Occasionally it’s my job as a responsible, loving parent to crush a kid’s dream. My oldest daughter is very smart and artistic. She loves gymnastics, but she’s very smart and artistic. Twice a week for over a year my wife and I took an hour of our time and $30 to let her practice to become a future olympian. It’s important to know that most female olympic gymnasts are between 13 and 16 years old. This means we only have 7 to 10 years to teach her you can’t do a forward roll when you’re two feet from the television. I’m not sure the timing is going to work out in her favor.
As an adult I feel it’s necessary to do the right thing, and also to save $3k a year. The kid on the other hand insists she has mastered the basics and just needs more time. My observations have found that the basics of child gymnastics are looking cute in a leotard and understanding trampoline face plants don’t hurt. I’d feel better about paying for her to continue if she’d spend half the time knocking kids over and pissing in the foam pit. At least we’d have something to laugh about on the ride home.
The key to proper childhood dream crushing is the spin. I happen to be a child spin master. My wife is not. She proved her manipulation inability when we were trying to get the same kid to eat her vegetables. Instead of explaining that the longer you go between plates of veggies the uglier you get, she points out that if she doesn’t eat them the doctor will cut her fucking throat and put in a feeding tube with a funnel. Now we have to wipe piss off a stool and pick carrots out of a plate full of tears.
For the gymnastics dream to be destroyed properly it is important that we spend equal time insulting those that continue the activity and praising participants of the replacement. That is why tonight, as the family sits in front of our new diet of meat and bread, I will explain that the owner of the gym is a kid toucher, the other girls are pill headed whores, and her new soccer coach is best friends with Hannah Montana.
The economy is screwed. The left and the right are pounding each other on a daily basis. The world is ending in 2012 and they still won’t take Good Morning America off the air or at the least shoot Diane Sawyer in the dick. Most of the country feels like this is the worst their life has ever been. I even saw a guy on an HBO documentary that thinks Obama is the antichrist. As bad as we have it, to the rest of the world we still look like a nation of assholes.
Why? Because in this country people get lost in the mall. There are maps every 20 feet and the store has been in the same place for 5 years. Its a mall not a Tazanian dirt road and your looking for an American Eagle, not water. Read the map, eat your cinnabon, and stay the fuck out of the voting booth.
Then there are those that say “if _____________ then I’m moving out of the country.” Where the fuck are you going where they have it better than we do? Microsoft and a million other companies think it may be India. There was an 8 legged kid born in India (or the mountains of north Georgia, the evidence isn’t clear). They’ve been worshipping paintings of that same shit for 4,000 years but the first real one they see they slap chop the bitch. Even Google knows this chic is a god (google “8 legged Indian god” and see what pops up first). Twenty years from now that kid is gonna convince them she’s a deity but she won’t do anything for them because they slumdog’d the bitch when she was five.
There is a running joke in my house where friends will come by and ask my 6 year old if she received their email. Her answer is always the same, “No, I don’t have a phone.” It’s a pretty amazing response if you think about it. As an adult I still think of my computer as the main source of my email even though I probably view 90% of it on my iPhone. The iPhone has even taken over the baby’s mind as the only source of a hidden voice. She has a toy flip phone but only picks up the iPhone to say hello because she’s never actually seen a flip phone in use.
As much as I see teenage girls ignore their parents while rudely texting from a restaurant dinner table, I actually think my eldest could benefit from a phone with this service. It would correct the problem with her tone. She can answer a question with perfect southern manners except for the fact that she’s sighing and rolling her eyes when she does it, something she’s obviously learned from the other children at school. This shitty tone is often the reason behind her hasty launch from a bar stool. If she could only respond with a text message we would never get a sense that she didn’t mean what she was saying. She could send us a text from the basement informing us that she’s ever so sorry about leaving her bike in the driveway and as her mother and I looked at each other with a drunken 1950’s glaze in our eyes we would be protected from the fact that she typed the entire message with her middle finger while transferring porn to her ipod.
Text messaging could become our poor man’s intercom. It would almost certainly eliminate the long winded pre teen explanations of why Scotty can’t come to her birthday party because he talks to Cameron more than he does her. Those conversations are easier spoken than typed and by not having to listen to them I can spare her my sighs and eye rolling.
I recently found out that I am the reason only one comic is allowed on the radio to promote a club that will remain nameless due to the slight chance that they may book me again. This is not the first time I’ve caused a problem on the air only the first time others have suffered because of it. The story goes like this:
I arrived at the station about 8:00 am prior to sleeping from the night before. The comedian I was working with was well rested, bright eyed, and excited about the potential promotion for the show. My attitude is what it should have been, we’ll call it inattentive.
After the first break it was obvious the other comic was more interested in hearing his own voice in the headphones than bringing the funny, and I’m an asshole and hate bad radio. The main host notices the lag in material as well as my warm up stretching and knowing my act he starts a conversation about life on the road when you have a family. The rest is probably best quoted.
Host: ”Julian do you get lonely on the road when you don’t bring the wife with you?”
Me: ”Nope, I cheat.”
Annoying female side kick pass herself off as the cohost: ”That’s disguisting. You’re a pig.”
Me: ”Honey, I’m a comic. He set me up for the line and I had to swing at it. It’s all an act and I love my wife. I would never do anything to hurt her.”
Again from the talentless twat: ”You shouldn’t say things like that. Even joking about cheating is bad taste. You should call her and apologize.”
Host: ”Yes Julian, get on the phone right now and tell her your sorry for something you didn’t actually do.”
Me: ”Before I call her, I feel like I should apologize to you (motioning to the hole in the room and conversation). I didn’t mean for my joke to upset you.”
Backwoods vagina monologue “Thank you. I just hate to see women treated that way. Apology accepted.”
Me: ”Thank you honey. What are you doing later?”
She didn’t speak a word for the rest of the time we were in studio. This made for great radio but it also increased advertising rates for the club. Sorry guys. The bitch had it coming.
I seem to have no problem holding a door open for a guy in a wheelchair, but if someone comes along behind me on crutches I’ll let a 350 pound piece of glass push his crippled ass into traffic. There is a very reasonable chance that both the guy in the rolling sofa and the one leaning on pre-depression era medical devices are suffering from the same affliction. The only real difference between them could be rolling thunder is to fat to get up, yet subconsciously I still consider him less capable and at the same time more worthy of my assistance.
We’ve all witnessed both example’s brazen statements that they are just like you and me and any proposed aid is a offensive on the level of separate water fountains. Unlike most I’m not affected by those remarks mainly because I’m waiting for the day 6 flights of steps and a busted elevator between them and their car causes a slight adjustment in attitude. I’m more concerned with why I seem to have selective compassion.
I can meet someone who is walking with a limp because their leg will be completely rotted off by the end of the day tomorrow and as I walk away I will still roll my eyes in disgust. Suck it up or get a chair dipshit. I even fight the urge to force feed an elbow to everyone I see on crutches. The only real reason for restraint is the fear of a loose crutch bouncing off the wall and into my eye. The older I get the less restraint I seem to have in other areas. I suspect it is only a matter of time before I notice the gentlemen with the cane in front of me on the escalator is not 80 years old and I am no longer allowed to enter the Bellagio.
I only wish I had the free time that must be necessary to put something like this together. If I ever do figure out a way to clear that much off my schedule I’m going to start with a bunch of Dane Cook clips. I’ll let Dane start the jokes and Louis C.K. can finish them since he wrote them.
Believe it or not, this website is not just some internet chump. It’s a highly technical network much like a 1920’s pimp working several different corners all the while letting each think they are my special place. I put information on this site, then my bottom bitch (twitter) spreads herpes the word to those waiting for the next post. A few of my other bitches (facebook, google, etc) help promote me as well and I’m always on the look out for another way to get my name out there keep my pimp hand strong.
This week while looking for new corners, the RSS feed for the very blog that you’re reading was rejected because “The content is inappropriate for syndication.” I didn’t get pissed off or go on some freedom of speech rant. I’m completely aware I’m allowed to say whatever I want, but nobody has to listen or help me repeat it. I wasn’t disappointed that I was rejected. No, I’m actually kind of proud. I’m not the edgiest comic on the block (Doug Stanhope). I don’t have a lot of life experiences that scare the average human (Kerry White). No one has ever had to tape my pants on so I wouldn’t pull my dick out on stage (Paul Hooper). I’ve never convinced an entire room full of people that retard porn is good for the economy (Matt Davis). I’ve never called a flag magnet the “aids ribbon of patriotism” (still my favorite hardcore line from Josh Goguen). And I’ve never got a standing ovation while mimicking a kick to my mother’s chemo bag (Mo Alexander).
Nope, I’m just a loud, arrogant, hick that likes to yell about living with 6 vaginas in a small town in the south. As simple as that sounds to both you and me, today I’m pretty proud of the fact that a nameless/faceless soul found the time to put his pizza and chocolate milk on his mother’s counter long enough to greasily poke out an email to let me know he actually read my blog and as the spokesperson for the uncensored world of internet syndication he has deemed my thoughts too dirty to help me spread my seed to soccer moms in western Iowa. Thank you sir for your honesty and I consider your opinion a compliment. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to watch a video of that same western Iowa soccer mom unscrewing the lid off the shampoo in her pussy without twisting the bottle.
The video is an example of the eclectic taste in music shared by the entire town.
Macon, GA may be the smartest city in the country. It is a well oiled machine built of tiny rules and regulations that seem trivial to the average visitor only because they are unaware of this southern town’s catastrophic potential. While traveling towards Macon a sense of uneasiness falls upon you as your subconscious begins to register some of the visual cues human instinct has taught us to fear. Some of these cues are so noticeable they are impossible to ignore such as the excessive line of billboards promoting “oriental massage,” two Waffle Houses positioned within 250 ft of each other as if to deliberately shun it’s heathen cousin city New York and their numerous Starbucks locations, and a line of businesses named only for their owners Big John, Fat Boy, and Froggy.
It is only after you have settled in your hotel or single wide trailer that you realize the impact this visit will have on the remainder of your life. While attempting to dine at one of the numerous national chain restaurants you’ll become acquainted with the city mandated evasive behavior of waitstaff and management. This treatment often angers newcomers to the area so much so that they tend to seek out the first source of relaxation the come across, almost certainly a massage parlor. The anger may increase when the same visitor realizes local regulations restrict his tension release after 10:00 pm. Depending on the adaptability the visitor at this point they either seek out the closest source of alcohol or meth. Luckily both are readily available in the same locations in the Macon area, but actually getting to them becomes even more strenuous when they realize the only operating cab company in Macon only has one cab.
Outsiders may consider these situations odd, or even backwards. However those familiar with the political infrastructure realize without them the entire city could erupt at any moment. Before these rules were put into place, Macon, GA was the domestic violence capital of the eastern US. The problem was so bad the city was forced to perform a Gladwellian study of the daily lives of those most prone to the abusive behavior. It was from this study these new rules were put in place and the crime statistics on domestic violence in Macon, GA were drastically reduced. What the study revealed was that the triggers that cause domestic violence occur well before they were initially thought, often several hours before the actual strike. Since the triggers themselves could not be eliminated (the study revealed that, ”A bitch is always gonna be mouthy”), the decision was made to control them. It was found that a precursor to the problem behavior was almost always a chain restaurant dining experience without the potential victim. To ensure a maximum state of agitation, local regulations were put in place to force all staff to ignore customers, produce incorrect orders, and maintain a constant lackadaisical demeanor. This experience produces the well known “fuck or fight” attitude, and the lack of a female victim (current economic trends have created adverse negative reactions to fighting other males) forces the potential defendants to seek out the fastest opportunity for the former. The strategically placed massage parlors are most often the chosen option. By closing each of these locations at 10:00 pm, the city has ensured these men reach a state of total relaxation just before migrating to the hunting ground (bar).
It is at this point the rules had to be changed. The initial thought was to close the bars early in order to force groups to break with each other early and shift the remainder of the evening’s activities towards a residential area. The theory was that the assailant would either drink himself into a state of unconsciousness, or fear of eviction from the park would prevent the assault from being reported. This assumption proved false, and the city decided to keep the bars open until 3:00 am. With this setup, several options are available. Men are able to procure additional relaxation in the parking lot before closing, leaving an acceptable amount of time for amends and thus allowing the prey to finish the evening in an offensive position. On rare occasions men are able to keep a relaxed state throughout the entire evening and continue home without any additional seditious behavior. The only remaining obstacle seemed to be when two or more males became resistant to the fact that another in their pack had secured the evenings spoils. If this situation is not stifled it most definitely leads to a confrontation that the female is unable to ignore. These scenes are obviously ignored due to the fact that any pummeling distributed as a result of meddling must be categorized as ”well deserved.” The city was able to manipulate the situation a final time by assuming the victor was able to exit without detection by the remaining males. Poor planning will have left them without a maternal companion to provide safe transportation home. A final effort is crushed when they realize that in a city of 100,000 people there is only one operating taxi. By placing all the weakest males on the road at the same in an inebriated state two to three nights a week the city is able to reduce their number by a substantial amount each month.
The result of this unconventional set of policies is a city that may appear repugnant to outsiders, but has become a necessary home to a small group of combative men who without it would surely function only as feminine residents of the state’s penal institution. Macon, GA may not be able to produce any SAT scores, democrats, or books, but they can stand proud knowing a town with no redeeming qualities is the safest place in the south for a mouthy whore.
I’m considering sueing CBS in my daughter’s name for plagiarizing the conversation she has with me every afternoon when I pick her up from school. The video above is his portion of this week’s 60 Minutes where in less than 3 minutes he covers the following topics: the holidays, the election (it was good was his take on it), the superbowl, the oscars, TV ratings, TV in August, how to spell February, which months are fun, endings suck, football starts earlier than it used to, a quick pause to check his own grammar, NY has weather, LA doesn’t, all movies are the same, do they sell more clothes in NY because of the weather, he owns one suit.
This is the exact flow of any conversation with a 5 year old as long as no one interrupts them. I don’t watch 60 minutes very often, but I know he has had real points in the past. Like the time he made the point that too much gay sex leads to premature death, Kurt Cobain was a pussy for killing himself, and the time he said there is no god. So why if he’s taken a stance so many other times is he allowed to ramble now? I think it’s obvious. He’s not 80 he’s 5 and Leslie Stahl is protecting him because she fell in love with him in the 80’s when he was 30.
