Quick and to the point (do i say this every time?):
If I have a daugher, I hope:
- That she is just like her mother. I used to have many constraints and standards for that special woman in my life, but I realized those are all null and void. All I hope for in a female mate is that I can honestly say that when we have a daughter I can wish that she turns out just like her mother. There's no hidden asshole motive or sarcastic agenda behind this, it's just true. And sweet. Awww.
If I have a son, I hope:
- He is never that guy who wears a sport coat to a bar. I realize this doesn't immediately make you an asshole. Though I've never seen it in action (and I would chastise them to the world's end), I'm sure some of my best friends do in fact practice this activity. But that doesn't make it okay. Just like calling someone "gay" or a "fag", I don't have a problem with it for any surface reason (I can't pretend to be that PC), I just despise it for its lack of originality and overall douchiness. Just as nobody is impressed that you totally called out that kid on the Vespa as a blatant homosexual, nobody is impressed that you managed to pair a graphic tee with a coat from JC Penney. Congrats, you suck at life. I would feel prouder of my son if he was the central force behind our generation's holocaust. But only if it involved Australians. I'm still not sold on them.
One love ya'll,
- K
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
...Appease my adoring public
So ladies,
hopefully this will be short and to the point (probably not), but here we go:
i know everyone says that women are all attracted to assholes, but i would beg to differ. i would say up until 2001 women were attracted to assholes. but around that time (according to Kellen [see footnote A1*]), douchebag came into the public lexicon.
see, there is a drastic difference between asshole and douchebag. I (your golden blog-god) am an asshole. that guy who is wearing a visor and slamming shots of jager is a douchebag. there is a huge difference. a douchebag will be a gentleman to your face because he wants to get in your pants, but the minute you are gone he will treat you like shit to his friends. An asshole (me) will treat you like shit to your face. and then when his friends are around he will treat you like shit. and then when your friends are around he will treat you like shit. see the difference?
i dont have the time/patience/care to be nice to people i don't care to be nice to. this makes me an asshole. after a year of school, the best nickname my schoolmates (what am i, a british chimneysweep?) could come up with is "asshole". but do girls coming begging my way to hop on my Harley and drive off into the sunset? Nay. But douchebags? They're busy filling out girls like applications.
Assholes get scurvy. Douchebags get crabs.
Assholes eat texas toast. Douchebags say "everything is better with beer! and tits!"
Watch out ladies, and know what you want. I don't disrespect you if you decide you would rather be with a douchebag, but i will spit in your soup when you're not looking.
This is not to say I'm bitter. I'm not. Really. I understand the feeling completely. I fucking love bitches. I don't like stuck up girls. There is a huge difference.
Now i'm bored of this, and this isn't really even funny, just mostly true.
-k
*A1 - it's how steak is done.
hopefully this will be short and to the point (probably not), but here we go:
i know everyone says that women are all attracted to assholes, but i would beg to differ. i would say up until 2001 women were attracted to assholes. but around that time (according to Kellen [see footnote A1*]), douchebag came into the public lexicon.
see, there is a drastic difference between asshole and douchebag. I (your golden blog-god) am an asshole. that guy who is wearing a visor and slamming shots of jager is a douchebag. there is a huge difference. a douchebag will be a gentleman to your face because he wants to get in your pants, but the minute you are gone he will treat you like shit to his friends. An asshole (me) will treat you like shit to your face. and then when his friends are around he will treat you like shit. and then when your friends are around he will treat you like shit. see the difference?
i dont have the time/patience/care to be nice to people i don't care to be nice to. this makes me an asshole. after a year of school, the best nickname my schoolmates (what am i, a british chimneysweep?) could come up with is "asshole". but do girls coming begging my way to hop on my Harley and drive off into the sunset? Nay. But douchebags? They're busy filling out girls like applications.
Assholes get scurvy. Douchebags get crabs.
Assholes eat texas toast. Douchebags say "everything is better with beer! and tits!"
Watch out ladies, and know what you want. I don't disrespect you if you decide you would rather be with a douchebag, but i will spit in your soup when you're not looking.
This is not to say I'm bitter. I'm not. Really. I understand the feeling completely. I fucking love bitches. I don't like stuck up girls. There is a huge difference.
Now i'm bored of this, and this isn't really even funny, just mostly true.
-k
*A1 - it's how steak is done.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
...Bite his tongue.
Despite popular belief, I am a gentleman. Or can be. Much in the same vein that a kangaroo can be a wallaby. In fact, the exact same vein. BUT! There are certain things that a person cannot, nay, must not, do when in the midst of my company.
Tonight is a perfect example.
DO NOT INSULT MY SHOES:
Like a pregnant Maury contestant, i will come at you with the fury of a thousand suns. there are many things i can't do in this world, and i'm completely aware of them. among them are included: fighting without looking like michael j fox circa 2002, winking with both eyes, and not kicking ass at foursquare. the one thing i do do (i just said doodoo), is talk shit. i talk more shit than i take, and i take a lot of shits (its medical). so the last thing you want to do, especially when you are a walrus tucked into a 1998 miami sound machine halter top is talk shit on my shoes. the world at large has come to an agreement that i own the sweetest shoes on earth. its a fact. but this girl didn't stop there. i won't get into specifics. but i can deal with bitchiness, i love it, in fact. but just be funny. if you're not, that's the biggest insult of all.
so, i digress. and also forget what i was saying. the moral of the story is, i can hold my tongue if need be. even if the girl is wearing 40 clubbed seals draped around her neck and grinding against my roommate provocatively. the fact that i was completely enthralled in conversation with a 31 year-old from Instanbul shows just how interesting you were/are. fuck you in one of the folds of your fur.
whiskey formaldehyde. i'm out.
-k
Tonight is a perfect example.
DO NOT INSULT MY SHOES:
Like a pregnant Maury contestant, i will come at you with the fury of a thousand suns. there are many things i can't do in this world, and i'm completely aware of them. among them are included: fighting without looking like michael j fox circa 2002, winking with both eyes, and not kicking ass at foursquare. the one thing i do do (i just said doodoo), is talk shit. i talk more shit than i take, and i take a lot of shits (its medical). so the last thing you want to do, especially when you are a walrus tucked into a 1998 miami sound machine halter top is talk shit on my shoes. the world at large has come to an agreement that i own the sweetest shoes on earth. its a fact. but this girl didn't stop there. i won't get into specifics. but i can deal with bitchiness, i love it, in fact. but just be funny. if you're not, that's the biggest insult of all.
so, i digress. and also forget what i was saying. the moral of the story is, i can hold my tongue if need be. even if the girl is wearing 40 clubbed seals draped around her neck and grinding against my roommate provocatively. the fact that i was completely enthralled in conversation with a 31 year-old from Instanbul shows just how interesting you were/are. fuck you in one of the folds of your fur.
whiskey formaldehyde. i'm out.
-k
Friday, February 1, 2008
...Rip off other people
Ok, this post needs one or two disclaimers. First, i know i promised you, loyal blognation, that i would only post drunkenly, but i am, in fact, sober. soberly bored, as the case may be.
second, this post was inspired by (and actually quite stolen from) friend of the blog kellensaysthis. i give him all credit, but will take it a step further. please see his post for what he could do without. consider this an addendum, perhaps if kellen and i were to create our utopia, our combined list would be the groundwork (kellen, i am currently taking name suggestions for our magical kingdom).
so, without further ado, here are the things that must go away, and the things that can stay (rhymes, see?) in this post-apocalyptic paradise:
Must Go Away:
Oboes and Macrame.
i don't really understand what you are. this confuses me and I don't appreciate being confused.
You Can Stay:
Palindromes.
you make me smile. keep up the good work. note: a lot of the oboe's problems would be solved if it dropped that 'e' on the end.
Must Go Away:
People who say "I could care less" and "irregardless".
think about what you are saying. it doesn't make sense. we have no room for your illogical ramblings in the new world. because we're too busy watching movies starring...
You Can Stay:
Recent Movies w/ Russian Villains.
i truly appreciate this because the notion of a russian bad guy is both antiquated and politically incorrect. it is comforting that movie studios are apparently still reading scripts written in the thrall of McCarthyism. besides, arab villians are more played out than movies starring martin lawrence as a cop.
Must Go Away:
Men who can grow facial hair but choose not to.
This is akin to having the cure for cancer and not sharing it. you are wasting abilities that SOME of us would kill for. it's like rubbing your stubbly gifts against the grain of my baby smooth face.
You Can Stay:
Guy who yells "Play Freebird!" at any concert, ever.
Even in the midst of our rebuilding efforts, we will need someone to make us feel better about ourselves. congrats on making the cut, guy, go ahead and celebrate by ordering a red wine because you think you are being ironic and asking the sound guy what kind of mics they are using while nodding your head knowingly.
Must Go Away:
People who take baths.
you are disgusting. gravity works, use it.
You Can Stay:
The Tremendous Twelve breakfast at Perkins.
Ain't nothing wrong with you. Also, the perfect name for our band consisting of four guys.
Must Go Away:
Those Charmin commercials with the bears.
These commercials make me uncomfortable on several levels. first, i'm not sure why bears are wiping their asses. second, thinking about this makes me think about those bears being naked, and walking around after just wiping their bear bottoms (get it? whatever, fuck off). also, there is no way to get your bear ass clean with all that fur. bears already make me nervous, but the idea of a naked bear with a crusty asshole concerns me to the Nth degree.
You Can Stay:
Crazy homeless man on the corner of the street.
Yes, i saw that monster with Hitler's head, too, dude. Don't let the machines get inside you. Burgundy barbeque sauce underwear!
So there you have it, all in all, the perfect template for the ultra-modern society. i promise i will rarely, if ever, post soberly on this blitz-filled blog in the future. but better sober than never, right?
-k
second, this post was inspired by (and actually quite stolen from) friend of the blog kellensaysthis. i give him all credit, but will take it a step further. please see his post for what he could do without. consider this an addendum, perhaps if kellen and i were to create our utopia, our combined list would be the groundwork (kellen, i am currently taking name suggestions for our magical kingdom).
so, without further ado, here are the things that must go away, and the things that can stay (rhymes, see?) in this post-apocalyptic paradise:
Must Go Away:
Oboes and Macrame.
i don't really understand what you are. this confuses me and I don't appreciate being confused.
You Can Stay:
Palindromes.
you make me smile. keep up the good work. note: a lot of the oboe's problems would be solved if it dropped that 'e' on the end.
Must Go Away:
People who say "I could care less" and "irregardless".
think about what you are saying. it doesn't make sense. we have no room for your illogical ramblings in the new world. because we're too busy watching movies starring...
You Can Stay:
Recent Movies w/ Russian Villains.
i truly appreciate this because the notion of a russian bad guy is both antiquated and politically incorrect. it is comforting that movie studios are apparently still reading scripts written in the thrall of McCarthyism. besides, arab villians are more played out than movies starring martin lawrence as a cop.
Must Go Away:
Men who can grow facial hair but choose not to.
This is akin to having the cure for cancer and not sharing it. you are wasting abilities that SOME of us would kill for. it's like rubbing your stubbly gifts against the grain of my baby smooth face.
You Can Stay:
Guy who yells "Play Freebird!" at any concert, ever.
Even in the midst of our rebuilding efforts, we will need someone to make us feel better about ourselves. congrats on making the cut, guy, go ahead and celebrate by ordering a red wine because you think you are being ironic and asking the sound guy what kind of mics they are using while nodding your head knowingly.
Must Go Away:
People who take baths.
you are disgusting. gravity works, use it.
You Can Stay:
The Tremendous Twelve breakfast at Perkins.
Ain't nothing wrong with you. Also, the perfect name for our band consisting of four guys.
Must Go Away:
Those Charmin commercials with the bears.
These commercials make me uncomfortable on several levels. first, i'm not sure why bears are wiping their asses. second, thinking about this makes me think about those bears being naked, and walking around after just wiping their bear bottoms (get it? whatever, fuck off). also, there is no way to get your bear ass clean with all that fur. bears already make me nervous, but the idea of a naked bear with a crusty asshole concerns me to the Nth degree.
You Can Stay:
Crazy homeless man on the corner of the street.
Yes, i saw that monster with Hitler's head, too, dude. Don't let the machines get inside you. Burgundy barbeque sauce underwear!
So there you have it, all in all, the perfect template for the ultra-modern society. i promise i will rarely, if ever, post soberly on this blitz-filled blog in the future. but better sober than never, right?
-k
Thursday, November 15, 2007
...Take a minute to wonder what the problem with bacon is...
...is nothing. it's delicious. what the fuck is your problem?
that is all.
-k
...Fight off his demons
Oh hey! what's shakin? not much here either. i decided that i'm just drunk enough to blog about my once and future son, jared. i dont know if you have had the pleasure of taking in an episode of kid nation, but if not, you are a communist. fear not, however, as i will soon be adopting this kid and we will be running for whatever office is open for a 20 something parent and his completely unrelated and unwilling son. if you missed his spot-on impersonation of a wild west pimp, then you, my friend, are doomed. as one matthew mccabe said, "there needs to be a camera on that kid at all times." he is like johnny carson mixed with groucho marx and star jones. now there's a hot tub party.
on a related note (somehow), kellen left today to recover from his severe bout of knee-AIDS. they say tragedy plus time equals comedy, so this is how the equation would work for how our boy went down:
[i convert a beautiful drunken heel click] [kellen attempts to one-up me] + [however long it takes him to crumple back to earth] = comedy.
ohhhhhhh, i know this makes me seem heartless, but even kellen would agree that there would be no better way to go down. that's something you can tell your grandkids, who no doubt will be suffering from some sort of severe muscular disorder. that being said, we're all cheering for you kellen. here's hoping Magic gives you the cure for HIV...just in case.
if you need me, i'll be in the penthouse for the rest of the month, hiding from the monster that lives inside my walls. only about three people in the world will get that, good thing only two people in the world will read it.
later skaters.
-k
Saturday, November 3, 2007
...Blog Drunkenly!
the answer to the iraq/iran/pluto sitch lies, i think, in the unspeakable rules of the male bar bathroom. if, in their infinite stupidity, mankind can find a balance of rules and understanding in a setting so overblown with masculinity and cock/balls like a bar bathroom, why for not can we not find an answer to this middle east situation. i feel like we need another mc hammer song on the issue. remember malibu stacy? but i digress...
so. guys. bathrooms. urinals. stalls. there's so many ways to go wrong. fuck bin laden, the worst person in the world is the guy who picks the middle urinal when there are three options open to him. guess what guy: you just turned everyone around you gay (not that there's anything wrong with that. some of my best friends are gay. well, we're at least friends. well, i met one once. well, i saw that video that george michael did with courtney cox). adios marriage (thanks texas), i now officially must loves balls because apparently i have to stand next to you and admire the fact that you go over the fence because you're too lazy to go through your fly. it's called a button. they've been around since at least 1987, get used to them. they're the wave of the future. like slap bracelets.
the greatest moment in bathroom use is when the door opens and whatever god awful song that involves one of the following: umbrellas, 151, pineapple juice, babies with their backs that they've got, certain exercise routines; [improper use of semi-colon] spills forth from the dance floor from which my roommate matt is inevitably doing the pointy-arm dance, and suddenly i can feel free to piss in the stall. because there's nothing worse than pissing in a toilet full of water and thinking, "shit, the guy who wearing the double popped collar in the urinal next to me can tell i have a small penis". i don't know from experience, but i saw it on maury.
we can cure polio but we don't know what happened to dinosaurs???
what would happen if all of a sudden in a club they started playing the theme from "boy meets world"? i'll tell you what: mega dance sesh.
you know, as far as popping the cherry of my drunken blog goes, i'm not really that intoxicated. you can tell because my spelling is uncanny, right?
have you ever looked at someone on a dance floor and thought, "i wish i was european and so free-spirited", then had a friend ask the person where they're from and they respond, "chicago"? yeah, me neither.
so, i hope you'll bear with me through this uncomfortable process of becoming a blogger. i promise future wise (wiser, even) insights and uncomfortable topics a la larry king with a dash of connie chung. or carry kung, if you will. won't you?
so. guys. bathrooms. urinals. stalls. there's so many ways to go wrong. fuck bin laden, the worst person in the world is the guy who picks the middle urinal when there are three options open to him. guess what guy: you just turned everyone around you gay (not that there's anything wrong with that. some of my best friends are gay. well, we're at least friends. well, i met one once. well, i saw that video that george michael did with courtney cox). adios marriage (thanks texas), i now officially must loves balls because apparently i have to stand next to you and admire the fact that you go over the fence because you're too lazy to go through your fly. it's called a button. they've been around since at least 1987, get used to them. they're the wave of the future. like slap bracelets.
the greatest moment in bathroom use is when the door opens and whatever god awful song that involves one of the following: umbrellas, 151, pineapple juice, babies with their backs that they've got, certain exercise routines; [improper use of semi-colon] spills forth from the dance floor from which my roommate matt is inevitably doing the pointy-arm dance, and suddenly i can feel free to piss in the stall. because there's nothing worse than pissing in a toilet full of water and thinking, "shit, the guy who wearing the double popped collar in the urinal next to me can tell i have a small penis". i don't know from experience, but i saw it on maury.
we can cure polio but we don't know what happened to dinosaurs???
what would happen if all of a sudden in a club they started playing the theme from "boy meets world"? i'll tell you what: mega dance sesh.
you know, as far as popping the cherry of my drunken blog goes, i'm not really that intoxicated. you can tell because my spelling is uncanny, right?
have you ever looked at someone on a dance floor and thought, "i wish i was european and so free-spirited", then had a friend ask the person where they're from and they respond, "chicago"? yeah, me neither.
so, i hope you'll bear with me through this uncomfortable process of becoming a blogger. i promise future wise (wiser, even) insights and uncomfortable topics a la larry king with a dash of connie chung. or carry kung, if you will. won't you?
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