That's Just The Booze Talking

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Picture Acid That Has Itself Dropped Acid and You’re Halfway There



That’s our only reaction to this, which is further proof that no one at the Observer can be bothered to edit Rosenbaum’s copy, largely because no one at the Observer actually wants to put themselves in a position where they have to read a word of his inane bloviating. Twelve hundred words to come to the conclusion that Curb Your Enthusiasm has “jumped the whitefish”? That’s the stupidest goddamn thing we’ve ever read anywhere, and we once took a peek at that James Frey man-abortion while we were waiting for a friend at the Barnes & Noble. Seriously, and we’ll say this in our best French accent: What in ze fuck?

Dreams Are Free Motherfucker! (Mach II)



You didn’t hear this from us, and if you tell anyone we told you we’ll be forced to come over to your house and high tank* you in front of your children and loved ones, but they are giving out free TiVos tomorrow at the Javits Center starting at noon. You’ll still have to pay the $12.95 monthly subscription price, but goddamnit all, the unit itself is F-R-E-E, just like shoplifted candy bars and the MetroCard you stole from that girl’s dresser after you made that fumbling, drunken cameo inside her Shameful Baby Area.

Also, and like you care: For reasons that are wholly unknown to us, the other day we were talking to our own personal moms about the Olsen twins and even though she’s not exactly what you’d call pop-culture savvy––she thinks the Velvet Underground is some kind of place where people go to buy pastries shaped like Linus and can never recall the name of the host of Wheel of Fortune, so she just says “the guy that looks like the giant badger”––she made a pretty shrewd observation. She said that given the fact that they’re the exact same size, why did only one of them have to go to Barfing Pines for anoerexia treatment last year? We explained the booger sugar angle, and once she figured out what we were talking about she said, “I don’t like it that you go around using nicknames for cocaine.” Heh.

You know, you don’t want to come off all Lou Reed with your moms. Years ago, we made the mistake of telling her a story about eating an entire half-gallon of maple walnut ice cream, which we don’t even like, and she asked us why we’d do such a thing and we were all, Oh, that was back when we used to smoke more pot than Cheech, Chong, Cypress Hill and Harrison Ford all wrapped up in one tidy and stoned package. For some reason, we thought there was some kind of statute of limitations on Doing Bad Stuff and that if the Bad Stuff were far enough back in the past, the moms wouldn’t get all cheesed off. Wrong again. And so for about a month our dad would call us Freedom Rock, which was admittedly pretty hysterical.

One good thing about all this is now we can tell the Olsen twins apart. For the uninitiated, Ashley is the Big Fat One.

*This is what you call it when you go to someone’s house and poop inside the toilet tank, ensuring that every time someone flushes, tiny particles of your excrement appear in the bowl like the ghost of Barbara Bel Geddes is playing spooky tricks with her asshole from beyond the grave. Eventually, they have to throw the toilet away.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Son of Bitch. This is Suck.



So Mike Mussina turned the Yankee’s postseason carriage into a rotting heap of coyote vaginas, as is his wont, while A-Rod’s bat up and died like Spock at the end of Wrath of Khan. Matters were made worse when a sprinting Gary Sheffield, apparently on his way to the Cotton Club to go see Duke Ellington––seriously; dude looks like he should be wearing a zoot suit and a floppy pimp hat with that fucking 1930s Ralph Ellison mustache he’s got going on––smashed into a rhubarb from Texas named Bubba and ruined our lives forever. Fuck it. That’s why the Good Lord invented ham radio. Or something.

But in saying peace out to the 2005 campaign, it’s time to look forward into the swirling mists of The Future. Herewith, a few brief notes about what lies in store for some of your favorite Bronx Bombers:

1) Bernie Williams. Gads, it’ll be weird not to see Bernie gimping around in centerfield, kind of like renting Superman III and discovering that Richard Pryor has been CGI’d out of the picture and replaced by Gary Sandy. (We said kind of.) But good news for those of us who love Bernie but hate watching him throw to the cut-off man with his raggedy girl arm: Seems like the Bronx’s answer to Ruben Blades is hard at work on a follow-up to his 2003 CD, The Journey Within, cutting a track-by-track cover record of Big Black’s Songs About Fucking. (Bernie’s version will be titled Canciones Sobre Coger and the CD insert will, for reasons that remain shrouded in mystery, feature a picture of Pat Metheny eating popcorn with his rectum.)

2) Hideki Matsui. We sent an email to Hideki’s official fan club, Hi Hi Happy Fun Hideki Godzilla Bukkake Hi Hi, asking what the Yankee leftfielder had on the back burner for the off-season. The response, from the man himself:

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3) Kevin Brown. The oft-injured hurler will spend much of the coming winter yelling at neighborhood kids to stay the fuck off his goddamn lawn.

4) George Steinbrenner. Let’s not beat around the proverbial Kate Bush here, people. Bad things are happening underneath that turtleneck right now, and if we were Joe Torre, we wouldn’t bother to return that copy of Erma Bombeck’s seminal volume If Life is a Bowl of Cherries … Then What Am I Doing In This Christ-Humping Coffin? to the Tarrytown Public Library. The town librarian can thank A-Rod, Matsui, Sheffield, Mussina, Giambi and Bernie for the loss. At any rate, our spies tell us that King George has descended into a sort of pre-Alzheimer’s dementia praecox, and is so far gone that he has nightly colloquies with his turds, like that guy in The Corrections. Look for him to fire Brian Cashman, Randy Levine, Torre and replace them all with whoever the fuck wrote “Cotton-Eyed Joe.”

5) Jason Giambi. Juicy Jay’s spokesmuppet didn’t get back to us in time for this post, but an edumacated guess has the first baseman CRANKING THE RAP-ROCK AND POPPIN’ WHEELIES ON MURDERCYCLES!!! Yay, Slipknot! These rad activities will be punctuated by moments of sudden, blinding rage and finally getting to that secret screen on the sit-down version of Ms. Pac-Man (wogga wogga), the one where she totally shows her tits to Inky and Clyde. Also; SLIPKNOT!!!!!

6) Jorge Posada. Grows chin. Promotional opportunities follow.

Anyway.

Now that we think about it, there is something positive that we can take away from last night’s debacle in The Los Angeles Angels Stadium of Anaheim, California, 92812. At least Giuliani is all sad this morning. And maybe Billy Crystal will hang himself. See? Upside everywhere you look.

Monday, October 10, 2005

Glengarry Glen Fenway



Thanks to a number of external factors that are utterly outside of our sphere of influence, we are feeling poorly today. In fact, if we had to draw a rough sketch of our malaise, we’d say that we feel like we’re having someone else’s period right now. The chunky kind. Either we’re going to run out and spend $3,000 on shoes [Oh, like that would happen.--ed.] or we’re going to buzz over to the receptionist’s desk and gossip about that BITCH WENDY IN ACCOUNTING WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS THAT FUCKING DIRTY HO-BAG SKANK. Or maybe we’ll start crying for no good goddamn reason.

At any rate, our sad and tired little parody is just our feeble way of saying Boston sucks. Now take off the hat, fold the Big Papi T-shirt away in a drawer and remain silent until the Spring thaw. Or the Super Bowl. Or whatever it is you fuckers boast about when you’re not hanging out at Reveahuh Beach with Sully and Fitzy.

Sakebomb: Let me have your attention for a moment! So you’re talking about what? You’re talking about…bitching about that ALDS series you shot, some son of a bitch that doesn’t want to Cowboy Up, some broad you’re trying to screw and so forth. Let’s talk about something important.

Keith Foulke gets up to grab a cup of coffee.

Put that coffee down! Coffee’s for closers only. Do you think I’m fucking with you? I am not fucking with you. I’m here from Yawkey Way. I’m here from Henry and Werner. And I’m here on a mission of mercy. Your name’s Foulke?

Foulke: Yeah.

Sakebomb: You call yourself a closer, you son of a bitch?

Foulke: I don’t have to listen to this shit.

Sakebomb: You certainly don’t pal. ‘Cause the good news is you’re traded. Oh, have I got your attention now? Good. ‘Cause we’re adding a little something to this year’s World Series race. As you all know, first prize is a ring and bragging rights for an entire year. Plus, you get to fuck really, really hot college girls. Anyone want to see second prize? Second prize’s a guest stint on Queer Eye. Third prize is you’re traded. You get the picture? You’re laughing now? You got a solid five-man rotation. You’ve got Ortiz and Manny. Henry and Werner paid good money. You can’t close the games you’re given, you can’t close shit, you ARE shit, hit the bricks pal and beat it ‘cause you are going out!

Foulke: The starting pitchers are weak.

Sakebomb: The starting pitchers are weak? Fucking starters are weak? You’re weak.

Foulke: What’s your name?

Sakebomb: Fuck You, that’s my name! And you can’t play in a man’s game. You can’t close them. And you go home and tell your wife your troubles. Because only one thing counts in this life! Get them to swing at the ball that is seamed! You hear me, you fucking faggots?

Millar: You’re such a hero, why you coming down here and waste your time on a bunch of bums? Also, I think someone forgot to Cowboy Up.

Sakebomb: To answer your question, pal: why am I here? I came here because Henry and Werner asked me to, they asked me for a favor. I said, the real favor, follow my advice and trade your fucking ass because a loser is a loser.

OK, you get the point. More later. Maybe.