It's Dumb Bullshit and it's All Mine

Pacific NW vs. Silly Philly

Because I am a tireless researcher and work put-er-off-er, I’ve been reading a bunch of message boards and the like in preparation for my trip to Portland and Seattle next week. Biggest takeways compared to, say Philly Speaks or Philly Reddit and the local blogs -

1. They love the way their cities look. They love taking pictures of how beautiful it is. We have natural beauty in our city too (Fairmount Park and the like) and some great architecture (seriously, look at City Hall sometime), but pictures of Philly’s urban decay seem to be more common. And they like photographing their local weirdos. Philly is more into taking pictures of the fucked up shit that occurs and saying “Look at this fucked up shit that occurred!” And I don’t mean like “There was a guy downtown in a wizard’s robe. It was nuts!” In Philly it’s more like “There was a guy downtown showing everyone his nuts. Then he said he was a wizard and bit a dog.” Or “Look, everyone’s been shot.”

2. They do not like tourists. Despite our reputation as surly, Philly seems to be pretty okay with out-of-town visitors, probably because tourists mainly stick to certain areas of the city with limited residential area impact like the Liberty Bell, the Franklin Institute, and drug buying trips to Kensington. Portland and Seattle residents treat their cities as precious, delicate ecosystems that can’t possibly sustain another season of people hunting for food carts. And even worse to them than tourists is people moving there permanently. As someone from a crumbling Northeastern city that is improving but ultimately doomed, let me say lighten the fuck up, Pacific NW. Take these new residents and embrace their tax dollars. Our schools are one step away from selling heroin instead of candy for funding. Don’t let that happen, even though you have a lot of heroin addicts and could make good money from school heroin drives.

3. They do not like each other. There’s a rivalry there, with Seattle being Portland’s older, more successful but stuffier brother. Seattle is a married psychologist with two kids; Portland is covered in tattoos and moved to an urban farm to grow kale and peyote. It’s different from the NYC/Philly rivalry, in which one is the trashy brother and the other is the smaller, trashier brother that made up a rivalry. 

4. Seattle really wants an NBA team. Well so does Philly. 

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Verse from my Wu-Tang Clan audition, 1999

Little known fact: I auditioned for the Wu-Tang Clan in 1999. It was nearly a year before The W came out. At this point, there was something like 73 rappers claiming Wu-Tang affiliation. But the original Clan was still only nine deep. And word was they were looking for a 10th. So I got in touch with them and went to Staten Island and threw down with this:

Electron microscope of Buddha’s design

The chemical warfare get you drunk like wine

That flows from the space inside your mind

Longitudinal amplitudes on the airways

Machiavellian precipitate in your neural pathways

Electrons femur Allah ecological triceratops 

Tachyon brain stem Mithra solar flare logarithm  

Quantum computing rockets Jesus windshear 

Genome trigonometry Moses cyanide altitude 

Relativity pi spleen Muhammad prime numbers

Um, science math religion science math

Science science math religion math science

They told me they’d get back to me; they never did. 

When I was a kid, I didn’t like Who’s on First?, which people confused with not understanding it. I got it; I just thought it was really stupid. And that’s why I call M. Night Shyamalan the Abbot and Costello of our time.

When I was 9, there was a kid in my class who told me he was going to the Flyers game and knew all the players and could get any of their autographs. Now I know this was a ridiculous claim, but at the time I excitedly said “Propp and Zezel!” The next day, he gave me a piece of notebook paper with the words Propp and Zezel printed on it in a 9 year old’s handwriting. The newsmedia is 9 year old me, and North Korea is the kid in my class who made ridiculous claims he could never back up. Leave it alone, newsmedia. Kim Jong Un doesn’t know the Flyers. He knows an old Dennis Rodman, and that’s it.

As someone is who is in a sort of interracial marriage, it blows my mind to think that just 60 years ago in some parts of the country I would experience the relationship discrimination that gays feel but like half of it. I would feel like an almost second class citizen as I was told “Sorry, you can’t marry a Puerto Rican. What? She’s a half Korean? Hmm. Well, we have to check on that. I’ll ask my supervisor. HAL! We got one of them men wantin’ to marry half a Chi-nee.”

Rocky’s house from Rocky II is for sale. It’s not as good as the houses from Rocky I or IV, but it’s better than the house from Rocky III, which has a flimsy structure and a violent guy with a mohawk in it.

If I ever find out I have terminal cancer, and it’s around St. Patty’s Day, I’m going to charter a bus, call it the Leprechaun Shuttle, and load it up with revelers. First stop is the bottom of a ravine.

There is Comedy in Philadelphia? Yep.

I’ve been involved in comedy for about six of the past 10 years, all in Philadelphia. The comedy scene here has grown in ways I never imagined possible when I started at the Laff House (hint hint as to why I was so pessimistic), and several people who got their start here have gone on to do amazing comedic things. The scene they left behind here in Philly is the strongest—at least in terms of volume of comics and shows—it’s been since the comedy boom days 25 years ago. And yet, I consistently still hear, first hand and from other comics, this dreaded comment relayed from locals: “I didn’t even know there is comedy in Philadelphia.” As far as we’ve come, as much as places like Helium and PHIT give us a great outlet, and for all the exposure local groups like Secret Pants and Bird Text have gotten on the Internet and sometimes in the press, even though Doogie Horner has been on the nation-wide TV and Tommy Pope was chosen directly from this mook city (I say that with love) to perform in Montreal last summer at Just For Laughs, we still face a climb up a mountain covered in oil refinery run off and Tastycake crumbs against the ignorance of the Philadelphia area about the comedy scene. 

To be honest, I didn’t even know there was local comedy until I decided I was finally ready to do stand up at age 24 (note: in reality, I’m still not ready to do stand up). I’d only ever seen stand up on television and once at a comedy club in Pittsburgh. I was aware of Philly clubs like the Laff House and Comedy Cabaret, but I assumed they imported their acts entirely from NYC and LA. I’m not kidding. And this was just 10 years ago. That there were local people doing it here, who were actually funny, came as something of a shock.

So I probably shouldn’t be so stung when people say “There’s comedy in Philly?” I didn’t even know myself until I started. We’re just not known as a comedy town even among ourselves. And, for all the negativity I still feel, our exposure and the crowds coming to our shows have mostly really, really, improved. So instead of getting really pissy every time someone says they didn’t know there was comedy here, I’m going to let it serve as a reminder that I need to try harder to promote my own shows, to find new and better ways of getting the word out, and letting others know what worked for me and what hasn’t when it comes to promoting. Also, I will get really pissy still, because come on, of course I will.

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Just saw the former receptionist for my office, and it reminded me of another former receptionist from a previous job of mine. I ran into her at lunch one day after she’d been let go, and she asked “Is that place falling apart without me?” And I gave a polite laugh. But what I wanted to say was “No. You were the receptionist.”

Joe Biden Doesn’t Get It

Despite my and others characterization of him as the Delaware Destroyer, Joe Biden might not understand that a shotgun for home defense is not sufficient to the wild gun enthusiasts who have settled vast portions of shitty America. They aren’t trying to defend against a simple burglar, as much as they would love to shoot a minority or man with a hamburger head. They have this grand vision in their four-wheeler exhaust fume brains that the government is going invade their land, like what happened at Waco or Ruby Ridge, because they are largely delusional. And the key to dealing with these delusional people, Joe Biden, isn’t telling them “Just get a double barreled shotgun.” 

I grew up in a household with guns. My dad was a hunter in his younger years, but I suppose he lost interest in doing it after a wife, kids, and hard job made life a hellish daily torture. But I grew up around firearms, and I knew where they were and how to use them. Being a Red Dawn fan and having a healthy 80’s fear of the Commies, I would sometimes daydream about Russian tanks rolling down my suburban street, Red troops along side, me at my bedroom window expertly plunking Soviet soldiers with my .22. And when I was 10, it was a pretty awesome but far-out fantasy, like getting to play baseball with Mike Schmidt was, or getting trapped in Super Mario Brothers. 

The thing is, there are full grown adults—well armed adults with land and sources of income—who have that same naive fantasy still. They see themselves as the front-line soldiers in a war that isn’t coming. They reckon the next 1776 is right around the corner, and they best be ready, because they are dumb. So simply having a double barreled shotgun, which may be fine for keeping the local ruffians at bay, isn’t enough. They need an arsenal for when the feds or military, U.S. or other, shows up at their door. Of course, their guns may be of little use since the military also has tanks and planes, and as we all know from Rock, Paper, Scissors, Gun, Tank, tank always wins. 

Among the other major gun stockpilers are survivalists, who are folks as seen on such TV shows as Doomsday Preppers and The Biggest Loser (I assume they got that large to fend off potential future famine). Instead of fearing the military or feds, they fear their neighbors, neighbors who in time of crisis they think are going to try to steal their strategic reserves of Cream of Wheat. These people need their vast gun and ammo reserves because some vague, bullshit threats exist on their horizon, such as world financial collapse, a shift in the Earth’s polarity, or Paul McCartney playing at Bonnaroo. What they fail to realize is there is a place where well-armed, desperate people are bountiful, and every day are unsaved by their many handguns. It’s called every inner city in America. Because guess what? Your ”enemies” will be armed too, and may be more adaptable to the new world order. I’ve seen these doomsday preppers on TV; far too many of these schlubs are assuming they will be the alphas in the new social order post-Apocalypse. But these chubby tech support Christians with Glocks aren’t going to be safe from the escaped mental patient with the Mohawk in ass-less chaps waiting to fuck his anger into your pale butt. There was one prepper who was a jacked black cop; if he survives the initial Doomsday horror, he’ll probably do pretty well and be able to impregnate many of the fertile remaining ladyfolk with his superior seed. Rebuild!  That guy aside, they mostly have a delusional child-like fantasy about what the world is becoming and what their role will be in it.

That’s not to say any of these people, the anti-government people or the doomsday people, are really hurting anyone. To me, they seem mostly benign, just a little nuts and are wasting a lot of time and money prepping for events that will only ever exist in their own minds. I feel bad for their kids if they have them. And I feel bad for anyone who does invade their turf because they are just itching to shoot someone. But hey Joe Biden, telling them to just get a shotgun for home defense is advice they’re not willing to process. And why should they? Hell, maybe, just maybe they’re the only true patriots left in this country. God bless America, and no one else. 

The Further Erotic Teen Sci-Fi of Harvey Snorkel

Harvey Snorkel is a neighbor of mine and a reprehensible pervert of a human being with a limited grasp of erotica and sci-fi. For some reason, he attempts to write both at the same time. Here’s his latest garbage.

“EX213, do you copy? This is PTR279, entering your orbit. Do you copy?”

“PTR279, this is EX213, Ice Planet Janet. We copy. Why are you late in arriving?”

Peetera knew this was coming. Every damn time he was put through this routine when returning from a job. “Ice Planet Janet, we encountered an uncharted asteroid belt which made navigation difficult, especially around the Bull’s Peen nebula. Also, we’re only 15 light-seconds late, what is the big deal?”

EX213 paused and then finally spoke into the com. “NOTHING, PTR279, but I DID take the time to make sure there was a nice, warm landing bay waiting for you. And now it’s gone cold. Please, proceed anyway, I’m sure you’ll enjoy your ice cold landing bay that’s now RUINED.”

Peetara had had enough of this bullshit. Ice Planet Janet had behaved toward him like this for years. He’d reached his breaking point. “EX213, Ice Planet Janet, I’m thinking it would be prudent for me at this time to explore other landing sites. For both of us, it’s what’s best. Really. PTR279 out.”

“But, Peetara..”

Peetara switched off the com, flipped the planet the a gloved middle finger, and recharted the space coordinates for deep open space, about one week’s journey at half max warp. He didn’t know exactly where he was going, and he didn’t care. He would, however, need to tell his crew the news that they would not be returning to their families on that fat bitch Ice Planet Janet. “Aw, Zablax’s ghost!” he thought. He had with him an all-male crew, and sadly not one of them would look even remotely bangable wearing the ship’s mop as a wig. Peetara realized he’d be spending the next week or so with no sex, jacking his wiener until it was red, like a dog’s.

Peetara’s ship, the Rigelian Reacharound, had a crew of nine. It was smaller than his prior command, but this was to be expected after Peetara had been demoted for sending his hot boner pics to his entire former staff via the HoloNet, instead of sending them to only the 11 female crewmembers he wished to use said hot boner in. “Ah well. Time to go let these fucksticks know they’re never going home.”

The first crewman Peetara came across was his first mate, Dar. Dar was a stupid, worthless idiot person with a face like a chimp and man boobs that were not that firm. But since his father was a Vice President at The Company, he managed to work his way through the ranks even though he was completely undeserving on account of his dumbness.

“Hello, Dar.” Dar was seated at his workstation, pouring over ship’s logs.

“Hi, Peetara. We should be landing on ol’ Ice Planet Janet soon, yes?”

“No, Dar.” Peetara hated Dar’s stupid jizz face. “There’s been a change in plans. We’re heading into deep space.”

“Where to, Captain? Sextron II? Flipperlips Crest? That planet that’s shaped like a horse’s nipple? I hope it’s not a long mission, I have to…”

“None of those are where we’re going. Wait. Sextron II. Yes, why didn’t I think of that? And we can be there in just six days.” Peetara got a boner just thinking about it, a hard smooth boner like those of his ancestors. Sextron, as it’s name suggests, was an entire planet devoted to the ancient film Tron. And sex.

“Well Cap, as much as I would enjoy some extracurriculars, my girl is expecting me back on Planet Janet and…”

“FLARK, Dar, do you ever think of anyone but yourself? We can’t go back to that stupid, judgemental planet. Ever. That place just drains the life out of me; I think I settled on it far too young. We’re going to Sextron II, Dar, and that is final.”

“But my girl is pregnant with our first child, see, and…”

“Put a flarking cork in it, Dar.” Peetara was filled with rage, and his once proud boner was retreating like a French artillery unit. But what was France? “We’re going to Sextron II so I can get my fine hog rubbed without having to hear about coming home late. As first mate, I expect you to inform the rest of the crew of our detour. I must retire to my quarters so I can… work out the details of our journey.”

Dar looked puzzlingly at Peetara, who was quite obviously pawing at his crotch growth. “Fine. I’ll inform them. I don’t expect they’ll be thrilled with the news.”

“Like a give two yarps. Go tell them, and then hit the sonic shower. You smell like you’ve been stewing in a child’s rancid milk poops.”

Dar inhaled a deep whiff of his own arm pits. “I just showered this morning sir, I don’t think I smell…”

Peetara couldn’t believe this smarmy twat. “You can’t smell yourself, Dar. Just do as you’re commanded. I’m off to my quarters.”

Peetara walked across the hall and into his quarters, wild boner still sort of there in his pants, waiting to be uncoiled like the barbed wire that lined the walls of Auschwitz. “I’ll need to rekindle this quickly with some virtual reality pornorgraphy,” he thought. “Let’s dig in.” He loaded up a newly downloaded program, put on his goggles and penile tactile chute, and began.

“HELLO, PEETARA. I AM REESA, YOUR PERSONAL VIRTUAL SEX AND BUTT SLAVE AND MORE. IT’S NICE TO SEE YOU MAY I PUT YOUR BONER IN MY SEX?”

“Um, hi. Yes, we’ll get to that. I see your nuance programming is rudimentary; we’ll have to fix that.” Peetara already wasn’t so sure this was the fuck program for him. He liked his romance a little slower, a little less aggressive, and with different phrasing, although he knew it would end with him doing her digital butthole.

Reesa continued with her inane word use. “OOH, BABY. I JUST WANT YOUR HEARTY MAN HOG IN MY SEX.”

Peetara couldn’t let it go. “Yes, you keep saying that, in your ‘sex’. Why are you calling it that?”

“CALLING WHAT WHAT? MY SEX? DO YOU WANT TO PUT YOUR ENGORGED MEAT TUBE IN MY SEX? USE YOUR FINGERS. USE YOUR WHOLE FIST. MY SEX CAN TAKE IT.”

Peetara liked that last part, but was still having trouble dealing with this dialogue. “Who the hell calls a vagina that? Your ‘sex’? Who wrote your program?”

“MY PERSONALITY IS BASED ON THAT OF A CHARACTER WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 2013 BY AN AUTHOR NAMED PATRICIA OPENHEART IN A ROMANCE BOOK TITLED THE COLOR OF THE LOINS OF THE LOVELY. IS IT NOT PLEASING TO YOU?”

Peetara knew the name Patricia Openheart. She was a hack from the 21st century who outsold several other promising romance novel writers, including his hero, a man named Harold Scuba. Yes, that’ll work. This virtual character he was trying to get his fuck on with would not do. Not at all.

To be continued…

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Orgy Ground Rules

Hey everyone,

I just wanted to send this out before we all get together Saturday night. By the way, if you’ve responded to this Facebook invite with a “maybe”, please make yourself an “attending” or “not attending”. I really want to get an accurate tally so I know how many condoms, lube packets, dental dams, wipes, etc. to buy. So far we have 19 “attendings”: 12 guys and seven gals. I know, not ideal, so hopefully a few more females will say yes in the next day or two. 

The main reason I’m sending this is I want everyone to know there are certain rules that have to be obeyed under my roof. I know some of you have participated in an orgy before. I met a lot of you at Scott’s Labor Day orgy, but the newbies may have no idea what the ground rules are for an event like this. So here they are: 

1. Please take your shoes off upon entering my home. I don’t need dirt on my clean floors. 

2. The living room area is a “safe” room. Everyone is expected to remain clothed and sex-free the whole time in there. This room is for the three R’s: rest, relaxation, and recovery. 

3. If you’ve brought any personal belongings, you may store them in the large closet adjacent to the living room. It’s huge; plenty of room for everyone’s stuff in there. But no sex in there, please. 

4. The kitchen will have a selection of drinks and snacks for everyone, but please no sex in there, and if you’re unclothed, please wear a robe if you’re eating or drinking. I will also be providing gluten-free versions of every food item for the gluten sensitives and celiacs in the group. 

5. The den is where my collection of rare cigar boxes is; please, no sex in this room. If you would like to inspect any of the cigar boxes, let me know and I will don gloves to handle the collection and show them to you. 

6. Next to the den is the downstairs bathroom. It has a shower, large tub, double sink, and of course a toilet. It must be available to people who need to potty/clean up, so refrain from sex in this room, please.

7. The downstairs bedroom is perfect for groups: to sleep in that is. So please, no sex in here, so people can get some sleep if they feel the need.

8. The backyard will be the place for smokers to go (NO DRUGS). Please be clothed; the neighbors can see over the hedges. And no sex in the outdoors please. Plus, Scooter has been known to leave “landmines”, so be careful if you’re walking around, especially barefoot. 

9. On to the upstairs, which is only really three rooms: master bedroom and en suite bathroom, guest bedroom, and guest bathroom. Please do not go upstairs.

10. Finally, we come to the attached garage. This is where the real fun happens! The garage will be well tarped and padded/bedded for whatever your pleasure, and sex toys will be available. Please refrain from pee, scat, and blood play. If you do spill any bodily fluids onto the tarp, please use a wipe to remove the offending material as soon as possible. Do not throw used condoms at other parties and shout “Water balloon fight!” Do not pick up sex toys and reenact Star Wars fight scenes. Remember everyone’s boundaries! Unlike The Beatles, fisting isn’t universally liked. Please wear the provided tag around your neck filled in with your will’s and wont’s to avoid any unwelcome sex acts. If you have brought your own toys, make sure you mark them. A suggestion box will be near the garage door; please, fill out a comment card. Also, use caution if using the old Bowflex as a sex platform. It’s seen better days. Please towel off and wipe your feet when exiting the garage. Thanks, and have a great orgy.