Observations from the Car Wash.

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HotGirlCarWash1

I can’t wait until TWILIGHT 17 comes out 20 years from now … and 46 year-old Taylor Lautner rips off his shirt and has a gut.  46 year-olds don’t give a shit.

I’m here to save you Bella … let me just take off my stretch pants before I transform … cause these are the only clean ones I have left.

It’s darkest before the fall. Fall TV that is. This season is very disappointing. TOUCHED? Just spin off FRINGE if you really don’t give a shit FOX.  Or maybe just make the main character in TOUCHED Jack Bauer.  His boring son is kidnapped and bloody awesomeness ensues.

Bigfoot exists. According to Finding Bigfoot. But, according to every redneck with a gun in the woods … no fucking way.  Rednecks shoot shit.

“Look Jasper! It’s a New Yorker in a coat. Shoot it!”

To understand Terror, you have to first understand Albert Dwyer. He’s my first cousin. I’d like to tell you more, but I can’t. Trust me.  Stay away from Al.

From the mouth of Babes comes vomit. And general regurgitation. And sometimes more vomit. But it’s cute.  Cause they’re hot dumb chicks who generally drink too much.  Not the Oracle of Delphi.

This is what the mouth of a baby looks like.

The extinction of humanity would be horrific for humanity.  For non-humanity, it would be a positive.  Except dogs.  They’d be really bummed.  Then all starve.

If I met my doppelganger, I wouldn’t kill him.  I’d embrace him.  Then kill him.  Cause doppelgangers are evil.  Just look at what happened to Lindsay Lohan.

The one on the left was good … but the one on the right murdered her shortly thereafter … and we all know the rest of the story.

Wolf Blitzer keeps bleeting about the Fiscal Cliff, and middle-class americans are terrified.  You know who’re not spilling their martinis … rich people.  Cause they’re drinking in a Cloud City, run by the Four Seasons.

I live in California but I’ve never been to the Inland Empire.  Cause I’m scared of societies ruled by Emperors.

The galactic ruler of the Inland Empire.

The galactic ruler of the Inland Empire.

Today I made what I thought was a funny comment to my wife — who didn’t laugh.  So I decided to head to the Magic Garden and do some bong hits with Carole and Paula.  And suddenly I was funny again.  Stoned hippie chicks and the Chuckle Patch are a great fucking audience.

FITNESS FRIDAY: TEN PEOPLE IN YOUR GYM.

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This guy is why you don’t exercise.

About twice a year, on the advice of my doctor, I drag my sorry ass to the gym, promptly buy a smoothie, then park myself on a stationary bike that is out of service, and observe the zoo that is a modern gym.  And I always see the same ten characters.  Always.  Without fail.  So, here they are …

HAIRY SWEATING MAN.

We’ve all been repulsed by this wet mess.  Leaving puddles and hair samples on every machine.  And if you don’t realize he was on the stationary bike a minute before you, you are fucked on a level beyond even a burn victim’s comprehension.  Because now you are covered in his wet, disgusting excretions, which you’ll smell and feel the whole time you run screaming to the bathroom to try and wash it off.   But it never comes off!  Absolutely disgusting.

“Mind if I work in?” Sure!

GUY ON PHONE talking loudly about important business matter.

We all know this prick, shouting into his out-dated phone … and we also know every stupid fucking detail about his latest deal going south, and how his lawyer-friend is gonna sue the shit out of that Pete guy if he doesn’t get the papers over to his big important client before six … and blah blah blah.  You’re fooling nobody dude.  You’re fucking unemployed.  And showing your fake ferocity is not gonna make the guy you’re annoying on the Stairmaster offer you a job.  Cause you suck.

GAY OLIVIA NEWTON JOHN GUY from Let’s Get Physical video.

See this guy everyday in front of the double mirror.

Is that ONJ?  No, it’s just a gay guy stuck in the 1980s.  This cat generally just finished a jump-robe aerobics class, and typically parks himself near a wall mirror, hoping John Travolta shows up.   Sometimes he works out with his room-mate, the gay guy dressed as Lafayette from True Blood.

THE LONELY TRAINER.

You’ve all seen this sad sack … in his super-clean, pressed Trainer shirt, trying to be super friendly, somehow everywhere you are, always volunteering some inane workout tip.  “Try not to put the bar-bell on your neck.”   Why so nice?  Cause he has no fucking clients.  Nor will he ever … cause Lonely Trainer is fucking creepy.  Probably a sociopath, definitely taking acting lessons, and wanting attention.  From anybody.  Run!

Hey, let me just show you — unsolicited — how to properly lift these 2 pound weights!

HOT GIRL IN SPANDEX WHO DOESN’T EXERCISE.

Super-hot girl in tiny shorts and top, who never sweats, and somehow never is actually using any equipment … though certainly flaunting hers.  This beauty is not actually a member, but a prostitute hired by the gym to keep you coming … to the gym that is.  Her cousin is the male version of her, also known as a Gym Gigolo.

As I observe them peddling at 1 MPH, every ounce of fat in me wants to kill these gym posers.

PULL-UP/PUSH-UP GUY.

There’s a reason people go to gyms.  To see hot people (see above) … and to pretend that they’re going to exercise.  Which definitely means … no pull-ups, and no push-ups.  Cause push-ups are really hard, and pull-ups are fucking impossible.  Which is why pull-up guy is doing them … to let you know two things.   He doesn’t have to be in the gym, and you will never be in the shape he is in.  Which makes him an asshole.

FABIO.

Fabio is always at the gym.  And his hair is still lustrous.  But don’t ask for his autograph while he’s benching, or it will end badly.  Trust me on that.

If you’re nice to Fabio at the juice bar, he will give you this video.

“MIND IF I WORK IN” GUY

So, you’re just sitting on the comfy cushion on the Lat Machine, reading e-mails on your phone, a nice 20 pounds set for when you get around to actually exercising … then you hear the dreaded words:  “Mind if I work in?”  OFF a guy, super-serious about his workout, staring at you.  And you say “yes”, and he says “thanks”, then he gets on, and re-sets the weight at 240 pounds.  And guns out ten reps.  Then hops off, and says “all yours,” while staring at you, waiting for you to do your reps, cause now he thinks he’s part of your exercise routine. .  And he’s right!  Cause now you’re stuck doing sets, because he’s judging you!   Worse, if he’s polite — or cruel — he may lower the weights for you … putting it back to 20 lbs, and giving you a sympathetic smile.  This guy may be the most dangerous monster in the gym.

KICK BOXER MOM.

Very focused, really dedicated to beating the shit out of a bag while the brats are at school, this super-charged martial-arts Milf may never fight the Cobra Kai, but her round-house kicks are the envy of Bunco night, and her son’s friends.  She is also the only person who will help you in a medical emergency, as everyone else at the gym are vain narcissists terrified of death.

Take that, William Zabka!

NAKED GUY … in locker-room who is in no rush to put clothes on.

This guy is THE classic.  Regardless of what shape he’s in, fat, skinny, jacked … he’s butt naked.  The whole time you’re in the locker-room.  Not a stitch of clothing on him (with the possible exception of a tiny towel around his neck), from the moment you get your locker, during your shower, and while you change back into your clothes, comb your hair.  And he will talk … to anyone.  He has no shame or friends.  He may also be the Lonely Trainer, so beware.   Do not make eye contact … and certainly don’t wander south.  On the plus side, he can cause the unemployed dickwad on the phone to hang up.

Naked locker-room guy, as played by Richard Gere.

 

Monster Mashup: The Scorpion and the Mothra.

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This week is a mash up.  I’m sorta obsessed with Mothra, and I’ve noticed that the most popular post I’ve ever had is Moral Monday:  The Scorpion and the Frog.  So … I decided to put them head to head, in … the Scorpion and the Mothra!

Now as readers of this blog already know, the Scorpion is a Meth-head that crossed into Utah, and in a murder-suicide, ended the life of a Mormon Frog by stinging the shit out of him, mid-river.  Because that’s what scumbag Meth heads do.  Dumb shit like that.

Scorpion prepares to be a dickhead.

Mothra, in contrast, is a monster-god, on a tiny Japanese Island, worshipped by magical, six-inch tall twin princesses, and a lot of “islanders” – basically more Japanese, but in loin cloths.  Mothra is really peaceful and cool, and runs his island with a velvet glove.  No crime, lots of singing and sex, and Mothra just chills in his mountain listening to jazz, and sends out the love.

Twin Princesses hanging in their cage. Cause that’s how Mothra likes it.

The only exception to Mothra’s chillness is when Godzilla starts fucking with Japan.  Which leads to a big dance number where the islanders gyrate and sing to Mothra, and the tiny princesses, who always speak at the same time – normally annoying but these two sex dolls can pull it off – ask Mothra to leave his fortress of mellow, and go kick Godzilla’s ass.

Resulting in Mothra doing just that … but in a really fucked up way.  Cause at first, Mothra seems to have a plan.  He flies around, and generally blasts Godzilla with hurricane winds (did I mention that Mothra can make hurricane winds by flapping?), which really pisses off Godzilla.  Then Mothra follows this move by knocking Godzilla down with his big-ass bug body, and then shooting him with his Mothra web – which Spiderman totally copied.

Godzilla being like … shit it’s fucking Mothra!

The only problem with the plan is where it leads … to Mothra’s death.  Because Godzilla always kills Mothra.  How?  He’s fucking Godzilla.  And if you don’t know Mothra’s end game, you get sad, cause Mothra’s dead.  And Mothra’s really fucking cool.  Like, you want to hang with him, and just shoot the shit.  Cause he’s Mothra.

And Godzilla is a total asshole.  And he’s cocky, which is why he keeps attacking Japan, thinking nobody can fuck with him.  But he’s wrong.  Because Godzilla doesn’t know Mothra’s real power … Mothra reincarnates!

As twin Mothra caterpillars!  Who emerge from giant glowing eggs after a big dance number by the natives, and a sexy song by the twin Princesses.  The new Mothras, after promising to tweet their adventures, swim off to Japan to get revenge for the death of old Mothra, who really is them, the baby Mothras.  It’s a Buddhist thing.

Twin Mothras catching rays and tweeting on the beach.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, so the new Mothras show up in Japan, and totally surprise the shit out of Godzilla, who’s too distracted with stepping on Japanese tanks to notice the sticky Mothra webs the twin Mothras shoot at him, eventually trapping the prick in a cocoon of goo.  Which they then drag to a volcano, and push Godzilla’s lame ass into.  Resulting in an earthquake, and ding, dong, the asshole’s gone.

Mothra II uses spiderman web shooter on asshole Godzilla.

And then the twin baby Mothras swim back to Mothra Island, and generally get the shit worshiped out of them, totally hooking up with the Princesses, until a few years later, Godzilla pops back up –cause he’s fucking Godzilla — and we repeat the whole drill.

So, what the hell does any of this have to do with the Scorpion you say?  The answer:  everything!  Cause Godzilla is the Scorpion.  He shows up out of nowhere, fucks with Mothra, kills our buddy mindlessly and eventually dies himself as a result.  The only difference is Mothra is not the Frog.   He’s the opposite of the Frog — the anti-Scorpion.  Cause Mothra is a big time Buddhist rockstar.  Kill him and he comes back stronger, which makes him quietly the most kick-ass giant monster ever.  Hear that, all you “he’s just a big filthy moth” haters out there.  That means you Gamra!

Don’t think Mothra’s the real deal?  Read this poster!

Which is why the Scorpion, as messed up as he is on Meth, wouldn’t pull his shit on Mothra.   He’d get the hell out of Dodge if he saw giant fucking Mothra hovering over him.  None of this “hey, can I fly on your back then sting you and we both fall to our deaths while I laugh shit?”  Because the Scorpion would sense Mothra’s awesome Buddha power, and know that Karma’s a bitch.  Mothra’s bitch.

And it’s coming for you Scorpion.  Or should I say, Scorpion, soon to be re-born as the Frog.  That gets killed by the Scorpion.  Cause it’s all a circle.

Go Mothra.  Boo Scorpion.

Mothra Day biggest holiday on Mothra Island.

Moral Monday: The Grasshopper and the Ant.

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The Grasshopper declining to help the Ants forage for food because he’s gonna be busy playing his violin and smoking crack.

Of course we had to hit the Ant and the Grasshopper one of these Moral Mondays.  It’s THE Classic of Aesop’s “let’s bum kids out” Fables.  As everyone knows, the Ant works really hard all year getting ready for winter, while the Grasshopper is a total fuckup who just wants to spend every second getting wasted, playing his fiddle, and having unprotected sex with flies.  Then winter hits and BOOM!  The Ant’s all cozy and comfy in his cool-ass house, while the Grasshopper’s like “let me in Ant!  Cause if you don’t, I’m gonna fucking die – and not from Gonorrhea as you predicted, but starvation and the fucking cold!  Open up you asshole!   Agghh!  Agghh!”

Which in the original version the Ant – DOES NOT!  Cause the original moral was that hard work pays off, while laziness and sloth leads to a horrific death.  And for a century or two, people were good with that moral … only times change.

So later versions, citing Christian charity, or social responsibility towards those who have less than you – made the Ant let the lazy Grasshopper in his house.  Yay!  Cause we all know how that worked out for the Ant.  Here’s one version:

Ant:  “Grasshopper!  The foods all gone!  Where’s all of our food?!”

Grasshopper:   [Laughing, eyes red]  “I smoked it.  Isn’t that fucking funny.  Oh, and I just blew out the bathroom, dude, so give it 20.  Now I’m hungry.  Go find us food.”

At least that’s how I think it would play out.  But moving on …

There has been a centuries long debate over this story.  Does the Ant have a duty to help the Grasshopper?  Some writers have argued that the Ant represents an unfulfilled,  pedestrian life, while the Grasshopper is the free spirit, the artist … the one who should be celebrated, emulated – supported.

So where do you stand?  Should the Ant open the door?  Should you open the door when your lazy brother needs a place to crash for a month?  Should you give money to the homeless?  Should you pay more in taxes to help the jobless?

Now we’re getting deep!  And political, so let’s finish this up before a fight breaks out.

And close with some modern versions of the Ant and Grasshopper, from the world of Hollywood!

You, Me and Dupree.  Owen Wilson (Dupree) is the Grasshopper, who moves in with married Ant Matt Dillon, and quickly destroys his life, screws his wife Kate Hudson, and is generally really annoying … but he is just so damn Owen Wilson sweet.  But not that sweet.   VERDICT:   Don’t let the Grasshopper in.

Down and Out in Beverly Hills.  Homeless Grasshopper Nick Nolte moves in with Beverly Hills family, lead by Ant Richard Dreyfuss.  Like in Dupree, Nolte quickly destroys the Ant’s life, screws his wife Bette Midler (Grasshoppers like banging wives – even unattractive ones), not to mention the hot latina maid that Dreyfuss is having an affair with.  Based on the women’s noises, the Grasshopper is good at the sex thing.   Nolte also encourages the son to come out of the closet, which really pisses off Dreyfuss.   In the end Dreyfuss miserable, but rest of family happy, and Nolte finally showered and not eating garbage.  VERDICT:  Let the Grasshopper in!

Gulliver’s Travels with Jack Black.  Screw that, all JACK BLACK MOVIES.  Jack Black is always the Grasshopper.   Always.  Not saying he doesn’t have range but … his range is … the fucking Grasshopper.  And Jack Black is always fat, drunk and stupid, and messes up a lot of shit.   In Gulliver, he’s also really tall, so he steps on a lot of shit, and makes GIANT farts, which blows tiny Lilliputian houses over.  In School of Rock he … whatever.  The rolls are all the same.  VERDICT:  Bolt the fucking door.

Method master Jack Black in character as The Grasshopper.

Swingers.  Vince Vaughn is the Grasshopper, while Jon Favreau is the Ant.  And Vince Vaughn, as superfriend Trent, is awesome.  Trent’s the most awesome movie buddy ever.  The most awesome Grasshopper ever.  He totally props up humorless Mike at every turn, telling him he’s “Money,” when the Ant is so NOT money.  Ant Favreau on the other hand is the worst.  A total prick.  He’s so self-obsessed, and mean to Vince.  Get over yourself man.  And stop leaving messages to chicks that don’t like you!  VERDICT:  Ant leave, Grasshopper stay!

I’m so confused.  Do I open the door, or close the door?  Is it Owen or Vince?   Ughh!  This is too real for me.  But we need a moral for this Monday, as all of you Ants gotta get back to work,  so … ah, give me a second … and … Got it!

Don’t watch Jack Black movies, because they are all the same.  They are.  Unless you’re really depressed … cause sometimes he’s funny.  He is.  Kinda.  If you’re depressed.

What really happens in nature: badass Ant eats a Grasshopper.

MORAL MONDAY: THE SCORPION AND THE FROG.

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Crazy Scorpion Kills Frog.

Today I’ve decided to focus on the famous fable, The Scorpion and The Frog, that some of you may remember from your youth, or not — as I’m aware some of my readers are not classically educated.

In it, a Scorpion wants to cross the river, so he asks a Frog to carry him across the river on its back.  The Frog declines, pointing out that the Scorpion is poisonous, and will kill the Frog.  The Scorpion counters that the Frog will be in no danger, because if the Scorpion stings the Frog during the watery journey, both will perish.  Buying this logic, the Frog agrees, allowing the Scorpion onto its back, and swims across the river.  Only when they reach the middle of the river, the Scorpion stings the Frog.  Shocked and dying, the Frog declares “Why?  You’ve killed us both!”  To which the now drowning Scorpion retorts:  “Because I’m a Scorpion.”  And they both die.

The moral to this tale:  “One’s nature cannot be changed.”

Which I agree with … I really do.  Only this fable doesn’t tell us that.  Not one bit.  It’s flawed … actually totally off the charts fucking flawed, and I’m gonna tell you why.

First off, Scorpions live in deserts.  Begging the question, what the fuck is the Scorpion doing in a forest, and why the hell does he want to cross the river?  Does he have a picnic date under the Willow tree with the Spider?  Not likely.

Also, while the Scorpion can sting, it’s not Hannibal Fucking Lector.  They use their tails to kill prey, or defend themselves.  Period.  Ever see a Scorpion eat a big-ass Frog?

What’s more likely is that the Frog, which eats insects, would tell the Scorpion “Hey dude, come over here … you gotta see this crazy-ass YouTube video about a Snake that can blow itself,”  and then THWAP!  The Scorpion gets nailed with the Frog’s cool-ass Venus Fly Trap tongue, and is gobbled down into the Frog’s belly.  Which probably results in the Scorpion stinging the shit out of the Frog’s insides, killing them both.  Hmmm … that’s what happened in the Fable.  But at least my version is fucking logical.  A bit flawed, but better than the original.

But this version still doesn’t address the biggest problem with the Fable.  The fact that the  Scorpion is acting in a suicidal manner by even going near the gigantic insect-eating Frog, let alone coming up with the brilliant idea of turning the Frog into its own personal fucking Titanic.

Makes zero sense, as rule number one of “nature” is survival at all costs.  Survive, and reproduce.  Yet, in this non-sensical story, the Scorpion’s willing to kill itself just for shits and giggles.  “Gotcha Frog!  Now we both sink to our doom, ha ha ha!!!”  It doesn’t make sense …

Unless …  we see this story for what it is … the story of a drug addict out of control, destroying everything and everyone around it.  We all know this guy.

Because the Scorpion clearly is a Meth head.  Totally out of its fucking mind, driven from its desert home by pissed off family and friends, tired of dealing with its fucked up Breaking Bad shit.

Which is a world unknown to the Frog, cause I’m guessing the Frog is a Mormon.  Never even exposed to alcohol, let alone a messed up, poisonous predator off its rocker on crank.  Taught from a Tadpole to believe in helping your fellow forest critter, and to wear special underwear.  “Sure I’ll carry you across, Mr. sweating Scorpion.  Are you familiar with the works of Joseph Smith?”

Think about it.  Makes perfect sense.  It has to be the real story.   Tragic, but true.

And the Moral of the story:  Meth heads should stay out of Utah.

Mormon Frog’s blood system is flooded with low grade crank.

Fester Friday: The Pooping Waiter.

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I’ve decided to take a break from writing homages to The Onion, and go on a true rant.  Since it’s Friday, I’m gonna be creative and call this angry, juvenile column, Fester Friday.  Perhaps it will appear next Friday … assuming I’m still angry.

I will also be using extreme profanity in this rant, so if that offends you, stop reading, and I promise you on Monday I will post a PG absurdist story – like you might find in The Onion.

Now, onto the show.

This week’s fester is something that has bothered me for a long time.  A very long time.

The Pooping Waiter.

Who is the Pooping Waiter?  Let me tell you.

You’re in a restaurant.  A nice restaurant.  Nice being … $30 an entrée.  Full bar.  Valet. A celebrity has dined there.  More likely died there.  Famous people usually die in restaurants.  But back to my rant.

It’s a weekend.  You are seated across from your hot wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/paid escort.  You’re looking good, and you’re ready to shout out to the world that you’re having a big night.  You’ve made it, otherwise you wouldn’t be in this overpriced status shack.

Without missing a beat, you order a $100 bottle of wine.  French wine.  Very classy.   The polished waiter, Guillaume, assures you with the confidence of Rex Ryan during pre-season that Chateau Blah Blah will pair perfectly with the $40 of appetizers your wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/paid escort is salivating over.

And Guillaume couldn’t be more charming.  Attentive, funny, he even compliments the new shirt you’re wearing.  Not realizing it’s an old shirt.  He looks like that deaf Frenchie from The Artist.  He’s the best person ever!  And this is the best night ever.

He exits to make sure your order will go in perfectly.  Having already polished off a few cocktails … it is a weekend … you excuse yourself from the table to hit the Men’s Room.  You’re wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/paid escort is so excited about the upcoming gourmet feast, they can’t give a crap you’re leaving.  And to be honest, you’re over them.  This is about the experience of this amazing night, and the culinary orgasm that you are about to experience.

So you walk into the beautiful marble Restroom, envious that your bathroom at home pales to this Romanesque bath house.  The toilet paper’s probably linen.

And then you hear it … the sound that no human being ever wants to hear from another human being.

The sound of painful defecation.  And it’s coming from a stall.  In this restaurant.  Who takes a dump in a fancy restaurant?

And it continues.  You know the sound.  I will not taint this post with a crude rendition … but we’re talking dying ass.

What monster is in that stall?  And then the door opens, and your night is fucked.  Fucked.

It’s your fucking waiter.  Guillaume.  That fuck.

Really dude?  You couldn’t have dealt with this at home?  What, did you just down a gallon of fucking red beans covered with black beans back in the break room?

And fucking Guillaume smiles at you, and says your appetizers and wine will be right out, as he makes a point of washing his hands.   And he smiles at you as he leaves, and it’s genuine.  He really doesn’t get it.

Fuck you Guillaume.  You fake French fuck.  I fucking hate you, and your whole fucking French family.  And the dumb acting classes that you take.

Isn’t there an employee bathroom?  I’m about to drop $400 in this shithole.  Surely the fucks that have put you in the same bathroom as me can afford a separate bathroom?

Do you really think I’m gonna be able to enjoy that overpriced bottle of French excrement you charmed me into ordering, knowing your shit fingers poured it?

Or that I won’t vomit when I swallow the first $6 Oyster, which I know will reek of your diseased crap.

And that’s what I tell Guillaume.  I really do.  And a fight breaks out.  And I win it.  Like Tyler fucking Durden in Fight Club.  And Guillaume is Jared Leto.  And he dies, like Jared Leto died– though thinking back, I think Jared Leto lived, but he was really fucked up. But I digress.  The whole point is you/me – I forgot what voice I’m writing this in – is  happy that you/me just fucked up Guillaume.

But of course that’s not what happens.

Cause we don’t live in the Fight Club world, or even the HBO Oz world, which would be fucking awesome, but in the lame grown up world.  And in the lame grown up world, you can’t beat the crap out of Guillaume’s already crapped out ass, nor say anything to fucking Guillaume – not even, “that sounded like a good shit” — cause we’re all fucking civilized, so you smile back like a genderless wuss, and say “great, really looking forward to smelling the bouquet on that Bordeaux,” trying not to gag on the stench of fucking Guillaume’s rotting Gallic fucking intestines.

And you go back to the table like a bitch, and you eat your meal, and drink the $100 piss wine.  And smile at disgusting, filthy Guillaume, never revealing to the/she/it sitting across from you that he/she/it are ingesting on some level, fucking Guillaume’s crap.

And you even tip Guillaume fucking 20%.  Including the wine.

And that, my friends, is the Pooping Waiter.

And it’s happened to all of us.  Even me.  I think.  Mostly.

And it’s something I fester about.  And this is Friday.

Have a great weekend.

 

July 4 Cats!!!

No way anyone hates America who sees this little guy strutting the colors.

There’s nothing to kick off a weekend of hotdogs, beer and good ol’ fashioned patriotism like cute, funny, and clothes ridden kitties.  So in the tradition of lazy posting, here they are!

Uncle Sam never looked so purrfect.

Turning a small animal into a walking flag is why we fought the Brits — they enforce their animal cruelty laws.

A feline patriot at NASCAR.

Minimalist.

Even evil genius cats rock this weekend.

Where did this dog come from?!!!

Native American cats forgive and forget when it comes to fireworks.

Gay cats also have PRIDE on this holiday!

Look at what almost got smothered in our pile of flags… pure awesomeness!

Amen, little brother!

RAMBLINGS’ NOT AT THE MOVIES: AFTER EARTH

Jaden mourns the death of his Dad … who space parachuted into the volcano, that erupted out of viewer outrage at the passing of the Fresh Prince.

Okay, I haven’t “not” seen a movie recently that really inspired me to write a review … until this gem.  From what I’ve been able to figure out from the trailers — and terrible reviews that I kinda have not read — superstar Will Smith dies pretty early in this bomb … leaving us stuck watching the movie star version of Justin Bieber — Jaden Pinket-Smith.  Add M. Night Shamalama-dingdong, and this movie screams … run away!!!

I’m guessing this movie really really sucked – guessing, because I have no actual idea what actually happens in this movie, having wisely decided to instead spend the $15 ticket price on a bottle of mass-produced California Chardonnay sold at Ralphs.  The alternative was to give Will Smith my $15, which he will spend on a $1200 bottle of Bordeaux he is drinking at this moment in the South of France, laughing at all of the morons who saw the latest screen credit he bought for his son.

Will Smith explains to his son that he’s about to fly off to a “real movie,” and to stop calling the director the “dumb brown bitch from Slumdog Millionaire.”

Now, for a plot summary … based on pure speculation, and 3 minutes of trailer footage.  Will Smith and his son are a Father-Son spaceship team, out on a really political correct mission for humanity — maybe looking for a planet that has an organic drug to cure narcissism.  We learn that humanity now lives on a planet called “Terra” or “New Earth” or “Bel Aire” in the Andromeda Galaxy.   The reason for this is “old Earth,” went to hell following Sony’s decision in 2019 to stop funding more MEN IN BLACK movies.   Things are going great on Will and Jaden’s ship, which probably involves one scene where they both do an ancient art-form called “rap”, cause they’re the coolest space Dad-Son combo ever – until Jaden does something stupid … like trying to think.

Will and Jaden show off their musical talent … as the ship heads towards an asteroid.

If I had to bet it all on what makes the ship crash, I’d go with WIll goes to bed, and gives his “irresponsible” son a job.  Will (in spacesuit): “Don’t hit the button that says ‘auto-destruct.’”  Jaden, being a sneeze above a vapid moron, promptly hits the button, and next thing you know, the flying partybus is burning through “old earth’s” atmosphere.

With seconds to spare — and a real movie to star in, filming in St. Tropez – Will tells his son he “loves” him … then shoots out an airlock and dies.  That I kinda saw in the trailer.  Sorry for the SPOILER, but I’m pretty sure Will dies.  And if you were stupid enough to see the movie, pretty sure you just got it up the wazoo with the old “bait and switch.”  Have fun watching Jaden try to run from CGI animals and “monsters” for the next 70 minutes.

Jaden Smith stares at a green screen … right before commanding his 34 year-old assistant, Janice, to go buy him one of the blonde bitch’s dragons from Game of Thrones.

The movie ends of course when Jaden, after a forgettable adventure staring blankly at green screen monsters, finds “something” that nobody cares about … probably an “ancient” communications station, so he can contact his massive agent team at CAA to rescue him.  He flies off on the agency supership, literally spilling “crocodile tears” over his dead Dad — literally as the entire Pinket-Smith family lubricates their eyes with imported Ugandan Crocodile saliva — and the movie thankfully ends, leaving a stunned audience with a “WTF” bubble over their heads.

Morgan Freeman is NOT in AFTER EARTH. He is in OBLIVION, which I did not see … but I WILL SEE!

Having picked on poor, or rich, Jaden, I should point out there is another villain in this movie scam.  M. Night Shamalama-dingdong.  After UNBREAKABLE, which I really really liked, M. Night has been phoning it in. I like random supernatural shit, but M. Night’s not even trying anymore.  That said, I didn’t focus on him in this “hater” review, as my guess is that Jaden locked M. Night in the post-production team’s Porta Pottie, and told the DP to just film this “bitch,” and make me look “good.”

And that is AFTER EARTH.  In theory, my review could be wrong, given I did not see the movie.  But I’m pretty sure I’m not wrong.  Actually, I am completely sure I’m not wrong.  AFTER EARTH is horrible.  My alternate movie recommendation … MEN IN BLACK.

Rock on, Will Smith.  You are a talent.  Not sure about the rest of the clan …

Will realizes he’s gonna be supporting this kid for a long time.

The Return Of Ramblings!

Sorry about the silence.  I was summoned to save U.S. television, and I think I did it.  That said, I won’t tell you what show I made more awesome.  The only hint being … your wife probably watches it.  And it’s on Lifetime.  And it involves a dead model living inside the body of a lawyer.  And you don’t know what I’m talking about …

Now, to the point.  Great things are coming on Ramblings in the next few weeks, and here are the previews!  Assuming anyone still cares. I know that Howard Feldman cares.  He’s my cousin’s friend, and is very supportive.  Now for a PREVIEW of the articles that you can expect to love in the next few weeks!

Game of Thrones Mid-Season Report Card:  Who knew Jon Snow could eat “P” like a champ?

I am in so much trouble when I get back to Downton Abbey!

Deadliest Catch.  At what point don’t’ we give a shit about how much crab they catch?  Never.

Next week we … catch more crab!

Bravo Real Housewives of El Paso/Suarez.  Prostitution Cartel Whore.

Real Housewife of Suarez, Cece, has a border issue.

Ramblings’ Politics:  Elections mean nothing.  We live in an alien dictatorship. I’m serious. The TimeLords are returning (see Dr. Who preview).

Gallifrey Rises Again! And I used to be James Bond. But now I’m an extra on .. .Dr. Who.

Ramblings’ Not at the Movies:  Hangover III Total Shit.

Ken Jeong is so funny. Though I’ve never seen it. But obviously, Judd Apatow and his crew think so. So … Kim Jeong is funny.

Dr. Who Greatest Show Ever. Better than universal peace.  And Timelords returning.

Inside this Police Box is … awesomeness.

 Rex Ryan eats himself.

The “B” should be removed from “beat.”

RAMBLINGS’ BREAKING NEWS: Bigfoot Finders, Inc. To Air Two-Hour Special Where They Don’t Find Bigfoot!

Bigfoot Finders, Inc. is 100% sure this is a Sasquatch, or Bigfoot, or possibly an Orange County Yeti.

Bigfoot Finders, Inc. founder, Wyeth Crestlow, announced that in the next episode of Channel 67′s breakout hit, Where the Fuck is Bigfoot?, viewers will be treated to a special two-hour episode which ends with no sighting of Bigfoot.  This is a major change in format from all of the other episodes of the show, which end after one hour – without anything even close to a Bigfoot sighting.

Speaking in hushed whispers from the teacher’s lounge at Womack Elementary School, Creslow declared that “What I feel distinguishes this super special, two-hour episode of Where the Fuck is Bigfoot? from all of the other 154 one-hour  episodes where we also found no evidence of a 800 pound, ten foot tall primate – that survives undetected in our grossly overpopulated country, and we now know is immortal given that no bones have ever been found – is the great cliffhanger ending.  Did we find Bigfoot?  Fuck no.  But we’re getting close!”

This tree could only have been broken by a Sasquatch.

Ramblings Not At The Oscars!

Hollywood’s most pretentious night!

Nope, even though I live a mile away … for some reason lost to me and involving a ridiculous legal document called a Restraining Order, I will not attend this year.   But I can still share my immense knowledge and wisdom to make some predictions which I guarantee will come true.  So let’s get this bitch rollin.

Seth MacFarlane’s holding his two academy awards for … TED and … the Roast of William Shatner. Really, he should win for both.

First, the HOST.  Seth MacFarlane.  Funny, sarcastic, a perpetual self-satisfied smirk on his face — he will be really really funny, and really really hated by the Monday Morning pundits as they “grade” the host.  One reason for this is that everybody over the age of 45 will have no idea who he is — while everyone under the age of 45 will be confused as to how the Family Guy guy got the gig.  But not as confused as the Anne Hathaway and James Franco dynamic duo.  Poor Anne.  Franco set her up.  Because that’s what stoner’s do.

BEST ACTOR.

This Tiger should win for playing a Tiger … that eats a kid named Pi. On a boat.

Lincoln.  Daniel Day Lewis takes out his putter and knocks the ball in … the distance of the putt being two inches.  Although there is a chance that Denzel — staying in character from Flight — gets so drunk that he knocks Lewis to the ground, grabbing the Oscar, and drops his pants, soiling the coveted award.  I wouldn’t mind seeing the Pi kid win, since I heard his screaming as the Tiger eats his liver was loud and really realistic.

BEST ACTRESS.

Nobody outside of Middle Earth shoots a bow better than Katniss … which is why she wins!

Katniss Everdeen.  The scene where she climbs the tree and shoots arrows at Woody Harrelson had me glued to my chair.  And the scene where she’s in another tree shooting arrows.  Or the scene where she’s running, shooting arrows, like a female Legolas, but with more testosterone … Jen Lawrence earned this one, big time.  Upset pick.  The little kid from the New Orleans movie.  Her speech consisting of thanking her CAA team, her publicity team, her management team, her puppy, CHOMPY, oh, and her legal team …

BEST WRITER.

Morvon Schmerkin. WInner of 10 Academy Awards for writing. And nobody cared. Not even Morvon.

Nobody cares.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS.

I play a whore that cuts her hair and sings. Give me that award!

“I dreamed a dream … I’m French and starving … and a whore … la la la.”  Anne Hathaway nailed that song, which is why she nails a guy named Oscar tonight.  Good job Annie … Tiny chance that Sally Field steals it, basically because she was amazing in NORMA RAY, but hopefully we don’t see that.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR.

Look, I don’t only play Nazis in Tarantino movies!

Christopher Waltz.  At least based on merit, skill and a brilliant character.  The reality is that who wins the award need not meet any of those criteria, which is why Deniro could win … for playing … Robert Deniro in Silver Lining Playbook — also called, my crazy son is really nuts and annoying.

BEST DIRECTOR.

I wasn’t even nominated for the groundbreaking JAWS … but I own this one, bitches! Because I’m old and f-ing rich!

Let’s see.  Oh yeah, Tarantino for Dhango.  But wait, he wasn’t nominated?  Odd.  So … ah, Affleck.  What’s that you say?  He’s not nominated either?  Hmmm.  Okay, the movie where the stupid guy from Parks and Recreation shoots Bin Laden.  Bigelow’s not in the theater either?  Which makes this award total crap.  Spielberg obviously opened some very good bottles of wine in a lot of Hollywood Rest Homes when the Oscar Nominations were being voted on … which is why he wins for the rather boring biopic that is Lincoln.  But how amazing would it be if the old French guy — who directed the old French movie that nobody saw, not even in France,  because it’s about really old people — won?  Spielberg may actually stand up and shout at the President of the Academy, “This is bullshit!  I paid for this Henry! You’re a dead man!  A fucking dead man!  Your kids too!”  While the French Director, whose name nobody cares about, babbles in French like he’s the Emperor of the Universe, the orchestra music trying to drown the pretentious asshole out.  Might happen.  But doubtful.

BEST PICTURE.

Yes, we all picture him chasing Freshmen boys with a paddle … but beneath the jock is a talented Director. That likes to chase Matt Damon with a paddle.

Argo will win, because everyone is perpetually amazed that Ben Affleck’s not the dumb fratboy that we want him to be.  And Argo is good.  I can live with it winning.  But I’m not happy.  Because …Dhango Unchained’s the best movie of the year.  Period.  Once again, Tarantino goes for it, giving us an amazing, edgy, and brutally hilarious movie that shocks and entertains.  Unfortunately, the ancient academy voters won’t have the balls to vote for this masterpiece, or will vote for Life of Pi, because of the awesome scene where the Tiger eats the kid … about five minutes into the movie.  Blood and guts everywhere, as the kid yells “Holy shit, there’s a Tiger on this boat!”  Yes, that’s what actually happens.  I dare you to watch Life of Pi and prove me wrong!  I dare you!  Knowing you won’t.

Ramblings Not At The Movies: STAND UP GUYS.

Ray Lewis celebrating his boring 28-6 victory, and 17th straight year not in prison thanks to a lost suit.

The logical post today was to rant about the SUPERBOWL, but it was so boring.  I mean, when I passed out drunk just as the third quarter was starting, the score was 28-6, and one of those obnoxious Harbaugh parents had just pulled the power in the Superdome to even things out for little Jimmy.  And one thing we know about New Orleans … once the lights go out, the party starts.  Game over.

My third to last memory before the half-time Schnapps contest I almost won.

So, now to more important things.  The movie that I know none of you saw, and I most certainly did not, as I’m still under a 100 years old — at least based on age — STAND UP GUYS.

Now don’t get me wrong.  I’m not against seeing movies with old people.  I love movies with old people. COCOON, STAR TREK 3: SEARCH FOR SPOCK, SEX AND THE CITY 2 – saw and loved all of them!   I could watch a Walter Matthau movie any day, any time of the week.  And as we all know, Walter Matthau was old in every one of his movies … even the ones back in the 1950s when he supposedly was really young … as in 57 years old.

I recommend seeing this movie about a bunch of old whores that start the Arab Spring.

My problem with seeing STAND UP GUYS is … you can just tell by the trailer that it really sucks.  And this is why.

First.  It seems that Pacino is this old crook, I think, that gets out of jail, or prison, and is picked up by old buddy, fellow bad guy and co-scenery chewer Christopher Walken.  Only another old guy, I think some British codger not on DOWNTON ABBEY,, tells Walken to kill Pacino, presumably for over-acting in his last 11 movies, but Walken decides to spend one last big day with the multi-Oscar/facelift recipient, so they can keep telling the audience over and over again what a good time they are having.  At least that’s what I keep seeing in the trailer.  Though not the actual movie … which I have no plans of ever viewing.

I think they call that a computer. Shoot it.  We’re having such a great day.

So, what does this tell me?  First, were I to waste my money and time watching STAND UP GUYS, I guess I’d be forced to endure them spending an “amazing” day together …  while worrying about when Walken’s gonna put a bullet into one of Pacino’s fake cheekbones.   But I’m pretty sure their day’s not that amazing.  Or fun.  Or anyone really gives a shit about any of their crap.  This is why.

The comedy appears to be entirely based on old jokes/references, and false forced camaraderie.  The scene where they are in a car with Alan Arkin, and one of them doesn’t know how to start it, cause you have to “hit the button” says it all.  I don’t know much, but I do know that old people fucking know how to start cars.  They don’t understand DVR’s, or the interweave … but they certainly get Cadillac ignition systems.  And driving buzzed … though they don’t fully get brakes.  Terrible scene.  Terrible movie.  I think.

Alan Arkin dying after winning a SAG award for not knowing how to turn on his phone.

Then there’s the “bro-mance” that they’re pushing.  The commercials I saw promoting this  – commercials being the only way you market movies to 90 year olds — compared it to THE BUCKET LIST.  While I never saw The Bucket List, as I’m saving it for my actual bucket list five years from now when the gout finally takes me, I’m fairly confident that Stand Up Guys wouldn’t be a movie that Nicholson and Freeman would put on the list.  That’s because it seems so … fake.  That’s the only word for it.  As fake as Pacino’s eyebrows.

For example, there’s another scene in the trailer — I studied the trailer by the way — where Pacino tells Walken that they’re having a “better” time now than when they were young.   Young being in the 1970s.  Really?  You don’t know how to turn on a car, and your creepy best friend is about to shoot you — but everything is still more fun than when you were doing Coke and three way-ing with Cheryl Tiegs and Mick Jagger in the basement of Studio 54?  I don’t buy it, and neither would you.  Were you moronic enough to buy a ticket.

Plotwise, it seems pretty obvious.  Walken has a dilemma about killing Pacino.  Finally he decides to off the obnoxious loudmouth, but my guess is Pacino gets him first.  Because that’s in Pacino’s contract.  Nobody gets to take him out, even when he so deserves it.  Just watch HEAT.  Deniro should have won that battle … yet annoying, camera mugging Pacino puts a bullet in Deniro’s blessed head.  Annoying.  Only word for it … and Pacino.  Oh yeah, fake too.

This is how you act in a motion picture!

And so is STAND UP GUYS.  Not because it’s about old people. But because it sucks.  At least I think it does, but then again … I didn’t see it.  And I’m kinda old.

Thursday Thoughts. 2013.

ZZZZZZZZZZ.

Sorry that Ramblings has not been too active in 2013 … but the New Year hasn’t been that active either.  As in … a lot of nonsense going on. Non-stories, recycled stories, or just plain dumb-ass stories.  Let’s take a look.

We had an inauguration!  Granted it was a second term inauguration which isn’t as big a deal but … still should have been a fun event.   Only, the giant story out of it is Beyoncé lip synching.  Wolf Blitzer reporting this outrage with his typical deadpan, soul-less delivery, trying to convince us that we should be interested/concerned/upset/ecstatic over such mundane crap.  Who gives a shit if she did her own singing?  We’re a sneeze away from a Depression, and the Middle East is invading Africa.  Not to mention that China is going green.  Crazy, right?  Wrong.  Beyoncé deciding to rest her beautiful pipes in the cold is far more important … at least according to 2013.

Beyoncé not singing whatever songs it is that she doesn’t actually sing.

We had a BCS National Championship game … and I honestly don’t know who won, because the only thing being reported is that some dude, Manti Te’o, on Notre Dame, who wasn’t the QB, had a fake Samoan girlfriend, who supposedly was dying, but didn’t die, but didn’t actually exist, because it was all a prank about cancer done up by another Samoan guy, King Tiki Tiki … blah blah blah.  This story belongs on News of the Weird, or on Hawaiian local access.  Stop reporting it!  Once again, the moron wasn’t even the QB, so who cares!  And his team lost.  I really did know who won, by the way.  That said, Te’o Dumbo would make a nice addition to the Jets defense.  Rex Ryan loves morons.  They speak his language.

Where does my girlfriend live? Ah … Canada?

What else has 2013 brought us?  Let’s see … 49ers  in Superbowl playing … Ravens?   Ravens are old.  Moses old!  Unless Ray Lewis shows up wearing his murder suit, I think it’ll be a one sided, 49ers affair.

I think that’s about it.  No, wait.  Lance Armstrong confesses … about something he did years ago, that we all know he did, even when he claimed he didn’t do it.  What a jerk.  Stop putting the guy on the screen.  Unless he does something awful, and new.  But that ain’t happening in 2013.

Either I’m breaking out from all the lying, or the steroids are expanding my neck. And who cares.

Oscars is a story.  Some big  Best Director snubs.  Tarantino, Bigelow, Ben Affleck.  I was very worked up about the inexcusable omissions when I first heard … then I remembered that all of the Directors are pampered, narcissistic millionaires.  Boo hoo you big babies.  Next story.

Ben Affleck coping with horrible news of his Oscar snub.

But there really isn’t an interesting tale in 2013.

Hold it.  Got one.  Gerard Depardieu becomes Russian citizen to avoid French taxes.  So obese actor, who hasn’t had a hit since Greencard — I don’t count Frenchie films — wants to leave socialist country for … socialist country?  Okay, that’s a pretty hilarious tale … that belongs on page 14 of a local rag.  Let’s keep moving.

Ever see gout on a nose?

Come on 2013!   Gimme something to work with … a sex scandal at least.

Or a big celebrity affair!  But so far … no.  Though the pool boy has been coming on Tuesdays …  and I don’t own a pool.  Where’s my wife?!

RAMBLINGS TV: DOWNTON ABBEY SEASON 3

Break out the tea and crumpets, because Laura Linney’s favorite rich, lazy white people are back in action — or inaction — in what promises to be a tension filled season of missing shirts, bad investments, and gallons of hair grease.  Having watched the two hour season premiere, I thought I’d share some observations before me and my falcon, Heroditus, tour my estate on our morning constitutional.

Oh, and SPOILER ALERT … I’m about to spoil the premiere, so if you are a Downton fan, yet haven’t watched it yet (highly unlikely), there’s an excellent Dutch porn site just a click away from here with your name on it.  Now to the fun!

Mr. Bates is nobody’s bitch.  I’ve watched some OZ in my time, so I’m an expert on prison rape.  It always happens, and not as romantic as you’d think.  But nobody’s putting any objects in Mr. Bates’ pantry, who let us know big time in a rare Downtown “action” scene that he is the Daddy of cellblock ancient.  Oh, and he’s also interested in work gossip, and Can-can dancing  …  vicariously of course, through his wife, detective Miss Marple.

Sorry Mr. Bates! I’ll put my lipstick back on immediately!

Lord Grantham is a financial idiot.  Putting all of your heiress wife’s fortune in a Canadian train company?  Really?  Canada?  Because you thought Canadian train stock would rise, thanks to a European world war?   Canada?  Have you been to Canada, Lord Grantham?  There’s only like 100,000 Canadians, and they don’t move around.  The whole place is just open space, with giant wolves on the prowl, and a few fortified cities (to protect them from the wolves) … one of which is filled with fake French.  Canadian trains?  And I’m not alone in believing that Lord Grantham is mentally challenged.  Lady Grantham in at least three scenes rips him to various do-nothing members of the family … and this judgment coming from a very medicated moron.

Lord Gratham gets an A in indignation, but a fat F in finance.

Shirley MacLaine loves the sun.  I mean, she’s like the psycho tanning Mom.  Or at least that’s what the Dowager Countess thinks, as Maggie Smith drops at least ten bad bombs about Mrs. Levison’s tanning habits.  Okay, I get it … except that Shirley MacLaine looks like a corpse.  Literally.  Pale, bloated white skin.  And pretty sure I saw a maggot peeking out of that wig.

Ouch! Look at that sunburn on that … really, really pale old dead lady.

Tuxedos are the jean shorts of 1920.  Holy shit, I had no idea that wearing a tuxedo was so trashy.  If I wear a tuxedo, I feel like the Lord of the Castle, but apparently real Lords with castles won’t be caught dead in them, cause then other aristocrats, properly dressed, will order drinks from them.  That makes me so … indignant!   Wait a second!  The Dowager Countess was part of the whole waiter bit.  She’s such a trouble maker.  But I love the old bird.

Ugh. How do poor people wear these things? Now I’m off to purchase an African ice company.

Cancer existed in 1920.  I had no idea.  Really.  Thought the Pox was the big thing.  That and the plague of course.  Oh yeah, TB took out a lot of staunch white people as well.  But cancer … wow.  Thought it was invented in like 1950.  Wonder if they had lasers in 1920?  They might have.  Can you imagine the Dowager Countess with a laser?  Look out America!

If I hear one more word about “working” I will melt your head with my laser … hidden in my fabulous hat.

If you roofie an Irish guy, it doesn’t knock him out, but just makes him really drunk and belligerent.  No shit Sherlock.  You’d think the British would have figured that out by now … though the incident took place in 1920.  But pretty sure Irish and alcohol predates 1920 … by a few thousand years.  And by the way … what type of British Lord carries around roofies?  Lord Grey’s son for one!  That was so fucking random.  Winston, please pack my snuff box, and fill it with roofies in case I want to play a “prank” at Lord Grantham’s party by drugging his peasant son-in-law.  Boo!  I’m so done with the Greys.

M’Lord, I’m pretty sure I just got roofied by a dude. I know … what the hell?  But I’m fine to drive. I’m fucking Irish.

Tall people were discriminated against.  Couldn’t believe how much shit the new footman Alfred took for being over 6’2″.  And he was white!  Today, he’d be a starter on Duke.  But in the Downton Abbey universe, he’s treated like a … guy in a tuxedo.  Though he did get some from the American servant … and mouse girl definitely has her rat whiskers twitching over the tall mess.  Could we see a Downton threeway this season?  Yeow!

Alfred! Stop listening to Thomas, and get back in the post! Oh, and wear a condom. Mouse girl is filthy.

Rich people love leaving Matthew Crawley money.  Lots of money.  Despite the fact that the dead people are barely related to him … or had their daughter’s dumped by him.  Followed by their daughters killing themselves.  Yet Matthew Crawley hates being left money.  So much, that he gives it back, even though his wife loves free money.  Hey, Lady Mary, you money grubbing bitch … leave Matthew Crawley alone.  You have to respect his rejection of free, undeserved wealth.  Because you know that some other old fucker’s gonna leave him even more money tomorrow.  How do I know this?   Matthew Crawley has a secret.  He blows rich sick people.  It’s his thing.  It is.

So depressed. Lawyer wrote that the giant inheritance from a stranger is mine. And Alfred burned my tails, and now I’m wearing this embarrassing tuxedo. And I’m also inheriting this castle from the Earl, who I’m really not related to at all.  Makes me … indignant.

Christmas Cats! Merry X-mas!

Wassup Christmas bitches!

You knew it was coming.  There is no basement this blog will not dig through.  Now enjoy the Christmas Cats!  And hopefully non-confrontational family and high proof Holiday cheer!

Game of Thrones White Walker kitten on X-mas.

Meow fabulous.

No caption necessary.  Seizures possible.

Our cat souls are trapped in this mug!

We gots some animation going on this baby.

Note:  putting rope decorations around animals necks not the best idea.

Goblin Cat.

No, I did not defecate in this stocking. Cat’s honor.

Crochet rendering of a human-cat hybrid carrying a Poinsettia.

Note the holiday litter box in the upper left corner.