I’m a lover of all music, but especially of that genre dubbed “slippedonepassedthegoalie” which is said to be a combination of soul, funk, and Boone’s Farm. If you’re looking for an unwanted pregnancy, look no further than these golden oldens.
Sam Cooke “Bring it on Home to Me”
Arguably the greatest song in the history of music also makes women ovulate quicker than a leaky faucet drip at an apartment building where the slumlord speaks Swahili.
Of course the original versions by the aforementioned Sam Cooke and Otis Redding were incredible, but this version is good enough to knock boots to, get drunk and forget you did, then do it again and forget that you ran out of rubbers.
As I near my two year anniversary of living in the land of sun, surf, botox and three-legged street walkers, it’s definitely time for a moment of reflection. This is nothing new as evidenced by my bitching about this, this and this when it comes to Los Angeles. Well Daddy has a little to get off his chest, and not surprisingly it has to do with (drum roll please) TRAFFIC!
Los Angeles traffic is not some myth planted in fat Midwestern farmer’s psyches to ensure that there are no Jed Clampett delusions of grandeur. It is very much a real and disgusting phenomenon much like Zubaz pants and slap bracelets.
In Los Angeles, Mulholland Drive is the pushup bra of intersections: terribly disappointing. To borrow another analogy, during rush hour, German cars prey upon clunky and cheap Japanese cars like it’s the Serengeti. Shouldn’t these folks know that I CONTROL THE POWER. Me. Not them. I’m the one in the piece of shit car that I’m willing to use like a battering ram busting open the draw bridge in preparation for some major raping and pillaging.
People who drive nice cars should be the ones treating their cars like virginal parts, but instead they zip around, weaving in and out of traffic like they’re riding in a Jed Clampett clown car. These small pecker-having scofflaws need to be stopped!
* why can’t Mulholland Drive be more like Mulholland Drive. Nothing like some Lesbian kissing to ease traffic angst.
I usually leave the political talk to Reno, but since he’s gone A.W.O.L with the Westboro Baptist Church, I suppose that only leaves me (where’s Steve you ask? Probably following U2 around). While sifting through the White House flickr stream I came across this photo of Barack the prankster adding a few L.B.’s to the scale of the trip’s director. Can this guy get any cooler?
Nerds rejoice! Now you can learn advanced sex techniques in the safety of the virtual world, where viruses get treated with Norton’s instead of Valtrex. (Click the photo to get your “I’m a Mac and I pleasure myself with HTML” swagger achieved.)
While Mad Men and the rise of the retrosexual seem to be making a push into the mainstream, the stonewashed jeans, frosted tips and cartilage piercings haven’t completely died out, meaning that men are still comfortable treating their bodies like women do. Now comes word from a particularly well-written piece from Salon that Brazilian waxing has become a popular hair follicle adventure amongst a wide variety of men; thus the segue from manscaping to the Brozilian wax.
Let’s not beat around the freshly waxed bush and try to act like men do this for any other reason than one: more blowjobs. Chicks these days are anti-pubic hair which must be the main culprit for why Ron Jeremy is so unhappy. Without those prickly hair daggers downstairs a man assumes he is blowjob royalty.
Look at my freshly polished knight. Checkmate.
Men should treat their wieners like power tools, not flowers. They call it junk for a reason. If your lady friend tells you that you have a “pretty penis,” that’s just code word for “your penis is rather small so I better find a proper adjective to use.”
If a girl insists that she prefers your bratwurst without any condiments, you should insist that sex should increase ten fold. If not. you can alway’s go the LeBron route.
There’s something wonderful about a pretty woman (no Julia Roberts) who has a dumpster pool party for a mouth. Case in point, Whitney Cummings who let the David Hasselhoff roasters have it last night with a barrage of “your vagina is like” and a particularly risque Magic Johnson crack.
Wedding bells are clang clang clanging all over the place these days. Friends become couples. Couples become serious relationships. These serious relationships inevitably lead to marriage. Hooray! Break out the silverware, the fine china kid. But all is not right in the land of wedded bliss. I had sex with your future wife and you have no idea about it.
Everyone’s favorite chauvinist hour of television returns this Sunday to the delight of men who love cone shaped hooters and women who swoon over pocket squares. Given that the show is notorious for its three martini lunches, here’s Our Kitchen Sink’s Mad Men Drinking Game.
Take a drink if:
- A man subtly insinuates that a woman’s brain isn’t as developed as a man’s.
- Peggy Olson makes a face like she’s making a bowel movement
- Betty Draper blows cigarette smoke directly into the babies face.
- Sally Draper’s lisp makes an appearance.
Los Angeles is finally starting to come out of a swamp ass inducing heat wave that has melted more popsicles than Katy Perry with two glasses of champagne in her. Being that I’m a Slumdog Brokeass, air conditioning is not in my budget, and I’m forced to cool down in a more conventional manner. In this case: Venice Beach.
With a full taco truck belly I set up base camp near an eastern European couple who haphazardly applied sun tan lotion like they were basting themselves. After a few minutes I couldn’t help but notice a few things:
1. Life guards in Los Angeles are failed actors who think orange flotation devices are going to get them laid. No one likes them. As for that whistle… if you blew a casting director like you blew that thing maybe you could land a roll in the Baywatch remake.
* Wendy Peffercorn is exempt.
2. Nautical star tattoos on guys and girls say the exact same thing. “I take it up the ass.”
3. The two-piece bikini is the greatest invention…ever. Think about it. If you take a girl out on say three dates, maybe, just maybe you get to see her in her underwear in hopes that she’ll flog your dolphin. But one trip to the beach and it’s like you’re the biggest lothario on the boardwalk. Granted, not all women should embrace that skin liberation. As a rule of thumb, if you can fit a Cheeto in one of your folds you should probably reach for the two-piece.
4. Is there an age when you become too old to storm into the water with reckless abandon? This of course is the preferred method when the water is testicle chilling cold and easing your way in is out of the question. Yesterday I felt for the first time in my life that I was too old to storm Venice Beach like it was Normady. The Hammonball is officially retired.
It’s always nice to go back home and see friends and family in the city of wind. Catching up with people who matter is always refreshing and reminds me of just how dysfunctional and weird the folks in Los Angeles truly are. The only caveat is that homecomings inevitably bring people out of the woodwork who you’ve long since forgotten or just don’t give a flying fuck about. Couple this with the 4th of July holiday which brings even more people back into town and suddenly it’s 6th period lunch all over again. Here are just a few things I noticed:
*People really let themselves go. I’m not suggesting that everyone should be aspiring fitness models, but somewhere in the last ten years those freshman fifteen pounds have turned into the mid-twenties fifty. What are you supposed to do in that situation, not notice that your once supple breasts have morphed into a continuous lump that resembles one side of an inner tube?
