Barking At Airplanes (for all the good it does)

Saturday, January 9. 2010

Time Management While Deficating

FACING THE TANK

O.K. I know I might come off as being quite juvenile with my frequent scatological discussions, but I think I've finally discovered a topic worthy of investigation. However, I must first disclose that I am not one who wishes to spend any additional time in the bathroom over and above that which is required. You won't catch me reading the newspaper or hotel magazines whilst attending to my required doody. Actually, I find it disgusting that I am obligated to throw down a steamer at all. So for me, it's in, out...done. I figure if you spend any more time than necessary expelling yesterday's scattered, smothered, and covered entrees, you've obviously never been in prison.

That being said, my question is thus? Why were we trained as children to ride the bowl facing forward? It makes so much more sense to face the wall as there are so many activities one can do. Especially in this desktop, high tech world in which we reside. Think about it, you can put your laptop on the top of the tank and get all caught up on your email. Not to mention, you have the ease of Internet porn at your fingertips in case you need to run off a batch and you're just too lazy to stand up. And the towel rack is right in front of you for those days when you need to try and force out a crowning Stuckey's pecan log and you require a little more leverage than normal. You can even slap a pair of handlebars on the sides and one of those Mattel Varoom dealies that makes engine noises. Pay your bills, do some crossword puzzles, even spread out a nice cheese tray. Go on, there's plenty of room. And for the ultimate excitement, pop the lid off of the bowl and you have an entire watery playground at your command. You can throw some coins in the tank and pretend you're on a deep sea diving expedition, or get some plastic toy ships and re-enact the naval battle of Hoo Flung Poo. Hell, you can even shave or brush your teeth to really enhance multi-tasking to the extreme. Let's be honest, if you're facing the tank, the possibilities are endless.

Go ahead, give it a trial run. Your ass will still line up properly, and the tank will give you the additional leverage necessary for proper weight distribution on your lower body during clean up time. If the lid is off, you can even wash your hands at the same time without having to move over to the sink. You know, for those who actually wash their hands after defecating. However, one should probably limit their reverse bowl operations to the home so as to avoid carrying a bag of toys or magazines into public restrooms. It's a guilty nuance best experienced in one's own familiar surroundings. Although it would make it so much easier to read the graffiti on the wall. And if you have your laptop with you, you can even access the email address on the wall to see if Janey is even aware that she "gives good head."

© Curt Boster, 2010 All Rights Reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 15:22

Wednesday, January 6. 2010

Pisbeth Kanjanopokin & the TSA

EXCUSE ME HABIB, IS THIS SEAT TAKEN?

And it begins anew...some disgruntled terrorist wannabe packs his bunghole with gun powder and tries to ignite himself on an international flight, and now it's going to take me another three hours to get through security on my next Vegas adventure. As if air travel weren't painful enough, now I get to worry about getting sucked out of a giant can of lighter fluid at 30,000 feet because some Somali asswipe wants to prove a point. Doesn't screwing up the line at the BMV generate enough turmoil for these people? Oh wait, I guess this individual was Nigerian. Isn't that the country constantly asking us to bail out some make believe prince by supplying our checking account number? Or maybe that's the country trying to raise money for the purchase of mosquito nets in order to stop the spread of malaria. Perhaps a little more malaria would curtail a lot more terrorism.

Personally, I don't really fear terrorism in my air travel. I worry more about how many stale farts are stored in my seat cushion prior to my arrival. If given the choice of putting my chin on that square, plaid sack of feces to use as a flotation device, or Davy Jones' locker, I'll opt for the latter. But the fact is I would kill for the opportunity to manhandle some guy seated next to me if he were to suddenly flame on. This would finally give me the excuse I have waited more than 50 years to achieve...literally killing a douchebag. And given this situation, who would try and stop me? What's more, it would be nice to off someone and not have to worry about dragging their carcass out into the Everglades for proper disposal and/or burial.

Am I concerned with new security procedures invading my personal space? Hell no. If offered the alternatives of disintegrating over Lake Meade, doing 300-mph catwheels in an Iowa cornfield, or someone scanning my nooks and crannies for explosives, well let me drop my pants and you dive on in there for a close-up look Haji. I'll give you a stool sample, you can scrape my gums for DNA, and let bomb sniffing dogs bury themselves face first into my shit stained drillies. But just don't piss down my neck and tell me it's raining with a bunch of bogus procedures designed solely to make white people feel more secure. This whole taking off your shoes crap...are you freaking kidding me? We've been swallowing this nonsense since the last disgruntled a-hole tried the old exploding Reebok trick. And I say, bring back racial profiling. If for no other reason than to stop the hiring of TSA employees with names like Pisbeth Kanjanopokin. Am I the only one who has a problem being questioned about my integrity by someone who resembles the 19th hijacker? Let's be honest, if you looked like you were from the Middle East and you weren't actually a terrorist intent on destruction, would you really mind receiving a little extra security screening? Not all clowns are homosexual serial killers, but you still don't ask one to the house to babysit your 6-year old son, do you? Perhaps if we would have a little more racial profiling in our hiring practices, maybe a Palestinian guy named Nidal Malik Hasan wouldn't have been promoted to the rank of Major in the U.S. Army. And 12 military souls could have had a chance to live happily ever after...until they were sent to Iraq only to be blowed up in an open-air market while putting up mosquito nets for ingrateful civilians.

Which brings me to another bug up my arse. I'm all for "supporting our troops" and I have nothing but respect and admiration for anyone who puts themselves in harm's way. But I'm growing a little tired of paying tribute to the "brave men and women overseas" during every televised sporting event. It's not as annoying as replacing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" with "God Bless America" during the seventh inning stretch, but it's just another means of deflecting our guilt for putting them in that situation in the first place. I guess by singing an extra patriotic song or mumbling some nonsensical prayer, we're letting everyone know just how safe and cozy we are. But unless you have a personal stake in this fight, you have no frame of reference. It's almost like Johnny Cash performing at Folsom Prison. "I understand your plight and struggle, but I do not wish to LIVE with you. " Thus, a Thunderbird fly-by on New Year's Day is nothing more than a display. So here's my point. It's great that the troops have a chance to sit around and watch a football game instead of wondering when Achmed is going to drive a truck into camp full of M-80s and big fucking Cherry Bombs. But if we REALLY want to help our troops overseas, how about bringing them back to the States and allow them to watch all the football they want on their own Goddamned television in their own home? And let the mosquitos do our dirty work from now on.
© Curt Boster 2010, All Rights Reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 13:36

Monday, January 4. 2010

2010 FILP Award

2010: THE YEAR OF THE ASSHOLE

We're only a few hours into the New Year and already it looks as though this will officially be "The
Adam James
2010 F.I.L.P. of the Year
Year of the Asshole." After watching last night's Alamo Bowl featuring a coach-less and gutless Texas Tech, and a sad excuse for a Bowl representative Michigan State, I am convinced that the good die young, but assholes will roam the earth forever. So allow me to once and for all put this entire debacle to rest so that we can move on to the next asshole in line. Let's consider the facts, which I know tends to cloud good judgment at times. We'll begin with the main characters in this Texas tragedy...

CRAIG JAMES--I have met this flaming douche only once, but I've seen him in action cruising young college chicks like he's some kind of oversexed stud. The one time I ran into him, he was in a men's restroom applying face makeup before addressing his legion of fans. This guy believes in his mind that he revolutionized the game of football with his 2400 career rushing yards and 11 touchdowns. And all the while he's trying to score chicks with his bullshit, he's on air talking about his faith, family values, and Jesus. That, my friends, is the definition of a douche. This is the kind of guy who shows up still wearing his high school letter jacket to functions 10 years after his graduation. There are some jocks who prefer to avoid the spotlight, and there are some who wish to augment it through exaggeration. Look out, here come some more facts to cloud the mind. We all know Craig James was one of the players accused of destroying an entire football program at SMU. In fact, he probably earned more money in four years of college than he did in the NFL. SMU went three years without football thanks to the exploits of James and his teammates who accepted thousands and thousands of dollars from boosters and the University itself. And for this, James has the audacity to state "I have a reputation for integrity." Yes you do, Craig...you have none. And now, you lack any credibility as well. Once college was over and he could no longer ride the coat tails of fellow running back (and future Hall of Famer) Eric Dickerson, James was drafted in the SEVENTH ROUND of the 1983 NFL Draft. Realizing he couldn't be a superhero, he signed instead with the Washington Federals of the USFL. That team won four games total and they lasted one season. James went on to play three NFL seasons with the New England Patriots, had one really good season, and retired after 1988...about the same time SMU was permitted to field a football team again. Somehow, he appointed himself an expert in broadcasting and started a school for sports broadcasters. And now he has anointed himself "Father of the Year."

COACH MIKE LEACH--I know him personally and find him to be a very odd, yet enjoyable human being. Unfortunately, he only knows one way to do things and does not conform well with 65-yr old fossils in expensive sport coats. Is he wrong in this matter? Could be. But here's a small clue for everyone...he's a football coach. You can't get favorable results without discipline and some kind of an agenda. How many people have played any sport at any level without being yelled at or reprimanded by a coach? The answer is a screaming ZERO. If you can't handle the pressure of sports, or you don't respond to direction, or you simply don't wish to live Daddy's unfulfilled life through your body and soul, the alternative is to just quit. There's nothing wrong with quitting...I do it all the time. Does Coach Leach have a big ego? The biggest, and he is a product of what others have created. But here are some more facts. The guy has made the Texas Tech job a position that everyone will want because he has done nothing but win and generate dollars for the University. And every piece of crap on that field last night who was bad mouthing Leach owes their career to this man. He personally recruited the players and hired the coaches. Especially his coaching staff who have turned on him in an effort to save their own ass. My only hope is that the University does something even more stupid than firing Leach, and brings in a new coach from the outside who fires everyone remaining.

ADAM JAMES--I don't know him. In fact, like so many others, I've never even heard of the little piss ant before last weekend. The reason being, he's a completely insignificant piece of puke who has always had a douche bag Dad pushing him to be the great success he never was. However, I did see him on the sidelines with his baggy pants and his sock hat acting like he was some kind of rock star. Who wears a sock hat indoors? Someone with a dick head I'm guessing. Maybe he was just scared of being trapped in a dark closet like The Alamo Dome. So I have nothing to say about this tool other than he is my new #1 F.I.L.P. (face I'd like to punch). As if he didn't have enough problems being directly related to Craig James, now the only friends he has are other pieces of pussy who ride the bench and sit in sheds during practice.

Which leads us to the big summary of the only people who matter in this entire nightmare...

TEXAS TECH UNIVERSITY--Like everything else in life, sooner or later we all have to man up to some limp-dick codger in a fancy suit sporting a freeze-dried 60-year old Botox-induced broad named Buffy who smells like an old box of Life magazines and has a face like one of those dried apple dolls at a charity craft bizarre. Whether it's some fogie giving you the business at a golf course, some Bible thumping radio conglomerate, or some politician laying down the law, we must all eventually bow down to the man. And those who don't conform--like myself and Mike Leach--we either fend for ourselves or change our way of thinking in order to suck more ass. Sadly, that's just the way it is. You might think you are King Shite on Turd Island, and others might convince you of this fact, but once you are out of the spotlight and no longer an asset to others, you become just another floating stool. Right now, Coach Leach believes the "Red Raider Nation" can't function without him. But they'll do just fine. People will become less angry every hour until...pfffttt...what was all the fuss about anyway? And those who sign the checks and hire the new people to replace you and make all the rules that you are expected to follow or else...well they know it, too.

So being headstrong and creative and obstinate is just another way to insure one's failure. It's vogue and quirky for awhile, but sooner or later, you're going to piss off some old uncircumcised bastard on Flomax who insists on your conformity. In the meantime, while you are left demanding justice and expelling your energy to let everyone know you were right all along, some other asshole has already taken your place thereby removing any final shred of self-importance you may have possessed. I'm sorry Billy, but that's just the way life is.

© Curt Boster, 2010. All Rights Reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 11:53

Sunday, January 3. 2010

2009 Holiday Greetings

AHOY MATEYS!

Welcome to the New Year, whether it be 20-10 or 2,000 and 10. I'm still struggling with 9-1-1 vs. 9/11. Thankfully, I have survived two weeks of "Year in Review" news stories plus the new and improved "Decade in Review." Why do we need to do this every god damned year? Most of us were here and if we weren't, that means we are but infants at this very moment. Michael Jackson...Jon and Kate...Tiger Woods...blah, blah, freaking blah. I remember it all. I don't need historic Cliff Notes as if I'm studying for a final exam at year's end. It's the same as providing around the clock coverage to the Main Post Office on April 15th. "Sir, why did you wait until the last moment to mail your taxes?" Because I'm a lazy, lazy man and a borderline idiot. Of course the only thing worse than the year in review are predictions about the upcoming year. Sweet merciful crap, why do we give a rat's ass what some mortal being thinks might happen in our future? Especially when most of the population still can't get past that Nostradamus nonsense. Do you really want to know what's in the future for the next year? Get up every morning, put on some pants, and see what happens. By bringing the unknown future into the mundane present, well, then you'll know.

So anyway, it's been a rugged little Holiday season at Casa del Bos. First and foremost, Pookito was stricken with some kind of liver toxin and needed four days in detox. I warned her about mixing Heart Guard, grain alcohol, and Snausages, but she just twisted her head to the side as if she didn't fully comprehend what I was saying. Oddly enough, I didn't even know there was such a thing as an animal hospital. It's just like a real hospital, except those in the waiting room aren't busy dividing up the estate. It's a sad and horrible place with very few happy endings. And just in case you're wondering how much four days in the doggy E.R. costs, let's just say you can now parallel park a certified used GMC truck in my arse with the reaming I endured. Here I sit with liver disease and I can't afford health care for my own damn self, and I've just paid thousands of Christmas shopping dollars to keep my pooch alive for another two years. I'm really not a very good businessman. And although the staff and the vets are outstanding, they have this unique follow-up feature where the vet calls you first with the good or bad news about your pet, then less than one minute later, the accounting department calls you back with your running total update. All that's missing is Ed McMahon and a big ass tote board. It's kind of like grabbing a cab at La Guardia at 8 a.m. and heading into Midtown. You're just trapped in the backseat watching the meter click while moving 10 feet per minute. And you can't get out because you're in Brooklyn.

But this story does come with a happy ever after. Pookito is back to normal, although we both now have liver disease. She has stopped vomiting vile bile gravy and I at least had enough chingy remaining to have the carpets thoroughly scrubbed. But Christmas was a bit lean this year. I gave my Mom a bottle of Bufferin (past the expiration date), and my brother Al got a gift certificate from Service Merchandise that I found in a drawer, obviously left over from my 1983 wedding. It should still be good. Thankfully I have no children so I avoided the awkward story of how Santa was bushwhacked by Somali pirates and killed in international waters. All worked out in the end I suppose, except Pook missed Hanukkah. She was born Jewish and we allow her to embrace and retain her Jewy, Jewy ways. She eats pork, but only the hog testicles processed and mechanically separated by the fine folks at Mighty Mench.

So I know it's late arriving, but here is my official Christmas card for all of you from the two of us. The sad fact is, however, 24 hours after this photo was taken, The Pook was inches away from death. Thanks Santa. I said I wanted to bury my hedge hog in some hole by New Year's Day. Clearly you misunderstood.

© 2010 Curt Boster, All Rights Reserved

Posted by Rod Lannon at 15:50

Tuesday, October 20. 2009

Abilities

ANNIE GET YOUR GOAT

As a huge fan and constant viewer of college football, I've really had enough of former players who obviously possess some kind of ex-jock handbook distributed to them at broadcasting camp. You might even conclude that yes, this gets my goat. They spew a constant barrage of words which don't exist and stupid preliminary catch phrases based solely upon similar buzzwords other jock sniffers have incorrectly used in the past. Allow me to elaborate. Stop "taking it to the house." One knob used that phrase a few years ago, and now everyone feels the need to repeat it ad nauseum. And for the love of all things holy, stop adding the suffix "ability" to every verb thereby giving it noun status. This past weekend, I actually heard ESPN announcer/former quarterback Jesse Palmer use a new noun..."cutbackability." This, of course, only supercedes his word skills from the previous week when he used the word "breakability." Way to show you hillbillyability. And why is it that every former athlete insists on beginning every other sentence with "I tell you what?" You have been given the job of telling us exactly what. But you don't need to warn us about what by telling us that you're going to tell us what before telling us what. See how stupid that sounds? And what is the purpose of attending college for a degree in communication/journalism when you're going to lose out to anyone who ever took a shower with other men? I can't land a job in this town, but any second-string Buckeye quarterback or convicted felon can just walk into the lobby of a radio station and expect on-air work? Egads, ESPN even goes out and hires Lou Holtz--destroyer of all college football programs--who then proceeds to talk about honor and credibility. And all the while, showering us all with spittle from some sort of speech impediment. What, was Corky busy working at Arby's?

And do you want to know what else gets my goat? I tell you what, it's "cancer awareness." Who in the great pumpkin fuck isn't aware of cancer? Sure, it sucks. My Father died from cancer, but I don't feel the need to wear a pink ribbon or run in a 5K race every weekend. I went to the Bluejackets game Saturday eve and it was some kind of NHL Against Cancer Night, or some shit designed to make everyone feel better about not having cancer. And I tell you what, it was nothing short of annoying and offensive. They paraded a constant barrage of sick kids out like circus animals as if to say, "look at this and try to enjoy yourself tonight." Again, cancer sucks...especially when kids are stricken with it. But wearing a pink ribbon and drawing attention to yourself isn't going to do shit to remedy the situation. Either find some "cureability," or shut up. I'm not trying to be funny or cutting edge, I'm just telling it like it really is. There is way too much money in the business of cancer, and no one is ever going to change that. The fact that young children get the disease doesn't make it any more romantic than my 73-year old father dying from it. As long as there is no cure, many will profit greatly. If you really want to make people aware of something that could kill us all, spend some money to prevent chicks from texting while tailgating me on the freeway.

Finally, what really gets my goat are local elections. Man, how I hate the first Tuesday in November. What kind of inflated ego do you have to have before you decide to run for some local government crap job in Reynoldsburg, Ohio? Come on, do you really care about the residents of said village, or do you just like to be recognized when dining at the Hickory House? One must really require constant reinforcement for their inflated self-worth to do something so self-serving. More importantly, I recently discovered that the tools elected for our local school board are making more than $50,000 each annually. Just nuking one of these dicklickers would provide alot of football uniforms, band instruments, and text books. Or in the case of my alma mater, it could pay for much needed kevlar vests. By the way, does anyone even know the meaning of the phrase "alma mater?" Of course not, and I tell you what, I'm not going to tell you what either.

Before I conclude for the day, what in the Hell does "get my goat" really mean? Oddly enough, no one knows for certain. The phrase can be traced back to American literature, but anything else beyond that remains a mystery. Still, it's an awesome phrase which I highly endorse thereby giving it great endorsability. Go ahead, feel free to exercise its usage as your day progresses. See if by day's end you have succeeded in getting someone's goat...you goat bastard.

© 2009, Curt Boster. All rights Reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 11:00

Sunday, October 18. 2009

DADDY'S LITTLE GIRL...MORE OR LESS

DADDY'S LITTLE GIRL...MORE OR LESS

Perhaps it was R.P. McMurphy who said it best when he stated "between you and me Doc, she might have been fifteen, but when you get that little red beaver right up there in front of you, I don't think it's crazy at all and I don't think you do either." Indeed. Thus is the basis for the recent trend of helping one's self to someone else's daughter and raising them as your own guppies in a homemade community tank. Whereas I understand the desire to lust after teenage girls, that's pretty much where the fantasy should end. However, for some goofy-ass reason, dirt fuck wing nuts on the left coast seem obsessed with using young girls for sexual healing and spawning purposes. They even construct a plywood crapshack, lean to, or Amish shed in the backyard for proper storage. WTF, man? Diddling is one thing, but let's not go ape shit here. Sure, we've all done freaky things to a minor...have we not? O.K., forget that I said that. But planting your seed in some teenage girl whom you borrowed from a neighbor's house like a socket set, that's just uncool. And who do they always blame for their behavior? That's right...Gawd. I've never been a huge fan of the whole Holy Ghost thing, but I'm relatively certain that if there is a Gawd, he's not chatting it up with some meth-head hippy living in the backwoods of Oregon somewhere, much less instructing them to go forth and diddle teenage girls. If this is true, then we really need to re-access our faith. Roman Polanski might have been a deviant douche-bag, but at least he had the decency to towel off and leave town like a coward. And speaking of this fuzzy foreign suckhole, why is Hollywood so eager to defend this molester but they are not rushing to the side of Philip Garrido and that Mormon prophet loony who buggered Elizabeth Smart? And these two knobs didn't even make crappy movies. I even heard Whoopi Goldberg state last week on "The View" that what Polanski did was rape, but not "real rape." Is that like being kind of pregnant? Look, I know that teenage girls look and feel like whores these days, but it's a lot like putting your junk in the blender...if you hit puree, something bad is bound to happen.

If you want to be angry about something involving these scumbags, get angry at the judicial system which allows them to walk amongst us. Ordinarily, if one of us does something stupid or illegal or says something wrong at work, we are either suspended or fired. So why should a judge be any different...especially if we elected the dick. Shouldn't our legal system and our worthless parole system be held accountable for their fuck ups? Egads, I was once fired for an appearance at a comedy club. It's not like I let some child molester go free so that he could kidnap, rape, and raise his own evil stepchildren in the backyard. Print the judge's name in the paper with his home phone number, then make him hunt for a job like the rest of us who get canned. Then bring in a new judge who will order an end to due process, take these freaks of nature to the gallows, and hang them like the sacks of shite they are.

I know that everyone is eager to hear the inside story of these innocent victims. But this is mostly because the majority of us like to revel in the misery and suffering of others, and somehow apply it to our own lives as if we have some sort of frame of reference. And let's be brutally honest about it...there are even those who walk among us who couldn't wait to see what Jaycee Dugard looks like as adult so they could appraise whether or not she is "do-able." Speaking of which, my People magazine just arrived and I need to conclude this entry immediately. Hey, I'm not the bad guy here. Elizabeth Smart's cover story kept me busy all last week, too. I don't think it's crazy and I don't think you do either.
©2009, Curt Boster. All Rights Reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 22:14

Saturday, October 17. 2009

Balloon Boy & Other Faux Pas

QUESTION EVERYTHING

Unfortunately, we now live in a world where total insignificance and stupidity are rewarded on a daily basis. I wasted two hours watching some metallic mushroom fly across the Plains States waiting for some 6-year old attention-seeking turd to spill out like Chiclets from a Tijuana pinata. However, from the beginning of this story, I knew something smelled. First of all, why would anyone build such a contraption unless their sole intention was to deceive? It's basically the same theory behind "America's Wackiest Home Videos." Why would you ever be videotaping yourself hanging aluminum siding with a rake unless you were going to walk across it and have it hit you in the sack? Secondly, the media bit on this stunt; hook, line, and stinker. They even called in their "experts" in balloonary (if there is such a word) to provide a rather discomforting play-by-play. Most importantly, I knew it was a scam because lately, we've been promoting shite like this ever since the Kardashian whores hit the big screen. Every Tom, Dickhead, and Hairy-ass hick assumes that the YouTube generation wants to make them famous. In the meantime, the rest of us are forced to suffer through agonizing self-promotion stunts. Why don't we just dust off "streaking?" If you want to put an end to this nonsense, establish some hardcore guidelines for the future. Arrest this family for violating Homeland Security laws governing the violation of airspace. Christ, we're all punished when it comes to commercial flying by that entire 9/11 ordeal anyway. Force the family to run the tube sock gauntlet made up from all travelers who were stranded in Denver for two hours. Next, send them a nice big invoice for all the air and ground support personnel who had to scramble to save this "balloon boy." Since this was all just a steamy bowl of self-promoted bullshit anyway, figure out the cost for two hours of national advertising time, and send them a bill. And finally, serve notice to all who hope to recreate a similar stunt with an executive order to immediately shoot down anything in the air that doesn't belong there...from giant monkees atop skyscrapers to flying aluminum muffin tins.

I would also suggest you do some background checking of your closest friends. Perhaps they are not all they claim to be. Especially anyone who claims to have cancer or a terminal disease. They just might be jerking your chain. Sadly, some people have this inherent need to absorb themselves in self-pity and crave significance. It's not all about economic prosperity, they just demand the attention. In the past week, I've read stories about some dude who claimed he was at Ground Zero during 9/11 and watched his four buddies die in the Iraqi War. Turns out, this tool was just some homeless guy who invented the entire persona for financial gain. The best part of the story is that politicians fell for his bullshit...and I just love when these idiots get hosed and show their flaming red baboon ass. Locally, some deputy sheriff horked everyone--including his wife--into thinking he was dying of cancer. At least he had the decency to off himself when his lies had been uncovered. Most people who are caught with the goods just check themselves into rehab or suddenly find Jesus. Apparently, many suffer from Magic Johnson Disease, whereby you create an incurable disease, then focus the spotlight on yourself in order to shine under all the glory. Of course, it's always a good idea if you actually had the disease and, in fact, there is a cure for it to begin with. And finally, there is the now famous Burlington Coat Factory incident. Some crazy chick took a limo to the store and announced that coats were on her. She claimed she won the lottery and was doing God's work by helping others. Suddenly, the patrons began calling everyone they knew to come down and cash in. People were stuffing suitcases with apparel and doing some early Christmas shoplifting. But as it turns out, the chick was just another attention seeking nimrod with a slightly askew medication problem. But that didn't matter to the "customers" who insisted on getting their stuff for free anyhoo. A riot ensued, fires broke out, a couple of the customers even pissed on the merchandise like some kind of feral creature scent marking his territory. Oddly enough, the protagonist in this tale was taken away for "further evaluation." But those who began rioting and pissing simply filtered out amongst the rest of us. Apparently, they needed no such evaluation.

Our everyday life is now in the hands of attention grabbing media whores who assume they will somehow be rewarded. Stupidity is being nutured by media outlets who obviously feel that fact-based news stories are no longer relevant. It's like one big wacky and zany Morning Zoo radio show, except it's not funny. No wait, it's exactly like the Morning Zoo. It is time to question everything and everyone. If someone is hellbent on slinging shite in your face, be prepared with the facts to shield yourself from said shite. Do not allow the next "balloon boy" to control your life. If it looks like a pile of crap, there is no need to drop to your knees and stick your nose in it. Simply avoid it.
© Curt Boster, 2009. All Rights Reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 13:07

Saturday, October 10. 2009

The Sky Isn't Falling

IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

I have written ad nauseum that I have very little faith in human nature and, well let's be honest about it, I'd rather spend an evening locked in a styrofoam cooler with newts and eels than with human beings at any kind of social function. That being said, I'm not too concerned about swine flu or the plague or asteroids or global warming or AIDS or any related catastrophic event which has the potential to thin the herd. In fact, I embrace it. But I've heard just about enough of Mayan prophecy and this Nostradamus crapola. Let's begin with this bullshit Mayan 2012 nonsense. First of all, I find it difficult to go all in on a prediction from a people who couldn't even predict their own demise as it was occuring. For those unfamiliar with the prophecy of "The Mayan Calendar," it has somehow been interpreted that the world as we know it will come to an end in 2012. My guess is, the Mayans simply quit recording their psychotic history either because some Spaniards were trying to shove Christianity up their arse, or maybe they just ran out of loose leaf paper. Furthermore, why would we possibly assume that an "advanced" society such as the Mayans--who based most of their everyday life on human sacrifice and a belief in The Underworld--could steer us wrong? Let's face it, they really don't have great big gobs of credibility working in their favor. I think Manson had a better grip on reality than these goofy bastards. The good news is, the Mayan prediction of world destruction has opened our eyes to visual death and destruction ala Jerry Bruckheimer and Michael Bay. Because nothing sells a film like the trailor of a giant tidal wave sweeping over Manhatten in slow motion. If you want to use Mayan civilization as a template for world destruction, why not consider the actual facts of their demise instead of some peyote-induced prediction. The Mayans were done in by the infusion of Spanish culture into their kingdom and the insistence that their religious beliefs needed to be overhauled in the name of Gawd...even if that involved killing them. Now THAT is a prophecy you can build on for world destruction. Oddly enough,we somehow tend to dismiss that parallel.

And now for this nonsensical Nostradamus tripe. Of course the guy was a visionary, because he had the ability to create scenarios which could be interpreted in so many ways...like the Sham Wow guy. His predictions are about "amazing" as ventriloquists on the radio or magicians on television. Let's consider this dude's resume. First of all, he was French. So much for credibility. Secondly, his official profession was that he was an apothecary. That's right, he was a pharamacist. Allow me to be more concise. Since I've been prescribed trazodone for my insomnia, I've been able to successfully predict two Kentucky Derby winners, the exact date of 9/11, and all four seasons. I've also experienced in-depth discussion about the way Vegas used to be with Totie Fields, landed a DC-9 safely on the roof of Eastland Mall, and have, on numerous occasions, been able to successfully fellate myself. My point being, the mind is a wonderfully spiritual place when properly medicated. Finally, Nostradamus died from "dropsy." Who in the Hell meets their demise from a disease called dropsy? Certainly, he could have seen that coming. And if he could successfully see the future, then why did he never win Powerball? Even I can predict that a guy named Lou Gehrig migh contract Lou Gehrig's disease. Look, we've already had an entire book dedicated to ambiguous prophecy and doom and/or destruction...it's called the Bible. Now if anyone would have specifically stated 500 years ago that somebody named Ed Flockhart of Omaha would, on or about November 12, 2014, release a viral infection attacking the central nervous system of an entire civilization thereby returning the earth to a primitive state where parrots riding unicycles on high wires ruled, then I'd probably have to admit...Son-of-a-Bitch! But in the meantime, let's just leave predictions to Ohio State football fans in the Friday DIS-patch. To be more accurate, let me just provide the most fact-based credible evidence available. No one can predict the future...because it has yet to occur. Oh sure, you can guess and sometimes you might be partially correct, but no one can tell us what is going to transpire in the future. That's why it is so aptly labeled...the future.

Now that I have established a basis for my conclusion, allow me to present actual facts which lead me to belief that as a civilization, we are reaching an all-time new low. First of all, a technician at a cryonics lab (which is total bullshit to begin with), decided to play wiffle-head with the Splendid Splinter's frozen noodle. That's right, some a-hole allegedly batted around the frozen head of Hall of Famer Ted Williams while it was supposed to be in storage for future reanimation. For starters, who wants Ted Williams to return from the dead? He was 83 when he died and pretty much relegated to eating kidney mush from a baby spoon. It's not like the Red Sox can re-sign him and he's going to hit .400 again in the future. Plant him, remember him for what he was, and call it a day. But no, some dickwad gets this crazy idea to play hotbox with his cabeza. Egads, you can't even be dead without some nitwit fucking with you.

Example #2 is the sack of shite who secretly videotaped Erin Andrews naked and admiring her lovely ass in a mirror. First up, allow me to say "thank-you" Michael David Barrett. Although I felt somewhat annoyed and guilty about viewing your crappy, blurry videos, I still have to give credit where credit is due. That being said, now you deserve to rot in Hell and be sodomized repeatedly in prison you creepy, low life, insurance peddling douche. Like anything named Kardashian, why is this parasite allowed to swim in our petri dish of life? Can we really sink any lower? Of course we can...

...let's kidnap some teenage girl, rape her repeatedly in our crapshack out back, feed her a constant diet of dogfood and electric shock, then tell the world how we were instructed by Gawd. Go ahead, try and tell me that Nostradamus could have possibly predicted what total fucks we have become.

©2009 Curt Boster, All Rights Reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 02:50

Thursday, September 10. 2009

Fat Rat Bastard

SUPER-SIZED VERMIN

Scientists from the UK recently discovered a previously unknown uber-rat in the jungles outside Papua, New Guinea. The mega rat bastard measured in at 32 inches (which is almost 11 football fields) and weighed more than three pounds (roughly six grapefruit-sized hail stones). This group of Dr. Doolittles deduced that the rat's canine sidekick Plutonium would probably be the size of Grasshopperus and breath napalm over the local villagers when angered. They planned an expedition to a neighboring island next summer to see if they could locate a really big cat to keep the rat in check...or at least give inventors time to build a bigger and better glue trap. Oddly enough, there was still no sign of Bigfoot, Nessie, Chupacabra, Jesus, or Chumbawambas on the island. Of course, the discovery of Super Rat, plus 15 new species of frogs (as if we needed more) enabled these limey scientists to make yet another nauseating statement about global warming, rain forest destruction, blah, blah, blah. We get it already. The earth is going to shit...in a hand-basket. But since it's been here a lot longer than we have, I think it knows how to fend for itself. Who knows, maybe big ass rats are the earth's final line of defense. It almost worked the first time. Perhaps if pasty-faced English scientists and Australian gator wrestling blokes would stop screwing with animals on camera, these species could live happy ever after without constant fear of provocation. "Look at him struggle trying to bite me, mate. He's really angry now." That's because your knee is in his back and you're pulling his head back like The Sheik giving Bobo Brazil The Camel Clutch.

And speaking of this global warming crapola, can we please stop with the three-minute polar bear commercials? Does Noah Wiley really give a rat's ass about polar bears or is that the best unemployed celebrity they could corner? I've been to Minneapolis in late January and it's freaking cold. So I'm guessing about 5000 miles north of Minnesota, it's beyond cold. So I don't think a two-degree temperature change is going to render a million year old species extinct. Perhaps leaving them alone works best. Stop wrapping cameramen in bacon, putting them in a big ass cage, and provoking the hell out of the bears with a pointy stick to see how pissed off you can get them. And maybe keeping those Eskimo bastards away from them with their harpoons might be a step in the right direction. Just send them a box or two of Gortex coats and tell them to back off the PB man. If the polar bear continues to struggle, just crate him up and ship him to a zoo. I saw one in Toledo last week, and he looked like he was living a pretty good life. Oh, and by the way, it was nearly 90-degrees. He didn't seem to mind at all. Global warming, my ass.

There is good news from the "monster quest" hype...we have located the giant squid. You know, the one responsible for sinking the Bismarck and the Edmund Fitzgerald. If there is one image that was burned into my brain from my childhood, it's the giant squid battling sailors sporting harpoons as he attempts to drag them into Davy Jones' Locker. Of course, the giant squid wasn't always wrestling frigates and schooners. There was always his arch nemesis, the sperm whale. Come on, how many times in the history of the planet has there ever been a battle to the death between a sperm whale and a big-ass squid? I'm guessing the numbers are about the same as World War II tank gunners in a ground attack on T-Rex ala "G.I. Combat" comics. However, it is too soon to dismiss the probability of facing off with the ghost tank. I suppose now we'll have some kind of reality show garbage based on the search for the giant squid. You know, because the ratings were so good for the crab and swordfish ideas. Here is the reality of the sea Billy. You're in a tiny boat surrounded my billions of gallons of water with all kinds of hungry critters beneath you. You're going to see some serious shit, and not all of it is going to be pretty. And it's probably going to be a bit stinky from time to time. Always remember, Gitche Gumee never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloooo-my.

And finally, on a totally unrelated topic, Manson Family murdering suckhole Susan Atkins wants to be released from prison because she has a brain tumor and is dying. At the risk of being deemed a heartless bastard, allow me to remind you that she was sentenced to death. Seems to me that time and cancer have taken care of what the State of California could not. The system seems to be working.

Copyright Curt Boster, 2009. All Rights Reserved

Posted by Rod Lannon at 13:54

Wednesday, September 9. 2009

The Zoo Trip

TAKING RETARDS TO THE ZOO

O.K., before you get all bent out of shape, I have no intention of goofing on the retarded. In fact, I'm a huge fan of the tards as they seem to enjoy and appreciate life more than most of the a-holes I come across on a daily basis. And there are even times when they make more sense than those who claim to have all the answers...like our Governor. No, this blog entry is mostly about going to the zoo. I'm simply reminded of the Dead Milkmen song every time I think of visiting the zoo. So I take off for the zoo last week, you know, because school is back in session and I can probably enjoy a kid-free experience. But wait, this seems to be the new hangout for pre-school children and their mommy crank who obviously doesn't wish to sit around the house all day watching soaps, and whose post-natal drip body has not contracted enough yet to be appealing to the UPS man. So they load the little snot buckets into these custom coach strollers and off they go in search of Nemo and The Lion King. Of course, those who can't afford the latest hybrid strollers simply rent some e. coli buckboard wagon dealy at the zoo and haul their kids around like yard waste. I've never owned a child of my own, so I may not have a relative point of reference, but I'm fairly certain that strollers were designed more for mobility and ease of deployment. Still, most parents prefer to use them as a battering ram or some kind of human barricade to block doorways. Of course my favorite is the one who brings the strollers in from the minivan, but then the kid walks while Mommy pushes around the elusive Claude Rains baby.

So I can dodge my way around these little bastards, and to be honest with you, a lot of their moms still look worthy of another hit despite the fact you can probably parallel park a Dodge Caravan inside that stretched out mess. But now as I get closer to the main entrance, the rows upon rows of school buses await me. Now I don't mind you taking little Austin and Britney to the zoo, but for Christ sakes, you've only been back in school for a week! That is some kind of creative class synopsis you've laid out teach...Day 1 introductions, Day 2 teachers meeting, Day 3 field trip. Can the first snow day be far behind? Who starts the school year by passing out permission slips for a field trip? Jeez lady, I was just at Zoombezi Bay last weekend. I still reekb of chlorine and baby feces. And who doesn't love children? I know the animals at the zoo adore them, especially when they let out that familiar Banshee scream that extends from the root of your brain stem all the way out your rectum. And it's always fun to watch the big cats lick their chops and drool when an infant rolls up to their cage. You know he's just pacing back and forth imagining that little goat wanna be morsel wrapped in bacon.

But my favorite zoo adventure is watching moms and their kids visiting the great apes exhibit. You can usually tell when some kind of zany chimpy, fecal slinging, ass sniffing, genital licking madness is going on because families are running from the primate area screaming and covering the eyes of their beloved, giggling offspring. Nothing humbles an irritating parent like misbehaving monkeys on display. I often think that they act up intentionally, just to remind "the man" on the outside that they're only a few genes away from walking among us. I even stumbled across some teenage Goth-looking douche who smelled worse than any chimp, bonabo, or baboon ever could hope for. I mistakenly accused a pair of older chimpanzees of producing said stench until I later ran into this walking shit pile near the baby elephant. I went back to offer an apology to the chimps, but it was far too late. The damage had already been done. I'm now thinking of adopting some of the great apes' proven effective practices as a means of dissuading childish behavior in public. I'll just drop my pants and attempt to fellate myself right there in the middle of O'Charley's. Or perhaps I'll just dig my knuckles deep into my anus and flip them on the wall, pausing, of course, for a big sniff. That's probably more effective--and less illegal--than punching out some two-year old in a Georgia grocery.

Finally, I think I've finally solved the big riddle as to why most human beings are pricks. It's because our parents are constantly telling us not to talk to strangers. Logically, isn't everyone outside of your family a stranger? So how do people ever meet or get along unless they disobey their parents orders? I'm exiting the zoo restroom and this broad is telling her son "while Mommy is in the restroom, don't talk to anyone." Well, I guess it beats making the kid any more of a social outcast by making him go into the chick's shitter with her. But you can at least have the decency to wait until I am out of earshot before telling your kid "stay away from that man." Holy crap dumb ass, what makes you think I could possible want to carry on a conversation with your six year old kid? "So, Josh, how about those Buckeyes? Did you catch Sponge Bob last Saturday? What's up with Gary, man? Is he a snail, a slug, a cat...I just can't follow what the fuck is going on." Oh yeah, maybe that's why mom doesn't want their kid talking to me.

© Curt Boster, 2009. All rights Reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 22:28

Tuesday, September 8. 2009

To Hell in a Hand Basket

TO HELL IN A HAND BASKET

I recently received an email from our old pal Steve "Freight Train" Russell--bass player extraordinaire and the self-appointed choreographer for the band formerly known as Big Hole Swiss--expressing interest in the phrase "to Hell in a hand basket." I must confess, I use this expression on a regular basis, yet I don't really give much thought as to what the Hell it means or where in the Hell it originates. Just off the top of my head (so to speak), I'd say it has something to do with the use of the guillotine and sending a scoundrel to Hell once their noodle has been removed from the torso into a waiting receptacle. Which, of course, begs the question of what constitutes an actual "hand basket." If my theory is correct, shouldn't a hand basket actually be referred to as a head basket? More importantly, is a hand basket bigger than a bread box? What are the actual maximum/minimum dimensions of a bread box and/or hand basket? Why do black dudes like to jaywalk? I want answers now or I want them eventually.

Coincidentally, I was visiting an antique mall yesterday in a brief moment of gayness, when I came across an actual bread box. It was the size of a small safe, like the ones found in the closet of your Vegas hotel room. It could easily accommodate several loaves of bread with enough room for an additional package of wiener buns. On the front was this crazy homeland security latch. You know, just in case your kitchen mice were industrious enough to somehow team up as a collective alliance with the ultimate goal of making toast. Anyway, whereas a bread box is definitely large enough to hold most human heads, I'm guessing a hand basket is the better device based primarily on the easy access to the entrance point at the top. However, if my original assumption regarding the origin of the hand basket phrase is not correct, then this entire conversation becomes moot.

Unfortunately, Steve's question only raises more questions. For example, does Longaberger make a hand basket (or a head basket)? And then, why do chicks buy these over priced baskets? For Christ's sake, it's a freaking basket...all to Hell. Why are gay guys so obsessed with antiques? As with most topics which involve homosexual behavior, I really don't care what other people do so long as it has no direct effect on me. But how can I visit antique malls without projecting gayness onto others? I'm guessing I should probably stop cornering myself into a booth to lay down a fart, just in case that's some kind of blatant scent marking signal to them that I'm available for some old timey, foofy butt sex. I've already stopped wearing black loafers, but that really has more to do with walking across high school gym floors.

Anyhoo, back to Hell with or without a hand basket. There is this crazy salamander known simply as a Hellbender. Not the lizard with the cleverly designed, concentric pin cushion head...that's the Hellraiser. He's tough to locate in the wild. Primarily because he looks like a bowel movement which has been rolled out like cookie dough, then flattened under the weight of a cooking sheet covered in wax paper. Get the idea? Like Satan himself, the hellbender assumes many additional names including snot otter (no, I'm not making that up), devil dog, mud devil, leverian water newt (WTF?), and vulgo. This goofy critter is nocturnal and completely aquatic. He is found almost exclusively in North America and lives under rocks in moving streams. Basically, he's a prick and he will bite your ass if you piss him off. The one I witnessed at the zoo during a recent visit looked like a distressed turd-colored slab of taffy that had been smashed between two rocks. I assumed this was his usual appearance, but it's possible he was just a clumsy little hellbender hellbent on self-destruction. This is probably a good time to warn you that we are currently in the midst of hellbender breeding season, so watch the fuck out. The male hellbender digs himself a hole under a flat rock and waits for hellbender bitches to stop by his crib. Once she enters his hellbender domain, he runs off a batch of hellbender double gooey and refuses to allow her to leave until she rolls around in it and it clings to her private parts. Once that has been accomplished, he tells the hellbender chick to hit the road and he raises the youngins himself. Of course, if he gets hungry and requires a snack, some of the egglets don't make it to the hellbender school play. Kind of like Mormons. But enough about this tegu wannabe. Should you desire more information about the snot otter, he actually has his own website (www.hellbenders.org). Or if you're just too lazy or not very Internet savvy, take a couple slices from your breadbox, throw down a steamy panini smasher between said slices, and viola!...hellbender. And if that doesn't groom your schnauzer, you can always toss it into your hand basket.

©Curt Boster, 2009. All rights Reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 23:22

Tuesday, September 1. 2009

Buckeye Fever vs. Swine Flu

BUCKEYE FEVER vs. SWINE FLU

The Center For Disease Control has issued a warning about the onset of Buckeye Fever season. Symptoms for this highly infectious disorder include dementia, vomiting, paranoia, swollen fists, mood swings, flaming assholes, more vomiting, uncontollable rage, memory loss, constant complaining, and inexplicable sofa burning. Kind of makes swine flu look like an idiot in comparison. My prediction is that more people will die or become disabled from Buckeye Fever throughout "Buckeye Nation" this Fall than swine flu. Buckeye Nation...dear God is that the most annoying two words one will ever hear? Not as obnoxious as "Hang On Sloopy," but getting there. It is arrogance such as this that creates the complete disdain felt for Ohio State fans throughout the remainder of the country. Of course, Buckeye Nation never sees this hatred because they're either drunk or too busy playing that stupid cornhole game. For those unfamiliar with this dumb ass tradition, it's kind of like drunken Jarts, only without the pointy objects. Like that stupid ping pong ball drinking game, it seems fun for about 30 seconds and then it's just childish and pathetic. Why is Buckeye Fever more of an epidemic than swine flu? Because unlike swine flu and cooties, it really does exist. Consider these facts...

--Buckeye football player visits a bar in Florida and gets his ass kicked. Like so many others, I don't know the specifics of the event so it's quite possible he was blindsided (but unlikely). But rather than weighing the facts, Buckeye Nation responds in classic fashion...threats of violence to the assailant. That's right, when things don't go your way, punch somebody in the face or threaten their life. Because that's the way Woody would have handled it. What's more, because of this incident, Buckeye Nation creates a "rivalry" between their beloved team and the Florida Gators. A rivalry? If memory serves me correctly, these two teams have met on the field twice in the history of the game. And Ohio State was embarrassed both times. How is that a rivalry? A rivalry is someone you play every season, which in the past few years for the Buckeyes has been some powerhouse program like Teays Valley or CCAD.

--The Buckeyes do face one nationally ranked power this season, and luckily for the remainder of the city, the network has decided to kick off the game against Southern Cal at 8:30 p.m. This, of course, gives Buckeye Nation plenty of time to load up on beer and boneless wings. Oh what a party this shall be...probably a rivalry of epidemic proportions. I pity the guacamole-eating, fashionably late, fanny pack wearing Trojan fan who makes the trek across several states and three time zones to support their team. But the good news is, all of the timely road construction on 315 will make them feel like they're back in L.A.

--Nothing brings out the irrational behavior of Buckeye Nation like a nationally televised game. This is an opportune time for Buckeye fans to show their big red baboon asses to college football fans everywhere. Especially those who like to use the stage to promote themselves in an attempt to become someone of interest. The Neutron Man? O.K., I'm sorry he's dead but WTF was that all about? The guy who dresses like Woody? It's just not funny anymore. The black dude that acts like an idiot and really has no schtick to speak of other than being a black dude with face paint? Come on, that ship sailed years ago at Dallas Cowboy games. Besides, his crowd appeal is that he's the only black guy in the Stadium (other than potential recruits), and drunken hicks like to watch him dance like Mr. Bojangles. If you want the truth, most of the nation sees drunken, angry Little League Dad when the cameras pan across the crowd. Nearly every Buckeye fan on display is about 40 pounds overweight (even the chicks), with a mustache and a showing-scalp flat top (even the chicks) and wearing an outdated, iron-on Buckeye jersey (like Matt Wilhelm or Pepe Pearson) from Odd Lots. And have you ever noticed what's missing from the crowd when the cameras are on the move? Students. Watch any other college football game and you'll see actual students, who are supposed to be drunk and obnoxious. Ohio State students aren't even invited to the first three or four games of the season. And when students are in attendance, they are crammed into a tiny section in the corner of obstructed view seats. The crowd you'll see at the USC game will look more like a casting call for "Curb Your Enthusiasm."

So let the season begin. There is no vaccine for Buckeye Fever and no over-the-counter medication that doesn't come in a 12-pack. Forget all about losing your job or not being able to afford ground beef that's any better than 60/40. Sure times are tough, but for the next 12 weeks our lives will be in the capable hands of a 19-year old who had a big Block O tattooed on his arm before the season. Now that's the kind of dedication to Buckeye Nation that deserves front page headlines. Well, at least until the team loses their first game. Then we know what everyone in angry Buckeye Nation will be calling him.

Go Bucks, etc.

© Curt Boster, 2009. All rights reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 21:41

Monday, August 31. 2009

RIP Mary Jo

THE UNDEAD
Mary Jo's Revenge

Is it just me, or is it taking alot longer to bury people these days? I left for Pittsburgh yesterday morning just as they were starting to plant Ted Kennedy, and when I came back to Columbus last evening, he was still not in the ground. I knew Catholic weddings were lengthy, but how much chicken dancing is involved at a Catholic funeral? Perhaps the extra time was allotted to confess all of Ted's sins. O.K., so it's uncool to speak ill of the dead but it's not like this guy deserves sainthood. Grey Goose will probably have to file for bankruptcy. Technically, Ted Kennedy killed more people (one) than Charles Manson (zero). Ironically, it was Manson and Neil Armstrong who took Ted out of the headlines in 1969 after Mary Jo Kopechne took "Mr. Ted's Wild Water Ride." So it was nearly 50 years in the making, but it would appear that the world is finally free of all things Kennedy. How odd that the one who probably deserved to be shot--and provided the biggest target--lasted the longest. Historians still argue over JFK's assassin, but I've always believed a hit was ordered by Joe DiMaggio (with Scooter Rizzuto on the grassy knoll serving as a decoy and Yogi Berra in the book suppository). I don't care if you are the President of the United States, you just can't slop another guy's coke-soaked wife and expect to get away with it. If there were ever a Kennedy who at least gave the impression of good deeds, it was Robert, and look what happened to him. Shot in the kitchen by Duran Duran. It was always assumed that Ted was in line for the Presidency before the famed Chappaquiddick "accident." So we all owe a huge debt of gratitude to Mary Jo, who made the ultimate sacrifice to spare us all. And she finally has her revenge.

Meanwhile, this DJ AM guy is probably already in the ground despite the fact that he died three days later. Jewish folk know how to handle this burial thing. 24 hours and that's it. If you are too important to rearrange your plans, then the deceased probably wasn't meaningful enough for you to attend anyway...so go to Hell. Again, I don't mean to make light of any tragedy, but this is certainly a sad case indeed. First, this poor guy was banging Nicole Ritchie, which had to be a nightmare. Then he survives a flaming plane crash. Not like Eddie George's mom "survived", this guy was actually on fire and soaked in jet fuel. And after surviving all of this, he overdoses in his own home. What a waste. I was going to say what a waste of talent, but let's be honest, the guy became famous by playing records. He's no more significant to the history of music than the sweaty guy who used to work the all-night skate at United Skates of America on Refugee Road every Friday. How does playing records in a club earn you millions of dollars and get your puss in People Magazine? It's the same as performing magic tricks on the radio. Perhaps I should have been known as DJ CB.

And speaking of the undead, what's all this crap about vampires? Every stinking movie and TV show targeting teens is about vampires. First of all, there is no such thing as a vampire. You're either alive or you're dead...but you can't be "undead." That's like a stripper proclaiming herself "unpregnant." Secondly, if you decide to feast on the blood of others, all you're going to achieve is nausea and blackened stools. Personally, I think the whole vampire thing is another Mormon metaphor for unprotected sex. And as long as we're on the subject of bloodsuckers, why is it that sexy looking vampires don't emerge from under the Congress Street bridge every evening to double their body mass feasting on mosquitoes? That's what real bats do. They eat all night and stop by the stockyards on the way home for a beef cattle nightcap traveler. You never see that Robert Pattinson guy doing that, now do you? Which leads to my final complaint about the undead. Why are they always hot and sexy? You never see some fat tub of shit feasting on someone's carotid artery, nor do you witness any Mexican vampires. And that would make more sense in terms of geography. Nope, it's always some well-groomed, tanned SoCal stud sucking the life out of some half-naked hotty. Which, of course, begs the question whether or not vampires partake of menstrual blood. Because I'm fairly certain that the Creature From the Black Lagoon did not.

© Curt Boster. 2009. All Rights Reserved.

Posted by Rod Lannon at 03:34

Monday, August 17. 2009

Saw Horses, Road Blocks, & Cops. OH MY!

FUN RUN MY ASS!

As anyone who knows me well can testify, I've always been a huge supporter of police officers and, quite frankly, think they need more rights in physically dealing with scum bags. That being said, it might be important to mention that not everyone trying to go about their daily chores is a criminal. Allow me to elaborate. This past Saturday morning I am on my way into the Arena District to assist with the Columbus Clippers Fantasy Camp. I exit from I-670 onto Neil Avenue and what do my eyes behold but another freaking 5K run which has closed the streets of Columbus. Jesus F. Christ can we please stop this insanity? Every weekend, it's the same old shite. Columbus is not New York or Chicago or Boston. Spectators aren't lining the streets to watch a real marathon. Stop closing the god damned streets every weekend so as to inconvenience those of us who actually need to be downtown. Oddly enough, this is why we have parks where motor vehicles are not permitted. Just because there is nothing going on downtown after 5 PM. on Friday doesn't mean that we need to quarantine city blocks so that some group can attempt to raise money for some cause that either doesn't exist or has no solution. Let's be real...we're never going to actually cure cancer. So some guy in short shorts walking his bandana-wearing golden retriever down a main thoroughfare on a Saturday afternoon certainly isn't going to keep a benign growth off my sack. Apparently, yesterday's bullshit 5K walk/run was designed to somehow benefit organ donors. And it worked, because after 45 minutes of navigating through the finest Columbus alleys, and having to deal with some roid-induced CPD officer, I now need a new heart valve.

So I get within 50 yards of Huntington Park--which is where I ultimately need to be--and I'm waved onto a street that eventually takes me back on I-670 heading to the Airport. I'm relatively certain this is not what the Chamber of Commerce had in mind. Fortunately, I know how to work my way through the side streets and the crack houses so that I'm eventually heading up Spring Street back towards the stadium some six miles later. I turn off Spring onto Neil and I'm now on the South end --about 25 yards from where I need to be--when another blockade ensues. There are more than a half dozen CPD officers (at $47.50 per hour) blocking access to the Stadium. One stops me, asks if I'm trying to get to the stadium, and politely allows me to make a U-turn, directing me back to Spring and instructing me to make a right turn onto Hocking. So I'm home-free, right? When I arrive at Hocking, another CPD officer has that street blocked. I turn on my right directional signal, and he jumps out in front of my car like he's having some kind of seizure. He begins to yell and waves me into the oblivion. So I roll down the window and tell him I'm trying to access the Stadium via Hocking...the way that the non-angry officer instructed me to do so. To which he replies, and I quote, "you're going to do what the fuck I tell you to do when I tell you to do it!" Whoa there big fella, did we spend a little too much time shooting our pets in the basement last night? Thank God we approved that tax increase for you guys so that you can handle hardened criminals like me. As much as I want to tell this roid-raged douche bag to lick my taint, I still need to get to the Stadium and he's the only guy right now who can make that happen. So I submit and ask "what do you want me to do?" To which he replies, "your attitude is going to get you into a lot of trouble" and reaches for his Taser. He moves one of his orange cones, which has always been an effective deterrent for well known terrorists like myself, then signals me onto Hocking. Just when I think I'm in the clear, the dumb ass jumps out in front of my car, and forces me to back up so that I don't get anywhere near one of the cones he has not moved. When I finally reach my destination, I notice that I have passed more than a dozen CPD officers...all of which are earning huge amounts of money for basically doing nothing for a private charitable group. And still, two weeks ago I was forced to listen to how 300 officers would be laid off because of a shortage in funding. Don't piss down my neck and tell me it's raining. What's more, if CPD does decide to furlough some officers, might I offer my personal suggestion for the dick who should be first in line.
© Curt Boster, 2009. All Rights Reserved

Posted by Rod Lannon at 03:31

Sunday, July 12. 2009

Good Cop, Bad Cop

BAD BOYS, BAD BOYS

If you're searching for an answer to why things are so screwed up in our world, look no further than those who have been assigned to protect and serve. I have always been a huge supporter of police and personally think that they should have more fire power in their attempt to thin the herd of vermin. However, in doing so it would be nice if they were capable of any display of common sense. Let's begin with Sergeant Steven Howard of the Grove City, Ohio Police Department. Please note that I said SERGEANT, as in serving a supervisory capacity with 25 years of experience. Sarge was in a Kohl's department store last week when the sudden urge to drop his drawers and run off a batch overcame him. Far be it from me to cast stones as I've been known to rub out some knuckle honey in my early days on a regular basis. But I've never been compelled to just start pounding my pud in a public forum. I can usually wait until I get home. More importantly, this guy is in law enforcement. Surely he has to be aware of modern surveillance equipment. Dude has a major malfunction. I'm smelling a stint in rehab and early retirement.

Next on our list of bad boys is the pair of law enforcement a-holes who thought it would be a good idea to race their motor scooters along I-70 at 150 mph. If that weren't bad enough, another Ohio Highway Patrol officer laughed it off and let them go. If you've been cruising the speed trap set up along 315 for the past month, this event will probably anger you even more. Motorists are being ticketed for going one to five miles over the posted speed limit of 45. To make matters more frustrating, one of the officers is a member of the Gahanna Police force. For those who live on the east side, how happy does it make you when you see Gahanna Police sharking I-270 to pick up some quick cash for going a few miles over the posted limit? These tools were going more than 100 miles an hour over the speed limit, and walked away without a ticket. Personally, I say anyone who has been cited for speeding or any other misdemeanor violation by either of these officers should be allowed the same courtesy.

And finally, Columbus made national headlines again last week for the behavior of some hot-headed douche bag. Not just you're average angry Columbus Buckeye fan, but another dickhead assigned to protect and serve. This time, it was a fireman who decided that instead of boarding his pet dogs during an upcoming vacation, he'd just suspend them from the ceiling in his basement and shoot them a dozen times. I'm sorry, do I want this asshole representing my fair city? More importantly, do I want him in a position to save my life in an emergency only to decide that the flames are too intense, so he'll just leave me behind so that he can stop by Shooters for beers with his fellow testosterone-fueled fireman buddies? Fire this piece of human garbage now, and let him struggle through hard times like the rest of us. But let's make him run the tube sock gauntlet first.

But wait, I'm not done. Who is responsible for this backsliding, lying sack of crap Governor currently at the wheel of our sinking vessel. Was I dreaming, or did we, the voters, reject gambling at least three times in the past five years? So why are we suddenly moving slot machines into race tracks? I could have sworn we said no. You see, this is why you're wasting your time voting. As a non-voter--for obvious reasons--I am always ridiculed with the same nonsensical phrase "if you don't vote, you can't complain." Well, yes I can. And it would seem to me that if I did vote, and it didn't matter, that I would be more apt to complain. Personally, I'd like to retract my vote given that you ask for my opinion and then acted against my will. Seems to me that we should be able to do a recount if the bond is broken between those who made promises, and those who are obviously under the influence of corruption. And for the love of God, why do you give slot machines to race tracks? These are the most corrupt businesses on the planet next to crack houses. Who is going to monitor a business that has never been properly regulated? What, isn't the state lottery corrupt enough? Perhaps our Governor will assign his friend who has currently been running his own on-line escort service for underage children. Better still, how about carny workers since they are being required to do background checks these days.

Dear God, times are tough enough these days without having to walk through the shit of others.

© Curt Boster, 2009. All rights reserved

Posted by Rod Lannon at 16:24

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