This is my first new post since I started this thing. Feel free to alert the media - I'll wait.
Okay then...
Okay – so let me give you all a little back story on this one:
One of the message boards I frequent has had in recent months a couple of all-star trolls on there. For those not familiar (read: aren’t as big of a geek as I am) the term “troll” in the message board community refers to someone who only posts for the sole purpose of getting a rise out of people; either by being a keyboard tough guy; pretending to be someone they aren’t (ie: a dude pretending to be a hot chick); or constantly posting outlandish stories, claiming them to be true.
Anyhow, two of the trolls on this particular board referred to themselves as TapOutMaster, or TOM for short; and Jack McVitie. TOM’s big post on the board was that he developed a special hybrid form of jiu jitsu, which he called Spanish Jiu Jitsu. He claimed to teach this “deadly form of jiu jitsu” in his garage to whomever wanted to join him. And, if they didn’t have enough money to pay him, he would accept services or other things in trade. One of his students was a 16 year old boy, who just so happened to be in a bar with him, when he got in a fight with a large African-American man who called him a “Fat Mexican” and subdued him with a move he called the "bare naked choke."
(For those of you unaware, the move is called "rear naked choke" which - admittedtly - isn't much better, but it makes a big difference).
Jack’s claim to fame was that he took out five different guys, after they started to pick on him for wearing an Affliction t-shirt as he was coming out of the movie, “Never Back Down” which is about mixed martial arts fighting. He claims to have shouted out, “Who wants some more of Hollywood Jack?” after supposedly taking out the last of his attackers. He even went so far as to take pictures of himself wearing his two Affliction shirts… and a mouth piece that he allegedly kept with him at all times, since – as he put it, “You never know what’s around the corner, man.”
So, after the TOM post, I theorized that his mysterious 16-year old student was none other than Jack McVitie himself. Subsequently, I then began to envision the scenario that may have actually occurred on the night that TOM was allegedly attacked.
(For the record – yes, I do realize how much of an utter geek this whole thing makes me appear – but look, I’m two years away from turning 40 and I’m a married father of two in a go-nowhere job that I can’t stand – what sort of dignity am I clinging to at this point?)
In any event – my little version of the events goes something like this:
The scene: a grimy bar, somewhere in southern California. An unassuming looking middle-aged man and his young apprentice take a seat at a table and pontificate over the day’s events . . .
THE MASTER: You know, Jackie – I do so love our times following a day in the gara . . . um, I mean the gym. It is such an exhilarating feeling to spend these moments together.
HOLLYWOOD JACK: [mumbles]
TM: Jack, its okay – we are in the bar now . . . you can take out your mouthpiece.
HJ: I agree, Sensei. But Sensei, I must ask . . . why do you insist I rub down with this baby oil before we roll?
TM: Do not question your Master, Jackie. In time, all will be understood. And for the last time – stop calling me Sensei.
HJ: Yes, Sensei.
Just then – an African-American patron of the bar leans in to their table . . .
BAR PATRON: Excuse me, could I borrow your ketchup, please?
TM: My Lord, look at the size of this specimen. You are a monster – what are you, 6’8”? 6’10”?
BP: Uh . . . I’m 5’11”.
TM: How dare you take that tone with me, Sir! What have I done to provoke this tirade? Yes, I may be a little overweight, but to call me ‘fat” is simply unacceptable. I do not care to fight you, kind sir – but, if you do not leave at once, I will be forced to thrash you.
BP [looking confused]: Um . . . all I wanted was the ketchup, dude. Nevermind.
TM: That is it! [stands up from the table] You have tarnished the good name of The Master and humiliated me in front of my young protégé. Let us step outside and I will commence upon giving you the beating you so richly deserve.
BP: Man, you’re f***ing nuts. I’ll just eat at home.
TM [following the bar patron outside]: Stand back, Jackie and watch how your master throttles this hooligan.
HJ [putting in his mouth piece]: Yes, Sensei.
The Master follows the bar patron out to the parking lot. Before the bar patron can get to his car, The Master swoops in front of him.
TM: Do not try to run now, you scoundrel. Your fate has been sealed. I shall have you know that I am a Master of 163 different variations of jiu jitsu, a quadruple black belt in Joo Go Now Karate and have a very special bunny rabbit belt in Moo Goo Judo. I will now give you one last opportunity to make penance for your transgressions – otherwise I will have no other option than to beat you unmerciful.
BP: Now you’re starting to piss me off. Get away from me, weirdo.
The bar patron starts to step past The Master, but as he does, The Master throws a weak punch, which the bar patron barely feels. However, upon following through, The Master’s arm knocks the bar patron’s dinner out of his hand and it spills all over the ground.
BP [pushing up his sleeves]: That’s it. You’re a dead man.
The bar patron grabs The Master and proceeds to reign blows down on The Master’s head. Seeing his master in peril, young Jack stands up and mumbles something. After realizing he still has his mouth piece in, he removes it and tries again.
HJ: Sensei, I can’t believe this man attacked you in such a cowardly way. Let me help you!
TM [in between blows to the head]: No . . . Jackie . . . I . . . have . . . him . . . just . . . where . . . I . . . want . . . him.
HJ: Give him the Bare Naked Choke, Sensei!
TM [still getting hit]: I . . . said . . . don’t . . . call . . . me . . . Sensei.
HJ: NEVER BACK DOWN, SENSEI!! NEVER BACK DOWN!!
The Master goes to say something else, but loses consciousness. Jack runs over and tries to kick the bar patron, but completely misses and lands on his back – much like Charlie Brown when Lucy pulls the football away – and knocks himself unconscious as well. Two hours later, the two of them regain consciousness and gingerly walk back towards their car.
HJ: Boy, you really showed that guy a thing or two, Sensei!
TM: Shut up, Jackie.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
I Wanna Rock With You . . .
Here's another of the oldies-but-goodies from my old site. This was the first in a series of "Celebrity Interviews" I conducted. Suffice it to say - they never got quite as good as this one . . .
There comes a time in every man’s life where he needs to make a big decision. He needs to take a situation, weigh the positives and the negatives and eventually decide whether or not the reward outweighs the risk. It’s making the right call in these sorts of situations that separates the men from the boys, can make or break a career (or potential career) and can lead to either fame and fortune . . . or gloom and poverty.
It was with that in mind that I weighed out the scenario that was laid out in front of me the other night.
I had received a phone call from an old friend. After making some small talk and catching up on old times, I was given a proposal, along with an opening – albeit a miniscule one. At the end of it was the chance to make time with a legend.
It would take some work – and a bit of creativity on my part – but I knew what I needed to do to get the job done.
Therefore, thanks – in part – to my old newspaper connections, the promise of a few, slightly unorthodox sexual favors and a couple Lincolns given to the right people – I was able to secure a one-on-one interview with none other than The King of Pop himself . . . Michael Jackson*.
The interview took place in the span of one evening – at his home base (yes, the Ranch) in southern California. I was flown out there in a private jet, blindfolded and taken, via limousine to the ranch. I was led inside, where the blindfold was removed and sure enough, there he was – sitting across from me on a lavish couch that probably cost more than my house, my wedding and my extensive bestiality video collection – all in one.
Several times during the nearly four-hour session, Jackson made mention of wanting to show off “the real MJ.” Despite what many people have said about him, I – like many others that have come out recently – didn’t notice anything overly unusual about Jackson – though, there was the overpowering scent of marijuana smoke lingering around the room. Plus, at one point as I’m being led in, he did remark about how I “have a mighty fine looking ass.”
The bottom line is that I walked into this interview not knowing what to expect – and I walked out not believing what I had seen and heard. During this interview, I felt many things: fear, remorse, his hand on my legs – but mostly pity. Pity for what once was – and pity for what could have been.
I really don’t know what that means . . . so let’s just get on with the interview:
NEW EMPIRE LOUNGE: First of all, I’d like to personally thank you for taking the time to sit down with us today, Michael. I know this has been a very trying time for you.
MICHAEL JACKSON: It’s all good, G. I just hope I can set the motherf***ing record straight once and for all.
NEL: Okay, then – let’s get right to the point then, did you molest that little boy?
MJ: Shit, no! Let me ask you something - is my motherf***ing name R. Kelly? Hell no – it’s Michael-F***ing-Jackson! I’m the goddamned King of Pop – you think I need to be molesting little boys? I’m in here working three bitches at a time every damn night, why the hell am I gonna be messing with some little boys?
NEL: So, you deny everything, then?
MJ: What the f*** did I just say, motherf***er? Look – I’ve been inside the pen and I’ve seen what they do to motherf***ers that rape little kids. I don’t want no part of that shit, you dig? Besides, like I said – I’m in this shit working three, four bitches at a time. Every motherf***ing night. Even if I wanted to rape me some little kids, I ain’t got the time or energy for it.
NEL: Fair enough. However, a lot of people would wonder, then – why settle out of court, as you did with the family of the small boy that made similar accusations against you in 1993?
MJ: Shit, man – sometimes it’s just a hell of a lot easier to pay the motherf***ers and get them off your case, then to go to court with ‘em. That court shit takes forever, and to be honest, I ain’t got that kind of time. Besides, MJ ain’t all that crazy about the inside of a courtroom; you know what I’m sayin’?
NEL: Belie’ dat, playa. One thing that seemed to convince a lot of people of your guilt in that first instance was the claim that the boy could describe your penis. How do you respond to that?
MJ (laughing): Shit, heh, heh . . . well, it ain’t too hard to describe that monster. 13 inches of limp dick don’t come around every day. You know how they call me the King of Pop? Well, this here is the motherf***ing Prince.
NEL: So, you don’t deny that the boy could have described it accurately?
MJ: Like I told your cracker ass, the shit’s 13 inches long - ain’t too hard to describe it. Kid probably saw me unraveling it so I could take a leak. What the hell you want from me?
NEL: All right, then. So – onto other things: over the years, you have morphed from a relatively normal looking, fairly attractive African-American man, into some sort of plasticized, half-man/half-alien humanoid. Your comments about that?
MJ: Man, what can I tell you other than I got some bad advice? Back in the day, I didn’t know no better and my agent told me that it would make me more marketable if we tried a little plastic surgery. Next thing you know, I’m in every couple months, damn nose job gets botched and this dumb ass skin bleaching got me looking whiter than your cracker ass. Been trying to fix it ever since, but my damn nasal passages are about to cave in, so I’m stuck with this motherf***ing outer-space alien looking shit for a nose. Tell you what, though – that stupid motherf***er of an agent won’t be pulling that shit again.
NEL: Obviously, you’ve fired him?
MJ (takes drink from a 40oz. bottle of Colt 45): Fired? Yeah, I guess you could say that – I fired a couple caps in that motherf***er’s dome is what I did. God damn tell me to bleach my motherf***ing skin – I’ll motherf***ing punk your ass out.
NEL: What about the voice? Obviously, this voice that you’re speaking to us with is a lot different than the public is accustomed to from you.
MJ: Again, that was the agent’s idea. My natural voice is a little harsh and too deep for what we were trying to accomplish. Imagine someone that sounds like this trying to hit some of those high notes. At first, I was able to do some of that shit on my own and they were just changing what they needed to in the studio. But once the shit got really hot, my natural voice couldn’t take it. I can do the voice fine for interviews and shit, but the singing . . . that shit takes a toll after a while; you know what I’m saying? So, now I just lip-synch the shit. Saves my voice in the long run and none of them f***ers know the difference.
NEL: Then, of course, there was the much-publicized incident with your infant son, whom you hung out of the window of your German hotel room as throngs of fans looked on below.
MJ (lights up and takes long hit from a Phillies Blunt): Yeah, that was some f***ed up shit. The thing about that is, I was really trying to drop the little f***er out the window. I mean, these kids are fine for my public image and all that, but it’s really f***ing hard when I’m trying to get my freak on with my bitches and one of them little bastards starts to cry. Talk about a f***ing mood killer.
So, I was gonna toss him out and pretend it was an accident – like what happened with that Eric Clapton’s kid. But, then I opened up that window and all them people was down there. So, I just pretended I was showing his ass off, to make it look good.
NEL: My God . . .
MJ: Yeah, I know. I feel bad about it, now. I got used to having the little f***ers around and shit. My Baby’s Mama – I kicked her ass to the curb, ‘cause her dumb ass just used to piss me off. But, I got a full-time nanny looking after them when I’m performing, or when I got my bitches with me. You know, I got to have me my time with my bitches, ‘cause MJ got to get his freak on. However, I have the kids the rest of the time.
NEL: Remarkable. And, how has your family supported you through these trying times?
MJ: Man, those greedy motherf***ers will do anything as long as I keep them paid. Motherf***ing Tito – that bitch WILL do anything. Hell, I pay his ass just to walk around singing “I’m A Little Tea Pot” wearing a diaper and some high heels; just for a goddamned laugh. LaToya, she just a crazy bitch. You motherf***ers think I got some problems? Heh . . . you just wait until some of the shit she’s done gets out. You’ll all think I’m the motherf***ing Pope himself, once you hear some of the crazy, f***ed up shit that little ho has done.
NEL: Well, we’ll all be waiting for that.
MJ: Goddamned right you will be. You motherf***ers in the media just can’t stand to see MJ living large, can you? Every damn time MJ gets himself a little something-something, you goddamned media f***ers have to go out and find something to f*** with me about. Why you have to f*** with MJ? What the hell did I ever do to you motherf***ers? [Getting angrier] If you goddamned sons of bitches would just let MJ live his life, everything would be cool. But no, you can’t do that, can you? You got to f*** with MJ, don’t you? [Gets up and pull out 9mm Glock from his waistband and points it at interviewer’s head] Well, why don’t you f*** with MJ now? F*** with me, motherf***er! F*** with me and I’ll blow your goddamned head to Kingdom-motherf***ing-Come!!!
NEL (shitting his pants): Um . . . oh my God . . . um . . . look, I’d rather just continue the interview, if that’s all right with you.
MJ (laughing): Yeah, that’s right – you MJ’s bitch too – ain’t you, cracker? [Puts gun away] All right, then – what the hell else you want to know?
NEL: Okay then, Michael . . .
MJ: No more of that “Michael” shit, it’s “MJ” now, got me, motherf***er?
NEL (nervously): Um . . . uh . . . sure . . . no problem. Anyhow, MJ – what’s next for you?
MJ: Well, first of all I need to get rid of this little motherf***er that’s been causing me all these problems. Prolly gonna need to write me another check, but whatever – it ain’t like I don’t got me plenty of Benjamins to throw out there – you know what I’m saying?
NEL: Yes, sir.
MJ: Yeah, that’s right you do . . . anyhow, after that, I’m through with all this bullshit. I think I’m finally going to try and get rid of this dumbass “King of Pop” image, stop hanging around with these little f***ing kids – since they and their goddamn parents are nothing but trouble – and get down to my roots. I think I’ll get ahold of my boy, Dr. Dre and see about cutting a rap album, maybe do a little collaborating with Dre, Snoop, 50-Cent and maybe even that little white boy, Eminem . . . I like that boy. I’ll get a few hundred tracks down and save them, release a new album every couple years, like my man Tupac – rest in peace.
After that, I think you’ll see me slowly start to distance myself from the rest of the family – those motherf***ers just get on my last motherf***ing nerve and I need to get away from them before I start busting some more caps. Maybe I’ll see if J.J. (sister Janet) wants to hook up and cut a track or two with me first, since I think my boys in marketing can probably spin that around and at least get me into the top-3 in pre-sales just on word of mouth alone. After all, that’s what I pay them little f***ers for, right?
Finally, I think that you’ll see me eventually fade into oblivion. I don’t need these constant hassles from all you motherf***ers anymore. I’ll sell this dumb ass, motherf***ing ranch, get about 20 of my best bitches, and move my ass to a remote island somewhere in the south Pacific. All y’all motherf***ers will never see my used-to-be black ass again. I’ll keep my ass on the beach, f*** my bitches and smoke the finest motherf***ing chronic my ass can grow. I’ll only come back once in a while so I can get me some fresh bitches and then I’ll be right back to my island before anyone could figure out what the hell happened.
Then, all y’all are gonna sit back and be wondering, “What the hell ever happened to Michael Jackson?” But, you think I’ll ever let you know? F*** no, I won’t! Y’all just have to suffer – just like y’all motherf***ers made me suffer. Now, get the hell out of my motherf***ing house before I get sick of looking at your cracker ass and bust a cap in it!!
*Author's note: Of course, the Michael Jackson I am referring to is actually a cardboard cutout with Jacko's face plastered on it and not the actual man himself. Should you become confused and think for whatever reason this is the actual Michael Jackson - you are a moron and should immediately bludgeon yourself over the head with a brick.
There comes a time in every man’s life where he needs to make a big decision. He needs to take a situation, weigh the positives and the negatives and eventually decide whether or not the reward outweighs the risk. It’s making the right call in these sorts of situations that separates the men from the boys, can make or break a career (or potential career) and can lead to either fame and fortune . . . or gloom and poverty.
It was with that in mind that I weighed out the scenario that was laid out in front of me the other night.
I had received a phone call from an old friend. After making some small talk and catching up on old times, I was given a proposal, along with an opening – albeit a miniscule one. At the end of it was the chance to make time with a legend.
It would take some work – and a bit of creativity on my part – but I knew what I needed to do to get the job done.
Therefore, thanks – in part – to my old newspaper connections, the promise of a few, slightly unorthodox sexual favors and a couple Lincolns given to the right people – I was able to secure a one-on-one interview with none other than The King of Pop himself . . . Michael Jackson*.
The interview took place in the span of one evening – at his home base (yes, the Ranch) in southern California. I was flown out there in a private jet, blindfolded and taken, via limousine to the ranch. I was led inside, where the blindfold was removed and sure enough, there he was – sitting across from me on a lavish couch that probably cost more than my house, my wedding and my extensive bestiality video collection – all in one.
Several times during the nearly four-hour session, Jackson made mention of wanting to show off “the real MJ.” Despite what many people have said about him, I – like many others that have come out recently – didn’t notice anything overly unusual about Jackson – though, there was the overpowering scent of marijuana smoke lingering around the room. Plus, at one point as I’m being led in, he did remark about how I “have a mighty fine looking ass.”
The bottom line is that I walked into this interview not knowing what to expect – and I walked out not believing what I had seen and heard. During this interview, I felt many things: fear, remorse, his hand on my legs – but mostly pity. Pity for what once was – and pity for what could have been.
I really don’t know what that means . . . so let’s just get on with the interview:
NEW EMPIRE LOUNGE: First of all, I’d like to personally thank you for taking the time to sit down with us today, Michael. I know this has been a very trying time for you.
MICHAEL JACKSON: It’s all good, G. I just hope I can set the motherf***ing record straight once and for all.
NEL: Okay, then – let’s get right to the point then, did you molest that little boy?
MJ: Shit, no! Let me ask you something - is my motherf***ing name R. Kelly? Hell no – it’s Michael-F***ing-Jackson! I’m the goddamned King of Pop – you think I need to be molesting little boys? I’m in here working three bitches at a time every damn night, why the hell am I gonna be messing with some little boys?
NEL: So, you deny everything, then?
MJ: What the f*** did I just say, motherf***er? Look – I’ve been inside the pen and I’ve seen what they do to motherf***ers that rape little kids. I don’t want no part of that shit, you dig? Besides, like I said – I’m in this shit working three, four bitches at a time. Every motherf***ing night. Even if I wanted to rape me some little kids, I ain’t got the time or energy for it.
NEL: Fair enough. However, a lot of people would wonder, then – why settle out of court, as you did with the family of the small boy that made similar accusations against you in 1993?
MJ: Shit, man – sometimes it’s just a hell of a lot easier to pay the motherf***ers and get them off your case, then to go to court with ‘em. That court shit takes forever, and to be honest, I ain’t got that kind of time. Besides, MJ ain’t all that crazy about the inside of a courtroom; you know what I’m sayin’?
NEL: Belie’ dat, playa. One thing that seemed to convince a lot of people of your guilt in that first instance was the claim that the boy could describe your penis. How do you respond to that?
MJ (laughing): Shit, heh, heh . . . well, it ain’t too hard to describe that monster. 13 inches of limp dick don’t come around every day. You know how they call me the King of Pop? Well, this here is the motherf***ing Prince.
NEL: So, you don’t deny that the boy could have described it accurately?
MJ: Like I told your cracker ass, the shit’s 13 inches long - ain’t too hard to describe it. Kid probably saw me unraveling it so I could take a leak. What the hell you want from me?
NEL: All right, then. So – onto other things: over the years, you have morphed from a relatively normal looking, fairly attractive African-American man, into some sort of plasticized, half-man/half-alien humanoid. Your comments about that?
MJ: Man, what can I tell you other than I got some bad advice? Back in the day, I didn’t know no better and my agent told me that it would make me more marketable if we tried a little plastic surgery. Next thing you know, I’m in every couple months, damn nose job gets botched and this dumb ass skin bleaching got me looking whiter than your cracker ass. Been trying to fix it ever since, but my damn nasal passages are about to cave in, so I’m stuck with this motherf***ing outer-space alien looking shit for a nose. Tell you what, though – that stupid motherf***er of an agent won’t be pulling that shit again.
NEL: Obviously, you’ve fired him?
MJ (takes drink from a 40oz. bottle of Colt 45): Fired? Yeah, I guess you could say that – I fired a couple caps in that motherf***er’s dome is what I did. God damn tell me to bleach my motherf***ing skin – I’ll motherf***ing punk your ass out.
NEL: What about the voice? Obviously, this voice that you’re speaking to us with is a lot different than the public is accustomed to from you.
MJ: Again, that was the agent’s idea. My natural voice is a little harsh and too deep for what we were trying to accomplish. Imagine someone that sounds like this trying to hit some of those high notes. At first, I was able to do some of that shit on my own and they were just changing what they needed to in the studio. But once the shit got really hot, my natural voice couldn’t take it. I can do the voice fine for interviews and shit, but the singing . . . that shit takes a toll after a while; you know what I’m saying? So, now I just lip-synch the shit. Saves my voice in the long run and none of them f***ers know the difference.
NEL: Then, of course, there was the much-publicized incident with your infant son, whom you hung out of the window of your German hotel room as throngs of fans looked on below.
MJ (lights up and takes long hit from a Phillies Blunt): Yeah, that was some f***ed up shit. The thing about that is, I was really trying to drop the little f***er out the window. I mean, these kids are fine for my public image and all that, but it’s really f***ing hard when I’m trying to get my freak on with my bitches and one of them little bastards starts to cry. Talk about a f***ing mood killer.
So, I was gonna toss him out and pretend it was an accident – like what happened with that Eric Clapton’s kid. But, then I opened up that window and all them people was down there. So, I just pretended I was showing his ass off, to make it look good.
NEL: My God . . .
MJ: Yeah, I know. I feel bad about it, now. I got used to having the little f***ers around and shit. My Baby’s Mama – I kicked her ass to the curb, ‘cause her dumb ass just used to piss me off. But, I got a full-time nanny looking after them when I’m performing, or when I got my bitches with me. You know, I got to have me my time with my bitches, ‘cause MJ got to get his freak on. However, I have the kids the rest of the time.
NEL: Remarkable. And, how has your family supported you through these trying times?
MJ: Man, those greedy motherf***ers will do anything as long as I keep them paid. Motherf***ing Tito – that bitch WILL do anything. Hell, I pay his ass just to walk around singing “I’m A Little Tea Pot” wearing a diaper and some high heels; just for a goddamned laugh. LaToya, she just a crazy bitch. You motherf***ers think I got some problems? Heh . . . you just wait until some of the shit she’s done gets out. You’ll all think I’m the motherf***ing Pope himself, once you hear some of the crazy, f***ed up shit that little ho has done.
NEL: Well, we’ll all be waiting for that.
MJ: Goddamned right you will be. You motherf***ers in the media just can’t stand to see MJ living large, can you? Every damn time MJ gets himself a little something-something, you goddamned media f***ers have to go out and find something to f*** with me about. Why you have to f*** with MJ? What the hell did I ever do to you motherf***ers? [Getting angrier] If you goddamned sons of bitches would just let MJ live his life, everything would be cool. But no, you can’t do that, can you? You got to f*** with MJ, don’t you? [Gets up and pull out 9mm Glock from his waistband and points it at interviewer’s head] Well, why don’t you f*** with MJ now? F*** with me, motherf***er! F*** with me and I’ll blow your goddamned head to Kingdom-motherf***ing-Come!!!
NEL (shitting his pants): Um . . . oh my God . . . um . . . look, I’d rather just continue the interview, if that’s all right with you.
MJ (laughing): Yeah, that’s right – you MJ’s bitch too – ain’t you, cracker? [Puts gun away] All right, then – what the hell else you want to know?
NEL: Okay then, Michael . . .
MJ: No more of that “Michael” shit, it’s “MJ” now, got me, motherf***er?
NEL (nervously): Um . . . uh . . . sure . . . no problem. Anyhow, MJ – what’s next for you?
MJ: Well, first of all I need to get rid of this little motherf***er that’s been causing me all these problems. Prolly gonna need to write me another check, but whatever – it ain’t like I don’t got me plenty of Benjamins to throw out there – you know what I’m saying?
NEL: Yes, sir.
MJ: Yeah, that’s right you do . . . anyhow, after that, I’m through with all this bullshit. I think I’m finally going to try and get rid of this dumbass “King of Pop” image, stop hanging around with these little f***ing kids – since they and their goddamn parents are nothing but trouble – and get down to my roots. I think I’ll get ahold of my boy, Dr. Dre and see about cutting a rap album, maybe do a little collaborating with Dre, Snoop, 50-Cent and maybe even that little white boy, Eminem . . . I like that boy. I’ll get a few hundred tracks down and save them, release a new album every couple years, like my man Tupac – rest in peace.
After that, I think you’ll see me slowly start to distance myself from the rest of the family – those motherf***ers just get on my last motherf***ing nerve and I need to get away from them before I start busting some more caps. Maybe I’ll see if J.J. (sister Janet) wants to hook up and cut a track or two with me first, since I think my boys in marketing can probably spin that around and at least get me into the top-3 in pre-sales just on word of mouth alone. After all, that’s what I pay them little f***ers for, right?
Finally, I think that you’ll see me eventually fade into oblivion. I don’t need these constant hassles from all you motherf***ers anymore. I’ll sell this dumb ass, motherf***ing ranch, get about 20 of my best bitches, and move my ass to a remote island somewhere in the south Pacific. All y’all motherf***ers will never see my used-to-be black ass again. I’ll keep my ass on the beach, f*** my bitches and smoke the finest motherf***ing chronic my ass can grow. I’ll only come back once in a while so I can get me some fresh bitches and then I’ll be right back to my island before anyone could figure out what the hell happened.
Then, all y’all are gonna sit back and be wondering, “What the hell ever happened to Michael Jackson?” But, you think I’ll ever let you know? F*** no, I won’t! Y’all just have to suffer – just like y’all motherf***ers made me suffer. Now, get the hell out of my motherf***ing house before I get sick of looking at your cracker ass and bust a cap in it!!
*Author's note: Of course, the Michael Jackson I am referring to is actually a cardboard cutout with Jacko's face plastered on it and not the actual man himself. Should you become confused and think for whatever reason this is the actual Michael Jackson - you are a moron and should immediately bludgeon yourself over the head with a brick.
A quick flashback . . .
Note - the following post appeared on my old blog, sometime when I was still trying to update it regularly. Just a taste of the madness that perpetuates my life on a regular basis. Enjoy . . .
You know, sometimes I think that all the chants, dances and occasional ritual sacrifices I perform for the Comedy God, Laughamyassoff, are nothing more than a big waste of time. And chicken parts.
Then I get a softball like this lobbed towards me and realize that my offerings are noted and appreciated, and everything becomes right with the world again.
I've seen instances like this happen on television, or in the movies but I never in a million years thought that it would ever happen to me.
Hmm . . . sounds like I should be writing to Penthouse Forums, but unfortunately, this is not the case.
Thankfully, though it is much more hilarious.
While my job definitely still isn't fulfilling, one thing I can say about it is that it does provide me with plenty of amusement. Between the way some of the people on the floor dress and some of the conversations that I overhear, I could end up with enough material for the site to last me for some time.
However, this one takes the cake.
I was taking care of some business in the men's room this morning, when I noticed someone come out of the handicapped stall in the corner. After I wrapped up Little Rob and put him back home, I went over to the sink to wash my hands. This older foreign guy on our floor - who was the guy in the stall - was there washing his hands. Now, I've seen this guy on the floor several times, but I've never talked to him. Obviously, this was not a deterrent to him in the slightest.
What comes next is one of those things that makes you wish had a video camera with you when it happened. Because something this peculiar really needs to be shared with the world. Instead, you'll just have to settle for my personal account.
This is the actual conversation that followed:
MAN - Hello, my friend.
ME - Hi. How are you?
MAN - Good. [Pauses] So, in case you were wondering why there was no flush
of the toilet, it was because I didn't use it.
ME [Trying to feign interest] - Um, I'm sorry?
MAN - I said if you were wondering why there was no flush of the toilet, it was because I didn't use it.
ME [Hoping he would leave it at that]] - Oh.
MAN - I put my underwear on backwards and I needed to fix them.
ME - Yeah.
MAN - So, that is why there was no flush of the toilet, if you were wondering.
ME [Thinking the dirty pee-pee hands were a million times better than listening to this] - Um . . . ok. Thanks.
Now, I have to say that I'm really not sure what part of this scenario scares me the most. I mean, first of all, I'd be frightened if my best friend shared something like this with me, much less some weird old foreign guy whom I've never spoken to before. In a men's room, no less.
Then there is the obvious issue of the fact that not only did this guy put his underwear on backwards, but he felt that telling that to a complete stranger was less embarrassing then having said stranger think he didn’t flush the toilet in the men’s room. I don’t know what to do with this.
Except let you all read about it, of course.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen – this is the hell that is my life.
Welcome aboard.
You know, sometimes I think that all the chants, dances and occasional ritual sacrifices I perform for the Comedy God, Laughamyassoff, are nothing more than a big waste of time. And chicken parts.
Then I get a softball like this lobbed towards me and realize that my offerings are noted and appreciated, and everything becomes right with the world again.
I've seen instances like this happen on television, or in the movies but I never in a million years thought that it would ever happen to me.
Hmm . . . sounds like I should be writing to Penthouse Forums, but unfortunately, this is not the case.
Thankfully, though it is much more hilarious.
While my job definitely still isn't fulfilling, one thing I can say about it is that it does provide me with plenty of amusement. Between the way some of the people on the floor dress and some of the conversations that I overhear, I could end up with enough material for the site to last me for some time.
However, this one takes the cake.
I was taking care of some business in the men's room this morning, when I noticed someone come out of the handicapped stall in the corner. After I wrapped up Little Rob and put him back home, I went over to the sink to wash my hands. This older foreign guy on our floor - who was the guy in the stall - was there washing his hands. Now, I've seen this guy on the floor several times, but I've never talked to him. Obviously, this was not a deterrent to him in the slightest.
What comes next is one of those things that makes you wish had a video camera with you when it happened. Because something this peculiar really needs to be shared with the world. Instead, you'll just have to settle for my personal account.
This is the actual conversation that followed:
MAN - Hello, my friend.
ME - Hi. How are you?
MAN - Good. [Pauses] So, in case you were wondering why there was no flush
of the toilet, it was because I didn't use it.
ME [Trying to feign interest] - Um, I'm sorry?
MAN - I said if you were wondering why there was no flush of the toilet, it was because I didn't use it.
ME [Hoping he would leave it at that]] - Oh.
MAN - I put my underwear on backwards and I needed to fix them.
ME - Yeah.
MAN - So, that is why there was no flush of the toilet, if you were wondering.
ME [Thinking the dirty pee-pee hands were a million times better than listening to this] - Um . . . ok. Thanks.
Now, I have to say that I'm really not sure what part of this scenario scares me the most. I mean, first of all, I'd be frightened if my best friend shared something like this with me, much less some weird old foreign guy whom I've never spoken to before. In a men's room, no less.
Then there is the obvious issue of the fact that not only did this guy put his underwear on backwards, but he felt that telling that to a complete stranger was less embarrassing then having said stranger think he didn’t flush the toilet in the men’s room. I don’t know what to do with this.
Except let you all read about it, of course.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen – this is the hell that is my life.
Welcome aboard.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
No, I haven't forgotten about you already . . .
So much for starting a new blog to inspire me to start writing again . . .
Actually, its not a lack of desire that's kept me from posting - just a lack of time to stop and jot down my thoughts for more that 10 seconds at a time. Such is the life of a father of two, I guess.
Anyhow, in an effort to spur my writing along, I've volunteered to write an article for the monthly newsletter of a local Dad's site I belong to. While you all reel from the shock of my rock star lifestyle - just know that these are the things that happen to you once you start procreating . . . mainly that writing for newsletters constitutes excitement in one's life.
So, since I haven't bothered to write anything else this month - I thought I'd pass along that article, just to make it look like I'm doing something here, and once again to hopefully kick the ol' writing genes into high gear.
In other words - see you in another month or so . . .
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
As you all know – being a husband/father/baby-daddy/mistress or whatever else you like to be called – is a 24/7 job. We are – at least, most of us – are constantly learning on the job. I, despite my delusions of grandeur and infallibility, am no exception to this theory.
Therefore, I am writing this, not only as a pseudo-exorcism of sorts, but to hopefully help you – my fellow fathers/husbands/baby-daddies, etc – to not follow in my foolish, foolish footsteps. Because after all, friends don’t let friends drive drunk – and friends should definitely not let their friends tell their wives how those jeans really make her butt look.
Because, in all honesty – when one of us loses – we all lose. And that’s no good for any of us.
Therefore, without any further ado, I give you – The Things I’ve Learned This Month:
This month, I learned that when you promise someone you’ll write an article for them, you’re best to start early, in the event things happen that take your mind away from the topic at hand, and leave you scrambling and eventually begging forgiveness from Tiny E at the 11th hour . . .
This month I learned that when a UFC Hall of Famer and mixed martial arts legend gives a seminar on the same day as your child’s birthday – it is NOT acceptable to request permission to attend said seminar, even if you have already celebrated the birthday a couple days earlier . . .
This month I learned that the right amount of blue food coloring does very interesting things to one’s bowel movements. In a related story . . .
This month I also learned that four year olds (and their daddies) become very amused upon learning the previous tidbit . . .
This month I learned that – of all the things that could conceivably wake you up in the middle of the night – your child rolling over and thus positioning his poopy diaper directly under your nose would have to rank near the top of the ones that really suck . . .
This month I learned that whoever created some of the Disney movies of the 40s, 50s and 60s must have been under the influence of some really good stuff. You can’t tell me that movies like “Fantasia”, “Alice in Wonderland” or “Mary Poppins” were made without the help of some really good psychotropic assistance. Speaking of Disney movies . . .
This month I learned that I apparently am very attracted to the Mary Poppins’ era Julie Andrews. Well, either that or I’m just really attracted to Mary Poppins. Either way – giddy up . . .
This month I learned that $40 will barely give our car half a tank of gas (this revelation was followed by learning that throwing up in your own mouth is very unpleasant) . . .
and finally . . .
This month I learned that when my daughter draws a picture of me with a head that looks like Mr. Potato Head, its not because she thinks I look like Mr. Potato Head, just that she thinks I have a big head.
Actually, its not a lack of desire that's kept me from posting - just a lack of time to stop and jot down my thoughts for more that 10 seconds at a time. Such is the life of a father of two, I guess.
Anyhow, in an effort to spur my writing along, I've volunteered to write an article for the monthly newsletter of a local Dad's site I belong to. While you all reel from the shock of my rock star lifestyle - just know that these are the things that happen to you once you start procreating . . . mainly that writing for newsletters constitutes excitement in one's life.
So, since I haven't bothered to write anything else this month - I thought I'd pass along that article, just to make it look like I'm doing something here, and once again to hopefully kick the ol' writing genes into high gear.
In other words - see you in another month or so . . .
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
As you all know – being a husband/father/baby-daddy/mistress or whatever else you like to be called – is a 24/7 job. We are – at least, most of us – are constantly learning on the job. I, despite my delusions of grandeur and infallibility, am no exception to this theory.
Therefore, I am writing this, not only as a pseudo-exorcism of sorts, but to hopefully help you – my fellow fathers/husbands/baby-daddies, etc – to not follow in my foolish, foolish footsteps. Because after all, friends don’t let friends drive drunk – and friends should definitely not let their friends tell their wives how those jeans really make her butt look.
Because, in all honesty – when one of us loses – we all lose. And that’s no good for any of us.
Therefore, without any further ado, I give you – The Things I’ve Learned This Month:
This month, I learned that when you promise someone you’ll write an article for them, you’re best to start early, in the event things happen that take your mind away from the topic at hand, and leave you scrambling and eventually begging forgiveness from Tiny E at the 11th hour . . .
This month I learned that when a UFC Hall of Famer and mixed martial arts legend gives a seminar on the same day as your child’s birthday – it is NOT acceptable to request permission to attend said seminar, even if you have already celebrated the birthday a couple days earlier . . .
This month I learned that the right amount of blue food coloring does very interesting things to one’s bowel movements. In a related story . . .
This month I also learned that four year olds (and their daddies) become very amused upon learning the previous tidbit . . .
This month I learned that – of all the things that could conceivably wake you up in the middle of the night – your child rolling over and thus positioning his poopy diaper directly under your nose would have to rank near the top of the ones that really suck . . .
This month I learned that whoever created some of the Disney movies of the 40s, 50s and 60s must have been under the influence of some really good stuff. You can’t tell me that movies like “Fantasia”, “Alice in Wonderland” or “Mary Poppins” were made without the help of some really good psychotropic assistance. Speaking of Disney movies . . .
This month I learned that I apparently am very attracted to the Mary Poppins’ era Julie Andrews. Well, either that or I’m just really attracted to Mary Poppins. Either way – giddy up . . .
This month I learned that $40 will barely give our car half a tank of gas (this revelation was followed by learning that throwing up in your own mouth is very unpleasant) . . .
and finally . . .
This month I learned that when my daughter draws a picture of me with a head that looks like Mr. Potato Head, its not because she thinks I look like Mr. Potato Head, just that she thinks I have a big head.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Oops - Almost Forgot . . .
So, I was sitting here admiring my handywork, when I realized that you'll probably end up wondering where I came up with such a dorky name for the site. Well, first, allow me to clarify that, despite rumors to the contrary, I have no grudge against Gilbert Arenas, nor do I have a problem with that silly-looking little man behind the curtain in Oz.
The name comes from a hockey player I used to cover by during my days as a sportswriter. After the games, we reporters would go in and talk to the coach – who went by his initials: R.P. – and get his quotes about the game. Then we would into the locker room and talk to the players.
Well, this player – a goalie named Phil – pretty much hated R.P. I surmised this, when while out drinking after a game one night, he told me, “I fucking hate R.P.” I never quite found out exactly why this was, though my best – and most likely guess – was that because Phil was a highly regarded prospect at the time and felt that his time with this minor-league team was just a small speed bump on his way to the NHL. Unfortunately, his play was a slightly larger speed bump - and R.P. was quick to notice this - as was everyone else without impaired vision who watched him.
Anyhow, after one particularly bad game by Phil, he was pulled by R.P. for a younger prospect – who ironically, went on to have a very successful NHL career. After the game and our post game talk with R.P., we went into the locker room to talk with Phil, who immediately asked - with as much disdain as he could muster, “Well, what did the Wizard have to say?” Of course, since Phil was from Quebec and had a fairly heavy French-Canadian accent, we all got a chuckle out of this, (though we're pretty sure he thought we were laughing because we thought he was so funny and not - as was actually the case - because he pronounced it "Wee-zard"). Subsequently, Phil would refer to R.P. as “The Wizard” to us from then until his departure from the team at the end of the season. And we would all go on to laugh at his expense for years to follow.
So, that's it - not a particularly interesting story to anyone who wasn’t there, I suppose – but it amuses me and that’s all I care about.
Like A Phoenix Rising From Arizona . . .
You know . . . given the fact that I’ve thought about starting up another blog on and off for the last year or so, you’d think that I would have come up with something earth-shattering to write about in my maiden post.
Of course, you would be incorrect.
So, whilst I continue to work off the keyboard rust – I’ll start off with a little bit about myself – both to introduce myself those who are reading me for the first time – and to refresh the memories of those of you who are coming over from my other site . . . and will subsequently be leaving shortly thereafter.
As I kind of just mentioned - this is my second attempt at blogging. My first blog ended after it indirectly cost me a shot at a job with a certain very popular racing organization in town. (I say indirectly, in that I really don’t think it had anything to do with it at all, other than it gave my shrew of a boss an excuse to get rid of me).
In any event, that mess, coupled with the myriad tasks associated with fatherhood, and – of course – finding a new job eventually put a crimp in my writing time and overall creativity, so I decided it was best that my site and I parted ways for the time being.
Now, some three and a half years later, enough time has passed that I’m ready – or so I think – to give this blogging thing another shot. May God have mercy on us all.
So, about me – I’m a late 30-something or other, married to a wonderful woman with two beautiful children, who – as far as I know – are mine. I will neither name them nor myself, for that matter, in this blog, since God-forbid I find myself in another situation where I’m at a job and some dopey twit who can’t come to terms with her attraction to me decides to get me fired because of some innocuous post about wanting to get hired full-time at the job I had already been working my ass off at for six months prior.
(Sorry, I ramble a bit when that topic comes up. Four years later - you think I'd be over it by now. But I digress . . .)
Anyhow, my family is great and they tolerate me more than any three people should have to – though it should be mentioned that the two children really don’t have much say in the matter – at least until they’re old enough to better understand what a lunatic their father is.
The best way to describe myself is that I’m a fairly conflicted person. I’m warm-hearted, but often angry; I’m mellow, but constantly stressed; I’m ambitious but lazy; I want friends, but am generally annoyed with most people. In other words, I’m pretty much a walking contradiction
I do have a Myspace page, but rarely if ever use it. I may finish it someday, but who knows? For the most part, I think that Myspace is the most annoying creation ever and I’m fairly certain that the guy who created it is the anti-Christ. Granted, I have no actual proof of this, mind you – but again – I’m fairly certain.
(That being said, the one thing I do find pretty cool about it is that, despite the fact that I’m practically never on my page and have made no effort at all to make friends with anyone except the three people I know who have pages, I regularly get 2 to 5 requests a week from these smoking hot chicks wanting me to add them to my friend list and inviting me to watch them and their equally hot friends on their web and shower cams. I mean, I’m a happily married man, so I would never take any of these ladies up on their offers, but still – I find it quite flattering).
Oh, yeah and I hate driving.
But I’ll get into that more down the road.
Trust me.
Of course, you would be incorrect.
So, whilst I continue to work off the keyboard rust – I’ll start off with a little bit about myself – both to introduce myself those who are reading me for the first time – and to refresh the memories of those of you who are coming over from my other site . . . and will subsequently be leaving shortly thereafter.
As I kind of just mentioned - this is my second attempt at blogging. My first blog ended after it indirectly cost me a shot at a job with a certain very popular racing organization in town. (I say indirectly, in that I really don’t think it had anything to do with it at all, other than it gave my shrew of a boss an excuse to get rid of me).
In any event, that mess, coupled with the myriad tasks associated with fatherhood, and – of course – finding a new job eventually put a crimp in my writing time and overall creativity, so I decided it was best that my site and I parted ways for the time being.
Now, some three and a half years later, enough time has passed that I’m ready – or so I think – to give this blogging thing another shot. May God have mercy on us all.
So, about me – I’m a late 30-something or other, married to a wonderful woman with two beautiful children, who – as far as I know – are mine. I will neither name them nor myself, for that matter, in this blog, since God-forbid I find myself in another situation where I’m at a job and some dopey twit who can’t come to terms with her attraction to me decides to get me fired because of some innocuous post about wanting to get hired full-time at the job I had already been working my ass off at for six months prior.
(Sorry, I ramble a bit when that topic comes up. Four years later - you think I'd be over it by now. But I digress . . .)
Anyhow, my family is great and they tolerate me more than any three people should have to – though it should be mentioned that the two children really don’t have much say in the matter – at least until they’re old enough to better understand what a lunatic their father is.
The best way to describe myself is that I’m a fairly conflicted person. I’m warm-hearted, but often angry; I’m mellow, but constantly stressed; I’m ambitious but lazy; I want friends, but am generally annoyed with most people. In other words, I’m pretty much a walking contradiction
I do have a Myspace page, but rarely if ever use it. I may finish it someday, but who knows? For the most part, I think that Myspace is the most annoying creation ever and I’m fairly certain that the guy who created it is the anti-Christ. Granted, I have no actual proof of this, mind you – but again – I’m fairly certain.
(That being said, the one thing I do find pretty cool about it is that, despite the fact that I’m practically never on my page and have made no effort at all to make friends with anyone except the three people I know who have pages, I regularly get 2 to 5 requests a week from these smoking hot chicks wanting me to add them to my friend list and inviting me to watch them and their equally hot friends on their web and shower cams. I mean, I’m a happily married man, so I would never take any of these ladies up on their offers, but still – I find it quite flattering).
Oh, yeah and I hate driving.
But I’ll get into that more down the road.
Trust me.
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