Pee Wee Baz Luhrmann
I’d Gatsby her Greats…
I’d Moulin her Rouges…
I’d Romeo and Juliet her Baz Luhrmann’s… wait, that doesn’t work.
I’d Australia.
Ah, screw it. Battleship is on HBO.
Blue Man Poop
It’s like a 1990s alternative theatrical experience mated with a Jerzey club at 2am on a Tuesday and pooped out an existential crisis that could shake even a post-epiphany Raskolnikov.
Yeah. I made a Dostoyevksy reference.
That’s why The Superficial continues to mint money and I sit around on my rug chewing on refried been burritos and sipping a tasty Mr. Pibb.
When Boat HCwDB Turns into a Road Runner Cartoon…
…then the Fratbag will be roadkill.
Why Money Managers Are at the Heart Of Supreme Assscrotery
Runs up a bar tab of $320,000.
Indicted for seven million dollar illegal investment scheme.
The fact that we haven’t responded to the abuses of Wall Street by dragging out the Masters of the Universe like they did to the royal court in France in 1789 remains a mystery to me.
If there is any cosmic justice then each of the rank festering “investment banker” pustule con artists of the past few decades will suffer nasty groin itch for eternity in the afterlife.
Schneider Gets Lucky
Give it up for Schneider finally cashing in.
He’s paid his handyman dues.
But before you give Schneider crap for cashing in with the cocktail waitresses working the midnight to six AM shift at the old school casino on the strip, know that Schneider also scored this.
Wifebeater tees.
Not just for anorexic lesbians.
The Leather Clad Groinwipe
Little known fact about Leather Clad Groinwipes.
Their willingness to spend untold amount of parental inheritance to resemble early 1960s Mod/Rocker gay biker fantasy imagery from a film directed by Kenneth Anger speaks against Freud’s latency period.
Hello Kitty Hott may wear pink hooker shoes and a thong. But Hello Kitty Hott is an expert at early aviation trivia.
Revere Flea Market
Ah, Revere.
How little I actually knew about you while growing up in Brookline.
Well, I knew enough not to visit you.
Or date your women.
Or drive through you.
And yet, all these years later, I miss you too, Revere. Especially after Boston Sportspocalypse Week last week.
Wallnuts After Dark : Madonna Mia! That Madonna Is One Classy Dame
I been watchin’ a lot a the TV lately as my Lumbago has been actin’ up somethin’ fierce for some reason or another.
I think it might a been that crate a Cuban cigars I hadda pick up last month when it was delivered. And by delivered I mean taken at gun point from a cargo plane that was smugglin’ them in for some a them guys from Jamaica. And by Jamaica I don’t mean Queens, but some a them Schwartzers that have the long hair that looks like something my blind Aunt Lucille used to knit. Anyways…
I’m switchin’ around the channels and I come to a concert with that Madonna broad. Que Bella! That’s my kinda classy dame.
I wish I remembered the friggin’ channel it was on, but these days we got more channels than there are places where Jimmy Hoffa was supposed ta be buried. I can’t find me the TV Guide magazine anymore and the guide on the TV is too confusin’ wit all a the colors and channel abbreviations. And don’t get me started on the friggin’ remote control. Madon!
So this Madonna chick is dressed in these tight, black plastic or leather or whatever the Fucc kind a material these song and dance broads is wearin’ these days, and a tight shirt that was just tight enough, and I was mesmerized. And it was sexy tight not that kind a tight where you could see her Cooch and her Charley’s and the whole lunch. The Whole Lunch, I says.
I turned the sound down cuz Mrs Wallnuts was sleepin’ on the couch an I didn’t want her wakin’ up and spoilin’ the fun, if you know what I mean. So after I rubbed out a good one I got to thinkin’ a the time Grace Kelly was on the set whilst filmin’ High Society wit Frank and Bing when she was the classiest piece of ass in the world.
Sure she wound up givin’ Frank The bizness in one a the storage closets on the back lot wit me, Dean, Normy Fell and Buddy Lester watchin’ trew some Peep Holes, but Kelly was such a swank dame she could get away wit it. Now sure she didn’t go around grabbin’ her crotch like Madonna still does at the age a 55, but come to think a it, I ain’t never seen no dame grab their own crotch, not even that Domenica Somethin-or-other who used to hang around Nathan’s in Coney Island and blow everyone back in the day.
Back to Madonna. I remember her when she was a kid on the MTV and now she’s an old lady. But I gotta admit they ain’t any 55-year old broads I seen that look as good as she looks, even though she’s had some of that cosmic surgery that messed up her face a little. Hey, it’s her life, right, an if she wants to try an look as young as possible for as long as possible, who is we to knock her down? Am I right when I say that?
Plus, we all know we’d bang her if we had the chance. All I’m sayin, a classy dame is a classy dame. A classy dame, I says.
No Thoughts and No Links
Mobile Home Dave and Trashy Sophia.
Still living the rock star dream. On credit cards.
Hard at work on some new stuff that could be cool. Or it could not be cool. Or it could be cool as ice.
But anyways, I gots no links. Do not judge. For alpaca fondle won’t pay for itself.
So instead of links I leave you with the words of the great Vin Douchal, who wrote this poetic soliloquy on the dead end nature of thug life in the Pukeface McAsshole McSucksalot McIHatethisguy thread:
———–
This tool is that friend of your’s friend’s cousin that shows up with them on a chill Saturday when you’re looking to spend a few hours watching the NCAA Tourney or a football game or the like, hanging out with no big plans.
He comes empty handed and instead of drinking the community Bud/Coors/Miller in the cooler goes to your fridge and drinks your Hoegaarden out of a frosty mug he found behind the frozen peas all the while complaining that there’s no orange slice to dangle on the mug rim. When the joint gets passed he slobbers on it and, unfortunately hands it to you as you are next..
On a trip to the bathroom he detours into your room and comes out with your iPod asking if you have any Steve Aoki on it, then takes a swig from the Cabo Wabo Bottle from your memorabilia case, the one that Sammy Haggar autographed for you when you had backstage passes , that you weren’t ever thinking of opening.
He puts his head back and tosses a vicodin from your medicine cabinet down with a mug draining.
When he sees your family photo on the mantle he points to your sister and says, “Man, I’d tear that motherf@#ing shit UP !!”
At some point you pull your friend aside and say, “I’m gonna take a leak. When I get out that dude’s gonna be gone, okay?”
———–
Brilliance.
Oh, and buy some stuff to support the site.
And, of course, have some Red Pear.
