- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Thursday, July 30, 2015
What are the worst dinosaurs of all time? This question has plagued my thoughts for many moons. Let us take a comprehensive look at the evidence.
The star of the classic children's film The Land Before Time, Little Foot is a poorly-animated Apatosaurus that leads a rag-tag band of herbivorous dinosaurs to the land of milk and honey or some shit. I'll let you guys in on a little secret: I wanted Sharptooth to eat all of those wimpy dinos. As a child, I cried when he died. Of course, I did the same thing when Shredder died at the end of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Maybe I was a little sociopath. Doesn't matter. Little Foot still sucks.
Second offender(s)--Jurassic Park's Velociraptors
Made famous by the blockbuster film, velociraptor entered the public consciousness and is now one of the best-known dinosaurs. Unfortunately, the animal depicted in Jurassic Park doesn't exist. Spielberg super sized "raptors" in order to make them more intimidating. The real velociraptor was dog-sized and covered in feathers. You could probably beat one to death with your hands.
Ostensibly a dinosaur, or maybe a giant turtle, King Koopa sucks because he can't defeat a plumber who's an Italian stereotype. Yeah, I know Mario is high on mushrooms or pcp, but use those claws, Bowser. You're embarassing yourself. Drown him in a bowl of spaghetti or something if you have to.
Fourth Offender(s)--Dinosaurs participating in erotic fiction
Not much to say here, really. I don't condone inter-species relations. Sorry, I guess I'm just old fashioned in that way. All the dinosaurs involved should be ashamed of themselves.
Fifth Offender--Barney and his entire family
Supposedly a Tyrannosaurs Rex, Barney has delighted children and horrified their parents for years. Whose idea was it to make a purple dinosaur? Prince's? Why must children be subjugated to the retarded recitations of an anthropomorphic beastie? I dunno, man. I hope a real T. Rex somehow comes back to life and devours Barney and his entire family. Wouldn't that be rad? Now I'm depressed that that will never happen.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
In small town Hillsdale, Indiana, high school English teacher William Jameson has a dark secret: he has made a graveyard deal with an eater of the living and the dead. The object of his affection, fellow teacher Loretta Mendez, is marrying loutish cop Doug Hepburn, and meek and mild Will has no other recourse but to appeal to an amorphous evil that he does not understand. When Patrolman Hepburn kills an innocent man and goes missing, no one suspects Will but his student Dwight Howard, who must deal with his own supernatural encounter as well as a budding romance between him and his best friend's girl. What follows is a chronicle of infatuation, teenage love, and weird horror.
Get it here.
Monday, July 27, 2015
We live in a politically-correct world, and one of the consequences of that fact is that free speech is stymied. It is very easy to offend someone in today's America. Let me tell you all what offends me so that you all can get busy and make sure I'm never offended again.
Sam's Club--Hitler and Walmart got together to create the perfect fascist/capitalist dream. You walk in and a geriatric (Walmart has their souls) asks to see your special Sam's Club ID. Nothing is really discounted, the aisles full of paper plates and dog food. It is a cavernous place, similar to the innards of a monstrous beast. When you exit, they check your receipt to make sure you didn't steal anything. What you don't know is that they stole something from you.
Pop music--Might as well just list music in general now. Once you reach the age of thirty, pop music sounds like it was made by morons for morons. Maybe it was always this way. Maybe listening to the lyrics of some idiot twenty-year-old really gets your goat once you're thirty. I dunno.
People wearing baseball caps slightly twisted sideways--Back in my day, we wore our caps either to the front, or to the back. Nothing makes any sense anymore.
Teenagers--They roam around the neighborhood, looking for things to fuck up. They skate their skateboards in the park at late hours. Sometimes they throw rocks at your house. I'm afraid that I'm going to go out there and start ripping arms off like Grendel in Heorot. Can't we like lock them all up until they're twenty?
Grotesquely fat people--I understand that not everyone can look like Brad Pitt or whatever supermodel is currently hot. That's no excuse for resembling a bloated cow. Stop stuffing hamburgers in your face for long enough to realize that you're disgusting, and that maybe you should start making different life choices.
Bumper stickers--If you have a bumper sticker on your car, you should be shot.
Door to door religious salesmen--You don't know anymore about the truth of the universe than anyone else. If there is a god, I'm pretty sure it doesn't give a shit whether you believe in leprechauns or hoods for women, or whatever.
People who don't like animals--People who just like people are oddities that should be studied in a zoo.
People who think they have to be armed at all times--Who are you? Are you so important that Putin's sending assassins to murder your family? Nobody's going to shoot you, dumb ass. If a crisis breaks out, it's likely that you are not going to respond well under pressure. You have no training. You are an imbecile.
Politicians--They should all be put into camps.
Vegans--They should all be put into camps.
Loud motorcycles--Please continue to not wear a helmet.
Anything or anyone that does not conform to my ridiculous set of standards--I know everything, you know nothing. I am always right. There is no admitting wrongdoing in America. It is always someone else's fault. Responsibility is a foreign concept. Honor exists only in fiction.
If I think of anything else, I'll let everyone know.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
I'm about to publish a horror novel called In the Depths of the Valley on Kindle. Written almost two years ago, it tells the tale of a love-struck teacher named William Jameson, who makes a covenant with a graveyard creature that doesn't turn out too well (spoilers). This book is sort of a reliving of high school; Mr. Jameson teaches in a small town, and his students have similar adventures to my own at that age. In preparation for its publication, I'm sharing a short chapter. The main character in this chapter is Doug Hepburn, a good ol' boy cop, who is engaged to Loretta Mendez, the object of Will's affection.
Doug Hepburn sits in his patrol car, listening to the sounds of the night while sipping from a thermos half-full of beer. He’s parked on the side of the highway, lights off, radar gun sitting unused in the seat next to him. Every couple minutes the silence is disturbed by the roar of a passing car, headlights glowing around the wooded hillside like will-o’-the wisps, and Patrolman Hepburn stirs from his drinking and fumbles for the radar gun. They are always speeding—late night gamblers, truck drivers, hillbillies—but Hepburn rarely chooses to chase them, not when he’s drinking. The humidity is nearly unbearable, and the night brings no breeze. Hepburn takes a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lights it with a match. His head aches a little, and the air is draining all the moisture out of his body, but he likes sitting by the roadside alone. Sometimes he talks to himself, a habit he’s kept secret for years. Loretta doesn’t know that he drinks and smokes and talks to invisible people, which is fine with Patrolman Hepburn, because there are things that shouldn’t be shared with anyone, he believes, even your fiancée. There is a front, a professional face, as well as a home face, the face of tenderness, and then there is the true self, the private self, the self that is inward and raw and unintelligible, the part that speaks with screams and ground teeth, with kicks and punches thrown at shimmering whispers, things that float and smile out of the gloom, horrors with no form and malevolent purpose, seeking souls that are lost, hungry, and sad.
The radio kicks on, mumbling police jargon, ruining the stillness. Hepburn chucks his beer can out the window and hears it clatter down the bank and into the river. Smells drift up from it, stagnant odors of mud and rotting fish. "Cesspool," says Hepburn to something off in the corner of his vision. "Slough, skeleton, fall into a heap." It vanishes as soon as he speaks, but it isn’t really gone. Neither is the smell.
Patrolman Hepburn opens the door and gets out of his car. It is a rural wasteland out here, the river to the south, a road traveling up a steep hill to the north, woods going east and west along the highway back to town. He takes his pistol out of its holster and twirls the gun around his index finger. I could shoot at the next car, he thinks, walking across the highway. Broken glass and fast food wrappers crunch beneath his boots, the trash of pigs, of fat, useless gluttons content to feed out of troughs. It’s hard for him to talk to them, the porcine beasts, whenever he has to pull them over, hard to look at them, to take their licenses out of their greasy hands. He puts his gun back in its holster and starts to climb up the hill.
The hill’s elevation increases quickly, and soon Hepburn is panting. He remembers running this hill during football practice in high school as part of a hellish conditioning routine designed to weed out the weak. Though still young, he’s not quite in the same shape he was, and this fact enters his mind as he wheezes up the incline. What am I doing? Where am I going? Patrolman Hepburn isn’t really sure. He seems to be seized by strange impulses more and more these days, impulses that come out of the fuzzy nether regions of his brain and steer him with unknown purpose. There has to be a purpose, he thinks, Doug Hepburn not being a man who believes in random occurrences. In his lucid moments, he thinks back to his one-way conversations and impulsive behavior and wonders if he suffers from schizophrenia or some other brain disorder. Can you tell if you’re crazy? he thinks, stopping near the summit to rest and breathe. The night answers him with the throb of locusts, pulsating like a wild beating heart. Up here at the top Hepburn can see acres of forest and the blinking lights of a barge crawling up the winding Ohio. Is this what I came for? A nice view? A mosquito lands on his forehead, but he doesn’t attempt to kill it. A deer carcass rots a few feet away, filling the night’s air with rank, sweet fumes. Hepburn considers investigating it, maybe to push it off the shoulder, but he pinches his nostrils and doesn’t move. I should be doing something better, he thinks, without pondering what. Coach used to make us run till we puked, then we’d go and do drills, which you never could remember, you stupid bastard. Never got the patterns down. He spits to his right, aiming at the deer. Headlights climb up the hill, moving in-between lanes like a drunken snake. Drunk sonsabitches, Hepburn concludes as a beater truck rushes by. Loretta can make sense of it all; she’s smarter than me. She can take care of the mumbling and the shapes. I don’t even need to tell her because she knows when something’s wrong.
One of the shapes is by the deer carcass, sniffing and pawing at the dead meat. This one has a long head and a snout with heavy jaws full of triangular teeth, white and glowing even in the murk. Hepburn is scared of this one; it has a bad vibe to it, the whisper of decay allowed to fester and bloom. "Fungal, reptile, diseased," babbles Hepburn suddenly, before clamping a hand over his mouth. The creature snickers—its laugh is raw and dirty, infected somehow—and Hepburn gets the sense that this one is worse than his other hallucinations, this one knows, it knows and thinks and walks and talks without words, and then it’s moving toward him on hairy paws (they never move toward me, they always linger just out of sight) and Hepburn stumbles further up the hill, trying to remember something about bears (do you run up the hill or down the hill?) as his heart races and legs climb. What can I do what can I do what can I do he thinks, never looking behind him, he can’t look at it, that would be the worst thing to do, he has to put some distance between this thing and him, so he sprints across the road, pausing suddenly to stare as great moonshapes appear out of the darkness, climbing as he climbs. Let them see me let them see me, he thinks, frozen wide-eyed as the twin satellites grow closer and closer. He wants to look away, but he cannot move, some wire has been clipped and he’s as dead as a stone, dead as that deer the thing was eating, and when the moonshapes greet him he’ll be on the shoulder like the carcass, life ebbing away and leaving only bloat, stink, and carrion. It’s what I want, he realizes, listening to that inner self that waits and speaks to shadows. Rubber squeals and the moonshapes veer away from him, and Hepburn sees for just a split second it, the nameless carrion eater, black and vague and eyeless as it hits the front of the truck and slides beneath it. The truck stops and a man gets out, yelling and cursing, coming at Hepburn, who is staring at the darkness lying motionless beneath the front tires, and all of a sudden the wire connects and he’s Patrolman Hepburn and a gun is in his hand and the man is silent and holding his hands up.
"I was running," he says, pointing beneath the truck with his gun. "You hit it."
"Hit what?" says the man. He’s wearing a trucker hat and a flannel shirt with cigarettes in the pocket.
"Tell me what you see under there," says Hepburn.
"Am I under arrest?" asks the man. "I was just driving, I wasn’t crossing the road in the middle of the—"
"Look under the goddamn truck and tell me what you see," interrupts Hepburn. The man is more or less a kid, a thin trace of a mustache visible on his upper lip.
"Was it a dog?"
"Tell me what you see."
The man complies, moving awkwardly to his knees to peer beneath the vehicle. Hepburn waits, his pulse rising, positive that it will lash out with those triangular teeth and seize upon the man’s throat, he’s almost hoping for it, for validation for years of formless shapes and disembodied voices and words that come bubbling up out of some hard, dark place. His gun is trained, his finger on the trigger. If a truck couldn’t kill it, how could a bullet?
"There’s nothing under here," says the man. "I don’t see nothing."
"You sure?" says Hepburn, nausea spreading from his stomach.
"Positive," says the man, turning to look at him. His eyes have disappeared, leaving only sunken skin, and as he smiles Hepburn sees that his teeth are jagged little triangles, stained red and covered with bits of flesh and bone. Thank Jesus, thinks Hepburn as he pulls the trigger.
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
Do you own vintage clothing that only a fifties dad would wear? Really?
Have you ever smoked clove cigarettes? You hipster doofus.
Do you believe that the legalization of marijuana would solve all of society's problems? That's okay. Plenty of non-hipsters believe this as well.
Has anyone ever mistaken you for Lisa Loeb, Buddy Holly, or Elvis Costello? It's cool as long as you don't look like Rivers Cuomo.
Do you try to recycle things that can't be recycled, like yogurt cartons or odd shaped plastic containers? Christ, you hipster goof.
Is the circumference of one of your legs less than twenty inches? Do your arms look like toothpicks? Pick up a weight, asshole.
Have you ever discussed a band and muttered the phrase, "Well, I liked their early stuff..." Everybody hates you and wants you to die.
Will you only buy local, organic, or pesticide free food? Eat the poison with the rest of us, fools.
Has something ever been too mainstream for you? Do you pick apart pop culture like it was something of substance? You are missing the point, hipster.
Have you ever been in a band named after a household utensil? What about one named after an obscure French flick? Have you ever put a fork in a guitar just because Sonic Youth told you to? You are a dilettante and a fool.
Have you ever enjoyed something "ironically?" The ancient Greeks invented irony, and they are not pleased with your tweed shirt and the sticks you call limbs.
Are you a vegan or vegetarian? Someone should eat you.
Can you name more microbreweries than friends? Well, that's sort of cool.
Do you refuse to use deodorant for fear of cancer? Keep the baking soda in the fridge, asshole.
Has anyone ever looked at you and just shook their head and turned away? Put some shoes on, Jesus.
Have you considered naming your first child after a fruit?
Do you take pictures of random cats?
Do you have a blog or a beater car?
Does Apple own your soul?
Are you a beardo?
If you answered yes to four or more, then you may be a hipster doofus.
Monday, July 20, 2015
Titus O'Neil--Do you know what millions of dollars smell like? Neither does Titus O'Neil. He does, however, smell like a centaur. I'll let you imagine what it's like. Stench rating--2 out of 10.
Seth Rollings--You know what's best for business? Not stinking like old hobo socks that won't come off old hobo feet. Also, you could probably burn down Yellowstone with whatever he's putting in his hair. Justin Bieber, my ass. The Bieb smells like an angel's ass, not like a homeless man's corpse. Stench rating--8.
Xavier Woods--Okay, so the man's good on the microphone. That's no excuse for being the black Carrot Top. You know what? Positivity must smell like burning gasoline. New Daaayyyy! Stench rating--5.
Brock Lesnar--The Beast Incarnate reeks of fear and virgin's blood. Unfortunately, all those suplexes have left their mark, and Lesnar can't remove the smell of man ass from his body. He also suffers from hydrophobia and has to be chemically cleaned. Stench rating--6.
The Undertaker--Despite being only fifty years old, the Undertaker looks like he's eighty going on one-hundred. If met in a dark alley, he will murder you for drugs; that's just his thing. You can smell him coming, fortunately, because he never changes his Depends. Stench rating--9.
Kevin Owens--Fight Owens fight! Yeah, this human porcupine permanently reeks of taint juice. They have to cut him out of those gym shorts after every fight. Thankfully, he is flame retardant. All Canadians are. Stench rating--A perfect 10.
Charlotte--Ric Flair's little girl possesses the aroma of a shaved big bird. Stench rating--4.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Looking For: Strapping American Woman To BE My Arranged Bride By Her Choice, of COURSE
Hobbies: Living a hellish existence, dodging charging tigers, searching for a new wife
Bio: Hello I Am Looking for great American woman to birth my children and clean the kitchen and make soup all day, and I would like that great American woman to be you! India is a beautiful country, just make sure not to walk around at night unaccompanied or the villagers will be obligated to rape and/or murder you, also watch out for tigers, my last three wives were eaten by them, hah. If I figure out how to use the email, just email me and I'll send a check to your father to buy you, hope you're not worth that much, hah.
Looking For: A woman who shares my distrust of the federal government and its unconstitutional tax policies.
Hobbies: Hobbies are for commies and people with too much time on their hands
Bio: Ladies, this is Bob, and I'm looking for a companion who doesn't mind hard work, because that's the only kind I do. I'm an apple farmer, and that means that there will be lots of picking/washing/sorting/loading to do around the farm. In the evenings I like to kick back with Fox News and get royally pissed about the direction this county is going. I have a ten foot tall statue of George Washington in the driveway, and he's clutching a rifle and shooting lasers from his eyes like God intended. In the bed room I am more than serviceable. At this point in my life, when I see a kid, I shoot it.
Name: Bobby Harman
Age: 5 going on 6
Looking For: Somebody to play with me
Hobbies: Playing with dinosaurs, monster trucks, eating random objects for fun
Bio: Hey this is Bobby and I am a dinosaur farmer, won't somebody come and help me play with my dinosaurs? I got a T. Rex and a triceratops, and a bunch of others that are really cool. If you buy me dinosaurs I won't chew on the electrical cords. Also love orange juice that's been spilled on the floor. Please buy me a spinosaurus, it's just the coolest and it would complete my collection. I have 15 cents that I found under the couch while looking for snacks. I'll give it to you if you play with me.
Name: You can just call me "Bro," bro
Age: 35 (BUT I DON'T LOOK IT)
Looking For: Someone to appreciate all the time and dedication I put into my muscles
Hobbies: Lifting (Duh), anabolic steroids, being secretly gay
Bio: Yo, bitches, you wanna see a muscle farmer? Cuz that's what I am. Check out deez arms, fools! 22 inches and counting. You don't wanna see what steroids have done to my balls, it is freaky, really, you don't want to see. Only interested in girls who have bigger tits than myself. Hope you like the Funky Bunch. Don't email me, just come to the gym and gawk at my huuuge muscles and maybe I'll pop my top for you, eh? Sounds like a date to me.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Well howdy everbody, did y'all know that I is in a wedding? Ol' Slack is finally tying the knot wit his cousin Cinderalla. It is a story of undying love, true grit, and mutual masturbation. It took a long time fer Slack to woo da beautiful Cinderelly, but he's always been a charmer. For bout ten hour he stood outside her winder, howlin and caterwallin, singing her praises and tell her that he'd always leave da nightlight on in da trailer and that teh rat problem was finally taken care of. He has me to thank fer that: I got me rat stick an spent a whole day clubbin them fer naught but ten bucks which I promptly spent on an authentic Hulk Hogan Stretch Armstrong doll. I guess cuz of my labors Slack figured I was his bestest of men. He sure as hell couldn't have picked Rubin or Willy, cuz they both is in jail fer robbing Booger King again.
So da Goon has to write him a bestest man speech. I thought I'd talk about Batman an how he is the bestest of crime fighters, an how even Ben Afflick couldn't sully da cape an cowl. Maybe I could talk too bout Conan the Barbarian which is Slack's favorite movie, cuz he's a sucker fer oily muscle men with big man boobs. But mostly I think I just talk bout life in da Goon household, an how it's no easy picknick, an how Miss Cinderelly better be capable of making ten pancakes and twenty hot dogs every morn ta feed all of us ungratful sonsabitches. It ain't easy being a woman: the Goon knows. This one time, when Willy came home from his first stint in jail, he made teh Goon dress up and prance around, which the Goon hates to do, but Willy's got one hell of a temper and fists like King Kong, so I was a woman for about two weeks, shush, don't tell anyone. I don't think I oughta mention that in teh bestest man speech.
In utter news teh orchard is struggling wit all dis rain we's a getting. It's hard to keep all teh rots off da apples, though Sammy is spraying all teh time like a horse in heat. He's getting mighty cantankerous, ol Sammy: the Goon think that all teh drinking and chewing is finally getting to his brains. Me an Hernando had ourselves a good long talk bout it, an we concluded that if anything happened to Sammy, we oughta bury him in the old orchard an claim teh place as our own. Hernando says dats how it works in Mexico, an I'm liable to believe him, he's a smart man. I asked him bout writing teh bestest man speech an he said I should praise teh endowments of teh bride an groom. I don't know what that means, but it sounded like a good idea.
So teh next time you hear from da Goon, he gonna have himself a sister-in-law! I sure be nice to have someone to hug and kiss all teh time who cant do nutting bout it! Wit love an understanding I welcome Cinderelly into our humble home.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
In a field, a church on the horizon
What a beautiful, sunny day. I am lucky to be alive. My appreciation of life is at full bloom, white-flowered like an apple tree. The earth beneath my feet is solid; the sounds in my ears are of birds singing and insects humming. Perfect little machines they are, windup toys set in motion by a deity that seems to peer down smiling from the rolling, butterball clouds. Ahead is the rock, the foundation of my existence, the altar constructed by human hands. I walk slowly, appreciating the distance between myself and my destination. I need to get there, that is true. All in good time.
Inside the holy walls
I break down and pray at the foot of the altar. No one is around me; everything is silent. The righteousness of my being is palpable, and I feel that I can commit no wrong, for I have left human fallibility behind back there in the place beyond the field. How can you describe a religious experience? It is beyond explanation. I lie my consciousness down beside God and ask him to relieve me of it. He takes my sense of self, my essence of being, and throws it into the heavens from whence it came. I am nothing but a cipher now. I am a machine man reset and reprogrammed.
Out in town, rambling around
I see the city streets as a dog would. The desires and pains of my past are gone, and I live only in the present. A beggar man hops up to me and asks me for change. I empty my pockets; everything I have in them I give to him. There is no thanks in his eyes, no look of gratitude. He is like me in a way. The shirt off my back is taken; my pants are given; my shoes are discarded and stolen. They stare but I keep walking. I walk myself out of town.
Beneath a tree on a dark night
By the faintest light of the moon I see the band still encircling my finger. It is scratched and worn smooth, its luster having faded long ago. There was an inscription on the inside once. If it is still there, I cannot read it.
In the graveyard, clutching a headstone
There is a skeleton lurching out of a grave next to me, the fingers brown with the texture of old wood. Ants roam about, moving on top of and through soft earth. Little machines obsessed with their purpose. I realize suddenly that I defined myself through my possessions. Without a definition, I am afraid. There is nothing in my skull yet I fear the ground beneath me, as well as the weathered bones protruding from the soil. Whether or not consciousness was a burden seems irrelevant now. I get the unshakable sense that I have failed someone. What a way to go.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
What a perty flower!
Monday, July 6, 2015
Yo, it's the Lunatic Fringe here, and I'm gonna tell you all how to do various things Cincinnati-style. A couple weeks ago on Raw I mentioned to Roman that I wanted to give Seth Rollins a beat-down Natty-style, by which I meant that I wanted to beat him senseless with a bar of soap placed inside a worn-out sock. There are a lot of things you can do Natty-style. Wherever you go, the Natty never leaves you. I live my life in the Natty. It is my cage.
Of course, you can cook chili Natty-style. They tell me it's Greek or some shit, but really it's hobo poop on top of spaghetti. If you ever wondered why Cincinnati natives have such bad breath, it's because they eat poopy chili by Odysseus. If you want to get down-right ornery, then have yourself a bowl of the Cincinnati Treat. Just make sure you're wearing underwear and not doing that Natty-style. When you've got John Cena's junk in your face, you really don't need any other distractions like undigested chili running down the sides of your legs. Take it from the Lunatic Fringe.
You could also listen to a baseball game Cincinnati-style, which means listening to Hall of Famer Marty Brennaman. Unfortunately, Marty would rather talk about his golf game and how he much Joey Votto sucks than whatever is going on with the Reds. But this is a Cincinnati tradition--all Natty sports fans enjoy criticizing their team, especially the Bengals. I don't know if Marty has ever done a wrestling match, but if he does one, I'm going to DDT his ass and then kick his weathered old carcass out of the ring for Big Show to masticate. That's called a Cincinnati-style welcome.
I'm getting tired of this shit, so I'm just going to list various other things you can do Natty-style:
Natty-style piledriver--wear no underwear (Natty-style), sit on someone's face for a minute, then finished them off with a piledriver.
Natty-style handshake--spit in your hand, shove it down your pants, and then slap the offending person in the face.
Natty-style traffic stop--run over any pedestrian in your way. Twice.
Natty-style breakfast--go to MacDonald's three hours after they've stopped serving breakfast and demand ten pancakes, and then go take a shit in the store when they refuse to serve you.
Change a light bulb, Natty--style-keep throwing light bulbs at the socket until one sticks or they all break.
Friday night, Cincinnati-style--drive around beating mailboxes with a bat, and then look for a building to burn down.
Date night, Cincinnati-style--take your lady to the old Blockbuster parking lot and try to get her to sniff your underpants.
Mother's Day, Natty-style--get your mom tickets to the Dale Earnhardt museum and a box of rocks to throw at children.
Cincinnati-style marriage--Get your old lady knocked up, but don't marry her until the paternity test comes back, and then only after you've knocked her up again.
If I think of any others, I'll let you guys know.
Saturday, July 4, 2015
July 3 11:00 pm
So there we were, chilling at Trent's house as we have since time immemorial, watching him have a go at the new Batman game. Art was drinking and looking at a porno rag, while I was knee deep in contemplation, pondering the direction of the Hillsdale Paranormal Society. The jobs weren't coming like they used to--that incident with the milf must've hurt our reputation or something, I dunno. Maybe it was just a natural lull in the business. Ghosts can be seasonal too. Then the phone rings and I jump to get it. "Is this the Paranormal Society?" whispers a voice. "You can bet on Mark Wahlberg's abs it is," I reply. "Well I got a problem," says the voice. "Yeah? Spook? Specter? Ghoul? Goblin? Hoobastank?" I inquire. "Unplanned pregnancy," says the voice. "Oh god, a Botchling," I say. "You know that shit costs extra." "Meet me at the playground down by the river in one hour," says the voice. Then all I hear is the dial tone. "Boys," I say, jumping up from the couch, "Looks like we're in business." Neither of the two assholes moves. I have to go over and unplug the console to get Trent on his ass. We smack Art in the face until he becomes sober enough to move. I explain the situation and how we have to deal with a Botchling. Of course nobody knows what a Botchling is, because these bros are unhinged and full of shit. A Botchling is an aborted fetus that comes back for revenge, duh, motherfuckers. Naturally, we have a lot of them in Hillsboro, this being a hillbilly hell hole, but this is the first one we've ever dealt with. So we get on the internet and do our research. Art finds some nudie pics of a girl we went to school with. Other than that, we don't find much. I have them pack the holy water, the revolver, Trent's Final Fantasy katana, and a bunch of Fritos in case we get the munchies. We get into the van and we drive down to the river.
12:00 at the river
So we sit around awhile, looking at the playground, waiting for this mystery man to show up. Art passes around the nudie photos that he printed out before we left. Sometimes I think that Art has never put his hands on anything besides his schween. The guy's like in his thirties and he's as horny as a Catholic priest working an all-boy vacation bible school. Shit, I remember he had to go to the doctor to get some kind of balm so that his wiener wouldn't fall off cuz he'd been beating it so much. Trent now, he's the complete opposite. The dude's so bottled up inside that I think if you touched his butt with a feather he'd blow his load like a popped pimple. As for me, the hood rats haven't been coming like they used to. I guess ol' Gordy Two-Fingers ain't the attraction he used to be. Getting old sucks, boys and girls.
1:00 still at the river
Finally the guy shows up. We see him sneaking in from the east, dressed in dark clothing, a hood over his face like he's a Sith Lord or some shit. We jump out of the car and walk to the playground, but the guy keeps his distance. "Yo, bro," I shout, "What's the deal? You wanna get rid of this Botchling or what?" He doesn't say anything, just keeps standing there like a jabroni. I can see a bottle of whiskey hanging from his hand. "You gotta man-up, bro, and deal with this shit," I tell him. "Ain't no easy way out." Still he don't say nothing. I look at the boys and start wondering if we're dealing with something else. Art, he's got an itchy trigger finger, and I know he's fingering his revolver like man at a finger-banging party. "All the cards on the table, bro," I say. "You're creeping us out. You don't want us to go full Wahlberg on your ass." "Shut up, Gordy," says the dark figure as he throws his whiskey bottle at us. Now it's on, and we're jumping his ass, kicking him in the face and shit. After about ten minutes, we figure out that it's Art's brother Gary. "What the fuck, man?" he says. His piercings are all bleeding. I can tell the jabroni's been crying. "Why'd you call us?" I ask. "I got a girl pregnant," admits Gary. We all look at each other, our jaws hanging on the ground. "So there's no Botchling?" I ask. "What the fuck's a Botchling?" asks Gary. "I was wondering if you guys would help me push her down the stairs or something." Then he starts crying, and we're all pissed, of course. I look up at the moon and it's got a big Fuck You grin on its face. "Shit," I say. Things have just turned for the worst.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
As I labor away on the Greatest Speech in the World, I thought I'd share some tips so that everyone can compose good best man speeches. Do not listen to the naysayers; my reputation has been unfairly sullied. Just follow this guide.
1. List all the faults of the groom. This is the big one. Everyone wants to hear what a douche the groom is. Make sure you list every trivial slight, every minor transgression. You have a kept audience. What are they going to do about it?
2. Strongly hint that the groom is a repressed homosexual. Because he is. Right?
3. Open the speech with some florid literary quote, then end it with a selection from the Terminator or Predator.
4. Mention that time you and the groom went whoring in Mexico and contracted herpes. Everyone will think that's a hoot.
5. Make fun of everyone's religion, especially if this is a Catholic wedding. Catholics have thick skin. They can take it.
6. Start crying midway through the speech so that everyone knows you are a tornado of emotion.
7. Be stinking of alcohol and roast pig, then puke at the end of your speech. Everyone will clap and interpret this as a blessing.
8. Gesticulate wildly throughout the speech. Watch a video of Hitler speaking for inspiration. That guy was great at giving speeches.
9. Scream "There can only be one!" at various points during your oration.
10. Put special speaking goggles on and pass around a bowl of rotten fruit so that everyone has ammunition.
11. Make sure your speech is at least forty minutes long. The longer, the better. Remember, people really care about this speech. It is the most important occurrence in the wedding.
12. Apologize at the end for various oppressed groups. Tell everyone that you're a member of PETA and you've poisoned the meat. Fart and bow, and then leave the arena. Congratulations. You have given the best best man speech of all time. When you arrive home, your Nobel Prize will be waiting.