Thursday, October 21, 2010

Yes. That’s Exactly What I Was Going For.

If pretentiousness is a prerequisite for “success” as an artist, I can’t wait to continue this ascent up the mountain of failure. Firstly, I don’t use the word “swaray”, nor do I spell it “soiree”; only pretentious people spell it correctly. If your dinner party is serving cavyare and expensive shampain, I’ll do my best to impregnate those sexy fish eggs right in front of you, and start a game of beer-pong with that over-priced bubbly shit that you’re sippin’. By the way, a flute is a musical instrument (that you probably have someone playing live at your swaray) not something you use to drink. And quit smelling your drink. It’s a called a drink. Drink it.

I never stroke my chin when considering a piece of art/writing/music, unless it's to purposely smell the nicotine on my fingers to distract me from the odoriferous stench of flower infused cat-piss that everyone has dabbed on their neck and wrists. Nor do I indulge in conversation of art critique. You either like it, or you don’t. No need to spew endless “knowledge” of this and that technique. I appreciate the passion, but, more often than not, the sincerity is lost in the elitist masterbatorial tone.

I don’t care how much success you’ve had as an artist, never name your child after your favorite artist, city or another last name, i.e. York, Paris or Sloan. If you’re going for a wholly original name, I much prefer something along the lines of the ghettofied yet strangely Spanish sounding DeShawn or LaRay. Or, the completely tactless Dillinger. But to name your kid after your favorite herb- Sage? I just puked on your flautist. And don’t tell me that Sage is the Greek meaning of a man who has attained wisdom. That’s not the first thing that comes to people’s mind when they hear sage. If you think otherwise, then you’ve proved my point.

I hope to never look “smashing” or “dignified”. I prefer snot-dripping belly-laughs as opposed to shallow guffaws. I’d rather break-dance your fox-trot. If you like my art, I prefer you down a handle of whisky and pass out screaming, instead of lipping a mimosa and giving an opera clap that you can’t even hear because you’re wearing shoulder-length gloves in the middle of summer. Comfort over fashion, daaaaaling. If someone asks what you do, be specific—like a painter, sculpter, musician or writer. Never refer to yourself as an artist. It makes me queezy.

Lastly, there is nothing more pretentious than a bitter artist who hasn’t found “success”, and has nothing better to do than to write about and disgrace those who have. Fuckers.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Cheetos & Prostitutes

I was cycling home from work the other day and I saw this prostitute on the corner ahead. As if the idea of getting intimate with a hooker (can I call it intimate?) wasn’t tantalizing enough, this one was gorging her hole (mouth) with a bag of Cheetos. She started hollering something as I was approaching, and since I was the only one within ear-shot, she was obviously hollering at me. To avoid her, I tried to get to the opposite side of the street, but there wasn't a break in the on-coming traffic. To make things worse, there was a decent incline in the street that slowed me down considerably.

My plan was simple—avoid eye contact and keep cycling. Though, just like a pedophile near a playground, I had to look. She was wearing a raggedy, tight White Sox jersey that had been cut off so high that her mammaries were hanging out. Pancakes. Her spandex cycling shorts were so tight that her camel was giving me the middle finger. Which is strange since they only have two toes. Cheetos orange made up her face and fingers.

As I cycled passed, she screamed, “Hey sexy white boy! You want some fine chocolate milk?” She’s quite the talent, as she obviously read my mind and discovered that I indeed had a craving for chocolate milk around lunch time. Fortunately, that craving had passed, and the milk that she was offering was probably way out of date. Poor lady. Maybe I just care too much about Small-Business-America, but how does she expect to get any clients with her face and fingers covered in Cheetos grease? I thought about stopping and offering her a wet-wipe (yes, I occasionally carry wet-wipes. I’m a dog-walker. Lots of dog poo), but maybe her clients have a cheetos fetish? Crunch and wipe lady. Crunch and wipe.


It was sweet. Some of it hit the hardwood. Didn’t matter, she was sweet. Sugar high. Come-down from hell. Hardwood for weeks. Stepped upon. Spoiled. Thrown away.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Keith Olbermann and Rush Limbaugh Join Forces in the Name of Shepherds
The two loudest talking heads from both sides of the political isle are now holding hands. They’ve come together to protest against the sheep herder, Aladin Alejandro O’Neil—born in Afghanistan, raised in Mexico, currently residing in Ireland.

Olbermann and Limbaugh are up in arms that O’Neil is starting a world-wide petition to change the name of his profession from “Sheep Herder/Shepherd” to “Sheep Farmer”. O’Neil says, “What a load of bullocks. Sheep Herder and Shepherd are such outdated names for my life’s work, comprende?”

While O’Neil was in the states to meet with the national media outlets to promote his cause, I got a chance to have lunch with him. I told him that Limbaugh said, “This O’Neil fellow is a charlatan. The only reason he wants to change the name of his profession is because he hates his country and wants to be like the French shepherds.” Then Olbermann said, “The reason O’Neil wants to change the name of his profession is because he wants to start a corporate business to consume all the helpless mom and pop shepherds.”

O’Neil responded, “I’m not a sheep herder. I’m a sheep farmer. I farm sheep.” He finishes his burrito, “Aren’t those who farm cattle called cattle farmers? I’ve never heard of anyone making a living from being a cow herder!” He takes a chug of his Guinness and continues, “Wikipedia defines Shepherd as-- a person who tends to, feeds or guards sheep, especially in flocks. The word may also refer to one who provides religious guidance, as a pastor.” He takes a bite of his poppy seed muffin, “I honestly don’t know why Olbermann and Limbaugh are upset with me. It’s not like they're shepherds or something.”

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Who farts, then immediately raises their hand to claim responsibility?
Excuse you, Osama.
But really, Osama, why do you always feel the need to publicly take responsibility for a bombing? Oh, I know, you're a contestant on Terrorist Idol, and the more bombings you claim, the more the public votes you get. We know you farted. We can smell you from here. Put your hand down.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

They've Been Waiting for this Moment For All Their Life. Oh Lord.....
"I fuckin hate Phil Collins...," says pregnant and cigarette-smoking bride, Alice Greensboro. Her new husband, Jed, drunkinly interupts her, "For fuckin real. No real drummers sing. He's fuckin gay. And bald."-- Jed proudly flicks his mullet.
When asked how long they dated before tieing the knot, Jed points to the rope that hitches his truck and trailer, "I tied that about fifteen minutes ago before you came." Alice chimes in, "No hun, he means how long we been in love. We been having sex since the fourth grade. I had a few other boyfriends between now and then, and he's had some other girlfriends. But it ain't no thang, all the other peoples we done had sex with have been friends of ours. We gonna last fa evva." Alice takes a hit of the cigarette and holds it in her mouth. Jed takes a chug from his can and holds it in his mouth. They go in for what looks to be a tender kiss, but instead Alice puckers up and siphons the beer from Jed's mouth into her own. Alice swallows the beer and blows the smoke into Jed's mouth. Jed inhales deeply, then exhales the smoke. They look at each other and giggle. Alice grins and says, "We love each other."
What about smoking and drinking while pregnant? "My mama drank when I was in the oven. So did Jed's. We turned out just fine."
Straight Male Teen Confused About His Attraction To Tomboys
"I swear I'm not gay," says Tim Buckner of Columbus, Ohio. "Just because I'm attracted to female mechanics, doesn't mean I'm secretly gay. But my friends don't....oh hold on just a mo", our conversation is interupted by his Lady GaGa ringtone. After a fifteen minute arguement on the phone with his current girlfriend, Pat (who is the catcher for the girl's varstiy softball team), about Tim's obsession with which brand of eye shadow Jared Leto uses, we get back to the interview.

"I don't only love tomboys! Besides, why are they called tomboys? Shouldn't they be called tomgirls or sallyboys? My friends just don't get it. I don't like men, or their lean bodies." When asked if he'd ever consider dating a guy, Tim responded, "I hate you. You smell really nice. For a guy."