Showing posts from July, 2014

Disdain Radio

I recently had the misfortune of listening to FM radio on a road trip. Ever since the invention of the mp3 player, radio has no place in my life. Believe it or not, horrific things like drive-time talk radio and classic rock stations are bloody abundant on these airwaves of death. Apparently every station can afford an excruciating fourth-rate Howard Stern-type morning radio show filled with sophomoric prank calls, jokes and sound effects — with a smattering of wretched overly played, program manager-approved songs.
The classic rock stations are the worst offenders of this most horrible format. Oh, please let us hear the same three Led Zeppelin tunes over and over. And now that most “hair metal” is now considered classic rock, all the top 40 head bangin’ 80s shit has made it into the fray. The same goes for the so called alternative rock stations. Hey, who is this new Pearl Jam band anyways?
I don’t know. Maybe I’m just jaded. Even satellite radio eventually runs into…

Happy happy joy joy

Happy Birthday to I Hate Craig!

The Old Man and the engraving tool

A long time ago there was a brilliant old man called The Old Man. The Old Man had many inventions and unique ways to do things. From cut-in-half propane tanks as pool side ashtrays, to milk carton crate tool carriers, he was the shit. One day The Old Man came home with an electric engraver. No doubt, he bartered for it by wiring someone's whole house. I can only assume that he thought having his John Hancock scrawled on everything he owned would prevent burglars from cleaning him out.

Without warning, The Old Man proceeded to haul in every tool from his work van. There he stood all night long beaming with pride while the immense noise of the engraver carved his full legal name into every hand tool. Pliers, side cutters, hammers, power drills, measuring tape, screwdrivers, nut drivers, Minnie Driver, razor knives, pocket knives, flashlights, anything that wasn't nailed down got his electric-powered signature.

Well The Old Man must have loved that feeling of putting his mark on …

You're all that and a container of lard

Attending the neighborhood 4th of July holiday puke fest yesterday, I became disturbed and livid at the self-described hotness of some of these wives. It’s almost like a reverse body dysmorphic disorder.

Hag, just because your emasculated and pussy-whipped husband begs you for his weekly spelunking session in your bat-winged vagina, doesn't mean that every man on the planet would kill to bang you. And it’s funny how mean spirited snide remarks are always part of this miserable package. Happy 4th America.