I’m not on Twitter. I do not tweet. No offense to those that do, it just seems like another way for celebrities and faux-celebrities to spew their diarrhetic thoughts out into the ether and foul up the atmosphere. While trapped inside my home during the second 2 foot plus snow storm in 4 days I did wonder what I would tweet were I to use Twitter. So I imagined myself with an account and what follows are a sampling of what the world is missing with me not being a tweeter or a twit or a twither or whatever:
just got up—life pretty much the same as yesterday
I’m scratching parts of my body I didn’t know could itch
took my morning dump—WTH did I eat last night? can’t breathe—losing consciousness
made it to the shower—water woke me up—feeling much better
tweeting from the shower—soap eye—ct c xbds cfrub
out of shower—eye very red and swollen but ok
just read Ashton Kutcher’s latest tweet—didn’t anyone tell him 70s show cancelled—can stop being moron
where is my cheese log?
found it!
Why are congressman and senators tweeting? Shouldn’t they be, oh I don’t know, creating jobs, fixing healthcare, ending the recession, ending the war, banging their pages, taking kickbacks, etc.
Apparently Glenn Beck tweets. As bloated and pasty as he looks on TV I’ll bet he tweets a lot. Tweets, toots, farts, sharts, shits, shoots, lets
There’s just not enough time in the day to count all my paper clips
Is it unhealthy to think about Kate Beckinsale for more than 2 hours a day?
As you can see the world is better off without me being on twitter. I’ll just keep writing this ridiculous blog doing my part to clog the internet with crap.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Soap Opera of Aerosmith
Previously on General Guiding Aerosmith As Their Lives Turn:
Rhythm guitarist Brad Whitford cracked his head while getting out of his Ferrari, requiring surgery. When Brad woke up he couldn’t remember his 40 year career in Aerosmith instead believing he had just won the 2nd chair clarinet in his Junior High School band. He believed his doctor to be Mr. Lippy, the orchestra leader.
Bassist Tom Hamilton recovered from his throat surgery to find he could suddenly sing like a classically trained soprano. He had just informed the rest of the band that he was quitting Aerosmith to tour Europe as Rosina in a production of Barber of Seville.
Drummer Joey Kramer was confronted by his evil twin Jerry. Jerry threatened to tell the world the truth: he was really the drummer for Aerosmith and that Joey had spent the past 30 years as a flood insurance salesman in Des Moines, Iowa.
Lead guitarist Joe Perry was holding a press conference announcing the band was looking for a new lead singer to replace Steven Tyler who was in drug rehab for the 103rd time to break an addiction to Flintstone’s vitamins.
This week’s episode: I AM Aerosmith
Scene: Press conference with Joe Perry sitting in front of a bank of microphones.
JP: So we’re looking for a new singer to replace Steven while he . . . recuperates. We’ve talked to Reba McIntire and a guy named Stewart we found on YouTube.
Suddenly there is a commotion at the back of the room and Steven burst in popping Barneys and Bettys like they were candy
ST: Are you crazy? I AM Aerosmith! You can’t go on without me.
JP: We don’t want to sit around waiting for you. We’re all replaceable.
ST: Replace this.
Steven grabs his crotch and wails:
“Ach Ach Ach Ach Ach Owwww!”
Another commotion ensues and then Tom Hamilton appears.
TH: I can do better than that
Tom begins to sing
"Tyrant, soon I’ll burst thy chains
Sweeter bonds than thine to prove"
Brad Whitford bursts into the room, clarinet in hand and plays along with Tom’s singing. Steven tries to get the attention back on himself by dropping trou and screaming:
ST: get out my big ten inch . . .
Joe Perry grabs Joey Kramer
JP: Joey help me!
JK: I can’t help you with these guys but how are you set with flood insurance. You can never have too much coverage. Hartford Mutual has a plan to fit everyone’s needs.
The press conference descends into madness. Jerry the evil twin drops in from the sky light proclaiming “I AM Aerosmith” while his brother Joey has cornered the president of the Aerosmith fan club and is selling her an Act of God policy. Mr. Lippy shouts to Brad from the back of the room for him to clean his spit valve while Joe Perry yells, “A singer, a singer, my Stratocaster for a singer!”
Tune in next week for the continuing saga of the Bad Boys of Boston.
Rhythm guitarist Brad Whitford cracked his head while getting out of his Ferrari, requiring surgery. When Brad woke up he couldn’t remember his 40 year career in Aerosmith instead believing he had just won the 2nd chair clarinet in his Junior High School band. He believed his doctor to be Mr. Lippy, the orchestra leader.
Bassist Tom Hamilton recovered from his throat surgery to find he could suddenly sing like a classically trained soprano. He had just informed the rest of the band that he was quitting Aerosmith to tour Europe as Rosina in a production of Barber of Seville.
Drummer Joey Kramer was confronted by his evil twin Jerry. Jerry threatened to tell the world the truth: he was really the drummer for Aerosmith and that Joey had spent the past 30 years as a flood insurance salesman in Des Moines, Iowa.
Lead guitarist Joe Perry was holding a press conference announcing the band was looking for a new lead singer to replace Steven Tyler who was in drug rehab for the 103rd time to break an addiction to Flintstone’s vitamins.
This week’s episode: I AM Aerosmith
Scene: Press conference with Joe Perry sitting in front of a bank of microphones.
JP: So we’re looking for a new singer to replace Steven while he . . . recuperates. We’ve talked to Reba McIntire and a guy named Stewart we found on YouTube.
Suddenly there is a commotion at the back of the room and Steven burst in popping Barneys and Bettys like they were candy
ST: Are you crazy? I AM Aerosmith! You can’t go on without me.
JP: We don’t want to sit around waiting for you. We’re all replaceable.
ST: Replace this.
Steven grabs his crotch and wails:
“Ach Ach Ach Ach Ach Owwww!”
Another commotion ensues and then Tom Hamilton appears.
TH: I can do better than that
Tom begins to sing
"Tyrant, soon I’ll burst thy chains
Sweeter bonds than thine to prove"
Brad Whitford bursts into the room, clarinet in hand and plays along with Tom’s singing. Steven tries to get the attention back on himself by dropping trou and screaming:
ST: get out my big ten inch . . .
Joe Perry grabs Joey Kramer
JP: Joey help me!
JK: I can’t help you with these guys but how are you set with flood insurance. You can never have too much coverage. Hartford Mutual has a plan to fit everyone’s needs.
The press conference descends into madness. Jerry the evil twin drops in from the sky light proclaiming “I AM Aerosmith” while his brother Joey has cornered the president of the Aerosmith fan club and is selling her an Act of God policy. Mr. Lippy shouts to Brad from the back of the room for him to clean his spit valve while Joe Perry yells, “A singer, a singer, my Stratocaster for a singer!”
Tune in next week for the continuing saga of the Bad Boys of Boston.
Monday, February 1, 2010
This Space for Rent
This is the first sentence of this blog. (sponsored by Hank’s Hot Wing Hootenanny—6 locations in the tri-state area featuring Hank’s Hellzapoppin’ Sauce) In an effort to make some coin I’ve decided to get corporate sponsorship for Cosmic Overdrive. (This period brought to you by Boomer Davis’s paper route—always on your porch by 6 a.m.) I haven’t been able to attract any big names yet, but I’m working on it. (The first paragraph was provided by Mr. Spock’s Used Computers and Video Games, located at the corner of 6th and Main Streets, around the block, up the steps, through the broken wooden door, turn left, down the hall, 2nd door after the out-of-order bathroom)
I’ve always made fun of college bowl games being named after their sponsorship (the letter “p” is brought to you by the Key to it All Locksmith—“If You’re Out We’ll Get You In, If You’re In We’ll Get You Out, If You Don’t Have a Lock We Can’t Help You) and sports stadiums named after banks and insurance companies, but (connecting words sponsored by Hearty Hearts—The dating service for sickeningly sweet people) in these hard times we all have to do what we have to do. (Lame, overused phrase brought to you by McCullough’s Ebay Store—Bring your life to us and we’ll sell it for a percentage)
I know theses ads are annoying (for the best in compressed meat product, shop Dundle’s Surplus Market—we buy cheap for you) and I’m not sure this is a good idea, (Millie’s Mousepad Cozies—hand sewn since 2002) but the production costs for each entry of Cosmic Overdrive have sky-rocketed to over a million dollars an entry. (Come down to Starz Bar and Cars—the counties only combination car lot and pub. This week’s specials: $2 jello shooters and a 2005 Hyundai Sonata only $9550)
I may have to cut down on the special effects and high priced guest stars unless (Bermsderfer Dairy Farm—we love our cows more than we love ourselves) I can increase revenue. So thanks for bearing with me and see you next time. (Closing brought to you by Frook’s Mortuary—We’ll Turn ‘em or Burn ‘em, Either Way They’re Dead)
I’ve always made fun of college bowl games being named after their sponsorship (the letter “p” is brought to you by the Key to it All Locksmith—“If You’re Out We’ll Get You In, If You’re In We’ll Get You Out, If You Don’t Have a Lock We Can’t Help You) and sports stadiums named after banks and insurance companies, but (connecting words sponsored by Hearty Hearts—The dating service for sickeningly sweet people) in these hard times we all have to do what we have to do. (Lame, overused phrase brought to you by McCullough’s Ebay Store—Bring your life to us and we’ll sell it for a percentage)
I know theses ads are annoying (for the best in compressed meat product, shop Dundle’s Surplus Market—we buy cheap for you) and I’m not sure this is a good idea, (Millie’s Mousepad Cozies—hand sewn since 2002) but the production costs for each entry of Cosmic Overdrive have sky-rocketed to over a million dollars an entry. (Come down to Starz Bar and Cars—the counties only combination car lot and pub. This week’s specials: $2 jello shooters and a 2005 Hyundai Sonata only $9550)
I may have to cut down on the special effects and high priced guest stars unless (Bermsderfer Dairy Farm—we love our cows more than we love ourselves) I can increase revenue. So thanks for bearing with me and see you next time. (Closing brought to you by Frook’s Mortuary—We’ll Turn ‘em or Burn ‘em, Either Way They’re Dead)
Monday, January 25, 2010
2009 Redux
I’ve been writing this blog for close to a year so I thought I’d take a look back at some of the things I wrote about and see where they stand now.
In October I wrote about my consternation at sports talk show hosts who jump on a team or coach’s bandwagon too soon without giving it enough time to honestly evaluate them. I used the Denver Broncos and their new coach Josh McDaniels as an example. Back then they were 4-0 and the blathering jabberjaws at ESPN had anointed Josh McDaniels as Wunderkind of the Year. I argued it was too early and they had only played so-so competition. So what happened? Things didn’t look good for my points of contention as the Broncos won the next 2 games to go 6-0, but they came through for me in the end by losing 8 of their last 10 to finish 8-8 and out of the playoffs.
That same month I posted an entry ruminating on what luck was, so you may be wondering if I’ve had any new insights. Well, at Christmas I received several instant lottery tickets which netted me $2 and a free ticket. So my only insight is that whatever luck is, it still hates me.
Way back in April I wrote a response to someone I had heard on the radio making fun of anyone over the age of 12 who still listened to Motley Crue. At the time I didn’t know the talking monkey’s name but now I do. I recognized his voice one day as he is the new co-host of the Scott Van Pelt Show on ESPN radio. Ryan Russillo is the self important oaf and after listening to him for a while I realized I don’t like him.
It’s not the Crue slight either. I’m not championing Motley Crue as the greatest band ever; he just made an unnecessarily rude comment. But listening to him on the radio, every opinion Ryan gives he states with an air of finality as if to say: I’m on radio so obviously I know more than you. Ryan did give me a frisson of schadenfreude this weekend. On Friday, talking about the Texas-Connecticut men’s basketball game, Ryan said, “I can’t see any way Connecticut can win this game.” So Saturday night when I found out Connecticut won by 14 points, I had a hearty laugh at Ryan’s expense.
Also in April I said goodbye to Texas many times and in many ways as they threatened to secede. Sadly, as of this writing, they are still a member of the union.
May saw a blog on the comeback of the band Creed. I postulated that no one cared and wrote a playlet to illustrate my point. I would like to claim victory as the latest issue of Rolling Stone announced the tanking of both their new CD and their summer tour.
I spent a lot of time making fun of republicans this past year so with a new year upon us, I resolve to continue making fun of republicans as often as possible.
What has all of this taught us? Not a damn thing.
In October I wrote about my consternation at sports talk show hosts who jump on a team or coach’s bandwagon too soon without giving it enough time to honestly evaluate them. I used the Denver Broncos and their new coach Josh McDaniels as an example. Back then they were 4-0 and the blathering jabberjaws at ESPN had anointed Josh McDaniels as Wunderkind of the Year. I argued it was too early and they had only played so-so competition. So what happened? Things didn’t look good for my points of contention as the Broncos won the next 2 games to go 6-0, but they came through for me in the end by losing 8 of their last 10 to finish 8-8 and out of the playoffs.
That same month I posted an entry ruminating on what luck was, so you may be wondering if I’ve had any new insights. Well, at Christmas I received several instant lottery tickets which netted me $2 and a free ticket. So my only insight is that whatever luck is, it still hates me.
Way back in April I wrote a response to someone I had heard on the radio making fun of anyone over the age of 12 who still listened to Motley Crue. At the time I didn’t know the talking monkey’s name but now I do. I recognized his voice one day as he is the new co-host of the Scott Van Pelt Show on ESPN radio. Ryan Russillo is the self important oaf and after listening to him for a while I realized I don’t like him.
It’s not the Crue slight either. I’m not championing Motley Crue as the greatest band ever; he just made an unnecessarily rude comment. But listening to him on the radio, every opinion Ryan gives he states with an air of finality as if to say: I’m on radio so obviously I know more than you. Ryan did give me a frisson of schadenfreude this weekend. On Friday, talking about the Texas-Connecticut men’s basketball game, Ryan said, “I can’t see any way Connecticut can win this game.” So Saturday night when I found out Connecticut won by 14 points, I had a hearty laugh at Ryan’s expense.
Also in April I said goodbye to Texas many times and in many ways as they threatened to secede. Sadly, as of this writing, they are still a member of the union.
May saw a blog on the comeback of the band Creed. I postulated that no one cared and wrote a playlet to illustrate my point. I would like to claim victory as the latest issue of Rolling Stone announced the tanking of both their new CD and their summer tour.
I spent a lot of time making fun of republicans this past year so with a new year upon us, I resolve to continue making fun of republicans as often as possible.
What has all of this taught us? Not a damn thing.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Let's All Go to the Movies
I was watching a few minutes of Star Wars Episode 2 on TV yesterday. Episode 2 is subtitled “Attack of the Clones” and I started thinking that these sequels should actually have subtitles that more accurately describe the movie. This would help movie goers know whether they should bother seeing the sequel. I’ve written some suggestions for already existing films:
Star Wars Episode 1: The Beginning of the End
Star Wars Episode 2: Ruining the Franchise
Star Wars Episode 3: Too Painful to Watch Any Longer
Rambo 2: Less Dialogue, More Killing
Rambo 3: Plot? What plot?
Spiderman 2: 100% Less Willem Dafoe
Spiderman 3: Look How Much Money We Spent
Speed 2: A Boat? Really?
Friday the 13th part 10: We Found a Way to Get Jason into Space, What More Do You Want?
Aliens: The Plural “S” Says it All
Transformers 2: BIGGER, LOUDER, DUMBER
Highlander 2: They’re Aliens! Bet You Didn’t See That Twist Coming
Highlander 3: Their Can Be Only . . . 2 . . . ‘Cause We Found Another One
Highlander 4: No One is Watching Anymore, Are They?
Star Trek 2: Scenery Chewing 101 by Ricardo Montalban
Star Trek 3: Search for Fan Appeasement
Star Trek 4: Goin’ for the Funny
Star Trek 5: Shatner Directs, ‘Nuff Said
Star Trek 6: Hey, This One is Pretty Good
Star Trek 7: The First One With the Bald Guy
Star Wars Episode 1: The Beginning of the End
Star Wars Episode 2: Ruining the Franchise
Star Wars Episode 3: Too Painful to Watch Any Longer
Rambo 2: Less Dialogue, More Killing
Rambo 3: Plot? What plot?
Spiderman 2: 100% Less Willem Dafoe
Spiderman 3: Look How Much Money We Spent
Speed 2: A Boat? Really?
Friday the 13th part 10: We Found a Way to Get Jason into Space, What More Do You Want?
Aliens: The Plural “S” Says it All
Transformers 2: BIGGER, LOUDER, DUMBER
Highlander 2: They’re Aliens! Bet You Didn’t See That Twist Coming
Highlander 3: Their Can Be Only . . . 2 . . . ‘Cause We Found Another One
Highlander 4: No One is Watching Anymore, Are They?
Star Trek 2: Scenery Chewing 101 by Ricardo Montalban
Star Trek 3: Search for Fan Appeasement
Star Trek 4: Goin’ for the Funny
Star Trek 5: Shatner Directs, ‘Nuff Said
Star Trek 6: Hey, This One is Pretty Good
Star Trek 7: The First One With the Bald Guy
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
An Open Letter to the Truck in Front of Me Driving 10 Miles below the Speed Limit
Dear F-150 Truck Driver,
I don’t know what state you learned to drive in but here in Pennsylvania we have things called speed limit signs. These signs are conveniently located at the side of the road every few hundred yards and their purpose is to let you know the maximum speed but also the MINIMUM speed you should travel at to keep someone behind you in a Chevy Cavalier from trying to ram their grill through your tailpipe and questioning your parentage and whether monkeys were involved.
I can understand perhaps going a few mph slower than the posted limit, but 25 in a 35 zone? Really? Dude, I can skip faster than that and I’m not a skipper. It was 3 a.m., roads were empty, no ice or snow on the ground. So what was the problem?
I looked up the specs for your truck and it does come with a gas pedal as standard equipment. Maybe you modified your truck by removing the gas pedal and putting in a second brake. Did you somehow not know what that large “35” meant? Did you think it was an animal crossing so you drove real slowly so if one ran out in front of you, you could snap a picture of the elusive “35”?
When we came to the side-by-side straight lanes on Queen Street and I passed you, did you notice how I accelerated to 35? Ok, I accelerated to 45, but the point is I went AT LEAST 35. Hellfire and damnation did not rain down upon me, I didn’t burst into flames, and I wasn’t transformed into a poly-headed beast named Dan with sulfur-based body odor that is doomed to roam the Earth preaching the ills of driving at the posted speed limit.
It’s ok sir. Your truck has the equipment and I’m sure you have the right leg/ankle/foot combination necessary to depress the pedal. Take a deep breath and Go Speedracer! Go!
I don’t know what state you learned to drive in but here in Pennsylvania we have things called speed limit signs. These signs are conveniently located at the side of the road every few hundred yards and their purpose is to let you know the maximum speed but also the MINIMUM speed you should travel at to keep someone behind you in a Chevy Cavalier from trying to ram their grill through your tailpipe and questioning your parentage and whether monkeys were involved.
I can understand perhaps going a few mph slower than the posted limit, but 25 in a 35 zone? Really? Dude, I can skip faster than that and I’m not a skipper. It was 3 a.m., roads were empty, no ice or snow on the ground. So what was the problem?
I looked up the specs for your truck and it does come with a gas pedal as standard equipment. Maybe you modified your truck by removing the gas pedal and putting in a second brake. Did you somehow not know what that large “35” meant? Did you think it was an animal crossing so you drove real slowly so if one ran out in front of you, you could snap a picture of the elusive “35”?
When we came to the side-by-side straight lanes on Queen Street and I passed you, did you notice how I accelerated to 35? Ok, I accelerated to 45, but the point is I went AT LEAST 35. Hellfire and damnation did not rain down upon me, I didn’t burst into flames, and I wasn’t transformed into a poly-headed beast named Dan with sulfur-based body odor that is doomed to roam the Earth preaching the ills of driving at the posted speed limit.
It’s ok sir. Your truck has the equipment and I’m sure you have the right leg/ankle/foot combination necessary to depress the pedal. Take a deep breath and Go Speedracer! Go!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
A Love Story
August 2008 I went through a bad breakup. I didn’t want to end the relationship, I was happy with our arrangement. But I was out of work and my significant other was demanding in a monetary way. I couldn’t afford our liaisons any longer. So I made the call.
It ended abruptly. There were no tears, I wouldn’t allow myself to cry and my paramour seemed unfazed. A while later the day I was dreading came. The van parked in the street, I heard the ladder rattling as it was leaned against the telephone pole. A few minutes later it was done. My cable had been turned off.
The months ahead were dark. I railed at the sun, the moon and the stars. I mourned the loss of ESPN and their bloated opinions of themselves. How would I survive without their misguided and self important predictions of the football playoffs? If I didn’t know what dirty job Mike Rowe was doing, how could I feel better about my job? I couldn’t feel superior if I didn’t have MTV and VH1’s bran cell killing line up of fetid egomaniacs to decry and ridicule?
No Phillies games, no North Carolina Tar Heels basketball and worst of all, no football. I was in a circle of Dante’s hell; the one I thought was saved for people who take 107 items through the express line at the grocery store. I tried to start another friendship with an indoor antenna, but it didn’t work out. I gave it $30 and received back 4 channels that didn’t always come in. It ended badly between us. The antenna still drunk dials me from time to time. Sad really.
I’m a TV guy, always have been. I used to do my homework after school while watching re-runs of Gilligan’s Island, Gomer Pyle, The Monkees, Get Smart and Hogan’s Heroes. If you’re one of those people who sniff, “I never watch TV, it rots your brain”, then bite me.
Just a few days ago cable TV sauntered back into my life dressed up like a cheap trick: half price for a full year. What did I do? I leapt on it like Rush Limbaugh on the liberal agenda.
Cable TV and I are once again in a symbiotic relationship. I pay my monthly bill and it gives me dozens of channels to surf through to satiate my appetite for entertainment, both good and bad, thought provoking and mindless. I am back to the comfort of the Law and Order chu chung, CSI: whatever city, poker tournaments and basketball games between two teams I know nothing about.
It’s good to be in love again.
It ended abruptly. There were no tears, I wouldn’t allow myself to cry and my paramour seemed unfazed. A while later the day I was dreading came. The van parked in the street, I heard the ladder rattling as it was leaned against the telephone pole. A few minutes later it was done. My cable had been turned off.
The months ahead were dark. I railed at the sun, the moon and the stars. I mourned the loss of ESPN and their bloated opinions of themselves. How would I survive without their misguided and self important predictions of the football playoffs? If I didn’t know what dirty job Mike Rowe was doing, how could I feel better about my job? I couldn’t feel superior if I didn’t have MTV and VH1’s bran cell killing line up of fetid egomaniacs to decry and ridicule?
No Phillies games, no North Carolina Tar Heels basketball and worst of all, no football. I was in a circle of Dante’s hell; the one I thought was saved for people who take 107 items through the express line at the grocery store. I tried to start another friendship with an indoor antenna, but it didn’t work out. I gave it $30 and received back 4 channels that didn’t always come in. It ended badly between us. The antenna still drunk dials me from time to time. Sad really.
I’m a TV guy, always have been. I used to do my homework after school while watching re-runs of Gilligan’s Island, Gomer Pyle, The Monkees, Get Smart and Hogan’s Heroes. If you’re one of those people who sniff, “I never watch TV, it rots your brain”, then bite me.
Just a few days ago cable TV sauntered back into my life dressed up like a cheap trick: half price for a full year. What did I do? I leapt on it like Rush Limbaugh on the liberal agenda.
Cable TV and I are once again in a symbiotic relationship. I pay my monthly bill and it gives me dozens of channels to surf through to satiate my appetite for entertainment, both good and bad, thought provoking and mindless. I am back to the comfort of the Law and Order chu chung, CSI: whatever city, poker tournaments and basketball games between two teams I know nothing about.
It’s good to be in love again.
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