Tuesday, July 1. 2008
GOODBYE, COLUMBUS
As if it weren't tough enough to live in a Midwestern hoorod town void of any significant events--well, except for a weekly 5-K run and bi-monthly "jazz festival"--our fair city of Columbus is once again the brunt of national media hilarity thanks to some nitwit who likes to preserve and/or consume the pee of young boys. Thanks a lot dickhead. In the past, Columbus has been known for similar calamities/hilarities such as torching the city whenever your collegiate football team wins a game over a weaker junior college opponent, or some yuppy douche bag driving his Beamer into a giant sinkhole in the middle of downtown, or any number of hicks with guns opening fire in public places and on freeways. But that was then. Step aside Des Moines with all your floods and evacuations, because Columbus has a tool who drinks piss. And of course, that means the rest of the world assumes the remaining 1.2 million of us do the same.
Just in case you've been hiding in a stall in the boy's room collecting your own urine samples for future distillation, and are completely unaware of that which I speak, I am telling the truth. Alan D. Patton, 56, of Columbus likes to hide in public restrooms where he places clear plastic Handi-Wrap over the toilets as young boys expel their urine. Once the collection is completed--much like the old moisture in the deodorant cap lid trick for surviving Peruvian soccer players--he drinks it. That's right. A grown man who has been permitted to walk among us for 56 years drinks the urine of little boys. It's now official, I HAVE heard everything. Who amongst us thinks this is normal behavior even for a god damned monkey? But wait, it gets better. This isn't the first time he's been arrested for said offense. Oh no, he does it a lot. Patton claims he just can't help himself. So I believe it's time we helped him. Let's diagnose the problem before rushing to judgment. First of all, there is nothing--and I mean NOTHING--sexually stimulating about a young boy. Secondly, any sexual release one might require should have nothing to do with urine and any other excrement. Unless of course you are speaking of the all important "after-squirt" which must occur following sex. However, unlike the previous act, this should be performed as a solo act and not with an audience or partner. Finally, the consumption of any form of human waste should be punishable by running the tube sock full of quarters gauntlet. The reason it is called "waste" is because your body no longer requires its accumulation. Oddly enough, that's why it stinks so badly. Running it back through again not only defeats the purpose, but ordinarily causes one's body to create an entirely new unholy fluid known simply as vomit.
Thus, there is no logical explanation for Al's behavior. It's just plain goofy I tells ya. Obviously, he can no longer be "cured" by normal means (whatever that could entail), so perhaps it's best just to take Old Yeller out back and put him down. Or at least do the Old West heave ho where an undesirable is taken to the edge of town, given a swift kick in the ass, and sent on his way to screw up another town. Hands clean, out of our hair. I don't even think there is anything disgusting enough that prisoners could do to him that he probably wouldn't appreciate. But sadly, the damage is done. Now whenever I travel, others will read my luggage tag and question whether or not I, too, intend to drink their child's urine. Football fans in Michigan will begin the "piss drinker" chants. And homeland security involving anyone who travels to and from Columbus will be treated as "Code Yellow."
Next time...why do the homeless always have such nice tans?
© Curtis Boster 7/1/08
Monday, June 30. 2008
A LITTLE OFF THE TOP
When blessed with the chilling lifestyle, it is difficult at times to avoid the constant barrage of seemingly insignificant thoughts which collect upon the efimech of one's soul. For example, after paying for and receiving the "summer cut" provided to my dog by our mobile groomer, I have noticed that when she angers into a barking rage, her asshole seems to pucker and flex. It's almost a breathing motion like a bellows. Oddly enough, I had never noticed this before the excess hair was removed. It's not that I marvel so much at such a phenomenon, but it makes me wonder if this event occurs in human beings as well. I suddenly have the image of former Orioles manager Earl Weaver arguing a bad call with an umpire whilst his sphincter is in an uproar. Or Khrushchev's butthole throbbing in and out as he pounded his shoe on the table at the U.N. I'm guessing Woody's arse was always in a violent state of upheaval.
For the love of God, can we please stop with this "barista" bullshit. O.K., so you took some remedial art classes and you have attended three of the last four gallery hops. This does not make you any cooler than the person who makes a fresh pot of Shockwave coffee every other hour at Speedway. By the way, despite all of their advertising attempts, has anyone really gone out for lunch at a Speedway? Who sits around the office at about 11:00 a.m. craving a tube steak spinning around on an aluminum treadmill? Has anyone even asked what the Hell a barista is? Of course not, because that would make you uncool. And if you work at The Limited's home office, you're not on a "campus," nor are you a "fashion associate." Just accept your lot as a minimum waged grunt, cash your check, and shut the Hell up. And don't even get me started on "celebrity chefs." Make up your mind, you are either one or the other...but you can't be both.
Can you still purchase TV dinners at the grocery? If so, I am assuming they are still as disgusting as they ever were. I can't imagine any parent coming to the conclusion that these were such an integral part of their upbringing that they force feed their own children a constant barrage of Swanson, Banquet, and Libbyland meals. The concept of aluminum foil-topped gelatinous turkey loaf and modified snow peas may have been a good idea in the 1950s, but I can't see the logical application in the 21st Century. I rather imagine that dog food carries a higher price tag than a TV dinner.
Summer is upon us and with it comes the constant threat of funky potato salad and ground chuck rife with insect larvae. So why would anyone ever stop and order food from a location with the front door swung wide open in the heat of Summer? This usually occurs in pizza joints, but the Chinese food buffets are notorious as well. An open front or back door is an equally open invitation to every turd-licking fly currently looking for a place to wipe his feces encrusted feet or leave his fly spooge. Which begs the question, why didn't we call birds "flies?" It seems to make more sense in the long run. We could have called flies turd-sucking assholes. When I used to vacation in South France during the summer months, I remember that nearly every beach was a nude beach. One might think this a sexy experience, but the nude beach was open to all French people including G-Ma and many uncircumcised danglers. And oddly enough, my only recollection of the nude beach was the plague of flies buzzing about the various openings of the French along said beach. At least cattle have the luxury of a tail to swat the unwanted vermin from their stinkholes. Has my analogy hit home yet? Do NOT eat from a restaurant where the doors are propped open. Chances are good that if they can't afford air conditioning, they probably can't afford USDA beef either.
Before I exit for the day, a quick note to parents of teenage girls. If you don't want horny old bastards like myself oggling your prepubescent daughters, stop allowing them to dress like whores. The ass crack tattoo may have been some kind of revolutionary statement years ago, but the only statement it makes today is "my teenage ass is open for business." And why would one ever permit their daughter to wear a pair of shorts with the word "Juicy" across their ass? Do they have any idea what that implies to a pervert? There is probably an entire website devoted to upskirt photos of teenage girls wearing Juicy across their ass. Every perv in the world seeks the Holy Grail...a teenage girl with a self-lubricating crack. And now, you have allowed your daughter to advertise said fact. Of course, these shorts have given me an unbelievable marketing idea for fat chicks which I shall brand "Fudgy."
© Curtis Boster
6/30/08
Friday, June 27. 2008
VEGAS, BABIES
Let this serve as a final warning. I am about to get stabby if you idiot breeders with children don't start using some common sense. Parents with children are, without a doubt, the most rude and selfish bastards who ever walked upright. They assume that the rest of us adore their "special" little offspring and will tolerate almost anything they perceive as cute. And the smoking ban isn't helping the matter either. I used to be able to hide from these pus buckets in the smoking section of restaurants. But for some odd reason, parents have assumed that the elimination of smoking has somehow permitted them to become squatters in our favorite bars, taverns, and shit holes. So they come barging through the swinging doors with their plastic bags filled with Cheerios, and their god damned sippy cups, and stuffed animals, and just squat while I'm trying to negotiate a financial transaction with some whore or attempting to get blotto from a week of having to put up with similar a-holes. There is simply no escape...not even in Las Vegas.
On a recent trip to Vegas, our flight was jammed with children and infants riding along in their plastic mangers. What kind of douche bag parent takes a child to Las Vegas? I'll tell you what kind...the kind who has no regard for other people and thinks that, somehow, divine intervention has blessed their child as something "special." Kind of like the recent trend of celebrities making headlines whenever they decide to breed, as if somehow three wise men were assembling outside of the Hollywood hills to christen them into our civilization. Oh, I hear the Midwest is under flood waters and several dozen U.S. soldiers were blown to Hell by some religious dickhead in Iraq...but what's the latest on Angelina's baby? Well allow me to retort. There is nothing special about any child. Unless of course they are born with both sets of operative sexual organs. For the most part, all children look like a god damned peeled potato with a face. They stink, they ooze fluid out of every crevice, they make high-pitched irritating noises like a possessed parrot, and they eventually grow up to resemble the assholes who spawned them in the first place. There is nothing special about them to anyone except their parents, and perhaps that is where the problem lies. Have you ever seen these idiots holding up their children at a sporting event as if to say "Hey everybody, look what came out of my sack?" They are just so proud but they have no clue that they look as stupid as the idiot in the luxury box with the cell phone constantly waving to the camera, or the Nimrods in the background of the "Today Show." Here's a swell idea...let's go to New York City and stand in the background of a TV set and wave like a retard. If the "folks back home" were really your friends, wouldn't they be in New York with you?
But I digress. Vegas is no place for children. Bugsy Siegel would turn over in his grave if he witnessed a parade of strollers on his casino floor. And children don't belong in the corner bar either where, for some strange reason, breeders find it necessary to bring their child's entire toy box and a four-pack of Fruitistas from Taco Bell. Stop assuming that we all love your children because we don't. Some of us, present company included, don't even like you and your children. I don't bring a Hustler to church every Sunday. Well, not anymore. I don't stop by the elementary school playground and suddenly decide to shoot hoops during recess. And I don't bring a sippy cup full of malt liquor and a clear plastic bag full of weed to your kid's birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. Why would you ever even consider taking a kid's toy--or "binky" as they are commonly referenced--to a public place? I can't remember my brother and I suddenly breaking out into a game of hotbox at the Black Angus when we were kids. And do you know why we never did? Because my parents were perceptive enough to recognize that others around them didn't necessarily care about us, so we behaved accordingly. There was never a need for a "time out." In fact, "time out" in my house was the number of minutes you spent in a fog after taking a backhand upside the noodle. I'm not saying children should be roughed up when they misbehave...well, wait a minute, sure I am. In fact, if you as a parent are too much of a wuss to get the job done, I'd be happy to oblige. However, the root of all evil generally lies with the idiot who drove.
® Curtis Boster
June 27, 2008
Tuesday, May 27. 2008
Editor's note: Sunday night was the best ever from Curt and the guys. Thanks to all who gave me the shove I needed to leave the house for the first time in a year. New pics are located at http://www.barkingatairplanes.com/cpg/ NNNN BigRod BosFest IV Review
Since I never wanted to read one of those God-awful reviews about Big Hole Swiss in The Columbus Dog patch or The Other Paper, I thought I'd just write my own. First and foremost, big thanks to all who attended BosFest IV this past Sunday eve. It's always a thrill to spend my birthday with what few friends remain, even though most of the audience was only in attendance at the invitation of other band members. It is my pleasure to state that I don't think BHS ever sounded better, and we're probably incapable of doing so in the future. The guys really stepped up to the plate and brought out their A-game while giving 110% with their backs to the wall (literally)...which should cover most of the sports related clitches that currently come to mind. Oh, and this is probably a good time to thank Jesus.
Brother Al was on fire, Freight Train was rolling down the track out of control, Bob was Mr. Diversity with quality vocals, and harmonica, and the 12-string, and Jarrod was up to his usual perfection. As much as I enjoy listening to our sax man Dave, I don't think the band suffered in his absence. And this allowed me to save enough money so that I could run a tab at the bar. It took me awhile to get the vocals going as I am not a real musician like everyone else, and can't always get the sound mix I desire through my monitor. But by the time I hit "This Magic Moment," the pipes were cleaned and I was ready to measure up to the rest of the band. Yes, I realize my stage presence sucks but I sing and nothing else. The stage is so small and there are so many vital cords running under my feet that I'm afraid to move. Besides, Freight Train Russell is our designated dancer. I look down at the stage a lot for a variety of reasons, the first being stated already with cords and sound dealies all over the place. Plus, I need to review the set list since A.B. never likes to look farther ahead than the song currently being played. And finally, most of the audience looked as though they were bored off their arse. Many were watching T.V. or just staring at their watch. To avoid losing interest myself, I found it best not to look at the crowd. I probably should have just taken off my glasses, but then I would have had the image before me of a big flesh-colored bowl of Jello. Once I saw that many in the crowd were watching T.V., my interest was on it as well...especially since I've never seen the original "Star Wars."
And it's always a pleasure to see Big Rod in the front row. He has already posted some super cool photos of the gig somewhere. And there were about two dozen in the audience who have been to every BosFest and every event where we have performed. Now that's loyalty because I know we just haven't been that good through time. I assume our top-notch show Sunday night was our way of saying thanks (finally) for sitting through all the crap. And in case you are wondering, there will be a BosFest V. I have to do it...it's my 50th Birthday. So it's only fitting that one-year out, we already begin to promote the official "BosFest V-O." Get it?
So that's my take on things looking outward from the front of the stage. And for those who continue to ask about summer gigs at Indian Lake and Buckeye Lake, I have no idea where this idea originated. I believe it's rooted deep in the mind of Bob, the eternal optimist. I guess one can't print tour tees with just two gigs, so I'm thinking he just made that crap up to fill the shirt all the way to the waistline. With this in mind, don't forget we're playing "Woodstock '08" this summer with our special guest Ritchie Havens.
We'll see you all at our final gig ever at The Coop on July 3rd for "Party in the Park." Thanks again to everyone who showed Sunday night. I'm spent...money's on the dresser.
© C.B.
27 May 08
Wednesday, May 21. 2008
WHO NEEDS TO LEARN NOTHING?
I often ponder how I even survived my early years of education at the mercy of the most ridiculous curricula offered to students of the 1960s/70s. It's bad enough that the accepted solution to both nuclear attack and tornados was to either hide under your booger-encrusted desk, or sit in the fetal position in the hallway in front of a glass window laced with chicken wire. In my elementary years, we lived next door to the school, so when the weather turned catastrophic or global tensions were realized, I just said "screw this, I'm headed next door to my basement where I'll have a fighting chance at survival...who's with me?" Incidentally, my proximity to the familiar surroundings of home enabled me to avoid ever having to use the "boys room" in order to throw down a Johnny Marzetti induced steamer. It's bad enough I had to take the occasional piss in the presence of those I detested whilst surrounded by an endless supply of stinky brown c-fold towels. And what was the deal with removing the doors from the stalls? I realize the security concerns of smoking and related toilet induced hijinks, but for God's sake, didn't the powers that be realize the scars we would retain having to bust ass in front of our fellow students? And the last thing I needed to see before recess was Duke Livermore riding the crapper like an Argentinian jockey aboard a Clydesdale. Why not just leave a deuce at my desk in front of the entire classroom? Now THAT'S what I call "sharing time."
Anyhoo, our next stop along the formatted journey to the monotony we could all expect in real life was junior high school, or what the hip kids of today refer to simply as middle school. First of all, when did we assign that new moniker? And more importantly, who is responsible and why? I just woke up one morning and overheard little Austin and Brittney talking about "middle school." Junior high school was where the shaping of quality life would commence, what with the never ending plethora of preparatory subjects like "drafting" and "shop." I can't tell you the last time I used "drafting" in everyday life. In fact, I can't even tell you what drafting is unless you're referring to enhancing my gas mileage by tailgating an 18-wheeler on the PA Turnpike. Mostly, it was a threat to my Straight-A report card and subsequent rewarding of McDonald's cheeseburgers. I remember having to purchase a protractor and some pointy thing that is probably no longer permitted on flights whilst we are under Code Orange. Most importantly, I was forced to use a pencil, which I have refused to do since said time and place. If the enemy ever wants to find out where my troop placements are encamped, all they need to do is make me do math or drafting with a pencil. I'd rat out Ann Frank's entire family before I'd ever write with a pencil again. Dear God, I need a Valium just thinking about it ahora mismo.
As if drafting wasn't useless enough, we also had something known simply as "shop class." And it was usually scheduled at stupid o'clock in the morning just before homeroom. Nothing starts out a quality day like working in a factory environment. For those who cannot remember or never had the pleasure, metal class was where you forged a pocket-sized chisel and watched safety films about some guy taking a two-by-four into his gut because he didn't obey proper safety rules. And shop class was also the last time I wore goggles. I especially liked the ones worn by countless others before me that smelled like burnt hair and chicken-fried ass. Since my shop class experience, I cannot remember ever asking to borrow anyone's chisel. I don't even know why the opportunity would arise that ever requires the use of a chisel...especially a pocket-sized piece of crap chisel made by a seventh grader. I think the last time I ever saw my hand crafted chisel was when I used it in conjunction with the wooden mallet I created in Shop II. I used both to cleverly dissect a frog in biology class at the secondary educational level--another educational process I have found to be oh so useful throughout my adult life.
Wood Shop was equally uselss in that all I can remember is using a planer and lying about my point of origin. The assignment was to take a piece of rectangular lumber and make a mailbox hanging name/number kind of dealy for the family home. A bit too obsessed with the planer and/or the whole concept of planing, I took a bit too much off the sides and just couldn't get things evened out no matter how much I planed. I was faced with either accepting the first "C" of my educational experience, or creating something totally stupid out of my mishap. At first, I thought to tell the teacher that I owned a hampster, and felt that making some new bedding of cedar chips was a far better assignment. But then, I noticed that my wooden abortion resembled the State of Tennessee. I carved the Tennessee River in on the left, some Blue Ridge Mountains on the right, and told the teacher my family was from Appalachia. He fell for it, I received the A I so richly deserved, and my wood shop experience was finally concluded. Of course, my parents were not hillbillies from Tennessee. They were hicks from southern Ohio. But there was no way I could make a square out of a rectangular piece of wood. And seriously, who would ever hang that piece of crap on their mailbox anyway? How many parents dreaded their idiot kids bringing home some orange juice can covered in paper mache? Pencil holder my ass. It's a piece of crap Welch's can they threw out over the weekend covered in school paste and poster paint you stupid little bastard.
What the Hell was Phys Ed all about? I didn't mind shooting some hoops, or playing lots of dodge ball, or even that stupid President's physical fitness crap, but why did I have to break in the middle of the day, get all sweaty and stinky, then change my clothes and commence my studies? WTF man? How many times have I had to deal with this in everyday life? "Listen, we have that 11:00 board meeting, we'll break for a quick lunch, and, you know what...better cancel my 1:00 p.m. so I can play some tether ball before getting back into this stack of financial statements." Did anyone even understand the rules of tether ball? I was always fascinated how the janitor would come out every afternoon to take down the tether balls...as if students intended to actually play with them after hours. Perhaps we were going to cut them down and sell them like copper wiring to an underground recess supplier. All I know is that my first (and succeeding) sexual encounter was courtesy of a tether ball pole.
Similarly, why did we have to take a music class? Let's face it, most people just can't sing. And all children, be they male or female, sound as though Dave Seville is directing them. Most kids really don't want to sing, especially in large groups of fellow students they have to hang with for six or seven years. And not a lot of us have plans to join a ca strati, so once our balls drop and we leave a double gooey on the bedsheets, we're pretty much done with that alto stuff. I did a lot of lip-sync work, not because I couldn't sing...I was just really lazy. To me, having to break for song in the middle of my day was about the same as having to take a dump with no doors on the stalls. And I left all that behind in elementary school. Come to think of it, I really didn't learn anything useful until high school when I was permitted to finally choose my own direction in life. I remember taking accounting--which my current accountant claims I must have been absent a lot--but all I recall was that my teacher wore the same suit every day for six weeks. His dandruff was so severe, it looked as though he worked a second job at a crematory...in Chernobyl. I think I received my first "B" in accounting because I was too eager to cook the books and discover a means to stick it to The Man. I was the only student who was audited during the final exam.
If there was one lesson I did learn from my early schooling, it was the power of money and its never ending relationship to achievement and success. My father would slip me $10 for every A earned on my report card. That was alot of dough ray for me in the early 1970s. Present day parents would have you believe this form of positive reinforcement is counter productive. But that's only because they were probably idiots and their parents were cheap asses. My folks learned early on with me that in order to enhance productivity and make parenting more effortless, cash was king. In fact, I didn't get my first "C" until my senior year at Ohio State. And that's only because I scheduled two classes simultaneously so as to graduate early. And I don't mean graduate early like an Ohio State football player, I mean REALLY graduate early. Despite all the chisels I produced, and all the drafting I did, nothing ever motivated my success more than cashola. And oddly enough, forty years later, this quality persists. And my favorite school subject you ask? Nap time. Nothing says continued growth and enhanced production like taking a break from your busy daily schedule for a snooze. Other than a constant barrage of my fellow classmates vomiting, it's the only memory I retain from kindergarten. And I've been an A-student in the subject ever since.
©Curtis B.
5-20-08
Friday, May 16. 2008
WHO EATS HIS OWN
It is rare that I ever discuss any current event of significance, but I find it necessary to weigh in on the gay marriage issue. Let me begin by stating that I am against ANY marriage, be it between a man and a woman, a pair of dudes, or a chick and her hoorod. I have always been under the belief that one should have to take some kind of written exam to actually qualify for marriage, and two people joined at the hips should be required to have a license to reproduce. Of course, one of the first questions on that particular form would be "Do you intend to force your demon seed to play soccer?" Yet my logical pleas have fallen on deaf ears. But what perks everyone up at the dinner table of life is "gay marriage." I love this topic because it gets all of the religious wingnuts in a single file organized hate-filled conga line. Because as we all know, one cannot truly worship Gawd and matching genitalia simultaneously. To crave dick and/or beaver is to accept Hell. I think I read that in Fallopians 4:18. Truth be known, homosexuality is more a violation of the laws of physics and elasticity than it is a sin of morality and depravity.
I could care less what two consenting adults--or at least one consenting adult and one unwilling underage girl--do in the privacy of their own home and/or Internet provider. I can honestly say that I have never craved the sexual healing offered by a male, although there have been some trans-testicles who have come mighty darned close to financial negotiations. And I must admit, I wouldn't mind going lesbo if only I could. But for gays who are always saying, "It's not just about sex," I argue, yes, that's all it's about. You already have the same rights that the rest of us do whether you are eating your own or not. None of us can afford health care whether we're packing fudge or not. Wanting to confirm your commitment to another smoker and/or lapper is nothing but stupid. But if that's what you desire, suit yourself. Whether or not you elect to partake of same sex satisfaction has no bearing on my life. Unless, of course, you are my waiter. Homosexuals should be allowed to partake of the same misery all married couples enjoy. If nothing else, perhaps the acceptance of gay marriage would cut down on the amount of 5K runs. Christ, can't a guy just enjoy the sexual company of another male without having to run a marathon every weekend? I know the sight of another man's unencumbered junk flopping around in a sweaty pair of yellow jogging shorts might be hot to some, but there are certain times during the weekend that I'd like to travel downtown streets without barricaded detours.
I find it disturbing that most people are more alarmed by this perceived homo epidemic than paying 20-cents more for a gallon of gas everyday. I doubt that roving gangs of gay men and lesbo chicks shaped like 55-gallon drums are going to invade your neighborhood and force themselves upon your children in a flurry of suckings, lickings, and drive-by fudgings. I'm a little more concerned about taking it up the arse every time I need to fill up my gas tank. The fact that I need to roll some 80-year old broad in the parking lot of JoAnn Fabrics to lift her purse and collect enough change to fill my tank is far more concerning to me than anyone with milk on their whiskers who wishes to live happily ever after--or three years, whichever comes first--together. But alas, I do not align myself with a church or religion and thus, cannot fully comprehend the contradictory teachings of the Good Book as interpreted by 21st Century zealots. I believe it is written in Cunnilingus 2:17, "Love thy neighbor...just not in the butt."
®Curtis Boster
May 16, 2008
Tuesday, May 6. 2008
BUILDING THE PERFECT BURGER Editors Note: This blog was originally posted 4 days ago, but was somehow deleted. My Apologies. Rod
I have much to update from the Kansas City trek, and A.B. and I are off for Las Vegas again this afternoon. In the meantime allow me to slap a couple patties of meaty wisdom across your grill in regards to building the perfect burger. In the center of downtown K.C., only 1/2 mile off I-70 and I-35, sits a tiny little crapshack known simply as Town Topic. Their eight-stool counter has been resting comfortably on Broadway since 1938, and serving up the finest burgers in town 24/7. The grill is directly in front of you allowing you to witness all of the action. And the short-order chicks are masters of their domain conveniently timing everything to perfection as they balance your order with a take-out for a pair of Trucker Omelettes.
The burgers are compressed thin, so a triple cheeseburger was in order for Fat Boy '08. The cheese is melted between the patties (as is proper for the perfect burger) and there is no sign of the bun until the meat is removed from the heat. This allows for proper soakage of the grill gravy into the bun. As is common in the Midwest, most burgers are grilled in a bed of onions. But not for this guy...onions are the Devil's work. The burger was borderline perfection complemented only by a classic accessory--Tater Tots. Deep fried to perfection, salted up and dipped into an Olympic-sized pool of Heinz 57. What could be better? A huge Coca-Cola with crushed ice that's WTF! Is this heaven? Not hardly, it's Missouri. But it's as close as I've been to Nirvana for some time. I was so excited, I think my diamond cutter ripped completely through my shorts and into my back-up drillies. Sadly, I believe my waitress noticed yet we didn't discuss it further. I paid my bill, tipped the cook for allowing me to witness her artistry, and was back to the road.
I have consumed many meat patties in my quest for the perfect burger. Several have made the grade in bowling alleys and crapshacks all across this fine nation. And who is the reigning king you ask? It has to be the burger at The Penguin in Charlotte, NC. Hands down, the best ever. Yet I know in my heart that someone out there somewhere can take The Penguin down, and it is my constant quest to find that golden calf. Other top burgers of note include any of the many small burger joints in El Reno, Oklahoma, Billy's Onion Burgers in Elk City, OK, and it's tough to beat a West Coast favorite, The Fat Burger. If you desire more detailed information on some of the best burger joints across America, there is a new book out entitled, conveniently enough, "Hamburger America" by George Motz. Read it, learn it, drool all over it.
And now for the few of you who ever read this crapola, you're pondering a big-ass burger throw down right now aren't you? And suddenly, you have a craving for Tater Tots. That's right, even without the radio I can still paint the picture. So for local fare, you can't go wrong with Club 185 or the big-ass monster burger at Thurman's. And oddly enough, the burger at Main Lanes in the 1970s was above any crappy Dave & Buster's, Cheeseburger In Paradise chain garbage. And when in doubt, there is always the old standby Steak 'N Shake. But you'll need to brush up on your Spanish before ordering. Just remember...hamborguesa doble con queso y fritas, By God Bub-o.
Curtis B.
May 1, 2008
Tuesday, April 29. 2008
HISTORY'S MISERIES
We live in a time when it's fashionable to piss and moan about trivial things, most of which we are incapable of altering the outcome even if we could. Yet thankfully, I was born along life's time line when the really important matters have been perfected, treated, and maintained. As romantic as it may be to spend a moment in history say, riding the range, burning witches, or robbing trains, I drop to my knees each morning and thank the heavens above that I was born in the late 1950s when the planets of medicine, fashion, and for some odd reason, religion aligned to rid me of my foreskin. That's right, we're about to discuss circumcision. Let's begin with a quick fact...did you know that currently only 25% of the world's population is snipped? Ladies, that means you have a three-in-four chance of having to peel back the fleshy madness like one of those push-ups you used to get from the neighborhood ice cream truck. Oh the humanity. Before I go on, if you are a guy who is currently sporting the flesh muffler, I apologize if I offend. But damn...how do you keep from killing yourself? I'm fairly certain that evidence will show that this is what set off the Menendez Brothers. They were in the preppy high school gymnasium after a rain-date game of dodge ball, and noticed that all the good Jewish boys in the shower were sporting smooth, lanolin-soaked, well manicured members with meat helmets that shone brightly at the coming of the dawn. Meanwhile, Lyle and Erik had some kind of soggy, hairy burrito peeking its head out like some light sensitive snapping turtle. What possible action could they pursue than to rush home and shoot their parents? What kind of sick and twisted hippy parent decides not to give their child the penal van dyke? And don't even get me started on the religious crapola as it pertains to circumcision. All I can say in summary is that the Jews really had it going on. To me, circumcision is just further proof that they are, in fact, God's chosen people.
So anyhoo, with today's influx of God-awful "reality" shows and contests, and hot chicks tearing up homes for resale, I have found TV solace in The History Channel. However, I find it interesting that very few have ever considered the relation of circumcision to our past. Well, except perhaps the guy who wrote the classic fairy tale "Rumpledforeskin." But think about it for a moment...our current President is quite possibly the only U.S. President sans foreskin. That means Monica had to peel back, Marilyn had to do the peel and eat thing on JFK, and James K. Polk's penis probably only came out once every February to see his shadow. As far as this year's erection goes, I'm guessing it's going to be a classic battle of shirts against skins. Obama might be free of the flesh, but I'm fairly certain McCain is scattered, smothered, and covered. The jury is still out on Hillary's penis. In fact, rather than make a big hub-by God-bub about faith and religion on the campaign trail, I'd rather hear which candidates are snipped. I don't want a guy with his smegma soaked finger on the button. Dear God, was there ever a more precise and descriptive word as "smegma?" Who will be the first candidate in history to play the "skin card?" "Not only are his plans for an exit strategy preposterous and unrealistic, but you need to ask yourself, do you really want a man in the White House with a foreskin?" I know I don't.
All politics aside, how many of you have even imagined the foreskin's role in history? When you think of westward expansion and eminent domain, did it ever occur to you that none of these early pioneers were circumcised? Now imagine riding a horse for days through a steamy desert wearing leather pants and no underwear. And all the while, you have this fleshy, carne asada chimichanga rubbing against your thighs while your pulpy, fudgy, bloated schphincter looks like a stinky balloon animal sculpture about to explode into a Johnstown-type disaster of butt juice and smegma. Your crusty sack looks like a circus tent assembled in advance outside of a Liverpool steel mill, and you've been wiping your arse with prickly pear cactus and letters from back East for the past three weeks. So you ride into the nearest town and the first thing on your mind is a shot of whiskey and a two-dollar whore. You're probably better off soaking in a gallon of kerosene and dropping a match down your pants. And speaking of the town whore, you just know that was all clean and fresh. Somehow I doubt that the old Oatman whore looked like Shirley Jones in a bustier. Quincy Jones, maybe. Especially after entertaining five other previously described cowboys before you and your horse rode into town. These chicks probably had a bush like a chia pet with labia that resembled a grilled cheese and gravy sandwich. You'd probably roll out of town the next morning with an STD that looked like that bulbous mucus critter from the Musinex commercial riding your uncircumcised tool like Slim Pickens in "Dr. Strangelove." If that weren't enough, then you had to ride through the Plains avoiding Indians, who were all pissed off from not being circumcised, too. This anger was only enhanced when they tried to hijack the chicks in your wagon train only to discover that they were rife with syph and had a scruffy sage brush between their legs. Drove them plum loco, I tells ya.
Up until the mid 20th Century, patients with syphilis were placed into insane asylums. There was no treatment other than quarantine. Al Capone died of syph, JFK was rumored to be a cesspool of STDs, and Henry VIII was just one super encrusted pus-soaked pinata full of vile, disgusting fluids and such. Any women who had to service this uncircumcised, 400-pound syph-bag would have welcomed a beheading. The good news is, Henry VIII actually had someone assigned to wipe his arse and cleanse it following his royal smasher. Regal hands were not permitted to touch anything foul, so Henry and all British royalty were assigned an official ass wipe. Now there's a gig we never learned about in high school history.
I've always preached that history is an ugly thing to face. But if you wish to look even closer, it can become a whole lot uglier. Imagine all of your early American heroes like Lincoln, and Edison, and Johnny Goddamn Appleseed...none of them were circumcised. Neil Arsmstrong, John Wayne, Walt Disney, even Elmer Fudd...all sported excess baggage. Our Founding Fathers--well, except for Bill of Rights co-signer Mitch Kumstein--all wrote the laws of our great nation while their founding members retreated in and out of their fleshy hiding place like a pearly jaw fish. I could go on with this history lesson, but I'll just leave the reader to ponder more possibilities. I think FDR said it best when he proclaimed, "We have nothing to fear but schmegma."
Curtis Boster
April 29, 2008
Friday, April 25. 2008
Editor's Note: This blog is late in being published due to computer problems. My apologies to all. Before I disappear for a few days to the Great Plains, I have a few things lingering on my noodle like a canker on a crack whore's lower lip. For instance, how exactly does one develop a "street name?" More importantly, why do the newspapers always refer to a person's street name when they are convicted of a crime or end up face down in a dumpster? Doesn't that just serve to enhance the stereotype and magnify the problem? You know, when the media states "Tyrone 'Straight Flush' Walker, 39, shot Korean shopkeeper Hoo Flung Poo during a robbery attempt." Why doesn't the shopkeeper get a street name? In fact, why can't we all use a street name just in case we come face to face with someone who already owns such a moniker? Despite my birth name of Curtis, I'm going to go by "Van Lingle Mungo" from this day forth...but only when I'm on the tough backstreets. And how does one become part of the 4-1-1? You know, "the word on the street." Do you need to advertise or is "the word" all obtained by word of mouth? Seems to me that if you are involved in criminal behavior, you'd rather keep it "on the QT."
Speaking of "street cred," when did this retarded identity with one's area code become fashionable? Wouldn't it make more sense to go the extra mile with a more precise identity like a zip code? That would probably help us all to further pinpoint your allegiance to a specific geographical time and place. Of course, if you went with the nine digit zip, that could cause a bit more pain and increased costs when getting the tattoo, and you might not be able to fit all of the numbers on your neck. I get the origins of this nonsense with the L.A. street gang IDs, but there's something a lot less romantic about identifying your loyalty to Marysville and the "937." Unless, of course, you buggy ride with an Amish gang like The Yoders.
What's the big hub-by God-bub about this chick getting her arse kicked on video? Hoopty frigging doo! This chick was just roughed up a little, she's not on life support or drinking Ovaltine through a tube in her goozle. Apparently the media never attended Sherwood Junior High School in the 1970s. All you had to do was enter the boy's restroom and the swirly was on. We just didn't have video cameras back then, so a kid from the art class was recruited by the hoods to do a charcoal sketch of the assault action. Trust me, I would have rather had my ass kicked AND videotaped than to have to dry my hands on those God-awful brown C-fold towels.
Are you one of those individuals who continues talking to someone on the phone whilst you excrete? You know, you're having a conversation with someone and all of the sudden, you can clearly make out echo-enhanced urine splashing...and they never break stride in their conversation with you except to do that little grunting noise towards the end. I've never met someone who, while in the midst of a job interview or casual conversation, just started relieving themselves all over my shoes, so why should I be exposed to this "virtual pissing" via phone technology? And to top it all off, then they flush the toilet and say "what did you just say, I couldn't hear you over the sound of my urine heading south to Chillicothe." Just stop it people. For those of us on the other end of the phone, we're more than happy to wait in silence while you excuse yourself. Or here's a novel thought...just call us back when you're done expelling waste from your body. The inconvenience of a delayed message is far more appealing than the visual of what you are doing while attempting to carry on a conversation. I'm almost embarrassed to even admit this, but I once had a chick call me just hours after we swapped bodily fluids in a sexual frenzy analogous to any Tiffany Mynx film. Apparently, what she had to say just couldn't wait until she had finished evacuating her colon from the $50 meal I had provided for her earlier. So she gave me a call and an unsolicited update regarding her bowel and bladder habits as she performed said tasks in an obviously unvented facility. The nightmares persist to this very day with the haunting sounds similar to water splashing from a stalactite echoing through underground caverns. And don't even get me started on phone sex. I don't like talking to anyone on the phone about important matters much less pretending to care what some chick is probably not doing to her self anyway. And I'm such a cheap ass that if I'm on the road and some chick in the 937 wants to get jiggy with it over the phone, I'm too obsessed with counting the remaining minutes on my cellular plan to get aroused. That's why I carry an egg timer instead of wearing a watch.
Are you one of those nimrods who blow your nose on the linen napkins at restaurants? If you are, can you please cease and desist said activity from this day forth. These napkins are specifically designed for spills and sopping up excess gravy from your grill. Nothing more. And by the way, the purpose of using fancy linen and related textiles is so that they can be reused time and time again. That being said, I haven't met a fabric softener or detergent yet that can completely extract mucus. If you must remove your vile and viscous phlegm, why not just gob in my face next time out? Or just drop your drillies and wipe yourself with the linens. And despite the fact that your waiter might reward the completion of your meal with a toothpick, you don't necessarily need to use it right the Hell now in full view of dinner guests and patrons. That's probably why they don't hand you a Q-Tip or a Tucks wipe. It's a restaurant, not a cleaning station. That's why the shoe shine guy is positioned in the lobby.
And finally, in the event that you are like me and suffer from chronic nadular itching, a few words of caution before attempting to pick up a temporary and/or soothing cure at your local pharmacy. The most obvious product I discovered upon my initial search was called Nads. The name says it all and I concluded that this aptly named product was exactly what I needed. Talk about your false advertising. Nads is for hair removal. I know that...now. The good news is I'm currently sporting a smooth, hairless scrotum but it has retained the dry, lunar surface which is where my problems originated. For those of you who have a problem that runs a little further south of the border, I highly advise you to avoid two extremely misleading products. You do NOT want to apply Aspercreme to your puckered sphinc, nor do I recommend anything referred to as "crack cream." It's amazing, they put warning labels on cigarette packs, but nothing is required of these misleading products. It's takes a few guys like me with a swollen baboon ass to clear the air. Come to think of it, I'm just about ready for my morning smash and ass putty application. I think I'll phone a relative or business associate and provide color commentary for them.
I'm going to Kansas City...Kansas City here I come.
Curtis Boster
April 22, 2008
Friday, April 18. 2008
So I'm having lunch with a friend of mine last week and he comes back to the table and asks "does that sign in the  restroom about washing your hands only apply to employees?" And then he asks me to pass him the bread basket. Sadly, I don't think his inquiry was in a joking manner. However, it allowed me to think of even more disgusting ways for my food to be tainted. Dunt, dunt...tainted food. Poor people, did you know that the fruit garnish on your glass of water is more than likely coated with fecal matter? It's true. While you think you're being so hip and groovy with a slice of lemon or lime on your glass of tap water, you are merely fueling the e.coli fire in your belly. And if you squeeze said garnish into your drink, you are simply reapplying the fecal matter into your water that the distillation processed removed. It's kind of like rubbing dirt on your vegetables before you eat them. No one is certain where the fecal matter on your fruit originates. Could be the back bar personnel simply don't wash their hands after a big supremo deluxe throwdown. Or perhaps the guys harvesting your fruit garnish south of the border are just surrounded by so much shit that they can't help themselves. So the next time your bartender and/or waitress asks if you'd like lemon or lime with your drink, just tell them to finger themselves and then stir your drink with that instead. Speaking of our old pal Sal Minella, are you aware that alfalfa sprouts are one of the biggest carriers of bacteria and gut wrenching disease? This comes as no big revelation to me because they resemble a bird's nest, are grown in stagnant standing water, and, quite frankly, smell like you just took a big load in your face at the local glory hole. I know they look all groovy and eclectic perched atop your salad, but you might as well just walk into the restroom and lick the toilet seat. It's about the same as putting your groceries atop that disgusting fold-out child seat in the shopping cart. Will someone finally just remove that contraption before we all die from baby ass contamination? Why not just locate the nearest infant inside the grocery and wipe his ass with your bananas or swiss cheese to cut out the middle man? "Whoa, those croissants you purchased at Kroger yesterday sure taste like a child's fudgy ass honey." Ditto for these a-hole parents who seat their children on the counter at your favorite restaurant or fast food crap shack. Hey hoorod, if I wanted a child's ass in my life, I'd get on the Internet. And one more thing before I go. Having access to a deep fryer or microwave does not a "chef" make. The guy who prepares my burger at Steak 'N Shake might be the master of his grill, but he is certainly not a chef. So stop pissing down my neck and telling me it's raining. Some of you might remember the old Gibby's Riverview, or whatever it was called. Nice bar, decent snacky snacks, just an enjoyable place to meet and eat. As is often the case, some investment bankers with no food experience have taken it over, given it some artsy fartsy name, and hired a self-annointed "chef" with a mind for eclectic fusion and all that crap. What that generally means is goat cheese, roasted vegetables, and sun- dried tomatoes. I do not eat vegeatbles, but sun-dried tomato sounds to me like tomatoes that are past their expiration date. Kind of like a sun-dried grape is called a raisin. Or a sun-dried mole is called cancer. And as far as goat cheese goes, get it outta here. Goats and sheep were designed specifically for herding and buggering...not for milking and fileting. Anyhoo, I'm purusing this new menu looking for something sans goat, and find a chicken cannelloni dish that looks appealing. But wait, it's topped with gorgonzola cheese. So I ask my seemingly gay, pouty waiter if I can have this without the gorgonzola and he states, "oh no, these dishes are prepared in advance and nothing can be altered." To which I boldly inquired, "so I'm assuming your so-called chef really isn't a chef unless his last name is Boyardi?" A guy who puts a Stouffer's frozen entree into a microwave is not a chef. The guy driving the Schwann's truck is no more a chef than the guy at the local record store is a rock star. If that's the case, the Pizza Rolls I cooked last week would put me in competition against Morimoto on "The Iron Chef." I might not know much about how to operate a restaurant, but I think the best way to keep customers coming back is to give them what they want. Turns out the only thing that was not prepared in advance was a pizza. A $15.00 pizza that tasted like a wood fired, brick oven Donato's. But it still beat a mouthful of gorgonzola. Paint it any picture you desire, but that's just plain moldy cheese. "Blue veining" is a fancy, eclectic way to say goddamn moldy ass cheese that looks and smells like the stuff that gets between your toes and under one's foreskin during Spring Break. And finally, just a word to the wise when designing your groovy and hip "bistro." The customer's first impression should not be some brain-dead hostess/stripper showing off her ass-crack tattoo and using such timely catch phrases as "like" and "huh." Like so many horny old men, I, too, appreciate the invention that is thong underwear. However, when pondering a dish featuring ricotta cheese, I do not need my hostess bending over to wipe off the adjacent table and exposing her thong encrusted teenage arse to my punnum. What could be worse? Oh dear God, she's bringing me a glass of water with a lime wedge! Curtis Boster
April 16, 2008
Wednesday, April 16. 2008
SINS OF THE FLESH I am still haunted by the Tommy Lee/Pam Anderson sex tape even though I have erased it from my vast porno library. It's  not that I am insecure and/or aroused by Tommy Lee's enormous kielbasa, but it's "the other white meat" that still leaves me scarred. I simply cannot distance myself from the obvious correlation between Pam's genitalia and my persistent phobia as it pertains to raw chicken. I can no longer physically handle or prepare the stuff, and I require some type of sedative if I even look upon raw chicken in my grocer's meat department. Granted, I'll still eat chicken...I just find it disturbing to prepare it or even come face to face with it unless I'm staring it down and mumbling "you are so *%#@ing hot baby...I love you baby." I tried again last week, but when it came to my vein attempt to hack off that fatty, sinewy mass of gelatinous snotty force field covering the breast, I felt the bile rise in my throat and went out for pizza instead. At the risk of a bad pun, this is one foul creature. Chicken, I mean...not Pam Anderson. That's just a really scary beaver. Despite this fear, I gambled on chicken during a recent visit to Max & Erma's. Mind you, this particular "fried crap" chain has really taken the pipe since the original owners sold it off. In fact, the unit closest to my house smells like the old Papa Joe's on Campus...you know, that disgusting stale beer sitting in the drains for three weeks odor mixed with Ohio State Fair dumpsters during the second week in August. I think that paints an accurate picture for your senses. Plus their staff consists of a group of disgruntled slackers with the personalities of a soap dish, who would rather play grab ass with each other than wait tables. So when the new Max & Erma's opened out Pickerington way, I figured I'd give them a chance. I had tasted the Buffalo sauce soaked chicken sandwich on a previous occasion and found it edible if not pallatable. And so, I placed my order for this artery clogger again on my most recent (and final) visit last weekend. The first bite seemed normal. But the second bite was soft and rubbery and cold and disturbing. I found myself chewing more than usual and, like a cooperative prom date, I just went ahead and swallowed. That's when my face backed away from this unholy creation to reveal that the chicken was raw. Not undercooked...freaking raw. A virtual rainbow of pink and purple and white all covered in Buffalo sauce. I was so traumatized, I couldn't even speak the words "you are so *%#@ing hot baby" as I stared upon the nightmare. I shook, I heaved, I was nervous, my teeth were chattering. My "eclectic" sandwich had been "infused" with bacteria. I could only imagine the "chef" not even thinking to pull back that snotty foreskin protecting the chicken's breastplate. That's probably what my teeth discovered when it felt like someone had infused a slice of Kotex soaked in Turtle Wax. I haven't slept since the incident. And how did the crack management team at Max & Erma's respond you ask? They offered me another sandwich. Only this time, they promised their "real chef" would prepare it. Heh? Who prepared the previous nightmare, Assistant Chef Sal Minnelli? I'm in a state of panic here, and you want me to accept the exact same entree, only this time you'll try to prepare it without the side of e.coli? And then, the manager offers to buy my meal. That's rich. I should shove it up your arse, or at least make you eat it and see how long it takes your colon to turn inside out. Thanks to your "chef" I'm on a six-hour death watch here. And to top it off, as I am leaving, the waitress reminds me that I owe for the Coke I ordered. I needed to remind her she served me Diet Coke, which I did not order. Suffice it to say, Max & Erma's is off the list. I'm somewhat embarrassed they were even on the list anyway. The glory days of big-ass quality burgers, and candlestick phones on the table to annoy hot chicks, and real fries that didn't have that bogus MSG seasoning mix on them...these are all a part of Max & Erma's past. Speaking of salmonella, why are we still calling a certain office accessory a "Manila envelope." What the Hell does that mean? It's kind of like someone asking you to borrow an "ink pen." An ink pen? As opposed to what? It's just a regular "pen" for Christ sakes. Without ink, it's called a pencil. How many times have you requested a manila envelope without even a second thought about what in the Hell you just asked for? By God Bub you'll be thinking twice from now on, won't you? What if a manila envelope is coated with anthrax or the guy in the mail room is running off a batch all over the adhesive closure? It might sound foolish and over the top, but you just don't know for certain now do you? Come to think of it, you've never really taken the time to be specific in your inquiry. You've just requested a manila envelope and viola!...it was given to you. It might not have even been an authentic manila envelope. It could have been a knock-off or, even worse, manufactured by illegal Mexican labor. Would you even know a genuine, authentic, blue blood manila envelope if you saw one? I think not. Think about it...the only time you really need one is during tax season. And don't even get me started on the possibility of a government conspiracy involving your tax return and manila envelopes. Why do you think they provide a return envelope for you? I'll be the first to admit I couldn't determine an authentic one from a Sears Kenmore manila envelope. All I know is whenever a foreigner asks me for a manila envelope, I tell them that it's pronounced "vanilla" just to screw with them. They always fall for it and it's always good for a laugh and/or two. Or unless they are from the Phillipines. Funny thing is, I can't really remember the last time a foreigner asked me for a manila envelope. But I have loaned them my "ink pen." Curtis Boster
April 15, 2008
Sunday, December 23. 2007
MERRY JEEZMAS TO ALL
So I learned that at least three people
have been clamoring for a new and improved blog entry, which is Everywhere I go, people are all up in
arms (whatever that means) about leaving "Christ in Christmas."
First of all, if you're one who gets all angry at this time of the
year over petty shite like this, perhaps Christmas and the inherent
peace on earth message is not the holiday for you. If you really
want to get angry about something, ask your church preacher, pastor,
or whatever you call that guy wearing some colorful post-graduate
robe, why kids can have a breakfast with Santa at your church. Why
not just host "Satan Days" in August? Your little pus
bucket is confused enough without your church providing mixed signals
to him. Eventually, you have to admit your lie that Santa (and
perhaps Jesus) really don't exist. And the last time I checked,
lying was still on Casey Kasem's Top Ten Commandments list. But I
have an even deeper question. Before one strives to keep the
"Christ" in Christmas, shouldn't we be referring to the
holiday as "Jeezmas?" Was his last name Christ? For that
matter, what was the last name of Mary and Joseph? I'm guessing
something "berg" or "stein." If he was born to
the name of "Jesus," middle initial H., where does
Christ-mas come from? Perhaps we should NOT keep Christ in
Christmas, but put the Jeez back in Jeezmas.
What exactly does Manheim Steamroller
do from January through November? Are they like the OSU Marching
Band who only need to learn a couple of songs which play over and
over ad nauseum? More importantly, when was the last time you had a
good Manheim Steamroller? How did it differ from an old fashioned
Yule Log? I'm assuming a genuine, certified authentic, limited
edition Manheim Steamroller must contain remnants of fruit cake
and/or figgy pudding.
Is it possible that the Anglo-Saxon,
gentile minority only eats a holiday ham to get even with the Jews?
Speaking of which, if you think that just because it's Christmas Day
you'll be able to go see a movie or stop by Disney World, think
again. While you're safe and snug in your beds and opening gifts
under the yule tide header, packs of wondering Jews are swarming your
streets in search of Neil Simon films and Chinese take-out. It's
really a sight to behold, but I would recommend night-vision goggles
for the full effect. They tend to scatter and seek shelter when the
lights come on.
Speaking of those of the Jewish faith,
is it possible that the first regifters were Mary and Joseph? I
mean, who really gets a gift of myrrh and acts excited? You know
Joseph was just standing there dumfounded going "come one, I
mean really, WTF." I venture to guess that this wiseman was the
only guy in the history of Jeezmus to give the gift of tree sap.
Well, probably the first since I'm quite certain Joseph regifted that
hunk of crap present to some villager the next day. What, is
"history" trying to tell me that there was no Wal-Mart open
between Somalia and Bethlehem? He's just a baby, he'll never know
it's tree sap. I mean, it's not like he's the son of God or
anything...I tell them it's Bosco. And why couldn't these wisemen
just ship a Hickory Farms meat log or some Omaha Steaks? Seems like
a long way to travel just to see a baby, even if he truly is the King
of Kings, Lord of Lords, A=B, B=C. And you just know that as soon as
Mary was back on her feet, she was trying to return a useless load of
frankincense to Waterbeds & Stuff. Perhaps she could get a store
credit for a vibrating hoorod to keep God from coming back for
seconds.
Well, that's about all the blasphemy I
could muster up for this Christmas season. But you must admit, these
questions raise legitimate concerns. Still, here's hoping you all
get what you deserve this Holiday season and Merry Jeezmus to
everyone.
© Curt Boster 12/23/07
Monday, November 12. 2007
A Special blog from our old pal, Buckeye Bob. FAAARRRR TRESSEL!
Dear Columbus DIS-Patch:
I tell you what, I think it's high time they faaarrrr Tressel. This is the second time this year he's been outcoached and embarrassed our great Buckeye Nation. I might have to take all of Michigan Week off of work because I'm so upset and, well, maybe a little drunk. Excuse me...(BAAARFFFFFF!)...whew, I don't remember eating that. Anyway, Woody would have never lost to Illinoisssss. Of course, we still might have won iffin' it weren't for those cheating referees. Illinoissss was holding on every play! And that fumble at the beginning of the game? Well, we were just cheated by them there Big Ten officials. They want us to lose. We didn't get alot of help from those biased announcers neither. I know Brent Musbergerhelper wasn't doing the game, but he just plain doesn't like the Buckeye Nation. Those biased announcers wanted us to lose and I think they knowed some of the referees. Come to think of it, everyone hates us Buckeyes...especially our own fans when we don't win. I think everyone is agin us. At least we had the decency to show the class we have after the game when our players started throwing punches at the winning team. Cuz that's the way Woody used to do things.
None of this would have ever happened if Woody was still coaching. He would have set things right. We'd still be Number One and our players would have the kind of haircuts you could set your watch to. Bunch of damned dreadlock-wearing prima donas, that's what they are. And that damn Karen Holbrook sent us back to the Dark Ages when she took away our drunken tailgate parties. Oops, I think I might have just pooped myself again. Illinoissss wouldn't never had beat us iffin' we didn't re-elect a black mayor neither. But that damn Tressel and his homo sweater vest cost us agin. He just can't win the big one. He's a choker who is always getting outcoached. I don't know why they don't just faaarrr him. We don't deserve to go to the National Championship no how. We'd just lose agin and those bunch of punk-ass prima dona players would embarrass our town agin. How could we lose to Illinoissss? I wish I had a beat up old sofa to light on fire to let people know how angry I am right now. Uh oh....(BAAARRRRFFFF!). Dear God that hurt and I can still taste that corned beef. Woody would have never eaten corned beef before a big geeem.
Now we're going to go play that team up north and get blown out and have to go play in the Outback Bowl in Tampa and watch our coddled prima dona players get drunk at the titty bars and play poorly and lose to some SEC team like Kentucky. Oh wait, I almost forgot...and get cheated by those damn referees and biased announcers. I'm suddenly not feelin' so well. Must be all of the beer and pent up rage making my restless leg syndrome flare up. Better call in sick for the week so I can be ready to commence to begin drinking agin on Friday for the big game in Ann Arbor. Which we'll probably lose because of bad coaching and cheating officials. Maybe they'll faaarrr Tressel before it's two late. Gads how I wish I had a life of my own.
Buckeye Bob
#1 Fan
Wednesday, November 7. 2007
I read the news today, oh boy. The CEO of The National Children's Museum is arrested for internet kiddie porn? I mean, damn. Does he also dress like a clown during weekend bar mitzvahs? First of all, WTF? Secondly, although I've never felt the need for the companionship of children of any age or in any sexual manner, haven't internet stalkers learned that 90% of the "hot teenage" boys and girls they're communicating with are actually some burly old cop named Sergeant Brodka? Didn't you notice anything suspicious when every other typed word wasn't "like?" And why in God's name would this moron use the internet anyway...he works at the freaking Children's Museum! I don't know exactly what a Children's Museum is, but I'm assuming they have stuffed children on display which he could diddle after hours. The guy has a complete set of keys to access The National Children's Museum. That's like a mink lamenting that he's wearing a mink coat.
As long as we're on the subject of underage youth, there is something that has been stuck in my craw all summer long. I'm speaking, of course, about high school fund raising car washes. You know what I'm talking about. The marching band needs new uniforms, no one cares about the wrestling team, Phoenix is getting back together...that kind of crap. First of all, they do a really crappy job. So the only reason I can even think of to stop for one of these is the lure of teenage nymphs in bathing suits with cleverly designed, hand-crafted poster boards encouraging me to stop by and see them in all of their pre-teen wet and sudsy goodness. But now, thanks to horn dogs like myself, this is no longer permitted. I don't want to give my hard earned money to cheerleaders in sweat pants. So from this day forth, or at least until young girls are once again allowed to show me their goodies as a means of sexually suggestive coercion, I urge everyone to boycott the corner car wash fund-raiser like a church-going fanatic boycotts a new movie they've never seen.
Has anyone tried the new McDonald's Angus Burger? Apparently, this one is made with REAL cow meat. Which begs the question, what exactly was in the first 200 billion served? Didn't anyone in the marketing department raise their hand in that meeting and express concern? I think the original promotion read "O.K., we were just kidding for the first 50 years...this one is made of beef." After 200 billion served, who expects anything more than beef entrails, tongue, and bovine anus? You can't offer the real thing now. If nothing else, it's been amusing to drive by any McDonald's USA early in the morning to see where glue sniffing teens on fourth meal have removed the "G" from the sign out front to cleverly spell out "Anus Burger Is Here." Actually, I tried one and that's probably a more accurate description.
Before I conclude today's mindless banter, I am troubled by one of history's cruelest myths. I am speaking, of course, of the practice of tying women to railroad tracks. First of all, I completely understand the concept in theory. But the truth of the matter is, I doubt that it was ever actually performed. Except maybe in Night Ranger videos. Much the same as pirates and giant squids eating ships and that two of every animal nonsense, it's just crap that's been passed down through literary ramblings for centuries. And what kind of sick bastard thought this one up anyway? Oddly enough, it was exclusively women tied to the tracks. I'm guessing if you were an Old West dude, being tied to railroad tracks made you gay--nothing but good old fashioned hanging worked for rustlers, bushwackers, and scallywags. Speaking of which, why does history never speak of gay Indians? I'm sorry, I meant homosexual Native Americans. Is history trying to tell me that bands of pissed off Indians on the warpath only kidnapped hot and hairy prarie chicks to turn into squaws? Well I'm not buying it, by God bub. It only stands to reason that there were gay Indians in stock and ready for delivery. Chief Crazy Assplug, Geronihomo, or the famed warrior Watches You Pee immediately come to mind, yet they are relegated to the back of any Ken Burns Old West tale. But I seem to have gone off the tracks. Oh yes, tying chicks to railroad tracks. Until I see it done, I'm not buying it. And if one were to rope anyone to the tracks these days, they'd die of starvation before anything remotely resembling a train came by. Perhaps it's best to perform said task at a railroad crossing where an automobile could take care of business, but still have the desired poetic effect. But just remember, this bus stops at all railroad crossings. Which is always a good thing for the students inside.
© Curtis Boster 11/07/2007
Sunday, November 4. 2007
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
I rarely have the opportunity to hang with the really hip and groovy these days and, quite frankly, prefer my lunch fare thinly sliced, prepped on a roll, and placed under a heat lamp in eager anticipation of its meaty delivery to me. Yet as one who has always appreciated the fine art of adjective-enhanced product placement, I can't help but stand in utter amazement at buzz words such as "organic" and "eclectic." In fact, your "bistro" is never a total success--at least by The Other Paper standards--unless you have achieved eclectic status. I can't really give you any idea as to exactly what this means, but I'm guessing from recent experience it refers to a bunch of crap no one ever eats prepared in small, undercooked portions and served on a large plate drizzled with some kind of mystery sauce and garnished with arugula. Oh wait, if my hipspeak is correct, that's called "fusion." For the love of crap, just slap it on a bun with a slice of big hole swiss and call it a day.
Perhaps my favorite hip buzz word, specifically used among the Pacific Northwest pasty set, is "organic." Originally designed as a description of produce grown and harvested without the use of chemicals and pesticides, no one makes mention of what happens to these veggies and fruits once they are picked. If you consult the label, you'll find that most products advertised as "organic," have been laced with everyone's favorite man-made food additive...high fructose corn syrup. Last time I checked, HFCS was a chemical food additive created in the lab as a low cost substitute for pure cane sugar. And oddly enough, sugar and the processing of sugar is almost purely organic by nature. So the next time you are cruising the health food aisles at your local grocer, check out the organic section to discover that nearly 90% of these products simply use the word organic as a descriptive adjective, and are about as organic as an Arby's cheddar melt.
Recently I was dining in an eclectic fusion bistro and was informed that my poultry was exclusively "free range" in origin. Wow, I guess that means that instead of just grabbing and choking a chicken from a poultry death camp, mine had to be hunted down and shot on the North American plain. When was the last time you saw large herds of chickens roaming through Eastern Colorado? Have you ever seen one of those chicken crossing signs along I-70 through Kansas? And how many grueling banty drives have there been up and down the Chisholm Trail? Yet no one ever asks for a definition of free range. Quite honestly, how free was this chicken if he's resting fileted on my plate in a drizzled fusion of eclectic raspberry balsamic? According to the USDA, "free range" can be defined as any animal simply "having access to the outdoors." That's it, plain and simple. Kind of like saying Chuck Manson is a free range inmate because he frequents the yard for smokes. Or more simply put, any chicken who gets to go out for kick ball during recess is considered free range. Even if he has a window seat on the plane after he's been debeaked, beheaded, and carved into portions...he's considered free range.
How many of you are excited by the concept of some delicious Black Forest Ham? Sure sounds good, doesn't it? What the Hell does the Black Forest have to do with ham that has been slaughtered and packaged in Kentucky? Color me inquisitive, but just where exactly is the famed Black Forest and why are there free range hams running around there? And still, we approach the deli counter at our local grocer and request the highest quality Black Forest Ham. What if the Black Forest is where German babies were circumsized or declawed? Would you still long for the flavor? And for the love of all things wacky, can we stop hearing about Kobe Beef? I'll admit it, I don't know what Kobe Beef is. I assumed it was some NBA urban speak for banging a white chick in the butt while rehabbing your knee at a mountain resort. But every day I have to hear how wonderful Kobe Beef is. Well guess what bistro heads, you've probably never tasted the real thing. What is being sold in the U.S. as Kobe Beef is actually "Kobe-style Beef" raised right here in America and originating from American bovines. No one could afford to have genuine Kobe Beef shipped from Japan to the States, and it is in such high demand with those fish-head eating bastards that it hardly ever reaches the dock for export. And forget about "free-range" Kobe Beef, because any cow raised in that overcrowded future world is probably stacked seven high on a two square-foot piece of sod. So when your next dinner guest insists that they only desire the finest quality Kobe Beef, tell them they're full of Kobe shite and fix them a souse sandwich.
And before I depart today's blog, allow me to rant one final time about the concept of "small, medium, and large." How many times have you called a pizza place and they claim that they have no small, only medium and large? Heh? You cannot have medium unless you have small AND large...it's simply not possible according to basic mathematic principles. Ditto with drinks...you can't have a medium, a large, and an extra large. There has to be a small somewhere in the equation. And for the love of crap, you Seattle coffee-swilling a-holes, I want a large hot chocolate, not a "venti." For those of you unfamiliar (as I was) with the very eclectic Starbucks lingo, "large" is actually the medium and a large is considered a "venti." Kiss my big fat venti butt and just give me a big-ass coffee you pretentious jag offs! I'm a little too old to be making up new words for sizing familiar to me since birth. And while you're at it, I'll have one of those eclectic bistro organic Forrest Tucker scones and a free-range biscotti with feta.
© Curtis Boster 11/4/07
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