Local Blogger Declares: Karma Is Onion-Flavored

I for one was surprised and delighted to learn today that the website, physical assets, and intellectual property of the worm-infested journalistic horse apple known as Infowars have been purchased at auction by America's Finest News Source, The Onion.

Says so right there.
And as the US Constitution states, "Thou shalt not lie
on the Internet lest ye be voted off the island."

This is an actual true story. As you may know, Alex Jones, who I firmly believe is insane and is also the biological offspring of a feral hog and an oversize sentient human thumb, is on the hook for a soul-quenching $1.4 billion for being an absolute asshole to the families of victims of the Sandy Hook mass shooting. Imagine spending 10 years trying to get your dick hard at the expense of murdered children, only to be fined approximately a billion dollars for every inch you were actually able to achieve. No wonder he's always crying like a little bitch.

"I regret that I have but one inch to give to
them hookers." 
- American patriot Alex Jones

Anyway, I am a longtime fan of The Onion, which was started in my very own home state of Wisconsin in 1988 as an actual (sort of) newspaper and made the leap to the Internet in 1996. Since then it's provided endless entertainment from two primary sources. First, there are its amusing, satirical headlines (such as "Black Man Given Nation's Worst Job" and my personal favorite, "Kitten Thinks of Nothing But Murder All Day"). Then there are the hordes of people who, with great sincerity and zero critical thinking skills, believe that its amusing, satirical headlines are real.

Imagine the Venn diagram of "people who believe The Onion is real" and "people who base their world view on Alex Jones." Just a round, smooth circle, much like their cerebral cortices.

"It's like kissing a peanut."

I don't know what Onion parent company Global Tetrahedron LLC (also a real thing) paid for the toxic assets of the Infowars brand. One can only imagine how much over that price it will cost to get what must be the goatlike stench of Alex Jones' ass out of the host's chair and other soft furniture that conveyed with the purchase. But they must have done some cipherin' and figured the ROI was worth it. It can't all be for the sake of trolling the bastard, can it?

On that same note, I also don't know what The Onion plans to do with their newly acquired empire of conspiracy-mongering and hateful chucklefuckery. Charge lamebrained Jones followers $20 a pop for microphone rides? Sell photo ops at his erstwhile desk with a cardboard cutout of one of his most flattering poses?

I saw a version of this where someone
had photoshopped boobs onto him,
which just seems redundant.

On the other hand, The Onion has also taken possession of the vast trove of audio and video clips of Alex elucidating his most compelling theories. These include top hits like "government chemicals are turning frogs gay," former Special Counsel Robert Mueller is "a literal swamp king creature come to kill America," and of course the godfather of them all, the one that brought him to where he stands, lumpy and destitute, today, "the shadow people populated most of a small town in Connecticut with actors pretending to be schoolchildren and their families for the purpose of [unintelligible rage-drooling]."

The value of repackaging and replaying such content is immense to a satirical publication like The Onion. The staff may never have to work hard again. No more toiling to create headlines so outlandish yet plausible that only a bunch of mono-toothed mouth-breathers would believe they were true. All they need do is publish a transcript or upload a clip, and boom! Time to crack open a White Claw and call it good.

Good luck, Onion. I can't wait to see what you do with the rotting carcass of Alex Jones after the hazmat teams have finished their work.

One last thing: In my research for this post, I found this article from The Onion. It was published exactly 15 years ago today. They're not just clever, they're goddamn clairvoyants.

Advice to a Failed Blogger

 The biggest news story of the week, obviously, is the Former Guy's blog shutting down.

Obviously.

The absolute spate of news outlets covering the demise of the "From the Desk of Donald J. Trump" feature of TFG's website are equivalent to BuzzFeed's never-ending series of listicles about "Celebrities You Forgot Were Couples Back in the Day." My initial reaction - "Why yes, I had forgotten that Keifer Sutherland and Julia Roberts once were engaged and had the same hairstyle" - almost immediately gives way to "Why am I reading this when I could be doing something I care about, like sleeping or trimming my cloven pinkie toenails?"

Like apparently the vast majority of humanity, I didn't actually visit Trump's blog myself. I'd read screenshots of his brief, badly written "posts" on Twitter, along with the comment threads imploring the screenshotters not to "give him air." This was a trifling and dull portion of my daily social media consumption, and now that it's come to an end after 29 days, I neither mourn it nor miss it.

On the other hand, why pass up an opportunity
to use this absolute classic of a photo?

Apparently "From the Desk of..." was getting fewer than 15,000 interactions a day, which isn't surprising, since it was a static series of short, bloviating proclamations rather than a true platform that allowed engagement with supporters, detractors, trolls, bots, or any of Dan Scavino's 600 shadow accounts.

I don't think this has the force of law behind it, but without
a retweet from Kayleigh McEnany, HOW DO WE KNOW?

Nonetheless, 15,000 eyeballs, while a paltry number compared to, say, almost any other public figure on the planet, are still considerably more than I get here in my little corner of the internet. Yet unlike the twice-impeached former occupant of the White House bathroom, I've been here for more than 10 years and I'm not letting a little thing like being roundly ignored by vast numbers of people bruise my ego to the point of giving up. 

Still, would it kill you to tell your friends?

That combination of longevity and self-delusion, I think, makes me qualified to advise any number of former POTUSes on running a blog that, if not successful, at least continues to exist. Granted, this is after the fact. But if we're to believe spokesman Jason Miller, aka the violent, cheating drugger of women who looks disconcertingly like a Tootsie Pop with some schmutz on it, the 86ing of "From the Desk of..." is merely clearing the way for a new, bigger, bolder, and totally not imaginary future Trump platform.  

With that in mind, I hereby appoint myself Definitely Official Blogospherical Advisor to the One-Term Guy. And here, based on an in-depth analysis of his previous online activity that lasted, like, at least a half a cup of coffee, is my critique and advice for running a blog when you're a rando that nobody cares about:

1. Use more GIFs. TFG's blog posts haven't disappeared; they've just been absorbed into the "News" section of his website, such that "news" to actual factual content is now what "non-dairy topping" is to actual whipped cream. That means I've been able to review his past posts, and honestly, they're pretty lacking in visual interest. Where are the memes? The amusing photoshopped images? For corn's sake, where are the GIFs? Whether you say "giff" or "jiff" (or, as I suspect, "fig"), you need to use more of them. Here's one of my favorites:

2. Play up the humor. While sarcasm and satire are worthy literary devices, there's such a thing as being too subtle. You need more laff-out-loud lines like this to keep readers coming back.

That's gold, I tell you. And now let's combine it with #1 above to create a truly memorable moment:

3. Titles are important. Put some thought into how you name their posts. A catchy title can mean the difference between boffo engagements and utter apathy. I mean, look at this series of posts:

Bo-ring. A good title is punchy and memorable and most important, reflects the content of the post itself. For instance, I would give a post like this...

...an eyeball-grabbing headline like "I Made Soup Out of Some Words!" or "This One Simple Trick to Dupe the Lowest Common Denominator of Your Base" or "You Should Stop Right Now and Read This Desperate Cry for Relevance from a Deluded Old Man." See how much better that works?

4. More guest posts. I know that the glamor and prestige of blogging can make it seem that you're the center of the universe. But it pays to sometimes share the spotlight, to provide novelty and a fresh perspective to your readers. Guest posts do just that, and they also expose you to fans of your guest. Win-win! I suggest featuring the comedy stylings of this guy, who does hilarious videos from the clubhouse of a local apartment complex while pretending to be on mountains of cocaine:

Fair warning: This guy will charge you five hundred smackers for his funny content. But a billionaire blogger can easily afford that, right?

5. Don't get discouraged. There will be many times when you'll want to give up on the blogging game. You'll look at your underwhelming numbers and wonder why you bother. You'll be convinced that no one cares what you say, or that people who used to say they were your staunch supporters actually consider you a laughing stock and wish you would go away. Don't you give in to your discouragement. Keep on believing in yourself, even if you're literally the only person who does. Remember that you're capable of creating masterpieces like this:

Some writers have to wait years for their talent to be recognized. Don't forget that Vincent Van Gogh was dead before anyone realized that he was an artistic genius. I'm not saying that's a route you should try. But remember that the internet is forever, and if that's how long it takes for people to give you your due, then so be it. Keep cranking out that content, even if it's criticized, derided, or more likely ignored, and let posterity render the judgment you deserve. Because it will.

You're welcome. And to conclude, here's a picture of the 1990s throwing up on Keifer and Julia.

Like, share, and comment blah blah blah.

10 Comments You See Every Time Someone Shares a Post from "The Onion" on Social Media

This post is pretty much just 10 comments you see every time someone shares a post from "The Onion" on social media, and the people who make them.

"Wait, is this for real?" - The Gullible

"Hahaha, what" - The Unwilling To Commit

"I was like WTF when I first heard about this" - The BS Artiste

"Gotta Love The Onion" - The Determined to Let You Know They're In On The Joke

"SMH, what is the world coming to?" - The Easily Offended (and Also Gullible)

"You do know this is satire, right?" - The Woker Than Thou

"(tags friend) have you heard about this?" - The Terribly Concerned

"fake news" - The Conservative

"Not satire, unfortunately." - The Meta-Commenter

"(OP), why would you post something like this? You're part of the problem." - The Not Even Seeing The Joke Zooming Over Their Head

This has been 10 comments you see every time someone shares a post from "The Onion" on social media, and the people who make them. Thank you.

Baudelaire v. Big Tuna

Hey guys. Current events are kind of a crapstorm right now. So how about I tell you a crazy little delightful tale that won't make your head hurt?

You feel better already, don't you?


via GIPHY

That's what I'm here for.

OK, so a while back there was a class-action lawsuit against Starkist Tuna. The charge was that they had been, systematically and with malice aforethought...underfilling five-ounce cans of tuna. Clearly this malfeasance could not stand, and the people cried out for redress. So they sued, because JUSTICE FOR LOVERS OF CANNED FISH.

Socking it to Big Tuna, oh yeah.

I joined that lawsuit. Hell yes. Of course I eat canned tuna; I'm a white middle-aged suburban mom. What, do you think I'm poaching salmon filets on the regular? Pfft. Canned tuna is my spirit fish, and Starkist is my brand of choice. And having been traumatized by receiving a few grams of tuna less than I had paid for, I demanded my day in court. Or a protracted mediation on my behalf by anonymous lawyers that would require absolutely no effort on my part. All I had to do to be part of the class action was fill out an online "claim." That's the kind of search for justice I can get behind.

I was promised that, if we successfully took down Starkist, my fish-deprived co-plaintiffs and I would receive 25 dollars in cash or FIFTY CANS OF TUNA.

Shown here: FIFTY CANS OF TUNA
(maybe)

I can't really explain it, but the idea of 50 free cans of tuna absolutely tickled me. That's a crapton of Starkist, folks. That's, like, at least a year's worth, or more if I discipline myself and don't celebrate Tuna Mac Tuesday every single week. Who has 50 cans of tuna in their home besides doomsday preppers and people who need to seek help for their Costco addiction?

I feel there may be some overlap between those groups.

I wanted my 50 cans of tuna, dammit. So I filled out the online form and then put it out of my mind. I didn't want to obsess over it. The wheels of justice turn slowly, I knew, and I was just asking for tuna-induced neurosis if I let the lawsuit consume my thoughts. I have plenty of other neuroses that I have no control over, thank you very much. I vowed to let things run their course without my constant vigilance and moved on.

As time went on, I occasionally wondered what was happening with the Great Starkist Legal Battle. Sometimes, when I grabbed a can of tuna from my pantry, I would spare a thought for the long-promised reward of tuna bounty. And I have to admit, at some point I figured that the suit must have been lost, or the awarding of many cans of tuna had been negotiated away. Disappointing, but I've been disappointed before. I could survive being deprived of justice and FIFTY CANS OF TUNA.

Flash-forward to today. I checked my mail, and there it was:

I was a little bummed that it wasn't a certified letter,
or delivered by Steve Harvey, or something.

The lawsuit had been settled at last! We had been victorious! We had triumphed over Big Tuna! We had been awarded...

...five dollars' worth of tuna.

Sorry, five dollars and three cents, bitches.

Turns out that 2.5 million tuna-loving opportunists had joined the class-action lawsuit, about 12 times what Starkist had calculated when they promised FIFTY CANS OF TUNA. Eh. Victory is victory. Free tuna is free tuna. Piscis piscis est.

Do you want to know how long I waited to get my coupon for $5.03 worth of Starkist tuna?

I remember exactly when I signed on to the lawsuit. I remember because when I had to enter my address, it was one of the first times - if not the first time - that I used the address of my current apartment instead of my former house. Precocious Daughter and I hadn't even moved out yet, but I knew that we'd be living there by the time they needed our address to make good on our FIFTY CANS OF TUNA. Which I apparently believed they'd deliver on a pallet via forklift.

Where do you want your tuna, lady?

We moved into our apartment four years ago tomorrow.

I almost wept with laughter when I saw that freaking postcard. It felt good. It somehow felt like the best payoff possible for all the hard work of the last four years.

Probably I can buy five or six cans of tuna with $5.03. I'll split them with PDaughter. She - who was a sophomore in high school when Baudelaire v. Big Tuna began - can eat them in her college apartment. I'm pretty sure she owns a can opener. If not, I'll buy her one. I can afford it. After all, I just won a lawsuit.

Not sorry, Charlie.

----------

You can read about the lawsuit and settlement here.

Five Faves on Social Media

Lately I've spent more time reading/watching social media than writing/contributing. Life ebbs and flows, and right now that's where the ebb it's been going. See what I did there?

Anyway.

I thought I'd share a few of my current favorite social media accounts with you, so you can see where my head's at. Note: I define social media as Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. I'm too old for Tumblr and far too unhip for Instagram*, although some of my faves definitely may be active on those platforms in addition to the ones I list here.

*I do have an Instagram, but frankly it baffles me, so basically I only use it to stalk Fredrik from "Million Dollar Listing New York."

In no particular order, here are the accounts you could follow if you wanted to see the world through my eyes (good God, why?)

WeRateDogs (@dog_rates on Twitter): They're good dogs, Brent. Home of the best doggos and puppers, heartwarmingly and hilariously ranked for your convenience. A true phenomenon.

Single Dad Laughing (Facebook): Parenthood, dating, and lifestyle blogger. I follow him mainly for his daily roundup of memes, which I regularly steal/share on my own Facebook page.

Pictures in History (Facebook): The guy who runs this account consistently posts unique and fascinating photographs - not just the ones that are repeated and repackaged ad nauseam in clickbait articles (and I would know because I'm a sucker for clickbait articles - come at me, bro). Fun stuff.

Moshow the Cat Rapper (@IAmMoshow on Twitter and Facebook): Just what he sounds like - a dude who raps about cats, with his cats (he has five). But more than that, he's a sweet, genuine guy who spreads positivity with every post. If you could use a smile several times a day, give him a look.

Tiny Snek Comics (@TinySnekComics on Facebook and Twitter): The artwork here is so ludicrously simple it's beautiful; the jokes are so blase they're profound. The young man who draws Tiny Snek comics has created an entire visual and verbal language that conveys depth and sincerity through extreme silliness. He just graduated from college, but I hope the real world doesn't end his comics.

*****

There's five. I'll come up with five more another time. In the meantime, do me two favors:

1. Share your favorite social media accounts.

2. If you visit any of mine, tell them Chuck Baudelaire sent you.

I'm off to check my notifications. G'night.

Charity Begins on the Internet

Top Ten GoFundMe Campaigns That Didn't Reach Their Goal

10. Send My Nana to Pole Dancing Camp ($46 of $250 raised)

9. The Fender Blender (Make Delicious Smoothies While You Navigate the Pothole-Infested Streets of Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio) ($912 of $3,006 raised)

8. The Campaign to Obtain and Destroy All Existing Copies of Richard Harris' "MacArthur Park" and the Master Recording Too ($817 of $25,000 raised)

7. Let's Make Smoking Cool Again ($143.17 of $2,500 raised)

6. Help Me Self-Publish "The Festering Pustule of Hate in the Pit of My Soul: A Book about Feelings" ($25 of $3,200 raised)

5. Howie's Fund for Howard Goldblatt's Earlobe Transplant ($1,800 of $63,250 raised)

4. Need a New Steam Iron Please Help ($12 of $110 raised)

3. Cuddle Scales: The Thundershirt for Nervous Snakes ($122.50 of $4,000 raised)

2. Just Four Ounces of Halfway Decent Weed ($650 of $800 raised - so close!)

And the Number One GoFundMe Campaign That Didn't Reach Its Goal:

1. My Fucking Stepmom Screwed Her Way into My Dad's Will ($963 of $100,000 raised)

Thanks for your support.

Placeholder Feline

I know I haven't posted in a few days. Sorry 'bout that. I'll be back with fresh content soon, I promise. Or threaten.

In the meantime, enjoy this picture of the great Dean Martin grabbing Ann-Margret's pussy.

When you're a star, they have to let you do it.

Anyway, until tomorrow.

See You in the Morning, Sam

My boss (the Homunculus) and I have an interesting relationship.

For certain definitions of "interesting."

It's not that we don't have a decent working relationship. Deep down, I'm pretty sure he respects me. And deep down, I'm pretty sure I respect him.

For certain definitions of "deep down."

Things get a bit prickly between us at times. I piss him off, he pisses me off, we spar, we joust, we exchange words, I seethe, he sticks a red-hot poker in my side (figuratively, almost always).

Corporate dynamics, you know?

There's no "I" in "team." But there is a "u" in "knockout."

The thing is, for every time I screw up and make him see red, I save his bacon by catching a mistake, solving a problem, or going the extra mile for a client. And no matter how contentious our day has been, we wish each other a sincere good night as we leave the office.

I don't spend a lot of time dissecting our working relationship. It is what it is. But after about 3.5 years of working together, I finally realized exactly what it is. What it does is. What it be.

Forget it.

In our working relationship, the Homunculus and I are Sam Sheepdog and Ralph Wolf.

Right?

I suppose if you're a whippersnapper, you don't know the Warner Bros. cartoons starring these two. They're among my favorites. Essentially you have two working Joes who punch the clock every day. Every morning they greet each other cordially. Then they go off to their respective jobs: Ralph Wolf tries to make off with as many sheep as he can, and Sam Sheepdog beats the crap out of him to stop him. No matter what, when the whistle blows, they stop what they're doing (even if what they're doing is trying to murder each other), punch out, and cordially bid each other good night.

That is my relationship with my boss in a nutshell.

I'm pretty sure I'm Ralph in this scenario. But it really doesn't matter. All that matters is that every morning and every evening, we sincerely wish each other well. And for the 8-9 hours in between, we each do our best to wear the other down like and old shoe heel on rough pavement.

Is that healthy? I'm not sure. I do know that I'm pretty well regarded beyond the sphere of the Homunculus' influence, and if he ever insisted on giving me the boot, I'd be able to negotiate a pretty sweet severance package.

But I don't anticipate it ever coming to that. We spur each other on, and we're both a little better for having to deal with our working proximity.

So we say "good morning" and "good night" and spend the time in between dropping piles of bricks on the other's head.

Here, watch a classic Ralph Wolf/Sam Sheepdog cartoon, and then tell me: What's your relationship with your boss like? (Yes, even if - especially if - you're your own boss.)

You're So Vain, 2017 Version

All the apologies ever to Carly Simon...but you inspired me.

Here's a parody of "You're So Vain" for 2017.

*****

You walked into the White House
Like you were walking onto a yacht
Your hair strategically combed
Around your scalp
Your skin it was apricot
You had one eye on your Twitter as
Your feed was spammed by bots
And all of the trolls wished that
They'd be your next block
They'd be your next block

And you're so vain
You probably think Americans want you
You're so vain
You probably think Americans want you
Don't you
Don't you?

You had a university
That failed, you were quite naive
And you tried to sell steaks,
And vodka and things,
But they were not well received
Well you disavowed the things that tanked
And claimed they won bigly
I had a dream
That a clown won the White House
Clown won the White House

And you're so vain
You think the freaking world is about you
You're so vain
You think the freaking world is about you
Don't you
Don't you?

Well I hear you went down to Mar-a-Lago
And played golf, and naturally won
Then you took a vacation at Bedminster
To play more golf because golf is fun
You're on social media all the time
And when you're not you're with
Some ex-Soviet spy
Or your new current mistress
New current mistress

And you're so vain
You fired Steve Bannon, now he will get you
You're so vain
You fired Steve Bannon, now he will get you
Get you
Get you
Get you.

Fin.

Wink Wink, Nudge Nudge...Nothing.

So I just had the most adorable conversation ever with Drummer Boy.

When he's not drumming, he works in a retail environment. So he meets a lot of...interesting people.

He frequently tells me stories about his customers, both good and bad. But just now he said something that made me ask:

"Do female customers ever flirt with you?"

His response was negative. Not just negative, but completely guileless.

It was cute.

But I wasn't buying it for a minute. I pressed him:

"Have you ever had a woman engage you in conversation, completely innocuous, but she looked you straight in the eye the whole time?"

DB: Um, yes.

Me: That's called flirting. I've done it many times.

DB: ...

Me: ...

DB: Really?

Me: Yes, darling. Those women were flirting with you.

And, you guys, I watched at least 20 years of realization dawn on him as he remembered all the times he didn't realize women were coming on to him.

Me: Hello?

DB: WOW...

Me: Does this change anything?

DB: ...

...
...

Me: *Kisses him*

You guys.

My sweetheart, who is hot as a pistol honestly (I have no frickin' idea why he wants to be with a middle-aged nothing like me), has missed dozens, if not hundreds, of opportunities to hook up with interested women because he actually didn't recognize flirting.

I love him so much.

If you see him, please don't flirt with him. Because he knows what that is now.

Is your partner completely naive in some way that surprises you? Let me know.

Trump's Original Speech to Poland (TOTALLY REAL YEP)

Today Donald Trump gave a speech in Poland, my ancestral home.

Land of 10,000 Crazily-Pronounced Consonants.

I'm not going to say that the President's speech represented paranoid, nationalistic, xenophobic claptrap straight from the crusty black heart of Steve "Goosestepford Wife" Bannon.

But I will suggest that, before old Goose "accidentally" set it on fire and scattered the ashes into a cistern at Auschwitz, there was actually another speech. One written by Trump himself. In crayon on the back of a printout of the 2016 Electoral College vote map, sure. But still...Don Cor(pulent)one actually did write his own speech to present to the bused-in captive audience of Poland.

I know, because I got hold of a copy of it. I won't tell you how.

OK, I will.

Yes, Tabitha is screwing a low-level
Trump aide. Hey, it keeps her off my back
(and on hers).

Anyway, here's an excerpt from the speech Trump was going to give in Poland, before Bannon promised him a cookie to deliver a piece of bilious, bloviating shit instead.

"Hello, Poland. It's an honor to be here in...um...Polangrad...er, Kowalskiburg...Hey, I love the Polish. I love your sausage. I love the high-gloss shine you give to the Resolution Desk in the Oval Office, which I own, because I won the election by the biggest margin of anybody ever in the world since Jesus was elected in that year we remember, so long ago. Great guy, Jesus. Really making a name for himself.

"I'd like to thank President Anderz...Anjies...zhjzhdrizjdierdzh...Can I just call you Stosh? Stosh, that's a name we all know and love, right? Thank you, Emperor Stosh, for your hospitality. I greatly admire your freedoms, which extend to nearly 14% of Poland. Am I right? Of course. Of course I am.

"I'm here today because America has a problem. And maybe you can help. It seems too many Americans believe that National Socialism is a bad thing. A bad thing, can you believe it? I know that many of you here today - your parents, your grandparents, your martyred ancestors - have experienced the full effects of National Socialism. And today, I would ask you this: Please, please, please tell those Americans how wrong they are. How the National Socialist party helped the Polish people thrive during the tough economic times of the 1930s. And the 1940s, let's not forget them. Never forget them.

"I support the return of Poland to those great, great days when they willingly accepted the strong, brave leadership of the Nazis. Because, frankly, they needed it. Poland was a disaster until Hitler came along. A disaster. I'm sure everyone here today, who got a free bus ride to show up and cheer for me, will agree.

"My time here is short. Soon I'll be attending the G20 conference, where I'll have to address the leaders of the free world on social, economic, and military policy without making - and I say this candidly - a complete assclown of myself. I will fight for you, Poland. Just as I'll fight for America, and also the United States, and the USA. And also the United Kingdom if they kiss my ass hard enough.

Remember the policies that removed the Jewish plague from Poland. Donald Trump promises to uphold these noble words and actions. In the meantime, I have the nation's reputation to utterly destroy. Thank you, and God Bless the United States of America, and to a greatly lesser degree our allies who lack the testicles to stand up to us."

There you go, Drunkards. What do you think?

Guest Post from a Lost Soul

Hey Drunkards! I've got a guest post for you tonight, courtesy of my girl Mila at The Booklynite, a blog you should read right now. She is kooky and sweet and smart, and she lights up my Twitter like an insane shooting star.

I hope you like her as much as I do.

**********

Dear Lord,

I wonder if that's your real name. I wonder if wondering if that's your real name is a sin. I bet it is. I just hope your actual name isn't Larry. Because who names their kid Larry anymore. Terrorists. Terrorists probably still name their kids Larry. And Republicans.

Anyway, I've been doing great, and mostly suicidal. I love how you created our beautiful planet, with all its creatures, and my fixed rate mortgage so I would be able to afford my home. Because we all know if it was just adjustable rate mortgages, it'd be 2008 all over again. I disapprove of your taste in men because most of the ones you sent us are dickheads. There are some decent ones, so whatever happened to homogeneity, and quality standards. I am not going to comment on the female part of the population, it's not that type of prayer.

By the way, you remember Karen from 4th grade? Yeah, whatever happened to her.

 I've been thinking a lot about you, Lord. Mostly when I sit bored at work. Deborah from Finance is a fucking bitch though, am I right? I've been practicing my kindness skills. Mostly when I'm alone. I was going to ask you whether fuller women will be in style again, or should I still lose those five lbs, but I understand that fashion is a fickle thing, and you simply don't know yourself.

 I pray a lot to you...who am I kidding, we both know I don't. Still. It would be nice to receive a response. You could start this conversation first, I'm pretty sure you're heavily invested in this relationship also. I'm not asking for a burning bush, mostly because I don't appreciate burning objects around me. But a solid 5% annual salary increase would be nice. Regardless, I respect your prerogative. This last sentence has too many Rs in it.

I wonder if I’m a kind person. Mostly because I tend to say that I’m a kind person a lot. And that philosophy class in college was pretty much useless. I did get an A in it, and that helped with my average, so I see your point.

 I hope you’re not mad at me for that one time when I farted in church. If anything, I was only a child. Although this flatulence problem seems to have grown with me, and it’s quite a problem to deal with, as an attractive woman. I guess we all have our crosses to bear. Speaking of which, I hope your son is doing great. We still very much remember him, especially around Christmas time. Easter – not so much, it’s mostly bunnies now.

I wonder if aliens exist, and if you guys are mutually exclusive. I hope not. I’d love for all of us to get along. And in that case, have they made contact with you, Lord? It’s mostly just a bunch of speculation down here on Earth. And truth be spoken, it’s not like we could afford any aliens right now. Not in this economy.    

   

I strongly hope there is no hell because all my analysis thus far suggests that I might be going straight into it. Or in case there is hell, it is strongly exaggerated. Like Dante was such a diva. No disrespect to Dante, I highly regard his literary talent. I even once did a funny play script, remake of Inferno, in college. It was glorious, the whole class laughed while holding their bellies.

 I don't call my mom that often. I wonder how many hell points this equates to. I mean is the correlation in this statistic directly proportional, or is it more of a parabola thing. I hope it's not exponential. This probably makes no sense whatsoever. My math skills are rusty.

I remember them telling me you're all forgiving. In that case, why bother with rules? Truth be told, we don't follow them much any more. I mean, with the invention of Netflix and Twitter it's been increasingly difficult to retain moral integrity.

Anyway, forgive me?

Truthfully, your lost soul.

P.S. No regrets, motherfuckers.

And Now for Something...

This is the first Monty Python sketch I ever saw.





I had no idea what I was seeing.

But I was head over heels in love with whatever it was.

And I still am.

Not long ago, Drummer Boy and I watched Life of Brian together, and it got me thinking about dear Graham Chapman.

Track down his autobiography.
You won't regret it.

And thinking about Graham got me thinking about this, my first exposure to Monty Python, and still one of my favorite sketches.

And that got me thinking about whether it's strange that I actually remember that very first sketch, which I watched on Channel 10, Milwaukee's main PBS station, sometime around 1981.

Do any of you remember your first encounter with this most necessary of comedy troupes?

Or is it possible that - gasp - there is among you someone who is not a fan of Monty Python?

Seems unlikely, but I'm open to that unlikely possibility.
WATCH THE VIDEO UP THERE. SRSLY.

Share your first Python experience with me (even if it's this post). Find a video, or simply quote the script verbatim (which I know damn well you can do).

We'll all have a good laugh.

Very woody sentence, that.

Scene from a Liquor Store in Addison, Texas

To the two dudebros who got booted from the liquor store after trying to buy a plastic bottle of Burnett's Sour Apple vodka because the one who could legally buy it had just turned 21 yet hadn't bothered to renew his driver's license on this milestone birthday and so didn't have a valid ID to prove his age and then got all pissy about it when the no-nonsense cashier explained that if the police wouldn't accept an expired license then neither would she and then marched their ironic white t-shirts and baggy plaid pants and patchy facial hair out of there sans grown-up beverage while we laughed and laughed:

Fucking Burnett's Sour Apple vodka? Really?

Read this.
Best. Review. Ever.

Dudes, aim higher. By which I mean, don't buy anything from the bottom shelf at the liquor store. Ever. Not if you want to be treated like men rather than poseurs who buy their clothes from the Young Douchebro department at Sears. Real talk: If it's not Coke or Gatorade, it has no place being sold in a plastic bottle. If you had confidently set down a 750 mL of Belvedere, you probably wouldn't have been carded in the first place. That's a man's vodka. Take it from a woman who drinks like a man.

Grown-ass men do not drink Burnett's Sour Apple vodka, regardless of age.

Shown here: Working his way up to Burnett's.

Come back when you're mature enough to renew your driver's license on time and not disrespect a lady old enough to be your mom.

Here's hoping you found a 7-Eleven that was willing to look the other way while you stocked up MD 20/20. You can play Fallout 4 all night on that shit.

Enjoy.

Love,

Chuck

In the Zone

I have this urge to laugh.

Not like a Joe Biden laugh. Not ready for that yet.
That's graduate-level happy-feels right there.

Still, I'm sitting here writing, and there's a little smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. That in itself is an odd thing; I don't think I've smiled in days. Yet there it is, just kind of playing around with my lips, seeing if we can make this happen.

And...I did it. I'm sitting in an empty room, and I'm smiling to myself. Maybe I've finally gone crazy.

Feels good, though.

Now for something completely different: I'd like to laugh a bit today. I don't know what kind of reaction that might elicit from my co-workers. Under normal circumstances I laugh quite a bit at work (when I'm not dropping f-bombs). But I've been subdued lately. Mostly they understand the things I'm going through right now, although I've done my best to conceal the fact that I've actually reached rock bottom emotionally.

Because I am a PROFESSIONAL.

There's no reason I should want to laugh. Nothing has really changed since the last time I burst into tears, aka yesterday. All that boring bad stuff I wrote about the other day? Still in play: still in limbo, still broke, still married, still lonely. Still paying rent on an apartment I don't actually live in. In which I don't actually live. Whatever.

Maybe I've reached that enlightened place where all problems are transcended. Where I'm able to let go of the darkness and reach for the light. Where my primal need for joy defeats my sadness.

Maybe I've reached...the Fuck It Zone.

You know the scene at the end of It's a Wonderful Life, when George Bailey realizes he wants to live despite all his troubles and goes running through town like a maniac? At one point he shouts, "I'm going to jail! Isn't it wonderful?"

George was in the Fuck It Zone.

And I'm right there with him.

Now, if everyone would please come to my house with hatfuls of money and sing "Auld Lang Syne," that would be really cool.

But even lacking that...fuck it, I want to laugh.

Even if I can't do it quite yet, just wanting to is a big step up.

What makes you guys laugh? I may need to prime the pump a bit.

Humor Is Ageless. This Humor Is Old. But Still, Ageless.

OK, nostalgia time.

I'll be very interested to see if anyone recognizes/remembers this. Those of you under 40 are definitely excused.

I have very specific memories of watching this when it originally aired, and thinking it was about the funniest thing I had ever seen. OK, I was, like, seven or something, but still. I never forgot it.

Thank the gods for YouTube.

Tonight I showed this clip to Precocious Daughter, and she thought it was amazing. Which I knew she would, because she's inherited much of my sense of humor. She's prettier than me, in better shape than me, more sociable than me, but we share a sense of humor, and that's more than good enough for me.

Anyway, I got a big kick out of telling her that the guys in tuxedos are Kate Hudson's dad and her uncles. And they had a variety show in the '70s. I stopped short of telling her about the Krofft Super Show and Electra Woman and Dyna Girl. Because culture should be absorbed in reasonable doses for maximum effect, I feel.

So. I want to know if any of you mature Drunkards remember the Hudson Brothers, their variety show, and Rod Hull and Emu.

If you don't, you will in just a few minutes.

I dare you not to laugh.




It's been a good Friday evening here. I hope yours has been, as well.

You Can't Judge a Book by What a Record Sounds Like

When I was a kid, I used to listen to Cat Stevens a lot, because my mom would often play his albums. I especially liked Teaser and the Firecat. But I didn't know what Cat Stevens looked like. So I invented an image of him based on his voice. And to me, he sounded as if he looked like this.

Yes, that's a picture of Peter Frampton. Who sounds nothing like Cat Stevens. But in my mind, someone with Cat Steven's expressive, ethereal voice should have been a blonde dude with soulful eyes.

In the 1970s, Cat Stevens looked like what he actually was: a swarthy Greek dude...with soulful eyes.

So I wasn't completely off.

The point is, I've always done this. I've imagined what singers look like based solely on their voices...and gotten it wrong. When Bestest Friend introduced me to the music of the great Janis Ian, I thought she would look like a sunkissed hippie-waif-chick based on her wispy, slightly husky voice.

In the 1990s, when I got really, really into the band Cake (and OMG, I still love them), I imagined that lead singer John McCrea looked exactly like Brad Roberts, the lead singer of one hit wonder Crash Test Dummies. You know, "Mmm Mmm Mmm"? Birthmarks all over her body? That shit?

Anyway, that's Brad Roberts. He and John McCrea do not resemble each other in the slightest, apart from being frontmen for 90s alternative bands.

I'm just bad at this.

And now I've done it again.

Do you know the song "Budapest" by George Ezra?

My house in Budapest

My ancient treasure chest

Golden grand piano

My beautiful Castillo

For you

You

I'd leave it all

If you haven't heard it, check it out. Great tune.

If you watch the official video, pay close attention, because I'm about to give you a belly laugh.

Until yesterday, I had never seen the official video for "Budapest." I had never seen a picture of George Ezra. I knew he was male, British, with a deep, slightly world-weary voice and vaguely exotic phrasing. I knew the name George Ezra seemed a bit old-world and hardscrabble, like someone who came from humble beginnings and grew up steeped in musical tradition. I thought he was maybe in his early 30s and had been troubadoring around Europe for a decade or so, waiting for his big break.

In my mind, George Ezra looked the guy on page 113 of the current IKEA catalog.

Really. Like Richie Havens with maybe a little bit of Lenny Kravitz thrown in.

But here's what George Ezra actually looks like.

He's 21 years old. He's a pale, strawberry blonde white kid from Hertford. You know who else is from Hertford? Rupert "Ron Weasley" Grint, that's who.

So much for hardscrabble.

I would like to announce that George Ezra is officially the most wrong I've ever gotten a singer's face based on his voice.

Still love the song "Budapest." Here's the video, which - from an "I totally nailed what this singer is all about" standpoint - really sucks.

In case you're wondering, I have mental images of all of you based on the comments you leave me. Don't worry, you're all gorgeous.

I can only hope your imagination does the same for me.

Guest Post, From an Unexpected Source!

Today I'm thrilled to present a guest post from one of my favorite people.

Mmmmmmmmm. But no.

It comes from my very own Drummer Boy.

Because it turns out he's smokin' hot and a brilliant musician and a talented and funny writer. What he sees in a cipher like me, I swear I'll never know.

Turns out I'm Homer in this equation.

Anyway, yesterday he rather sheepishly told me he had written something. I asked if I could read it, and he graciously obliged. When it turned out I really, really liked his story, I asked if I could feature it as a guest post on my blog. And here we are.

There are two things you should know about Drummer Boy.

First, he's not a "word person." He'll be the first to admit that he doesn't pay attention to the lyrics of songs. Which I guess is why he's not impressed with the fact that I know all words to Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited by heart. Yet I know from our long online conversations that he is eloquent and literate and witty. So I don't really know why he doesn't consider himself a word person.

Second, he looks like Jeff Bridges. Specifically, like Jeff Bridges as The Dude in The Big Lebowski. That's not just my opinion; he works in retail, and people ask him all the time if they can take his picture, just because he looks like The Dude. On Halloween he went to work dressed as The Dude and caused a minor sensation.

Not Drummer Boy, but an incredible simulation.

So without further ado, here's the harrowing tale of my sweetie's brush with death. I hope you enjoy it.

If I Had a Paperclip...

 

I left my window open a crack when I went to bed last night, and in the early hours of the morning I was awoken by the feeling of something crawling on my left shin. 

I instinctively attempted to crush the assailant with the heel of my right foot. A couple of swats, yet I still felt this beast at my leg. I arose to deal with the matter, and by the light of Larry, Curly, and Moe, (who had been left running...obviously), I could see that my assailant was a giant black ant. Big, like the kind of ant a survivalist would love to find and chow on while lost in the wilderness.

Big.

So I jump into action, swat the offender from my leg and onto the bed, leap from bed to turn on the light, and say my goodbyes to the ant. I then proceed to line up my cocked-back fingernail to administer the thump-of-death. 

I thump him once, and he lives. 

Twice, and he is still alive. 

A third thumping bounces him from the bed and onto the floor. I get him in my sights and crush him with my right heel. Only, when I lift my foot, there he is, injured, but hobbling feverishly toward me. 

Pictured: Feverish hobbling.

He's heading right for me! He's pissed off! I tried to kill him, and he's coming for vengeance.

I know now that this is a fight to the death; it's either him or me. So, with the fluidity of a Ninja, I swoop down and grab one of my Dude house slippers, and come overhead of the ant...WHAM!!!

He's still coming! Again I strike him, yet still he comes. He's closing in now, a mere fifteen, maybe eighteen inches away, and coming fast. He kind of looks like the Terminator when he was just a torso, crawling, pursuing, pulling himself as best he could. This ant is coming for me. So for a third time I smash him with my house-slipper-o-death from above.

A moment of silence, please.

This time he dies. The ant dies. He not only dies, he is dismembered. There is a tiny line of broken pieces laying there that used to be an ant. 

I wanted to take the pieces and stick them on a toothpick, or a paperclip. I would display the ant's dismembered body at the opening of my window for all other ants to see.

The hum-ant-ity.

THIS!!! This is what awaits you if you dare enter my lair! I will crush all that try to invade my domain! And the house-slipper-o-death from above is not one, but two! Two slippers-o-death that will crush you!

That is what I would do, if I had a paperclip.

Beware, ant-bastards.

I love this.

If I awoke to an ant on me, I'd probably just scream.

Sometimes words fail me.

Confidential to Drummer Boy: Squee.