CALLING PEOPLE HUMANS

Let’s calm down with all this calling each other humans. The first 10,000 times it was chill and fresh and hot fire in a cold banana biscuit as the saying goes, but enough is enough. Oh gosh, it just occurred to me you may not know what the hell I’m talking about. Let’s get you up to speed. I’ve noticed an alarming trend of people saying shit like, “just shared another incredible meal with these amazing humans.” 2 for 1 pints of Barf Ale over at Barf O’Ramas if you ask me. You guys are my favorite humans and I appreciate you reading my blog. Gross. Barf bibs now for sale down at the Barf Barn!

PEOPLE WHO WEAR THEIR WATCH FACE ON THE INSIDE OF THEIR WRIST

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.

SWEATSHIRTS FOR $188

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. 

ALL OF THE OTHER REINDEER

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.

WAITERS WHO SAY "GUESS YOU DIDN'T LIKE IT, HUH?" AFTER YOU'VE OBVIOUSLY CLEANED THE PLATE

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?

OFFCOURT BASKETBALL SHOES

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.

HAVING FAMILY OUTINGS INTERRUPTED BY BIKER GANG VIOLENCE

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.

ROBERT DURST

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. 

LOSING MYSELF TO DANCE

Sometimes when I’m at Club Shimsham and I’m making a twerk or doing a sick move of dance I get so immersed in my own drumbeat that I forget who I really am. Am I still that innocent, great, lovable, handsome, hilarious, chiseled guy from an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the heart of Denver or am I a sad, lonely drifter from Topeka destined to work in the sporting goods section of Walmart because I once scored a touchdown in JV football so many years ago? I don’t even know. What I do know is I can feel the rhythm of the beat from my head to my feet. Sure, I’m well aware that my next-level moves are 100% grade-A infectious and inspiring to those around me, but when I do a deeper dive, I’m wondering if I’m still that lovable, black cruise ship bartender with a million dollar smile and a ten million dollar mustache. Is he lost forever? Is he still in there? Sure hope so. But for now, I guess I’ll just keep on dancing because it feels hella good.

DUDES READING IN BARS

When I fulfill my destiny as the benevolent dictator I was born to be, one of my first action items will be to make it punishable by death for dudes to read in bars. Let me amend that: dudes reading literature in bars. If a guy is posted up, sipping a whiskey or macro tallboy and destroying a Lee Child, all cool. Magazines and newspapers are fine. Pamphlets are allowed although not recommended because that’s likely personal business that don’t nobody else need to know about. And the ladies can read whatever they want. There’s something hot and mysterious and French about a young lady at a bar solo reading Love in the Time of Cholera. And children can obviously read whatever they want although they should not be at bars by themselves. And certain dudes who can pull it off can read literature from a pre-approved list I will provide once I take office. And punishable by death is a little strong. Punishable by atomic wedgie. Basically, I once saw a guy at a bar wearing a flat cap and reading Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying and I wanted to give him an atomic wedgie.

PUBLIC SOCIAL NETWORKING DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION

Love is a many splendored feeling, but not on facebook. When someone writes mushy junk on their significant other’s wall it makes me want to take off all my clothes and jump into a hot pit of lava. When you do this, you’re not really telling your honey boo boo that she’s the world’s biggest snugglebum, you’re telling the world that you’re the world’s biggest dingleberry. Let’s keep the pillow talk for places with pillows. And maybe the occasional “you smell like a wet puppy” as you hold the door for them. They love that shit.

DUDE ON DUDE LOL ACTION

DUDE1: Hey dude, what’s up?

DUDE2: Just chillin’ LOL

DUDE1: Why are you LOL’ing?

DUDE2: Ha, what’s good with you?

DUDE1: You know, this and that.

DUDE2: LOL

DUDE1: That wasn’t really a joke. Just kind of a throwaway statement.

DUDE2: LMAO

DUDE1: Like, you don’t have any more ass left?

DUDE2: LMFAO!!!

DUDE1: So, do you have that $20 you owe me?

DUDE2: No. Hey, I gotta go.

DUDE1: I need that money.

DUDE2: TTYL

COMPLAINING ABOUT PAPARAZZI

If you ever find yourself in a position to complain about paparazzi, do us all a favor and shut it down. If people are constantly hounding you for a picture it means you have a crap-ton of money. And I’m not saying money can buy happiness, but that’s exactly what I’m saying. If you have money you can buy yourself a water slide right off your bed so you can just roll over, slide down a rad slide and be catapulted into your own private grotto with a breakfast bar and mermaids who swim around and sing magical songs. Or, ya know, whatever you’re into. So if I had to pick between that awesome scenario and nobody ever wanting to take my picture, I’d go for the morning grotto every time.

SAYING "NICE COSTUME" TO SOMEBODY WHO ISN'T WEARING A COSTUME

I’ve done it, you’ve done it, we’ve all done it. Let’s end this vicious cycle and be better than the “nice costume” gag. Lawrence Eugene Walker was the first man to tell this joke in 1976 at his accounting firm in Omaha, Nebraska. We now refer to this as the joke’s golden age. That first year was duck soup for Lawrence. He delighted coworkers with his first attempt: “Nice costume. Jim Rockford?” Then he took things up a notch with the risky, but hilarious: "Love the getup, Alice. You look more like Dolly Parton than Dolly Parton!”

He quickly gained a reputation as a first-class yuckster around the office. Then the divorces came.

By 1980, he was all “Nice costume. What are you supposed to be, a goblin?” His joke took on a more sinister edge. The well was tainted by bitter tears, but that didn’t stop him from going back again and again. “Ah, you scared me, Gene. You should be an makeup artist in Hollywood!"

Sadly, his love for "grabbing a few beers" turned into full-flown alcoholism. And it affected his comedy. So he turned to cocaine. As a shadow of his former jovial self, the last straw burst into flames. “Nice costume, Terry. What are you a soul-sucking corporate shitbag with a pathetic excuse for a hairpiece?”

You see, Terry was his boss. Lawrence packed up his things, drove home, sat down on his couch and, well, the rest of the story is too ghastly even for today.

GOTH CHICKS WHO SAY LIKE A LOT

I dunno, just like, society sucks, you know what I mean? I can’t wait for the dark lord master of all things evil to like just take me away from all this boring suburban bullshit. Why am I even talking to you right now? You’re so totally clueless and bourgeois it makes me want to gag in my cauldron. Me and my friends will like rain down hellfire on your corporate ass or whatever. God I hate my parents. They’re so like ordinary, do you know what I mean? Like, they don’t even have any passion in life. Oh. My. Godfire. How boring can two people be? I’m so hella over them. They won’t even let me go see Avenged Sevenfold. Whatever, like I’d even want to get dropped off in our stupid minivan death trap. Yeah right. I’d die. Like, seriously, I’d die in that shitbox. LOL. I can’t even deal. Where are my cloves right now? 

PEOPLE WHO DON'T LIKE TO "PARTY"

Yeah, that's right. You know what I'm talking about. Wink wink. Yeahhh, let's do some Van Damage. Let's have a 45-minute conversation about an episode of Vice you just watched. Let’s spend our diaper money so we can stay up for three days. Let’s invite Mr. Scary over for a Sunday night Shaolin sheet karate sleepover sesh. Let’s spend 70% of our time chain smoking, 20% pooping and 10% talking about ex-girlfriends. Let’s close-talk regardless how much our breath smells like a Newark sewer system. What? No? You’re lame.

SELFIE STICKS

You know what you can do with your selfie stick? You can shove it in recycling, that’s what.

EBOLA FEAR BACKLASH

People are catching all sorts of shit for being freaked out by Ebola, but that stuff ain’t no joke, folks. You should be freaked out. Things can spiral out of control faster than Rob Ford in New Jack City. Before you know it, you could be holed up in some farm doing everything you can to keep your family safe even though the owner and his hot daughter don’t want you there. Good thing she has yellow fever and your buddy is Asian or you’d be back wandering that lonely highway that looks like a Walmart parking lot on Black Friday. Then you find out a big group of infected people are in the barn. Great, now you gotta deal with that. Just when you think things couldn’t get any worse, you find out your best homeboy has slept with your wife. So he has to die. And it’s all affecting your son who won’t take off this stupid civil war hat he found who-knows-where. And you’re concerned because he’s turning into a real psycho, but you can’t delve into that issue because your wife is pissed because you’re pissed about her sleeping with your BFF. Seems pretty unfair, but that’s just the way things are in an apocalypse. Shit just has a way of getting real. But at least your hair looks super-cool when it’s all sweaty and greasy, because who has time to shampoo, much less condition? Regardless, that won’t put food on the table. And just when you think things are back on track after you kill your best friend – who was super annoying anyway – the infected people break out of the barn and start attacking. Naturally, you have to bone out which sucks because you were growing some tomatoes and you’d love to see how they turn out, but you always knew in the back of your head that this was no time for agriculture. So, you wander through the woods. We’re wandering, we’re wandering, we’re wandering until, awesome, you get separated from your buddies, including the hillbilly with a heart of gold and his dope-ass crossbow. The infected could be anywhere and that dude watched your ass even though you chained his brother to a rooftop forcing him to cut his own hand off just to get free, so you’re mad paranoid and your son is still wearing that stupid hat. Finally, by the grace of god, you find a prison that seems like a relatively good idea. You and the mrs finally get back to good and recapture the love, but boom, she dies giving birth and that’s a real bummer until you meet a rad hot black lady with a samurai sword and there seems to be a little spark there but who has time for love to blossom when you could have your face eaten off at any moment. Seriously, it could happen. So, stop being a jerk about my Ebola fear. Just stop.

TAKING THE SAME PICTURE 50 TIMES IN FRONT OF ME AT A SHOW

Listen, bro. I didn’t pay 7 bucks in ticket fees so I could see my favorite band through the screen of your dumb smartphone. Just get it as high as you can, tap to focus, fire away, bring it into instagram, select Amaro, add the hashtag, choose a location, upload, then head to the bar for a PBR tallboy to celebrate your victory. It’s not that tough. The shot is not going to get any better the harder you try. Photos don’t care which song it is. In fact, let’s all just use this shot and be done with it.

TOM SHANE

Every time I hear Tom Shane’s voice on the radio I have Vietnam flashbacks, and I wasn’t even in Vietnam. I’d rather hear #24 being called at the DMV when I’m holding #346. I’d rather hear Edward Scissorhands and Freddy Krueger play Hangman on a chalkboard. I’d rather hear my parents making love. I’d rather hear Drew Barrymore talk about politics. I’d rather hear my Aunt Gertie talk about getting Shingles. I’d rather hear a fracker tell me why Obama sucks. I’d rather hear Russell Crowe sing. I’d rather hear someone in flip-flops step on a rusty nail. I’d rather hear Tyler Perry pitch me ideas for a Mcdonald’s commercial. I’d rather hear Rosanne Barr sing the national anthem. I’d rather hear Gilbert Godfrey read Mountain, Get Out of My Way by Montel Williams. I’d rather hear Train cover Nickleback songs.