A Very Bad Call

One thing you must know about me: if there is ever ANY unsavoury character on ANY mode of public transporatation, I will sit next to them and most likely enter into some form of conversation or exchange. It never fails.

So it was no suprise that upon boarding the bus back home from buying my new monthly bus pass (whoop!) I somehow LOCKED EYES with an old man in the second seat and was drawn to him, as if my some tractor beam.

So I sat down, all was well until I smelled something rotten- literally. I thought I might have broken my streak and stepped in dog shit... so I checked my shoes, NOPE, clean as a whistle... what could it be? OH, just the JEANS of my seat-mate. Yup, smears of shit. On the jeans, just above the knees, as if a la Scrooge McDuck with gold dubloons, he had been digging into huge TUBS OF SHIT... and then suddenly realized- HOLD ON, this is SHIT- and wiped his hand on his pants.

Luckily I woke up to find it was just a dream and I was surrounded by Dutch physicians!



Hello fellas, like what you see? Boo yah!

Just kidding, it was all too real. But I am past that now. Ready to take on what life deals out:



The answer is... Greek meatballs.

Ah, I hate Sundays. I am so lethargic. Thank god in times of turmoil I can turn to fond memories of years past.

MMMMM HMM. Crockett Und Tubbbbbz. Cool, collected, oozing down Beachfront Ave.,most likely consuming ENORMOUS quantities of coke on set... IRONIC, n'est-ce pas? The original odd couple- rough vs. smooth, hot dog with THE WORKS vs. fresh fruit salad, playing it by the books vs. mad balls-out gun-slinging maverick who GETS RESULTS... but there's a sinister side to this duo.

Tubs?



Oh my dear, sweet lord. These fleshy friends have gone too far. Erecting a HOT TUB in their living room? What kind of free-wheeling, onion-scented carnival is this? Imgine the funk floating around in that little petri dish.

If you call and I am not in, it's because I'm out digging a mass grave. Toodles!

I should give up now.

Sometimes life just deals you lemons:



Yup, these are my parents. I mean, how did I even ever have a fucking CHANCE?


Enough self-pity, it's better for me to focus my anger in a more constructive way. Par exemple... what gets my goat? Well the fact that NO MATTER what I do, Mel Gibson is trying to sabotage me:



Aggghhh! This is basically a visual illustration of missing lyrics from Lucy in The Sky with Diamonds... easy-peasy, HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE, does that bear remind you of anyone???

(AHEM)




Yet again Mel Gibson has finagled his way into my fucking blog. I need a lead curtain to keep this shit out.
Time to clear my head.





Okay, oddly, this image of Phil Collins in a SOMBRERO is rather cleansing as it inspires such a huge wave of rage that I feel reborn... but just as I drift off to a dreamless slumber...



It appears that Edward Scissorhands has descended from his magical castle, forced by a life of miserable penury to come out of retirement and design a new range of law ornaments. Alas, his old age and palsied limbs render every creation a hideous claw.

Poor sweet Edward, I can imagine him and Alan Alda chatting over a hot cup of Joe, rehashing old flames. Speaking of Alda,



Step off Maggie Smith, the Young Alda is mine. That's what you get when you play with fire, Maggie: copious amounts of well-groomed facial hair. Fuck wth the bull, you get the horns.

My Love

Dear Object of my Obsession,

I would like to set myself on fire on your lawn, have my next of kin gather the ashes, grind them up and put them in a jar of Avon face mask. I would then have this same next of kin deliver this poultice to your door. You would then smear ME all over your face, leave for 8-10 minutes and wash off with a damp cloth. We would be forever linked.

Signed,

This Guy

Dressed for Success

Anyone who knows me knows that I am quite the clothes horse... if by 'clothes horse' you mean 'really only wears three things over and over'... but I have been taking an interest in fashion these days... IN MY DREAMS!

It's true.

I have recently had a vision of sorts, kind of, more a dream: HAM SLACKS. Now, I have thought of this before, but I saw them in a fever dream the other night and it's kind of starting to just make sense.



Look at those thick, luscious slices of ham, would they not be perfectly suited to a fine robe of sorts? Yes, yes they would. The ideal is clearly ham slacks, as if you get hungry you can eat a bit off the ends and eventually wind up with ham hotpants.

I know, fucking genius.

Anyway, I am not the only one with a keen eye for fashion:



Perfect togs for clubbing seals. Let the punishment fit the crime, tiny bundles of joy! Okay, clubbing seals is NOT funny, but somehow going shopping for the perfect outfit in which to do so IS. Am I wrong? It's like Pol Pot at KFC... or something.



Now THIS is my idea of haute fucking couture- clown on the skids chic. Is he post killing rampage or pre? I cannot tell, he just looks medicated. Lithium? The Choice of Clowns!



Look at this poor bastard. It's like he has been drawn by a police sketch artist and then animated by some demented wizard. This photo MUST constitute child abuse. He is like a missing Van Dyke child. His name is PROBABLY Larry.



But hey, it's Friday. I drink to you... and to the fact that the only good thing about these two being together means you will never have to sleep with either one of them.

Kisses!

Dear Diary

So my lovelies, does it show just how self-obsessed I am that the first thing I have to do when I get home is write ON MY BLOG?? Yes, it is true. I was away for a few days. In London. What was I doing? Spending money, drinking, wearing loud pinstripe suits and walking down the street, taking obnoxiously on my Boysenberry about SHARES and DESIGNER JEANS, CAVIAR, THE LACK OF DECENT SUSHI IN BERLIN and MELON-BALLING (Dirty. Just kidding, it just means scooping out balls of melon... or does it?). So yes, instead of a jaunt to Shetland to see trolls hiding under bridges and seals driving cars and other magical things, I went South for a job interview and to see The Hubz. He is busy. Very busy. Don't bother him. He doesn't have time.

Hahahahaha. Hi Daniel. HIIII. Miss me? Thought so.

I spent most of my return train journey to Glasgow gazing out the window being dreamy and pensive... mostly trying to ignore the CLAW FEET of the woman next to me and how they were attempting to stage a prison break from the fetters of her Teva sandals. She was also wearing nude stocking, beeteedubs. There is nothing in this world that makes me shudder like the sight of a nude stocking poking out of sandal, but when a CLAW FOOT is involved... well, seriously this woman had the feet of an old porcelain bathtub.

Annnyhoo, so after listening to 'Embassy Row' over and over (I like the way Stephen Malkmus says 'men in da-SHI-kis' and I could listen to it all day everyday), I got to thinking: has Alec Baldwin really just thrown in the towel and resigned himself to being a bloated, swollen joke of a man (with evidence of some nips and tucks here and there)?



The answer is clearly yes. He is now officially the sleaziest man in pictures. That is saying something. Where is the Baldwin of yesteryear? Of Beetlejuice, Working Girl and Married to the Mob. (Aside: speaking of Working Girl, I TOTALLY pulled a Melanie Griffith and wore sneakers to my interview and then surreptitiously changed into proper shoes on the bus- though the sneaks were not white hightop Reebox and the heels were not shittingly high stilettos. And nobody thought I was a whore- I hope).

So, being in London naturally made me think of my IDOL, orginial East End thug Bob Hoskins (or as I call him- Bobo Skins, because I can), but upon my triumphant return home, I rediscovered this disturbing image, gladly not under my pillow or plastered to a bathroom wall:




Are you seeing what I'm seeing? Is Bobo supposed to be some kind of (gulp!) SEX SYMBOL?

Okay, fuck it, so maybe he is. FINE. I saw a pot-bellied rabbit (I SWEAR, it was crazy huge) for the first time on the train this afternoon, so anything's possible.

Anyway, diary, London is different:




Men's eyebrow hair is DISTINCTLY bushier.





People make inappropriate sex faces while listening to music.




People have no qualms about comparing the sizes of eggs on the street, in broad daylight.




Children and donkeys hate each other.




People paint their fingernails to match their meat.

It's not a bad place, just different. Now everyone cross your fingers and hope I gett his job. Odds? Slim to none.

Mahhhhhh!

So, I've been thinking a lot about DEATH lately- not my own really, mostly about the conveniently untimely death of some street musicians I have crossed paths with recently- but I hope to live to a ripe old age. In fact, I am thinking about speeding up the process.



Imagine me rolling up on the sceeene in this sweet ass old lady wig. This is the deluxe version- how could the 'original' or 'basic' be different? I would think with the deluxe they would give you a pair of scissors to clip coupons, a bar of lavendar soap and some ill-fitting knee-high stockings.

But let's just cut to the chase, shall we?



Mmm hmm, even as an old lady I will be 100% dedicated to chilling the fuck out. Cigar optional. This old ass fool is a lady after my own heart: killer fashion sense, ace hair, shoes to DIE for and an attitude that says, 'Ahh, do it tomorrow.'

But, when you're an old lady you sometimes have a lot of time on your hands (because obviously I have NO TIME on my hands now, nooo), so it's often a good idea to collect things. These are the things I will collect.



Chicken figurines, because- why the fuck not?




Mildly sinister vintage toothpaste ads... is that the gloved hand of GOD? OMG, he totally uses Crest!!!!




Photos of Peruvian festivals involving top hats (other hats may or may not be of interest to me when I am old).




This picture. I know that's not 'a collection' per se, but I'll have as many fucking copies of this as I can GET!

Looking forward to it.

Ennui

I am bored. And cold. Is it that time? Yes. I need to warm up. Some things that make my blood boil (in no real particular order):



Hate: fucking 'sport' huaraches. These are the shoe equivalent of napalm. They will kill anything in their path. They will also make you vomit inside your mouth. Careful there, sport!





Hate: these guys and their bobble hats. Think they're so COOL. Maybe I am jealous because the cold is causing me to get a claw hand as I use the mouse, but still. Look at that one in the middle. He's the guy that always talked about how he went to all these RIGHTEOUS GIGS and SHOWS and hung out with THE BAND and then you discover he was really at home, scrapbooking with his mom. Wait, are those three all the same guy? If so, he has a LOT of explaining to do. Ol' Brown Hat on the right seems a bit bashful about his Oedipus complex, as wellll he should be.





Hate: old ladies who knit THOUSANDS of tiny hats and then gloat about it on the internet.




Hate: people who try to tastefully hide their streaky bacon. JUST FUCKING OWN UP ALREADY!




Hate: Modern dance and modern dancers. Dressing up in shiny costumes and tossing people around on stage will never really hide the fact that you know the world wants you DEAD.

Mucho gusto! I feel so much better. Now, for some toast!

Conspiracy

I am sure that I am not the first to put together the pieces of this particular puzzle, but really this has me BLOWN AWAY:

One and the same?



Could this seemingly innocent pile of sweet potatoes in fact be 600- year old slovenly crime lord Jabba the Hut(t)?



And ALSO, I allege that Jabba the Hut and well-known reggae superstar Shabba Ranks are ONE AND THE SAME and that the SMASH HIT 'Mr. Loverman' is in fact a fabricated testament to Hut's so-called skills as a lover! Recall, if you will, the delicate whisper in the chorus of 'Mr. Loverman (Jabba!)' And witness this apt description of the Vile Hut on wikipedia:

"Jabba has a grim sense of humor, a bellicose laugh, an insatiable appetite, and an affinity for gambling, slave girls, and torture.[3]"

WHO ELSE but the Hut would have the resources to insinuate himself into the tune in such a devious manner!



Impostor. Clearly Shabba Ranks is a figment of Hut's demented imagniation- giving himself the physique and sexual prowess that he himself lacks! YOU ARE TOTALLY BUSTED, JABBA/SHABBA.


This one has me baffled:



Who the FUCK has let this train roll off the production line? It is CLEARLY not fit for use. IT HAS EYES for pete's sake!
My god, I am no better than a sweaty Mel Gibson, raking my trembling hand through my rapidly receding hairline. THE CLUES ARE EVERYWHERE PEOPLE.



I would SO much rather be raving madman with a premanently distastrous mullet:



Look at that wild-eyed maverick! He reminds me of someone... but who???



That's right, renegade robot Johnny 5 of Short Circuit fame. And at last it ALL falls into place: the booze, the women, the rabid anti-semitism: 'Mel Gibson' is actually a shell of human skin that has been pulled over the BAD SEED that is Johnny 5. What a fucking DICK.

Untitled

Aggggh! There are times when it feels like the streets of Glasgow are peopled by cave dwellers. Seriously, it's an ugly scene out there. Like Jason in his quest for the Golden Fleece, I too had to brave many perils on my way to Boots to get points added to my card. £10.40 to spend in the store, my friends. Methinks next time you see me I will be transformed by beauty aids:



Don't look at me.


Anyway, I SWEAR to god that Little Jonathan Lipnicki has (in this order) 1) bribed Doc Brown with plutonium 2) gotten a hold of the DeLorean and set that shit to take him back to 1996, his heyday in Jerry Maguire and 3) cloned that younger self, relocated to Glasgow to hang around outside the Marks and Spencer on Sauchiehall Street. There is a kid out there with a head of STAGGERING proportions that I think MUST be Lipnicki in some soft of acid-washed denim disguise. Here he is in happier times:



Sigh, 1996. What heady days (get it, HEADY? Huge headed Lipnicki?). Imagine making your screen debut alongside complete FREAKAZOID Tom Cruise and pinchy assface Zellwegger. It's no wonder he hit the pipe ASAP after wrapping. I myself would have been sucking on the tailpipe of the nearset Honda if I had to listen to 'You complete me' time and time again and see clips of T. Cruise shrieking along to Free Fallin'. However, I DO have a LOT of time for saying 'Show me the money,' which those of you who know me well, know really makes me lose my shit. SHOW ME THE MONEY!

If someone would only show me the money, I could log on to eBay and finally complete my collection of baby jug heads. They are surpisingly collectible. And rather reminiscent of the gigantic moosehead of The Lipnick.



I never realized how much I NEEDED a huge jug in the shape of the head of Martin Clunes, yet upon searching for 'baby jug head' there it was. Martin CLUNES? Yes, he was in the Inspector Morse I watched last night. Scathing stuff.


About as scathing as this social commentary below:



That's right, people, a truck from hell on doughnut wheels. Wake up, America! Obesity is driving you out of control! That said, doughnut wheels are gonna get you NOWHERE in the world of the monster truck rally. PORKSKIN wheels, yes. Doughnut wheels? Not so much.



Um, not sure how this slipped in... I am guessing probably through a HOLE IN THE TIME-SPACE CONTINUUM. Ferrets have got it alllll figured out. I have NEVER intentionally posted a photo of a ferret on this page.

Wait, I am totally lying. The point is, they are vermin.



This was just there, lounging like a bastard, smoking a fat doobie and BEGGING to be put on this page. This record cover is BASICALLY my college career in a nutshell. Except the rugs weren't that cool. And my beard was never so luxuriant. Bad water pressure in Ohio.

As per usual

My shit day the other day was SAVED by an EXCEPTIONALLY insane Inspector Morse episode. It is just so fucking good. Could it be replacing Columbo in my heart of hearts? Mmm, fat chance.

However, this particular selection was too much. First of all, and this may just blow you out of the water (I know it totally freaked ME out): Morse gets BIZZZAY! Bizz bizzay buzz buzzy bizzzz. He get the BUSINESS done. It is so gross. he FLIRTS and gives COME HITHER gazes. And then there is a whole 'morning after glow' thing where he doesn't listen to what LEWIS is saying. It's so wrong. I had to cover my eyes. Seriously. I was on the couch, squirming and covering my eyes because it was so embarrassing.

BUT the creme de la creme was the fact that this episode (Dead on Time, 1992) has in it the MOST over the top butler EVER. I mean EVER. And that is really saying something. This butler is named McGregor and has the most INSANE Scottish accent (fair enough, the actor is from Argyll), oh, and did I mention that he has AN EYEPATCH? No? Well he does.

Other famous eyepatch wearers? Anyone? Does this guy count?



He is perhaps not famous in the tradtional sense, but I feel he must be 'that guy' to a lot of people. Perhaps he is known to the police? It certainly looks like he is up to no good.




This was just a throwaway, and yet I could not hold back. Those plastic masks really freak me out. It's the lips I think. Everyone winds up looking like Tim Curry.

Speaking of whom, is it me or has he SWOLLEN?



Whoa. Back the FUCK up. Is that Tim Curry holding a mini JACKALOPE wearing a Union Jack(alope) sweater? Good GOD, man! It's as if the ALMIGHTY herself (HA! Love saying that shit, it's too cheesy, it's like I am my grade school music teacher! Sorry.) has FINALLY heard my prayers, poured a gallon of whiskey down Curry's throat, blindfolded him, spun him around 50 times, put a mini jackalope in his hand and set him loose at a cocktail party. Praise be!

Anyway, speaking of swollen actors, how did the fact that RUSH HOUR 3 came out escape my attention???



The question is, does Chris Tucker get paid more now that he has officially DOUBLED IN SIZE?