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Archive for October, 2008

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A week from today, a disappointing percentage of Americans will turn out to vote for that guy who loves seat belts so much and the Green Party will once again find itself foiled in its attempts to qualify for public campaign financing. Also, the next President of the United States will be elected.

When you consider that this election cycle essentially began with the midterm elections almost 2 years ago, when the first speculations of a possible Obama candidacy surfaced, I wonder if America won’t be faced with that same empty feeling you had after you spent so much time getting ready for prom – buying booze and condoms and renting a baggy tux – and then passed out drunk in the limo on the way to the hotel and didn’t get laid after all.

What I mean is, we’ve all had our faces glued to the t.v. watching the latest campaign drama like it was a cocaine i.v., which is probably the real reason our economy is shitting the bed (early 80s anyone).

Maybe even worse is the potential for buyers remorse – of course, if you were to look at the two main candidates as if they were just products, the choice is really between trendy or vintage, so I imagine you could just vote according to your personal style, like when Jessica Simpson fills out her March Madness bracket.

In any case, I’m personally sick of this business and welcome the day when I can open up the newspaper and the cover story will read: Prostitute Cannibalizes Clientele instead of Palin Rips Open Blouse During Interview.

And I finally realized why I’m so fed up. Remember when you first found out about Captain Crunch with the Crunch Berries and it was so delicious that you ate it 5 times a day every day for 3 weeks, despite the desperate warnings of your parents, and finally it all ended with violent projectile vomiting in pretty pink and purple Crunch Berry colors? Well think of the election as the Crunch Berries. I’ve hit the projectile vomiting stage.

Election day is six days away and we’ve heard every fucking argument and talking point and watched Tucker Bounds flail around in desperate defense of the GOP with as much savvy and composure as an 8 year old Quaker begging his parents for a GI Joe. There’s really nothing more to say, except that McCain apparently killed someone in a car crash when he was in the Navy (or Marines or Swiss Guard or whatever) and it was covered up, but that’s only interesting to the bookies in Las Vegas setting the election day spread (which by now is more wide open than Bristol Palin’s legs, oh snap!).

To illustrate my point, I’ve stolen a video from some website because I don’t have any time to waste on doing this kind of thing myself, and anyway I’m not getting paid for it. Enjoy:

Update: apparently it was stolen back!?

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I know what you’re thinking, “If I had those sweet locks…”

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I meander through Faneuil Hall and it’s cold. It’s late October and I’ve set out to find to take a few moments with the prevalent and illustrious creature that is the dude-guy. I see a few gentlemen standing outside Ned Divine’s smoking cigarettes and decide to start there.

Hey do you guys mind if I ask you a few questions?
Yeah, what’s up there big guy?

Uh, OK, well why don’t we start there. What do you mean by big guy?
Dude what are you like 5’2?

5’8
Yeah, dude, so you’re a big guy.

I see, so then what does that make you, standing at what, 6’1?
I’m Superman.

The gentleman’s friends laugh, toss their cigarettes on the ground and return into Ned Divine’s. Frustrated at my first attempt, I try to analyze the situation and think perhaps I’m not communicating the dialect correctly. I try again with a with several gentlemen standing a few feet away.

Hey, what’s up there big guy?
What you trying to be funny kid?

Uh? No just saying hey. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?
Go for it guy.

OK, well I’m conducting some research by interviewing some local bar goers.
So, like for college or something?

No, just out of curiosity.
Ha! Sounds like you’re bi-curious.

Um, OK. So do you come here often?
Yeah dude, every week. This is where all the premium sweet tarts are.

Nice, nice, looking to meet a few ladies?
Yeah dude, fucking bitches love Superman.

Yeah, I see you’ve got a gold Superman necklace on.
So all the ladies know what’s coming. On their face.

I bet they never will, so how old are you?
Thirty-four.

I thank the gentlemen for their time and snake through the cobblestone back ways of Faneuil Hall. On my way I run into a group of girls, speaking loudly.

Hey do you guys mind if I ask you a few questions?

One of the girls starts grinding against the front face of my trousers. Despite the cold, she is wearing a mini-dress and heels, and her dancing slowly careens into an awkward stumble. A girl with hard nipples speaks up and answers my question directly.

So what do you want to ask us? Is this some pathetic pick-up line? Cause it’s working.

No, no, nothing like that. I’m just interviewing some local bar fly’s. Where are you guys headed?
The Bell In Hand. What’s a bar fly?

I see, do you guys know anybody there?
I totally know the lead singer of the band that’s playing tonight.

The cover band?
Yeah, like The Rumrunners or whatever. They sound just like all the good bands.

Oh, that’s cool. Are you guys into music?
Anything that we can dance to!

At that moment that girls start dancing around and walk away, apparently forgetting we were ever having a conversation. I follow the gaggle to The Bell in Hand and get in line. I strike up a conversation with the guy next to me.

Hey, mind if I ask you a few questions, I’m conducting a few interviews.
Yeah buddy, shoot.

I noticed your t-shirt is a little small, did it shrink in the wash?
Shit, I only wear a shirt cause they make you.

Right. Cool necklace, are those puka-shells?
Yeah dude, I got them at Hollister. Some fine bitches work there.

Yes, I’ve heard, did they recommend that you buy the necklace?
Yeah, all the bunnies like my style.

What’s that smell?
Drakkar Noir

I pay the ten dollar cover and go inside. The Rumrunners are crushing Deep Blue Something. Everyone remembers the words. After several failed attempts I approach the bar and flag the bartender down.

Uh, yeah, what do you have on tap?
Coors Light, Bud Light, Miller Light, Sam Adams and Guinness.

Does anyone drink the Guinness?
Only in March.

I’ll have a Sam Adams.

I lean up against the bar and sip my Sam Adams. I strike up a conversation with one of three guys, all waiting to do a shot.

What are you drinking?
Jaeger, kid.

Do you guys drink anything else?
Just your mom’s pussy. And Gatorade, when I’m working on my lats.

Oh, so you are a fitness enthusiast?
Yeah I can bench like 600 lbs.

That is some mass, how many pull-ups can you do then?
How many what?

Do you play any sports, is that why you work out so much?
Yeah dude. I learned to throw at West Point. Plus I’m in three softball leagues.

Isn’t softball just women’s baseball?
You trying to smart there chief?

No, but I think that guy over there just looked at you.
Fuck, nobody looks at me, fucking bitch.

Fueled with deer’s blood, the gentlemen approaches the other man aggressively. It happens to be the same gentlemen with the Superman necklace I had spoken to before. Their conversation draws significant attention.

Dude, guy?
You gotta problem chief?

You looking at me bud?
Yeah pal, maybe if I’m looking at some pussy.

Dude?
Guy?

You wanna back that shit up there bro?
Yeah kid, I’ll back that up, don’t you know I’m Superman.

Fuck that, I’m Superman.
Dude, only Superman gets a necklace.

Guy, Superman gets the ink. Check the pec.
Dude.

Yeah guy.
That tattoo is pretty hot, bro.

Yeah kid, I got it from my boy Zander down at Ink Wizards, he’s totally cool. Sometimes I sleep over his place.
Yeah bro, maybe I could come with you sometime.

Yeah dude. I’d really like that.

I stand in awe as the two buy each other a beer. I over hear a girl speaking to one of her friends.

Aww, those guys are wicked cute. I love when guys have a little class.

At that moment the girl turns to me.

What the fuck are you staring chief? You gotta fucking problem guy?

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