Full-Blown Jew
Monday, March 27, 2006
  Why have you forsaken me, Bobby Brown?
Mr. Brown, sir, I think we need to talk. Once upon a time, you were a revered pop icon. The year was 1984: New Edition was at the top of its game, and you were regarded as their leader. "The New Jackson Five!" people proclaimed. And it was true. For a brief, glorious moment, it was true. But then it was gone. Where have you gone, Bobby Brown?

This is not to say that your career ended upon leaving New Edition. Oh, no, good sir, I did not mean to insult you! In fact, your career maybe even had gotten better when you shucked off the dead weight of those who would later become Bel Biv Devoe (that girl truly was poison). "My Prerogative?" Truly, this is a gem of late '80s/early '90s music. And you provided us with the words that will, in fact, be my epitaph -- Ain't nobody humpin' around. Indeed, Bobby Brown, indeed.

But then, as wonderfull and beautifully as your zeniths were, well sir, your nadirs were just as shockingly low. Ever since you took on that dead weight that is the no-talent Whitney Houston, it's been all down hill. She got you addicted to drugs, you somehow lost your talent, and now, you're on reality TV. Bobby Brown, why have you forsaken me?
 
Monday, March 20, 2006
  This isn't at all like the movies
Last night, I decided to try to impress a girl I liked, but who did not return the favor.

What to do to impress her? Easy! Stand outside her window, blasting a Peter Gabriel cassette, a la Say Anything! Certainly, when she hears my love expressed through the former lead singer of Genesis, she'll understand how deeply I love her. While staring into my face (which will be a cold, steely gaze of sheer expressionless emotion), she will understand that we are soul mates, destined to be together. John Hughes wouldn't lie to me, would he?

Yes, he fucking would.

In fact, she didn't even look out her window. And I don't even think she knows who Peter Gabriel is. Her father sure heard it, though. I have a summons to appear in court in two weeks. Fucking John Hughes.

This isn't the first time movies have lied to me. I decided to take a rag-tag group of kids and turn them into a winning hockey team. Certainly, if Emilio Estevez can do it in both Mighty Ducks and Mighty Ducks II can do it, then so can I. Hell, their story was so inspirational that they named a PROFESSIONAL hockey team after them.

When the other team sees our patented Flying V, they'll be so surprised that they will certainly shit right there on the ice, creating a wonderous frozen mess right there on the blue line.

But no. The kids couldn't skate, and our goalie just got high all the time. When I tried to get the kids to do the Flying V, the skinny one in the front got punched in the face and suffered two broken vertebrae. They think he'll never walk again. The other kids quit soon after, and I was left to ponder how I failed. Damn you Gordon Bombay, why would you set the bar so unobtainably high?

I should have known this was not going to work.

After seeing Last Action Hero, I attempted to walk into the movie screen to join Arnold in his wonderous movie world. Instead, I ripped the screen down and caused $24,000 worth of damage.

When I saw Patch Adams, I tried to pretend to be a doctor and make kids laugh in an effort to cure their cancer. I'm now a registered sex offender.

Movies fucking lie.
 
  So we meet again...
Well played, my old adversary. I thought that I had bested you, but my naivete was foolish at best. For you are crafty, and as Sun Tzu said, "All war is deception." I was deceived into a false sense of security; for that, I must admit, I respect you. But understand that you will be defeated. That's right, Paper Jam, this is not a war I will fucking lose.

I thought I had corrected the problem by reorganizing the paper, straightening it, thinking that would prevent it from getting caught in the little rollers. How foolish I was. Far from correcting the problem, I believe I made it worse. You've won this battle, but the war shall be mine. As God as my witness, you will be defeated.

What's this? The paper is jammed in a place where my arm cannot reach? Just fucking great. I will rip this copy machine apart, resorting to a Scorched Earth policy so long as it means that you cannot lay seige to the Canon. And no, I will not call in my ally, Gary from Maintenance. He smells like cheap bourbon and has a lazy eye. I am fine without his aid.

You, however, are not content with fighting alone, Paper Jam. You call in your allies Paper Cut, or Burn Your Arm on Whatever It Is in the Copy Machine That's So Fucking Hot. I can see that you are not content to fight me on your own. This is fine. Your need for reinforcements only reveals to me how weak you truly are. You are cunning, but know that I will win. Do your worst.

Did I just get toner all over my new fucking shirt? So help me God, Paper Jam, this has just become personal...

And I must admit, the timing of your attack is perhaps what is most key. 4:45... three pages to be copied... this will take just a second. I am laughing through gnashed teeth at my ignorance. An hour later, I've resorted to screaming profanity at a piece of equipment while my co-workers walk by, bewildered, wondering why the crazy man is curled up in the fetal position, crying next to a red-flashing copy machine. My humiliation just makes me hungrier for victory.

Do you fucking hear me, Paper Jam? When all is said and done, I shall be victorious. Heed my word, Paper Jam, heed my word...
 
Thursday, March 16, 2006
  Why am I single?
I cannot fucking understand why women won't date me. Well, actually, I can get dates, but getting a call back seems to be the hardest part. What's the deal?

When I'm a first date with a girl, I have a lucky rock that I shuffle around in my palm. It's very flat ands oothing, and helps me harness my nervous energy. I show this rock to the girl, and say, "Check out my rock." They are rarely impressed, even though (as I said) it's totally smooth and a teal-like color. Why are they not impressed?

I find I have my best luck with girls when going to bars and finding the drunkest chick there. Hey, I'm not a bad looking guy, and after a few shots of tequila, suddenly I'm both smart and intelligent. I kick on the charm, and the chick's back at my place in no time. Down to my parent's basement we go.

But here's where things go awry with that method. Some guys like to kiss real soft and gentle, trying to be sweet or some such shit. Fuck that, I say. If women want soft and gentle, let them buy that toilet paper.

Me, when I kiss, I make sure they can feel it. You know, kiss like a real man. I pull her hair and head back, and when her mouth opens to give out a gasp of surprise, I jam my tounge in her mouth as far as it will go. Yeah, that's right -- that's how a real man does it.

Then, I start with my patented "Jabby Tounge,' which is just as the name suggests. I want to send them the subconscious message that, just as my tounge is punching the inside of her mouth, I shall punch anyone who tries to insult her honor. I'm a gentleman like that.

But lest they think I'm all muscle and no softness, when I'm done blowing them away with my kissing exploits, I stop and start using my baby voice. Chicks love babies, so I figure they gotta love a guy who talks likeone. I tighten up the vocal chords to raise my voice a couple octaves and kind of alter my voice a bit (I'd say I sound just like Tommy from Rugrats). I then look them in the eye and say, "I want you to be my mommy."

I'd expect this to make them turn to putty in my hands. Instead, they usually start laughing and heading for the door, apologizing about having something to do tomorrow. Why do I always find chicks with responsibility?

I guess I'll just have to keep going. Somewhere out there, there's a girl who wants a real man who's not afraid to show his baby side. Hopefully, I'll meet her soon. God damn, I am lonely.
 
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
  Take a tour of my shitty house, Adam West.
Image hosting by Photobucket

That's right. I'm talking to you, Adam West. 60's TV phenom. Batman. Newfound king of cartoon voice-overs (look out, Mark Hamill!)

I need your attention - 'cause dude, my house is really, really, shitty:
Image hosting by Photobucket

I couldn't be more serious... just take a look at this wreck!

Honestly, I don't remember it getting this bad... my first clue should have been the barbed-wire fence the community constructed to keep children from coming near my shit-hole. 3 kids died of typhoid before they took action, and I still didn't appreciate the full nature of the situation.

Adam West! Are you fucking listening to me?

No? Look at my kitchen then:

Image hosting by Photobucket

Man, I eat outside to keep my food from spoiling in there. Seriously, there's so many rats in this dump I'm going crazy with the squeaking...

And did I mention they bite? Oh my god, do these fuckers bite... it's like they think I'm the meal!

Well, I'm not rat food, Adam West. I demand respect.

Image hosting by Photobucket
Are you finally catching my drift, here, Adam West? This stairwell - it doesn't even lead to anything! It's just a dead-end of soggy cardboard and used insulation (which may or may not be aggravating my asthma - licensed doctors won't come near this hell-hole, so I have no clue).

What's that, Adam West? You'd like to use my shitter?

Hold on, first let me stop the tears, so I can follow them up with laughter at the astounding stupidity of your arrogance.

Here, my friend. View what constitues "indoor plumbing" by the state in my house:Image hosting by Photobucket
Yeah - you see a toilet anywhere in that mess of dirty pipes, Adam West?
I didn't fucking think so.

That Carlton sign I ripped off the highway is the only thing keeping me going, man. So wipe that confused smirk off your face.

OK, Adam West - our tour is ending. I hope by now you've felt an inkling of the daily torture I exeperience just by living in this awful place... but, if not, a peek at my bedroom ceiling should seal the deal:
Image hosting by Photobucket
I won't even punish you by showing you what the rest of the room looks like. I wouldn't want you, Adam West, to vomit all over your expensive leather shoes.

And put your checkbook away - this was never about money.

I just thought it was time someone like you - someone who has galavanted in Wayne Manor, who's slid down the Batpole and dashed through the Batcave - someone who's tasted cheese from France - someone who's rubbed elbows with stars like Drew Carey, Angela Lansbury, and Dean Cain - well I felt it was about time someone like you investigated just exactly how well a common man like me was living today.

So that's it.
Now that you've taken a tour of my shitty house, I hope it has changed you for the better.

Thank you, Adam West.
 
  Can I be a celebrity?
While looking over the new cast of The Surreal Life, some questions popped into my head.

Does celebrity status ever expire?
Is there a time when someone calls you and says, "Ok, time's up. No one knows you anymore"?
I mean, the only people who have lost their celebrity status, that come to mind off the top of my head, are Justin Guarini and Jodi Sweeten.

Guarini had really stupid hair so you knew that wasn't gonna last, and Sweeten married a cop and became addicted to meth (if only I were joking...), so it's understandable that she didn't stick in the public eye.

(And on a semi-related note, did anyone make a worse child-to-adolescent transition than Jodi Sweeten? Seriously, what a shitty teenage actress she was. Wait, actually, the guy who played Mark on Home Improvement was worse. That dude sucked. I'll bet he's dead now, but I'm too lazy to check.)

But yeah, I mean, Shermen Hemsley and Florence Henderson can still cash in on their celebrity status? It's been fucking years since either of them have done anything. Hey, we all love The Jeffersons and we all love to hate The Brady Bunch, but does anyone in VH1's target audience know who the hell these people are? It's doubtful. At some point, one has to concede that civilian life is preferable to B-list celebrity (or in the case of The Surreal Life, D-list).

Is civilian life that bad? Apparently.

When did we stop requiring a talent to become famous?
Paris Hilton is famous for being famous. Literally. She has no discernable talent, other than to look semi-attractive and act like the stereotypical flighty girl and/or slut.

Aren't there millions of girls who could play her part? Go to any club on any weekend, and you'll find hundreds (if not thousands) of women who are "celebrities" in a smilar way as Paris.

Now, on The Surreal Life, we have Alexis Arquette. Who the fuck is that, you ask? Apparently, he's/she's David Arquette's transsexual brother/sister. Why is he/she famous?

Once upon a time, celebrities were people with exceptional talent. Now, it's people who are attractive or people who are close to celebrities. This brings me to my final question:

Why the fuck am I not famous?
Seriously, do I need to call someone to set this up? I'm not particularly good looking, nor do I have any real "talent" to speak of. But c'mon, if a transsexual or a rich whore can be famous, why can't I?

I'll be glad to live in a house with half-celebrities like Tom Wopat or Andrew Ridgely if it means that some 13 year-old will recognize in a Waffle House and ask for my autograph.

(Really though, that sounds like an awesome show -- The Full-Blown Jew, Luke Duke, and The Other Guy from Wham! living together. Or, even better, we'll have a fishing show. We can catch large-mouth bass every week from a different locale. It'll be a reality show, where the person who catches the biggest fish each week gets to eat and spend the week in a luxurious mansion, while the losers go without food and have to live in a tent just outside of the house. The episode where Ridgely goes crazy from lack of food and bites a chunk out of Wopat's arm will be the highest-rated hour in television history. Take that, final episode of M*A*S*H.)

Someone, let's make this happen.
 
  Nothing worse than a stupid injury
Last night, I stepped on a zipper. "And?..." I can hear you asking. Well, and it fucking hurts. Seriously, the pain is almost unbearable. What's the worst pain you can imagine? Child birth? Passing a kidney stone? I can honestly say without hyperbole that this is a thousand times worse than both of those things combined. When this happened, I honestly thought that I had stepped on a landmine or had somehow been shot in the foot. I now know what it's like to be in war. Where the fuck is my medal? Where is my parade? I'm the real hero.

And the worst part of the injury is that I can't even complain to people about it. At least if you get hit by a car or drop a bowling ball on your foot, you can look to others for some sort of sympathy. "Oh my God, that's horrible! Are you ok? Goodness... how can I help?" others will ask, feeding you spoonfuls of sweet, delicious pity. When you step on a zipper, people just laugh at you. I can hear you laughing right now at my pain. Pricks.

This reminds me of a when I was child and was on the tiny carousel at a local fast food restaurant. I was 11 or 12, and was way too old to be playing on the playground. While dicking around, I attempted to jump off, and my foot was caught. Unable to free myself, I was dragged around at 2mph, caught in the vicious grips of a miniature Mayor McCheese. A man from the restaurant had to run out and save me from dying perhaps the most pathetic death ever (death by fast food playground equipment is, in fact, the saddest way to die. It's right there in encyclopedia. Look it up.), but instead of offering me a, "Are you ok?" or a "Damn, watch yourself on these toys, friend!" he said, "What the fuck were you doing on that carousel? Do you know how fat you are??" Thanks, pal.
 
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
  Hey, you.
Yeah, you, the American who uses the word bloody. Please, stop it.

Seriously, I understand you are trying to sound sophisticated by using a chiefly British word. It just sounds stupid.

I don't care that you spent a semester in London and "Whilst there, it became entrenched in your vernacular." You're back home now, and it's been five years since you last "pond hopped," you pretentious douche. Let it go.

And while we're at it, stop spelling theatre with an "re." C'mon. You don't spell it centre or metre, so why pick that one word to arbitrarily spell differently? Just stop. I'm asking nicely. We're in the good ol' US of A. We kicked those damn Brits out so we could drop the final two letters of shoppe and the unnecessary "u" in favourite and colour. Don't commit treason.

And please, stop wearing that derby. Oh, excuse me, stop wearing that bowler. Do you need a monocle and a cape, as well? No, you do not, for this is not Victorian England. This is 21st century America. Here, we wear baseball caps and don't read past a 6th grade level. Love it or leave it, baby.

If it's Britain you want, what with their universal health care and liberal policies you want, you can always move north to Canada.

No, really, Canada's great. It's everything you've ever dreamt of and more. I mean, they've given us wonderful television programmes like Kids in the Hall and SCTV. You'll love it up there.

But please, they don't like the word bloody either.
 
  We can put a man on the moon...
...but we can't make a horn that deaf people can hear.

Miss Deaf Texas struck by train, killed.

Did you laugh at that title? You sicken me.
 
  Bitchin'!
The ‘80s are so in right now. From ugly ‘80s-look ironic t-shirts (get it? my shirt says “Pants”!!) to the lilting sounds of Men Without Hats, everything ‘80s is making a comeback.

Except for the slang, that is. This blows my mind, as the ‘80s had no shortage of killer slang.

You see?

“Killer” - a great word that flowed naturally. You probably didn’t even know that was ‘80s slang, did you? Idiot.

So I’ve taken it upon myself, being the arbiter of all things cool, to bring back the ‘80s slang.

I’ve met some resistance thus far, however. For some reason, people dig the ‘80s fashion and music, but not so much the language of the wonderous Reagan years.

Just take a look at these actual conversations I’ve had in just the past three days:

-“So last night I was in the club, and I was dancing with this chick all night. She was totally all over my shit, and she wound up giving me head in the alley behind the club. I love chicks with low self-esteem.”
-“That’s tubular, man.”
-“What?”
-“It’s tubular.”
-“A tube? What the fuck are you talking about?”
-“No, like, that’s awesome man. You know… tubular!”
-“Shut your fucking Jew mouth."

Or how about this exchange:

-“I had a paper due this morning, but I paid this Asian chick to do it and got an A on it without even cracking the book open.”
-“That’s radical.”
-“Radical?... Alright, Leonardo - fetch me a fucking pizza pie, huh? God damn, Asians are smart.”

And finally…

-“I was cleaning my house yesterday, and under my couch, I found five dollars! I went and bought some Jack in the Box and it was all complements of the couch!”
-“Cool beans, man.”
*Punches me in the face, storms out of the room*

So fuck you, 1980s. Your slang shall remain dead...

Until it’s plastered across an Urban Outfitters t-shirt and costs $39.95, of course, and then it will be back in full force. I hate everyone.
 

My Photo
Name:

"Full-Blown Jew was born a full blown Jew in 1952. Lest anyone tell you otherwise, he is, in fact, a full blown Jew."

ARCHIVES
March 2006 /


Powered by Blogger