Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Time to Flush that Bowel Ballad Once and For All!

                Since no one has offered to pay me to rant about stupid shit that no one cares about (YET!), I’m forced to work a crappy job. Like most crappy jobs, I’m stuck enduring an annoying, monotonous radio station the entire day. You know the kind, they advertise playing the very best of 80’s, 90’s, and NOW! Translation: They dig in the sewer that is the last three decades in adult contemporary music and pull out the turds that still float.
                While I could pick on each and every one of these earturds, the one that’s defecating on my delightful demeanor (sarcasm through alliteration – I am truly a literary pioneer) the most right now is Prince’s 1983 smash hit 1999.
                Don’t get me wrong, I *LOVE* Prince. Like 98% of women and 86% of men* I am wildly attracted to the sexy beast. I mean, how they crammed that much sex appeal into a melodious little midget is truly amazing. But this song, 1999, needs to do what most good 80’s tunes did a long time ago, and that’s die a stinky death.
                In the 80’s the song had a cool, futuristic vibe to it. In the late 90’s it was retro. Now it sounds like a Cabbage Patch Kid being butt raped by a G.I. Joe with a Rubik’s cube. (One of the special edition talking Cabbage Patch Kids. Shut up, those were the first 80’s novelties that came to my mind)
                The song lyrics implied that the world was going to end in 2000, and probably led to the Y2K panic. Hey, Prince is not only sexy, he’s smart enough to fuck a record label over by changing his name to a stupid symbol. Who’s to say he can’t be a doomsday prophet as well?
                So you can see where my main problem with the song lies – it’s 2011. And we’re still here. And they’re still fucking playing the song. Every god damn day. You don’t see people flocking to that jackoff who predicted the false rapture last Spring, now do you? Who, you say? Exactly.
                I’m thinking Prince needs to do a remix, for 2011. The world is going to end in 2012 anyway when the Mayans return on their spaceship and infect us all with AIDS and terminal bird flu. The plot has already been set in motion with the emergence of the cock feather hair accessory (See, I CAN link these stupid blog entries somehow). Your hairdresser didn’t tell you that the avian flu cells are seeping into your bloodstream through your scalp now, did they? But I digress.
                Kanye West should be in on the remix. I mean, if the world is truly going to end in 2012, I’m sure that fucker is involved somehow.
                While we’re at it, let’s just remake ALL the stupid songs of that era. “Video Killed the Radio Star” could have the sequel “Orange Tarts from New Jersey Killed the Video Star, Causing All Remaining Video Star Fans to Pile into an STD-Filled Bus to Compete for the Has-Been’s Love.” It’s a working title.
                All I’m saying is with the extensive catalog of Prince’s music, combined with the climate crisis being one of the biggest issues of the day; couldn’t they just play Purple Rain? And I’m sure the doves still have plenty, if not more, to cry about.
                But even though I fly into a fit of uncontrollable rage whenever I hear 1999, at least it’s not Taylor Swift or Katy Perry. Or for fuck’s sake Tim Allen.

*DISCLAIMER: I do not do actual research. Ever.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Pure Poopery: Who's Shitting in my Serenity Stable Now?!?!?

                Welcome to Turd Mountain’s latest (and first) recurring segment, assuming I feel like doing it again: Who’s Shitting in my Serenity Stable NOW?!?!?
                I realize pretty much every entry in this blog, except the ill-received Ode to Cheap Vodka, has been about things that bug me. And nothing bugs me more than people. The difference with this segment is I am singling people out. Not just ‘girls who were cock feathers on their heads’ or ‘people who use the pound sign a lot’ – No, I’ve got one target in mind and one target only.
                Who, you may ask, is on my nerves enough to dedicate a whole section of a crappy blog to ridiculing? Those who know me are probably assuming it’s Taylor Swift or Katy Perry, and you’d be right about the fact that those dumb twats annoy the living crap out of me, but I refuse to learn enough about either one of them to go beyond the “she’s annoying” complaint. And that would make a boring blog.
                So of all the evil everywhere I will tell you who I’ve selected to make my first meadow muffin: None other than Tim Fucking Allen.
                Yes, Tim Allen. The tool man. FUCK him. I HATE him.
                First of all, his birth name was Timothy Allen Dick. Yes, DICK. He legally changed his name, dropping the DICK off the end. I’m sorry but any self-proclaimed comedian who doesn’t recognize the comedy gold that is being named a DICK from birth doesn’t deserve our attention.
                Then, we turn to his line of work. Home Improvement. What a flaming bag of excrement that show was. The only likable character on the whole damn thing was the wise old neighbor, whose superior intelligence was displayed not by his kind advice but by his intuitive decision of not allowing his face to be fully shown.
                Then we have The Santa Clause. Where Tim Allen DICK turns into a fat old man in an hour and a half. Big deal, so did most of the audience who sat through that shit show.
                I’ll be honest, I can’t think of anything else he did. Until now. We’re up to the peanut that broke the turd’s back, the PURE MICHIGAN ads.
                If you don’t live in Michigan, you may not be familiar with these stupid things. They are radio and TV commercials, narrated by TIM DICK, that are trying to drum up tourism business for the mitten of misery known as Michigan.
                The first problem, they play these fuckers every 5 minutes in Michigan. IN MICHIGAN. No wonder our tourism income is in decline, we are advertising to all the people that are ALREADY HERE.
                The next problem, they sound like this:

                Oooh looks like SOMEONE got their thesaurus out and saw how many adjectives for “awesome” they could fit into a 60 second commercial! And the music… GOD the MUSIC! Horrific, really. And the subject matter – in this example, Alpena. Even those of us that have lived in Michigan our entire lives have no idea where the fuck Alpena is.
                I’ve even heard one of these suckers mention Flint.  C’mon people, Gary, Indiana might be the butthole of the western world  but Flint, Michigan is definitely the taint.               
                I know Tim Allen didn’t write or do the god awful sound editing on these shitstain commercials, but it’s his voice that is going to land me locked in a padded room screaming about the serenity of the blue waters of Alpena. What Michigan, was he the only pseudo-star from here that you could get to answer the phone? Was Madonna too busy stealing orphans from third world countries again?          
                Tim you must have had SOME sort of a creative say in this crap. Couldn’t you at least do a couple of your Tool-man grunts in the middle just to break up the tranquility a little bit????
                Anyway as many of you suspect I have written my own Pure Michigan commercial, but since I know even less than the real fuckwads about sound editing it will have to wait for another time, another post. In the meantime if you’re feeling stressed, you should really check out Alpena. Some ear worm in the back of my brain keeps telling me it’s AWESOME this time of year.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Bird Brains!

Perhaps it’s just the miniscule drop of Native American blood I have running through my primarily Dutch-Irish veins (enough to be dubbed “Pocahontas” in high school, not enough for free college/casino royalties), but whenever I see a chick with a feather in her hair I grapple with the desire to pin the bitch down and scalp her Little Bighorn style.
So why are women all of a sudden busting a nut over putting cock feathers in their hair???? (They come from roosters people, therefore “cock feathers” is appropriate-busting a nut is debatable, but it’s a figure of speech and this is my damn blog).
Now I’m all about freedom of expression. While I’m inkless myself I love a good tattoo. I admire a good body piercing. But don’t be surprised if you walk up to me with a feather in your goddamn hair and I ruffle my own wings at you and start clucking like a rabid chicken on acid.
Do you realize what the primary use of these feathers was before you started pinning them to your fake-n-bake orange melanoma scalp? Fly fishing. Yes, your hair can now double as fishing tackle in case the mass murderer who is attracted to such a morbid fetish runs out of night crawlers but still has your head lying around. (Perhaps he’s not a morning person – see English is Stupid entry in this blog. <shameless plug>)    
Let’s not forget how disgusting birds are. They had a whole flu epidemic named after them a couple of years ago for Christ’s sake. Now we wear their butt hair on own our heads like they’re the crown jewel of the frickin’ animal kingdom??? Can I start wearing a pig scrotum necklace then?? Or a rat penis bracelet?
Hairstylists are raving that you can “eat, sleep, and shower!” with these stupid feathers attached to your skull. Yeah you know who else does all that with feathers on? Nasty ass dumpster birds that feed on the 3-day old raccoon carcass on the side of the highway. How glamorous. What’s next, maggot earrings??
Just remember before you sodder that ass flower to your head: It may have come from a cock, but it just makes you look like a dick.