"I saw a wino eating grapes. I said dude, you gotta wait"--Mitch Hedberg
I can usually understand, or rather figure out, every third word out of a wino's mouth. And when in doubt, (or is it that I just don't give a shit...well, either works), I can always count on my mastery of the art of the smile and nod to get me out of a jam. If you have not yet mastered this handy little skill, you need to get it, for this little gem works just as effectively on the elderly, foreigners, drunks, AND the occasional retard. If you cringe when you hear retard, you probably should just stop reading this blog now, because even retards know that 'retard', 'retarded', even the limp wrist smack to the chest are safe as long as you make sure to take a quick peek over your shoulder beforehand, or you are, of course, "related" to one. And depending on some test results, there is a high likelihood that my older sister is one of Jerry's Kids. However, since I am a respectable gent not out to offend, I will try to reserve the R-bomb for only those times when it is retardedly necessary to use it...but I digress...
Like I said, I can usually interpret every third word, which is pretty impressive when you consider the fact that at my house, those three words that I do catch are almost always spoken in Mr. Kendall Jackson's native tongue of gibberish. And I'm guessing there must be something lost in translation, because "blah, blah Paul Potts, blah, blah, Lorenzo Lamas, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah", a sentence heard at my very own house, still baffles me. Wait, let me clarify that last part -- no, let's not. In any case, it wasn't long ago that I strolled into my kitchen to once again hear the din of that quirky little language being squacked at anyone within earshot. (I say squacked at, because you're definitely not being spoken to.) The conversation seems a little more lively and certainly louder than usual, so I can safely surmise that they have declared Chardonnay as that evening's winner over all other fruit juices that are way beyond their born-on-date. I hear what I assumed to be the two Usual Suspects squacking and noticed that the Gibberish brogue was especially pronounced tonight. On one hand I was fairly certain they were squacking about something having to do with Potts and Lamas crossing swords (and potentially docking, maybe?). On the other hand, it is entirely possible that they were having an in-depth conversation about the negative effects of crossing proton pack streams, not swords (Man do they love Spangler's ghost busting ways). Who knows and who cares -- it's not important to the story anyway. What is important now is that I mention that there was another one with them who I hadn't noticed before. This one is on the J.V. squad, but she wants to be considered a Usual Suspect and get her letter so bad she can taste it, which of course, explains how she came to find herself in a position where she tasted nothing. To be certain, this was the type of comatose that only the sweet nectar of rotten fruit can induce.
Now before I can finish this story I need to state the fact that I am a little immature. Not annoyingly immature like the really hot girl who thinks her vag don't stink and acts like a five year old to be cute (ok sorry, it's adorable). I personally like to post up on the fine line between "God, he's so f*ckin' annoying" and "God, he's so f*ckin' annoying, but I'd probably suck his...). Because it is there that I find myself feeling oh so grandiose. Not really sure if that word makes sense in that context but if it does I'd like to thank my SAT tutor for that one.
Ok, back to the sleepy head who is now making me green with envy...she's got REM sleep happening right here at the kitchen table. I haven't had that shit in years. So, in a fit of jealousy and much to the chagrin (props again to the SAT guy) of the Usual Suspects, I throw a Frito at her face. And then, as I go to pat myself on the back for such an accurate toss (that's right I'm an athlete), Little Miss JV wannabe opens one eye just enough to reveal a pretty crimson tide and deadpans in perfect English; "Don't be a f*ckin' retard."
Friday, February 1, 2008
No one likes the sweaty palmed kid. It is a simple fact of life. I actually prefer to say "excuse me sir, but your palms are awfully moist for this time of the year." Because in all honesty someone with overly hydrated hands is usually hiding something. For instance, the last time I had a case of wet palm before yesterday was when i had a Brunswick Stu brewing in my bowel area. We've all had our shining moments of rectal clench, but it can get bothersome when you have to stand a particular way (heels together, forming a V with your feet) in order to subdue the geyser that awaits within. I know that this isn't pleasant, but sweaty palms are weird and they are the focal point of my yesterday.
So I went to Def Jam in Manhattan to help with an interview with Rick Ross the Fat Bearded Boss of Miami. Lugging equipment around the city is no easy task. I probably took out between 3 or 4 people with my bag, but it's ok because it was just a few legless VFW's and Asians. Thats terrible and i know it but i speak the truth, or as Mr. Ross would put it, "I spit the truf nigga." Ok, so we make it inside the Def Jam building and there is Rick Ross in all his bearded glory. Not much of an entourage though, which in my mind meant LOSER. Christ had an entourage of 12, Rick Ross could at least try to match JC's posse. So Rick and his meager following head up to the office where the interview will take place and we follow close behind.
Oh no, not now. I try deep breathing techniques. i have 20 seconds to fix this and BAM! "Hey Rick, this is Bly," his publicist says as i go to shake the Boss' hand. All i can think at this point is god dammit this guy is gonna have puddles on his hand when i get through with this shake. Yes, you read that correctly we "shook" hands. i would have gone for maybe a high or low five but i didn't want to splash on him. As we embraced hands it felt like an eternity, until i realized something magical. Here i was, palms a drippin', shaking hands with a fellow sweaty palmed gentleman. So as I gazed into Rick's Gucci sunglasses, and our damp hands clutched one another in perfect sweaty palm harmony, i wondered why? Was he actually nervous to meet me? Nah, the fat man just needed to drop heat.
I love you Rick Ross, you were awesome