» Posts in Whaaaa?
February 15, 2012
You gotta be careful in here, kid. You may be wearin’ your stripes, but you ain’t earned your stripes. Go it alone and you’ll make mistakes. You’ll hitch yourself to the wrong post, get saddled up and sold to the highest bidder. Stick by me and you might stand half a chance, but you’re gonna hafta listen.
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What’s that?
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Oh, that’d be on Tuesdays. Not a bad spread. Pickles. Onions. Standard. You’ll learn the menu. More important is this here yard. How you carry yourself. Who you trust. Take that fella at the bench press for example, the one with the dark beard and forearms thick as your chest. Name’s Bluto. Doin’ a dime for kidnappin’ a woman. That’s right, a sailor man’s wife. Threw her over his shoulder and took her down to the docks. Oh, he’ll rough you up right, but keep a can of spinach in your hip pocket and he’ll think twice. I don’t understand the science, but that there is the formula. Spinach.
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Agreed, kid. Coupla sizzlin’ patties will beat a can o’ the green any yesterday or tomorrow, but that’s not what we’re talkin’. We’re talkin’ today and today is about the disco and the disco is about stayin’ alive. Have a look here. Skinny character sporting the lime suit? Question mark on his chest? That don’t mean he’s the information booth. No sir. Say a word to that crafty SOB and he’ll come at you like the Sphinx, all riddles ‘n giggles. Next thing you know you’ll be chummin’ around with a psycho circus clown and runnin’ from some pointy-eared, gravelly voiced vigilante. No. Thank. You. Best to steer clear of that riddler entirely.
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Beats me! I wouldn’t know if his riddles are about ground beef or ground cinnamon for that matter, because I don’t talk to the man! Aren’t you listenin’? Better be. Your eyes ain’t gonna tell you what my twenty-seven years behind this barbed wire knows to be true. Another example. You probably look over at that strung-out orange beaky guy and think, “well that’s just some ol’ cuckoo junkie.” You’d be right about that. But that ol’ cuckoo junkie goes by the name of Sonny, and Sonny knows where to score the sweet stuff, if you catch my meaning. Sonny is just cuckoo for it, smuggles it past the guards in cereal boxes. You want a taste, that’s your bird.
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I guess he could get you some, but why not wait till Tuesday? Like I said, they fire up that flame-broiler on Tuesdays. Sonny’s got no time to bother with no fast-food. Wisen up, boy, or you’ll end up runnin’ with them Hanna Barberas and let me tell you, that gang’s no Laff-a-Lympics. Sure, some of them hustlas may talk a soft game, soundin’ like Casey Casem or Paul Lynde, but they will be quick to shank a new fish if they even suspect you’re conspirin’ with the ascotted and far-sighted and snack-gobblin’ brand o’ meddlin’ teenagers. Dig? Of course you don’t. I’m not spellin’ it out in ketchup. These are the type of gangstas that dress as ghosts and swamp thangs and go hauntin’ just so they can shut down orphanages! That enough to scare you? Oh and don’t get me started on the Orphans! That’s another gang. A more Dickensian band of bandits you have not seen. If it ain’t your porridge they’re after, it’s your inheritance. You work the chimney sweep detail and you’ll be pits-deep in those mangy lads, singing show-tunes while they pick your pocket. You’re better off bustin’ rocks with that crotchety old moneybags from Atlantic City. He’s in here for tax evasion, and on the outside he’s a genuine issue, bone-fide mogul, owns both Boardwalk and Park Place. If he rolls his dice right, he’ll be out soon. Maybe toss a pal a get-out-of-jail-free card. But only if you stick with me. Because he owes me a favor. I gave that man a railroad, son.
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Again with quarter-pounders! What does that hafta do with the price of tea in China! What’s your story again, kid? What you in here for?
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Whatburgling? That don’t make a licka sense. From who? Who fingered ya?
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Who in the sam heck elected a fool named McCheese? And what in the what is a Grimace?
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Parody, Whaaaa? | Bookmark or Share
December 12, 2011
From: Darius Pogue
To: ”Office List”
Sent: Monday, December 12, 2011 8:39 AM
Subject: Who here at the Yorktown Pennysaver is up for a little Gwar?
Hey gang,
Sigh in relief. This isn’t another email about security software updates. Trust your humble one-man IT department when I assure you that the Yorktown Pennysaver is now a veritable Fortress of Solitude, and that this email blast is of a decidedly more personal nature. It’s sure to be the talk of the office until the steam whistle blows.
“Out with it!” you say? Fair enough. Guess who’s going to see Gwar this Saturday at Hogan’s Hideaway? That’s right. The very same fella who tells you, “don’t panic!” when you’ve got a kernel panic, who converts your JPEGs to PDFs and is a BMF besides. Me! And I’ve got an extra ticket.
So who wants in?
Now I realize some of you will probably have questions before committing. It’s natural. Seeing Gwar ain’t exactly like popping by the Cineplex for some Pixar. It’s an event, one that will quite possibly define your life. So I’ll try to walk any Gwar-dolescents (as I like to call the newbies) through the basics.
First question is obvious: What time? Well, doors are at 8 PM, but you should probably stop by my place around 11 AM so we can prep.
I can hear our favorite Mary Kay spokesperson/administrative assistant Deidre right now. “Prep? Like makeup and stuff?” Little different than that, D. But it’s all par for the Gwar course. We’ll be pouring latex molds for our festering neck boils. Doing a little mace polishing. The requisite codpiece fitting.
I know. I know. The boys in sales love a good codpiece joke, but I assure you, the codpieces are an absolute necessity. You gotta be prepared should you find yourself on the business end of a flail some goblined-up tweaker is swinging willy-nilly. Learned that the hard way during the Scumdogs of the Universe Tour.
Haley, I know you’re hip to all the new bands (I’m gonna get that Atari Fire album you keep raving about), but do you have “Scumdogs of the Universe” on vinyl? I’m betting you don’t. Let me tell you, “Sexecutioner” sounds so much warmer, and with all the lovely crackles and pops laying some ambiance down on “Slaughterama,” you can practically feel the Nazi decapitation.
But as great as those songs sound from the turntable, they sound infinitely better live, when your ears are soaked with blood. Judging from Mike’s fainting spell at last year’s blood drive, I’m guessing I lost him right there. But hold on, Mike. Weren’t you the one who told me The Blue Man Group was “the best show in Vegas?” Didn’t you forward that Gallagher video around? Gwar’s a lot like Gallagher, but instead of washing watermelon juice out of your hair the next morning, it’ll be blood…possibly pus.
Notice I said possibly pus. I stress the possibly. Gwar makes no guarantees in the pus department. They are very clear about this. My apologies if the inclusion of pus, or lack there-of, is a deal-breaker for some. Not much I can do about that.
Now I don’t doubt that Carmen, the consummate copy editor in our bunch, has printed this email out and has the old red pen poised. She’s probably thinking practicalities. I can just picture her note in the margin:
“With all the blood (and possibly pus) flying around, can we expect an adequate coat check?”
It’s a valid concern. And I’m gonna say, yes. Yes there is a coat check at Hogan’s Hideaway. But I must also provide the following caveat. Adherence to standard bathroom practices is rare when you’re talking Gwar gigs. Hard to tell a stack of coats from a compost pile by second encore.
Yep, there’s no way around it, Carmen. You’re gonna get a few stains on your clothes and codpiece. Let’s still focus on the practical, though. I have two words for you (or one hyphenated word, to be exact, Lil Miss Stunky White). Oxy-Clean. The stuff just works.
Finally, I’m reminded of one of Mitch’s daily quotes he wrote on the whiteboard. It was from Flaubert, who’s a Frenchie from back in the day. He said, “Caught up in life, you see it badly. You suffer from it or enjoy it too much. The artist, in my opinion, is a monstrosity, something outside of nature.”
Flaubert might as well have been named Nostradamus. Cause the man saw the future. He basically predicted Gwar. The monster part, in any case. He certainly wasn’t talking about those poseurs from Green Jelly.
So there it is, folks. An irresistible invitation. Now all that’s left is for you to throw your hats (or, shall I say, helmets!) into the ring. Who here at the Yorktown Pennysaver is up for a little Gwar?
Regards,
Darius Pogue
IT Administrator
Yorktown Pennysaver
dariusp@yorkpenny.com
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Music, Parody, Whaaaa? | Bookmark or Share
May 14, 2011
I don’t pay a mortgage. I rent. Always have. Some people have told me that renting is unwise financially, but it’s worked out well for me. Too many foreclosures out there, too many shrieking morons from HGTV and TLC that I might come across in the real estate game.
The internet, however, is desperate to sell me a mortgage. And some life insurance. And gold. And some other big ticket purchases, the types of which most people discuss with their families and their financial advisors before committing the ducats. The internet used to try to rope me in with dancing silhouettes. I am immune to such clever ploys.
But now they’ve taken it to a whole new level. I’m not sure how many of you have come across the irresistible ads that feature not much more than portraits of people, just regular people like you and me and our post man and our butcher and our haberdasher and our mongers – of the fish and war and hate varieties, of course. Common folk, in other words. And while most financial indicators seem to be telling us that markets are still on a downward slide, I can’t help but be tempted to click through these ads and get in on some wild adjustable rates and overpriced premiums. The marketing is that good. I give you the following evidence.
Let’s start with this guy. When I see this guy, I think, “okay, kinda creepy, but also kinda Tolkeiny.” Any hobbit hobbyest will tell you that property values in Middle Earth are strongly affected by the migration of orcs and that gentrification is almost always wizard dependent. Not only do wizards enjoy fashionable robe shops and potion bars, but they employ and/or smite aimless orcs. Racist? Perhaps. But to me, the assurance that the gentleman above is purchasing a mortgage is an assurance that a neighborhood is on the rise, even if it is in East Mordor.
Now check out the fellow with the slanted eyebrows. He’s all, “You despicable louse. You mangy cur. I’ve not only seen the film Boiler Room, I’ve lived it. And if Giovanni Ribisi has taught me one thing, it’s that his performance in Avatar was a bit one-note. If he’s taught me two things, it’s that if you don’t buy these stocks right now then you are a loser, A triple-A rated loser. Buy it, turd! Buy it!” And I’m all, “I was already convinced by your powerful collar.”
Some people might think this woman looks a bit like Rachel Ray. I think she looks a bit like a woman who just witnessed a gruesome triple murder. In either case, we’re scared. And fear is a big motivating factor when it comes to purchases. If it wasn’t for fear, we wouldn’t buy seat-belts for our cars or cages for our polar bears. I’m not sure what the screaming woman is selling (maybe she’s consolidating our loans), but I want in on it because I’m afraid that if I don’t get in, I may be snatched up by a pterodactyl or be sawn in half by a rogue magician or become the recipient of a less than ideal credit score.
Even this Laplander bought some of this gold. He’s up there in Lapland, skipping across the permafrost, piling up all his precious metals and waiting for the Euro to crash. You never thought a Laplander would be one step ahead of you, but that’s the way this thing is shaping up. And when it finally becomes like The Road out there, and the best moments of your cannibal-dodging life will involve sipping warm soda pop in a mildewy basement, this reindeer herder will be your king.
Your headstone will be blank. Your future daughter’s jean shorts will be too short. We don’t care if you’re only 13 years old. You need life insurance.
Now this picture was actually a mix-up. It was supposed to be used in a Metamucil banner, but it accidentally found its way into a pop-up for Roth-IRAs. Then the advertisers discovered a curious thing. It’s more effective at selling retirement accounts than it is at convincing you that constipation ain’t all the rage. Why? Because this man is gorgeous. Plain and simple. Carved out of stone, hot to the touch. Even the fellas can appreciate the swoon-worthiness of this guy. And I know what you’re thinking. Is that Paul Newman?Actually, Paul Newman had a heart attack and died when he saw this man. He’s that good looking.
Hmmm, clicking through this link may lead to any or all of the following things: Zaniness. Hilarity. Electrocution. Refinancing. Questionable blazer/t-shirt choices. Kiss karaoke. George Carlin look-a-likes. LOL cats (always that chance). Reverse mortgages. Herpes. Why wouldn’t you click?
1 Comment | Posted by Aaron under Internet, Whaaaa? | Bookmark or Share
December 15, 2010
If you’re coming here for my top 10 movies of the year or my 50 favorite disco singles, I’m afraid I’m aiming to disappoint. Those lists are fun and everything, but I really can’t find it in myself to declare Furry Vengence the 9th finest cinematic experience of 2010, even though after doing all the calculations and checking the denominators and all that jazz, it appears to be true. Instead, I leave you with a miscellany of highlights from this “year we made contact.”
MY FAVORITE QUOTE: While sharing a cab one morning with a woman she didn’t know (you’d have to live in Hoboken, NJ to understand that’s just how things usually work out), my wife heard the quote of the year. It doesn’t really stand on its own like some Oscar Wilde quip, but there’s a certain magic to it. Looking out of the window of the cab, the woman sighed, motioned to a city worker who was emptying a trash can, and said, “That guy must have such an easy life.” Now there’s a chance that this woman had some insider information about the fellow, like she knew he’d recently hit the Powerball or scored the role of the villain in the The Dark Knight Rises or some such, but my wife didn’t catch that vibe. No, this woman had more of a “poor me, sitting in a cab, trying not to be late for a morning webinar with Tony from PR to discuss the importance of Twitter in the pet insurance industry, while this simpleton empties trash cans and whistles his day away before returning to his filthy hovel for a can of Spam and a hearty round of laughs compliments of America’s Funniest Home Videos,” sort of stink about her. Grass is always greener, indeed. I don’t know who this woman was, but my hat goes off to her and her wholly insular view of the world. My second favorite quote comes from a stranger who randomly asked me and friend the following: “Hey, you guys happen to be T-shirt enthusiasts?” Our response: “We wear T-shirts.” His follow-up: “Well, I’m a T-shirt enthusiast.” End of conversation.
THE HARSHEST CELEBRITY BRUSH-OFF: Celebrities don’t care much for me. I present, as proof, my following dust-ups with some high wattage stars. The comedian Dave Attell once blew me off when I approached him in a falafel restaurant and politely gave him unsolicited advice on how to make his TV show infinitely better. Bobcat Goldthwait, the MVP of many a Police Academy film, gave me the stink-eye when I nearly ran my shopping cart into his one snowy Christmas Eve in an empty suburban grocery store. And now, just a few days ago, I was rebuffed by a certain actor who was standing at a bar after a concert, patiently waiting for the barkeep to tender him a drink. He plays an iconic television character, so I tried to be smooth in my attempt to chat him up. “Let us get you a drink ____” I told him, using his actual first name, rather than his character’s name, which I’m sure he hears more often than not. He glanced at me and my wife, pivoted around on his heel, and walked away without saying a word. I keep his identity a secret for the purposes of guessing games and anonymity, because I assume he was just shy and it wasn’t because I reeked of, I don’t know, seaweed and cheese or anything.
THE FINEST STRETCH OF ROADKILL When traveling through New Zealand a few years back, my then-girlfriend-now-wife and I played a game of our own creation called Stoat/Possum. The country is just lousy with stoats (a relative of the weasel) and possums (not this kind, but this kind) and they make up the majority of the roadkill (aside from the hobbits). So when you’re driving along and see a lump of fur on the pavement, the fun thing to do is to yell out either “STOAT!” or “POSSUM!” in a booming Orson Welles voice. No need to keep score. It’s simply good times for the whole family. Driving to see relatives this year, I came across a fair bit of roadkill. The standard raccoons and deer, the occasional skunk or groundhog. A mattress. But on one trip, I scored an amazing quadrella. I’ll break it down for you in order of impressiveness. #1. A coyote, which isn’t all that rare. #2. A fox. That’s right, the proverbial sly fox. Sure, you don’t write home about a fox being roadkill, but then, what sicko writes home about any roadkill? Take it from me. It’s a bit rare. #3. A porcupine. Now you’re getting interested. You’re imagining what it might be like to roll into a Firestone Auto Center with a porcupine sticking out of your rear tire. This is becoming quite an impressive checklist. Add to that: #4. A bear. That’s right. A big old black bear. I don’t believe I’d ever seen a bear as roadkill before that day, and certainly not on the same stretch of road as a coyote, a fox, and a porcupine. I was lucky indeed. It was like some A.A. Milne novel had gotten way out of hand, and I was there for the glorious and gory catharsis.
THE MOST POPULAR PAGE ON MY WEBSITE: By far, it’s a little blog entry I did titled “Five Animals that are Uglier than Zac Efron.” It probably accounts for 90% of this site’s search engine traffic and I’m sure it leaves plenty of girls shaking their fists in anger. Even a few have left comments, including my favorite: “he is hotter than everyone who posted this website.” Everyone who posted this website is just me, Lauren, and I resent what you’ve said. After all, have you even seen me in a pink bunny suit? I’m not sure what Efron has done in the last year other than comb his hair a lot, but his fanbase is going strong, and according to my site stats, they’re entering things like, “animals, not zac efron,” “zac efron is pregnet” and “zac efron clever?” into Google, then stopping in here for a visit. Jeff Kay, who runs the fantastic West Virginia Surf Report linked to the Efron piece and brought in boatloads of traffic as well. In the spirit of the season, I feel I should return the favor. His site is a daily read for me, and should be for you. My favorite of his writings might not be his most celebrated, but heck, it gets me every time, and it’s about something as universal as Scandinavian healthcare. It’s an old gem titled “Sleep is Creepy.” Read it, and rest easy tonight, folks.
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Movies, Nature, Parody, Television, Whaaaa? | Bookmark or Share
October 22, 2010
Rarely does a photograph inspire me as much as the jaw-dropper above does. I found it at the Huffington Post, which in turn snatched it from what I assume is Trent Reznor’s Polaroid collection. Actually, I don’t have a clue where it ultimately originated, nor do I want to know. Because the primary source can’t possibly live up to my imagination.
I like to think that the photo was found some years ago in a dented metal lunch box, on the backseat of an ivy-hugged T-Bird, which was parked alongside an abandoned hunting cabin in the north woods of Quebec. I like to think that there was a journal enclosed in that lunch box as well. I like to think that the journal starts out innocently enough, with tales of teenage optimism and lumberjacking aspirations. I like to think that a man named Pierre Beaumont enters the story at a certain point and he has the laugh of a magpie and he carries a jack-in-the-box that he’s always cranking, though the thing never opens, and when the young author asks him if it’s broken, Pierre simply puts a finger to his lips and says “the trees will drink our secrets.” And I like to think that on a night of sleet and whiskey, the author boards a canoe with Pierre and the two go in search “The Norwegian,” a notorious hermit who is said to possess a radio which is perpetually tuned to the sounds of woman washing their feet, but they lose their way when they flip the canoe, then decide to follow an albino fox through a dark hollow, at which point they come upon the fore-mentioned hunting cabin. Then I like to think that the journal changes, and mutates into a series of sketches and scrawls, of riddles and limericks, which appear to make no sense at first, until paired with the photograph above, and then a foggy portrait of an endless evening emerges, of a burlap sack full of masks, of a victrola, of a boy sewing his own eyelids shut and clapping on one and three, of a meal of mutton and Tang, of a game of William Tell, of a moonlit tango which makes the men blush with jealousy, of a hissing teapot, of third-degree burns, of a monkey with a shaved head and lobotomy scar, of a old man who speaks through a hole in his throat and says, “when I was just a boy my father took me to the fish market and we bought the largest fish they had, a five hundred pound marlin, and when we returned home, my father burned my bed and all my linens, then he sliced the marlin lengthwise with a letter opener and he told me that I was to sleep inside of its belly, and so I did, for fifteen years, just me and the marlin and the moonlight, and I was okay with this because I was boy and boys don’t know what life is supposed to give them next, and what life gave me next was a bear, a snarling, drooling, furry beast who stole the marlin and me and took us to a cave and in the cave there was a bucket and in the bucket there were marshmallows, and as the bear ate the marlin, I ate the marsmallows, until my stomach expanded and rounded me out, causing my body to roll down into the caverns and onto dark underground river, in which I floated for a while, both afraid and delighted, until I reached an opening and poured out into the Rainforest Cafe, where they were serving Rumble in the Jungle Turkey Wraps, and I ordered one of those and a nice cold sarsaparilla, and I waited for the judgement, but the judgement didn’t come, no, the judgement never comes, and I learned that the hard way, just as we’re all learning that now, deep in the gut of the world, and it’s times like these that I wish, I pray, my friends, with every bit of bone and bile in my body, that one of you kind souls remembered to bring a camera, cause we really should capture this moment…“
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Childhood, Death, Mystery, Whaaaa? | Bookmark or Share
