You just made my list!

I’m going to keep this short for exactly 2 reasons.

1) I got home late after dinner and drinks at the latest trendy hipster whiskey tavern (more on that later).

2) My neighbors are going apeshit because we won the Stanley Cup and there’s a good chance our apartment will burn to the ground by morning.

3) There’s only so much to say about these assholes.

4) It’s late, I’m tired and I hate blogs.

Sooooooooo anyway. Tonight was my second trip to the latest hipster hangout in Chicago. It’s more saloon than “bar” and the amount of waxed handlebar mustaches and suspenders holding up tiny pants is staggering. Apparently now it’s cool to look 90s… 1890s. Just ask loyal reader of this amazing website, Erica, about the transportation of her coworkers.

My point is this… FUCK YOU, YOU RIDICULOUS BORING HIPSTERS.

My point is also this… I have coined a phrase for this new breed of precious turn-of-the-century hipster and all I ask is that you spread it and make it catch on. The “Urban Howdy Doody.”

Good night.

Douchebags.

You know what the world needs? The world needs another shitty splattery painty-paint painting of Jimi Hendrix. If only it could be painted in five minutes by a prancing nerd with a wacky “rock and roll” attitude… an attitude that says “I wore SHORTS to the U2 concert!” Oh, and can all of this please take place at the Motorola “May The Sales Force Be With You” conference in ballroom C at the Phoenix Radisson? Thank you.

Speed painting is to art what Sammy Hagar is to Van Halen. Speed painting is the Guy Fieri of  the art world! In fact, you know who I bet LOVES speed painting? I promise you Guy Fieri has a splashy speed painting of himself in that crazy rock and roll house of his.

Bob Seger + theater nerds + Jay Leno = the nightmares I will have on my deathbed.

Damn, that Credit Union Lending Direct party was OFF THE CHAIN! I guarantee he had the image outlined in pencil before he started “painting.”

Finally my love of shitty performance painting collides head-on with my love of church! Jesus Christ.

I know you have had a rough week with God going on yet another killing spree, nabbing Dennis Hopper, Gary Coleman and Paul Gray (Slipknot) with his greedy cloud hands, but I am afraid I have more bad news… I am taking a week off. I’m going to be away from computer machines for most of the week so unless you want me to call you personally for an over-the-phone rant, I will not be able to share my important opinions with you. I know it will be difficult but I believe in you and know you will be able to make it one week without me.

Please do not visit any other so-called websites in my absence.

Fart.

Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?

When did this red piece of shit take over Sesame Street? He strolls around the neighborhood like he’s John Gotti, forcing all other puppets to live under constant fear of being whacked.

Apparently this dick has been around since the early 70s, which is strange because I grew up on Sesame Street in the early/mid 70s and I can’t recall ever seeing his lame ass on my parent’s giant TV with sliding doors so you could make it look like “furniture” when not in use. Yeah nice piece of furniture, a giant wood box in the middle of the room. What, were people supposed to come over and gush over what a lovely wood box you had? Come on people, get your head in the game! But I digress.

The point is, I watched a hell of a lot of Sesame Street in the 70s, partially because back then we had about 5 channels to choose from, but mostly because it kicked ass. Cookie Monster was still existing exclusively on a cookie diet, not this “sometime me eat vegetables” nonsense, Mr. Hooper’s Store was the hottest place on Sesame Street to spot celebrities and motherfucking Snuffleupagus was still only seen by Big Bird God damn it! You know who I don’t remember being awesome, or even around? Elmo! I’m guessing he’s Grover’s gay cousin or something but to be honest, I don’t care to know his background.

Somehow through a series of back-alley deals and intimidation Elmo has risen through the ranks to control the Sesame Street territory. I know I should probably fear for my life for speaking so openly but enough is enough, FUCK ELMO, it’s time to take him out!

“Blah blah blah. Yap yap yap…”

“Is he talking to us? Is he a crazy person talking to a mailbox or is he a high-powered attorney?”

What’s that? You lost both of your arms in a farming accident? Great, you may use a bluetooth earpiece. You might still look a little douchey, but realistically people will mostly be staring at your stumps and will not even notice that dumb thing in your ear. It’s up to you.

For the rest of you two-armed humans, I implore you to stop walking around like some pathetic cross between the Pillsbury Doughboy and the Terminator. This is where you say in the fucking annoying voice of yours,”Shut up jerk, in my town it’s illegal to drive while talking on a cell phone unless it’s hands-free.” (Have you ever heard a recording of your voice? It sounds like a cat in a meat grinder.) Listen you pussy, break the law like a real man and quit cryin’ bout it.

I guess I don’t really care if you want to look like a tool walking around with that shit in your ear but stop looking at me and talking to your imaginary friend. I’m old and it confuses me! In my day, when someone looked in your direction while speaking it meant a conversation was being initiated or possibly a wise drifter was going to teach you a life lesson. Nowadays, apparently it’s OK to broker real estate deals 4 inches from my face and somehow I’m supposed to be the asshole for thinking you were talking to me.

I hate everything.

Can’t I just walk to Old Navy and return these cargo pants in peace without seeing your fat lazy ass getting molested by a robot in front of Cinnabon?

I don’t need to see you on the brink of an orgasm while you sit there getting a happy ending from a La-Z-Boy in your Everybody Loves Raymond T-shirt. And for the love of God, can you PLEASE put your shoes (Crocs) back on? Your dirty Frito toenails are ruining my appetite for Sbarro.

Is this “massage” a wise investment? Can you really relax while basking in the glow of The Cell Phone Zone? Luckily, you won’t need massage oil because the sweat of every Insane Clown Posse fan who preceded you keeps your little robot chair nice and lubed.

Congratulations, you found a way to make shopping malls even more horrible.

When I heard that melty face Celine Dion spent millions constructing a water park in her back yard for her ONE child, Rene Charles, I immediately knew I had to write about it but I had a hard time finding a justification for hating it so much. Then I decided, fuck it, it’s obscene and wrong, simple as that.

I am not some dirty, tall bike-riding hippie who thinks nobody should be rich. By all means, get rich singing your shit songs, have a big house and a fancy car, but at some point I can’t stomach ridiculous displays of wealth. What fucking 9-year-old needs a private water park? I’m sorry, it’s just kind of sickening when you think about the fact that there are millions of kids who go to sleep hungry every night. Now this is where Celine Dion fans put down their doughnuts (a rare occurrence) and chime in with “Hey jerk, Celine Dion has given X amount to charity.” I don’t care, I will never be on board with shit like this.

Plus, what kind of a monster are you creating when you treat your kid like king of the universe? When I was a kid, all of my toys fit into one toy chest and my childhood didn’t seem to suffer. Somehow I found the strength to face each new day even though a miniature Mercedes with a working DVD player was not parked in my driveway.

I swear to God, if one person says that I am jealous I will hunt you down and I will destroy you with my incredibly potent farts. I wouldn’t mind being rich but I honestly could never live like Celine Dion.

Sorry this one wasn’t very funny. Sometimes I just have to deliver hard-hitting, award winning commentary.

There are times in life when we must balance comfort with money. Often times one’s financial situation wins this battle and you find a can of Milwaukee’s Best pressed up against your lips. But this is OK sometimes. It is entirely wrong, however, to find a stiff slab of cheap toilet paper pressed up against your butt lips!

There simply is no excuse for choosing toilet paper that feels about as soft as a lemon zester when perfectly good, triple ply quilted toilet paper is sitting right there on the shelf. What is this, Russia? The great thing about being American is that we can smear our feces on toilet paper so luxurious a princess would gladly sleep upon it. Not the feces… she would gladly sleep on the toilet paper!

Pooping is already a horrible experience as far as I’m concerned, so why turn an ugly situation into more of a nightmare? I don’t want to hear about your budget or the environment or blah blah fucking blah. Grow up, buy some real toilet paper and watch your life change, you dirty ass (literally) hippie.

What’s that you ask? Which brand do I allow to touch my sweet bottom? I prefer Charmin Ultra Strong or Charmin Ultra Soft. I mean look at this… you can drag a 3 pound block of shit across your table and it won’t even rip!