaths. Sounds like a great trick.
Why Biden won’t win ~ Because, say what you will, America hasn’t completely lost its fucking mind.
Could you pass a US citizenship test? ~ Of course I can. I am neither stupid nor a foreigner.
3 Ways Guys Can Drop 20lbs Quickly ~ One is to hack off your own leg with a wood ax. You should probably check out the other two first, though.
Skiing in My Own Backyard ~ Is what poor people do.
What is a father supposed to call his daughter’s minky moo? ~ Ewww! Not that! Never that.
The Crisis in Contemporary Ballet ~ Well, for one thing, it’s completely gay–and not just in the homosexual way.
Would you tell your kids you got high? ~ Oh man, I am so not looking forward to that conversation.
How Much Money Should Moms Be Paid? ~ Assuming Mom has a job outside the home, she should be paid approximately 70% of that job’s salary.
Why more Puerto Ricans are living in mainland U.S. than in Puerto Rico ~ Esto es “no-brainer.”
When my daughter ran into a burning car: to save her doll ~ We became childless.
Why You Should Color Your Gray At Home ~ Because nobody needs to see that grim Brillo-Pad of yours out in public.
absinthe, alcohol, cannabis, chicanery, dope, drinking contest, foolish choices, gamesmanship, hemp, herb, Jägermeister, marijuana, peyote, reefer, Sun Tzu, sweet sweet cheeba, Tardsie's True-Ass Tales, vomiting, wagers, weed
I drank a lot when I was younger. Too much, I guess. I enjoyed the consciousness-altering aspect of booze, and for a while, there was a novelty to getting fucked-up. When, as is the nature of novelty, it wore off, I found I didn’t drink so much anymore.
Some years later, it turned out that a co-worker of mine, John, was acquainted with some of my old college friends. My college friends regaled John with only the most debauched and asinine of my collegiate exploits. It was a somewhat incomplete picture of the person I had been as a youngster, and about a million miles from the reality of my life at that moment. Based largely on this erroneous image, John challenged me to a drinking contest at an upcoming office party.
A drinking contest? The idea was a loser from the get-go. I had largely put my boozing behind me, but John had kept himself in fighting trim. This was a bet I was almost certain to lose.
Faced with this challenge today, I would have no problem begging off, using my lameness and general decrepitude as an excuse. But at twenty-five or so, I was still very much in the throes of a delayed adolescence, and my carefully crafted self-image would not allow me to ignore this challenge from a younger, stronger, faster predator. Moreover, I would have to go beyond merely showing up for John’s challenge; I could not simply shuffle complacently to my own ass-whipping. Not only did I have no choice but to accept, I had to win.
To assist me in this endeavor, I had a card up my sleeve worth a dozen battle-hardened livers, an advantage so pronounced as to change the course of battle even before the sound of the first shot: my exemplary cunning. John believed that the drinking contest would begin–and thus be won or lost–when we first took up our glasses. He was wrong.
“All right,” I said, showing him my game face, “Let’s do it. But I don’t want to pussy around, dude–if we’re gonna do this, let’s do it right: we’ll drink Jäger.”
For those unfamiliar with the cough syrup-meets-black licorice charm of Jägermeister, the iconic kraut tipple is made from a variety of spices and despite being only 70 proof, has fostered a reputation for fucking your shit up. People spoke of Jäger in the breathless, quasi-mystic tones normally reserved for absinthe and peyote. Some people said it contained traces of deer blood, others opium. For whatever reason, I’ve never had a problem with Jäger, and consider its fearsome reputation to be entirely overblown.
But that reputation had precisely the effect I’d intended. Having proposed the wager, John could hardly refuse. He agreed, but with markedly less enthusiasm than when he first suggested it. Jägermeister it would be.
The party was at a co-worker’s house, and being a work-related party, both John and I agreed not to start our competition until later in the evening when the more reputable guests had left. John and I went to the keg together and filled our cups. Although John and I both returned to the keg several times that evening, I was nursing my beer and “filling” it when it was already nearly full. John, however, appeared to be drinking with abandon.
When it was time to throw down in our liquor-based contest of manhood—well, I guess you already know that I kicked his ass. It wasn’t even close. When I left the party, John was on hands & knees in the front lawn, heaving a black and hideous mess into the grass. I gave his shoulder a squeeze and said some comforting but ultimately condescending words as I passed. I kept my dignity all the while, and waited at least until I was in the car before I began convulsively to spew, coating the door and good portion of the seat. Happily for everyone, it was my girlfriend’s car.
Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.
My encounters with police officers have largely been, if not pleasant, then at least hassle-free. It helps that I’m friendly, polite, and never in my life more caucasian than when I talk to a cop. I think most cops are pretty decent dudes.
Sadly, the cops I remember most clearly aren’t the officers who’ve helped me when I was in a jam, or even those who had to deal with me when I’d done wrong and had it coming, but rather the jerks who wore their authority like a crown and acted like thugs for no reason other than that they could, the bullies and punks getting off on the power of their station.
It was my displeasure to meet a particularly shitty cop on November 5th, 2002.¹ I’d left my job and apartment in Beaverton, Oregon to bum around the country by rail, and now found myself in Chicago’s historic Union Station, notable for the “baby carriage” scene in The Untouchables.
Filthy and bedraggled, I wander into the men’s restroom to clean up. Union Station is an Amtrak hub, so the bathroom is busy, but I manage to find sink space next to a wretched-looking homeless dude–a black guy with wild, unkempt hair and an eye-watering aroma. His emaciated hands and head jut twig-like from an artificially bulky frame, created by layer upon layer of filthy clothing. He yammers ceaselessly as he washes what appears to be several pairs of socks.
When the guy says “Can I have those socks?” I think at first that it’s just another facet of his apparently unending dialogue with God. But when he says it again, I realize he’s talking to me. He’s looking down at the open travel bag at my feet, atop which lie several pairs of clean socks.
After a span of time that seems longer than it probably is, I reach down to grab a pair socks, and hand it to him. “Here you go.” “Thanks, Brother” he says, and his ongoing conversation–which fortunately, no longer includes me–begins again. Not long after that, he gathers up his things, including his new socks, and wanders off to a stall.
I have just about forgotten about him when the cop comes rumbling in, his black and yellow police windbreaker flashing in the mirror just before our eyes meet. His small shaven head, bullet-shaped, with its tiny piggish eyes and ridiculously oversized mustache is poorly matched to his expansive, well-fleshed body.
“Whaddaya doin’?” he asks, and not at all nicely. My stomach tightens as I turn to face him. There is a uniformed cop behind him.
“Shaving,” I tell him.
“Shaving.” He spits the word back at me like an accusation. Then: “You sure you weren’t washing your feet?”
I tell him I wasn’t, and because this situation is so intense and because the cop is still smirking under his mustache and because I don’t know what else to say, I say “Jeez.” It is the wrong thing to say.
“JEEZ?” he says, seeming to swell as he steps toward me, either side of his mustache punctuated by the edges of a feral smile, and just like that I am fucking terrified.
Then the uniformed cop says something and points down to the stalls. I do not have to know what he said to know where he is pointing, and at whom. As they both charge off in that direction, the bald cop’s little head swivels to face me and, not stopping, he says, “Sorry.” It is a reflex, a word completely devoid of meaning, and he cares not a bit whether I know it. Then he is gone, carried along on a wave of black anger.
“WALTER!” he bellows at the homeless man in the stall, “Get your fuckin’ ass out here, you goof! You’re goofy, you know that?”
Suddenly awash in a rush of relief that feels an awful lot like shame, I slink out of the bathroom, but not quickly enough to miss the firecracker bang of a locked stall door shattering under the force of a boot.
¹The reason I’m able to recall the date so specifically–as well as the dialogue in the story–is because I wrote the details down minutes after the event. ∞ T.
Man, you have no idea how many times I find myself saying or thinking that.
Have a great weekend, folks!
ADHD, Africa, alcoholism, backwater shithole, bad parents, bees, Benjamin Franklin, bigfoot, breastuses, cannabis, Cee-Loo Green, cheating, childish sexual innuendo, cryptids, death by party bus, death by smoking, don't hate us because we're ignorant, dope, drugs, economics, ecstasy, environmental crisis, exotic dancers, fibromyalgia, Friends, gay people, Germany, God, grass, hemp, Jane Austen, Justin Bieber, Kool-Aid, Lance Armstrong, legalize it, marijuana, Mexico, MILFs, monster trucks, Nazi Germany, neanderthals, New Jersey, opposable thumbs, Oprah Winfrey, performance-enhancing drugs, places that suck, Playboy, pornography, pot, pr0n, reefer, refugees, Russia, Russians sure like that vodka, sexism, short people, skonks, Smaktakula's distrust of short people, smoking, strippers, stupid people, sweet sweet cheeba, the abysmal state of American public education, transplants, United States of America, weed, West Virginia, Why am I so stupid?, you got a real purty mouth
In which we talk a lot of shit.
15-year-old girl caught stripping for the 2nd time ~ You think THAT’S bad? We heard that last year a 14-year-old was caught stripping at the same place!
Why Wasn’t West Virginia Better Prepared for Massive Spill? ~ Look, if those cretinous hillbillies can’t get their heads around indoor plumbing, don’t you think that expecting them to tackle a massive environmental disaster is asking a bit much?
The Science Behind Bigfoot and Other Monsters ~ Is called “junk science.”
What would it take for Justin Bieber to get deported? ~ An ugly sort of populism more at home in Nazi Germany than in the US of A.
What You Should NEVER Say To a Fibromyalgia Patient ~ “Oh, yeah–I had a crazy aunt who had one of those made-up diseases, too.”
‘Tits McGee’: Growing Up With Big Boobs ~ It distracts a little from the very serious nature of your subject when you tag your headline with one of the all-time funniest nicknames ever created for an amply-endowed lass. However, it’s perfectly understandable that you don’t appreciate the appellation’s amusing nature, as we imagine that even after all these years you still fail to see the humor in it.
My Dad Will Never Stop Smoking Pot ~ Son, Daddy uses this forum to write silly jokes about the headlines to news stories he can’t be bothered to read. I appreciate you voicing your concerns, but we’ll talk about this a little later in private–okay, Sport?
HumanBrainCellsMakeMiceSmarter ~ But lacking opposable thumbs, they still can’t work the damn space bar on the keyboard.
Absolutely, positively, no “Friends” reunion in the works ~ The proof of a kind and loving God is everywhere, if you only look for it.
Lance Armstrong Tells Oprah Winfrey Why He Doped ~ “Well, you see, Oprah, I made a lot more money when I won races, and the boys in R&D crunched some numbers and they discovered that I seemed to win more races when I was a chemically enhanced super-human. So, really–it was kind of a no-brainer.”
NJ teen dies after sticking head out of a party bus ~ The Garden State mourns one of its best & brightest.
Playboy: Still Sexist After All These Years ~ And sexism has no place in the protein-starched pages of a men’s pornographic magazine!
Suspect Showed Cool During Inquiry ~ Said a police spokesperson: “We knew pretty early on that anyone that cool just couldn’t be guilty.”
Passion for vodka kills Russian men in their thousands ~ “Passion for vodka” is a delightfully poetic way to describe Russia’s endemic alcoholism.
What Students With ADHD Want to Tell Their Teachers ~ “I had a turtle once, but it died. Wanna ride bikes?”
Bullard Says Downturn Hardest on Young, Less-Educated Families ~ It’s unfortunate, but hardly surprising when you consider that about the only thing made easier for stupid people is public school.
Cee-Lo Green pleads not guilty to charge of giving woman ecstasy ~ Smaktakula is a married man, and hasn’t given a woman ecstasy in years.
How much Neanderthal DNA do you have? Lots ~ “Jesus, Frank–there has GOT to be a better way to say that. Look, I had a couple of really unfortunate encounters during my time-travel adventures in the Pleistocene Era, and all I want to do right now is take a shower and try to forget about it.”
Why Mom’s Time Is Different From Dad’s Time ~ Because dad’s time is important.
Mexico ‘monster truck’ crash kills eight at air show ~ Okay, but the SECOND saddest thing about this story is that Mexican AIR shows feature monster trucks.
Ex-Marlboro man dies from smoking-related disease in SLO ~ Wow–how ironic. That’s what we’d be saying if this weren’t the exact opposite of something which is ironic.
Blyth Mum Spends £3,000 On Pink Baby Accessories – Then Has A Boy! ~ Well, if our understanding of heritable traits is correct, he’ll likely be a profoundly stupid boy.
Miley Cyrus Goes Braless For Cosmo ~ Cosmo Krystalos is her meth connection.
Never Forget: Benjamin Franklin Was Into MILFs ~ Why would we forget that? The Founding Father’s legendary lust for tail is unquestionably the most interesting thing about the man.
What Jane Austen Teaches Us About Economics ~ That it’s boring and outdated?
Just Because He Breathes : Learning to Truly Love Our Gay Son ~ If you haven’t learned to “truly love” your son well before he reaches an age at which he expresses a sexual preference, then you might suck a little at momming and dadding.
African refugees in Italy ‘told to go to Germany’ ~ “Uh, we’re immigrants, not idiots. We like it here just fine.”
Wild Bees Won’t Survive in a Human-Dominant World ~ Please. We’ve rocked this mud-ball for millennia, and bees have done all right up until now.
Double-transplant patient loses legs ~ They’re not your fucking car keys, dude! Somebody went to a lot of trouble to get you those legs, and the least you can do is keep an eye on them.
“‘Short-man syndrome’ is real ~ Given the tragic and debilitating nature of their shared genetic curse, we think it’s a remarkable display of perseverance most mornings for these nasty little creatures even to come skulking from their filthy dens into the bright light of day.
I first posted this a year ago tomorrow, and I expect a lot of you have already seen it. However, it’s something I believe fiercely, and it seems as appropriate now as it did then. Remember, we only get one trip through life*, so do it the best you can.
*Excepting, of course, Hindus and other faiths whose beliefs incorporate reincarnation. But even in those instances, you’ve still got a vested interest in getting it right. Nobody wants to come back as a flatworm.
Originally posted on Promethean Times:
In which a conclusion is drawn, many “umms” and “y’knows” are uttered, and the author’s resemblance to Greta Van Susteren becomes painfully obvious.
Mama said wisely, “A boy gets to be a man when a man is needed. Remember this thing. I have known boys forty years old because there was no need for a man.”
Of all that is written I love only what a man has written with his blood. Write with blood, and you will experience that blood is spirit.
What cannot be cured must be endured.
The Crush: It wasn’t love, but it was something like it; a one-sided stage rehearsal for the real thing. I ached for you; you know that now. It made me laugh a little to find out years later it would have been mine for the taking, if only I’d mustered the courage to ask. You taught me, belatedly, to take a chance on great things.
The Choir Girl: I’m sorry for how I was–not bad, but not good, either. You deserved better and you found it. I could have learned a lot from you if I’d been willing to listen.
The English Department Darling: Just about the time I thought maybe I could love you it was over. You broke up with me for a reason neither of us really understood, launching a misguided comeback attempt a few months later when it was already too late. All these years later, and you’re still alone. You taught me that life is too short for games.
The Freshman: You were special, and I didn’t take the time to see that. About the only thing I can say in my defense is that I didn’t set out to break your heart. I can’t change what I did, but I can bring my boys up to hopefully be better men than their father. You taught me to be less capricious with my affections, and I’m sorry the lesson was so hard-learned.
The First Love: I’d known lots of girls before you, but I’d never loved them. I still feel warm when I think of you. You taught me to love hard and to love without reservation. You taught me that some mistakes are forever.
The Accountant: Such a straight-arrow. Laces tied and corners trimmed. Still, you gave me freedom; your only rule for me was “Don’t be high around my parents,” and I never was–they were very kind to me. It didn’t work out, but we’re still friends, and you were so very good for me. You taught me what it was to be an adult.
The Playwright: A first-class muse and a beast in the sack, you taught me to trust myself as a writer and how a lot of hustle can make a little talent go a very long way. I couldn’t make you happy, though, and you taught me that I need a girl who is happy on her own. You’re married now and have a child. I hope you’re happy; I really do.
My Wife: The best of the bunch, and the true beneficiary of all those lessons I learned along the way. I met you when I was seventeen years old, before any of the others. All these years later, you’re still here. My patient, beautiful, loving angel. You are so much more than I deserve.
Sometimes, when you mention a grievance or accomplishment, large or small, some would-be-funnyman will pipe up, “Do you want a medal or something?”
Next time this happens, tell him, “You’re goddamn right I want a medal. Let’s have it!”
Then, when he inevitably stumbles in his reply, tell him, “Your problem is that you make promises on which you have no intention of delivering. That makes you a liar and a scoundrel. Good day to you, Sir!”