Wednesday, December 5, 2018


Are you a world-class distance runner who needs to check your splits in perfect stride to avoid the poor aerodynamics of a wrist twist? No, you’re not? You’re just a world-class douchenozzle? Got it. Hold up. Are you a pediatric surgeon who depends on unobstructed views of your stopwatch so you can perform miracles on a child’s still-beating heart? Wrong again? You’re just a self-deluded bungweasel in a shawl-collared sweater? Wait a second, what’s that on your other wrist? Is that, no, it can’t be. Is that a Livestrong bracelet? Oh sweet mother mercy. What's that? Speak up, you’re mumbling. You think Lance Armstrong has done enough to redeem himself? Oh man, this just keeps getting better and better. What a sweet piece of work you turned out to be. And here I thought you were out there saving kids and running marathons. I was way off.

Friday, October 27, 2017


This sweatshirt is $188. 

Take a moment with that information. A sweatshirt. $188. That’s 28 Chipotle burritos. It’s 83.5 off-peak bus trips, not that you’d want to take the bus, because gross, but you get what I’m saying. If you had a dollar, you'd need 187 more to purchase that sweatshirt. It's a shirt that you get so you can sweat in it. If you buy it, you’re gonna need it because you’ll be sweating the gas bill so hard. Ha, nailed it. Check out this sweet puppy you can get at the ‘mart:

Boom, mothereffers! $5.96. It was $6.94, but the folks at the ‘mart, were like, naaaa, too high, lower it. Okay, how about $6.49? Goddamnit, Lawrence, I said lower it. If you bought a sweatshirt for $188 I want you to put it on, get in front of a mirror, take a deep breath, and whisper these words: “You suck, bro.” Then I want you to take the sweatshirt off and give yourself a titty twister until you have enough tears to fill a shot glass. Then I want you to do a shot of your own shame tears. Do these things and I will allow you to continue wearing the sweatshirt you bought for $188. 

Friday, December 23, 2016


Is it me or did all of the other reindeer seem like colossal assholes? There they were in their ivory towers laughing and calling poor Rudolph names. Why? Because he was a little different. And one thing assholes can't stand is anything different. It makes them uncomfortable, conjures up feelings of inadequacy, makes them feel like if they let this stand, the floodgates will bust wide open. Before long their perfect little whitewashed lives will come crumbling down. Pancake houses will get converted into mosques, lollipops will be taken out of kid's hands and replaced with dirty needles and teeners of cocaine, actual jazz played by actual black people will drown out the Biebers, Perrys, and Grandes of the holly jolly world. Oh the horror.

What were these names they called poor Rudolph anyway? I venture to guess they were of the low hanging fruit variety that people of inferior imagination naturally reach for: freak, hippie, queer, stupidface, dicknose, gingernozzle, all of the standards.

And who are they to talk with names like Dasher and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen? Seems pretty obvious that Prancer is repressing a multitude of sexual and emotional desires, terrified to be his true self, living in constant fear of his neo-nazi neanderthal of a father breaking out the belt. Do reindeer wear belts? Prancer's dad does. And it's only a matter of time before Vixen starts dancing on The North Pole just to scrape together enough Santabucks for her daily fifth of syrup and carton of candy cigarettes.

Yet Rudolph continues to take the high road. He does his job, he guides the team, yearning for the day he can retire to a white sandy beach in Hawaii. We can only hope he doesn't snap one of these foggy nights and drive that sleigh right into the ground.

Thursday, October 29, 2015


Listen, just because you see me at this Olive Garden every Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights doesn’t mean we’re buddies, Rick. I appreciate your little witticisms about as much as I appreciate you not remembering to refill my coke every six minutes like I requested. Yeah, you got me, I practically licked the plate because I get a little insane when it comes to pasta in cream sauce, what of it? At least me and my skeletons bust out of the closet doing the Macarena. What are you hiding, Ricky? I don’t need you prancing over here like some Prancy McPrancerson with your little flair and your little judgments and your little jokes while I’ve got a raging case of the carb sweats. Yeah, I am crying if you really must know. But make no mistake, those aren’t tears of laughter from your clever little wisecracks, those are shame tears from eating my ever-increasing weight in bread sticks. Goddamnit those things are good, of course I’ll take another round. When are you guys getting a soft-serve machine?

Tuesday, October 13, 2015


Too bad sportswriters never rank players, because I would finally get my comeuppance as one of the top five basketballateers of all-time. I can run fast, jump like the dickens and score easier than Lou Ferrigno at Comic Con. Here are my three biggest weapons: sky hook, sky hook, sky hook. Are you crying because you just got served? Or are those tears of joy because getting served inspires you? Either way, you just got served like a vegan at Coachella. Pick your poison, Johnny Shortpants, because I’m gunning for you. And I don’t even use holsters. When they say “Ball Don’t Lie” they’re talking about me because I’m the truth. I’m dishing out a serum that’ll make you go cross-eyed faster than Bill Clinton at a U.S. Open Women’s Doubles Final. My game is tighter than Philippe Petit’s butthole in 1974. I can dribble with my left hand. I can dribble with my right hand. I can dribble with both hands and the ref wouldn’t even call it because he or she would be too scared. That’s right they have female refs now. And one of them gave me her number, but all I did was text her my junk because my game is just that nasty. You better strap on your jock, because I dribble balls for a living. The triple threat position? That’s for losers with championship rings in the single digits. I administer the quadruple threat with extreme prejudice. But not in the racial sense because I voted for Barack. Twice. Even though his jumper is wack. What’s the fourth threat? Wouldn’t you like to know? It’s the death stare. Whoops, I let that slip. Just like when I slip on shoes and sky hook over you like Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It. Damn right that doesn’t make sense because neither does my game. Speaking of shoes, it offends my inner-baller that the Nike Corporation has failed to endorse me. I wouldn’t sign anyway because they make basketball shoes for offcourt. Ball ain’t for hallways or Sadie Hawkins dances. And it certainly ain’t for video arcades or Home Depots. It’s for places like Rucker Park, Venice Beach, Madison Square Garden and my cul de sac. That’s where I got my first greenlight to dazzle. And this hot rod is ready to peel out once again.

Thursday, May 21, 2015


Last Sunday, the fam and I headed out for our weekly tradition – great food and great times at our local Twin Peaks Restaurant in Waco, Texas. I can’t speak highly enough about this place. It has everything under the sun and even more for when the moon hangs high. For starters, the alpine theme is a total bullseye since we all love the outdoors. But that only scratches the surface. Healthy portions at a great value, tallboy beers for me, strawberry margs for the mrs and a professional waitstaff that ain't too shabby to look at – it all adds up to an outstanding customer experience. And the kids positively love those state-of-the-art flat screens so they can zone out to their favorite show – Tattoo Nightmares Miami on the Spike network.

So there we were, having the time of our lives, knee-deep in the Peaks Sampler. For you greenhorns, that’s a savory assortment of fried pickles, buffalo tenders and mozzarella bites. Food so good your taste buds will get goosebumps. So, the kids are happy as clams, the wife is utterly content and I’m feeling a little tingly below the waist looking at those waitresses because they do that thing with the plaid shirts where they pull the front up through the neck so it creates a kind of makeshift bikini top that absolutely knocks my socks off. If I play my cards right, I bet I can walk out of this oasis with a doggie bag full of Blackened Chicken Quesadillas and perhaps even a phone number or two. You see, my wife and I have an open marriage. And by that I mean I’m open to talking to a few ladies on the side! But I digress. 

So, we’re all smiles and high-fives waiting for Mercedes to bring out our Smokehouse Burgers with the Gruyere Cheese and Slow-Roasted Cipollini Onions when what happens? Two extremely rough individuals spill out of the men’s restroom. A man with an impossibly bushy handlebar mustache has a guy with a flaming cobra tattoo in a headlock and he’s punching him in the face yelling, “I’m gonna fucking eat your soul you cocksucker motherfucker!” That is not the kind of language we allow Tucker and Tanner to use indoors. And we hadn’t even gotten our BBQ Pulled Pork Nachos with the Sriracha Sour Cream yet!

So, another guy with a shaved head and a patch on his leather vest that says “Satan’s Spawn” pulls the handlebar mustache guy off and starts stabbing him with a skewer that I can only assume was used for the Poblano Chicken and Shrimp Kabobs with the Roasted Garlic Lime Butter Sauce. Like, full-on stabbing him. I don’t know if my wife has 100 cc’s of strawberry marg courage coursing through her veins at this point or what, but she gets up and starts yelling at them to "take this shit outside.” I knew it wasn’t a good idea because Satan’s Spawn yelled, “Shut up, bitch!” Now, that’s no way to talk to a lady. I was super-close to saying something, but the guy broke out one of those bats with the spikes on it. All I had was the cast iron skillet from my Red Curry Skirt Steak Fajitas, but I’d only taken a couple bites and it’s one of my top 5 favorite dishes at the Peak.

So, Spawn starts clubbing this guy right on the face, chest and shoulders. The whole thing was so stressful it was making me a bit parched, but this didn’t seem like the best time to ask for a refill. Anyway, a cook from the back comes rushing in with a meat cleaver which he probably uses to chop up the Green Chile Pot Roast with Jalapeño Cream Gravy. He yells, “Blood for blood!” and starts hacking away at the guy’s leg until it resembles the Bread Pudding with Cinnamon Bourbon Sauce.

Before we knew it, the manager rips off his name tag, yells “This is our turf, bitches!” and starts spraying the place with an AK-47. Everybody scatters as the battle spills into the parking lot.

This is when my instincts take over. Without hesitation, I jump on top of Mercedes. I simply couldn’t live with myself if that precious angel got hit by a stray bullet. She made it out alive. But I’m no hero. I’m just a guy who’s more than a little annoyed by the entire situation.

Friday, April 17, 2015


It’s been a while since The Jinx finale aired and I, for one, still have a blazing case of the heebie-jeebies. It was some of the craziest shit I’ve ever seen on television, and this is coming from a guy who watched every episode of Temptation Island. Perhaps a quick exploration of some key learnings from the show might help quiet the voices.

Don’t agree to do a documentary if you’ve killed three people.
This is page two of The Psychopath’s Handbook, right after “wear gloves.” Documentaries have gotten really adept at getting to the bottom of stuff. I mean, have you seen Super Size Me? If you eat Mickey D’s for a month straight, you’ll uhhh…get mild liver damage, okay bad example. Listen, if you’re a racist owner of big-market basketball team, don’t have a black girlfriend with above average audio recording skills. If you’re a psycho killer, don’t invite a film crew in to hear your story. It’s bottom line stuff, people.

Don’t steal a hoagie when you’re on the lam.
Sure, you’re feeling invincible because you’ve pulled off the unthinkable, but this is no time for petty crimes. Looking for a quick thrill? Drink expired milk or do that Mentos/Coke thing.

Don’t shave your eyebrows when you’re trying to steal a hoagie.
I like where his head was at with the drawing attention away from the fact that you’re putting a hoagie in your pocket, but it’s a flawed strategy. Remember the three rules of hoagie-stealing my father instilled in me: blend in, blend in and blend in. I guess I just had a better father than Seymour Durst.

Have a better father than Seymour Durst.
‘Nough said.

Don’t eat grocery store hoagies.
What are you, an animal? Eat Fresh or hit up a Jimmy Johns. I recommend a #3 with extra cucumbers.

When scoping your brother for a possible 1-8-7, don’t go in all willy-nilly.
The dude owns half of Manhattan; you think he isn’t going to have a few surveillance cameras? What did you think was going to happen? You’d just shuffle up the stoop, see him through the window snorting caviar, open the unlocked door and just do that voodoo that you do? Is that backpack even big enough to carry a bow saw? Think it through, guy. And please don’t tell me that’s your kill suit - a short-sleeve button-up tucked into jean shorts, white tubers and some Skechers? You might as well be sporting a front-facing fanny pack. Now this is a kill suit:

When you’re a psycho, binge-watch Dexter.
But skip the finale. That was just ridiculous and not-at-all informative for your endeavors.

Never trust a dude who constantly refers to himself by his last name.
“Hey, Bob, Jarecki here” should’ve translated to “Hey Bob, I’m going to win an Emmy exposing you for the die-hard whack job that you really are.

Keep a lid on it until the lavalier mic has been properly removed by a professional.
I’m calling this The Biden Rule.

Don’t start burping uncontrollably when you’ve been caught red-handed.
I don’t play much poker, but I believe this would be referred to as a “tell.” I actually thought he was going to turn into a frog and try to hop away. Instead of burping, just say “classic frame job” over and over again until they move on.

Don’t kill three people.
Probably the most important takeaway of entire show. One, you’re an amateur. Three, you’re a sociopath. Two is the perfect amount of people to kill. Holy crap, you’ve turned me into a monster, Bobby Durst.