Where The Hell is Hobo Kelly?

Here is a Video and Picture of Hobo Kelly I found......                                

Update to the State of the State thingie; Or, Rex grossman is a pussy

I walked out of the bar and there is a minivan with a daycare ad and phone number #classy




So, yesterday I probably depressed the shit out of you with the story of what’s going on in my life. I sincerely apologize, but I had to get that out. Kind of like the post-Thanksgiving dump, this was better off out, than inside of me. Try and get that picture out of your head.

The Muse kept on my ass and told me to stop being a depressed mother fucker (paraphrase) and to go out and do something. So, I decided to make a return to one of my fav places to watch a football game, Charlie's Jewel. They’ve got a big ass thermomoter behind the bar showing you the temp of the kegs, and it always fluctuates between 28 and 30. Yeah. Their beer is cold when it comes out. It’s damn tasty. They also have some pretty decent bar food.

I arrived, ordered my patty melt and fries at the kitchen, then sat at the bar where I ordered a (34 oz) Coke Zero. Yeah, it’s wierd, but I have a thing about hanging at Charlie's Jewel and drinking Coke Zero, OK? I sipped my  soda and watched the end of the first half of the Cowboys v Redskins rivalry. As the half ended, I tweeted, “Rex Grossman is a pussy.”

There aren’t many who would argue the validity of that comment, Redskins fans included. (Read on so I can prove my point). The two old-timers sitting next to me at the bar were complaining that the TV was too loud and they couldn’t hear the shitty redneck music they selected on the jukebox. In their defense, I was the one who thought the music was shitty. They thought it was great. At their insistance, the bartender turned down the TV just as Chris Berman was starting the Fastest 3 Minutes segment.

I watched the highlights of Buffalo beating New England and said, “How the fuck does that happen?” Then they showed Detroit beating Minnesota and I said, “Don’t mess with the man named Suh. How’d that feel Donovan?” Next up was my Raiders. “D-Mac in da hizzle,” I shouted to no one in particular. “171 baby. 171.” Finally they showed the Broncos losing to the Titans. I simply laughed out loud and said, “I bet that tasted pretty shitty, huh Elway?” In case you haven’t figured it out, I don’t like the Denver Broncos.

I continued to sit at the bar, eating my dinner and sipping Coke Zero. As halftime came to an end, my cell phone rang and I saw it was Drama Queen. The bar was noisy with crappy country music and I only had two bites of patty melt left and a couple gulps of my Coke Zero, so I ignored the call. I quickly finished both the burger and soda, ordered one more Coke Zero, then went outside to call my daughter back.

We talked for a few minutes and as I was ending the call, some guy in his mid-20′s came stumbling out of the bar and walked right up to me, apparently to lean on me. I side-stepped him and returned to my seat to watch football. About 60 seconds later, Drunkie came stumbling back into the bar and sat next to me. Fuck. I was trying to relax and enjoy myself and I didn’t need some drunk-ass douche ruining it.

The bartender turned around and said, “God damn it. I just told you you’re not allowed in here. Get out before I call the cops.” I looked over and noticed dude had a mostly-empty pint of some kind of schnapps on the bar. “And,” the bartender continued. “You can’t bring in your own alcohol. Get out.” He, of course, ignored her and laid his head down on the bar.

“Seriously,” she yelled. “Get the fuck outta here. The bouncer will be here in less than 10 minutes and he won’t be happy to see you here.” My neighbor (who stood maybe 5′ 5″ and weighed a buck twenty on a good day) slurred, “He can’t do shit to me.” At that point all the patrons sitting around me implored the bartender to leave him alone and let the bouncer take care of things. So she did. And so did he.

About six minutes later, some big ass Samoan walks in the back door. This guy was probably 6′ 4″ and weighed somewhere in the vicinity of 325. There wasn’t a drop of fat on this guy and the first thing I noticed is that he seemed to be missing a neck. He walked behind the bar to clock in and the bartender said, “Look who’s back?”

The Samoan looked down my way and I quickly leaned back on my stool, so he would see my neighbor and not think he had to kick my ass. “He’s waiting for you,” someone at the bar said. “He said you can’t do shit to him.” The bouncer (still behind the bar) walked up to the drunk and said, “You need to get out of here. Now.” The lush mumbled something incoherently and the bouncer said, “I’m going to walk around the bar and if you’re still in here when I get there, I’m throwing you out.”

The next thing I saw was a middle finger rise from the bar (he was still laying with his head down) and the Samoan moved faster than I thought he could. This guy had speed and size. It was impressive. The bouncer picked up the guy by his belt (with one hand) and tossed him out the front door. Then he came back in, picked up the bottle, threw it in the trash, grabbed a glass of water, sat down on a stool and said, “Good game?” At that point, I tweeted again. “I just watched some punk ass drunk get physically tossed from a bar. #cool”

I continued to watch the game and noticed that Dallas’ center seemed to have a problem when Tony Romo was in the shotgun. I don’t know if Romo was off the count or if the center was, but there were several snaps where he either put it past Romo, or snapped it before the QB was ready. This intrigued me, so I once again turned to Twitter.

“I guess Romo’s center prefers when Tony is up close, tickling his balls. Dude can’t snap in the ‘gun”

My friend, Patrick, quickly replied. "Benjamin Perhaps he is a snuggle kind of guy. Has trouble without someone up against him”

The Muse (for some reason a Cowboys fan, ugh) tweeted, Benjamin as far as we know, there’s no Don’t ask, Don’t tell policy in football, right? Maybe Tony should ask questions in the huddle”

I told Patrick Yo I didn’t want to know the answer to that and continued to watch the game. I was feeling more like myself than I have in a while and was enjoying the night. Romo threw a ball to literally no one. I mean there was no one from either team within 10 yards of the ball, so I tweeted again. “Nice throw dumbass. #Romo”

Around this time a guy in a Redskins t-shirt walks up to the bar and orders a couple of schooners. He glanced over at me, said hi and asked how I liked the game. “It’s pretty good,” I said. “Rex Grossman is a pussy.” Dude looked at me and replied, “He’s a fuckin’ bitch.” I like this guy.

I then told the ‘Skins fan, “I’m a Raider fan, so I hate Mike Shanahan.” He looked at me with eyes that said he was 90% hammered and replied, “You don’t have to be a Raider fan to hate that guy.” Then he stumbled off with his two schooners of Tecate.

The game was nearly over, but I was in no mood to stop tweeting. After a few dumbass plays by the Cowboys, I tweeted yet again. “I think Romo was smoking the crack pipe before the game. #NFL #Cowboys”

The game ended with the Cowboys on top, mainly because Grossman choked on the last drive. Are you surprised to read that? Probably not. I finished my soda, said good night, walked to my car and tweeted one final time. “I walked out of the bar and there is a minivan with a daycare ad and phone number. #Classy”







P.S. I know this picture of Rex Grossman is from his days in Chicago, but it was too good to pass up. I typed, “Rex Grossman pussy” into Google images and this is what I came up with. Nice, huh?

Where did you see your first concert and who did you see?

                                 

The Colonel is a hypocrite (and possibly racist)

“…C’mon. Let’s go watch the Dukes of Hazzard.”

Redneck Kentucky Senator






The other day I’m sitting outside my store, enjoying a refreshing beverage (Coke Zero) on a sunny day, when suddenly my phone vibrated. I looked to see what it was and noticed it was an E-mail from KFC. I’m down with the Colonel and think his chicken is tasty, and that a 3-piece meal with mashed potatoes and slaw probably contains your weekly salt consumption, but it tastes good. So I opened the e-mail and saw that it was a coupon for popcorn chicken. I was kind of hungry, so I took a moment to ponder popcorn chicken.
I remembered the TV ads when KFC first introduced their smaller-than-bite size product and on the commercial they would ask, “What part of the chicken is the nugget?” My first reaction was probably the standard one. “Yeah. What part of the chicken is the nugget? This whole nugget thing is just a scam perpetrated by The Man.” OK. Maybe you didn’t think that, but I probably did.
Then I had another thought. I spoke this one out loud and directed it at the voice-over dude. “Wait a minute, asshole. What part of the fuckin chicken is the popcorn?” Then I looked at my friend and said, “Do they think we’re fuckin stupid to fall for this bullshit?” (I used to swear more than I do now. Seriously).
Looking at the e-mail the other day instantly sparked an idea for a blog post. The Colonel is a hypocrite. I think I’ve easily proven that point in the first three paragraphs. Am I the only one who sees the idiocy in this?
Who the hell oversees the Marketing Department? Do they all sit around a table taking bong rips and spewing out the occasional idea? I picture it much like That 70′s Show, only everyone is Ashton Kutcher and Fez. I picture it something like this:
Guy 1: [Takes a long hit and holds it in as long as he can. He slowly exhales.] Hey….I don’t even think the nugget is a part of the chicken.
Guy 2: [Very glassy-eyed.] “Oh wow. I never thought about that…”
Boss: [Completely baked.] “Yeah. YEAH!!! I like it. Nice job, Niedermayer.”
Guy 1 [A.K.A. Niedermayer]: “Thanks. Uh, nice job for what, sir?”
Boss: “For the God-damned chicken nugget idea. Duh. Don’t bogart that bowl. Pass that shit down this way.”
I can totally see it going down like that. What the hell KFC? Do you think we’re all morons and don’t see through your shenanigans? Are we blind to the hypocrisy on which this advertising campaign is based? Apparently we are, because years later, the Colonel is still slingin’ popcorn chicken to the masses.
We’ve clearly established the hypocritical angle, now lets play the race card. There have been many stories about the Colonel leaving some of his chicken fortune to the Klan and about how he was openly racist. I’m not here to debate that stuff. Maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t. The only thing we know is that he whips up a mean chicken dinner. I have, however, run across some photos which I believe offer indisputable evidence that the modern day Colonel has no problem poking fun at African-Americans.
Of course, he doesn’t have the balls to do it in North America, so he unleashes his (alleged) racism in Japan. How racist is he? Look for yourself.

Is that crazy or what? Are we to assume that when Asians picture watermelon that they automatically think chicken? That’s the way I see it. The Colonel stands there is a kimono (note that I didn’t call it a robe), holding a big slice of watermelon as an enticement to get people to shell out their hard-earned yen for his Southern treat.
Japan isn’t the only country where the Colonel insults an entire race of people. They did it in Australia as well. This Youtube clip speaks for itself.

When confronted with the fact that their commercial clearly showed black people can be bought with fried chicken, KFC says context matters. “How to Silence a Noisy Crowd” aired during an Australia-West Indies cricket match. Oh. OK. I guess that makes it all better. Not. I bet a lot of Klan members are gonna start vacationing at Australian KFC’s so they feel right at home.
As long as we’re (and by, “We”, I of course mean, “Me) rippin on the Colonel, I think he may also be a fraud. No, I’m not talking about how he allegedly ripped off the recipe for his 11 herbs and spices, I’m talking about that stupid cane of his.
Does the Colonel really walk with a limp? I don’t know. All I know is he carries it around with him. Is it to beat his minions when they don’t change the grease often enough? Is it to look cool? Or is it just because the Colonel is a douche?
Also, the dude was never a real military Colonel. He enlisted in the Army at 16 after he falsified his birth certificate and served a few years in Cuba, then moved home to Kentucky where he started cooking for people at his service station. Some governor gave him the title, “Kentucky Colonel” and the whole thing spiraled from there. When he finally kicked it in 1980, his body laid in state at the Kentucky Capitol Building.
I’m not cracking on Kentucky, but seriously. How did that conversation go? Did some redneck Senator say, “Hey. Did you hear that chicken feller died? Let’s put him in the Capitol Building for a couple of days. It’s December 16 and the Christmas lights are already up. [Spits in a cup] It might just be a fittin tribute to the finest man our state has ever produced. C’mon. Let’s go watch the Dukes of Hazzard.” It probably didn’t go down quite like that, but I bet I’m not far off.

P.S. Now that I think about it, that whole, “What part of the chicken is the nugget?” thing was actually Carl’s Jr. and not KFC. My bad. It doesn’t matter. The Colonel is probably still a hypocrite.
P.S.S. If you think the P.S. was a joke, it’s not. I seriously just realized it was Carl’s Jr. after I proofed it the second time. I must be hallucinating. I’m going to bed. Good night.

One Headlight

So long ago, I don’t remember when
That’s when they say I lost my only friend


The Wallflowers


You know who are defined by their boobs? Strippers and porn stars. And Real Housewives. It doesn’t matter if you have an amazing set of headlights or a tiny pair of titties; breast cancer can take your breasts, but it can’t take who you are. Unless you are one of the previously mentioned strippers, porn stars or Real Housewives. Even then. it can’t take who you are inside, just the public persona your melons helped create.
In the past I’ve told you I’m a big fan of the boob. Please don’t infer that I’m only a fan of big boobs, because that’s far from the truth. Big, small, round, saggy, fake or real, I dig em. The only boobs I shy away from are the extremely ginormous. Those tend to be a bit off-putting. The more I think about it, ginormous juggs are fine, but the ultra-ginormous ones are kind of odd.
How does one explain their saggy fake KK’s to the grandkids? “Well, when I was 18 I liked anal. And high quality coke. And money. I figured the best way to get all three was to buy some fake breasts and start making the kind of porn that freaks most people out.” I have to believe there’s a better explanation then that, but I think you get the point I’m trying to make here. There definitely is such a thing as too big.
As I was saying, I’m a fan of boobs and I think that breast cancer fuckin blows. As a dude I could never imagine what it’s like to lose a breast. Some people will say ball cancer is the guy equivalant, but I beg to differ., Yes, we are very attached to our balls. Chances are we’ve been fondling them for many years and they’ve been good to us. And it’s absolutely amazing when a chick will, uh, never mind…
If i was to have a sack–ectomy (or whatever they call the surgery to remove a juevo), no one would notice as I walk down the street. Even if I was to walk down the beach in a Speedo (which I would NEVER do), chances are no one would know that I go by the name Onepac. As opposed to Tupac. Yeah. I know that joke was stupid, but I had to. I apologize.
If a woman who has had a masectomy walks down the street, chances are good that someone will notice. Unless, of course, she’s made prior arrangements to hide the situation. I think breast cancer and prostate cancer are similar, but I just don’t think a ball is quite the same as a boob.
I’m so alone, and I feel just like somebody else
Man, I ain’t changed, but I know I ain’t the same
I’ve mentioned in the past that I have type1 diabetes thing going on and there are periods of days and weeks that I don’t feel like myself. I know I’m still me, but I’m not. Does that make sense? I’ve gotta assume it’s kind of the same way for breast cancer survivors. Except that the, “Days and weeks”, is a bit more permanent.
Ladies, am I right on this or am I way off base? You’re still you, but I’m sure there have to be moments where you feel like you’re someone else. Maybe I’m way off base with this. Who knows? If I’m unclear with my explanations, I should probably inform you that Jack Daniels dropped in a while ago and the un-clearness is probably because I can’t listen to him yap in my good ear as I try and type this.
If you’re offended by any of this, I feel bad that you don’t have a sense of humor. I’m using mine to bring awareness to a disease affecting way too many women, their families and their friends. If this post got one woman to think, ‘”Oh yeah. I probably should schedule that mammogram I forgot about,” or if one dude gets his girlfriend, sister, wife or mother to get checked out, it will be worth it.
The haters can kiss my ass. If you like the post, tell your friends to read it. If you hated it, tell your friends what a douche I am and that they should check it out. Either way, the word gets out.
But me & Cinderella,
We put it all together
We can drive it home
With one headlight




P.S. That dude front and center in the picture is Jakob Dylan. Son of Bob Dylan. Junior has a pretty decent voice and is much better at pronouncing words than his pop. Check out the video. It’ll improve the quality of your life. Probably.

 

 

Light beer commercials are lame

“Stay thirsty, my friends.”

The Most Interesting Man In The World

Lets be honest, domestic light beers all basically taste the same. It doesn’t matter if it’s Coors Light, Miller Lite or Bud Light, you’re pretty much getting the same crappy taste for the same low price. As I heard Adam Carolla once say, “There’s only so much you can do with 95 calories.”
Back in the day they used to put hot chicks in beer commercials or at least give us hip, cool animals like my homeboy Spuds McKenzie. Now they create problems in order to get us to buy their swill. “What kind of problems are they creating?” You ask. Well, how about the “Cold/Super Cold” label on Coors Light bottles? Or Miller Lite’s vortex bottle.
I’m gonna go ahead and ask the obvious question. The Coors Light label and the Miller Lite vortex “technology” are only on their bottles. Does that mean the beer in their cans tastes worse than the bottles? That’s the message I get. If their bottles provide a superior beer experience, that infers that the experience of drinking their beer in a can is inferior. Am I the only one who sees this?
Let me attack the Coors Light logic for a moment and ask when anyone ever had a hard time telling if their beer was cold enough to drink? I’m pretty sure that’s what our hands are for. “Ah, Benjamin, but what if someone is missing both their hands?” That’s a fair question and I will respond by saying, “That’s what your stump is for.”
Lets take it a step further. “Benjamin, What if the person is quadriplegic and can’t feel the cool sensation of the bottle? What then Mr. Smarty Pants?” At that point, I would simply say that if you are a quadriplegic, I’m pretty sure you have more important concerns than whether your beer is Super Cold or simply cold.
Think back to all the times in your life that you’ve consumed beer. Has there EVER been a time when you touched a beer, then froze up because you weren’t sure if it was simply cold or if it was Super Cold? Before these commercials came out did anyone ever walk into their neighborhood bar and say, “Yo Timmy. Give me a Super Cold one?” I think not.
The only people who need a beer label to tell them their beer is cold enough to drink are morons. Or, as previously mentioned, possibly the quadriplegic. Then again, a quadriplegic would need someone to open the bottle for them and as long as that person isn’t a moron, the label is inconsequential. Moving onto the vortex bottle.
I have no problem admitting that I’ve consumed a fairly large number of beers in my day and I can tell you with 1000% certainty that I’ve never had a problem with the beer coming out of the neck of the bottle. I’m not sure why I need vortex technology if I’m drinking shitty beer, but Miller Lite is trying to brainwash me into thinking I can’t live without it.
Miller Brewing Co. brews Miller Lite as well as a bunch of other mediocre beers. If this vortex technology really is, “All that and a bag of chips”, why don’t all their brands use it? I’ll tell you why. It’s a bullshit marketing ploy. It’s even dumber than that dude in skinny jeans commercial they ran for a while.
Dictionary.com defines “Vortex” as: a whirling mass of water, especially one in which a force of suction operates, as a whirlpool. I get the, “Whirling mass of water,” part. I mean, it is 95 calorie light beer, which is essentially water, but I don’t get how a beer bottle can operate as a whirlpool. I am, however, a big fan of, “Force of suction”, if you know what I mean. I will never be drunk enough for you to convince me that my beer bottle will blow me.
Did Miller Lite put some actual thought into this or were their marketing people passing the bong to the left when some dude suddenly said, “Vortex is a cool word. Let’s use it in a marketing campaign.” They skipped right over the fact that their bottle is in no way vortex-like. All they did was put some ridges on the long-neck and called it, “Vortex technology”.
If Miller Lite hired me to do their marketing, I would put a bunch of scantily clad women in the commercial along with a few overweight guys in wife beaters. The commercial would go something like this. “Miller Lite tastes the same as all the other crap in its category, but as long as you keep buying it, we will keep putting top-shelf honeys in our commercials.”
If you want a great beer commercial, check out the Dos Equis commercials featuring the Most Interesting Man In The World. That dude is a suave mother fucker. Guys want to be him and chicks want to be with him. I’m sure some guys want to be with him too. My friend Gay Andy has a thing for the Latins and I would bet that he probably has a daddy thing going on too. I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised.
To me, the ultimate beer experience would be sitting on one of those Corona beaches with The Most Interesting Man, Spuds, the St. Pauli Girl and a gaggle of hot chicks in bikinis. What would I be drinking? Pacifico con limon of course. Stay thirsty, my friends.



These are two of my fav beer commercials and are only about 15 seconds each.

Do you want Schweddy balls in your mouth?

I can’t resist Pete Schweddy’s balls.

Yesterday I found out that one of my all time fav SNL skits is getting their own flavah of Ben & Jerry’s. The dudes who brought you Chery Garcia, Phish Food and Magic Brownies, now brings us Schweddy Balls ice cream.

In case you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about; there was a skit on SNL where a baker named Pete Schweddy made some delicious balls and brought them when he went to a radio studio as a guest. During the course of the hilarious skit, all three participants make as many balls jokes as they can.

So, as I said, I found out about the new ice cream and my first reaction was, “Cool”. After contemplating the situation for a moment, I’m not sure I want to hand a checkout clerk a pint of Schweddy Balls. So I’ve bailed on the idea. I think. It’ll probably end up being a game-time decision. But I’m pretty sure that I won’t be able to resist a mouthful of Schweddy Balls.

And my guess is that once I enjoy a mouthful of Schweddy Balls, that I will keep filling my mouth with this oh-so-satisfying treat. I never thought I would say, “I want balls in my mouth,” but I do.

The SNL skit was seriously one of my personal favorite moments from the show and as I’ve written this blog post I’ve watched it a half dozen times. Please allow me to share with you some of the better lines from the skit. And yes, I do believe that these two sniffed enormous amounts of glue before they did this skit.

But the thing I most like to bring out at this time of year are my balls.

Mmmmmmm. Balls. Mmmm. Tell us about your balls, Pete.

Wow. My mouth’s watering just thinking about those balls.

It’s been years since I’ve seen any balls.

Would you like to see my balls now?

Yeah. Whip em out.

Wow. You have some beautiful balls.

They’re bigger than I expected.

I know. A lot of people tell me that.

I can’t help but notice, Pete, that your balls are a little mis-shapen.

That’s because I rested them on a hot stove for too long.

Can I touch your balls?

Go ahead, but be careful, they’re very delicate.



It goes on and on from there and to really understand, you need to watch the video (which I have provided for you).

I’m keeping my fingers that the next flavor Ben & Jerry’s introduce is Coffee Is For Closers. That, of course, is from the movie Glengarry Glen Ross. In case you’re wondering what Schweddy Balls ice cream will be like, it mixes vanilla and rum-flavored ice cream with fudge-covered rum balls and chocolate malt balls and will be available through the end of the year.

Do you know the real reason I’m getting some of this stuff? It’s because I can’t resist Pete Schweddy’s balls.

P.S. I apologize if you found this blog post juvenile and stupid. I’m not apologizing for the post, but I am sorry you found it juvenile. Did you really expect any less from me?

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

When I finally kick it

It’s my way of thanking the smokers for coming out to my last hurrah.





One day a couple of weeks ago I was texting with The Muse and the conversation appeared to be winding down. I distinctly remember the ending, because as soon as the texts were done, I immediately came here and typed them into a draft, which eventually became this blog post. What was said that I felt needed to be shared with you all? Take a look.
ME:Peace out.
HER: I swear to God I’m putting that on your tombstone when you die.
ME: Sweet.
HER: You’re an idiot.
That got me to thinking, which can be a dangerous thing. In 184 days I will officially be on the upward of my 40′s, which means putting together a bucket list isn’t such a bad idea. Especially considering I had congestive heart failure a couple of years ago. In my mind, bucket lists are for geezers like Walter Matthau and Jack Lemon, not for people like me. I’m too cool for a bucket list, so I decided to write about things (and people) I’d like to accomplish and things I’d like to see happen, “When I finally kick it.”
The first thing we need to do is plan my funeral. I absolutely want to be cremated. But only after science and medicine take whatever the hell they may want. If I can hook a brother or a sister up, I absolutely will.
At this point I think I should tell you that some of these ideas I did get from comedian Christopher Titus. Although, I did put my creative spin on things. I also deleted a few of his suggestions, such as “Taking the ashes, putting them in a douche bottle and running me through a hooker one more time.” The next time with a hooker will be my first, thank you very much.
The theme of my service will be, “Ladies Night.” Yes, that means there will be a cover for the dudes, but I hope people would be willing to shell out a couple of bucks to either mourn my loss or to have a great story to tell his hater buddies. I will have a very short guest list, and it’s totally gonna be VIP. People like Samuel L. Jackson, Gretzky and Hef are gonna be on the list. Drama Queen too. And the Kings fan. And Josh. Their wives get in free.
There will be an open casket. Yes I know that I’m likely to be all dissected and shit, but I have a plan. If they have to cut my skull open, I wear a beanie. If they take an eye, I wear my wrap-around Ray Bans. You get the picture. If they take a hand I’m torn between shoving the stump in my pants like I’m scratching my balls or behind me, like I’m removing a wedgie. Your thoughts?
I don’t want it to be a sad occasion, so I may have a DJ cranking Foo Fighters, Papa Roach and Disturbed. If I was murdered and the killer hadn’t been caught, they could totally play, Getting Away With Murder as the festivities got underway. I want it to be a fun occasion.
I want a cash bar in the back. And maybe one on the patio. There will be a couple big screens on the patio, not because I’m expecting an overflow, but because I want people to be able to chill outside and smoke if they like. And the bar outside is because the people smoking the cancer sticks aren’t gonna want to go inside to get a drink, then come back out and fire up again. They want to keep the nicotine flowing. It’s my way of thanking the smokers for coming out to my last hurrah.
I don’t want there to be a eulogy. No fucking way. Instead, I want people to tell stories. Real stories. Ones that begin with, “Holy crap. I remember when…” or, “I swear to God. This really happened.” That’s how the best stories start.
When the Reverend is ready to get the show going, he can flash the lights a couple of times to let everyone know to either take their seats or find a good place at the bar. After he gives them about 90 seconds to sit, he will cue the DJ to play Walk by Foo Fighters. I want him to play the version I’m including at the end of the post. Why this song? Because even from the other side, I’ll still do my best to hook you up with a smile once in a while. Most of you. For the record, my two choices would be either Rev. Brian Mott or Rev. Tyler Daniels to emcee the festivities.
After the service you can toss me in the furnace and cook me til I’m nothing but a pile of ashes. I’m not sure what I want to happen to my ashes, but I know what I DONT want to have happen to them. Rewind about 16 years to when my ex's mother moved into a nursing home. My ex went to her apartment in Leisure World and was cleaning it out.
I don’t remember who was with my ex at the time, but I think it was my sister in law. My ex was going through her mom’s bedroom closet, when she opened a shoebox. She stared at the contents for a moment, then proclaimed, “I think I found my dad.” Yeah, mom kept dad’s ashes in a shoe box in the closet. Does anyone else find that kinda cool, yet at the same time, a bit creepy?
So that’s the funeral, or as I like to call it, the Benjamin Ray Farewell Show. Or even better, Peace Out. Yeah. I like that. Someone make a note of that. Just in case you need it. Now lets take a look at what I want to do before I finally kick it.
I think I’ve got the same type of basics that any other guy does. Hockey is my thing, so I want to see hockey at some Original Six arenas. And I want to see the Raiders win another Super Bowl. Which, BTW, won’t happen as long as that senile geezer Al Davis is still alive. I’m just saying. And there are other things I’d like to do.
You know what would be cool? To jump up on stage at some big-ass arena like Staples Center or Madison Square Garden with Nickleback (seriously) as they sang Figured you Out. Yeah, I know, Nickleback is a bit cheesy and easy to make fun of–and not just because they’re Canadian, eh. I wanna get up there just so I can rock the mic and sing these words.
I like your pants around your feet
And I like the dirt that’s on your knees
or
And I love your lack of self-respect
While you passed out on the deck
Because, really, isn’t that what life’s all about? Plus, in my dream, the chicks all go crazy for me and shit. But only in my dreams.
Before I go, I seriously want to spend a night with Selma Hayek in some crazy-fancy suite at some Vegas mega casino and get with her from dusk til dawn. Jenny McCarthy too. Not necessarily at the same time, though I wouldn’t say, “No” if the situation ever presented itself. Which it won’t. But if it did, I would totally go for it.
Go ahead and call me a pig if you like, but the reality is that every straight guy would absolutely back me up on the Salma thing. A lot of chicks would too. And I’m way cool with that. Seriously.
All this would be totally awesome to do, but the reality is that as long as my (teenage) Drama Queen grows up to be happy, healthy and successful, I will die happy-ish. The other stuff is the icing, but my daughter ‘s ability to contribute to society, is the cake.
The Salma-Jenny-three way thing is a close second, but definitely not my main priority. I could make a joke about the whole cake-eat-icing-hot celebrity chicks thing, but out of respect for any new readers, I will refrain. You’re welcome.



As you watch this, try to picture it as like a last message from the recently departed.

I’ll have you know, sir

I pity your children.

I’m not changing the name of the person who e-mailed me because, well, because I don’t really want to. Sorry if that makes me a dick, but he e-mailed me knowing full well I was a blogger. So, if you think about it, it’s really his own fault. Yeah. Sweet.
If you blog, you know what this is about. I get weird e-mails from people asking me to put stupid ads on my blog. “How stupid?” You ask. Pretty stupid. Like this MENSA who sent me one early last month.
Hi there.
Quick question for you, Benjamin– Wondering if you here at Benjamin's blogs could find use in a text link advert to support the site? There’s an applicable client I’m working with who’s currently paying upfront for a year. I’d like to follow up for details, should you have interest.
Thanks for the time.
Logan

So I replied.
What is the link for?
Sent from my iPhone

Yeah, I know it was brief. I was at the grocery store when I got the e-mail. He promptly replied.

Thanks for getting back, Benjamin – I was in need of a single text link placed within a sentence & the client is the website for a trusted UK Bingo company we’ve contracted with. I can pay you $80.00 to post the link for one year. This is paid upfront (via Paypal or check).
Let me know what you’re thinking when you can.
Logan

Two aisles later I read that message and for some reason it really miffed me. I get these same e-mails several times a week and it’s always for stupid bullshit like bullet resistant glass or custom patio covers and I always wonder where these people got my blog info. I usually blow them off, but that day I was feeling feisty. So I replied.

Seriously? What on my site makes you think people would be interested in bingo? No thanks and please don’t contact me again for any reason.
Sent from my iPhone

If you think that e-mail was harsh, you should know I deleted the F word early on as well as the phrase ,”God damned” just before , “Bingo.” What I sent was the milder version. Believe it or not he actually replied. Even though I specifically said not to. Whatever.
I’m going to tell you what he said next, but you have to realize that when I read it, I immediately said, “What a douche,” out loud as I was standing in front of the dairy section. All I ask is that as you read it to yourself, simply say, “What a douche,” out loud. Like I did. It will be fun. Trust me.
I’ll have you know, sir, that men, women and children of all ages and racial
backgrounds find joy and even comfort in the artful game of bingo.
I pity your children.
Good day.
Logan

What a douche.




P.S. In case you were wondering, I’m e-mailing this link to Logan. Does anyone seriously, “Find comfort” in bingo or is it merely a socially acceptable way to feed their gambling addiction?

White dudes can’t dance

Chastity Bono had her front door permanently sealed, which means Chaz Bono is a dude.

I’m not a racist. Nor am I sexist, homophobic or anything else that would suggest I don’t like people based on their skin color, religion or any other shit like that. If I don’t like someone it has nothing to do with any of the above mentioned things. If I don’t like you it’s because you’re an asshole. Or a bitch. Probably both.
I know it’s highly likely that there are a lot of people who don’t like me and I would hope it’s because I’m a part-time dick and not because of my cracker-ness. I can readily admit that I’m an asshole. At times.
Lately those times have been most of the time, but I can honestly say that the increase in douchiness is a combination of fucked up neurology and a lack of medicine. But that’s not the point of this blog post. Not that this blog post has an actual point. One day I will tell you all the neurology story, but I can’t right now. What gave me the idea for this interesting bit of prose? I’m glad you asked.
The other morning I was cruising up the street to grab a cup of coffee and I was listening to Kevin & Bean on KROQ. They were talking about how people are all up in arms about Chaz Bono appearing on Dancing With The Stars and how its no longer a “family show”.
I will admit that I’m not a fan of DWTS, but when was watching a show filled mainly with rejects trapsing around in short skirts and low cut dresses ever a family show? Now that I look at it from this perspective, maybe I DO need to watch it. It could make some awesome writing inspiration.
Didn’t Paul McCartney’s one legged ex appear on the show? If so, how the fuck did I miss that shit? I pride myself on the fact that I try to stay on top of the current train wrecks. Yeah. I’m sure she was on DWTS because I distinctly remember asking my then girlfriend Katelyn, if her leg came off while she was dancing. But back to Chaz…
In case you don’t know who Chaz Bono is, let me give you the Cliff Notes version. Back in the day (sometime in mid 1968 to be exact) Sonny and Cher got freaky and conceived a little girl named Chastity Sun Bono. The early years were probably pretty OK, but I’m sure you can figure out how this went south pretty quickly.
Her mom has had something like 12 Farewell tours and her dad became mayor of Palm Springs, then a U.S. Congressmen and eventually skied into a tree and died. Chastity came out to her parents at 18, then to the public in 1995. To be fair, the public figured it out somewhere around 1988, but she came out in 1995. At age 39 she underwent transgender surgery and officially changed her, his name to Chaz Salvatore Bono.
Now that you have the background on all this (and it only took me 493 words to do it), let me tell you how this while blog post came about. As I pulled into Starbucks for some java (still listening to Kevin & Bean), I was struck by a thought.
“Why the hell do people give a shit about Dancing With The Fucking Stars?” I thought to myself. “Chaz is just some fat dude with a rack.” Right after that I parked my car and retrieved my phone from the passenger seat. I looked at the phone and paused for a moment. An idea popped into my head and I’m proud to say that I actually took a moment to ponder it before I went ahead and pulled the trigger. I did go ahead and pull the trigger, but the fact that I thought about it made me proud.
I opened the Tweetdeck app and promptly typed these words. “Chas Bono was a fugly chick, but now she’s just some fat dude with moobs. Yeah. I said it.” Yes I know I misspelled Chaz in the tweet. My bad. Should I have called Chaz ugly? Probably not. But I’m not the most attractive dude in town, so I think I’m allowed some leeway.
I guess it’s pretty obvious that I’m not a fan of the Chaz man, but it has nothing to do with his looks or his transgender-ness. I know enough to call Chaz a he, but I will admit that when it comes to writing about someone both before and after, that I’m not sure of it’s “him”, “her”, “he”, or”she”. So, for purposes of this blog post, I will refer to either her or she if the event happened to Chastity and he or him if it was Chaz. Fair enough? Cool.
I have no problem with people getting all political and shit, but why does the fact that she’s gay or transgender mean that I should listen to her? I don’t listen to her any less because she’s lesbian and he’s transgender, so why should I listen to him more because he is? Am I making any sense here?
What I mean to say is that I listen to people not because they’re black or white and not because they’re gay or straight. I pay attention to what someone says because they make sense. Or because they’re a fuckin loon. One of the two. Either way, race, religion or sexual orientation plays no part in how I feel about The Chaz Man.
So what if Chaz is gonna be on the show and he’s gonna be dancing with some chick? Who gives a shit. If your kids don’t know the whole Chastity/Chaz story, do you really think watching some stupid dancing reality show is gonna clue them in to the fact that some chicks get dicks?
Trust me, your daughter isn’t going to turn to you and say, “Mother. I do believe that man would look better in a dress.” It’s just not gonna happen. I actually think it would be worse if Chastity was on the show. Then your kids would probably ask, “Why is that guy wearing a dress.” That would totally happen. I’m just saying.
The bottom line is this. If I guy can enter you through the front door, you’re a chick. But if he has no choice but to use the back door, you’re a dude. Chastity Bono had her front door permanently sealed, which means Chaz Bono is a dude. Quit bitchin about this and watch him get booted the first couple weeks. How do I know that will happen? It has to. Chaz Bono is a white dude in his 40′s and everyone knows white men white men can’t dance..                                   P.S.S. Cher is MILF-a-licious in this video. Don’t try and tell me she didn’t nail a sailor after the video was shot, because you know she did. Maybe even two. Possibly at the same time.

                                                                                              

Why kids need disappointment

In his book “The Private Adam” Rabbi Shumley Boteach recounts the following story. A wealthy investment banker fell on hard times after a string of bad investment decisions. On top of losing almost everything he was unable to keep his three children in their elite private boarding school. Upon learning this the rabbi took it upon himself to seek out donors in the community to help cover the costs so the children could stay in their school. His grounds for the request, as he put it, was to save the children from “the shame and humiliation they would face if they were forced to leave their school and friends because their father could no longer afford the tuition”.

The fallout from our ongoing economic crisis continues to leave frustration, anger, and especially fear in its wake. It seems very few lots have been spared from the carnage including our very own government. Families who had grown accustomed to pulling money off the tree in their backyard now find themselves living in a reality nowhere near Kansas. The financial avalanche has led to chic neighborhoods becoming littered with foreclosures as the byproduct of biting off more than one can chew, six figure salaries traded in for unemployment checks, and everyone reminiscing on the ‘ole days asking if it will ever be so good again. Yet anyone who has lived long enough knows that part of the human experience includes a healthy dose of challenge and specifically disappointment. While each handles them differently we all know it’s an occupational hazard.

But when it comes to our kids and disappointment the idea takes on a whole new meaning. As parents we want to shield our children from negative consequences, especially if it was our choices that created them. But if we protect our children from all of life’s ups and downs is that good parenting or are we setting them up for even tougher lessons down the road? If we provide cover for all the arrows our child will surely face does she ever learn to manage them when we aren’t around?

To the Rabbi’s dismay his pleas fell on deaf ears and the children transferred to another school. It’s unknown what was said or how the children reacted, but had Rabbi Boteach been successful in his attempts what might have been the outcome? While their dignity may have stayed in tact how would their future expectations been affected? Would they simply assume someone will always step in to fix everything should it all come crashing down? And would there be any point of reference when making their own life choices?

No father wants his child to experience disappointment or pain. As parents we are hard-wired to protect our kids but trying to cushion them from all adversity creates an adult who doesn’t posses the mental or emotional fortitude to deal with any trials or tribulations. One has to look no further than the proverbial rich kid for an example. The Paris Hilton’s or Lindsay Lohan’s of the world are the quintessential snotty-nosed brats who were never told ‘no’ and their actions and life choices reflect as such.

"Life isn’t always fair and bad things do happen to good people."
I believe the strength of character gained by these children leaving their school far outweigh the shame and humiliation potentially avoided by staying. And the prospective benefactors knew as much and understood a basic life fact the rabbi failed to grasp – life isn’t always fair and bad things do happen to good people.

I want my kids to learn early on that life doesn’t always play fair and the good guy doesn’t always win. They must learn there are going to be times when they win but there will be just as many where they get the short end of the stick. And the best I can do when they do come is be there to support them and offer that most southern of truisms:

“If this is the worst thing that happens to you, you’re going to be fine!”

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]