Funniness Negates Wrongness
“So like a brown bear emerging from hibernation I’ll shake off the fuzzies, work on getting my motor skills back up to speed, take stock of my surroundings, and perhaps kill someone and eat them.”
Daryl Reaugh, Color Commentator for the Dallas Stars.
A man walks into a drugstore and asks the pharmacist for a pack of condoms. Paying for them, he bursts into laughter and walks out of the store. The next day he comes in again, again buys condoms, and again walks out laughing. Thinking this is somewhat strange, the pharmacist asks his assistant to follow the man if he comes back. Sure enough, the man comes in the next day and walks out laughing. This time the assistant goes after him, returning 20 minutes later.
“So did you follow him?” asks the pharmacist.
“Yup.”
“Where did he go?”
“Your house.”
*Wookiee for “Those are some nice breasts you got there, Leia!”
…for showing everyone your card number and epiration date…
Courtesy of the geniuses at Agence France-Presse
This weekend we celebrated the beginning of Oktoberfest, which inexplicably begins in September. Oktoberfest is a holiday invented by the Germans for the sole purpose of drinking mass quantities of beer…much like the Irish invented Catholicism just so they could molest little boys. Or something like that.
So, how does one celebrate Oktoberfest in Dallas? You could go to Addison, pay way too much money to listen to oompah bands and drink tankards of Lowenbrau, or you can do like we did and go to the Ginger Man Pub in Uptown and drink Franziskaner Hefe Weissen, eat bratwurst and nibble on pretzels.
The Ginger Man is our favorite Dallas pub and has, for the most part, usurped good old standby Rocky’s as our weekend drinking venue. Built in an old house behind the Quadrangle, it serves nearly 100 types of beer. There are also locations in Austin, Houston and New York City.
We arrived around 7:45…early enough to snag a table with a view of the entrance from which we could watch for particularly attractive women coming into the building. Unfortunately, something was apparently wrong…for as the night wore on, there wasn’t the usual bevy of hot, buxom young vixens coming into the Ginger Man. Oh sure, there were plenty of hot ones, but there seemed to be a rather large contingent of beasts. Fat, pink-wearing bitches waddling into the pub in search of food and beer. Once Mike and Liz showed up, we’d resigned ourselves to the fact that that night would be unproductive, so instead we resorted to drinking more.
There were probably a few funny conversations or something in there, but I was drinking and didn’t have the presence of mind to remember any of it. Or at least not enough to blog about. After calling it a night with the drinking, we elected to go to Taco Cabana on Lower Greenville…always an interesting place to go to just as the bars in the area are closing.
We weren’t disappointed.
We entered Taco Cabana to find a line of club-goers and barhoppers awaiting their turn to order–not an unusual occurrence at this time of night. In line behind us were a rather normal-looking guy, another guy with a shaved head and misfortunate sideburns and a plethora of piercings. They were joined by a short-haired, freaky-looking chick covered in unbecoming tattoos. As we stood in line, she remarked on ‘Shank’s deep blue eyes–commenting that they were “pretty”. Not all that unusual. But then she started talking about how she just wanted “non-committal, no-strings-attached sex”. Someone to fuck, apparently. She tried to drum up support from ‘Shank and I, saying “Am I right?” or something of the sort. I replied, “It’s the American dream…” to which she inexplicably–for the moment–rejoined with “Yeah, that and Hitler”.
What the fuck?
This was starting to get kind of weird. We ordered our food and quickly sought a table to sit at. As we were eating, freaky chick, normal-looking guy and misfortunate sideburn dude sat at a table near us. I gave her a looking over before saying to ‘Shank, “There’s why she liked your blue eyes so much–and probably appreciates your blond hair,” as I indicated the swastika tattooed on the back of her leg.
After eating, we walked outside, greeted by the sight of a tow truck towing away a car whose driver had obviously ignored the warning signs stating that if you parked at Taco Cabana and went elsewhere, your car was being taken away to some poorly-secured lot in South Dallas. As we watched the tow truck operator load up the car, swastika chick came outside to smoke a cigarette.
“It’s amazing how quick they come in to tow your car,” stated swastika chick, “they’re like roaches.”
‘Shank and I just kind of ignored her. For a few seconds at least. Then my mouth opened, beyond my control, and proceeded to say “Damn parking lot Nazis.”
‘Shank started laughing. I started laughing. Wondering if swastika chick heard me and wanting to avoid a confrontation, we quickly got into the Riflemanmobile and took off into the late-night darkness.
Afterwards, I wonder if I’d somehow offended her, by comparing high-class tow truck operators to her people, but then I remembered that the Nazis kill six million Jews, so I didn’t feel so bad.
A man is lying in a hospital bed with an oxygen mask over his mouth. A beautiful young nurse arrives to sponge his hands and feet. “Nurse,” he mumbles from behind the oxygen mask, “are my testicles black?”
Embarrassed, the young nurse replies, “I don’t know, I’m only here to wash your hands and feet.”
Struggling, he again asks the nurse, “Are my testicles black?” Finally, she raises his gown, holds his penis in one hand, holds his testicles in the other, takes a close look, and says, “There’s nothing wrong with them!”
The man pulls off his oxygen mask and replies, “That was very nice, but, are my test results back.”
One of my co-workers came in to work this morning, having apparently reinvented himself over the weekend as a metrosexual. What the fuck is that shit? To me, metrosexuals rank right down there with emo kids and hipsters…vile scum that need to be put out of their confused misery…saving the rest of us from their utter pointlessness at existing.
Okay, so you’ve got perfectly manicured nails, perfect skin, coiffed hair and nice shoes….you must also have tiny genitalia to cram them into those womens’ jeans you’re wearing there. You know what? You’re not cool…you’re gay. Oh sure, you might claim to be straight and to like women and their squish-mittens, but I’m fairly certain it wouldn’t take too much convincing to get you to suck cock. Right? I thought so, faggot.
And the thing about this guy is that before this weekend, he was what some might consider the epitome of masculinity…tattooed arms, a hunter…that sort of thing. He’s still got the tattoos, but they clash with his “new found” lifestyle. Look, either you’re one or the other…the only faggots that should have tattoos are those creepy leather-oriented biker-looking faggots that keep a can of Crisco in their saddle-bags just in case they have to fist someone. Tattoos and metrosexuality go together like logic and blind-faith. Even gay guys I know swear that metros are just extremely-closeted gay men…and I tend to trust gay guys on this sort of thing…after all, they have gaydar. And I respect uncloseted gay men a whole lot more than metros…at least they have the self-respect and the honesty to admit that they like sucking cock and taking it up the ass. Metros, on the other hand, are just ass-bandit wannabes. It’s simple, if you dress like Carson Kressley, you’re a faggot. And I’d respect you a whole lot more if you’d just come out and say, “Hey, I admit it…I’m queer. I like anal sex”. In contrast to metros, I have absolutely no problems with gay men…at least their honest and you know up front what you’re dealing with.
With metros, on the other hand, you never know when their going to jump ship and jump you.
On Wednesday, a minor stir was created when Reuters published this photo of a note written by President Bush to Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice asking about the proper protocol for excusing one’s self to go to the men’s room at the UN.
This caused us at SSW to wonder if there were other notes such as this that would give us an interesting insight into the inner-workings of the presidency. After all, the president must attend hundreds of meetings a year, so there must be a myriad of notes such as this.
We contacted our ace legal team and had them start firing off Freedom of Information Requests. A few hours later, notes started trickling in. Here are a few choice ones:
Cabinet Meeting, May 13, 2001
Meeting between President Bush, Secretary of State Colin Powell and Governor-General of Canada Adrienne Clarkson, February 25, 2003
Meeting between the President, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, April 23, 2003
Cabinet Meeting, August 14, 2004
Note left on Secretary of State Rice’s desk, July 17, 2005
Don’t you just fucking hate it when you sit down to hammer out some content for your blog and you can’t think of anything to say? I hate it almost as much as I hate Cockneys.
Of course, I didn’t start hating Cockneys until yesterday, but already the hatred has grown in me, festering like a infected toenail.
And what caused me to hate Cockneys? I work with one. And he’s annoying. And not just because he’s says things like “Corr!” and “Blimey” and “Guvnah”, but because he’s always into other peoples’ shit. Telling us how to do our jobs better, even though he’s a clueless limey bastard.
He’s starting to sour me on all of the English. Which is making it hard to listen to Radio 1 in the mornings and evenings whilst commuting. Also, how the hell am I supposed to run away and start a new life in London when I don’t like the English?
But I digress.
Truth be known, I haven’t had anything really wrong happen to me in a while. At least not wrong enough to blog about.
I went and saw “Nine Songs” with ‘Shank last week. That was interesting. Basically a concert film featuring groups like Franz Ferdinand, the Von Bondies and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club with some hardcore sex thrown in. It approached that line the separates artistic erotica from hardcore porn, but didn’t cross it. The most notable event at the theatre that night was when the Jewish guy working the box office said, as we purchased our tickets, that the characters in the movie “schtup like rabbits”.
I’ve finally broken down and starting writing a new book. I like writing…it’s relaxing and it allows me to create my own closure for things that weren’t given proper send-offs. I’m still editing/rewriting/fixing Moaner, but I needed something new to do. Besides, reading Moaner kind of depresses me now.
Oktoberfest starts this weekend in Munich (Munchy if you can’t pronounce München). We’re celebrating it at the Ginger Man on Saturday, so hopefully that will provide some content or something. Or maybe not.
Bah.
I hate it when I’m not creative.
On a side note, there was a repo man chasing a black woman through our office today…she was apparently several months delinquent on her car payments. Watching them run around, I kept waiting for that wacky music from the Benny Hill Show to start playing. You know…that music that always played whenever he’d chase the scantily-clad, nubile women with the feathered hair.
Alas, it didn’t play. And both the repo man (who bore no resemblance to either Emilio Estevez or Harry Dean Stanton) and the black woman (whose name I do not know) eventually disappeared.
Speaking of Emilio Estevez, whatever happened to him? The last thing I vaguely remember him being in was one of those stupid Might Ducks movies. And whatever happened to Joe Pesci? Used to be you could go a month without one of his movies coming out. The last thing he was in was Lethal Weapon 4…did he die or something? I think we would’ve heard if he had. The world would be a better place with another Joe Pesci movie.
Or probably not.
