Holy Grail

Hiii!!! I'm Baaaaack! And guess what? Yes, it is true. I have fucking done it: cracked the code, stumbled through the sewers of Venice, a la Indiana Jones in The Last Crusade and found the most stankass, busted piece of artwork on the internet, ever (I fucking HOPE).



Shiiiiiit, dude. That last fucking ollie was so tight I nearly crapped my Dickies, like wow fer real.

I know! I think it has crippled me. Yes, I am now a CRIPPLE. Emotional cripple, natch... much like the cold-hearted ssssnake Jack Palance. As we see below, even as a young man, he was incapable of love.



Or perhaps that is the myth he wishes to perpetuate... when in fact never before has a man loved as loved J. Palance... right, anyway. Question: do you think Jack Palance was just really FUCKING PISSED OFF when 'Young Guns' came out?



Can't you just picture him, sharpening a knife against his cheek, madly rocking away in his chair saying 'But I WAS THERE! It wasn't like that at all!' and then managing to find a convenient spitoon into which he could void his bladder?

Yep, I knew it. And if he's anything like me (and methinks Palance might just be MY SOULMATE, spitoon and all), the thing that PISSED him off about fucking YOUNG GUNS the most was...

wait for it...



Yesss: DERMOT MULRONEY, people. Never before has one man's name caused me so much pain. I mean, is it just because I have had this recurring dream where he is old, grey-haired and wearing a turtleneck and sitting reading me little humourous snippets from the local newspaper (Brattleboro Reformer, holla!)? I swear this has happened and it fucking freaks me out. I used to think it was from a film, but then I realized IT WAS A DREAM, aka MY SUBCONSCIOUS. Am I just ashamed of this love that dare not speak its name? Hells naw!

'Prove it, Freeman!' you say, like a schoolyard bully... FINE, here goes: Mulroney, you make me SICK! Make a fucking decent movie for once, will ya? Enough of your coasting by on your fucking 'Career Opportunities' (yes, I did just bust that out) credentials. That's BALLS. I saw How to Make an American FUCKING Quilt (on a plane, aiight?) and it fucking BLEW ASS... break yourself, Mulroney, or I'll do it for you.

Whoops, did that all just happen? It did? Um, cool. I'm going to go simmer down a bit, do a bit of spelunking with my peeps.



Layyytahs!

Shit cakes

Charming, no?

Well as excited as I am to move down to London, this past weekend's events have shown that there is a fucking miserably high ratio of complete cock monocles living there. I know, right? COCK MONOCLES! I made it up! Say it five times fast! Also good is COCK WALLET. My apologies to anyone scouring the internet for particularly nasty shit using 'cock wallet' as a search term. Wait, screw the apology. Dude, you SICK.

So, what makes me say this? Welp, Daniel and I were going to see a movie in a theater in Islington (nuff said? Perhaps.) and when I got up to make my way to the bathroom (film had not started yet, in fact, it was not due to start for 15 more minutes) the two women sitting right next to us (also, btw, they came in and sat RIGHT NEXT to us- none of the customary 'I am a normal human being and therefore will leave a seat between me and the complete stranger in this row' protocol, but whatever) looked up at me as IF I had not only stolen her first born, got him hooked on crank and then pimped him out to the highest bidder, but then subsequently reached in, pulled out her stomach and with it fashioned makeshit babgpipes with which I then butchered her favorite Eric Clapton tune (Beautiful Tonight, btw. Totally. Fucking bizz-natch. I hate Clapton).

EXCUUUUUUSE THE FUCK OUT OF ME! Okay, I'm no angel... yes, I know, hard to believe. BUT STILL.

I need to direct this anger somewhere positive, like baking a giant Frito pie or donating organs. Instead, I will take it upon myself to spread the good word:



I know it is old news, I know. BUT they are coming back. I have mentioned that I saw it coming. The clues have been all around. They told us themselves in the lyrics to 'Everybody (Backstreet's Back)':

'So everybody everywhere Don't be afraid don't have no fear
Gonna tell the world
Make you understand
As long as there be music
We'll be coming back again'
Chorus (x2)

That's right y'all: 'as long as there be music.' This means- as far as I can fucking tell- this shit will never end. But honestly, were they ever really going to go away for good? A group who pens the most tender paean to the act of 'backdoor lovin' (I Want It That Way) was never going to lose popularity. Listen to the lyrics, people. They have things to tell the world, sweet backdoor things.

Si.

Yipes! Me needs something strong! A jolt to the system. But what?

Answer: This guy.



Quel fucking relief!

Decisions

I have made up my mind: if I were ever to be a Batman villain, I would HAVE to be The Penguin... if only because I feel it is my destiny to be played in a film by Danny DeVito. Yes, I think it has been foretold somehow, maybe there was a prophecy or something and somewhere an old, wise wizard in a long, white beard is gazing into some crystal ball (ew, dirty! hahahahaha!) and saying, 'Yes, it is written...'



And he has such a fucking kickass umbrella collection, I would never be left out in the rain!



That said, the whole 'searching for my true identity, having penguin flippers for hands and constantly spewing black bile' does not really appeal to me... a bit too touchy-feely, no? I am a bit more balls-out DeVito: Fucking dishevelled Panama hat wearing, steal your granny and sell her on the black market, run over your beloved dog and cure the meat and sell as bacon... again on the black market (DeVito is STRICTLY cash, y'all), raid your mother's panty drawer (ewwwwww) and- yep, you guessed it: sell that shit on the black market.



I mean, were we separataed at birth or WHAT?? Whuuuuh OH, speaking OF:



Bwahhhh! I know, easy as pie, but guess what: you were fucking begging for it. You know you were. And while we are here, who know Arnold had such huge horse teeth! I could see him in a pen at the county fair, being manhandled by men in flat caps... or maybe that's just the liquor talking. Hic!

Cheeeershhh... thithsonesferyou! Snnnnzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Days Like These

Whassup, home sliz-neeces?

That's right, I am back in effect. However the effect of which I speak has been somewhat lessened by this shocking photo



Gerrrrraldo! How has this man escaped my eagle eye for all these years? Has he been camouflaging himself in a forest of moustaches?

I will leave it at that for right now, as I am gathering my strength to let loose the lion, people. Be aware.

Watch this space.

I Mean Business

Hiiii! Happy Thanksgiving! I know, I know, this shit has been going downhill for some time now. I'm not my usual grim-ass self. I've been busy, what can I say? Get off my fucking BACK!

I got a job, which is good news BUT I have a sneaking suspicion it is a place that will require me to wear 'slacks' which means my Awesomeness Quotient will PLUMMET.

BUT it's not all doom and gloom, peepers! Who says I cannot still be stylish while collating, stapling and answering YOUR calls? Here are some sweet slacks below...



Ooooh, they look COMFY, n'est-ce pas? Room to grow! Talk about EATIN' PANTS! I mean DAMN! I could keep a whole potroast in there! Or maybe some other form of tough, gristled meat:



And yes, I AM talking about Brian Blessed! Ha! Two snaps! Take that, Bee-rye!
Anyhoo, stars of stage and screen aside, here I am kicking ass and taking names in a hot olive drab combo:



That's me in the back! The guy in front is just a mental patient who lives nearby. He wanders in from time to time and I have to spoon feed him Jell-O and stroke his hair until he settles down enough to be taken home. So yes, you're right: it's not unlike my budding romance with unholy mess of a human being Mickey Rourke!



The man looks like fucking ROADKILL. Any minute now Jeff Foxworthy is going to come, scoop him up and serve him to his family of eight-legged inbred dwarf children. God bless America!

So... right. Um, now to break the tension... an image of the most phallic flower EVER SEEN:



I KNOW! I am blushing. Ahem! Shhhpeaking of rrromance:



Haven't you always dreamed of getting busy in what looks to be the aqua therapy room of some hospital for the incurably pale and pasty... for some reason I imagine this little scene is happening on the famed Island of Dr. Moreau and any minute my HOMESLEEECE Brando is going to arise from the churning, roiling bubbles with some freakish manimal perched on his shoulder to tell us all that A Storm Is Coming... or something equally as cryptic.



God, he's just so fucking PIMP, it doesn't even matter that all the coke he has done in his life is now coming to the surface and painting him a permanent Charlie White (good thing it's not heroin, as 'Charlie Brown' has been taken already. Mwah hahaha). The man can do what he wants.



Peep him here, minding his own, doing some crocheting- because HE FUCKING CAN.

And, to end on a high note:



'I can has flesh of first born?'

Bwwwahahahahah!

Smooches!

Here I am kissing Dustin Hoffman!



Just kidding! Bwahhh! Ha! Hahahahaha! Whatta laff riot! LOL!

Anyway, a survey: what is your opinion of the kiss hello?

I generally am not a 'kiss hello' person, unless I know you VERY well.... basically I will not kiss hello unless we're just going to go ahead and HAVE SEX, because why start something you're not going to finish?

WAH wah wah! That's what happens when I drink at lunchtime, people: pearls of wisdom. Nahhh, I only said that because SEX SELLS.

Hence my URGENT NEED to run out and buy these penis-shaped cheese curls:



Hello there, little pilgrim! I know, right? Talk about a fucking miracle. A tiny little gift from the Cheese Curl Gods and their SICK ASS sense of humor. Imagine sticking your chubby hand deep, deep down into a bag of cheese curls and coming up with this little treasure! Then smacking your cheesy lips and licking your orange fingers. You sick BASTARD. What the fuck is WRONG with you?

Perhaps, as a child, cheese curls were forced upon you?



Maybe you starred in a for-kids, by-kids musical comedy about triumphing over adversity and STUFFING YOUR FAT FACE full of CRAP. (That said, I could totally HOUSE a hot dog right now... call me CRAZY... especially a tofu pup with mustard AND ketchup- the Murtaugh and Riggs of the condiment world, with a little relish thrown in, as Joe Pesci was thrown into the HORROR that was Lethal Weapon 3). I have done my time in the musical theater world and it is no fucking picnic... but the whole plays written BY CHILDREN is just going one step too far, and enough to turn anyone to a life of crime, or morbid obesity.

Anyway, back to kissing hello/goodbye and just plain getin' down to BIDNESS. The Kiss Goodbye is not so bad, because at least then the person is leaving and you can wipe your mouth or cheek (as is so often necessary with you Sloppy Joes out there) without mortally offending anyone. I always like to throw things off a bit by slipping a little tongue- talk about a fond farewell! Anyone else with me? Yes. THIS GUY:



We have a lot in common in many ways, don't you think? Not just casual tonguing in the alley/restroom... a little list springs to mind: a love of sarongs, hard liquor, long walks on the beach, 'casual encounters', club drugs, floppy hair, lacrosse, Old Spice, boat drinks, boat shoes, the films and life of Chris Farley... oh, you know, the usual things you talk about when you meet your SOUL MATE.

Speaking of soul mates, here I am smooching with Dennis Hopper. Some people say I look a bit like Laurence Fishburne. Bushwah, says I! Just because I'm a bit stocky and know how to handle myself... it was HELL when The Matrix came out.



I love the limelight, and it loves me!

Let's Try Something New!

Hi there! I'm feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today, don't know why... but who am I to ask, eh? EH? Before this good mood dissipates, I thought I would show you some of my childhood pics!




PSSSYYYYYCHE! I really had you going there, didn't I? BwAHHHH ha ha ha! Damn, foolz, sure I had a bowl cut, but PUH-leeze! I didn't work at KMART as a child, for fuck's sake! Okay okay, for real this time. Here I am feeling summery:




Hooooohohohohohohoho! It just gets better every time! Zing! THAT'S not me, you BOZO! Though I am a sultry one... ew. Sorry, but LOOK at that photos. How creepy is it? Little slice of MADNESS!

Welp, anyhoo, here I am below, sittin' back chillaxing with what is the best bowl east of the Mississippi. Step up, folks, take GOOD look. You're not going to see shit like this very often. It's like a blue moon... or a Yeti.



What? You doubt the veracity of my statement? Well FUCK all y'all! I'm proud of my chubby, bowl-cutted self. Sportin' like there ain't no tomorrow.... ah, once again death creeps into this pretty painted picture. Such is life, mes amis.

RIGHT: as winter edges closer and we all huddle around the fire I like to look back on images of summer. Here I am on holiday.



Laaaaaiiiid back. Nothing like some fresh melonz. Inspired by my HERO, psycho freak props comic Gallagher, I decided to a go a bit 'Melon Crazy' myself:



Tee hee! I KNOW, right? Fucking comic genius. I need to LAUGH more, man. THAT'S my problem: I live my life in a world without laughter, slogging to work under a black cloud, well FUCK IT. This shit is gonna BREAK LOOSE. Bust ou the HAPPY JUICE, cause I'm going on a BENDER!



Waaaahhhh! Crazy plastic bowl cut wig! I Fucking AYYYYY, man! Now just close your eyes and picture me, but smaller... a bit blonder, looking even more like the Campbell's Soup Kids with that shit on my head. Because it was for REAL. I can feel it now, the cold metal of the bowl against my ears, the slice of the scissors and, LO! A fresh bowl cut is born.

Okay, this has totally gotten away from me, so I am going to wrap shit up and end this with a little dignity still intact:



'Plush leetle tyyyygers, my friendz! Ja! I use them to BUFF zee wreeenklez avay, und den I tayke dem and PLUNGE zem in zee Reeeeever! ahh hah hah ha hahahahaha. But sssssssh, for Roy, he does not KNOW zat I do zis. Nein, he ist very attached to zees little liebchens. He is SOFT und vill someday REALIZE zat he is VEAK! So for now it ist chust our little seceret. ja? Gut.... EHHHRRRRR gut.'

It's Official

Yes, I'm in the market for some new pajamas, people.

Nothing too complicated, nothing frilly... just something DIGNIFIED.



These young chaps have managed to avoid some of the most common PJ PITFALLS:



DAY-UMN, looka that ASS! Yep, totally spotted that wide load a mile away. This is what a life time of Twinkies, pot roast and the cozy feeling of flannel pajamas on skin will do to you. You become complacent, sure that life is filled only with joy, puppies, moonbeams and honeydew melons... it expands your ass beyond belief. I myself have only ever eaten one Twinkie. It was on the first (and only) real date I ever went on. Let me tell you this, fellas: a Twinkie will not get you to first base. A Twinkie will not even get you into the gates of the stadium. A Twinkie will leave you outside, across the road in the scary bar where the guys who have been kicked out of the bleachers are forced to go to watch the game, eating pig's feet and scratching their crabs-ridden crotches.... whoa. Mem'ries, eh? Ha! The folly of youth.

Where was I? Ohhh, right:

PJ Pitfalls:



What else do bad pajamas do? They make you OLD! And when you are old life is HELL. Old-on-old crime! Look at that shit. She might as well be lashing that poor old lady with a whip! Tender, papery old person skin, torn by the wrath of organised calisthenics! Look at those two gabbing in the back, perhaps planning a prison break. Fat chance, girls. You're in for life... not that it'll be that much longer. Haw haw! Get it? They'll DIE soon! Cause they're OLD.

Anyway, just kidding. I love old peeps. The stories, the cardigans, the ear-horns, the Werthers. Everything about them just screams 'LOVE ME!' I can't wait to be old. I will eat All-Bran and bore people with my stories... hmm, come to think of it, I am already ahead of the game! ZING! Oooh, that hurt.

But seriously, folks. Some people think when you grow old you stop thinking about your appearance, well not THIS snowbird! Hells naw. I have always been one for a meticulously made up face, taking excruciating pains over my hair and nails... this shall not change:



What? Do I have something in my teeth? Bwahahahahaha!!!!

Anyway, when I am old I shall live by the sea: my tanned, puckered flesh a reflection of summers past. Maybe I will open a slushy stand! Fuck yeah, get my snacks on and pad around in my mumu...



Fuck off, Mr. Grey Flannel Suit! I'm living the dream and thinking outside the box. LIVE IN THE NOW! Fuck the MAN!
Innywhoooo, yep. When I am old, I will be wise, and I shall impart my wisdom via small messages rolled inside poisoned darts, which I will shoot from a blowpipe as I sit in my mortar board and gown (I'm a fucking COLLEGE GRADUATE, people) in a rocking chair by the window, a warm glass of Bosco by my side, and a large-print copy of a Ruth Rendell mystery novel on my lap.



Mmm hmm, there I am, cap, gown and all. This young feller has ignored my sage advice, and as punishment I am going to burnish his fair skin to a high shine with the bottle brush that is my moustache. Umm, hold on, that sounds way too wrong. INSTEAD I will make him my personal butler; a young house boy charged with catering to my every whim and- wait... that's not right either, is it? FINE: he's off the hook THIS TIME.

So, to sum it up, not much is going to change. I will still be a hard-drinking, line-blowing, snake-charming, hush puppy-wearing, peanut butter and jelly sandwich-eating monstrosity- much like Brando towards the end of his life: bloated, washed up on a beach somewhere, dressed in cheesecloth, rolling around in my own filth waiting for the cabana boy to bring my tranquilizers and a mai-tai.

I will end with a snap of me and the gals at the home. Smooches!

Disappointment

What is the flavor of disappointment? Banana muffins. I made muffins last night. I went 'off book' so to speak, and did it sans recipe and also without my beloved measuring cups and spoons, basically I used my hands and a plastic spoon. Yep, I fucking winged it. And boy did I pay. These muffins suck. They are like rubbery grenades. I used too much flour, too little sugar and butter. And no vanilla. I had to send an email warning Bob not to eat them.

I ate one for breakfast and I feel ill.

Speaking of muffins:



Down he goes! Shoot the chute! Not that I am poking fun at Mr. Muffin Top here, but after having such an unfortuante muffin experience, I feel the need to take out my anger on someone who cannot defend themself- isn't that what everyone does?

Good, knew I wasn't the only one! Follow me down the primrose path, people. Together we can make magic.



Has the world ever seen such a shambles as Gary Busey? I mean, the man ROCKED in 'Point Break.' I defy anyone to deny it. While Swayze and Reeves were loving it up against the sticky sex wax of a surf board, Busey (or 'Pappas' as he was known in the film) kept things ticking the fuck over: expressing his feelings for chili dogs, free love and catching waves- not necessarily in that order. Just when Keanu Reeves's Johnny Utah was in danger of 'expelling his weapon' at his new best pal and taking things down the tender drama route, Angelo Pappas was there to take one for Team Comedy- busting out the jams and surf shirt combo and shaggy dog story... and how was he repaid? Two to the chest. Busey- thank you.

BUT, while doing the necessary research into Busey's career since PB, I have stumbled upon perhaps the MOST amazing sounding movie ever (featuring Gary Busey):

The Hand Job (2005) 'Steven and Ben are slackers, but are hyper-competitive when it comes to beating each other. When their boss, Mike Hand, unexpectedly quits, Steven and Ben become the unlikely frontrunners for "the Hand job," a promotion neither of them wants. But if one of them is promoted, it would mean that one best friend would be working for the other. Fearing that, their competitive natures set off a crude, no-holds barred fight to the finish in which no co-worker, senior citizen, pet rodent or deli sandwich is spared.'

Please: anything with 'no-holds barred fight to the finish' and 'deli sandwich' in its summary has my name written ALL over it. Is this the fucking story of my LIFE???? And who did they get to write the script- Hemmingway? It sounds fucking PERFECT! And that title: The Hand Job! What subtle double entendre... worthy of Dorothy Parker herself, or even Oscar Wilde... it's LIKELY that this film was actually an previosuly unknown work by one of these literary luminaries and has only now been given the attention it really deserves.

It's been a while since I was really excited about a film, but this has really captured my attention. Imagine going to the cinema and saying 'Yeah, two for HAND JOB, please.' Bwahhhh hahahahahaha! Hats off!

Ohhh, I needed that. I feel young again, ready to-



ahhhhhhhhhhhh! Fuck! I KNEW there was something I was forgetting. Some creeping spectre of my former evil deeds... and he has found me. Ready to exact payment for my reckless past. I have not been a good person, I am afraid. I know, right? Quel shockaroonsters! I have knocked over old ladies, cursed at babies and punched puppies in their little faces, not to mention the drug-running, arms dealing and wiping out an entire nest of koalas. Fuck you, KOALAS!

And now Busey The Younger has come for my mortal soul.
Oh wellz, do as I say, not as I do, peeps... and make sure someone waters my plants!

Hahhahahah! LOL LOL!!! JK folks, OMG IMHO TTFN! I am so joking! Ha! I never did that shit, that was my evil twin, Tarah Freeman seen below breaking into a nursing home to plant a stinkbomb:




Bitch. We don't even look that much alike, right? She is Matthau to my Lemmon (though, let's face it- if anyone gets to be Matthau twill be my good self), Delta Burke to my Dixie Carter (yesssss, I did just bust out Designing Women- was that wrong?)... Rue McClanahan to my Betty White, Mel Gibson to my Danny Glover.

Fuck, has GIBSON fucking wormed his way in here again?



There he is, rolling up his sleeves ready to get to work RUINING MY LIFE. Nice try, beeyatch, but I have booked you a ticket on this one-way flight to HELL.



Welcome aboard!

Poopstaz!

It has finally happened, people. My soul is dying... seen here taking the shape of a mutant tomato.



Yep, c'est moi! And please notice the very possibly mutant human behind that tomato. Talk about the grim visage of death!Boo yah! But seriously, what has caused this change in me? What has turned my brown eyes blue (they're still brown, don't worry!)... well, that is to come, but what does my soul really look like? I sometimes feel it looks like this:



a pair of extremely sadass looking tacos, heaped to the brim with orange cheese. Life is a constant disappointment. Then you die.

Anyway, why am I so down in da dumpz? Ohhhh, I dunno, maybe because:



Richard Dreyfuss looks better in short-sleeved plaid than I do! AND looks better with a straight-up bible salesman side-parting as well!


He also looks better in fucking DENIM than I do, despite the shaggy ass do and John Lennon glasses, and to add insult to injury...



Burt Reynolds stole my motherfucking bearskin rug, got all naked and just rolled around on it, spreading the OODLES of nasty cooties you know are crawling around on that slimy surface of his.

Talk about kicking me when I'm fucking DOWN, Burt. And, sorry about that image, which will now be burned on your brains...not that you now have it as your DESKTOP IMAGE or anything... no no.

When I returned home to find my bearskin rug had been snaffled and in its place was only a single white glove, a bottle of Burt's Original Musk and a letter with a drawing of a lady's ass on it, I fucking flipped out and went Rain Man.



I'm better now, but have to warn you, I think I slipped a disc.



I'll never tango again.