Hey, how’s it going there, ace? Why don’t you go ahead and come in, and close the door behind you. Just have a seat. Go ahead and park that sweet little ass of yours right here next to me. Have you been eating less? Because I don’t mind saying you look REALLY reasonable today in that outfit.
Now, Cindy is telling me you’ve been coming to this website for a while, and you’ve yet to watch our Mandatory Corporate Compliance Video. I’m going to go ahead and insist that you do that now. It’s a short video, and then you can get back to your lunch. Though I would recommend not finishing your lunch, if you want to continue to look the way you do now and, as a result, continue working here. How’s that sound, kiddo? Great, Great…
Shown: Don’t Annoy People With the Deadly Laser. Also, please don’t pester Airport Security with a gun, and don’t goof around with a flamethrower at the Nursing Home.
So, let’s see what it can do to a very, very oily rag in a very dry garage.
Hmm. So I guess lasers are still mostly good for popping balloons, melting duct tape and aiming at airplanes not aiming at airplanes under any circumstance as to not annoy the pilot cause the plane to crash, and serve a felony sentence in prison. That’s money well spent. Or should I say that’s money, well, spent.
So, yeah…it’s cool, but…I was hoping for something more along these lines:
I was checking out a friend’s Facebook page this morning, and I realized I’d never seen his video blog. Or “Vlog,” if you prefer. Or “Internet Video Program.”
Shown: The Casual Raping of a Dead Man’s Corpse. Level Up, America!
To wit:
Entire continents will be created that will celebrate Michael’s unique genius in a way that underscores his place as the greatest artist of all time. Michael’s longtime fans will feel at home as they find themselves in places that seem familiar and yet unknown at the same time, and new generations will discover and experience Michael’s life in a way never before imagined. At its core, Planet Michael is a massive social gaming experience that will allow everyone, from the hardcore fan to the novice, to connect and engage in collaborative in-game activities with people worldwide.
You may be asking yourself, “Chris, what the fuck could this possibly mean? How could Michael Jackson’s legacy sprout entire continents? I don’t know. I just don’t. I can’t even process it. SO back to the thing I want to show you. Richard Fairgray’s Vlog. After I got done crying from laughing at these, I thought these would be a great counter-balance to yesterday’s blog, in which my friend Missy described me as looking like “a rapist who doesn’t know any better,” and my friend Hoffmaster 3000 described as “Holy Mountain Part 2.”
Not to mention my whole screed about Lady Gaga, which I felt bad about after I saw her ranting against Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell…the fate of which will be decided today. And, if someone in the Senate changes their mind, I’ll have Gaga, in part, to thank. I mean, Bad Romance is still a crap candle, burning bright (IMAO). But at least she’s using that fame to do something worthwhile, instead of just wearing USDA Select Choice Cuts to made-up awards shows. But if anything is going to help wash the reality of a Michael Jackson MMORPG out of my mind forever, it’s these videos. I’m making my own reality now. I can’t deal with the real thing anymore.
*On a totally separate, semantics-based note. Do you remember when you first heard the word “Blog”? Wasn’t it fucking annoying? Didn’t it feel like an infection you wanted to fight off with medication? Or the word “Twitter”? Or Tweets? Or Vlog? And while they’re still grating to an extent, I don’t really think about it much anymore. I use them casually, and without thinking. I don’t even say “InterWebs” ironically, like all these fucking hipsters. I wonder what crazy, annoying language we’ll be using every single day of our lives in 5 to 10 years? Will an upstart called Text Rooster.com make Google the MySpace of search engines? Will we be Flooglecasting? We’ll probably be Flooglecasting.
Some people are saying that Jerry Lewis shouldn’t be doing his telethon anymore. I think he should be putting all his energy into releasing The Day The Clown Cried on Blu-Ray. And speaking of the Day the Clown Cried, I don’t know….watch this and judge for yourself. Think he’s fit for another year?
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.
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