That's Just The Booze Talking

Friday, March 25, 2005

Blame it on Dio

This morning, we woke up to discover that at some point during the night, someone had taken a moment to scrawl a grotesquely huge penis in the snow on the hood of our landlord's car. Agitated and spurty, the penis was captioned: "I killed Chandra Levy." While no one can be entirely sure who was responsible for the rendering, everyone on the block believes the culprit to absolutely have been us, without a doubt. Could do without the shitty looks from the landlady, however. It's not even her car.

Oh, and about the title: We actually managed to talk our way into the pantaloons of our friend EF Slutton by bragging that we are second cousins with Ronnie James Dio. This was a long time ago, and it's never worked on another woman, but leave us with our memories, for Christ's sake. But the real reason we bring up Ron Jim Dio is that we meant to plug ex-Unband bassist Mike Ruffino's Gentlemänly Repöse, which is the Funniest Book of All Time. Ruffino toured with The Man on the Silver Mountain back in the late ‘90s, and his reconstruction of the events––we use "reconstruction" because Ruffino giddily volunteers that much of his time on the road was spent ingesting all sorts of fun chemicals and "hunkering down inside the cockpit of the most powerful drinking machine in the entire world"––is pretty much like what Hunter S. Thompson might have sounded like if he had been a Masshole metalhead who wrote songs called "(Sure Do Feel Like A) Piece of Shit" and "Retarder."

Here's a paragraph from the book. If upon reading it you do not immediately click on that link and buy the goddamned thing, you are a sorry little specimen indeed. OK: "Let me say about how we urinate. We go and buy two gallons of water at a place that has a bathroom. We use that bathroom as much as we need/can after we have drunk as much of one of the gallons of water as possible. We put whatever is left into smaller containers, which we put somewhere in the van to get nice and hot for those desert drives, leaving half an inch of water in the gallon jug. Now this is a toilet, or more specifically, a urinal. The jug we have now has a sticker on it reading, Indian Rock Spring Water. I used to sneak around when it was my turn to dump it. Now I just pour it out wherever I feel like and say what the fuck are you looking at. The other gallon jug we dump out and fill with prostitutes."

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Boxing Helena

Not much to say about this, except that the term "disorder" doesn't even begin to cover it. No, this truly calls for something a bit more emphatic, something like "crazy-ass, what the fuck, psycho hayride of dysfunction." Certainly seems to rough up the tenets at the core of the Hungry, Hungry Hippocratic Oath, at any rate.

What's really interesting about so-called Body Integrity Identity Disorder, which the Times more or less breaks down as an obsessive desire for amputation of perfectly healthy limbs, is that it appears to be a manifestation of some kind of wildly uncommon sexual deviation. Apparently there are just scores of people out there who are aroused by amputees, although we can't slot ourselves in among that number for reasons that are too deep-seated and unsettling to get into here. (OK, we'll just say it: We hate the handicapped. There. Satisfied?) Anyway, a female colleague of ours suggested that there was a certain Euclidean logic to having one's legs lopped off as, and we quote from an email exchange that must have raised all sorts of red flags among the IT Guy pod here at TJTBT HQ, "I've often thought that sex would be a lot easier without all the limbs in the way, so maybe these fine folks are onto something." She then goes on to reference a genre of adult entertainment that she calls "Burn Victim Porn." Calm down fellas––she's married.

As for us, we don't find that limbs get in the way at all, unless someone's trying to clench her thighs together, in which case we simply break out the Rophynols. [Note to our two readers, one of which is probably already alerting the authorities: Ha! We joke! We make a funny! The raping stopped in grad school!]


All of which is to say we don't want to ever get to the point that we're so bored with normal sex that we have to enlist the services of somebody who's all that dude in the bed from Metallica's "One" video. Or any dude for that matter, speed metal acolyte or not. Also, ladies, just because we indulged you that one time and played The Lucky Burglar doesn't mean we want to make a habit of it. Trust me, we already are pretending that you're somebody else** ... there's no need to get a set designer involved.

Also: Looking over this, we realize that we can no longer write a grammatically clear and simple sentence (except for this one just now, but even then we still had to go ahead and add these parentheses). Look at all the dashes and semicolons and regular colons and ellipses and brackets and footnotes. It's a blog post for Christ's sake, not EB White's Elements of Style. We, we are full of shame.

**Oddly enough, that someone else is usually 21st President Chester A Arthur, although sometimes we go easy on ourselves and it’s Janice from Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, who started off our life-long infatuation with chick bass players and explains all those Juliana Hatfield CDs we keep hidden next to that stupid Moby shit. What.