Tag Archives: dope

Headlines: When Pigs Float

01 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by in Celebrity, Crime, Culture, Entertainment, Headlines, History, Music, News

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By Smaktakula

Ha! Tell Me About It. There’s A “Steve” Story About This Very Thing!

Because we learn everything we need to know about the world from the headlines of the day!

***

Police remove woman who yelled ‘Boring!’ during symphony ~ She’s only saying what everybody’s thinking.

The kilogram has gained weight ~ It sounds like maybe that European diet isn’t so healthy after all.

Hi there. What’s your sign? Have any STDs? ~ Smaktakula. Virgo. Genital wa…frankly, I don’t think that’s any of your business.

Teen narrowly escapes death after smoking synthetic marijuana ~ Coming within inches of claiming its first confirmed kill is quite an achievement considering that synthetic marijuana has only been around for about ten years or so. Real marijuana’s been around since the beginning of time and has never even come close to that level of lethality.

Girl who performed for Obama shot dead in Chicago ~ Look, it may seem a little harsh, but there’s the expectation that you’ll bring your A-game when you perform for the President.

Desperate dog makes 2-mile trek to find owner ~ I’m sorry, did you just say ‘two miles?’ TWO FUCKING MILES? Does the name Balto mean anything to you? Dammit, somebody fetch me a rolled-up newspaper!

“Is This What Has Become Of My Once-Proud People?”

Bodies of missing Mexican band members found in well. ~ So it sounds like all’s well that ends…sorry. Let’s try to put this one behind us, okay?

Court: Calif. may have to hire Wiccan chaplains ~ The First Amendment: No longer just for ‘real’ faiths.

What is “Mrs.” short for? … ~ The Mister’s!

Should You Start Your Own Chicken Coop? ~ If you give even a moment of your time to serious consideration of this question, then you’re a fucking nitwit.

Teen girl’s killing ignites widespread outrage: ‘Why did it have to be her’ ` Everybody was hoping it would be that little bitch Emily Dawkins from over on 11th Ave.

David Arquette Gives Adam Lambert B-Day Lap Dance ~ THIS JUST IN: Adam Lambert announces he is now straight.

Oh, It’s Assault For Sure, Not Least To The Senses.

A Cat’s 200-Mile Trek Home Leaves Scientists Guessing ~ That dog is looking less impressive by the second.

Why Do We Pay Waiters Better Than God? ~ Because God works for free, and even a dude from Honduras won’t do that.

Depressed teens mostly struggle alone ~ Well, sure–who wants to waste his or her life palling around with a Weepy Willy or Suzie So-Sad?

Dead pigs in Shanghai water supply don’t ring alarm bells for Chinese officials ~ “What? You no like sweet & sour pork?”

First Person: It’s Hard to Send a Pet to Heaven ~ It gets a lot easier once you’ve stepped out of bed and into a steaming coil of dog poop three days in a row.

Sexist Men Like Big Boobs? Male Attitudes May Predict Breast Size Preference … ~ So men who don’t find you attractive are pigs. Is that what you’re getting at, A-Cup?

Look, You Guys Don’t Know Kylie Like I Do. She’s Super-Smart And Really, Really Funny. I Just Enjoy Spending Time With Them. With Her. I Enjoy Spending Time With Her.

UK One Of The Most Unhealthiest Western European Nations, Study Says ~ The study notes, however, that they have the most bestest grammar.

Customers want to know why Subway’s footlong subs aren’t 12 inches ~ Men already know the answer to that one.

Arizona Program Helps Latino Parents Navigate School System ~ They can find their way through the vast and unforgiving Sonoran Desert in the dead of a moonless night, but a third-rate educational system apparently poses too great a challenge.

13 Things Your Child’s Teacher Won’t Tell You ~ One, obviously, is that the little turd’s a halfwit, and that he oughtn’t set his vocational aspirations any higher than “seasonal laborer.”

Dolphins Call Each Other By Name ~ Curiously, all dolphins seem to have the same name, “E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!”

Women mistakenly shot in Calif. manhunt get apology and promise of a new truck ~ Hey, an apology! Most folks unlucky enough find themselves on the receiving end of American federal aggression just get the promises.

“You Had Better Hope They Don’t Find Gold In That Truck, Honey, Or Believe Me–They Will Snatch That Shit Back With A Quickness.”

Is ADHD a phony disorder? ~ Only the part about it being a disorder.

Christopher Dorner: Sparing housekeepers led to undoing ~ Oh my God, that is like Psycho-On-A-Rampage 101, dude! You ALWAYS grease the housekeeper. No exceptions, man.

Sibling fights may lead to depression, self-esteem issues ~ So it’s your fault Jenny can’t get her fat ass off the couch long enough to fill out a job application.

I’d rather hire a foreigner – they ‘push themselves more’ ~ I’d rather hire a local–they ‘converse more easily in English.’

Stop Pretending Disabled People Don’t Commit Crimes ~The annals of criminal history are replete with handi-capable hoodlums like “Palsy” Johnson, Twitchin’ Jimmy Reddenbacher and Mickey the Leper.

Limousine driver dies after striking pedestrian ~ The pedestrian, reporter Clark Kent, was said to be shaken but unharmed following the accident.

You Should Know–He’s Not A Very Nice Guy.

On Friendship

18 Monday Mar 2013

Posted by in True-Ass Tales

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By Tardsie

And A Little Gay If The Ponies Are To Be Believed.

I believe that friendship is important. It’s soul-affirming. A bad friendship is like a bad relationship–you’re better off not having it at all. But a good friendship is a powerful thing, and can help keep your ship afloat on rocky seas. I’ve been very lucky to have wonderful friends–dudes who have always accepted me for who I am (while mocking me for the same reason), who have loved me and seen me through some rough patches sandwiched in between a lot of kick-ass times. All this for a guy with as many faults as I have. Truly, I am not worthy.

On Wednesday, five of us gathered in LA for an impromptu remembrance of our friend Joe who died earlier this month. Of the four other guys, I’d seen three of them within the past six months. One guy I hadn’t seen in almost seventeen years, although it didn’t seem like that long. The last time we had all been together Bill Clinton had been president, and we were a pack of pot-smoking do-nothings with our whole lives ahead of us. Now we were pot-smoking do-nothings with families, careers and crow’s-feet. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time, and I laugh a lot.

It Was A Lot Like This, But With Better Music.

Being in the rejuvenating presence of such wonderful friends got me thinking about the bonds and boundaries of friendship, and how sometimes the tiniest things can make or break a friendship. It took me back to my junior year of college to a time when, through a mutual association, I’d met and become fast friends with a freshman who had started hanging out with our group, fitting in easily.

It was assumed this kid would pledge my fraternity. He had expressed interest, and was well-liked not only by myself but by many of the other members. But there was a snag. His older sister, who had just broken up with an alumnus from my fraternity, turned suddenly against us, and began to exert heavy pressure on her brother to join a different frat. He was conflicted: the other frat seemed to better represent the kind of guy he was coming out of high school (think the Omegas from Animal House), but he had so many promising friendships among us and just seemed to fit better.

I knew this was going on, and while I very much wanted him to come with us, I’d seen potential brothers scared away by the hard-sell, so I tried to express my opinions only when asked. I got that opportunity one day when we were hanging out.

“Hey,” he asked me one day, with no artifice, but definitely some trepidation, “If I pledge {Clan Douchebag}, we’ll still be friends, right?”

I Wouldn’t Even Be Able To Look At You The Same Way, Bro.

I looked at him seriously and said, “No. Not like we are now.” I could see he was a little stunned, and I could definitely understand, having been a freshman once.  I explained that if he joined the other frat, we’d try to be friends, but that our two very different circles would intersect but rarely, and that usually, those meetings were acrimonious. As painful as it was, I told him that his choice might very well dictate the future of our blossoming friendship.

It Is The Natural Way Of Things, My Child.

I’ve lived a long time since then and learned a lot more about what it means to be a friend. I wonder: If that young man had asked me the same question today, what would I tell him? Gatherings like the one I just attended inevitably bring to mind not only who is there present among the gathered, but also, far more poignantly–who isn’t there who maybe should be.

And so I think of that long-ago kid with whom I had such a great rapport and with whom I took such an implacable stance with my friendship. I wonder how things might have happened differently. And sometimes, I wonder what that kid is doing now.

When I do, I usually just call him. He’s one of the guys I saw on Wednesday, and whom I see pretty regularly. We were each in the other’s weddings, and I’m godfather to his son. We’re the best of friends to this day.

When faced with that long-ago choice, he totally made the right one. Keep your friends close, and don’t have enemies if you can help it.

Everyone Seen Here Made The Right Choice.

Untruth & Consequences: Drug School! (Part II)

29 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by in Crime, Culture, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

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By Tardsie

I Have Always Believed Learning To Be A Life-Long Process.

Part The Last: In which we finally stop talking for a while.

After finishing my class-prep in the parking lot of a McDonald’s, I arrived for my 9:00 AM Drug School appointment with ten minutes to spare. I wanted this experience to run smoothly, and to antagonize the DS faculty by being late would only serve to put the relationship on a bad footing from the start. Despite these precautions and my generally optimistic nature, it was hard to believe that this experience would turn out any better than had my previous brushes with counseling. As it happens, I got lucky.

Except For Not Being A Nerdy White Dude With Glasses, She Was Exactly Like This.

I’d signed up for a private class, and after filling out a few forms was shown to a conference room where the instructor awaited me on the opposite side of a small table adorned with a fantail of legal documents, reference materials and drug quizzes. Carmen was a black woman in her early fifties, with a tailored suit that softened her heroic contours. She was not fat precisely, but possessed of a certain bigness which spoke to neither poor health nor indolence, and was simply formidable.

I told Carmen the circumstances which had brought me to Drug School, and she asked me what I thought about being there. I told her, “I know you probably hear this from almost everybody who comes through this program, but I don’t really think I need to be here.” She agreed that she did hear that a lot, and encouraged me to expound on what I’d said.

“I think it’s bullshit,” I said, explaining that for all their incompetent zeal, this was the best result the prosecution could muster, and sending me to Drug School was more an act of spite than honest concern for my welfare. Careful not to get off on the wrong foot, however, I added, “But I don’t mean to disrespect you.”

Carmen managed to look amused. “You don’t have the power to disrespect me,” she said. “Nobody can disrespect me unless I let them.” I was starting to really like this woman.

OH, I HEARD THAT!

One of the first questions she asked was about my drug and alcohol history, and about my current behavior. Although weed was the only bad behavior to which I’d have to confess at that time, I was worried that some of my past experiences would complicate matters. In addition to some heavy alcohol use in my late teens and a fondness sometime later for psychedelics, there were a few chemical enhancements that I’d tried once or twice which I feared were sufficiently heinous to set off her substance abuse warning system.

On the other hand, I knew that only by being honest would I derive any benefit from this experience, so I told her everything. When I was done, she said something that let me know she was a cut above the “professionals” to whom I’d previously spoken.

“Well,” she said, her voice slow and neutral, “From what I’m hearing, it sounds like you smoke too much marijuana.”

Seriously, How Difficult Was That? It Just Seemed Pretty Obvious From This End.

We did have one sticking point. “I’m confused,” she said, flipping through her files until she located my drug evaluation from Pee-Testers International. She looked up and gave me a hard stare, “Your evaluation indicates that you’re drug free, but from what you’re telling me, that’s not the case at all.”

I smiled. “I wasn’t as forthcoming with them as I have been with you.”

“I see,” she said, her face inscrutable and unsmiling.

But I Never Lied To You.

Exceeding even my wildest expectations, Drug School was done by 11:30. In fairness to both Carmen and the program, we covered a lot of material and I took several quizzes. I’m a fast test-taker, and it also helps to remember that the curriculum is hardly designed for Rhodes Scholars. Carmen and I talked quite a bit. She was informative, kind and frank.

“I want to thank you for creating an environment in which I could be honest,”¹ I told her. “I could have jobbed this, you know.”

“I know,” she said, no doubt remembering my drug analysis interview with the credulous folks at PTI.

She gave me my DS diploma and court certificate, and offered me a final piece of advice. “Listen,” she said, hesitant for the first and only time in our short acquaintance, “You probably didn’t really need to be here, but I want to make it clear to you that you smoke too much marijuana. It’s not good for your lungs.”

“I’ve started using a vaporizer,” I told her truthfully.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s much better for you.”

Seriously, Lady–My Body Is A Temple.

So kids, I’m hardly a role model. These things that I’ve done–please don’t do them. Not unless you want to be hella awesome like me. In the coda to this already-bloated series, Untruth & Consequences: Debriefing,² I’ll attempt to find a moral in these sordid episodes.

¹”B.S. Who talks like that?” I do–that’s an exact quote. The way I talk and the way I write are so very often misconstrued as ridiculously grandiloquent affectations. In fact, that’s just how God made me. Elderly ladies find it quite charming, in case you’d like to know.  ∞ T.
² Yeah, I thought I was done as well. It’ll be short, I promise.  ∞ T.

Untruth & Consequences: Drug School! (Part I)

25 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by in Crime, Culture, History, True-Ass Tales

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By Tardsie

Note: This post has been split into two parts to prevent reading fatigue.

“Where’d you learn that, Cheech? Drug School?”

Trooper Rodney Farva

***

Part 4 of 4.5. In which dirty deals are done, the author gains a new alma mater, and some weed is consumed.

If you’re coming to us late, be sure to check out the previous three installments in this series, Don’t Forget To Hurt, So Much Love To Share and I’m Tardsie, And I’m An Alcoholic Apparently, so you don’t feel all left out.

***

The prosecution had nothing on me and they knew it.¹ They’d chosen to be vindictive in light of my juvenile criminal record, believing incorrectly that some combination of distance, fatigue or finances would wear me down. Now, after three court appearances over five grueling months, they were throwing in the towel. But not without a last, teensy-weensy Fuck You! to remember them by: the charges would be dropped, provided that I attend drug school.

Ironically, Drug School Differs From Real School In That You Can’t Buy Drugs There.

This experience proved to be vastly different from previous attempts to fix me, not least in that it proved worthwhile in its own regard, and not simply as fodder for funny stories to be told and retold throughout the years.  A great many years had passed since the events related in previous installments of this series, and the nascent human being I had been in those dark times–soft, directionless and vulnerable–was gone, replaced by a new creature, one who had begun to understand himself and what he stood for, one who was not so easily cowed or willing to give away that which was so hard-won, and who would prove to be the not-so-distant forbear of the man I am today.

I was angry–angry for being put in this position. Like envy or honest pain, anger is an emotion which has of late come into general disfavor. Being consumed by anger to the point where it, rather than conscious decision, rules your life is undoubtedly a very bad thing; anger is a terrible master, as untold deaths throughout the span of human history will attest. But when it is the wheel rather than the engine, anger is a powerful servant. My outrage gave me the tenacity to push back ferociously against an overzealous prosecutor. Such was my exasperation over the final agreement that I was determined to get the last laugh. They wanted to send me to drug school? I resolved to spit in their faces by learning something.

I’m A Nerd. That’s How We Roll.

There were a variety of drug schools throughout the Puget Sound from which to choose. As has been my way with virtually all of my educational decisions, I didn’t put much thought into it, and picked a school in a run-down neighborhood of Tacoma, Washington not too far from where I’d gone to high school. There were several eight-hour classes scheduled every month, but I chose a private class. It cost a bit more, but I could do it the next day and without a peer-group that represented a rancid smorgasbord of wretched humanity. Most critically, I guessed that without a retinue of stoned mouth-breathers to dumb up the class, I’d be gone from there a long time before eight hours passed.

Not wanting to be late, I arrived at drug school well before the 9:00 AM start time. Nobody had arrived yet, so I parked at the McDonald’s across the street and got high.

C’Mon, Folks! It’s Drug School! You Didn’t Expect Me To Spend My Time Reading The Bible, Did You?

Stay Tuned For The Exciting Conclusion To Untruth & Consequences!

¹Obviously they had something on me or they wouldn’t have been so horny for a conviction, it just wasn’t very much. The tactics used against me were similar to those used against minorities and poor people to keep them in jail for BS offenses. Unfortunately for the prosecution, those fuckers–to borrow a coinage from “The Orator President” George W. Bush–misunderestimated me. ∞ T.

Untruth & Consequences: I’m Tardsie, And I’m An Alcoholic Apparently

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by in History, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

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By Tardsie

The Potential To Be An Asshole Is Always There, But Whiskey Helps You Put It To Best Use. That’s Permanent Marker, By The Way.

Part 3 of 4: In which are observed new symptoms to the same regrettable behavior, a bottom is briefly reached, and alcohol is revealed to be the author of all my woes.

If you haven’t already, be sure to check out the first two installments in this exciting series, Don’t Forget To Hurt and So Much Love To Share. If you miss them, you’ll also miss out on your 72 black-eyed virgins in heaven, so there’s that to think about.

My second experience with counselling was no better than the first, but at least was under somewhat different circumstances–this time I really was on drugs.

Also, it was my idea. Sort of.

In a successful bid to be readmitted to college after my expulsion,¹ I undertook a series of actions to demonstrate that I had once and for all forsaken my libertine ways: I went to Alcoholics Anonymous a couple of times, where I gained a respect for the venerable organization, if not a desire to become a part of it; I placed an ongoing ad in my college’s paper advertising the school’s counselling service (a meaningless gesture which claimed the lives of a great many trees, but was nonetheless wholeheartedly applauded by the administration); and visited a substance abuse counselor–a very bad one as it turns out.

Yeah, I Had To Suck A Lot Of Dick To Get Back Into School.

When I came to the counselor I had reached a point where I was the most receptive to substance abuse treatment I have been either before or since. Ironically, in our short time together, this earnest acceptance was about the only thing in me she managed to fix. I arrived a humble, chastened man, ready to open up to the therapist about my chemical intake so that I could get the help I was beginning to believe I so desperately needed. I told her the story of getting kicked out of school, and of the behaviors which had led to it. I was forthcoming about my increasingly heavy use of psychoactive drugs, and didn’t varnish the truth, even when it was uncomfortable.

When I was done, she surprised me by saying, “Well, I think it’s clear that you have a real problem with alcohol.”

Like It Apparently Helped Her Forget That I Was Smoking A Shitload Of Weed.

Although it’s true that I consumed a copious amount of alcohol in my early college years, it had tailed off substantially, and hadn’t played a significant role in my problems with the administration nor contributed meaningfully to my expulsion. Helpfully, I said, “Well, yeah…But, you know–I really think I might have more of a problem with marijuana these days.”

Some of the air seemed to fly from the room. She regarded me as a few frozen seconds ticked by. “The underlying problem is your alcoholism,” she said, her words deliberate and painted with a fatalistic urgency, “And that’s what we have to address first.”

It’s When You’re Just A Little Bit Inclined Toward A Certain Notion Or Ideology.

A little more cautiously, I said, “Well, it’s just that I don’t drink very much any more, and I smoke marijuana pretty much every day, so…”

“It’s alcohol,”² she said, making it clear that not only was the issue closed for discussion, but that I had made an enemy. I saw her once or twice more and talked about my alcoholism. As with my previous experience, it seemed like the best thing for everybody would be for me to just stop going.

It’s Like I Tell My Kids–Being Honest Never Did Anybody Any Good.

However, writing this series has given me an opportunity to reexamine these events in my life beyond the degree to which I have already explored them. As such, I conducted a statistical analysis of my current alcohol and marijuana intake to see how the therapist’s theory plays out over the long run.

Over the past 30 days I’ve had 3 glasses of wine (2 at Killers Concert in Las Vegas 12.28.12, 1 on New Year’s Eve) at 5 ounces each for 15 ounces total, and 1.5 beers (1 beer on New Year’s Eve, split beer with brother-in-law on New Year’s Day) at 12 ounces each for 18 ounces total. Taken altogether, I’ve consumed 33 ounces of alcohol in the last month. Although I can’t peg my marijuana intake with that same accuracy, it can safely be claimed that I’ve consumed no more than 8 ounces of the reefer, less than a quarter of my alcohol consumption during that same period. Statistics don’t lie.

An Alcoholic Never Knows When He’ll Slip. Will My Next Drink Come In Two Weeks At A Super Bowl Party Or Two Months From Now? Sometime In Between? You Think About It, I’ll Smoke A Bowl.

In the final installment, I’m sent to someone who does me a little good. Be sure to join us when we revisit DRUG SCHOOL!

¹The expulsion was for LSD, a decidedly non-addictive hallucinogen that turns your brain into an eight-hour laser-light show. This fact becomes significant in light of the silliness which follows. ∞ T.
²And in hindsight, okay–yeah, I see what she was trying to say. I simply substituted an addiction to alcohol for one to the sweet, sweet cheeba, and that while there are superficial differences in the symptoms, the underlying sickness remains the same. While I don’t accept that as an absolute, I do recognize some truth in it. However, that knowledge was hard-won through years of living, so I’m not sure what was accomplished by the therapist going full OmegaBitch on me right out of the gate like that. A valid observation does fuck all good for anybody when it’s wielded like an ax. ∞ T.

Tardsie’s True-Ass Tales: Urine The Clear

11 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by in Crime, Culture, Science, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

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By Tardsie

They’re Pretty Much Infallible, You Know.

When you hear that somebody has passed a drug test, you probably assume the person is drug-free. It’s a reasonable assumption–the testing is scientific, impartial and totally reliable. I used to think so, anyway, until a time came when I had to take a drug test.

Technically, I didn’t really have to be tested, but my lawyer (and while it’s true that I’ve started in the middle here, I trust you’re more than capable of filling in the important elements of the backstory for yourself) thought it would be a real good idea for me to be tested to show the court that I was drug-free.

Dude, Do You Even Know Me?

I smiled patiently at him, like a father who’s just been asked a silly, but heartwarming question by his four-year-old child. “You know I’m gonna fail that test, right?”

His smile never wavered. “Call these people,” he said. He handed me a card for Pee-Testers International (the actual name of the company is being withheld in recognition of the great service they performed on my behalf).

My Memories Of That Testing Service Are As Warm As A Beaker Of My Own Urine.

Following his advice, I scheduled an appointment, and was somewhat buoyed that Pee-Tester International’s receptionist seemed to be on very friendly terms with my lawyer. Still, I was taking no chances, and procured some synthetic urine (yes, they really make that) to use in place of my own THC-infused urine. The specimen must be body temperature at the time of the testing, and since a buddy¹ of mine lived close to the testing center, I went there to heat my urine in his microwave and smoke bowls until the time of the appointment.

There were all kinds of wretched fuckers haunting the reception room when I got to PTI; I felt very out-of-place. It started to dawn on me then that PTI served two functions: primarily it was a legitimate (and accredited) testing service, monitoring the rehabilitation of parolees and drug offenders. But a smaller, unadvertised portion of its business seems to have been helping those who could afford it to beat drug tests for marijuana, which was illegal in Washington State until only a few months ago.

I Courageously Broke An Unjust Law That Was Eventually Changed. In This Way, I’m Very Much Like Gandhi Or Rosa Parks.

I had to wait a short while in the lobby, which made me nervous. The container of synthetic piss nestled in my crotch was still pleasantly warm, but was cooling with each passing second. I read a book while I waited. I did a good job of centering myself and holding my anxieties in check, but I was still relieved when they called my name. The practice, the preparation, the worrying–those things were in the past: we had gone live, and it felt very good to be getting on with it.

The counselor I spoke with was an attractive, empathetic woman who was maybe a couple of years older than I was. She was intelligent and well-spoken, but almost stubbornly predisposed–in spite of all evidence to the contrary–to see me as blameless. The only other person in my life to have made such a deliberate and herculean effort to so completely blind herself to my faults was my own mother.

No Matter What Kind Of Degenerate Shitbag You Are, Mom Still Thinks You’re A Gentleman.

“How often do you smoke marijuana?” she asked.

“Hmm,” I said, considering the question. “I don’t know–maybe six or seven times a year.”

“So not very often.”

“Hardly.” We both laughed.

“And when was the last time you used marijuana?”

“Oh, gosh,² let’s see…I think maybe last Christmas Eve.” This was mid-June. I’d anticipated this question, and had given it a great deal of thought in the previous days, as I had my response to it. It was a risky move, but I knew exactly the follow-up question it would generate. Most critically, I knew that my answer to that question would likely have a significant impact on the outcome of this evaluation.

Believe Me, Man–I Spent A Lot Of Time Doing Just That.

Her expression darkened, and took on a puzzled aspect. “But…you were cited for possessing marijuana just two weeks ago.”

I executed my line flawlessly. I laughed a little sheepishly and said of the incident earlier in the month, “Oh, I had every intention of smoking that pot,” I said,  “But I never got a chance!”

It was clear from the first that my gambit had been successful. Her face lit up and she laughed along with me. I saw that not only did she believe me (or had chosen to believe me, which amounts to the same thing), but that she appreciated my answer, like I was making her job a lot easier by telling her what I was supposed to.

Think Of Her How You Will, But She Was Very Kind To Me.

But her final question caught me off-guard: “If I gave you a urine test right now, would you pass?”

I hadn’t anticipated that, and it took some effort to keep myself from showing my cards in that age-old liar’s tell of repeating the question back to her: Would I pass a urine test? With so much on the line, though, I managed. I looked her in the eye and said, “Absolutely.”

Her conspiratorial smile was endearing. “I guess we don’t need to test you, then.”

It cost something like $450, plus another $20 for the fake pee I never used (and it’s really not something I wanted to keep around, y’know?), which was an expense I could ill-afford. Still, it was money well-spent, not least for the boost to my self-image which is with me to this day. When I look in the mirror every morning, I can be proud that the face I see looking back at me is 100% drug-free. Don’t believe me? I’ve got the test results to prove it.

I Consider Myself Not Just A Role-Model, But Also A Paragon Of Virtue And A Pillar Of The Community.

¹ The same guy, should you be interested to know, who some years before shouted “Where’s your dignity?” at hapless Rocky dorks.  ∞ T.
²Yes, for real I said “gosh.” In print it sounds silly, but I can make it work for me like you wouldn’t believe.  ∞ T.

Headlines: In Fact, Yes We Did

10 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by in Celebrity, Cinema, Crime, Culture, Entertainment, Headlines, History, Music, News, Politics, Science, Sport, Stupidity

≈ 33 Comments

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By Smaktakula

“Yes, Bonnie–Mr. Clinton Is Aware Of Your Article. But The Former President Is A Very Busy Man, And We All Think It’s Best If Maybe You Don’t Call Any More.”

In which we comment on the headlines of the day without bothering to read the articles.

***

Are You Coddling Your Grandkids? ~ If you’re not, then you’re a lousy fucking grandparent.

Survey: Chinese Opinions of Obama, U.S. Slipping ~ That’s got to be paraphrased. We challenge you to find a Chinese person who can correctly pronounce the English word ‘slipping.’

Fighting Boredom, Not the Nazis ~ Sure–it’s a lot less lethal for one thing.

India Is Becoming Pakistan ~ Do you mean that India is only pretending to be a US ally and that portions of its intelligence service are actively working to thwart Western aims? Or did you just mean that it’s crowded and smelly? Because that’s not news.

Why I Married a Black Woman ~ It’s a pretty safe bet that anything we come up with will be countered with a swift and unequivocal “OH NO YOU DI’NT!”

But We Didn’t Say Anything! We Just . . . Aw, We’re Fucked, Aren’t We?

Can Robots Bring Manufacturing Jobs Back? ~ For robots, yes.

Men who weren’t strong as boys are more likely to die young as adults: study ~ So weaker specimens are less likely to survive into adulthood? Has anyone told Charles Darwin about this?

HIV helps put girl’s leukemia in remission ~ Hooray?

NFL retirees more likely to have depression and cognitive problems, brain study … ~ And it’s not because they were sad, boring turds to start out with?

Learn Why Her Husband’s Death Convinced Linda to Retire Early ~ Because the sudden loss at last brought home to her the beautiful fragility of every human life, and taught Linda that to truly be alive, one must truly live. That and the massive insurance payout.

Which Is Why We Refuse To Buy Life Insurance. Our Loved Ones Shouldn’t Be Subjected To That Kind Of Temptation.

Humans Said Cheese 7500 Years Ago ~ According to Dictionary.com, the word appeared sometime around 1000 CE, so somebody’s lying.

Delayed 911 response a matter of geography and jurisdictions ~ Meaning, if you live in the ‘hood, better put some ice on that. It might take a while.

Prosecutors: Redmond man caught on tape raping dogs ~ The perp claims that the sex was consensual, and that when he asked the bitch how she liked it, she said ‘rough.’

Call Girl Culture: High-priced prostitution one of Hollywood’s dirty little secrets ~ Well, that may be news in Mayberry, Sheriff Andy, but it’s hardly a secret to folks who grew up wearing shoes.

Former Pirates owner tells Times he’s gay ~ As if hanging with all those pirates hadn’t clued us in a long time ago.

Even The Cast Of GLEE Playing Tetherball With The Teletubbies While Belting Out Showtunes On The Back Of A Pink Unicorn That’s Prancing Around A Maypole Couldn’t Outgay This Pirate Queen.

Alabama man fights to keep wife buried in front yard ~ Boy howdy! Does he EVER. But that no-good hound-dog of his won’t stop digging up Amy-LaVonne’s corpse and re-burying it down by the crick.

Ellen Degeneres Speaks Out Against “That Time of the Month” Jokes ~ Yikes!–sounds like SOMEBODY’s on the rag.

‘A sad day for people with disabilities’ ~ “But on the other 364 days of the year, I thank God that a Pepsi truck crushed my legs.”

Camp Pendleton works to save species in peril ~ Which was a challenge for the Marines, as what they mostly do is kill things.

The Space Shuttle Endeavour rolls along Crenshaw Drive ~ This just in–Space Shuttle Endeavour is missing!

Insurance Will Take Care Of Everything But Your Deductible, But You Can Forget About The Resale Value.

Teacher: ‘I wanted to be the last thing they heard, not the gunfire’ ~ “And to make sure they heard me over all the racket, I yelled ‘Bang! Bang! Bang!'”

Worried about Lady Gaga’s weight gain? Chill, she isn’t ~ Sorry, we weren’t listening. We were trying to figure out why Kirstie Alley sounds like Lady Gaga all of a sudden.

Mark Hamill weighs in on the future of ‘Star Wars’ — EXCLUSIVE ~ “They said they might let me sweep up around the set!”

Rolling Stones kick off 50th anniversary tour ~ The only thing those testosterone-drenched septuagenarians should be kicking is either a habit or the bucket.

The $250 Halloween treat ~ Cocaine!

Best Avoided: It’s Pretty Pricey, And Worse, Turns You Into An Asshole. Weed, On The Other Hand, Is A Lot Less Likely To Result In A Domestic Abuse Arrest. That’s All We’re Saying.

Suck It, Las Vegas!

01 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by in Culture, Entertainment, Music, True-Ass Tales

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By Tardsie

We Took A Road Trip To Las Vegas! Don’t Worry, My Wife Drove.

My wife and I recently got back from Las Vegas, where we saw the Killers in concert on Friday night. It was an awesome, once-in-a-lifetime performance by a band at the top of its game and comfortably on its home turf. Here’s a clip from that kick-ass show (the song stops at 1:37 because a fight breaks out, then starts up again):

So we had a great time, both in Vegas and on the trip there and back, in which I got to visit a new medical marijuana dispensary and my wife got to stop at produce stands. As usual, I employed my foolproof gambling system to break even (my system is that I don’t gamble). But I don’t want to talk about how much fun we had on the trip or all the great memories we made–I want to bitch about Las Vegas.

How We Love To Hate You. Don’t Ever Change.

Here goes:

This place calls itself ‘Sin City’ while managing to keep a straight face. Apparently, the whole of the ‘sin’ experience begins with blowing your kid’s birthday cash at the craps table and ends with walking down the boulevard with a beer in your hand. So while you can bounce your eyes in time with the silicate breasts of leathery showgirls, you can’t actually have sex with them. You can get liquored up enough to drunkenly piss away in a few hours what you’ve worked a lifetime to build, but you can’t legally smoke a joint.

I Managed, Fortunately. Thanks To Vegas’ Constant Reek, They Thought I Was Smoking Harmless Tobacco.

And talk about a genetic clusterfuck! I’ve been to places like Georgia, Poland and Omaha, Nebraska–so you know I’ve seen some ugly people in my time, but never so many collected in one neon-ringed exhibit. Whether you’re dodging blubbery slugs on mobility scooters or avoiding the gaze of the shaking hardcase with the the 8:00 AM bloody Mary, Las Vegas has the power to make you feel special for achieving nothing more than an associate’s degree and a set of at least thirty teeth.

We Go Where The Beautiful People Are.

People claim they go to Las Vegas to have fun. Have you ever watched people while they gamble? You’ll see more human expression from Keanu Reeves playing an Easter Island statue in a made-for-TV movie. The rows upon rows of people at slot machines look like junkies in a shooting gallery, continuing to fix long after any sensation is gone.

But At Least You Had Fun, Right?

And lastly, it was cold! It’s the fucking desert, why is it cold? The response I always hear is that it’s cold because it’s the high desert. Bullshit–I was high as a motherfucker, and I still froze my ass off!

We’re Only Kidding Ourselves. We Can’t Quit You.

Headlines 10.16.12

16 Tuesday Oct 2012

Posted by in Celebrity, Crime, Culture, Entertainment, Music, News, Stupidity

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By Smaktakula

Look, We Tried, But She Refused To Take It Seriously. She Kept Wanting To Play Charades.

 

In Which We Comment On The Headlines Without Bothering To Read The Articles

***

9 Reasons Why Being a Mom Qualifies You to Work in a Brothel ~ Well, obviously, you’re no stranger to cock. Let’s just get that one out of the way right now.

Egyptian President Morsi Rejects Previous Limits on Presidential Power ~ And if the rule of Hosni Mubarak taught us anything, it’s that those limits weren’t all that stringent to begin with.

Chelsea Clinton Exited Wall Street for More Meaning ~ Meaning an eventual run for office.

‎A Worksheet for Math-Phobic Parents ~ Don’t worry–it can be filled out in crayon. Just make your X when you’re through.

Elementary School Beauty Pageant Canceled Over Controversial Flyer Sent Home With Students ~ It was because of the flyer, though? And not ’cause it was a shitty idea to start out with?

Because Sexualizing Children Boosts Their Self-Esteem!

Apple cider prices on the rise ~ Golly! Whatever shall we serve our guests at this year’s Autumn Cotillion? 

Oorah! Marines around the world ~ Killin’ folks.

Gloria Allred — Barack Obama Says I’m One of the BEST Lawyers in America ~ Listen, Gloria–the man didn’t get to be president by telling people things they DIDN’T want to hear.

Neb. wildfires grow with help of strong winds ~ They burned clear through to St. Louis before anyone noticed.

Paul Ryan speech emphasizes ‘there’s no going back’ if Obama wins ~ Okay, normally we’re skeptical regarding allegations of covert racism, but EVERYBODY knows that ‘no going back’ means ‘black.’

Keeping It Clean at Burning Man ~ No easy task with all those filthy hippies running around.

With No Running Water, Improper Sanitation And Those People, It’s A Safe Bet Everything Smells A Little Bit Like Baked Crotch.

How to Stop Hospitals From Killing Us ~ We’ve gotta go with the Bush Doctrine: Kill them before they have a chance to kill us.

Remember Afghanistan? ~ It might be a little easier to forget if we weren’t still there.

Joy Behar: Honey Boo Boo will ‘grow up to be a big fat woman’ ~ Holy cow, Nostradamus! Yours is a very rare and precious gift–use it wisely.

Here’s Why Justin Bieber Likes to Prank People All the Time ~ ‘Cause he’s a little douche.

Cancer death rates predicted to drop 17% by 2030 ~ Suh-Wheet! That’s just about the time we’ll find ourselves in the “Red Zone.”

Kim Kardashian — Black Baby ~ Las Vegas oddsmakers have it at 3:2 currently.

Wait–Isn’t She The One Who Likes To Get Peed On? Shit. We Just Hope The Baby’s Mammalian.

Infants Left Home Alone Are Fine But Their Mom & Aunt Feared Dead ~ Well, we can guarantee that Mom & Aunt Patty have abandoned their last child.

T.I. Helps Save ‘Creed’ Frontman’s Life ~ Well, why the hell did he do a thing like that?

Piracy ‘boosts economy’ in Somalia ~ That’s because piracy ‘is the economy’ in Somalia.

Home improvement sales going through the roof ~ Well, just the money spent on roofing materials alone…

Mow Yard. Drop Off Kids. Take a Drive on Mars. ~ Check in at a reputable mental health facility.

Why is the Arab world so easily offended? ~ The reasons are multifaceted and heavily nuanced, but we can assure you that it’s not because they’re whiny little bitches.

No, We Said It WASN’T Because Of That!

Has Obama made the planet greener? Al Gore says ‘no’ ~ You must first understand, however, that anybody who actually gets to be president makes Al Gore pretty green.

Newborn giant panda cub dies at the National Zoo ~ Can war with China be far behind?

LA to consider multi-use library cards for illegal immigrants ~ Sure, why not?–it seems kinda pointless to deny them anything at this stage in the game. Well, we might as well tell them where we keep the good liquor.

Rihanna’s ‘Diamonds’ Single Art Will Make You Feel Insecure About Your Weed ~ Well, fuck her then!

5 Signs You Already Have Early Stage Alzheimer’s ~ Because Taft was simply a better president, damn it!

“No, If You Say You’re My Son, I Believe You. It’s Just That I Figured You’d Be Better Looking.”

Tardsie’s True-Ass Tales–Take Me Out To The Ballgame

12 Friday Oct 2012

Posted by in Culture, Sport, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

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By Tardsie

Relax, baseball-haters, the following True-Ass Tales are concerned less with what happens on the field, and more with shenanigans in the stands.

Inexplicably, My Wife Wore An Orange Shirt To This Game. Chivalrous Dude That I Am, I Said, “If You Get Stabbed In The Parking Lot, Don’t Blame Me!”

The Sweetest Beer–Safeco Field, Seattle, Washington

I guess you could call me a beer snob. I don’t drink much these days, but when I do, I prefer to drink something good, which means avoiding the mass-produced fermented goat urine flowing from America’s big breweries. Nonetheless, there have been exceptions.

Sometime around 2000, a buddy and I were at the newly-opened Safeco Field to see a Mariners’ game (I have since forgotten the opponent). One our way from our seats to the smoking platform we passed a concession cart. The guy running the stand was looking the other way, and without hesitation and before the vendor had turned back around, my buddy snatched a Miller Lite from the ice-filled cavity at the front of his stand. We kept walking.

When we got to the smoking area we lit up a joint and split the Lite. Despite it being shit beer in a plastic bottle, it was one of the sweetest brews ever to cross my lips.

I Want You To Know, I Wouldn’t Normally Do This Kind Of Thing.

Love Some Dodgers (LSD) or Man, I AM the Baseball!–Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles, California

One time in the 1990s, me and two of my friends, Earl and You Ho, decided to drop some acid at the ball game. The Pirates were in town.

Rarely have I been so fascinated by a baseball game. The span between each pitch seemed interminable and pregnant with promise, as if the whole of the nine innings or for that matter the season hung on the arc and velocity of that single pitch. We were in the nosebleed seats, just below the top ring of the stadium, and the angle seemed impossibly steep, and left us feeling the slightest shift in movement might send us tumbling down into the seats below.

The kids behind us were throwing popcorn, which streaked over our heads like flame-caught moths, surprising us afresh each time they burst past us and fell dying into vast and unknowable distances below our feet.

The drive home was a harrowing kaleidoscope: the sea of tail lights which are the city’s sclerotic arteries, looming, barbwire enshrouded green freeway signs and the lava-lamp face of You Ho as he piloted us through the night.

There’s Precedent. Look Up Dock Ellis.

Letting It All Out–Coors Field, Denver, Colorado

The last time I was at Coors Field was for a Dodgers-Rockies game.  My friend Tyrell got us seats in the club level, where instead of having to stand in the beer line like the unwashed masses, fresh-faced, uniformed attendants would bring the alcohol to us. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of entitlement, the altitude or my own by-then infrequent drinking habits, but I got drunk. Shitty drunk.

We were on the way home when the urge to hurl hit me with immediate, implacable force. I was in the back seat of my buddy’s truck, and although he was quick in pulling over, the vomit was quicker. It was all I could do to get my head out the window before I was spraying mile-high chunks. You should know, I’m a powerful upchucker–it’s all in the diaphragm. I continued vomiting out the window until we got back to Tyrell’s place, where I may have decorated his driveway.

As my (very forgiving!) friend discovered the next morning, I hadn’t been as successful at clearing the car as I’d hoped. The side of the truck, which Tyrell’s company leased for him, was spackled with dried sick. Worse though, I’d managed to get no small amount of the pungent sludge down into the window well, where it was trapped between the panels of the door, free to ferment unmolested.

The story ends happily, though. Tyrell not long after accepted a new job with a different company, who provided him with a new truck of which he was much more fond, not least because it smelled better.

They Still Probably Haven’t Gotten That Stank Out.

Don’t Write Checks My Ass Can–And Will– Cash–Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles California

Those of you who remember my buddy Dave Chen already know that he has a tendency to begin speaking long before his brain properly engages, and will have no trouble following the path of foolish decisions which resulted in a significant cash outlay for him and for me a torpid stupor of inebriation and satiety.

It began one day when for some reason Dave and I had been discussing stadium beer. “Those beers they have at Dodger Stadium are pretty big,” Dave said, “I’ll bet you couldn’t even drink four of them during a game.” Amazingly, Dave wasn’t joking, and soon we had a bet. If I could drink four large beers during a regular, nine-inning ball game, Dave would pay for all the beer I could drink (including the original four) and all the food I could eat. In the extremely unlikely event that I lost the bet, I would be required to pay for his food and drink. A little rattled by my obvious glee, Dave blundered further, insisting that I had to carry out the bet ON A FULL STOMACH.

Yeah, That’s Pretty Much It Right There.

The wager was consummated at a Giants-Dodgers match-up. The game was notable not only for the debut of future first-ballot Hall of Famer Dennys Reyes, but also because we were treated to one of the truly rare and pure sights in late 1990’s baseball, a Barry Bonds home run.

No, The Guy I’m Thinking Of Was Freaking Huge.

As you might imagine, I’d killed the four beers by the third inning and Dave was buying the beer & snacks for another six innings. I don’t remember too much about those later frames, but I do remember approaching a guy selling pizzas.

“I’ll take one,” I said, then jerked a thumb at Dave, “He’s paying.”

Without missing a beat, the guy said to me, “Then why not buy two?”

As A Child I Was Pelted With Ice At Candlestick Park For The “Crime” Of Wearing Blue. That’s Just The Kind Of People They Are.

LA: Separate, But Equal. Well, Separate For Sure–Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles, California

A couple of years ago my wife and I were at a ball game. In the parking lot, I was chatting with two Latino dudes. We were all drinking beers. I was surreptitiously smoking from a pipe I concealed in my hand, but as the other two dudes were smoking cigarettes, they couldn’t smell it.

Security pounced on us from out of nowhere. Officers split us up and spoke to us separately. My officer made me dump the beer (you can’t drink in the parking lot of Dodger Stadium), asked to see my tickets before sending me on my way.

As I was leaving, I saw that one of the Latino guys was getting arrested.

And It Loves Me! (And People Like Me)

When the Angels Were Cast From the Heavens–Anaheim Stadium, Anaheim, California

In 1995, I went to game between the Seattle Mariners and California Angels (as the Anaheim Angels were then called) which the Mariners won. On the way out, my girlfriend, a self-described “Newport Bitch” and lifelong Angels fan grumbled about the loss.

The Angels’ World Series Victory In 2002 (Tied With 2010 For WORST World Series Match-Up EVER) Came As Something Of A Disappointment.

“Come on, Kathy, the Angels are up twelve games,” I said, not needing to add that the season was growing short and such a deficit nigh-insurmountable, particularly for the until-then, luckless Mariners. “Can’t you just let the M’s have this one game?”

What neither of us could have known, however, was that this game proved to be the first spasm in what would grow to be one of the most spectacular–and to my thinking, delightful–collapses in baseball history (at the time I think it was #3), as the Angels saw their commanding lead begin to erode against a suddenly ascendant Seattle. The Angels and Ms ended the season in a tie for first place in the American League West, necessitating a one-game tie-breaker to determine the AL West Champion.

Oh, Hell Yeah, Man–I’ve Got It Framed And Everything.