I don’t wanna catch Alzheimer’s and someone told me that doing crossword puzzles prevents Alzheimer’s and it sounded as reasonable as anything else I hear come out of people’s mouths, so, yeah, I’m all about crossword puzzles now.
I just had a birthday and, well, you see how this all started…
Did you know that the pretentious, hoity-toity way of saying that you like to do crossword puzzles is by telling people you’re a cruciverbalist?
I AM A CRUCIVERBALIST!
Crossword puzzles are fun. Turns out, I’m even kind of good at them, except for the pop culture shit. I use the pop culture shit as a way to determine if a particular crossword puzzle sucks total and utter ass or not. If there’s a lot of questions about actors and actresses or movies or tv or producers or Emmy award winning roles, I skip it because, who gives a shit? Some pop culture questions are unavoidable and if there ain’t too many, I’ll dive in. Maybe, I figure, I can work the answer out by getting the words around it. The only pop culture shit I stand any chance at is music, but, you know, these are crossword puzzles, so it’s safe music. I have done three puzzles now that wanted to know Sarah MacLachlan hits. Three!
Who the hell is Sarah McLachlan and why are crossword puzzle creators so obsessed with her?
One time, though, there was a question about Ozzy. The clue was “Manchester metal man”—four letters. I was aghast—six letters.
I use a pencil, erase constantly, and cheat willy-nilly with dictionaries and atlases, but I never look at the key until I give up, which takes days. I considered using the internet to find out a pop culture answer one time, but decided against it. I am a man of principles or scruples or ethics and do not care one whit or iota or dollop who the producer of X-men is. I don’t even know what an X-man is or why he needs producing. What is an X-man? Is it like a member of a club of divorced guys or something?
Anywho, I’m real happy I’m not gonna catch Alzheimer’s now and I would like to extend a great big thank-you to all you Sarah McLachlan-loving, crossword puzzle-creating sunsabitches out there for preventing this terrible tragedy from descending upon me and my family like a squadron of rabid baboons or a gaggle of gangrene-y geese.
The plural of moose is meese, did you know that? You have one moose, but two, count ‘em, two meese. Speaking of Alzheimer’s, Ronald Reagan had a guy in his administration named Edwin Meese. I don’t know what he did, some political shit. Lying, probably, since that’s what you do in politics.
Edwin Meese, the plural of Edwin Moose :D
I better go now. I’m not supposed to be anywhere near the nurses’ station and I hear the soft shoes of swiftly approaching orderlies.
Until next time, America!
I almost want tv again.
Like many Playboy centerfolds, I, too, dislike selfishness, animal cruelty, and guys who come on too strong.
I also say that I like intelligent guys with a sense of humor who volunteer in their communities, but what I actually mean are tall, hot guys.
It’s a plus, though, if they are intelligent, have a sense of humor, and volunteer in their communities.
It makes clubbing funner!
Now, if I met a brilliant guy who was hilarious and donated his kidneys to the homeless, but who was short and/or pudgy, I couldn’t go out with him because my artificially inflated boobs would be wasted—and those bitches cost like five grand each!
I don’t mean fucked up as in alcohol or meth or oxycontin or glue or gold spray paint. Not that kind of fucked up. But Fucked-Up Bowling, where you put the bumpers up so you can’t get gutter balls and try to score the lowest possible score.
Lowest score wins!
I was in a Fucked-Up Bowling league shortly after I went into college. We’d go in there, four dudes with too much time on our hands and no girlfriends (obviously) and request the bumpers. The guy behind the counter who stands in front of the wall of shoes would peer over his linoleum-covered barrier for small children, see none, and be confused.
"That’s right, mister," we’d say "Give us a lane with bumpers. We’re not children, well, not physically anyway….bumpers nonetheless!"
And what you do is roll the ball down reeeeeal slow and try to knock the fewest pins over. If your ball stopped on the way down the lane and you had to go get the guy, it was counted as a strike, which, in Fucked-Up Bowling is the worse possible thing.
Jesus, we had fun. We’d drink beers and talk about life and politics and music and how we weren’t getting laid, all the while trying to bowl as shittily as possible. This was in the days before most white males in their 20s were libertarians.
What do you call a Republican who smokes pot?
Anyway, the 90s were some pretty liberal times, even for white males in their 20s. I’d contend that the 90s were just the 60s standing on its head, but I’m probably wrong.
Man, I miss those days. I miss those guys. One’s an English teacher now, one went to Alaska to live in the woods, one works at a plant installing those little plastic tips on the ends of shoelaces, and one’s me.
Who says life makes more sense the older you get?
REBLOGGING BECAUSE 20 YEARS AGO NOW
On this day 18 years ago, Kurt Cobain blew his brains out.
I was a freshman in college and worked as a—get this—MAID. Yessir, I was Maid Mike, scrubbing jizz off motel room walls. My boss loved me because I was the only employee he had who could speak English.
Anyway, the girl I was seeing at the time was not really a Nirvana fan. She was mostly into rap. Obviously, our relationship was doomed. In fact, we pretty much hated each other by the time Cobain killed himself and broke up shortly after.
I heard about it at work, from her. I remember she drove all the way down to the motel to tell me. She went up and down the sidewalks until she found me.
“Guess what?” she said.
“Cobain killed himself.”
I stood there holding my pubic hair covered toilet brush, shocked. “Bullshit,” I said.
“I just saw it on MTV News. Kurt Loder was practically in tears.”
Later on, I was drinking. The news had actually torn me apart. I remember being surprised by that, by how hard it hit me. I was enraged, depressed, slamming beers, blasting Nirvana. She was there with her friend Erin and they were mocking him, saying in whiny tones, “Oooh my name’s Kurt Cobain and my tummy hurts! Oooh my name’s Kurt Cobain and I’m a millionaire rock star that no one understands!” So on.
The bitches. Eventually, I snapped and I threw them out of my apartment. My angry response had scared Erin and she left right away, but my girlfriend was resistant, telling me to “lighten up.”
“If you don’t get the fuck away from me, I am going to pick you up by your neck and throw you out the fucking window.” I lived on the second floor and was dead serious.
That got her to go. She called me an asshole and slammed the door behind her.
We sort of made up a day or two later, but like I said, our relationship was doomed.
A few years later, long after we had broken up, Tupac was gunned down. She was a big fan of his and I actually thought about calling her up and going, “Oooh, my name’s Tupac and even though I’m a talented and successful recording artist, I’m still all ‘rapped’ up in this trifling gangsta shit! Oooh and look how it got me killed!”
I didn’t, though. Too much class.
At the bar drinking screwdrivers because I am a genius.
echo5charlie asked: Tough to find some no-bullshit-not-just-pretty-imagery-and-metaphors-that-make-no-sense writing around here. Good stuff, man. So, and this is important, why ARE you a vegetarian?
For a number of reasons: I don’t trust the American meat supply. It is swimming in hormones, antibiotics, genetic engineering and god knows what else. I think factory farms are cruel. I think a diet high in meat is bad for you. Eating lots of meat feels gluttonous to me. The factory farm system is horrible for the environment. I never have especially liked meat. Meat: it’s been done to death.
It was a pleasant evening together, comfortable and familiar, like an old shoe.
"Care for some tv, my dear?" I asked.
"I wouldn’t mind."
Taking the remote from the coffee table, I fired the beast up. Television: chewing gum for the mind.
"Did I mention," I said to her, "that I added Cinemax to our viewing package?"
"No, you didn’t mention it. What, indeed, is Cinemax?"
"Apparently, it’s some sort of movie channel."
"Oh, how delightful," said she. "Let us peruse it."
I clicked over to Cinemax and there before us, for all the world to see, were two beautiful people fucking. They were doing it in the position known, in the parlance of our times, as ‘doggy style’. The buff, tattooed stud gripped the cinnamon-skinned maiden by her wonderfully ample hips while generic jazz saxophone honked in the background.
Well… I don’t mind telling you we pushed our beds together that night!
I have a vagina. You’re a guy. You’re supposed to wanna fuck me. — is not a sexy attitude at all.
hotpervymess [which is the best kind of mess, imo] said: “We were just talking about you at brunch the other day! Red underwear story was gold!!”
I like the fact that people are talking about me at brunches :)
Can’t put this down. The Black Lips are a national fucking treasure.
"So how does one become a masseur?"
"It’s an 18 week program, normally. Not that difficult. It took me almost a year to complete it, though."
"I failed the Arousal Test."
"The Arousal Test?"
"Yeah, toward the end when you’re about to graduate and get your certificate, you have to pass an Arousal Test. If you don’t pass it, no graduation, no certificate."
"What’s the Arousal Test?"
"Well, they bring in a hot guy or girl, whatever you’re normally attracted to, and you have to oil them up and massage the hell out of them. To make things tough on you, they get virtually naked too."
"Yeah, and to tell if you’re getting aroused they put this little cuff on your penis. You know, like those cuffs that test your blood pressure? Only it’s small. They wrap it around your penis and you put your sweats back on and have to massage this oily, nearly naked goddess. The cuff is hooked up to a transmitter that goes to a buzzer and if you get wood BZZZ! you fail the Arousal Test."
"That’s fucking insane."
"Anyway, I failed twice. I even appealed, claiming the cuff was nice and snug and was the thing making me horny, not the oily, nearly naked goddess I was caressing. They didn’t buy it and I had to pay for all this counselling."
"How’d you finally beat it, no pun intended?"
"Yeah, I ate all this saltpeter before going in. It gives you a seriously flat dick. It’s like the reverse of ED medication."
"This has gotta be some of the weirdest shit I’ve ever heard."
"I know, right?"
"How do they test female masseurs?"
"You mean maseuses?"
"A vaginal pellet hooked to a little wire. It measures moistness."
"What the fuck?"
For some reason over the last few days/week, I have gotten dozens and dozens of new followers. I hope you enjoy!
Traffic calming structures. — what my local city council renamed our speed bumps