Friday, January 30, 2009

"I am, I said To no one there And no one heard at all Not even the chair"



Saturday January 24th, 2009 was Mr. Neil Diamond’s 68th birthday. After the ceremony, the ritual sacrifice (it was a head of lettuce, Mr. Diamond may require a sacrifice, but he is not cruel), and cleansing at the temple, me and KP decided to celebrate the only way we know how, by making giant asses out of ourselves. Hilarity, and genuflecting, ensues.

First things first, you all owe a huge debt of gratitude to Mr. Neil Diamond. And a head of lettuce. But mostly gratitude.

Neil Diamond is one of those few American treasures who realized that he couldn’t hide from his genius, and ended up shaping the face of this country throughout the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, and now. That’s some pimp shit. And I had no idea until only a few short months ago the cornerstone that this man is. Here’s kind of how it went:

So picture this, me and KP are cruising to the Bahamas in my sweet vintage MG convertible down Route 66 like back before it was just a highway and all those cool diners and shit were still there. I had my horn-rimmed kittycat sunglasses on and she was sporting a bitchin’ pink neckerchief, and we were a couple of wild and free career girls from the city, just enjoying our wildness and freeness. I had a Neil Diamond CD from the library that I thought I would, you know, just check out. Glory Road: 1968-1972. That’s like four years, and there were 50 songs and they were ALL REALLY BEAUTIFUL.

KP: can you please take that out, we’ve listened to it like 1000 times.
Stef: can’t you hear how great he is???

Have you ever seen rays of sunshine enter our atmosphere, travel millions of miles per hour direct from the sun and strike my CD player at just the right angle to light up the whole world? Yeah. It was like that. And now everybody thinks I’m crazy because all I ever talk about is how great Neil is. Well he is, just check him out.

Anyway, our impromptu round of Diamond and Dash (putting Neil songs in the jukebox all over town and then leaving before that Slipknot guy catches us. He’s scary.) took us to the Holiday Bar on the Westsiiide, and wouldn’t you know? They had karaoke.

Now what were a couple of chicks like us doing in a joint like that? I don’t know either, but within fifteen minutes we had all eleven people in that place singing Sweet Caroline and clapping along. The Karaoke master himself kept asking us to sing more Neil (by the way, no Karaoke master has ever asked us to do more songs, they usually try to take our spare change and ask us how ashamed we are to tarnish the ancient art and to please leave) he claimed not to know the songs, but sang along with us to such hits as Cherry Cherry and Cracklin’ Rosie.

He was cool. Plus, besides my new mom who TOTALLY ROCKED Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song and that guy who “couldn’t talk, but keeps trying to sing,” even the guy who was sleeping on the bench thing in the front was showing a little love for Neil Diamond. Around midnight we decided to spread the wealth elsewhere and tip our bartenders generously (after sharing whiskey shots with our new friend Timmy ? To Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show!), the locals were all “don’t leave! I put in another Neil song!” it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I mean, it was touching. It was like giving Christmas presents to little kids when it isn’t Christmas, or watching a puppy being born and then giving it a Christmas present after all the grossness has been cleaned away.

So please, next time you find yourself half in the bag and a little disoriented from the scenery, with a microphone shoved in your face and the command to Sing! still ringing in your ears, spread the gift of Neil. It really is the gift that keeps on giving. And check out the wildlife at the Holiday Bar sometime if you’re in the mood for adventure, you might even spot me and KP there, but please don’t tell my mom.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

"Why does it say paper jam when there is no paper jam? I swear to God, one of these days, I just kick this piece of shit out the window."

I woke up this morning and there was about 2 more inches of snow on the ground. Why?? What the hell?? This shitty white stuff needs to stop.

This is what I hate


And this


Now you may ask, "Hey KP why don't you stop being such a dummy and move someplace warm?"

Well, my response is "I have a career thing started in this hell hole and I can't get out of it."

So I have spent most of the morning trying to figure out some new career options for myself as well as for Stef.

These are the job openings I have found that seem promising:


LUXURY HOME CLEANER (WEST MAUI)
Working at West Maui's luxury homes.
Experience picking up after rich people is a plus, but we will train you if you are a responsible, reliable person. Just don't steal.



+++Spiritual Caregiver+++ (GUAM)
Former exiled flamboyant Head-of-State seeks Spiritual Caregiver for longterm metaphysical relationship. Duties to include: sensual mental abuse, wanton disregard for personal space, and virtual cyber-bathing (only as needed). SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY! Compensation: VERY LUCRATIVE



Pest Control Route Manager (Cayman Islands)
If you have 3-5 years experience as a Pest Control Technician, or just want a job where you aren’t stuck in a cubicle all day, this is the job for you.


These were totally legit job postings on craigslist. NO JOKE!

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

"And here's something else you forgot to factor in - we're not that drunk."

Stef and KP attend 101.3’s First Annual Brew Ha Ha. Needs more Brew, and definitely more Ha Ha.

First of all, beer and humor should go together. Humor doesn’t even have to really be humorous, as long as there’s beer involved. After paying fifteen dollars (plus a finski for parking) to get in and not be allowed back out for food, here are a few suggestions for making your own sponsored event worth the fifteen dollars and synthetic-cheezy nachos:

* If beer is advertised, especially in the TITLE OF THE EVENT, there should be beer present. Enough beer present for the whole night, and for everyone there.

* If you’re going to charge for “live entertainment” at the caliber of which was present, you’re going to need a lot more beer.

* A middle-age man running around making crappy gay jokes in a lavender leotard showing his ass crack is entertaining, but not entertainment. Even in the getup, that guy needs some new material. I know that gay men have anal sex. Got it.

* Demanding that I pay an additional 5 spot for a 12 oz. Micro brew is one thing, but do not insult me by taking my 5 in exchange for a ticket, that I immediately hand over to (insert generic adjective animal here) brewery guy only to watch him pour a bottle out into my glass. Just don’t. And please don’t tell anyone that I just gave up 5 for a bottle of Leinenkugel. Pouring a bottle in front of me is just a soggy “fuck you for even showing up.” Ouch. Blow me, then ouch.

* Beer tasting should be an experience, not whatever this was. These breweries should be proud of what they do. There should have been brew masters and sales reps present, not a bunch of DeltaPlex employees fumbling with caps and looking at you blankly when you ask if the double or triple is better. I don’t know shit about beer and I was getting blank stares. I should now be well-informed enough to only order your (adjective animal) beer from now on. But I’m not, so it’s back to Miller Lite I guess.

* If you’re trying to get your patrons all fucked up in order for them to enjoy the sub-par entertainment and not laugh in your stupid face that looks like a mix between Micky Rourke and chewed-up steak next time you charge $15 for anything, please make sure that this is your only goal, and there are other fun things for drunks to do than sleep in the
chairs where we were told there would be comedy. They should be drinking without knowing what’s really going on. I got duped into giving up my hard-earned bucks; now dupe me into having fun.

* Do you know how easy it is to make drunken people laugh? Duh! Everything is hilarious to a drunk person, hence we should all be pacing anxiously for next year’s event, and we’re not. Me and KP are practically retarded (especially after a few brewskis) and we still didn’t think that shit was funny. In fact, watching the Bimini Brothers was sad and a little uncomfortable. This was not a good venue for them, and sooner or later, boys, it might be time to hang up your shorts. Write different dick and gay jokes, at least. Instead of taking my top off and screaming for an encore of the “Levitra” song, I really just wanted to go home. Or watch the Wings lose to San Jose (after a commendable and valiant attempt, which we did), and it was still better than the first annual Brew Ha Ha.

Official verdict? LAME. You won’t see us next year. However I did find a nice Brown Ale that I quite enjoyed and KP liked the porter…

Monday, January 19, 2009

"Your answer is buck. Well, that must be your wager, so let's check your answer, futter. Hmmm, buck futter. I don't get it."




OK so now that I’m all graduated and shit (mostly, anyway…), I would like to drop a little knowledge on you guys. I also want to know a little bit more about all of our readers for catalogue and compatibility purposes (shut up, dick, there are more readers than it looks like. Respond! It’s so easy!). After all, the countdown has started to WatchTheDogShow,DrinkTooMuchWildTurkey,AndTryNotToKillYourself Day is underway, and mama wants a date this year!
Here’s a quick list of my turn-ons:
1) Face/chest hair
2) Power tools
3) Plaid
4) 2 cans of Miller Light
5) Monster trucks
6) Sports
7) The analogical argument
8) Karate

There are so many more, not to mention the ultimate aphrodisiac: dirtball, shredding, ass-grinding rock & roll. Cock rock. Works every time. Wow, that was shameless. Anyway, in order to learn a little more about you guys, and maybe for you guys to, in turn, learn a little about yourselves, we at TshirtSizeAwesome have devised a little personality test for you to take, you know, so we can all pinpoint for sure why you’re not as cool as Chuck. Man, that guy rules. Here goes (you might want paper or a napkin or something):

1) You’re walking down a long hallway and come to a fork. Do you:
a) go left toward the bright lights and animal noises
b) go right toward the creaking door and ominous calliope music
c) step over it and continue down the hall

2) If your uncle was on fire, would you blow him out?
a) yes
b) no
c) depends on which uncle

3) Pandas or Koalas?
a) Pandas, totally
b) Koalas, totally
c) Mike Ditka, totally

4) You’re playing live stand-in for Ted Nugent’s band at the Pantheon during a thunderstorm while the pope is in town. What guitar do you use?
a) ’64 Telecaster with a double G and pink foil
b) Gibson vintage with whammy bar and snakeskin graphics
c) Sharkmaster 99 with triple chord pickups and testicles hanging from the fretboard


5) Which ingredient does not belong in a cake?
a) butter
b) sugar
c) woodchips

6) Which type of wood goes in Budweiser’s fermenting tanks to give it that fiber-y taste that is so appealing to hillbillies?
a) beechwood
b) cedar
c) morning

7) your friends have nicknames like:
a) Biff, Speedy, Wanker
b) Johnson, Jones, VanHelsing
c) Jimmy Steve, Jimmy Joe, Jimmy Jim

8) You’re at a Subway. You get
a) Meatballs with salt, pepper, and extra Parmesan
b) Club with lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers
c) On the subway

9) The train leaves station “A” going 75 miles per hour heading north/northwest. A different train leaves station “B” heading somewhere else completely.
a) Is it going to Boston? I like Boston and I’d like some chowder, yo.
b) Need more info. I didn’t go through eight years of evil medical school to be called “Mister”, thank you.
c) What?

10) Who would win in a fight between George Bush and George Foreman?
a) fair or prison rules?
b) Which one has the tank?
c) Mike Ditka

11) What is the first thing you always pack on every trip you take to Reno?
a) credit card and gun
b) leather bustier, chaps, and gun
c) burrito and gun

12) If you were walking down a beach and found a magic jinni, you’d wish for:
a) cold, hard, cash so you can buy Ryan Seacrest
b) a really sweet coffee pot
c) taco flavored lip gloss
d) that you didn’t just waste all this time on this personality test.


OK now for the scoring:
Mostly A’s: Robot. You are a robot from the future so don’t worry when the real robots take over, because you’ll be straight. I hope you like staples!

Mostly B’s: Dinosaur. You are a dinosaur, but one of those cool ones with the big plates on their backs and cool horns and stuff. With a grenade launcher, you’ve got a little rebel left in you. Robots or the possibility of another ice age? Bring it on!

Mostly C’s: Margarita. You are a margarita and margaritas are delicious. Whether or not you are blended or on the rocks is purely left to fate. Stick it to the man! Learn a few dirty words in Spanish, Punto!

Mostly D’s: Yeah but you can’t, jerkface. Ha!

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

1st Official Nerd Post of 2009

Stef is going to be so mad at me after this but I don't care.

I have been bored a bit at work lately and a very interesting website has come to my attention. The reason I enjoy this so much is because, like Stef, I enjoy trash talking animals (mostly our cats) and inanimate objects.

So check it out:

Fuck you, Penguin!



Monday, January 5, 2009

Kyle Quincy saves the day once more!

If you look at your timeline of Awesome (fig. 2.14 on p. 7 of your textbook), you will see (with the exception of Japan, who has pretty much been consistently awesome since the time of the Samurai. No piece of their pop culture that makes it over here is any less than completely adorable. Fruits Magazine! Pikachu! Dr. Do! Hello Kitty! Supa good time fun pleasure! Herro boy!) that there are definite ups and downs. In the 1100’s, for example, Awesome was in a lull because the Crusades and the Black Plague were decidedly not awesome. But by the 1500’s it was again riding high with male wigs, my man Bill Shakespeare, and the aforementioned Samurai. But when it comes to music, no generation gap caused an increase as enormous as the 1980’s, and a devastating plummet as tragic as the 1990’s. The 80’s were textbook Awesome. The 90’s totally sucked.

What’s my point? I found myself in the possession of a ticket to see the band Candlebox on a few Monday night's ago at the Intersection. After locating them on my timeline of Awesome and seeing them all lumped in the icy depths with the unforgivable suckage of Collective Soul, Toad the Wet Sprocket, the Verve Pipe (sorry, yo), and Creed, needless to say, I was not expecting much. But, it was a great show! They kinda rocked a little bit. Age hasn’t been much of a hindrance to these guys (especially the singer and lead ax man. Call me! Please! I’ll make you a casserole!) and there was enough gratuitous shredding and cussing that any dirtbag rock snob and aging groupie (like me) would get a little rock, in and around the mouth. Steph from downstairs was fun, the opening band A Verse Unsung channeled a little Beastie Boys rowdiness, and Grand Rapids’ own Fled 5 proved that they were more than just a dummy corporation set up to net ass. So for dinner that night, I had a little bit of crow with my chicken tenders and will officially go on the record to say that Candlebox does not, in fact, suck (except for that acoustic guitar thing. The song wasn’t too bad, but why stop the rock? You had me at “FUCK Y-Y-Y-Y-YEAH!”) like I thought they did. The 90’s in general though, still sucked balls. Write that down.

Me and KP were not, however, granted the luxury of Walking with the Dinosaurs at Van Andel a few weeks ago. Tickets were $80. What the fuck? How am I supposed to buy more drugs if I have to spend $80 every time I want to see a freaking dinosaur? Not cool, man. So here’s how I imagined it would be instead:

After the first T Rex (which was an adorable baby. Rhaa!) ate six children in the VIP seats, me and KP were exchanging nervous glances and thinking what luck that our seats were not front row and that KP finished her hot dog prior to the dinosaurs coming out of their dressing rooms (which were very big, indeed). It was actually a decent, quiet little showie show, until after half-time, when the carnage really began. Their marching band did a neat little medley of Queen songs and the dance team was actually pretty good (even though two of the velociraptors tore each other completely to pieces during “Bicycle”) but there was a pyrotechnics problem near the “We Are The Champions” finale that began the chain of events that eventually led to the part where me and KP were making out with a couple of hot fire fighters off-duty on a plane to Maui. Let me digress…

One of the strobes popped a fraction of a second before cue, which spooked the triceratops into spearing the rump of the brontosaurus right before it was supposed to do it’s one-man (lizard?) rendition of the car scene in Grease (this car is systematic…). It being a bit of a princess as it were, it refused to go onstage so the mastodon had to do it instead, which, you know, he was fine with until the brontosaurus got jealous and so he lumbered on stage, which is about the time when everybody (including the crew and roadies) realized that these were not robots, but actual dinosaurs. Oops! There was blood everywhere.

I know what you’re thinking, and believe me I thought the same thing, hey! Aren’t brontosauruses the sweet, lumbering, vegetarian hippies of the Paleolithic age? Weren’t they non-violent? Hell no! That thing was kicking some major ass until the mastodon’s crazy-eyed buddy stegosaurus came to his rescue and started talking some mad shit. Then all the dinosaurs got in on it and dino-wars was really cool for the first fifteen minutes, until they turned on the audience and started picking people out of the upper bowl like Skittles. We decided that we should probably bail. And lucky for me, KP had previous dino-wrestling experience because if it weren’t for her subduing that paleosaur at the last minute, we might have never made it out alive. Thank god the Van Andel made exits that were only big enough for people (in this case, the few raggedy, limbless survivors) and not dinosaurs because that gave us the precious time we needed to escape before they busted down all the walls and went on a rampage down Monroe Avenue.

And who do you think was currently checking into the Marriot Courtyard across the street on a trip to visit his buddies in Grand Rapids while on vacation from the L.A. Kings? Mr. Kyle Quincy! If you’re still breathing in the West Michigan area right now, you have him and him alone to thank. He, thanks to his Canadian upbringing, (with the help of KP and a few other trained dino-wrestlers they had to call in from Special Forces) was able to round up almost all of the marauding dinosaurs from the area before it was too late and they tore the entire town to bloody stumps and entrails. Mind you, I said most of the dinosaurs, most. The rest, about the fire fighters and Maui, you can piece together yourselves. Aloha!