Soda Jerks......Uggh

Found a kindred spirit out in the blogosphere, so I cut and paste a little something of interest. Because, seriously, who are these people who drink soda all the time, and can't we just ship'em all to an island?

"I’m finally off the Coke"

No, no, not that coke. This is a lot less glamorous, and less fun depending on one’s level of addiction. You, my friend, are rubbing shoulders with self admitted diet coke addicts everyday. The evidence is startling, something has to be done.

Consider Amanda Sanchez- a 29 year old working mother of two. Amanda admits to drinking at least 12 diet cokes a day. Diet Coke is her drug of choice. And once a week she shamefully goes to her local grocer to re-up, toting an extra buggy for those seven cases of Diet Coke. Amanda said she uses Diet Coke to “get her through the days.”

On a side note, it’s interesting how various media outlets like to give a little personal description of the person, much like the aforementioned 29 year old working mother of two. Who the fuck cares? I mean couldn’t you just replace that with 29 year old zilch? She’s a nobody. She’s getting ink for drinking 12 Diet Cokes a day, not for building a well in Zimbabwe as Robert Mugabe chases her around while riding a cheetah. Therefore I will revise the second paragraph.

Consider this zero, Amanda Sanchez. She drinks 12 Diet Cokes a day to keep her from crushing the left side of the menu at Taco Bell.

Amanda Sanchez

A Diet Coke lobbyist has stepped in on Amanda’s behalf, paying off the Immigration official in charge of her case. Her addiction has made Coca Cola Bottling Company recession proof.

Back to the lecture at hand, there are numerous reasons a Diet Coke addiction is formed. You have those who say, “I used to drink tons of Coke; decided I needed to lose weight, and switched to Diet Coke.” Classic case of transferring addictions. So dependent upon sugar and carbs (found in your favorite foods and abundant in regular Coke) you use Diet Coke to replace them. Now you’re slamming back 7 Diet Cokes to replace the 2 bags of Doritos, 3 Cokes and 3 snickers you would have crushed during “snack time.” Sometimes they slip up though. When I worked at a restaurant, I’d loathe these lard consuming disasters that would come in and order a bacon cheeseburger, fries and….you guessed it…a mf Diet Coke. Really? You’re making a healthy choice huh?

Secondly, there is a large contingent who have used to Diet Coke as a “healthier” way to fuel their caffeine addiction. Either too much coffee or a general distaste for the java family has driven many coeds to pick up Diet Coke in order to stay awake to study for the exam given by your professor who has 38 years of ear wax build up and suit jackets that belong on an AIDS quilt.

One blogger is quoted as saying, “Back in undergrad, my diet coke pace was around 6-8 cans a day and I quit cold turkey.”

“I quit cold turkey,” are we talking about heroin here? No, just Diet Coke, it's that fucking serious MAN. You do not want to get hooked on that stuff. Did you have the shakes when you were coming off that stuff? Get chills? Coming off a serious addiction is tough, ask James Frey for the honest truth.

Finally there is the learned addiction. Unfortunately this is a gender specific addiction. Women use Diet Coke to keep from eating, so they won’t get fat, so that people will like them. This idea goes hand in hand with the Parisian model that constantly smokes (and snorts various mind altering powders) to suppress her appetite, in order to appear totally emaciated for that next shoot. Fast forward two months and you have women all over the globe green with envy (seriously) when they see that very Parisian model in the new Christian Lacroix. But where o where is the addiction learned from? From dear old mum. When a teen sees mom invariably clutching that Diet Coke in concert with two skipped meals a day, she’s hooked. Not only does the young teen start to emulate the behavior, she also fits into the size zero dress that she borrowed from mom.

Ladies want to know, how do I get a body like that? Simple, more Diet Coke, bitch.

Folks, trade the no guilt, zero calorie, fizzed delight for a raging addiction if you so choose. But this whole Diet Coke addiction phenomenon has gone too far as far as I’m concerned. Its not really going to kill you or anything, it’s just weird. But I’m willing to help all of you fighting this epidemic. I’m taking a stand, I hope you will too. Ever notice how Diet Coke is always, and I mean always, capitalized? Its not diet coke, or Diet coke, its Diet Coke. Both first letters capitalized, which is almost as pretentious as those people who use an initial in their name (see M. Night Shyamalan, ps your movies are fecal matter). It has even reached Bill Gates; MSWord auto corrected my key strokes and capitalized both words. That tells me we’re putting Diet Coke on the same level as Monday, January and Queen Elizabeth. Choose for yourself the elements of style with which you choose to write, but I will no longer stand around

and give this can of enslavement the capitalized treatment it has forced upon us since 1982.

Take your can of zero calorie nothing and shove it up your fart box.

Stand with me in the fight against addiction and call it diet coke, all letters lower case.

This one’s for you Amanda:

diet coke

______________________________________________

Bravo!

"Hello Friend"

Well, hello. That was the subject from 1 of 132 junk emails I had in my email spam folder. Sometimes you have those days where you think, "No one's emailed me today? Nobody? People's internet connections must be down. Yes, that's it. They're trying to email me. They just can't. Or, maybe it got sent to my spam folder."

That mystery email you didn't get? You didn't get it because no one sent it. At least 99 times out of 100. There was the one time where I had been out to lunch at a Sticky Fingers restaurant and my friend emailed me with "Sticky Fingaz" as the subject. That one found it's way to the spam folder. Too lewd? Apparently so, for hotmail. But no, most of the time, it's just tons and tons of emails about a tons and tons of disturbing things (remember champion dong?) Mostly though, they're just about my tiny penis.

Here were my favorites today. Oh, and poor, little Emma Watson....what did she ever do to anyone?

Meet and Marry a Gorgeous Russian Queen
Well, Stephen does love vodka. But I'm not into that.

Your Watch Is In the Mail
Wait a minute. My watch, in the mail? And not on my wrist? Because, it looks like it's on my wrist.

Do you want to make out like an aerobics instructor?
You know, I'm not sure. I'm leaning towards no, though.

Energy to tear her ham wallet.
It just sounds like a crime, though I can't tell if it's about sex, food, or money.

Melt away those lbs. organically.
This has to relate to all that ham that I'm gonna tear up.

Dude, your snake sucks.
Bullshit. I don't even have a snake. But if I did, he'd be awesome and cool. Not suck. Though, maybe they mean Baby Snakes, my band. Now, they suck.

Famous Rapper Raped in Public.
I can't believe I haven't heard about this. Maybe it was reported in Source magazine and it's just a misspelling. That I could believe. "Famous Rapper Rapped in Public." Much more sense.

Where's your girlfriend?
Uh..work? Hopefully not with an aerobics instructor.

Gorgeous Diva Drunk
That gal who sits beside Simon on Idol?

Make your pecker glorious.
Not bigger, longer, or harder, but glorious. What a word to use.

So Easy to Be Bigger
Now, come on. This goes against organically shedding those lbs..

Make yourself a hero in her eyes tonight.
This sounds like some kinky sandwich action going on.

Emma Watson Acted Profligate
Now here's a word I don't know.
prof·li·gate (prfl-gt, -gt)

adj.

1. Given over to dissipation; dissolute.

2. Recklessly wasteful; wildly extravagant.

Reckless, extravagant? She is a superstar. And I should hope so, for what's about to come next.....

Emma Watson's Ass Destroyed
Aw, man.....well, that's what she gets for being wasteful.

The Road Warriors: Listen to this Shit

Not these guys....but, I do have a certain affection for Animal (right) and Hawk (left), aka The Road Warriors aka The Legion of Doom. Don't know'em? Umm...they're only the baddest guys on planet Earth when you're some age between 7 and 11. Professional wrestlers, spiked shoulderpads, facepaint, championship belts adorning their soon-to-be pot bellies, and the icing on this cake is the fact they their entrance music was Black Sabbath's Iron Man. Are you kidding me? What!

But no, the real Road Warriors are me and my carpooler. Pulling out of town at 6:40 every day sucks, especially when I'm driving, and the only good thing I can say about it, is that the road isn't very crowded.

But within our cars, there's a battle brewing. And it's not the battle over what music we force upon each other. I'm forever punished by Steve FM and she's punished by a cornocopia of off the wall goodies, that I keep at just the right volume. Just loud enough to hear, but not loud enough for either of us to enjoy, and probably extra annoying when you're unfamiliar with the material. Nor is it a battle of wits. She sleeps when I drive, I zone out when she drives. Convo is pretty minimal in the morning. And it's not even a battle between her nose and my sometimes stinky bar/life/unshowered aroma that I hope she thinks is some sort of Axe type spray. "Hmm...he must be wearing "Pitchers o' Pavlovs." Or is that "Eau d'Whig."

The real battle of this Road Warrior is between me and my bowels. Every. Stinking. Day. Zing!

I get up every morning and pee. And thankfully, I've been fortunate enough to have a nice steaming cup of coffee on the way to work pretty much every day for the past couple of months.

My breakfasts are small. Egg sandwich. Scrambled Eggs. Perhaps some cereal. Or maybe just a banana. Nothing extravagant. But usually my nights are a little more more on the wild side.

Who's aren't? 6 tacos loaded with cayenne pepper sauce? Check. 5 brewskis? Sometimes. Sriracha? My new best friend. El Buritto? Si, senor. 5 días una semana. And while I eat a measly spinach salad, pretty much every day at work, I even found myself dipping a piece of broccoli into a jar of pesto as I made my lunch a few nights ago.

So needless to say, I gotta go by the time I get to school. And by "by the time I get to school," I mean "about 20 minutes from school." And heaven forbid I eat Pizza Man. Turn that 20 into "as soon as I leave the house."

We all have our schedules. And I can't force the body to do things it doesn't like. I wish I could, but I'm only human.

So, every day, when she's at the helm, I get that twinge that makes me wanna scream, "FOR GOD'S SAKE GO AROUND THAT CAR!!! PLEASE!!!!!!! UGH!!!!!!!"

Or when I'm driving, I put both of our lives on the line, for the sake of her nose, my pants, and my dignity, and whip in and out of traffic like it's a race. Eat dust, y'all.

So, you can imagine my relief when we pull off at our exit. From there it's a 1.4 mile straight shot. No lights, no traffic, no nothing. Just sweet relief from the goose bumps and cold sweats that I've been living with for half the ride. So, as we pull into the parking lot, you think I'd be home free. Oh no.

Usually we're the first one's there. 7:25ish. The rule is to be there at 7:30. And I must follow the rules. Clock in on time, clock out on time.

For some reason, pehaps my work ethic or lack of interest, I don't have a key the front. But she does. So after she unloads her 6 bags of papers/binders/nolife, we start the journey across the lot. I'm solid during this part. It's when we get inside and the office is locked, I go into super panic mode.

I know that someone will be by to open up the office door and grant me access to the nice bathroom, sooner or later, so I just have to bide my time for a few more minutes. Stay busy. I slowly waddle down the hall and come into my room. Put my lunch in the fridge. Start my computer. Do a little dance to hold back the flood as I wait for that Novell screen to appear. An eternity passes. Finally. As my computer logs itself on, I scramble down the hall, and 9 times out of 10, someone's opened unlocked the office.

I fling open the door, and like a bull I charge to the bathroom. I've never once had to wait on anyone actually in there.

But sometimes, like today, there is no one in there. A dark office stares back and says, "I know. Your body has already put into motion what may not be able to be stopped. But I'm of no help. I can't open myself." At this point you'd think I'd go to the kids bathroom, right? Well, some people probably also think that it would be fun to try and eat a bowling ball.

So, on these rare occasions I walk back into my room, 30 yards away. Pace around a minute or two, and go back. Sweet, unlocked ecstasy.

Today, though. Wow. Maybe because it's April 1st. Maybe I wronged someone. I don't know. But as we came through the front door, I saw the dark, empty office. Breathe deep, grasshoppa'. Do the room ritual and head back down the hall. Not too fast, not too slow. Round the corner and see the lights on. Success! Gather all my muscle might and lurch towards the heavy glass door with both hands. "Outta my way, you pane in the ass!" I mumble as my hands make contact. But something's wrong. The door doesn't budge! My forwad momentum causes me to crash into the door, chest and face first, and lemme tell you, it's quite the feat to A) not fall down and B) not destroy my chinos.

I feel like I'm in a movie. This close from escaping a killer. Now I'm pressed up against the wall as he stabs me with a knife. Or like those people must've felt when Moses closed up the doors of the Ark. Helpless. Broken. My cold sweats have been replaced by proverbial streaming tears.

What to do what to do! What's that? In the distance, towards the back of the office something moves. There's a black man in there. Oh yes! Donald, our new janitor! Our old one died. He must've wandered into the hopper after moi. But yes, Donald, please walk faster. Come on homey, you're my height, you've got a bigger stride than that! I don't care why you're in there or why the door's locked, just get out of my way. "Yes, good morning, salam alaikum, my brotha," but move, dude.

Three minutes later, a new man leaves the office, ready to face the day. After this battle, the Road Warrior is ready to demolish anything that stands in his path. Boring co-workers, an apathetic audience, and even conversations about Rascall Flatts.

Until 7:02 tomorrow morning.

The Endorsement - Benji Hughes

I don't want to hear about what music you like and you don't want to hear about mine. I know. Nothing worse than someone forcing some lame-o tunes down your ear drum and going, "Eh? You like? Hmmmm?" Who can fake a response to that? I certainly can't.

But, I venture out on a limb here and offer you Benji Hughes. Thanks to a certain magazine (ahem), I got this album and have yet to stop bobbing my head, dancing in my car, and I can't make myself take this album out of rotation. Can't do it. Won't do it.

Benji Hughes', A Love Extreme, the debut double album, yes that's right, debut double album, is pretty irresistible.


Start with the album cover, itself. Wow. How high do you think he was?

And then, once you've digested that, let's look at the music. Let's say the singer from TV on the radio (how many are they? one? more? anyway...) meets Rivers Cuomo. They decide to go to a bar and they run into Wayne Coyne fresh off from doing something surely obnoxious. Theyall go to the bathroom together, run into Julian Casablancas from The Strokes, shooting up in one of the stalls, and decide to live a little and have a big orgy. They have a baby. That baby sleeps with Beck. Benji Hughes is born.

Sometimes music's just too serious. Too intense. Too full of itself. This isn't. It's not joke music either. It's not supposed to be funny. It's not Frank Zappa cracking crappy jokes over awesome music, it's awesome lyrics over awesome music. It's definitely not wrist slitting headphones music; Radiohead he is not, thankfully. It's not political. It's not a sad bastard hymnal. It's straightforward every day life stuff.

You got stood up for a date one time? So did he. At the Dairy Queen. Let him tell you about it. Like girls in tight tee shirts? Lots of people do. Benji Hughes thought it was important enough to let it be his lead song on his debut album. He wrote a song about playing his music too loud. About him wanting someone to fall in love with him. About going to a concert. Thank God. Who needs all the obscure, snobby imagery when people can just tell you what they're talking about.

He describes a womans lips, and says they taste like candy. "Like really awesome candy." Well, there you go. No overly poetic garbage there.

This guy's a keeper. And a fat ass. And sort of looks like a freak. But a keeper, indeed.

Your magazine is ass.

Unless it's this one. Esquire. Maybe there are some women's 'zines that are worth a damn, but I doubt it. Not compared to this one. It's the best read, hands down, start to finish, that you can find. And especially when it comes to men's magazines. Maxim? Gag me. Sophomoric soft core garbage. Loathsome. GQ? Zzzzzz. Men's Health. This reads like pretty much like it sounds. Boring as hell. Playboy? Pass. I'd much rather see one or two pages of an attractive gal, clothed(ish), than stoop this low. Details? Ironic name, fo sho. Here's a detail, a little islolated fact if you will, Details stinks.

Smarter than your magazine, funnier than your magazine, less pretentious than your magazine (I'm looking at you New Yorker), it's the king of the crop. There is none higher. Sucka magazines bow down and call it Sire. (white rapper shout out, what what.)

This magazine reads like a man wants to live. The clothes are a bit pricey, and yeah, I'll never be able to afford 99% of it, but that's just a tiny little bit of what makes this magazine better than yours.

When it mentions a film, television show, or album, it always picks something, smart, substantial, and solid. They have their own music awards, the Esky, the Dubious Achievement Awards, the Genius issue, George Clooney on every third cover, Scarlett Joe on every tenth cover, the "What It Feels" like issue (want to know what it feels like to be mauled by a bear? Need sex all the time? Survive a typhoon. Not feel pain? Read and find out)

And meat? My man, you want to talk about recipes? Gourmet food here, that's easy, attainable, and you don't have to sacrifice your dignity by having tofu instead of a marbleized, fat piece of red meat from heaven. There were over 40 pages a few month ago, just about steak. STEAK!

This past month had twenty pages on breakfast. Everyone loves breakfast.

Find out how to make the best cocktails, how to throw a punch, how to tie a proper tie. What books to read, how to be healthier, how to live life. Why would you want to buy anything else, when it's all written in this magazine, as if God himself guided the pens and keystrokes of these writers.

And lest we not forget The Rules. Here's one: Terrorists tend to have subpar AV equipment. They do!

Politics aside, how can you not like this passage:

Rahm Emmaunel. Oh, he's an asshole. Emanuel's boss has the world's most charming smile; Emmaunel has a sliced off finger. Obama says there are no red states and no blue states; Emmanuel likes to stand on tables and holler "The Republicans can go fuck themselves." Obama is "yes we can"; Emmanuel is "Yes we are doing it right now so why don't you piss off. He also once sent a dead fish to a pollster who displeased him and has said of himself, "I wake up some mornings hating me, too." The guy's like a character out of an Elmore Leonard novel.

We've all read the news. We know who Rahm Emmaunel is. But now, I care, you know?

This magazine even made the cover story about Ben Affleck seem like pulitzer material. Not an easy task.

So, pile up your magazines you've got on your coffee table, toss them in the recycling bin, and live free. Live big. Live like you read Esquire.

Overheard (unfortunately) At The Office

Yes, you hear many things at work. Some more disturbing than others. For example, here are some of the things that I've had the pleasure of hearing recently.

On Politics

"Is it AIG or AGI or whatever they're called? They get bonuses for being bad, but we might not get'em for being good. That ain't right folks."

On Co-workers

"That damn motherfucker needs to get the hell out of my office, he won't shut the fuck up" (mumbled under the breath)

"I've worked here over twenty years and that fucking son of a bitch can't remember my name last name during a meeting. Fuck you, buddy."

Oh Really?

"Well, I don't think anyone around here respects me." (said as he tries to to wipe off tomato soup stains that happened to dribble down his shirt during lunch)

Context Free Highlight

"Well I came home and after 14 hours, there was diarrhea everywhere. And then, after that, vomit!"

On Sex

"Well, if a sexless marriage means having sex less than ten times a year, then I've been in a damn sexless marriage for over 20 years."

"I mean, if I'm 17 or 18, and some hot, or even sort of good looking 23 year old wanted to mess up the sheets with me, well buddy, I'd be all over that."

"I'm fat. Hell, my wife's fat. Imagine both of us rocking and rolling, fat flying everywhere. Once we get moving, it's not pretty."

"It's kind of hard to, you know, be with your wife when you've got teenagers in the house. I mean, we can't exactly both fit in the shower anymore."

"Yeah, they apparently were doing some of this" (at this point he makes a hand gesture that I'll lead you through: Take your left hand and put it as if you're making "prayer" hands, vertical, out in front of your chin/chest. Take your right hand, and place it at a 45 degree angle, pointing down with your palms together. Curl your right wrist back, so that you've placed the very bottom of your right palm and beginning of the inside of your right wrist into your left palm. Then sort of clap, in a gross, this-is-what-sex-is-like sort of way. You know you're doing it right, when you're audience shudders and winces. Feel free to make noises if audience isn't getting it.)

On Pop Culture

"American Idol? No honey, I watch Biggest Loser, Dancing with the Stars, and Celebrity Apprentice. That's it."

On Literature

"I don't really read books."

On Movies

"I mean, who has heard of any of any of the movies for best picture? I guess I know what that slumdog one is, but I've never heard of any of the other ones. What did I see this weekend? He's Just Not That In To You. It was great!"

On Music

"I haven't heard of a single band you just named. But I do like Savage Garden. My wife got me their greatest hits."

On Fine Dining

"You absolutely must try Mellow Mushroom's tortilla soup. It. Is. To die for."

"I don't know nothing about almonds slices or little nuts or whatever was in those green beans. I don't like that."

S'blog....worse than smog, no doubt.

Just got back. Pretty much a perfect ride. Stopped....wait, here we go, bullets ya feelits?

• Packed a bag consisting of all the fun I could muster, such as
  
• long sleeve tee
• frisbee
• water (fiji)
  
• ooowee
  
• b-w-
  
• book, "on the road"
  
• how could I go wrong, right?
• hatchell, brian had already had a message left on his ass
• hop on and take off, stop by jordans and chill for a few
• cut through Greek Village GV to end up coming down Greene
• Talked to mike while packing outside Wardlaw (school of EDU)
• forgot lighter
• went to new DCP, which is where Java Joe's was beside moes
• weird
• bought lighter, cruised where took pics with miles, celia and holly
• scoped out the seen, took, held that sheeet in
• hoped on the bikeski and headed to the shoe
• at the 'shoe, two "straight my ass" dudes in law school talked about some inane shit. tax returns, how one's not dating anyone (cuz yer gay, homey) how one is down to 170, looking to tighten up the pudge and get a 6 pack, while the other one says "nah, keep the pudge, who wants to do all that?" True, brother! They were tossing a frisbee like a bunch of noobs, but at least they knew some moves. Hammer, flick? no flick? maybe, def hammer though. reg style....backhand?
• Stared at a few folks all blazey daisy
• talked to Stephen for about 20 minutes about his upcoming party, our awesome party we just had (cels and me), bryan hatchell, Real world season 3 and 2, puck, pedro, -----'s intelligence, reno, rita's bluebird breakfast, robert, tracey's drinkin' .....all fun stuff
• Hoped on the bike and rode the campus, down to Jimmy Johns
• Turkey Tom #11 (Ham, turkey, lettuce, tomato, mayo on franch baguette) + extra mayo (no wonder I can't tie my shoes without losing breath anymore) add sprouts (to balance out the pounds of mayo?)
• Salt vinegar chips
• water to drink
• was superb
• seriously the jam
• avoided chris horr (i think, maybe it was a chick) nina and baby einstein on the way out
• they were at goats
• i went to adriana's ran into travis, snooze, red gave me an espresso, mr. mo creme i was, grabbed a free times went out front and sat at a table with an ash tray full of smokes and a STATE paper, and thought, I'd look cooler at that table. I sat down and felt like a hipster doofus goof ball jerk
  
• Sat there and read ron what'shisnames ron aiken yes his sideline report
• i feel as if i'm typing like cormac mcarthy wrote in No Country For Old Men
• no punctuation
  
• maybe just a few of the sentences
• as I sat out there, Baldness Bob from Papa Johns the Baldness Band, Papa John'sWTF? Papa Jazz, geeze. Papa Jazz, the Baldness and believe it or not Tavern on Greene, saw him (he was at the party and took a papa jazz frequent customer card that I had on the mantle and promised to drop it in the mailbox. only talked to him once. ever. see him, he goes, I've got something for you. Handed me the card! Awkward talk for a minute, handshake, and glad you made the party goodbye.
• Went back and got my bike from goats, saw a woman now with nina, but not the same woman aka chris horr from before, and avoided them again and rode on home.
• stopped on top of the crosswalk with a pretty sunset. ultimate frisbee, soccer and people generally being beautifully collegiate down below. I snapped a couple of pics of the panorama-ic world around me and then a few of me doing that thing everyone does when they've got a digital camera, holding it out and staring at it....
• Until my big gapped tuskers kept ruining them and I gave up.
  
• tried a little video of the ultimate though, before riding home
• heard vampire weekend playing from this one frat house, where I've also seen them playing instruments on the deck, and remarked "I love these guys" (see, A, you're not gonna see punkers at a house that nice, B, playing music that good, and C, being at that very house because they're getting an education.
• Down the way, I went, coming out of the GV, see a huge freaking appropriately named Great Dane. I swear, it would've dwarfed a pony. It could stand flat footed and piss in the back of a pickup truck. huge!
• then saw a dude with "wheelies" running with this miska looking dog, and thought, "Wheelies? Damn, that dudes in his 20s"
• and finished up here at the house, successfully not yet trying to finish the rest of that potato salad in the fridge
• it is a pretty small amount though
• put on a playlist and have heard don't you evah, phone went west, a beatles twist and shout, Phoneix's Amadaus Wolfgang, among others
• "among others" is code for can't remember anymore.
  
• g'bye

White Rapper Show

Yes, I often find myself sucked into reality TV. It started with the second Real World, with Beth the bitch, Dave the comedian, John the Virgin, Dominic the Irish drunk (go figure), Aaron the surfer dude, .... and that black girl that got the cover ripped off of her by Dave. There had to be someone else....true story of Seven strangers and all..


(Runs to wiki)

Okay, the black gal was Tami and the apparently, so-boring-I-forgot girl, was Irene. Now I remember.

Not bad for not seeing the show in close to 15 years. But I followed this show as it got worse and worse, more outlandish than ever before and to the point where even today I'll zone out to watching the Tranny in NY talk to the "not gay" Mormon while the Iraqi War Vet offends all.

So, even though Survivor blasted the genre a new ass, another addiction, it wasn't my first fix.

One of my favorites of the hundreds of reality shows that came out recently was The White Rapper show. It's pretty much what it sounded like. And old washed up MC, named MC Serch ala Third Bass fame has these wig....um....wannabe rappers compete with each other for the chance ... blah blah blah. Details aside, much joy and hilarity ensued for me.

Others around me weren't as thrilled as I rapped and rhymed my way through life for about three weeks. Much to many chagrins, I'd rap all the time,

Morning:

"You want some eggs?
Then get off ya legs.
Come into the kitchen
Maybe some help instead of bitchin?"

Noon:

"The sun is at it's highest
I am at my fly-est.
A mid day snack,
A sandwich I'll attack."

Night:

"The sun's now down, the stars are all out
My skills are getting bigger, my swagger's full of clout.
I gotta hit the hay, it'll soon be morning,
I'll hit'em with an A.M. rhyme, all surprise and no warning"

I couldn't help it. But then I felt my considerable skills started to diminish as soon as the show ended. Oh well. While I was inwardly crushed, I'm sure I was alone in that.

But today, I had to dust off the proverbial gold chain, Kangol hat, and Adidas jumpsuit. I had a friend in need. Some kid I know that works at McDonald's (thank god for that place, or this blog truly would be ass) is in a talent show with two other kids. The three of them, Rashad, D. Jennings, and some kid with the last name Tribble, are making some beats and gonna throw down some rhymes. I looked over at poor Rashad, and he looked like he was blocked.

To the rescue I came.

I cranked up the mic and put a show on, and even without the help of The White Rapper Show as constant inspiration, I felt I did alright. He even asked for a copy. Royalties, y'all.

"My name is Rashad and this is my rap.

A first place club-banger, don’t give me no crap.

With my man, Big Tribble and my boy D Jennings

It’s only a matter of time before we bring home the winnings.

Yo Yo Yo that’s right.

This here rap? Man, it’s so tight.

Yo Yo Yo man, that’s the ticket

Words flowing out like water from a spigot.

I work at McDonald’s, and I salt the fries.

The way I spit rhymes, you better cover your eyes.

Cause I’m hot, my fire, it’s not a lie or a fib.

Excuse me sir, would you like to supersize the McRib?

Supersize my talent, I got it so good.

Super smash your ego, I crush it like food.

1, 2, 3, it’s me, Dave and Tribble

We beat you like Kobe, beats you off the dribble.

We rap, we rhyme, we’re the dopest of the dope.

When you go against us, you’re at the end of your rope.

Because I’m the king, the best, and you’re just a little boy

“Yes old Lady, the happy meal comes with a toy!”

I smash my rhymes like I smash the Big Mac

You’re just like the whopper, played out and whack.

Our nuggets are white meat, though our skin is darker.

We’re the big biters, and y’all just the barkers.

Like a little tiny puppy, you whimper and cry.

When we get through rapping, you’ll wanna die.

I gotta finish up, I’m in sort of a hurry,

I’ll cold as ice, just like a McFlurry.

Yo Yo Yo that’s right.

This here rap? Man, it’s so tight.

Yo Yo Yo man, that’s the ticket

Words flowing out like water from a spigot."

Spam

I'm no snob. I'll do it all. Pound pitchers at Pizza Man, sip wine at Friendly's, eat gas station hot dogs, and pay 18 bucks for two seared scallops.

(Confession1 : I do like Publix more than other grocery stores. But it's really more for the selection than avoiding the gross, poor people at BiLo and places of similar ilk.)

So yeah, I'm up for anything. Even Spam. It wasn't necessarily a staple growing up, but I've eaten my fair share of it, and its cousin Treet.



(Confession 2: For some reason, my family chose not to buy Spam, but went with the off brand competition, Treet. I'll let you decide if that's a misleading name.)

I've always felt the same way about Spam that I do about bologna. I'll eat it, but I prefer it fried. Use the cool little key to open it up, wash the nasty gelatin off of it, slice it thin, toss it in a pan while you slap some (and by some I mean a wretchedly absurd amount) mayo and mustard on some bread and you've got a sandwich that rivals most.

But you start talking to people, and at the mere mention of spam, you get squished faces of repulsion and disgust when you tell them that you like it. You would have thought that you had confessed to going to that dirty Kroger with the shoddy lighting over on Forest Drive. ::Shudders at the thought::

They say things like, "You like spam? I bet you eat those little Vienna Sausages too. Well, I have. Right out of the can. But in my family, up until I got to college, I was raised to believe that it was pronounced Vyiener. Like Vye (rhymes with eye) + wiener (minus the w). Small town much?

So you can imagine my delight when I had my first taste of Turkey Bacon. We all like bacon, but it's certainly bad for you. So, with some arm twisting, I fried up some turkey bacon one Sunday morning and as it laid there in the pan, doing all the things that real bacon doesn't do when you fry it, I was thinking, "Surely these food scientists can make this taste like real bacon. I'll never know the difference." So I scoop up those little limp strips of health consciousness and take my first bite and it certainly did taste like something familiar.....but not bacon.

Like fried spam! Yes, the same fried spam that all the yuppie people I know hate. This 5 dollar pack of healthy turkey bacon tastes like an 89 cent can of heart stopping spam. Crazy. So now, I only really think of spam when I'm eating turkey bacon. Until today. When I had some of that other kind of Spam.

I used to use hotmail, I got tons of junk mail. Spam, if you will. I've been a Gmailer for a while and, with Gmail, 99.9999% of spam goes straight to my spam folder and I never see it. But today one got through. And I'm so happy it did.

From "Vernon."

And the subject is: Get Champion Dong 108

That's right, I, Mike Gregs, can get champion dong. And not just any champion dong, but champion dong 108.

I googled the word dong and didn't like what I saw, but you can probably guess. The only non-breakfast churning dong I could find, that was indeed a champ, was this guy.

(I guess "SUESKF" must be Japanese for "dong.")

But he looks a bit taller than 108, which I'm going to guess as being centimeters. So, that can't be what the email was talking about. It's gotta be the former. So, 108 centimeters, that puts you at a 42" dong, which is close to 4 feet. That's a Champion Dong in my book. Who knew the metric system would come in handy?

Spam. Nice to see you again, old pal.

Who's worse? It's hard to say.

No it isn't. It's really not. Above, you have Exhibit A, Frat Boys. Down below, Exhibit B, Punks.
The above Punks are what you'd probably call "Crusty Punks," even though we'll toss in these guys, Exhibit B 1/2, into the mix. A little less crusty, these Punks are something like a cross between a CBGB loving, power cord playing, skinny jean wearing, Rock and Roller, or something. A Ramoner, if you will.
So, even though we've got two subsets of "Punks," I'm gonna lump'em all in together.

The Fratty vs. the Punker.

I've had my fair share of run-ins with them both, and as someone who's gone to USC, been to business school, worked in a coffee shop, been to NBT, ridden a Tall Bike, and seen Widespread Panic, I feel like I've had adequate opportunities to make the call on who's the most loathsome.

Just recently I've been threatened with a beat down for riding my bike through Greek Village from the Fratties and almost had a party ruined, my iPod stolen, my nostrils irritated, and my appetite ruined by the Punks.

They're pretty similar groups, really. Lots of group mentality thinking, with a healthy dose of looking down on you, because of the you're-not-like-them feelings poured out. They both run in packs, whether it's tall bikes or SUVs. They make regular people feel uncomfortable when they show up. You wouldn't be surprised if either group tossed a brick through your window, whether you show up to the ATO house with a SigEp bumper sticker, or you tried to get a parking spot on State St.

So, while opposite ends of the spectrum, at first glance, their similarities make them about equally despicable.

We know all the cons of both. It's the 45 feelings that rush through your being when you spy'em out in public. I could go on all day listing why you should hate them. And you should. No matter what I say from here on out, let me state for a fact, that it is perfectly acceptable, and encouraged to hate them both, so don't forget that.

But let's list some of the pros. The good of each group. This will be a harder, and ultimately much shorter list to create.

I'll start with the frat guys. And remember, this is the group who just recently stood on the porch of their big frat house, asking my "gay ass" if I had "beef", and if my "fag self" wanted to "step up" and fight all twenty of them. This queer passed.

1. Croakies - For starters, this is sort of unfair because Punks don't really go outside and when they do, they're not really outside long enough to warrant shades, but my goodness, who doesn't appreciate the Croakie? I wouldn't recommend or wear them all the time, but when you're at the river, or outside all day, you gotta love'em.
2. Music - I'd much rather hear some DMB, Phish, Bob Seeger, even Panic over someone screaming about slaughtering lambs, making just the worst racket ever squeezed into a 1 minute and 34 second ditty.
3. Yes, their father got them the job, and it's a better job than yours, making more money, better parking spot, more vacation days, but Frat folks do hold down jobs and contribute to society.
4. If you ever have the pleasure of running into some Fratters that you actually like, out at a bar or something, you're more likely to have them buy you a drink than a punker, who is more likely to ask for a sip of yours and put a drink on your tab while you're taking a piss.
5. They smell like they've showered.
6. They wear clothes that sort of fit. Short shorts notwithstanding.

I'm sure there are more. (No I'm not.)

On to the Ramoner Crusty Punkies:

1. ::crickets chirping::

Seriously. I tried to think of something. But, you know, they're ugly as sin, smell like an armpit, don't have jobs, are white as sheets, play in the worst bands, don't tip, cause me to double-take and attempt to figure out if I'm looking at a guy or girl, have the worst facial adornments (plugs, steel, bone) all through their eyes, lips, and noses....and the hair! Holy smokes, what the eff are they thinking? Sort of mohawkish, Betty Page style, dreadlockly, shaved mullet amalgamations. The pits, man.

So you see, it's really not that hard of a choice. If both are hanging off a cliff, and you absolutely have to save one (in a best case scenario you could stomp both sets of hands), I think it's easy to see that you'd have to don some seersucker and help out the fratty in need. Because saving the punk, I mean, you might as jump off the cliff yourself.

Sign of the times

hey bro, can i get that extra crunchy?

the McGangbang - Making fatties fatter

You know McDonalds. You love McDonalds. You love sweatpants in public. Right? If so, the sandwich gods have turned their gaze your way, because a new sandwich fad is here: the McGangbang. Mouthwatering, no?

Like it's classier, friendlier, cleaner, hettier left coast In-N-Out Burger brother, McDonalds is now offering you the chance to order something from their soon to be not-so-secret-menu, ala "Yo man, make them fries animal style!"

Ask yourself, "What's better than polishing off a double cheeseburger, then pounding on a McChicken?" Nothing, right? Wrong. Enter, The McGangbang. An exercise in frugality, determination and American engineering, it's a sandwich made from a double cheeseburger and a McChicken sandwich — where you put an entire McChicken sandwich inside a double cheeseburger. And for the low low low price of $2.16, well, say goodbye to buttons and zippers and hello to elastic.

Be warned. When ordering one, the kidz at McD act like they don't know what you're talking about, but they know. Trust me. I work with them. They have to play dumb. They're just trying to protect the secret language and save this marvel for the hip, cool, in-the-know crowd. So when Rashad looks back at you and responds as if his manager were not in the back room wondering where he went wrong in life, but is quietly suppressing this depression next to the always broken McFlurry machine, says, "I'm sorry sir, but that doesn't appear to be on our menu," just look him in the eye and say, slap your hand down on the counter and go, "My man, maybe you didn't hear me, I asked for a McGangbang." (It helps to wink) It also helps to go in at off peak hours. The slower the work, the higher the kidz.

In no time, your order is ready and your day is made. (and ruined?)

If you're feeling extra saucy, ask for the Unprotected McGangbang, it'll come with the spicy McChicken and a healthy dose of regret.

McGangbang'd!

Rebounds and Free Throws? Who needs'em?

Why would you worry about either one of those when you're playing for an SEC east title? At one point, Carolina was down 12 points with about 10 minutes to play. Free throws missed: Eleven. (Where's that kid from Almost Famous to scream, "ELEVEN!") And the rebounding totals? Them, 40. Carolina, 19.

Those stats are ass.

Free throws? Rebounds? Nah, who needs'em?