It’s over. Crazy Ted has pushed our country into the realm of “The Running Man“. Later this year “The Nug” is starring in his own reality show “Running wild… from Ted Nugent.” He has disguised the show’s true intentions by using the first segment to teach the victims contestants survival skills. Don’t worry though, in the end Ted always gets his man and the last part of the show he and his son Rocco (seriously mother fucker, Rocco?) hunt every last one of them down.
It’s always been right there in front of us. Uncle Teddy has been screaming about the rights of gun owners and hunters just and long and loudly as Alex Jones has been telling us aliens are the puppeteers of our souls. Since he hasn’t been able to convince congress anti-aircraft machine guns are the only suitable artillery for hunting flying squirrels he has now taken it upon himself to kill everyone that disagrees with him. I hate to spoil the secret behind this show but I read the treatment for it and the plan is that once CNN covers the funerals of the stars from the first part of the season most of us will fall in line for the episodes that air sweeps week.
Obviously Ted won’t use what he considers “lethal force” to prove he’s a better outdoorsman than his students, but Ted thinks everyone should be man enough to take a gut shot with their morning coffee. Two bills says just before this show gets cancelled we get to see Ted argue the point that it was a real bullet but he only grazed the guy’s spleen.
The image above is sort of a “Where’s Waldo the racism” type game. I took this at a gun show I attended a month or so ago with my step father and two other comedians who will remain nameless so I can give an honest summary of the events of the day. When they read this they can feel free to post additional stories from that day and take credit for their part.
The day began with the four of us standing in line discussing a problem one of the other comics was having and after I uttered the phrase, “call the IRS” the nosey conspiracy theorist in front of us explained in an elevated tone that the IRS was illegal and any association with that organization is a crime as well. Yippie! The nutbags are out and it’s going to be a good day. That is, as long as we remain calm. In any normal setting filled with crazy, religious, political, and war torn twitchy assholes with no shortage of opinions we would make every conversation uncomfortable and push it to the brink of a physical altercation. The difference in this scenario is everyone is packing, there is no shortage of extra ammunition, and there are four of us and five thousand of them.
After we got inside there were two key parts of the day that made me giggle. The first was one of the other comics continuously asking the most obviously racist individuals “what kind of gun is the best to get when a nigga be trippin?” No one ever answered the question but he kept trying. The second was when I was able to quickly snap the image at the top of the post without getting shot. Take a close look at this picture and make sure you take it all in. You start by noticing the title of the songbook “When a Coon Sits in the Presidential Chair.” This particular item was for sale for $1500 but I’m fairly certain the purchase comes with a free addition of your name to several FBI files. Then you notice the original copy of an Atlanta newspaper with a headline from the day MLK was shot with one of Hitler’s headshots leaning against it. On the table is a picture of the Rosenbergs, a jar of jelly beans, and a pair of bedazzled baby moccasins. Just out of frame they had a written contract on the life of Frederick Douglas and jar of tears from the original trail.
This queer kept breathing so I never got his face in focus
Someone on Twitter sent me this link to a blog a guy who takes pictures of people on the subway who are sitting in the seats for the disabled while he stands in front of them on his crutches. Now, when I’m on the subway and see someone who appears to need my seat more than I do (disabled or not) I give it to them. That is unless it’s apparent that they’re able to balance well enough on a moving train to take a focused picture with an iPhone. At that point you’re obviously doing better than I am so fuck off and enjoy the ride asshole.
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.
