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Michael the Vick

August 14, 2009 Leave a comment

AS predicted, jocksniffer radio hosts, listener calls, emails, texts, et al are myopically fixed on Michael Vick’s return to the NFL. The Philadelphia Eagles officially announced the signing of Vick, the man who served hard time for crossing state lines to engage in illegal dog fights. The animal abuse, cruelty, torture & execution, were just incidental to going from Virginia to Georgia to do it. Though a case could be made for just going back to Virginia once you made it to Georgia, which I’ve done myself.

At the Eagles press conference Vick, whose criminal acts fit the FBI profile for serial killer, apparently memorized a list of cliches. Learned behavior is something a sociopath is very good at doing. He is being mentored by Tony Dungy, a former NFL coach & born again Bible scholar, who has his own tragic history. The etymology of both their names aside, I have never enjoyed puppet shows after age 5. The debate over whether or not Vick deserves a return to the NFL took up 99% of ESPN program content today ( August 14 ), running the gamut from the inane to the insane. Best of British luck, ya’ll. . ..

AND 99% of those people discussing Vick are not only ill equipped to do so, they can barely articulate the real issue– has he rehabilitated himself ( ty Arlo )? So, as he goes over to sit on the Group W Eagles bench, I’d like to pose a question the great unwashed can all have an opinion on, and even more to the point, it’s at their level of intellect. Here goes—

Do you think the Eagles will cut Vick if he dogs it?

Stay tuned.

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Where Angels Fear to Tread w/ commentary by Chico Marx

June 26, 2009 2 comments

“Hey! thatsa pretty fonny. You canta fool me boss. Thosa Transformahs ainta racists, theyah battlebots they donta race!” Chico Marx

Let me get this straight. There are some people upset about racism in the new movie Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. The pervasive destructive disregard for life, property and national treasures, that’s okay? Not to mention the dogged possibility of damage to Megan Fox. And the veritable lake size puddles of oil they leave behind. I’d be an idiot of the same stripe as they are, to read as if I’d ever condone racism. But the superficial, knee jerk reactions of such people do nothing but actually pour some of that bot fluid on the flames.

They learned a big word once—stereotype. But they learned it in the context of an explanation with negative connotations. Am I even allowed to use negative? Stereotypes, as with the verbal equivalent, the cliché, exist for one reason—they are experiential human shorthand. If it waddles like a duck, we then see a duck, not some poor kid in a mascot suit. Unless of course, it is some kid in a mascot suit. Personally, I have seen just about every stereotype in real life, these jerkoffs complain about. It would be fine with them to have a white trash moron, an Italian mob goombah, a Jewish anything, but not a person of color who isn’t in Mensa? Could’ve been worse, they could’ve had Tyler Perry in drag Transformer. . ..

Bullshit. They are the people with the problem. It is so intense of a problem, they see racist in the use of the word people. In the Sixties, I was a second generation Italian, a teenager with long hair, a beard, wore sunglasses & drove a Corvette. If you knew anything about life before you were born or say, Heaven forfend, read a book, you’d know that was a set of characteristics sure to get you special notice by authorities. Luckily, I never did get any harassment. Because I was lucky and behaved myself, and never got caught the few times I power shifted, burnt rubber and wore a hundred miles off my tires. The only time was when a guy on my softball team, a police sergeant, advised me to be careful of the company I kept. He was right too. And I did. However, if you don’t think I got a taste of prejudice back then, you are culturally bereft. Sure, I had the ability  and the option to “clean up my act,” a popular phrase of that era. Oddly, even when I did, I was still the same iconoclastic individual. My attitudes and foibles were internal. Have some groups had unfortunate extra attention? the sad answer is yes. As always, I ain’t here to do an exegesis of race relations. Just to point stuff out. Did I look like a small time drug dealer though? you betcha. Was I? Nope and that rhymes with—okay, but just that one time. And I was drunk. . ..

But including a dumbass black character in a movie is anathema? What! there no stupid blacks? how do you explain Martin Lawrence? You obviously don’t listen to WFAN. While possibly not the only choice for a movie character, if it’s an urban scene, what fits more for the point it makes? an African American with GQ cover looks and two doctorates? or some street thug. All y’all are just hater players. BTW why are you even at that movie? oh—Megan Fox! Sexist ahole huh. Or just hetero and enjoying yourself. I’d say lighten up, but I’m no racialist, you get the picture. Maybe. . ..

“Ha hah ha. Shoo, everybody knows they gotta lottsa juice in Florida. They come frommah Noo Yawk for the sunny shine!” Chico Marx

Manny Ramirez, eagerly ( LOL ) awaiting his return to Mannywood and the Dodger lineup, has caught some new attention himself. This because he is a stereotype—of a ballplayer caught using performance enhancing drugs. Apparently someone he’s been associated with has a father who is a doctor. A doctor can write prescriptions for said PED. Voila! This conduit from outside the US, up into Florida and servicing predominantly Latino jocks, is now under scrutiny. Again may I state: Boston, you are hypocrites & phonies. Have a nice day.

Wowie zowie! God didn’t waste anytime with the dead celebrity trifecta. Banging them out like ARod in batting practice. Only God can do it in the actual games too. Yeah sure Alex has had some good at bats the last few days—90 games to go hombre. Sorry, got off track there. So, Farrah Fawcett, Ed MacMahon, and Michael Jackson are at the Pearly Gates. Saint Peter sees Farrah, looks at his big book and says—-” Angel! go right in.” Ed steps up. Peter says-” Heyo!—you have all ready won. Go on in.” Then he looks at Michael Jackson, looks at the book. Looks at Michael again, then back at the book,* he asks — ” Moonwalk, eh! you were an astronaut?” Michael squeaks, ” Uh yes. Yes I was. An astronaut.” St. Peter smiles, ” Welcome to Heaven.” St. Paul throws Peter a look.  Peter looks at paul and says – “Hey have you ever heard him sing She’s Out of My Life? The way his voice breaks at the end. That’s Heaven.”

*Take 2: St. Peter looks down at his book, looks at Michael Jackson. ” Oh dear, it’s Jackson. Whew–I thought they said Michael JORDAN. . ..”

Now if he can only keep his hands off the cherubs. Good night everybody! drive safely and don’t forget to tip your waitrons.

Fantasy Islands

February 28, 2009 4 comments

Dateline: Moronia

The no talent referred to in the previous post has announced he’s buying an island. This is purportedly to celebrate his 40th birthday. And the fact that there are a lot of stupid people spending their money on his crap movies. I think he just wants a place where he can lounge around in a mumu and not have to bother about the man part of his wardrobe. He’s not that rich, saving is saving, once you have a whole island to support.

My sources have located his realtor*, here is his dream list of islands:

1. Fantasy Island

2. Treasure Island

3. Coney Island

4. Gilligan’s Island

5. Long Island

IMO he all ready lives on number 1.

There was a time Martin Lawrence was the premiere idiot among black entertainers. After all, directing traffic in your underwear & doing the most illiterate monologue ever on live TV ( Saturday Night Live ), pretty much locked him in for the 90s. But the planet sized ego, only matched by the inverse size of Tyler Perry’s talent, gives him the lead in the 21st century. Athletes don’t count, they have too unfair an advantage—nobody expects them to be smart. They are legion and so competitive, it’s difficult to choose one; that list changes on a daily basis. With entertainers ( sic ) one needs to evaluate a body of work. In this case, the body is a male, wrapped in mama’s clothing & Holly Woodlawn make up.

Let’s get one thing totally straight. I do envy people who can make money doing what they want to do in life. However, I can’t respect it when the method employed is such bullshit. Historically, when plays & acting were evolving, the rôles of women characters were portrayed by men. This is because along with not bathing, Europeans in the Middle Ages and on into the Elizabethan period, believed any woman who’d be in the show business was a whore. [ The Greeks who started staged performances, were another bowl of grapes. Too much for this post to handle.] Typically, they were correct, a girl’s got to eat and pay for frilly things too, ya’ll. Today, it’s somewhat the same, though it’s— if you are a man dressing as a woman for a payday, you are a whore. Hack. Whore. OK, a whore-hack. Never to be confused with a Horshack. That’s a whole other thing. Which is not a poorly constructed brothel in Deadwood. Though it could’ve been.

Oh sure, don’t be telling me the clown wrote the part( s ), so it’s his art. I grasp the process and the rationale. There’s a word for it though, let me think—oh yeah, greedy whore. There’s not one black actress alive who could play any of his lameass bitches better than he could? Oprah would’ve done it for free. OK maybe not free—but scale for sure. Too bad the woman who played Aunt Esther isn’t still with us. CCH Pounder could’ve knocked it out of the park, but she has too much integrity to do this kind of dreck. Isn’t he basing the mannerisms and traits on a real woman( or real women )? You know, maybe being so bitter ( albeit accurate ) I’ve been blind. Maybe his characters are drawn from ugly black transvestites! it would explain the broad, ham-handed strokes. Damn! I owe him an apology.

So, I’d like to solicit contributions. Send as much money as you can to Tyler Perry, so he can buy his island asap. Then we can vote him off this island and onto his own. I hear Alcatraz Island is lovely this time of year. Also affordable. Just don’t mention, it’s no longer an active penitentiary, so the male population is currently zero. All is fair in love and whore. And real estate.

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* speaking of pretentious—when did the second pronunciation of the word realtor become dominant? It’s a schwa sound you dorks. Now it sounds more like predator. Rhymes with whore now too. Excellent

There’s November like November – part ll

October 30, 2008 Leave a comment

” We love our god and our guns. . ..” this a direct quote from a political ad, approved by John McCain, running on a local radio station here in the New River Valley of Virginia. A political statement meant to exhort Virginians to vote against Barack Obama, because he apparently doesn’t love their god or their guns. Love means cleaning, oiling & fondling your grandaddy’s 30 aught 6.

They love guns here all right. They love to sell them too. That’s how a mental patient, who slipped through a loophole in the VA TECH student psych screening process, bought two guns here in Virginia. Then took them to school for Show & Kill. Who is their god? Glock? or the twin deities, Smith & Wesson?

Not too far from here, about 10 miles as the Jim Crow flies, there still stands the site of slave cabins. No doubt my own house is built above the unmarked graves of somebody who caught a free cruise to the land of the free. This area rarely has a sunny start to a day.* Often, it’s more a mist, I call it gray-light. Maybe it’s the angry gun god, all smoke and bitter ash for dirty deeds. Or possibly the arsenal also, just down the road apiece. . ..

I have said previously, the President of the United States is a spokes model. He/she(?) walks point for the daily patrol-an important job, yes. But the chief exec leads the team out front. There are those no longer so deep in the shadows, who run things. Those guys have no gods. This, because they think they are them. What they do best is send out people to do things for them, destabilize a Third World country or prop up a druglord in a slag heap ending with -stan. Then they trot the Pres out to meet the press for an atta boy and a tutorial in spin doctoring.

Doing that needs lots of guns and money. No doubt Mr. Obama would prefer to use what’s left of the American economy to keep us strong at home. Roofs over our heads and a chicken in every pot and/or microwave. But that kind of thing upsets the ‘ foreign policy ‘ of the power brokers who work behind the curtains of the Oval Office.

Hollywood has remade a classic flick, The Day the Earth Stood Still. The premise of which is, extraterrestrial is sent to Earth to terminate it. Mainly due to our warlike ways. Naturally this is greeted with loads of firepower, which makes the alien think it’s actually on Mars, named after the god of war. Right after the shameful name of the NFL franchise in our nation’s capitol is changed, I’m petitioning the new administration to switch from Earth to Mars. Or at least the Dirty 3rth. Hey, yo I’m street, dogg!

When a political party’s endgame endorsement has god & guns as the slam dunk argument for its candidate, you know it’s in trouble. If McCain really heard that ad and approved it, it’s troublesome. If a lackey rubber stamped it for him, it’s even more so. I knew we were backwards here, but this is straight out of the Johnny Reb Handbook. The South will rise again? well not before my dinner does.

So, while I continue to live in Bubbadoon,* where it’s always 1808 with football & cell phones—their god approves of some new fangled things! I get out my pork rinds & moonshine, ready to watch the election returns. Who will win—Hatfield or McCoy? er, um I mean Obama or McCain. Actually, I thought Obama was an Irish name- what? you never heard of the Black Irish!

* not to mention 24ºF on October 31—sunny south my @#%&*! ass

There’s November Like November. . ..

October 2, 2008 Leave a comment

Presidential TV debates are not really debates. They are more like those Apple v. Windows commercials. Only without the dude from the late great ED show. It’s speechifying, packaged oratorial ping pong, with enough spin to make Sandy Koufax green with envy.

So, imagine my opinion of Vice Presidential debates. They are showcases for the stand-ins. The shadow pols. Them who would be veep. They are bullshit. Certainly not cool enough to preempt 30 ROCK. Even if Sarah Palin & Tina Fey are total sisters in MILFness.

OK here’s what I want them to talk about. Joe Biden can explain his plagiarized speech from whenever that was, a decade ago. AND Palin can tell us all about why teen pregnancy in Alaska is God’s will. Riveting. In much the same way, actual riveting would be, with admittedly not the same decibels, but likely more grating.

The one thing I am excited about is, there is finally an American candidate for an executive office who won’t be togged out in a stupid suit & tie. Or will she? I don’t know. Wouldn’t put it past some ahole to tell her she’d look more Presidential. Wanna bet somebody floated the idea?

I nominally worked for a few campaigns in my misguided youth. NO happy endings there. Unless you count The Oval Office escapade with the blue dress. The one thing I took from my Presidential campaign trail experiences was I learned how to use a coffeemaker. A skill, I continue to employ, so it was worth something after all!

I can’t personally run for office. Well, I can run. But my dodgy ( lol ) past would be exposed immediately and that would be that for the once & future king. I might have a shot at Pope. If a former Hitlerjugend can make it, the field is wide open. Odd how they send up smoke to announce a new Pope. Hmmmm wonder if he had a flashback.

Anyone with the urge to get elected is suspect from my POV. It’s rife with deals within deals. Maybe I could get longer than a week on the stump, considering how they seem to miss vital details. Intriguing how the home team often misses them, leaving the loyal opposition to amazingly find out Mayoral hopeful John Doughboy, was once in a cult that dressed as nuns and ate human flesh. It was only that one time at Cannibal Camp, but once in this case. . ..

Anyone compos mentis over the age of seven, who thinks the President is more than a spokesmodel, needs to read a book. Doesn’t matter which book, just try one. Then take a look between the lines. See it? no? go on, keep looking. You will.

In related news. . . Yankee Stadium will be razed soon and next season there will be a new ballpark in the South Bronx, my old hometown. My biggest memory of the place is going there for the first time and as we walked across River Avenue, my dad said- ‘see that big building over there? that’s the Bronx Borough Court House. I got in trouble as a kid and had to go there once. Don’t let that happen to you.’

I’m pleased to say, I’ve yet to set foot in there. Though, you never know. Meanwhile, I can’t wait to see who will be President, Apple or Windows. Either way, I’ll still have this @#%&*! dial up and phone lines installed by the CSA. Now there was a president, Jefferson Davis. I’d give anything to know what he’d say about the 2008 Election. I’d bump 30 Rock for that, and I ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie y’all!

God Man Out

February 20, 2008 Leave a comment

God, John Lennon once wrote, is a concept. Then some fat mental patient shot him to death. Some people have a personal God. My personal God would’ve whacked Yoko. Before you jump on me, think about it: John would’ve really missed her. Lesson learned. Until a few years later and he got a load of Joan Chen or Ming Wa.

Richard Dawkins, not to be confused with Richard Dawson, a scientist at Oxford University, has a book. Titled: The God Delusion, in which he essentially states–ain’t no God. He also pretty much calls anyone who believes, a dumb ass. (Cough-Correct!) Then he repeats himself over & over ad nauseum. Kinda like God. . ..

My proof God existed, was getting an eyeful of an attractive woman. I’m not naming names. Anymore, any way. A few weeks ago I told a bunch of morons I thought Eva Green was hot. They told me she looked like a man. The nicest thing anyone said was—she looks very severe. Eva, if you read this, I still think you’re fine. Call me?

However, my proof there isn’t a God is, none of those hot chicks ever reciprocated my ardor. I tried compromising, but after a few lukewarm level babes dissed me, I turned devout atheist. Get serious, if you’re only gonna love me for my income, you’re a Satan worshipper. AND I don’t go for that one bit. Fork tongue, fork tail? Fork you!

Also mean nuns. Those [deleted] were married to God! Yikes. NO wonder God was vengeful with those harpies around the house. Though that original black & white look was tres chic. If you were Diane Arbus. This also explains the celibacy of priests and some of their unfortunate urges. Not all nuns were mean naturally. But sexual repression turned inward should never be allowed near children or to possess a ruler.

Country performers, athletes & certain races, like to thank God at awards shows. I admit, if I’d have had a hit record ( or 6 which is what I asked God to let me have–btw God thanks for the Brad Paisley box set, not what I had in mind but hey!) I’d have thanked God right after my parents & dogs. I don’t believe but I would’ve, based on good old fashioned Catholic guilt. Hee haw.

Because my reading retention skills have eroded since puberty, I can’t recall if I read this in the Dawkins book, but apparently that 72 virgins crap the Muslims sell suggestible social retardates, was mistranslated. It’s supposed to be 72 ‘raisins.’ Man, oh Manischewitz, I’d like to be there for that—what a treat! Admittedly, if you lived in the desert a thousand years ago & came across a bunch of grapes, you’d be in Heaven. But that sun would dry them out fast, so the leap to raisins is easy. Guaranteed there wouldn’t be a bit of old Allah left, after one of those psychos got handed a box of California raisins for blowing himself up & murdering some more of God’s Chosen People. Good times all around.

The best display of belief in God, is however, all those so called Christians who persecuted, tortured & killed in the name of God. And they have bad hair. The Spanish Inquisition is my favorite. That epistle was in one of the lost Gospels where Jesus said ‘Rack ’em up boys!’ Torquemada getting Lamb of God mixed up with rack of lamb. Not only is that type sociopathic, they are no fun at parties. Nor are they fun, as radio station owners, who along with tele-evangeli$ts, fleece millions for millions, for God. Makes you hope there at least is a hell. You know, that place where most of my former ‘flames’ will reside for all eternity, as per their fervent wish, granted by their master, the Prince of Darkness, without me! I’ll be in hebben with my raisins, though I’d prefer ambrosia.

Really, I think God was a 5th grader who got a C- on his science project & dumped it in the basement & forgot about it. Then went on to produce reality shows. I know truly wonderful things exist. I’d mention some, but it would just be my list. We all have a list of stuff that makes life bearable. But the repetitive cruelty & injustice, the stupidity of sports talk radio & the Red Sox winning two World Series in the last 4 years, proves it to me. God either doesn’t exist or is an idiot savant who now roots for Boston. Either is too sad to contemplate. In fact, God can just ki *

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* for those who wondered, this is not a glitch, it’s supposed to be the hand of G*d reaching down and stopping me before I’d type something like God can just kiss my as

Little Dead Rooster

February 8, 2008 Leave a comment

Here we go again. Yet another intellectually challenged, highly paid, professional athlete, makes news for a so called ‘ cultural ‘ pursuit.

Pedro Martinez ( NY Mets ), previously known for carrying a midget around, knocking down a 70 year old man & no surprise, being a pitcher for the Boston Rude Sox, hangs out at cockfights. He and former MLB pitcher Juan Marichal, best known for beating another player ( John Roseboro, LA Dodger catcher ) on the head with a bat, were getting off, watching roosters kill each other. Amazing! nobody sprang to their defense by claiming they ate them later at a festival held in their dubious honor? What do they call Buffalo wings in Dominica? el LOSER!

Words like culture and legal are being used. What a load of crap. A bunch of morons can make anything legal in a third rate country. Calling something which is amoral, legal, is an expedience for the morally challenged, who are no doubt profiting in some way from the law. Isn’t this the same Dominican Republic whose neighbor was once Papa Doc Duvalier? voodoo was legal there. Also torturing people. The same Dominican which was ruled by dictators until the US Marine Corps was sent there. Now they have a propped up democracy, many of the people there are still apparently having cultural pains transitioning from the Stone Age.

This opens the door again for the historically bereft sports hosts & their predominantly unlettered callers, to show off their lack of critical discretion and bumper sticker world view. ” Hey Biff, it’s legal there! ” Or the high tone: ” Who are we to impose our standards on other countries! ” The US is no paradise for animals. The condoned practices of greyhound racing prove it, let alone the subhumans here who sponsor illegal dog & cockfighting. But any intelligent person, no matter what their country of origin is, can see cock fighting is for knuckle draggers. Ignorance is ignorance. If you like watching animals kill each other for any reason, you are not even an intellect equal to those animals. You are a soulless buffoon and no excuse absolves you of your flaw.

The Mets were poised to launch a new season, with great hopes of making their fans & anyone else forget their September Swoon of 2007. Now Mr. Martinez has dumped all over it by showing himself to be a jerk. I’d hoped he’d outgrown it. Whatever law he thinks is on his side, it’s written in mud using a stick, with a lower case L, and is superseded by a much higher one. One he is incapable of perceiving, along with those in a peer group that has the audacity to cloak itself in concepts such as culture & law. A cloak made of chicken feathers; straight from the floor of a chicken coop.