Another Round Of Random Bullshit

As a professional writer, it is very important that I have a system to help me remember all of the wonderful and creative ideas that I have. For instance, the other day I had an idea to refer to myself as a professional writer and pretend that I have wonderful and creative ideas. Hahahaha, I know, hilarious, right? The fact of the matter is that I do not get paid for what I write, and as has been explained to me by law enforcement personnel, mailing a box of enraged hornets to Scott Baio is neither a wonderful, nor a creative idea. (Yeah, whatever Homeland Security guys. You’re just jealous because your best idea involved landing a job which entails looking for weapons in terrorist buttholes.)

The point is, I need to be able to retain ideas, which isn’t always easy when you consider how much of my time is spent freebasing Flintsones vitamins and/or driving a school bus. I often find cryptic little notes that I’m sure made sense at the time, but days later are pretty useless:

• Wayne Newton’s horse
• Toaster Olympics
• Dont forget to pick up kids from school again

You see? Pure, unadulterated gibberish. One time I woke up from a dream, laughing my ass off. I got out of bed, went into my office, and wrote down this awesome and hilarious idea and went back to bed. The next morning when I woke up, the note that I’d written read “Excel spreadsheet graph car”. Hilarious.

So I’ve got a system that allows me to capture ideas in detail (“Pillsbury Doughboy – Motherfucker or what?”) which works really, really well except that I forget to use it. And when I forget to use it, you wind up reading a disjointed post about all kinds of wacky shit.

Like this statue of beloved Sopranos character Paulie Walnuts:

Seriously, is that a spitting image or what? I was surprised to read that the residents of the town where this statue is located had some sort of problem with it. I mean, what the fuck do you want, assholes? It’s a perfectly good likeness of Paulie Walnuts. Case fucking closed.

Except it’s not supposed to be Paulie Walnuts, it’s supposed to be Lucille Ball:

I was kinda wondering about the tits, actually. Jesus God, that is one horrible fucking statue. Lets compare the statue to the real thing:

Lucille Ball is soft featured, quite feminine and very attractive. The statue, on the other hand, looks like a hemorrhoid in a burn ward. This is what you get when you hire a sculptor known as “The Helen Keller of the art world”. It is a bronze likeness of a human being as created by someone unfamiliar with either of those things.

And here’s the kicker: The town (which is Lucille Ball’s home town) asked this guy to “fix” the statue, and he quoted them a price of $10,000. First of all, the only way to fix this statue would be to melt it down, load the liquid bronze into a special container and have NASA fire it into the interior of the sun where it can do no more harm.

Second of all, why would you trust the guy that came up with this monstrosity to improve it? Best case scenario, it’s going to come back looking like this:

Worst case scenario, it’ll come back looking like an extremely hungover Mickey Rourke.

Remember that song, “Hey Mickey”? You know, “Oh Mickey, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind, hey Mickey!” Yeah, different Mickey.

I read today that Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler is going to release a country album, the theory behind it being that if you had even the smallest shred of respect for anything the human race has ever done, this would take care of it. Seriously, I would rather have a 400 pound man stand on my crotch wearing crampons than listen to Steven Tyler sing country songs.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Aerosmith. 1970’s-era Aerosmith when they were a down and dirty rock band, and not the bunch of neon spangled pussies they became in the 80’s. If I ever have to hear the song Angel again, I am going to rip Steven Tyler’s lips off and nail them to his fucking forehead. Fuck, do I hate that song.

I have a soft spot for the song Rag Doll, though. Not because I like it, because it is horrible beyond belief. But because I was drinking with this girl in a bar during happy hour in college once, and she mentioned that she liked the song and the next time I got up to get us drinks, I hit the pay phone and called her apartment from the bar and sang Rag Doll on her answering machine:

Rag doll! Yabba-dabba-dooby!
So fine, Scooby-dooby-dooby!
Rag doll! Something-something-something by the something, MAN!

And later on the next day when she checked her messages she found it and thought it was so funny she made it her actual message, which much have confused the shit out of her parents when they called.

Anyway, back to Steven Tyler: I can never see him without thinking of Mick Jagger, not because of the lips, but because they both seem to be made primarily of beef jerky. Remember that scene in Lord of the Rings when Frodo wakes up and Liv Tyler is standing over him, all super soft-focus and beautiful beyond belief? You could practically hear the nerd-boners popping in the theater during that scene. This is her father:

What. The. Fuck?

I always laugh when I see soft focus work in action because it’s so obvious. Like if you see Florence Henderson on a magazine cover these days, she’s got so much soft focus going on that you can barely make her out. It’s like looking at Florence Henderson in a deep fog while suffering from cataracts, and trust me, that’s for the best.

I was going to say that, actually, Florence Henderson looks great considering the fact that she’s 80, but then I remembered that long time friend and reader Squatch sent me this link in which she talks about her active sex life, and I was like “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO…”

I do not care if 80 year olds have sex. Hell, I hope they do. They just need to pretend that they’re all playing bingo or enjoying butterscotch candies because no one can handle that shit. Yet seniors insist on reminding us that they’re still “active”, even if foreplay now involves a Rascal mobility scooter. Why? It’s not like there’s a vast conspiracy to deny that old people still fuck on occasion. You probably do, we just don’t want to think about it, Mrs. Brady!

(You have any footage from back in the 70’s though, Florence, you make sure that you send it to me. As long as it doesn’t involve Steven Tyler.)

Ok, let’s back up a bit. Earlier on, I used the word “crampon” in a sentence, and it’s been bugging me ever since. I can never think of the word “crampon” without mentally thinking about how at some point in time there had to be a guy whose job it was to sell and market crampons and he had this conversation with someone:

CEO, Crampon-Tech: So, what did you want to see me about, Bob?

Bob: Uhh, there’s a new product on the market, and its name is really similar to our own.

CEO, Crampon-Tech: Yeah? What’s it called?

Bob: It’s called a “tampon”.

CEO, Crampon-Tech: Ok, so what’s it do?

Bob: (whispers in CEO’s ear)

CEO, Crampon-Tech: Oh, goddammit!

Similarly with Ayds Diet Candy:

Can’t you just imagine the guy running the show over at Ayds watching the press conference given by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services during which they use the name AIDS for the first time, and him realizing that his sales were about to go straight down the shitter? “OH COME ON!!! WHY COULDN’T YOU HAVE CALLED IT SPAGHETTI-O’S?”

So the word “crampon” needs to go, I’m thinking. It sounds like “tampon”, it has the word “cramp” in there… Frankly, the word no longer captures the derring-do sense of adventure one would normally associate with a spiked shoe attachment used for climbing fucking mountains. I think we should call them “Stud Boots”. Don’t you think that’s a wonderful idea? I do.

I’d better write that down.