December 31st, 2024

It’s late December, folks, which means it’s holiday season. And you know what “holiday season” entails, right? It’s time to spend several hours with assholes you don’t like, just because they’re related to someone you’re fucking! That shit's the best, innit?!? I spent Christmas at my in-laws’ house, and thought for a second I was going to have to be the Mills Lane/Earl Hebner for my brother-in-law’s and father-in-law’s triennial Yuletide argument. This year the disagreement started because of a malfunctioning mute button on the remote control; in the past it’s been over a Cabela’s gift card, the correct type of peas to use in chicken pot pie, and my favorite, the socioeconomic implications of the Iron Bowl when the game was played in Birmingham.

The real issue? My father-in-law, like most Baby Boomers, is suffering from a host of undiagnosed/untreated mental illnesses and unprocessed trauma from his childhood, and he takes it out on the only people that care enough about him to visit him regularly. Who among us, right?

I digress. Let’s hop right into today’s stuff. Since my now-annual December bout of seasonal depression has, this year, combined with a robust helping of nihilism and a splash of ADHD, it’s gonna have to be a marinade. Let’s soak…

Mini-Playlist

I’ve had Beastie Boys on the brain lately, so here’s a few of my favorites from Adam/Adam/Mike.

No Sleep Till Brooklyn

Me and two buddies from high school performed this in our high school’s talent show circa December ’98, and at one point video evidence of this existed. I hope it’s been destroyed, ‘cause we were…not talented. Let me rephrase: I was not talented. At least at rapping/singing/dancing/being cool, or anything else I was hoping when I agreed to do this. My buddies were pretty good, but the only shit I excelled at that day was being a super tall, rail-thin eyesore with volcanic acne and a perma-semi. The one thing I remember most about this adventure was the scavenger hunt me and my bro Gary had to go on to find an instrumental version of this song. In fact, I think we landed on “No Sleep Till Brooklyn” because it was the only Beasties instrumental we could find (choice #1 was “Intergalactic”). Today it’d be something super easy to chase down because Internet, but in the late ‘90s shit was much more convoluted. If memory serves, we called and/or drove to five or six different music shops around the Metroplex, and eventually found a place in Grand Prairie that had the goods. Finally getting that cassette tape in my hands was unforgettable, like the first time I wrapped my lips around a room temp fuzzy navel wine cooler, or when I blew a load in my silk Winnie the Pooh boxers just ‘cause a girl MENTIONED jerking me off. (I cannot reiterate how supremely uncool I was in high school.)

Intergalactic

Let’s keep it in high school. This song was fucking HUGE in the late ‘90s, and thus appeared on every warm-up CD me and my teammates made to play before our basketball games. I was an okay basketball player, probably could have been a lot better than I was, but one thing I could do really well was dunk. Which, I mean, yeah, I’d hope so: I’m 6’6”, have a 7-foot wingspan, and have been able to palm a basketball since 5th grade. Warm-ups were usually my favorite part of the whole gameday experience, ‘cause I got to show off my dunking prowess…and also ‘cause we weren’t good at basketball. I could fucking jam, though (my best dunk: I could flush two balls in a row on the same attempt, one with each hand), and I can’t hear or think of this song without thinking fondly about the super-athletic shit I could do 25 years ago; I especially look back wistfully at those days when I’m reminded of how old and fat I am now. Like two weeks ago, when I thought my heart was going to explode after 19 seconds of hot, shirt-on missionary.

Johnny Ryall

"Paul’s Boutique”, mofos. I fucking love that album, for a couple reasons: the myriad spectacular songs (this one, “Shadrach,” “Hey Ladies,” “Shake Your Rump,” and “Egg Man,”), but also because of a story Ad-Rock tells in their autobiography “Beastie Boys Book” about how their sophomore album didn’t perform very well, partly because Capitol Records was really focused on pimping Donny Osmond’s new record. The book is phenomenal (especially the stuff about Adam Yauch/MCA, who died of cancer a couple years before it was published), and if you’re even a casual fan of the Beasties you’ll love it.

Bodhisattva Vow

Speaking of MCA: “Ill Communication” was the first Beasties album I had, and the penultimate song on it is Mr. Yauch’s take on the Bodhisattva Vow, a vow taken by some Mahāyāna Buddhists. The song used chants from Buddhist monks, and is just a phenomenally infectious and modern take on the meaning of something that’s been around for centuries.

Hey Fuck You

I was in college when this one came out and it’s impossible for me to hear the intro to this song without thinking of a certain young lady. She had money, she was super-hot and fit, she loved to drink bourbon, and she had a throat game that would make Nancy Reagan’s seem staid and genteel by comparison. I think most straight dudes have dated this type of girl at least once as a young man, and it almost never ends well. You know exactly the type I’m talking about, too, a gal whose love languages are cigarettes, choke sex, and pregnancy scares. Here’s what I didn’t realize about her until I was much older, though: She was using meth the entire time we were together. I didn’t know jackshit about addiction then, and at 22 my dumb ass legitimately thought I had some magic dick or something. No, bro. You’re not the reason she never eats, can drink a handle of Jim Beam without getting shit-housed, and is always horny; that was all because of the high-grade crystal methamphetamine she snorted on the reg.

Anywho, Beasties rule. RIP, MCA.

MLB Golden AB Rule

Have you seen this? Have you heard about this? MLB is floating the idea of allowing what’s called a Golden At-Bat Rule which would allow teams to send any batter to the plate once per game, regardless of their batting order position.

Fuck it, if we’re gonna make a mockery of the game, here are some other ideas I’ve been batting around:

Sack Bunt-If a hitter attempts to bunt and the pitcher can successfully drill him square in the balls, the hitter is automatically out.

Bottom of the 5th-Once a game becomes official, have a guy from each team take three shots of whiskey, spin around a fungo 10 times, and then have a foot race with each other. The winner earns his team a fourth out in the ninth inning (note: the first to throw up automatically loses).

Hairy Carry-The dudes on each team whose wife/girlfriend has the biggest, most unkempt bush have to race each other…with said wife/girlfriend riding on their backs. If any of the bush is visible while she’s wearing a regular bathing suit, a 30-foot head start is given. The winner nets an extra challenge for his manager to use.

The Doug Fister Rule-This is exactly what you think it is, and there are no winners.

Designated Heater (a/k/a the Jim Leyland Rule)-If a manager can successfully chain smoke two packs of Marlboro Reds before the 7th inning ends, the other team has to win by at least two runs.

Caught Stealing (a/k/a Bang Bang Play)-You know how at MLB games they’ll have a kid run a few hundred feet, pick up a base, and have to run it back to where they started from? This is the same type of idea, as two kids, one representing each team, will compete against each other in a race to see who can steal the bag the fastest. The difference here is: the kid must be a family member of someone in the starting lineup. And there’s also a live sniper in the stadium, with a green light. The winner gets his team a walk on just three balls in the 9th inning and later, and also doesn’t have to go to a kid’s funeral.

Artificial Turf-There’s three muffs; two are real, and one is fake. A reliever from each team has 30 seconds to judge from 10 feet away, with the first to correctly spot the faux furburger earning his team an extra mound visit to be used at any time.

Reuben Ciara-Once a series, the bench coach from each team has 90 seconds to make the classic deli sandwich while dressed as the R&B superstar. The winner gets a free draw from the “Goodies” bag.

Now…these are fucking ridiculous, right? Like, dumber than shit. But are they any more ridiculous than POSSIBLY ALLOWING ANY HITTER IN THE LINEUP TO HIT AT ANY TIME ONCE A GAME!!! I’ve got an idea that’s gonna blow your minds: LET’S JUST PLAY GODDAMN BASEBALL THE WAY WE’VE BEEN DOING IT FOR 170 FUCKIN' YEARS!!! Christ almighty this is a stupid idea.

Pop Quiz

Since I don’t teach/coach anymore, and likely won’t anytime soon, I’m gonna work out some of the muscles necessary for that gig here today. A one-question quiz:

Which of the following lines said to my wife recently resulted in me getting laid?

a) “Excuse me, m’lady, but would you care to engage in some vigorous lovemaking?”

b) (said while in the car) “Damn, girl, are you a whale? ‘Cause I wanna hump back at the house.”

c) “Is your ass a landlord that raised the rent? ‘Cause it just made my dick move.”

d) “I can’t sleep. Wanna fuck?”

e) “Shit, girl, is that pussy from Little Ceasar’s? ‘Cause that pie looks hot and ready.”

f) “You like ‘Game of Thrones’, right? ‘Cause I’m about to be dragon these balls all across your face.”

g) “The bad news: I swallowed some poison. The good news: the antidote’s located about 2 inches inside your butthole.”

h) “Baby, can I make them titties like a too-small naval base? Overflowing with seamen?”

i) “Oh, hey, can I eat your pussy before I go to work?”

j) “Good day, madam, might I interest you in a session of marital coupling?”

k) “You know a good contractor? ‘Cause I’m about to seriously damage those walls.”

l) “Darlin’, that pussy belongs at a top shelf steakhouse, ‘cause you got the tenderest loins I’ve ever tasted.”

m) “You know what my favorite holiday is? Christmas Beave, when Santa always comes early.”

n) “Mornin’, ma’am, I’ve got a delivery for a Mrs. [REDACTED]; about six ounces of uncured dangalang. A signature is required to receive the package.”

o) “I’VE HAD A BONER FOR LIKE 45 MINUTES! CAN WE PLEASE FUCK!”

p) “Your pussy’s like KFC’s mashed taters: always better when drowning in high-sodium gravy.”

q) “You like eggs, girl? ‘Cause omelet you sit on my face.”

r) “Ma’am, yes ma’am…this is Major Angus, reporting for duty and eagerly awaiting a chance at promotion.”

s) “You know how I’m different from Jerry Jones, babe? I absolutely LOVE hanging curtains.”

t) This is the dumbest question ever asked, as clearly all of these worked. Whomever came up with these brilliant, loving, and romantic lines is a goddamn hero, and any young lady would be happy to hear them.

December 31st, 2024

This website uses cookies.