Longtime friends of mine know I regard modern country music with the same enthusiasm as groin pulls, the stomach flu, and one-man shows performed by Keanu Reeves. However, one example stands out so much, I'll cross party lines to discuss it.
The new "it girl" of country music is Gretchen Wilson, an unabashed cheap Wal-Mart slutty tart of a woman who stands for exactly the same kind of things that guys do, especially the guys who have great difficulty attracting women.
Her new song, "All Jacked Up," contains the kind of subtle imagery I haven't seen since mid-80's AC/DC. Here's my favorite line from the song.
"Oh my God, its 2 o'clock, I can't find my keys and my trucks locked/So I grabbed a tire tool and I broke my window, hurt my elbow got me in though"
I'd just like to point out that although this does cement Gretchen's reputation as a hard drinker, a late partier, and a general don't-give-a-damn badass, it doesn't do much for her resume as a thinker.
Now she can climb into her drafty truck and sit down on broken glass for a while and prove how tough she is, but she still can't go anywhere. She still doesn't have her keys.
Guys, we know you don't really like dressing up for Halloween. You don't want to put any imagination or effort into it, we understand.
But for the love of the Phantom of the Park, stop dressing as KISS. I know it's an easy costume, and a childhood fantasy, but enough. Please. Eighteen years in a row is plenty.
Initial Thought: Is it Constitutional to force millionaires not to dress like crack addicts?
The NBA players are up in diamond-and-platinum-encrusted-arms about it, calling the new rule racist. Pacers guard Stephen Jackson responded by wearing every single one of his long, diamond-encrusted chains in protest.
Not just one. Every one that he owned. That's right, an NBA athlete thinks a suitable way to protest against racism is to dress like Mr. T on purpose.
Alleged Nuggets center Marcus Camby said he didn't see players doing it unless the NBA offered to buy their clothes for them. Camby makes more than 7 million dollars this year after taxes and weed. Make your own jokes here, folks.
Really? No kidding? Please, someone tell me this is an entertainment report from The Onion. There is no logical reason to have a Rocky Six, especially when many people can't even identify "Rocky V" when it comes on in the middle of a Saturday afternoon during a Mets rain delay.
What's the plot here? Rocky against someone a fifth of his age, overcoming incredible odds to get beaten to death in the middle of the Madison Square Garden ring? Rocky gets into it with Larry Holmes? Rocky struggles with Parkinson's Disease?
Parkinson's Disease, by the way, is a rare neurological disease that gets very little publicity. It affects thousands of people every year, and all of them are either professional boxers or Michael J. Fox. Let's pretend that getting repeatedly punched in the head for a living has nothing to do with it, shall we?
Anyway, Rocky should have been retired twenty years ago, and working as a greeter in a casino somewhere, divorced and paying off his back income taxes. Instead, the plucky everyman is dragged out again to prop up Sylvester Stallone's alleged movie career.
Let's take a look at why Stallone is eager to revisit his first love. Here's some of Stallone's output from the last decade.
"Eye See You" -- No, no one did. I don't think it was even released in theatres. It went straight to beta video, 8 millimeter film, and flip book. "Get Carter" -- Get serious. No one makes a comeback in a movie that relies on Mickey Rourke. "Driven" -- It takes quite a movie to suck the energy and fun out of high speed racing. This is just such a movie. "Avenging Angelo" -- Didn't see it, never heard of it, not sure if it was a movie or the name of a professional wrestler. "Judge Dredd" -- How do you screw up a character like Dredd? Easy, you wait a decade to long to film the movie, you let Stallone sneer every single one of his lines, and then you add Rob Schneider.
Why go this far back in the career? Why not just dig up John Rambo again? Drop him into Iraq, and have him dig out spider holes? Why not film the logical sequels to all of Stallone's films? Why not "Locked Up Again"? "Even More Demolition Man"?
It's been a long day at work. I'm employed by a college, and I spent part of today over at the dorms correcting the spelling on the bathroom wall graffiti. Here's a hint, guys, "pussy" has two "s"'s.
Ladies, if you've never seen the men's room, you might just want to take a field trip there once or twice. It may just change your opinion on a few things, like lesbianism as a viable option.
Oh, it's a veritable art fair in there. There's poetry, drawings, lyrics, ornate carvings and sculptures, all dedicated to furthering the primal horniness and homophobia of mankind.
My favorite are the profanities carved into the walls and doors, so painstakingly crafted it seems as if the artist had purposefully chosen the beef fajitas and a whole gallon of gin for lunch, just so he could have enough time later on in the toilet to complete his art.
It's a scene reminiscent of Soho in the seventies, except with maybe even more of a musky, urine smell.
You know, for a gay man in public denial, a child is the ultimate reinforcement, the mustache to complete his beard. When you think about it, even Tony Randall has has children.
Just pointing that out. Don't know why it came to mind so suddenly. Carry on.
New York has a law against childless adults hanging out in children's parks. I can understand the question of ticketing a single woman, but by that same token, I don't have a problem with the rule.
People who do cry foul, or discrimination, or whatever, just don't understand that not only do we need to protect our children, but it's just a sure sign of creepiness for adults to be hanging around kids' places.
Kids have parks, and monkey bars, and play gyms. Adults have no business being there.
Adults have nightclubs, bars, and strip clubs. Kids don't need to be there, either.
I've been in Barnes & Noble with Pup before, and adults will come back into the kids' section, sit down, and quite often begin having really adult conversations. Either we leave, or I just spill something on them.
You know, if you feel you can't adequately unfurl your burdens without plopping your big ass down in a tiny chair with a Disney character on it, you should probably hire a skycap to help you with all of that emotional baggage. There are plenty of full-size chairs in the rest of the store, you smelly bastards. Don't bring your reeking-of-smoke, just-stepped-out-of-a-twelve-step-program self back into the kids' section to talk about what you're doing, or who you're doing, or where you spent last night. When you lay your poor, tired, head down on the table, and it rests on a book featuring Babar, you're sitting in the wrong area.
By the way, how lucrative is being a 47-year old belly dancer? Just askin'.
To begin with, what are you, woman, made of stupid? If your doctor gives you a diagnosis involving his penis, walk away quickly and get thee to a shady lawyer with a nickname like "The Texas Hammer" or "The Fist Of God" to file a lucrative lawsuit. Do not untie that little paper gown for any reason. And if he asks you to have a few drinks with him before your pelvic exam, that's a good time to split, too.
I think the thing that stands out here is that the doctor was caught by the AMA and fined not for using his authority to boink a patient, but because he was actually billing the state's health plan for the time he was having sex with her. Talk about greedy!
Common Sense: Let's see, you can trick a woman into sleeping with you, or you can get paid for work. Dr. Love: To heck with that! I can have my cake, and Edith too!
By the way, a fifty year-old man billing 45 minute sex treatments? I seriously suspect she was also being charged for time spent in the waiting room. Either that, or he had his nurse do most of the work.
This may be my last entry for a while. I received word yesterday that President Bush has nominated me for the Supreme Court.
As you may expect, it came as a complete surprise to me. Apparently, I met Pooter (George W told me all of his friends call him that) at a Texas Rangers game in the 1990's, and although we only spoke briefly, I made a real impression. He told Fox News yesterday that he "liked the cut of my jib" and I'd make "a great fit for that Super Court."
Since I'm not a lawyer, and I've never even tried to study law, I was a bit confused by this, but Pooter knows best. He told me not to talk to anybody except Sean Hannity, and when I did, to keep my hands and feet away from his mouth at all times. Ha-Ha! That Pooter's a funny President.
If I'm confirmed, I told Pooter I'd do the best I could to make him some real good laws. Next week, he's going to have the secret service guys pick me up to go shopping for big black robes. Yay!
Well, we've officially reached the point where those ceremonial ribbons everyone puts on their cars have become so commonplace as to be ignored. Give it up, people. Get a new thing. The support ribbon has become the 00's equivalent of the "Baby On Board" sign. There's one available to show you back any cause, from troops to breast cancer to Larry the Inbred Cable Guy.
To begin with, I can only vaguely remember now that in the days after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, people actually went out and bought flags, and red, white, and blue ribbons, and tied them to their cars. It was a nice gesture of support, although many of them would leave the flags up way past the point of respect, and well into negligience.
"These Colors Don't Run!" Well, actually, they do, ma'am. If you buy a $3 flag and tie it on your car, then drive it around in the hot sun at 70 miles per hour for a year and a half without changing it out, the colors will run like heck. Your show of support will eventually look like an old handkerchief.
Well, that rallying point quickly became a merchandizing gimmick. Suddenly, ceremonial ribbons were available everywhere, bringing stick-on patriotism to people who were too busy to tie a knot around their radio antennas.
Really, what these people with magnetic ribbons all over their cars are saying is, "I love my country enough to plop down $3 at a gas station. Anything I can do without having to drive to a store and buy three different colors of ribbon, cause baby, I don't have time for that. That time it takes to loop that thread around my antenna? I need that time to talk on my cell phone and complain about gas prices."
Easy question. If you buy a magnetic ribbon from the Kwik-E-Mart from a cashier who is Middle Eastern, do you understand the celestial irony?
You know what city gets a bad rap? Gomorrah. It's just a throw-in to the story. It's like Fort Worth, never mentioned on it's own, never a popular destination site, always just the second half of the location. Nobody ever takes their homosexual life partner back to their apartment to get "Gomorrah-ized."
They should have gotten more publicity. The people who ran Gomorrah's Chamber Of Commerce should be ashamed.
