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..."

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Think Before You Speak

You might think my near two-month absence might be due to the fact that I've grown as a person and have learned to deal with people's faults and their careless ignorance with more zen-like forgiveness and ability to see past such things.

On the contrary, I've actually been overloaded by the worst of humanity lately and haven't figured out even where to begin.
But now that I have a second, I think I'd like to start with this person, certainly deserving of their own private viewing at a Ripley's Museum.

So because I'm such a nice guy, I agreed to meet this Morlock for a drink the other night. She originally suggested coffee, but…come on, I would need at least 90proof in my cup to get me in any kind of mood to want to talk to this person. And last I checked, Starbucks wasn't pouring moonshine into their lattes....Yet.

This particular character is—by YOUR definition—very attractive. But we all know I have my 'type' and to the untrained eye, it's not always what you'd expect. But it can be agreed on that she was cute, and so even though her personality was the physical manifestation of masturbating with a cheese grater--
--it didn't begin as an awful evening. Until she dropped this bombshell on me:

"I'm pretty much a glass is half-full/half-empty kind of person."


If I may translate, she said: I'm optimistic about some things and pessimistic about the others.
Your outlook on life can be one, or the other. Not both, sweetheart. You just made yourself the broadest, all-inclusive, most oblique and obtuse person I've ever met in my entire life.

How else might you be, dear? What else do we have to choose from? I understand you are vapid and vacuous with enough room in that head of yours to serve and entire Ziggy Piggy in...

...but please, at least strive to squeeze something of weight out of that toothpaste tube you call a soul.

Now some of you may be thinking, "Ian, come on, what she meant was that she doesn't see middle-ground between anything."

And to that I say, NO, fuck you. Because that would mean she was engaging in some self-examination of her psyche, and I think the only self-examination this broad gives herself requires two fingers and a poster of Justin Bieber aligned in the vanity mirror on her nightstand.