Weekend Video: 5/31

Here we are with another in what's proving to be a non-consistent feature here.

The three best lines from The Departed, which is easily one of the best movies of all time.

Friday Hate: 5/29

This week's edition isn't really about hate, more about disgust. But, to be honest, "Friday Disgust just doesn't have the same ring to it, so here we are.

I am on Twitter. I don't post a whole lot, if ever, but I follow a select group of people. And when I say select, I mean three groups of people. NBA players/writers/bloggers, comedians and porn stars.

And when I say porn stars, I don't mean a ton of them, only a few that I've seen have interesting/funny stuff to say, not just pics and links.

Well, some of them post pics on TwitPic, and occasionally its of themselves before they shoot. Generally, they're shot on cell phone cameras, so they don't look great, but it's sort of interesting to see them without makeup and without dicks in their face.

On TwitPic, people can comment, and that's where the disgust comes in. There's a certain group of people who are only on Twitter so they can tweet porn stars.

They're usualloy guys with ethnic names, e.g., Juan, Mario, T-Dawg, and it looks like all they do is flirt with porn stars through twitter. On the pics, they lay on the sleaziest pickup lines.

For example, Sandee Westgate, a hot porn star (duh) tweeted a pic of herself. Here's a comment:

robstaintonboss: ill bet god had u in mind when he created eve!!!!!!!!!

Really? How many times have you used that in a car and gotten laid?

Go to some of the guys pages, and all they do is tweet at pornstars telling them how hot they are?

Do these weirdos think that this will secretly lead to a meeting and fucking?

And here's the scary part: I think they do. After all, we've all seen pornstars just attack a pool boy, mechanic or cable guy, so what's to say they won't run into each other, remember to tweet in question that they just won't bang it out?

A man can dream, can't he?

People Staring At Me WIth Hate in Their Eyes

We're going to introduce a new feature here at Fists With Your Toes, people who stare at me with hate as I take photos.

When I cover events, I usually take my own photos. Sometimes when I'm going through them later, I catch someone in the background, staring at me with unadulterated hatred in their eyes.

I'm going to start it out with one from a few weeks ago, when I was covering the Air Show. I was originally going to do a whole recap as Part II of my weekend in the trenches, but this was the only funny part about the afternoon, so I'll just add it.

I'm on the Andrews Air Force Base tarmac, where there are dozens of planes, and some speech going on. As I take some photos of the speakers, I snap a photo, the one you see below.


The gentleman in the front row is Gen. Norton Schwartz, Chief of Staff of the Air Force. I snapped this photo, because I thought it was a nice photo of him and his wife interacting with that little kid with the headphones.

But let's take a closer look at the women sitting next to Gen. Schwartz, his wife, Suzie. They were both at the event I'd covered the previous night, and both seem to be very pleasant people.

But Mrs. Schwartz apparently isn't very happy with me, as shown in this blown-up shot of her.


She does not look very happy with me. In the photo before this shot, she was all smiles looking at this kid, and now she's looking at some prick reporter take a picture, she isn't having any of it.

After the speech, I wander around, and snap a few photos, including this one:


Seems pretty ordinary, right?

Look closer at the man in the background:


He looks like he is about to rape me. In the face.

What the fuck is the deal? Was my dick hanging out or something? Was I mistakenly wearing my Nazi hat? Why are these random people glaring at me while I take photos?

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. I was covering a burial service at Arlington National Cemetery, where a Medal of Honor winnder was being buried there. I snapped this photo of the soldiers folding an American flag.


Looks pretty normal, a solemn moment, featuring The Old Guard, who are the ceremonial unit for the Army. They are well disciplined, and represent the height of discipline of the U.S. military.

So why is the guy in the center of the picture staring at me with such rancor in the middle of the burial service? Take a closer look:


Ouch. He looks like he is about five seconds away from jumping across the grave and beating the everloving shit out of me.

I hope you enjoy this new feature, I'll try to post them as they come up.

I Digust Myself

I am a filthy, disgusting human being. A vile, repulsive individual that is just a waste of oxygen and precious resources.

It wasn't always like this. I think at one point in the not-too-distant past, I was a productive member of society. I don't know where I went wrong.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Two things happened today that made me really question my place in this world we live in.

The first? Well, I'm glad you asked.

Last weekend, I went to a friend's river house, and got the living shit sunburned out of me. I mean, I've been a fucking lobster for the last few days. My shoulders, arms and chest were bright red.

I'm been trying to keep it properly moisturized, but some peeling is inevitable.

So this afternoon, I decide to wander back onto the hardwood. I haven't played hoops since the weather got colder, and our indoor gym has been taken up with intramural basketball.

So it's time to work on my baby hook, elbow jumper and trizzles. And I must admit, it was feeling good. I was hitting my stuff and feeling good, got a good sweat working.

So I'm in my car, sitting in mile after mile of fucking traffic, and I do what I normally do, start examining myself. I start with the ol' nutsack (can't be too careful with testicular cancer these days) and work my way up to my shoulders.

And that's when I see it. On my shoulders, it looks like a lot of tiny blisters. Weird.

I get home, and I get ready to jump in the shower. And when I take my shirt off, I'm covered in tiny blisters. What the fuck?

And then it hits me. I had all this dried up skin where I got burned, and when I sweated, it filled the space.

So I'm covered in sweat-filled blisters. I can't imagine anything more disgusting.

What's worse is that they're very thin, so when I run my hands across them, they burst, sending foul sweat all over myself.

I won't lie, if I had a bathtub instead of a standup shower, I might have filled it with warm water and slit my wrists, just to make my failure at life complete.

So I jumped in the shower, and tried my best to pop them all, making my skin normal again, or so I though.

I start rinsing off the soap from my chest, and as I step away from the water, I notice there still seems to be droplets on me, and they're not moving.

Except it wasn't just drops. The shower water was filling up the popped blisters. Gross.

I am hideous.

So I start trying to just take all the skin off, and pretty soon, I had a lot of dead skin on my hands.

Now it's going to get real real.


You see that thing on the left that looks like old chewing gum, the thing that's almost as big as the penny?

That's the ball of skin I took off of myself. I think I just threw up in my mouth as I typed that.

Now that I've thoroughly disgusted you with my physical maladies, let me tell you about the second thing that makes me disgusting. This one is mental.

I was walking down the sidewalk today, on my way to meet someone, when about a quarter-mile in front of me, standing on the corner, are two chicks.

Now, as a single guy in his sexual prime, a guy that always takes a second look when I see an ass in tight pants, no matter how ugly the chick is.

So as I get closer, I see at least one of the chicks is very...uh...how do you say.....ample in the bosom?

So I'm walking, I'm leering, just trying to get a close look at their faces. And all of a sudden, they both start looking at me as I walk on the sidewalk towards them.

Just as I'm starting to wonder how fast I can book a hotel room for a hot threesome, a school bus rides past me, stops at their corner, and both girls get on.

Apparently I didn't notice that they were wearing backpacks.

Now, there aren't many things certain in this topsy-turvy world of ours, but odds are, a chick getting on a school bus isn't anywhere close to 18, especially a hot one.

I am a monster.

The school bus rule is pretty much the same as the cigarette rule, except the opposite. If you see a chick smoking a cigarette, chances are she's 18, if she's getting on a school bus, she's probably not.

The odds in both instances are worth betting your cornhole on, especially if she's hot.

So there you have it, I'm covered with filth, and I was leering at a girl that can't be over 16.

And you wonder why I loathe myself.

Monday Links: 5/18

• I know what to get Michael Vick for Christmas...
• A study in awkward, which I am always in favor of.
• Not good news. I think I'm in the fever stage.
• One of the more interesting movie theories I've seen in a while. Now I really want to watch the movie again.
• Bart Simpson: prophet, clown, felon?
  

Another Weekend in the Trenches: Part I, A Sweaty, Formal Friday

Sometimes my job requires me to work odd hours, which can include evening and weekends. I don't mind most of the time, because I get time off later, I have no life, and most of the time it's for interesting stuff.

So I found myself heading into last weekend with assignments as follows: Friday, 5/15, 6:30 a.m. and 6:30 p.m., and Saturday 10 a.m. Not the most productive hours, since all time in between is rendered useless.

But because I take many of my life lessons from 80's band Scandal, I am the warrior. So I sucked it up. And what ensued I hope is funny shit for you, because it sure was for me.

Friday night, 5:30 p.m. I am sitting in my office, waiting to head to a certain National Cemetery in a few minutes for some fancy reception. Now, since I came to work at 6:30 a.m. in the morning, I didn't get up early to shower, so my hair was a disaster (not to sound like a chick, but if you know me in real life, you'll get the clue), and I had a dirty pair of jeans on.

I was able to go home at noon and shower and change into a clean shirt, so I'm looking pretty sharp at 5:30.

I head over to the cemetery, park my car a few hundred yards from the building, which doesn't seem to me much of a big deal. I pop in a stick of gum to make my breath extra fresh, and I head over to the building.

Here's what I didn't count on. The late afternoon is a crisp 85 humid degrees, and I am in a heavy collared shirt and pants. The walk to the building is up several steep sets of stairs.

Can you see where this is going?

I start to sweat. I'm not a big sweater, I think my lack of excessive body hair helps me in that regard. I don't even buy anti-perspirant for my under-arms, just plain deodorant. But when it's humid out, the aforementioned mop of hair I have acts like a fucking ski cap.

So I start to sweat a bit, which presents two problems.

1) White people (myself included) do not look good when they sweat, unless their hair is very short. Watch any NBA game. The white guys look like losers when they sweat.

Black people get all shiny and smooth, and their hair carries the sweat well. White people, the bottom layer of hair gets all wet, so it starts sneaking underneath your hairline, and greasy tendrils of hair get plastered all over your forehead and neck. It's disgusting.

Us whiteys might have gotten the swimming ability and the grammar advantage, but I would trade those things to be able to sink 20-footers at a 60 percent clip and look good doing it.

and;

2) The B.O. conundrum. I am absolutely paranoid that I smell at all times. I don't think I do, but no one thinks that they smell.

I know a lot of people, friends, bosses, co-workers who smell and it makes me subliminally think less of them. I know they probably can't help it, nor are they aware of it, but if someone comes up to me to ask a question, part of me wants to answer, "Oh, I'm sorry, all I heard was 'blah blah blah, I smell like a taint in summertime.'"

So I'm always afraid that I secretly smell and people are thinking the same about me. Because no one respects a smelly fucker, that's just science.

At this event, I my media contact is a very attractive young lady (saying that makes me feel like I'm a 45-year-old kid toucher, but I don't know any other way to say it), who I don't really want to think I smell.

So I'm sitting there shooting some shit, and all I can think is, "Holy Santa Claus shit, am I washing over her with a wave of pure stank right now?"

I kept trying to get covert whiffs of my pits in the middle of conversation, which is probably even worse than smelling. I think I was okay though, either that or she was a damn good actress.

Since this thing is being held in a cemetery, naturally death is a focal theme of the evening, meaning respect must be at the top of every attendee's priority list. The music was soft, slow guitar music, which I didn't recognize immediately.

Then I hear the familiar verse, "Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven?"

Tears in fucking heaven? At a cemetery? How cliche can you get?

Then I started to thing, maybe this is just their "Death Mix" I spent a lot f time figuring out what else it could contain, I'm looking for slow, mournful songs about a tragic death.

• Neil Diamond - Morningside
  
• Bob Dylan - Knockin' on Heaven's Door (possibly more cliche than Tears in Heaven)
• Elton John - Candle in the Wind
• Gordon Lightfoot - The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (if you don't weep openly at this song you are not human)
• Cannibal Corpse - Scattered Remains, Splattered Brains

But it was moot, because it wasn't "Death Mix 2009" they were playing (but tell me that doesn't sound like an awesome Jason Statham flick). No, it was Eric Clapton's "Unplugged."

Weird choice. Made even weirder by the fact that they skipped the unplugged version of Layla, which is a fucking travesty in and of itself. But how weird is that? Let's look closer.

• Someone made the choice to put Eric Clapton Unplugged into the CD player, or queue it up in their iPod.
  
• That same someone made sure that Layla would be skipped, or it was deleted from the album.
  
• Layla is the most uptempo song on the album, so apparently someone thought that it needed to be skipped lest the atmosphere of a solemn occasion be besmirched.

The conclusion: Whoever selected the music was willing to have Tears in Heaven played at all costs. It's no coincidence that it was playing as soon as we all walked in. I'm surprised it wasn't on a continuous loop, but that probably would have been too much.

I'm working this event, and right away, there are no prospects in the female department. I'm trying to spend a Friday hunting stink, but there's little to be found.

The only person in the building I would nail (namely, the only person not collecting Social Security) was one of the caterers. I had a moment with her at one point. She walked by me with hands full of dishes, and a fork dropped in front of me.

Here's my chance, I told myself, if this goes well, you could be smashing some hot caterer ass in a bathroom stall within the hour.

I picked up the fork as slowly as I could, searching my brain for a good line.

"Well, well, well, stick a fork in you, you're done."

Not great, but not an abortion either. She gave a quick smile, so I had laid the foundation. Which promptly came crumbling down, as I laid the fork back on the plate, and it fell off again.

It's times like this that the men are separated from the boys. Can I come top my own mediocre zinger with one that's sure to make the panties drop, or will I fly to close to the clam on wings of bad metaphor?

"Of course, that's not all I'd stick in you."



Hint: I'm the plane.

So that was a no go.

But alas, the night had other options in laid out for me.

In this case, it was a blonde that was at least two inches taller than me, in just a knockout of a cocktail dress.

I don't remember if I've mentioned it before, but I loooove tall chicks. Maybe it's the subconscious knowledge that only by impregnating a giraffe and/or black chick will I be able to sire an NBA Finals MVP, or maybe it's just because I like long legs, but here we are.

So I started hovering creepily around this tall chick. She was with a chick that had the exact same dress on, only she was 6 feet wide. Yecccch.

I caught her in some pictures, which I would post, but I am currently touching myself to, and you can't upload an open file. I'll upload them when I'm done, so around Halloween. Look for them then.

But much to my chagrin, the delicious elixir that allows me to go up and get rejected by chicks I wouldn't even make eye contact with, alcohol, was nowhere to be found. The bar? Serving water, iced tea and canned soda.

Are you fucking kidding me?

So I went up to the bartender, and I asked for a coke, in a glass with ice, "and, hey buddy, why don't you only fill 'er up halfway with coke, wink wink."

My first mistake was saying the words "wink wink" instead of actually winking. Bad start.

He didn't know what I meant.

"I mean, why don't you fill it half full of coke, and fill the other half with some Crown Royal?"

That fucker acted like he didn't have a stash behind the counter. You're telling me that these people are this fucking stupid without booze. I had just eavesdropped on some general's wife's conversation, the bitch had to be hammered, she was slurring like a mug.

Either that or she was a stroke victim, which, now that I think about it, would explain the wheelchair...

The rest of the night was pretty uneventful, I did my shit, and spent the rest of the evening trying to insert myself into as many family photos as possible. With a nut hanging out. My khaki pants made it pretty easy, and I hope they aren't discovered until those photos are ten feet high on a projector screen.

Later, I'll get into Saturday, part II of this weekend in the trenches.

Sorry for this being so long. I would apologize, but I never apologize. I'm sorry, but that's just the way I am.

Weekend Video: 5/16

Alright, back with another weekend of hilarious/interesting video.

We'll be going with a musical flavor today. First, Steve Porter's Rap Chop remix of the Slap Chop commercial. If ol' Vince Offer hadn't have beaten the shit out of a hooker, this could be a no. 1 hit.



Next, Guyz Nite's song about Die Hard, with a verse for each movie.

Me Fail English? That's Unpossible!

A story of failure that doesn't involve alcohol? I'm becoming everything I've ever hated.

I spent four years in college studying English, my native tongue. I took classes in literature, composition, grammar, linguistics and many more. So I like to think I have a good grasp of this language.

I read a lot, and I think I have a decent vocabulary. I'm no David Foster Wallace, but I think I do okay.

So when I find out that I've been wrong about words for my whole life, it really sends me into a tailspin.

A similar thing happened to me about ten years ago. Up until that point, I had been pronouncing the word 'unison' as 'un-shun.' Because I suck, no doubt.

I thought 'you-ni-son' was just some crazy word that I didn't know, but when I learned it, I felt like an ass.

But it's excusable, after all, I was 15. I was an asshole, like all 15-year-olds.

But now I'm 25, with a lifetime of vocabulatory experience. So I didn't expect this to happen again.

This comes from an English nerd who get the steaming undies when I learn a new word. John Fowles is great when it comes to that, I learn a new word every 20 pages or so.

My favorite word I learned from him is 'eleemosynary,' meaning, 'tending towards charitable acts.' I dropped that shit like it was hot for most of my senior year, because I'm just that fucking awesome.

So I was on life tilt the other day, because I felt like a complete and utter horse's ass.

How would you pronounce the word 'segue?'

For 25 years, I was pronouncing it 'seeg.' I wouldn't use it often, but I can recall at least three distinct occasions where I used it in conversation.

Apparently, it's pronounced 'seg-way,' like the vehicle. I thought segway was spelled 'segway', because that's how they spell that thing.

Well, I couldn't have been more wronger.

How could this have happened? How could I have gone so long, gotten a college education and working in a job that requires me to know the English language without knowing that simple fact.

I'm not going to lie to you people. I went home that night from work, and strongly considered downing a bottle of Tylenol and a 5th of vodka, followed by a warm bath and a razor blade bracelet.

I was on complete and utter life tilt.

So the next day was Friday, and as is my usual custom on Friday's I get a fucking awesome burrito from Moe's Southwest Grill, which is your two-seed when it comes to fresh-mex as I believe it's called.

So I get there, and I order my burrito, which I get with steak and black beans, then cheese, salsa, cucumbers and jalapenos, because its fucking delicious.

The guy puts the cheese on, and asks, "pico de gallo?" And I say no. So he puts everything else on, except the salsa.

I say, "and the salsa, that will be it," and the guy (who clearly doesn't speak English very well, though he probably knows how to pronounce 'segue') says, "pico de gallo?"

"No, just salsa" I reply, and he says "pico de gallo" again.

Because apparently pico de gallo is salsa, or something very similar. For 25 goddam years, I thought it was the melted cheese, a.k.a. 'queso'

But I find that they're not the same thing, and I am in a full on questioning-every-facet-of-my-existence mode.

How the FUCK did I not know that? I love Mexican food.

I was at a party that very evening, and I went around polling people in random conversation about how to pronounce 'segue' and what pico de gallo was.

Surprisingly, I couldn't get a girl to let me touch her where she pees. I guess chicks don't dig vocab questions during parties.

It took me a while to recover from all of this, but eventually I did. After all, I had only been mistaken on three words in 25 years, plus I feel I still have a good sense of grammar.

Three words, 25 years. That ain't not bad.

Monday Links: 5/11

My office lost power Monday, and I've been playing catch up all week. We'll have to wait until next week for the extended Monday Links.

• A fascinating insight about movie stars and their movie deaths.
• Finally, one of life's great questions is answered.
• Continuing with our movie theme, there's not a single movie on this list that I wouldn't see.
• More Monday Movie Madness! We can all learn from Predator.
• Stupidity. It's recession proof.
  

Weekend Video: 5/9

And here we are. We'll start Weekend Video with a double edition:

First, an outtake from Strange Wilderness, a movie which isn't great, but has some funny people and scenes in it. This is one of them.




And I will leave you with a scene from The Wire, possibly the greatest show ever. The scene below is the greatest scene in the series, therefore, you are about to watch one of the greatest scenes in the history of television. Enjoy.

Now With 45% More Drunken Photos!

Couple of announcements for all of you fans out there. All eight of you.

We will be adding a new feature to Fists With Your Toes: Posterous!

If you haven't heard of Posterous, get with the now. Blogs are so 2008. Posterous basically is like a twitter, only it's much easier to post, since you just e-mail it in. I will mainly use it for short text notes, some funny pictures with commentary (possibly drunken), and other assorted shenanigans.

Check it out here, or bookmark http://popeofchilitown.posterous.com.

I'm gonna level with you, I'm probably going to do most updates while wasted.

What does this mean for this blog? Nothing, except more content. I'll still be writing longer pieces, but I will use the ol' posterous more a more live experience.

Secondly, we will be adding a new weekly feature that I can neglect and not do for weeks, just like Monday Links and Friday Hate. Weekend Video!

I will post a video of two every weekend of funny shit that I enjoy, all for your viewing pleasure.

We've got a big week next week, with the return of Monday links.

Friday Hate: 5/8

Back with another edition of Friday Hate! I know it's been a lonely few weeks, but I've been around the world and back again (okay, only to Texas), so I haven't had much time to update.

But I'm back with a fresh slab of Friday Hate for ye.

I enjoy Dos Equis. It's a step above Corona in my opinion, but not quite as good as Pacifico. What I don't enjoy is their latest ad campaign, "The Most Interesting Man in the World."

First of all, it's clearly a blatant rip-off of the whole Chuck Norris joke thing, and that stopped being funny two years ago.

But it's a good concept, except for one thing: HOW ABOUT YOU MAKE UP A FUCKING NAME?

I mean, seriously. They probably spent millions on this ad campaign, and it comes off like at the last minute, they had their whole story down, and just didn't feel like coming up with a name.

How about, Don Diego, the most interesting man in the world. How about Sergio De Fiere? How about Inigo Montoya? Wait, I think that's taken.

Still, you can't go the extra three feet to the finish line and come up with an exotic sounding name? I came up with two in 30 seconds, and I don't even get paid for this shit.

With the extent they're going all out with this, I find it lazy and insulting that they don't come up with a name for this fucker.

Speaking of the extent they've gone with this guy, I lost a lot of respect when the ads migrated from radio to television.

On the radio, you hear his gravelly, slightly accented voice, and someone like Antonio Banderas comes to mind. A smooth, young latin man that gets the panties dropping.

Then I started seeing this mug on my television:



Who is this old fucker?

It doesn't necessarily have to be some young stud with washboard abs whose half naked all the time, but this dude isn't interesting at all. In fact, I'd be surprised if he could still BM regularly.

And they try to sell him like a James Bond rip off, hanging with mustachioed Fez-wearing people, riding a rubber dinghy with beautiful women and playing jai alai.

All this is supposed to make me forget that this guy probably has a prostate the size of a grapefruit? No thank you.

The last thing that makes me really hate this guy is the quote he uses, "I don't always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis."

Great salesmanship guys. He doesn't only drink Dos Equis, he just prefers it. If there's a Keyston Light in there, he might drink that as well.

Also, way to start out you catchphrase with, "I don't always drink beer," it's not like you're SELLING BEER! Idiots.

Luckily for the folks at Dos Equis, Corona has taken their image a step deeper in the shit with that stupid contrived Kenny Chesney commercial.

He's sitting by himself singing, while everyone else is chasing trim, like they should be, and we're supposed to believe that he's the guy we should buy beer from.

Mexican beer isn't that great anyways, they sell more bottles because of the image they sell rather than the quality, and if they keep up these shitty commercials, they won't even have that going for them.