Thursday, December 1, 2011

F&@kers, I'm back!

Here's a fan fave to get you back in the weinin spirit for new posts after the holidays.

Yes, I've been away far too long.
but trust me, it was a necessary break for two reasons...
1) It allowed me to put my creative energies into a far more important activity
2) It allowed a cloacal of rage, fury and hatred to build up like a hardened artery; a cistern of ignorance that has been blessed with a torrential monsoon after unseasonable drought.


Remember those videos we had to watch in 2nd grade? The ones that looked like they were filmed on the ends of 8mm film left from cutting snuff films?

About how it's important NOT to speak with strangers?

No? Well I do. And that's why I mind my own business. I don't get on an elevator and turn to the person CLEARLY TRYING TO MIND THEIR OWN BUSINESS next to me and with a twinkle in my eye, and a sickening shrug of my bony shoulders say, "At least it's Friday, RIGHT?"


I don't do that for two reasons:
1) I respect people's privacy. Especially people I don't know.
2) I don't wash my face with douchebag cream every night.

But let's get down to what's REALLY bothering me this morning, that I had to interrupt my vacation for ranting and raving on this site like a lunatic and return to the forum.

I'm casually stopped at a light in my car. You know the one.

Right. Except, mine has Jersey plates. Because even though I live in Los Angeles, I refuse to accept the fact that I do and prefer to live with the pipe-dream that in the next few months I shall return to the east coast.

ANYWAY, I'm stopped at the light and this nice looking 40-year old or so woman coming the other way stops her car and starts talking to me through the window.

Now of course I don't hear her at first b/c i'm listening to some awesome tunes on the radio--

So I politely lower the volume and my window.

"Are you lost?"
Strange question. I'm braked at a light. How can one look lost. But hey, she seems like she wants to help. And so I reply in kind.
"Well, you're in the wrong state. Get out!"
And she proceeds to then gun it and take off, making her escape with all the maturity and subtlety of a fifth grader who just TP'd his neighbor's house and saw an upstairs light come on.

What the fuck was that about?
What would possess a grown person to do that?
And how long had she been holding on to that gem to try out?
Was I the first to befall her vacuous wit? Or are there others out there like me. With Michigan plates. Texas. Florida.

Is there a support group out there for us. I need to coalesce my own feelings with other victims and maybe together we can find some answer that will help us move on.

Ma'am in the black sedan at the light on Wellworth and Westwood, you have turned my blogging vacation into a nightmare leave of absence Weekend at Bernie's style.

I guess I should say...thanks?

Thursday, July 28, 2011

The Big Picture Show

The Movie Employee who speaks to the audience before the film. You, Sir, are a tool.

When did movie theaters decide a movie needs an opening act? And why did they decide that instead of a talented comedian the pre-show announcements should be made by some fat, pockmarked, greasy haired college dropout in a maroon dress shirt and orthopedic-correcting shoes, complete with a haircut courtesy of Helen Keller?

"I don't understand; I just asked for a little off the top."

Do we need to be reiterated what movie we're seeing? And what time it's showing? Honestly, this isn't the episode of Full House when Stephanie and DJ end up on a flight to Auckland, New Zealand instead of Oakland, CA because there wasn't an early warning announcement.

This is a fucking movie probably starring either Ryan Reynolds or Bradley Cooper with a fat, lesser attractive friend whose last name is Goldbergsteinowitzenfarbrieich-Jew.

"Dialogue, dialogue, dialogue, sex, dialogue, wingman, cockblock, dialogue, Torah portion."

If someone is too stupid to correlate the theater number on their ticket to the theater number they're actually walking into, then they deserve to accidentally watch an 8-hour long Serbian documentary shot in cinema verite about goat herding through the Balkan Wars.

"Goofier than my whole antiquated look. It's my 'thing', you know?" -- Gene Shalit

We're all excited that you're in the Groundlings class—the one where as long as you pay you can be part off—but if I wanted to laugh then clearly I wouldn't be sitting in a theater showing a movie co-starring Dane Cook. WOULD I?


Tuesday, June 28, 2011

I Say, I Say, I DO Declare!

If I have to hear one more person say that they've self-diagnosed themselves with some droopy, emo-moody disorder, I'm going to have to self-diagnose you as a lousy piece of trash and prescribe you a bullet in the fucking brain.

"Hold it, hold it. Will my insurance cover this?"

You're not even smart enough to know that weed I sold you was just pencil shavings and poison ivy, suddenly you're the medical consultant from the set of Diagnosis Murder?

"The real medical mystery is how this show ran for 8 years."

And of course you never, EVER self-diagnose ailments that aren't stress or depression related. Ailments that don't require drugs like xoloft, xanax, valium, aderall, etc. Or as I call them: Ian's FuntimeHappyJuiceNoBadFeelings Tonique.

My Actual Likeness

I've never once heard someone walking around telling people they self-diagnosed themselves with anal warts and elephantitis.

"WebMD says it's probably just the flue, but...I have my doubts."

It's the attention-seeking, pitty party diseases that you want to enlighten people you've contracted. Sure. Boohoo, you're feeling sad this week.
You want to prove to me that you truly are a self-diagnosed bipolar manic depressive? Let's go have an awesome time at an amusement park and just when we're laughing it up on the top of a roller coaster you jump off it.

"Either of you two have some vicodin?"

Only then will I have them put " , MD" at the end of your name on the tombstone.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

The Thin Caffeinated Line

Do you know what a line is?

It's a queue of a diverse group of people waiting to achieve a goal of some kind.

A common line is one at Starbucks, when it's 830 in the morning, I've been up since 530 for the gym--

--and I want my God damn caffeine before the rage I withhold for this blog works like radiated gamma rays to transform me into a maniac so crazy that he wears purple slacks.

So I'm in line, doing what one does in line, moving forward until the obese woman in front of you orders a caramel macchiato frap (but with only a little whip cream — because she's on a diet, you see)--

--and it's your turn to order and pay for your over-priced, burnt, bitter beverage.


The barista is not your homeroom teacher taking roll call. They should not be repeating the same thing over and over and over again?

"Next in line...Next in line...Next in line"

You know you're getting close to the front of the line, so why are you not paying attention to the line but twiddling around on your phone, checking your OKCupid messages.
(Between you and me, he's NOT the one)

"I enjoy light jazz, dry comedy and strangling women with telephone wire."

I believe Ned Beatty (the more attractive Beatty in my opinion) said it best:


This isn't just your line, to keep at a pace of your liking. It's all of ours. We share this experience together and communally, but still have a personal responsibility to do our part to keep it flowing perennially to its forgone conclusion — MY GOD DAMN COFFEE.

I think it was Marx who originally said that.

No, not that Marx, the other one.

Eh, close enough.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

A Confederacy of Twits

Don't forget, Pilgrims-- You can follow me on twitter @Ianisweinin.

It can be difficult to translate my verbose rants into concise 140-character bon mots, but I never run from a challenge...

Save for that half-marathon. I ran 13 miles to avoid showing up to that thing.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Keep on Rockin'

As a way to cast the shackles of intermittency aside and get more posts out there for you, my precious Pilgrims, I've decided to throw in a couple new "bits" in the coming weeks. While off topic of mass ignorance and ubiquitous human stupidity, I still think they'll jive quite well with the disdain which I hurl like a lightning bolt from atop Mount Olympus.


American Pie by Don McLean

God, I hate this song. Maybe it's because I don't have a Jesus fish on the back of my car, or because that I believe unless your nickname for your Johnson is "South," it will indeed NOT rise again, but the forced patriotism this song has wrought as its legacy is thicker than the fried pork sausage red-blooded white-trash American fans of this song will eventually choke on.

I also don't like that it clocks in at over 8 minutes. It's a personal belief that a song should not last longer than I can in bed. Unless that song is Free Bird, in which case I take a break to air guitar out the solo.

This might also explain why I keep an album only of itunes 30-second samples playing whenever I drug seduce a girl to bed.

The song famously refers to "the day the music died." Which in Don McLean's opinion was February 3, 1959 — when the plane carrying Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper crashed.

Really, Don? Rock's really struggled to limp along for the last 52 years somehow, despite this tragedy. Yes, the loss of Buddy Holly was a blow to original voices in the nascent years of popular music.

But Richie Valens? Name any other song besides 'La Bamba' that he sang? If your answer was anything but the track 'Donna' then Mrs. Valens, I'm not going to tell you again, please stop reading my blog.

And the Big Bopper?

I love, love, LOVE 'Chantilly Lace.' It was one of the first songs I remember hearing, but any man who needs to be SO literal as to use a telephone as a prop while performing a song frankly deserves to die and I hope he burns in hell.

The only time the music dies, Don, is when I'm sitting at a karaoke bar and two sloppy drunk latently-homoesexual best buds join together to belt out this track.

You want to impress me, Don? Name another Don McClean song.

Thursday, May 12, 2011

Hands of Fate

Let's get something straight here:

Quit telling me to wash my hands after I take a leak.

I don't use my hands to build some kind of filtration system for which to piss through, keeping minerals and nutrients aside to be digested later.
Also, my penis is probably the cleanest part of my body. It's been in my pants all day, unexposed to the elements. I don't shake hands with it. Unfortunately. I don't take it out to weigh down raw meat on the counter. You can see your reflection in my cock. That's how clean and shiny it is. My girlfriend uses it as a vanity mirror to re-apply her make-up in the car sometimes.

Feel free to eat off it. Please?

And most urinals are automated now, so it's not like gripping a clammy, sweaty palm down on some kind of flush mechanics, covered in the grime and piss of the special needs kid who just walked out wearing a helmet with chocolate(?) smeared all over his shirt and hands.

Maybe when you piss it's like the Exxon Valdez, spraying everywhere, killing local marine life.

But since I don't have a degenerative nerve disease like Parkinsons, when I shake at the end, I'm more than capable of doing it carefully enough not to spill any drops out.

So next time I come out of the bathroom and you don't hear the sink, maybe instead of saying, "Don't you wash your hands???!!!" you should be saying, "I'd like to shake that clean hand of yours."

"Thank you," I'd reply graciously. "And might I add, your lipstick looks a tad smudged. Why don't you reapply it. Here, use this..."