I had the honor of performing on Conan I hope you enjoy it
Episode 2 is up! I talk about the brilliant 3DS remake of The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask
It’s right here
So, here is my new web series. It’s me on a toilet talking about whatever entertained me while on said toilet
Check out this good shit
I doubt I’ll ever podcast again. I really do appreciate all the love from the fans of The Ramble and This Is How Big Of A Nerd I Am. I am working on something else. It should be ready by next week and I really hope that you’ll enjoy it. Here’s an idea of what it will be. I promise it will be as stupid as it looks. Thanks to always excellent Andrew Dewitt for the artwork.
It has been a long fucking time since I’ve posted anything. There’s been plenty of bullshit that’s hindered any drive on my end, but there has been plenty more good shit, so I’m running out of fucking excuses. I have no idea if I’ll ever podcast again (maybe?… see how vague I am?), but I will do my absolute best to at least make sure that there is enough bullshit up here on a regular basis. Soon I hope to share a blog that’s been in my head about how The Predator by Ice Cube was the greatest fucking thing ever when it came out, it should be sorted and up soon. Hopefully many more will follow after that. I would start on something now, but you know… Shadow Of Mordor (if you’ve played it, you understand). I STILL love you all.
I’ve never been a fan of waking up early. It runs in the blood too. My Mom is the same way. That’s the only way to explain how I had a DiMaggio-like streak going for tardiness at every school I’ve gone to. The Anti-Cal Ripken would have been another way to describe me. She introduced the concept of “wanna sleep another five minutes?” and I will be forever grateful. Sleep is one of the greatest gifts whoever put us here gave us. (It has to be right behind jazzing as far as the rankings go). I was so lazy, that in high school, I purposely had the clock in my room set to an hour and a half later than the actual time, so that when the alarm went off, I had the elation of going right back to sleep (Having done zero research on this, I will assume that that is an incredibly unhealthy way to sleep). Speaking of alarms, they are evil, their sound gives me such anxiety that I had to rig my phone’s alarm to play a quote from the movie Dolemite (an all-timer if you don’t already know, there will be a blog devoted to nothing but Dolemite soon) just so I could handle waking up. It’s perfect actually, it’s the line when Creeper nods off from smack and Dolemite yells: “Wake up Creeper!! Wake up man!!” Not only am I awake, I’m also laughing my as off. It’s the perfect way to wake up a lazy fuck like myself.
The worst way to be woken up trumps any annoying alarm, a car horn honking, a bad dream that startles you. There is no worse wake up call, than a fucking earthquake, and at 6am on St. Patrick’s Day, I got to experience that first hand.
I’ve been living in L.A. for a little over four years now, and supposedly I was in the middle of an “Earthquake Drought” (by the way, “drought” should only be used to describe good things). Sure there are always small ones you feel all the time (so small, it’s usually just a garbage truck going down the alleyway), but nothing too major hit. Shit, all my action figures survived those little ones no problem. Even the ones with the shitty sculpt jobs on the feet held up just fine. Sadly, my boys were not prepared for a 4.4.
They say pets can sense these things, and the cat was on that like a motherfucker. About a minute before it hit, she starts meowing like crazy, meowing like the Raccoon she used to fuck in her street days was outside and she needed that dick. The puppy, if she felt a thing, adopted more of a “ain’t shit I can do, maybe Mom and Dad can figure this out, best to let it surprise them” method of coping. So, after a few meows, April and I wake up, then the windows start rattling. Slow at first, (like the usual garbage truck feel) then they just didn’t stop ratttling, and then everything started shaking, bad. Shaking like the chick from The Exorcist was sleeping between us, and she let Jesus fuck us all. You know… shaking. All I did was say “Earthquake”. That was my big hero, save the day moment, was just to say “earthquake” and very half-assedly drape my arm around my girlfriend. It’s sad how the mind just decides to explain the obvious when it’s scared shitless. I’m now terrified that if I saw someone assault my girlfriend on the street, I might just point at him and say “rapist” and do nothing else.
This shit went on for about thirty seconds. Thankfully the shaking peaked at about ten seconds in, but never got any worse. We were then told to maybe expect an even bigger one. The newscasters had the balls to calmly say it could have been a “foreshock” Of course not knowing a thing about earthquakes the guy could have easily fucked with most people watching and have said “the best way to prevent this from happening again is to successfully shove your own genitals into your mouth” and I would have tried to remove my lower ribs right then and there, and gone to town. The somewhat refreshing part were the interviews with people describing their experiences, it shouldn’t be comforting to know that most people were as hopeless as me, but it was. One person said they just thought the neighbors were “going at it” That one I didn’t get, do they usually domestic abuse each other with a Tables, Ladders, and Chairs match? Oh well, that’s still a way better reaction than weakly groping your girlfriend while announcing what was happening. I also don’t understand the mentality that some people have about them where they call them fun, and equate them to a ride. A ride?? Space Mountain has no chance of having your Cuisinart launch and smash into your head killing you.
The scariest part have been the string of articles since the quake hit saying this could mean the end of the drought and the bigger ones will start hitting again with regularity, and that’s all it takes, I’m now terrified. That’s the best way to sell me Amway or whatever rip-off scheme you have by the way, just preface your pitch with all the ways more earthquakes are coming, and if I buy this soap, and then tell other friends to sell it too, then we may have a chance. I’ll buy all I can afford.
Why the fuck does this have to mean that more could be coming anyway? Couldn’t this one have been the death rattle of Southern California earthquakes? Shit is moving all the time down there, maybe that was just the earthquakes’ way of fucking an ex before they go and get married to Nebraksa. That’s a possibility right? The only real plus to a real big one hitting in LA, is that as we are all plopping into the ocean, I may bump into a famous actress and at least thank them for the hours of masturbating fodder they gave my by being naked that one time in that one movie. Actually, I may have just described the greatest fear famous actresses have of a big one hitting LA. That would be a horrible way to go, from sleeping comfortably to falling off into the ocean instantly, only to have some loser cradling his favorite action figures he was able to save compliment your vagina.
I’m am atheist but I do believe in ghosts. I also understand how fucking stupid that sounds. It’s like a white supremacist encouraging his daughter to marry a half African American/half Jewish guy. No matter how little sense it makes, that’s where I am. No fucking way is there any chance that one group of people on this one tiny planet amongst countless others has it all figured out. I just can’t buy that, but If I’m staying in an old hotel where a prostitute from the eighteen nineties got murdered in, I’m scared shitless and freaking out over every noise. I’ll even turn the television on and let those “please do something with your life you fucking loser” late night commercials run. Way less frightening than dealing with an odd noise when everything is off.
Years ago, I was working an awful run of shows with a friend. What made them awful were the ten hour drives each night between shows, and the fact that if you played it smart and safe, you walked away with about fifteen bucks. (If you didn’t play it smart, then you lost about a hundred, and gained a few social diseases) Working those gigs is basically just a way to justify all the people who told you chasing your dream is a silly waste of time. The only reason to put yourself through that shit is if you’re a young comic (which I was). Then, they are great ways to learn to fear no situation, if you come out of this alive, then you can handle anything.
So there I was in the middle of this run. My friend and I made the ten hour drive from who knows where the fuck in Wyoming, to who knows where the fuck in Montana. The beautiful view of that was also lost cause the drive was at night, and mixed with the anxiety of beating a snowstorm that was coming behind us. Luckily, we made it to the gig on time, and even back to the hotel before the weather got too evil.
The hotel was this roadside motel built in the thirties, renovated once in the seventies, and the cleaning crew seemed to have used piss to wash all the carpets with. There were only fifteen rooms in the whole place. We were the only people booked there too. My friend was in room two, and I had room fourteen. After the show, and both of us striking out trying to bang any one of the four women that lived in the two, we made it back to the hotel. The storm finally hit, and I was in his room for about an hour and a half after the show watching tv, when I finally decided to turn in for the night.
It was real easy to ignore the fact that it was ten below when I had to walk past empty room after empty room with all the curtains open, so one could just look in enough to maybe see the guy in the bear suit from The Shining, blowing the other dude on one of the beds. I made it to my room, and what I hadn’t noticed before was that the door had six deadbolts, and a chain. I remember thinking: “we are not close to fucking anything, does the middle of nowhere have a hood?” but, I locked them all anyway, thinking: “Like French Tickler dispensers in truck stop bathrooms, They must be here for a reason. Someone’s gotten finger-banged enough to justify this.”
Normally when I sleep, it has to be fucking cold, (if I’m not getting any pussy, then I’d rather not sweat in bed) but this storm was no joke, so I reluctantly turned on the old ass heater and got ready for bed. After brushing my teeth like a good hygienically sound young man, I finally passed out at around one in the morning. Then, at around three in the morning I wake up in the middle of the night because it’s cold, like mega fucking cold. My heart sinks because I know shit about heater repair, especially for one that was built when I was still jizz. I walk up to the fucking thing hoping to hit it enough to make it work (like any good awful husband/father), when I notice it’s working just fine. So much so, that I stand there for a minute embracing the warmth and forgetting about the sudden burst of cold that came in everywhere else. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the door to the room was wide open.
I look around the tiny room, and see no one else, but the bathroom door is cracked, and I remembered closing it before I went to bed. So now I grab the old heavy phone off the wall, and hold it over my head like He-Man’s sword, and walk towards the bathroom yelling all kinds of “okay motherfucker, here I come!” type shit. I run through the door, swung the phone at thin air, then turned the bathroom light on. (this was all during my tighty-whitey underwear phase too for extra comedy effect) Nothing is there. I walk back to the door, and shut it, now thinking a gust of wind from the storm blew it open, and expecting to see the broken wood caused by the deadbolts being ripped apart everywhere, but nope, nothing. It was like someone from the inside who wasn’t me just undid each one, and opened the door.
I checked out the one window, and it was painted shut, so no way anyone came in from there. Not really knowing how the fuck this happened, I slowly closed the door and locked each deadbolt again, and the chain. When I was done, from behind me, I heard a small high-pitched laugh. Now the television wasn’t on, and I didn’t have a cell phone then, or a portable cd player (this was awhile back), and the room had no clock radio, my watch was the only thing that kept time, and I know it didn’t have a “demon clown laugh” function. I wasn’t particularly interested in finding out the source of the laugh, so instead I just called out: “good one, you got me, please let me sleep now”. I turned towards the bed with my eyes closed (I didn’t want to open them to see some dead kid smiling and covered in blood, or the “great party isn’t it?” guy either), and dove in the general direction of the bed. I hit the wall head first, and kind of slumped onto the bed (If there was ever a time to hear a laugh, that would have been it, but nothing for that). I turned on the television, kept the lights on, and cranked the volume as high as I could stand it, until I finally passed out.
Of course I have no idea what the fuck that was, and I’d be happy to listen to any smug scientist, or the Affliction shirt wearing douches from the ghost hunter shows explain it to me. All I can say is that I was there, and I heard it, and now when I’m in hotel rooms, I’ve never been happier to see the “please do something with your life you fucking loser” ads.