Welcome back to Sad Trombone Monday: an accumulation of asinine apparati that angers the assemblage. Hope your Monday SUCKS! BLEAHHHH!

Either I’ve suddenly become retarded beyond medical definition, or I’m actually seeing this. This company makes the bold claim that “white” is a color. And, now that I think about it, that’s what I’ve been saying for YEARS! White IS a color, and the color White deserves as much rights as, say, the color Orange or Purple. So I don’t understand why every time I take my “White Rights!” sign outside this supermarket, the cops show up and put a baton up my ass. I suppose my struggle for White Rights continues! [SAD TROMBONE!!!]

I ran into this record in Tennessee, and kind of regret not buying it. I have a party coming up, and if there’s a Tunnel Banger out there, it’s Uncle Bud’s Hospital Experience. The wacky font really sets the tone for the 60+ minutes of this Dr. John Harvey Kellogg looking ma’fucka’s in-depth essay about his excruciating hospital stay. I, for one, can’t wait to hear that old colostomy bag chestnut [SAD PEE TROMBONE!]

If there’s one guy we know who will stand up for the family farmer, it’s Richie Farmer, KY Dept. of Ag Commissioner. [SAD TROMBONE!]

Guess which item is misspelled? On one hand, hogs don’t have wings. But Illinois is really good at finding a way to make greasy, terrible fucking food where none exists. Even if that mean inbreeding hogs with seagulls, murdering them, battering them, and creating an unholy appetizer known as “Hog Wings.” Also, Lemonade is misspelled. Thanks for playing. And thanks for stopping by Leatherface’s Corn Dog Shack. [SAD FAT TROMBONE!]

“Next stop, Infinite Suffering! Please stand clear of the closing axes please…next stop, Eternal Hell.” I really should have opened that Puzzle Box before I got on the Metra. (Courtesy of Sad Tromboner Alex Kropniak!)

In retrospect, this old post from WorstCartoonsEver.com seems tasteless, crass and mean. But, I stand behind it, and am re-posting it here because of Gary Coleman’s recent death. Enjoy this little piece of nostalgia and think of all the wee child actors you grew up with in the eighties. I kid because I love. Some of my best friends are short and named Gary.

Originally Ran 04-21-2009

Now here’s a premise I can get behind: Gary Coleman, except dead.

So, wait… all Gary Coleman has to do is pleasure himself and he returns from the dead? At this rate, he’ll never stay in the grave! BLAST!

Yep, there is something you didn’t think you’d see when you woke up today: a masturbating Gary Coleman angel. Thank you for coming to my website. There’s a comment card on the nightstand. I hope you enjoyed your stay.

Ok, ok…FINE. One more time. And slooower, just for the ladies.

Ok, I’m kind of phoning into today’s entry. It’s funny cat videos. But since you’ve already seen the other awful things I’ve trained my cat to do, or made them watch me do, here’s the requisite origin story.

My wife’s Valentine gift to me was that she was secretly training our cat to ring a bell. I don’t think I can ever top this. Here’s how that went down. Or, rather, here’s how it all came up. On my kitchen floor.

So all this Cricket attention has made Champion, our first born cat, jealous. He’s acting out. He can’t ring a bell. He can’t do shit. And he’s trying way too hard to earn our love back.

“Hey guys, I’m an elephant! You seein’ this?”

“Hey guys, LOOK! I’m a rooster! The Cock of the Walk!”

“Hey! HEY! Over here! I’m Young David Bowie!”

“SEE? SEE!?? YOU CAN PILE SHIT ON ME TOO! LIKE THIS!

PLEASE GOD ANYTHING JUST PAY ATTENTION TO ME AGAIN.”

Sigh. It’s just so sad to watch all this play out. So who wants a free, non-bell ringing cat? We’re getting rid of him.

Kidding! Kidding. But seriously. He better be shooting bottle rockets out of his ass in a year’s time or it’s back to the streets.

I’ve done a lot of horrible things to nice people on April Fools Day (Fools’ Day? Fool’s Day? Foo’ls Day? Grammar. Jesus.) so I figured it was time to get myself good today: I recently found my 1989 diary from when I was 8 years old, and now you’re going to see it. Plus, Diary of a Wimpy Kid is currently tearing up the box office. Plus, I just had my birthday. Topical!

Now, for years, I called this my “Journal.” But let’s look at the cover.

No 8-year old kid keeps a journal with flowers all over it. They keep a diary. I might as well face it. Oh sure, I tried to butch it up with a hologram sticker of Bebop, and a stern warning of “Keep Out or Else,” but one can assume two things from looking at this cover: the “or else” means “…or else you will probably force-read my own diary aloud, while upper classmen run a viscous train on me”, and any 8-year old who can’t spell the word “Private” has no business making threats with a label gun on the cover of his tulip-covered diary. If you stumbled across this in a bush, next to a pair of bloody Fruit of the Looms and broken glasses, not even Nancy Grace would bat an eye. I’ve got it coming.

The inside-cover is a little heartbreaking. My mom gave this to me for my birthday, lovingly inscribed. At the time, I probably was angry I could not stick this book into a Nintendo and press start. But she was actually encouraging me to do something I now do (almost) for a living, which is really nice. The sad part is what follows: instead of “stories and thoughts,” we get “self-centered ramblings, ignorance, spite and hatred: 1989 style.” So, I think I probably let her down.

So let’s see what page 1 has to offer.

Hoo boy, “a birthday I won’t forget.” How’s that for suspense? My parents got us a basketball hoop for our driveway (excuse me, “a cort,” not to be confused with Bud Cort), probably to offset the disappointment of the rose-covered diary. It’s obvious I’m a genius writer from the start. Check this deft prose out: “I got a game.” Hey, that’s super! What kind of game? Was it a board game? A $50 Nintendo game, perhaps? A game of “let’s leave you in the woods?” Great descriptors, asshole. Way to think of your audience.

Now, to those of you who don’t know where I grew up, you might think “holy shit, you got a ROCKET JACKET?” but that’s not what you think it is.

Shown: Rocket Jacket I didn’t get.

The rocket jacket was a Rushville Rockets jacket, our school mascot. This set me on a course to become the actual “Rushville Rocket” years later, which was a big quilted thing that looked like a giant white dildo with fins. But that’s another story.

Shown: Zoom! The mascot of a school that fancies itself a “tough football town.” In fairness, we were called “The Fightin’ White Vibrators” up until the sexually repressed Reagan-era. Other places you may have seen our mascot: in a trucker’s glove box. In Richard Gere’s nightstand. Hidden in a 16-year old girl’s sock drawer as, you know, a “gag gift”.

I wish I could find the undoubtedly wacky “Chris Ward’s La Funnky Music 1 and 2″ on cassette. I mean, it’s not every day someone “tapes their own tape.” Man, wasn’t that a long time ago? I just DVD’d my own DVD today, so boy do I feel old!

“La Funnky Music” is just me rambling (as I believed a DJ would do) into a brown Fisher-Price recorder (again, like a real DJ), and then commercials I’d taped off television to hear later (just like you’d here on WKRB “The Buzz” Morning Zoo drive time). And I would listen to this on trips and in my own backyard. For hours. Apparently, the Bubble Tape commercial and Super Mario Bros. Super Show theme registered as “La Funnky Music” in my book.

ANYWAY, back to the dramatic story, which I’d like to set the scene for. My dad and I spent all day digging a post hole (maybe not all day. Everything takes “all day” when you’re 8), and assembling a basketball hoop (all day). The hoop is in place. The neighbors are watching out the window, because they now realize their life is about to change when every 5-10 seconds, an 8-year olds ball rolls into their well-kept-and-soon-to be-trampled, lawn. I am presented with a basketball, carefully wrapped. I go for my first lay up and a large man comes out of nowhere and BLOCKS THAT MOTHERFUCKER WITH ALL THE FURY A 40-YEAR OLD MAN CAN RAIN DOWN ON AN EIGHT YEAR OLD. This is Dean, my dad’s friend. He begins instantly apologizing for, you know, my head slamming against the concrete and stuff. And this wasn’t that pussy concrete people put down today. This was the real deal: cracks, rocks, weeds all stickin’ out and shit. “I got hurt bad” as I later recalled.

I mean “my stomace” hurt, man. Like, real bad. It was 8 in the evening when we got back. And that’s all we get. Was I okay? What did the x-rays show? Did anyone go to jail? Well, this was Rushville in 1989, so no one was going to jail for things yet. Even though Dean “stold the ball” from me, I don’t have any ill-will towards him today. He’s a pretty good guy. At least he didn’t yell “BOO-YAH!” which I might have done, were the tables turned.

So there you have it. This sets the stage for a series of blogs where reveal I am a limp-dick pansy. Entries that follow will include ex-girlfriends I call “pigs”, cats hit by drunk drivers and more secret crying.

Shown: Batman cake, UHF soundtrack, purple Rushville Rocket polo, child molester glasses, and a haircut that cordially invites you to kick my ass (please, RSVP).

[ONE LAST UPDATE]

This is how cool my mom is, even after reading this she found a picture of Rocky the Rocket. It’s not me in the costume, but there’s plenty of those somewhere.

Shown: Get it? “The Pits.” I used to help paint these for the football players to run through and destroy on game night. They were so appreciative, coaches like Randy Hawkins treated us with more respect because of our hard work. Just kidding, Randy Hawkins remained an asshole. And even though he died in a terrible tobacco spitting incident years ago, I stand by my recollection of him as a coach and mentor. The artist’s names are down the side, and it looks like Bryan Morrell had a hand in this potentially racially insensitive masterwork. I’m sure Bryan worked really, really hard on it. He loved football, and doing things to support the team.

You may have noticed lately that this site hasn’t made good on its “daily humor” promise. Well, I have debts no honest man could pay and had to lay low for a while. But now that the border patrol’s trail has gone cold, I’ll show you some of the awful crap I encountered fleeing God’s Country over the weekend. It’s good to be back and not rotting in a Canadian jail again. Hope your Monday Tuesday sucks! BLERRGH!

You know what they call a “cheeseburger” in Minnesota? A Juicy Lucy. It’s a hollow hamburger filled with deadly molten cheese and IT’S DELICIOUS. The problem is, I saw this sign in Wisconsin…

…And their Juicy Lucys are a little different, apparently. If it’s three things people love in Wisconsin, it’s cheese, Tommy Bartlett’s Robot World, and eating a gas station cheeseburger after a good piss. Mmm…juicy! [SAD TROMBONE!]

And, while we’re at it, there’s nothing I’d rather drink after changing a little boy’s diaper than warm, acidic Land O Lakes orange juice. Come to think of it, there’s no phrase I’d rather see than “Grip N’ Go Milk” as I’m wiping down a baby’s frank and beans. So, if I’m reading this right, we’ve got milk, milk, Orange-ade, and down below where the fudge is made. Some poetic soul at a Baraboo, Wisconsin Quick Stop must be very pleased with himself. [GRIPPY TROMBONE!]

And speaking of things I wouldn’t put down my throat (Cock Soup notwithstanding), there’s this drink from my local coffee shop: The Ball Dropper. Actually, this drink is pretty damn good. And before I was even halfway done, I sounded like Barry White. When I was completely done, I had crossed into Tay Zonday territory. Thank you, Ball Dropper! I am victorious over nature. [DEEEEEEP RIIVVVERRRRR TROMBONNNNEEE!]

In keeping with the food theme: here’s one meal of a man, Tom Selleck. But why isn’t his $9.99 action move “Night Passage” selling? Is it because it’s got a pink border, and joins movies like Legally Blonde and the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants in the “Girls Night” series of DVDs? Because I can’t imagine a better idea than getting all the girls together, popping open some Jack Daniel’s Raspberry Coolers, and throwing in the ol’ Jesse Stone: Night Passage (the prequel to “Stone Cold,” where Selleck “relocates to a small town only to find himself immersed in one murder mystery after the other.”) But the only way you can find Tom Selleck’s Girls Night Out-approved action fest is to swing by Office Max, where this display resides. Let’s say I enter “Girls Night Out DVD” in my GPS. And lets say my GPS then directs me to an office supply store, and to a romantic comedy DVD kiosk within that store, and then to a pink-bordered, made for TV Tom Selleck cop movie. It is at this point that I light my GPS on fire, collect the insurance money and sue Google Maps for gross and malicious incompetence. [SELLECK TROMBONNNNE!]

In anticipation of my upcoming animation column, “Celling Out,” at UGO.com, I present this classic Worst Cartoons Ever post. Also, it’s late and I work in the morning.

If there were a way to replay the noise Super President’s doughy sidekick makes right before Steel Man punches him in the face, over and over on an endless loop, I think I would be the happiest person alive. It’s kind of like “HOO GEET!” or “HOON GLEEK!” I’m sure his voice directions were great:

Director: Ok Jerry, in this scene, Steel Man—who is clearly not a man by any stretch—walks into the “impenetrable base.” He does this by walking through the open door. Then, he punches you in the jaw, not killing you instantly. You need to make a noise that captures this.

Voice Actor: How about, Hoon Geet?

Director: Hmm…”Hoon Geet.” I like it, but maybe give me something in a “Hool Jeet.” Oh, hell, you’re the actor: Hoon Geet it is.

Voice Actor: Then what should I say?

Director: Oh nothing. Then we have this scene where the unstoppable Steel Man—who could snap a man like a Baked Lays with his bare hands and is immune to bullets—well, he’s gonna get scared off by a dinging bell, after going to all the trouble of breaking into the place.

I would like to add, upon watching this again, that though NO SECURITY SYSTEM ON EARTH is a match for this robot, Super President sends his powerless sidekick “Jerry” into the fray and is all, “Ehh, call me if you see the killer robot. And remember, he’s got super powers.” Jerry’s just staring at his walkie talkie and pissing his pants.

By the way, if you think the phrase “You were wrong, Sales,” is just bad grammar on the robot’s part, you probably need to watch this post first.

I’ve finally figured out my perfect movie formula: What could possibly be more exciting than…

A.) the sudden critical acclaim and respect of a forgotten actor whose face looks like a Jim Henson Creature Shop wet dream (see: MICKEY ROURKE, SID HAIG).

B.) The successful, thoughtful resurrection of a once dead and buried property (see: BATTLESTAR GALACTICA, ROCKY BALBOA.)

Combine them, and you’ve got a case of the fanboy warm-and-fuzzies that is equal parts cheery Gizmo in a Barbie convertible and Jagermeister after a chest cold. Actually, that’s the same formula that could lead to a fiery pink wreck of blood and hair all over the interstate. Well, I’m taking my chances. Here are the mash-ups I want to see.

JACKIE EARLE HALEY in THE ICE CREAM MAN. We all know JEH is the rich man’s Clint Howard, and he’s proven he’s more than just a pretty face in WATCHMEN (advertised as “Watchman” on his official site, which may not be official). Take his testicle-clipping performance in Little Children, add those nuts to a warm waffle cone, and BAM…origin story! This property’s gotta be cheaper than a new Nightmare on Elm Street film, and a helluva lot more fun. The Ice Cream Man’s puns make Freddy Krueger look like the greatest stand-up comic in horror.

ERNEST BORGNINE in GHOULIES! Ernest Borgnine’s career is already in the toilet (apologies to fans of Lifetime’s “A Grandpa For Christmas”), so why not let this beloved actor resurrect a movie about ass-biting sewer puppets? Ok, show of hands if you loved Ernie in ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK and his Best Actor Oscar-Winning MARTY—a movie which you’ve never seen but act like you have around film buff friends? [everyone raises hand] Ok, now show of hands if the VHS cover for Ghoulies delayed your potty training by three years as a kid? [everyone born before after 1980 raises hand]. So let’s combine the two and pinch out some movie magic.

JEFFREY JONES in FRIGHT NIGHT! This on-again, off-again remake has been in the works for some time, but it would have already been out and made a Gazillion US Dollars if they’d only hired the terrifying Jeffrey Jones as the lead vampire! Jeffrey Jones already built a career on making people feel weird and uncomfortable in FERRIS BUELLER’S DAY OFF and HOWARD THE DUCK, and he took it to “video of ALF’s dad snorting crack off a male hooker” levels by becoming a registered sex offender. Well if Roman Polanski’s taught us anything, it’s that Hollywood is willing to overlook dalliances and foibles with unwilling 14-year-olds. People love a good Jeffrey Jones role, vampires are hawt right now, and underdogs NOW Comics would probably like to re-launch their 80s Fright Night series, so it’s a win-win-win!

Let’s show all show some critical compassion to Jones and some, oh…what’s the word. He yelled it at his secretary in Ferris Bueller? Oh yeah: “GRRAAACCCCE!!!!”

ANDY SERKIS in MAC AND ME! The Onion AV club unfairly dumped on this movie recently, using words like “shameless and wrong,” “hideous” and “horrifically scarred fetus.” Well, if a movie about a “O-faced” creature who survives on Coke and McDonalds product-placement is wrong, I don’t wanna be right. I loved this terrible, terrible, exploitative film as a kid. And that’s why Andy Serkis should slap on that Ping Pong Ball Suit of his and exchange his psychotic pursuit of the One Ring for a Big Mac Attack (wouldn’t it have been perfect if I’d have said “trade the One Ring for an Onion Ring there?” Well kiss my ass. McDonald’s doesn’t serve ‘em and I have a Journalism degree to uphold, thanks for asking.)

[True Story Digression: At the end of Mac and Me, and big title card promises "WE'LL BE BACK!"  So, every year for 3 or 4 years, I would ask my mom when that Mac & Me sequel was coming, and she'd make up something about a filming delay. After it finally sank in that there was no sequel, I was crushed and jilted by Hollywood from that day forward. You don't promise little kids sequels and never deliver. A movie you love as a child is like a little universe that actually exists in your brain, and when there are no more movies it's like you've blown up Krypton in that kid's mind. You know that sinking feeling you get when you turn on Animal Crossing for the first time in 3 years, and your cute, once-loved village has been overrun by cockroaches and the stench of death? THAT'S WHAT WAS GOING ON TO THE MAC & ME UNIVERSE IN MY MIND EACH YEAR HOLLYWOOD DIDN'T GIVE ME A GOD DAMNED SEQUEL.

I still have a Mac and Me sized hole that has never been filled. And it's exactly as disgusting looking as that sounds.]

Welcome to the “I’m tired” edition of Sad Trombone Monday. Old Man Peterson’s got me doubling back into a swing shift, and if that sumbitch thinks I’m moving the palettes that MARY left in the warehouse bay, then he can kiss my ass.  So, once again, here’s Monday’s collection of random, depressing observations. Hope your Monday sucks, bleah!

I don’t have any control over what Facebook spam ads pop up on my page, but all I want for Christmas is an option button that lets me click “disable tit-feeding father ads.” Are you a breast-feeding dad? Here’s 10K towards education! Welcome to Obama’s America….am I right, everyone!?!?? [Sad Trombone!]

Depressing: Appearing on Love Connection. More Depressing: Lying about your age on Love Connection. Most Depressing: Your name is So-So, and you’re painfully average looking. [Sad Chuck Woolery Trombone!]

Oh godDAMMIT! Angelina’s hiding the twins?!?! ARGHH! I guess I’ll have to resort to sexy old screenshots from Foxfire and Gia. Wait, they’re talking about the babies? Oh, I don’t care about those. Poor choice of headlines for the normally classy Life & Style. [Sad Tromboner!]

“Dear Eyeglasses Shop bathroom on South Grand: your sign is not working! Thank You!” [Sad Trombone!]

I liked how this asshole even stacked the smaller rolls on top of each other. Nothing thrills me more than petty, passive aggressive wars like this being waged inside retail jobs all over our great nation. Well played, TP guy.

“How will Jesus Come.” The question for the ages. During Red Shoe Diaries? In a Doubletree Inn honeymoon suite? In a truck stop shower stall? With a pinky finger up his…actually, forget it. I’m not touching this one. I want to live to see Christmas. Oh, not because I’m afraid of getting struck by Jesus lightning. Because I’m afraid of Glenn Beck’s people.

If we were at a Texas Roadhouse Chain Eatery right now, you would hear the faint sound of forced employee clapping make its way from the kitchen right to our table, followed by a cowboy hat and saddle for this website to sit upon and pose for pictures. And then a 17 year old kid with a looming Ford Mustang payment would say “Hey pawdners, today marks this website’s 100th post!” and they would woop and holler and everyone would try very hard not to look up from their Chicken Ding Dillers and Texas Tonyun Boomin’ Possum Blossoms. And what a good time we’ve all had in the process. Thanks for stopping by. And now, as always, I hope your Monday sucks! PSHHHTTT!!!

This is what we got from my wife’s aunt one year for Christmas. It’s lingerie. For a Christmas tree. They say it’s the thought that counts, and her thoughts turned to buying us naughty, mini-undies to hang on our Christmas tree.

Ahem.

So I guess these are official Hallmark keepsakes for the family that likes to put the “Sex” back in Chrisexmas. [Sad trombone!]

On the plus side, her aunt got me my all time favorite ornament, the Pac-Man Arcade Keepsake, the next year…which Cobra Commander enjoys playing in his Hallmark Keepsake Boxers from the previous year.

“High SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSScore!”

Hey! Now here’s a holiday tradition you won’t want to miss: pictures with Santa Claus. And how could you miss it, with all those hours he’ll be appearing? Oh, what’s that, little boy? You’re here to see “African-American Santa” instead? Well Black Santa’s appearing one day only, for two hours. And I hear he’s not even really African-American…I hear he’s African-CANADIAN! [Sad Trombo-ho-ho-hone!]

Also please address Santa as “Santa”—or Regular Santa—and not Caucasian Santa. And make sure that when you lie to your kids about Santa, you’re also lying about the correct race of the Santa. If your white kid thinks a Black Santa screwed him out of a present, you’re just just stirring up racial resentment at an early age. Best to tell your white kids that Santa is white, and black kids that Santa is black. It’s easier that way. Separate, but equal Santas, you know?

“But what about Chinese Santa?”

Don’t be goddamned ridiculous kid. There is no Chinese Santa. Just pick a line—Black Santa or White Santa. But, between you and me, it’s best to pick White Santa (he’s here more often).

Still, on the positive side, no waiting line for Black Santa! Why? Because there’s a bearded black man yelling “HO! HO! HO!” in the center of the mall and a white lady freaked out and called security. Once they get all that ironed out, I’m sure you can sit on his lap.

Isn’t holiday diversity a wonderful thing?

…And after a hard day of deciding what race the Santa you worship is, why not bring the family in for a warm Pooboy Sandwich? Mmm, Mmm! Just like momma used to pinch right into a hot oven. Nothing says Christmas like a moist, juicy, steaming Pooboy Sandwich. [Poo Trombone!!!]

Check out this holiday special from the Best Buy Geek Squad! For only $19.99, the Geek Squad will drive to your house in their awful car and install the latest firmware updates to your PS3! Hey, that’s terrific. Because when the PS3 tells me “Latest Firmware Update Required” (roughly every fucking time I turn on the PS3), it’s too much trouble for me to hit the “X” button to Accept. I love how helpful the Geek Squad is. Like how they’re willing to sell me a $200 Monster HDMI cable, or “set-up” the picture on my Plasma TV by adjusting the contrast and brightness, or push the “power button” on my remote with their able thumbs. I am useless without them! Here, just take all my money! I’m a complete moron! Of course, the price of this highly necessary service varies from place to place. $20 is a steal! [HI-DEF TROMBONNNNE!]

…Why hey, it looks like Slate.com is running a related story on Best Buy scams. This one’s about the Geek Squad “optimizing” your new Mac (read: turning the power button on). That I can agree with but…hey, Slate, I hate Jon and Kate as much as the next American who built up their celebrity status in the first place. But maybe tell your underpaid web-designer to ease up on the violent imagery in his subliminal banner scroll. Merry Christmas! BLAM! [Sad Trombone Plus 8!]

Seanbaby’s incredibly comprehensive review of the Secret Video Game Tips, Codes & Strategies VHS (and interview with star Donn “With Two N’s” Nauert!) is a thing of comedy beauty I won’t attempt to duplicate. Go read it again for the first time. But that post is years old now, and most of the videos don’t work. Probably because they pre-date YouTube.

And that’s a shame, because you’ve probably never gotten to see the clip of the world’s most Goddawful NES Secret Code of All Time. I don’t think Seanbaby mentions this one.

This video is for any of you kids bitching about load times or hard drive space or 16-digit Wii Friend Codes (ok, those still suck. You can bitch about that), just remember that when I was a kid, I had to learn about a 70-character level select code from a mouthbreathing hoser on a tracking-impaired VHS tape. And what did my trouble get me? A chance to cheat at Rambo, one of the worst 8-bit turds to come out of the lower intestine of Acclaim’s game developers.

Shown: The way a real man enters a level select code: double fist it. “Capallll E, small Gee, Cappall H, Zerohl, Zerohl, Zerohl…”