Yep, Vegas.No veiled message or analogy here.I’m going to Vegas for a friend’s bachelor party.If nothing else, I plan to get into a long, semi-heated argument with the Roulette dealer over what I consider to be an odd number.
If anybody knows how to gamble, please come down to Rhino tonight and teach me how.I’m not what you’d call “good” at it.Once somebody thought I was counting cards, but I explained I was just adding up my hand.
Everybody have a sweet-ass weekend, and I’ll see you all next week!
Today, August 18th, is Bad Poetry Day! “Yeah!” you begin to scream before interrupting yourself with logic. “Celebrate bad poetry?” you ask, your mind a scrambled mess of halting eagerness and pre-abandoned doubt.
Yes, I tell you. Celebrate it in all its foul, blinding glory. Bad poetry is an art form in and of itself, beyond being funny and fun in its own right. Bad poetry might be wonderful because it intends to be bad, or it might be wonderful because its intent is just the opposite. Either way, truly bad poetry is a thing to behold. Not convinced? Let me explain.
Bad poetry is the life of George Costanza.
Bad poetry is the movie Showgirls.
Bad poetry is that first-person poem where the teenage girl is a slut.
Bad poetry is Larry the Cable Guy.
Bad poetry is when soccer players try to punch each other.
Bad poetry is when Charles Barkley plays golf.
Bad poetry is the confidence of hairy European men in speedos.
Bad poetry is the lyrics of any Black Eyed Peas song.
Bad poetry is when Miss America speaks.
Bad poetry is that special something where genius and disaster become mangled and intertwined; where you can’t tell whether you should be impressed or disgusted, or for what reason. It’s so bad that it’s interesting, and you can’t look away or stop thinking about it. Here are a few genres to peruse:
The offensive yet undeniably clever haiku:
I saw a rainbow
On the day my grandma died;
Fucking lesbian.
The nerdy science pun limerick:
There once was a girl named Irene,
who lived on distilled kerosene.
But she started absorbin'
A new hydrocarbon,
And since then has never benzene!
Another kinda mean haiku:
Ever want a wife?
But you are fat and smelly?
Too bad I got her!
Twist on a trite tradition:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Get in the van.
You get the idea. So come on in and celebrate the best of the worst at Rhino Bar – the perfect place for celebrating bad poetry. The place is a dive bar with brilliance between the cracks, the perennial Cheers on steroids. Party tonight, drink cheaply tomorrow for Happy Hour, daytime revelry on Saturday! Show us your worst poetry in motion, we dare you.
Breaking News: Incidentally, there was some really bad poetry this morning in China: the Georgetown Hoyas Basketball Team played the Chinese National Team and bada-bing, bada-boom, it’s a Kung Fu Street Brawl on the court and kind of a metaphor for the state of international finance at the moment. See below:
Play that Harlem Globetrotters Music.
There’s some bad poetry for you. Yikes. Somehow, I bet Hulk Hogan won. [John Cena is a dork who clearly does not drink beer and is not a real American. My guess? A Chinese spy.] Anyone want to give me odds whether the Asian Potstickers are still on the menu by next week? Eh.
Also, for those of you who know Adam Johnson, he’s moving up to Boston in a week in a half with his wife, who is going graduate school up there. He’s having his unofficial send-off at Rhino on Saturday afternoon. Come buy the man a beer and send him off proper!
Cheers!
Finn
From my future-predicting source for NFL picks: there is no NFL pick this weekend. Let's face it, there's not much sense in betting on preseason games anyway. But in order to prove my connection to the spirit world and my abilities to predict future events, I offer you this video, which shows evidence of human-to-cat reincarnation. If Bob Barker wasn't still alive, I'd have assumed it was him. Cat's a pervert! Enjoy:
It’s Elvis Week! Time to party like a pro, before it’s too late.
I make that face when I puke.
Everyone knows how Elvis died: fat, old, considerably past his prime, and apparently extremely constipated, because he suffered a simultaneous heart attack and a brain-popping aneurysm while on the toilet at his home in Graceland. (Actually, the coroner’s report is sealed until 2027, but I’m still going to go with simultaneous ticker-noggin bust while trying to poop.) Damn, how hard was he straining? Yeah, he was on a bunch of different prescription painkillers, yada yada, but a little fiber couldn’t have hurt the situation. No?
Anyway, many observers consider the circumstances of Elvis’s death to be less than ideal. But why? I think the complainants basically constitute his most loyal fan base, and thusly they want to experience more of the hips-and-glam sound-and-lights spectacular that was Elvis Presley. And who could blame them? The King. And I get that.
But what I’m saying, nothing good could have really come from protracting his sorry decline. He would have become more and more pathetic until his title, “The King,” began to seem sadly sarcastic. And that would have been a shame. Just a shame.
???!
Modernize the idea… Think of Brett Favre. Did he go out in style while he was on top? No. He had to protract the thing until he was hobbled and pictures of his flaccid winky were floating around on the interweb tubes and nobody in Green Bay or Minnesota wanted to see him try to get a football helmet over his enlarged old-man ears. Now go back to Elvis. If there were cell phones in his time, there’s no question he’d have texted a pic of Elvis Junior to some floozy, who’d have then made it into some degrading issue of the day.
Too late.
(Incidentally, I just can’t wait for some celebrity to make a mockery of this type of thing, and send their junk to everyone in their cell phone and every major news outlet: Here’s my General and two Colonels, so what? How is the most porn-addicted country on the planet also the most offended by penis texts? Sheesh. Consider this an official call for public figures to mass text images of their pubic figures.)
Back to aging Elvis: So what’d he do instead? The rock star went out in style. He lived fast and hard and squeezed the juice out of life, then condensed it, froze it, and put it in a delicious cocktail and slugged it down and shook his hips and said, “Uh huh!” and then bought a pink Cadillac and drove it off into the proverbial sunset. He’s Elvis! He wasn’t gonna grow old and wear adult diapers and be pushed around in a wheelchair like some helpless wrinkled invalid. No way, no how. He was going out in style. (Cut his losses, at least.)
Maybe the better modern equivalent is Keith Richards, who has been giving commendable efforts towards going out in style for some time now.
He could beat up Hancock.
I am beginning to think this guy is really a bored Immortal. He’s drank enough booze to get Rhode Island drunk, and swallowed and/or smacked enough contraband to kill any normal living thing except the honey badger. Most recently, on his 62nd birthday, he fell (threw himself?) from a coconut tree and walked away. No harm done. Seriously, the only thing that got hurt was the coconut. Imagine any senior US Senator falling from a coconut tree. Coin flip that he's dead on impact. Most people can’t even make it through their mundane routine without getting hurt. [May want to skip this video if you're squeamish...]
In conclusion, party like pro this week, because you never know when you’ll die on the toilet. I know I will. I don’t want to end up bored and brain dead for no reason, anyhow. It’s like Tom Waits said, “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”
Half price Happy Hour, 5-9pm on Friday! Then bring in your favorite Elvis/Rolling Stones/Green Bay Packers gear on Saturday for one of the few remaining Saturday Movie Days of the summer. College Football approacheth! Movie recommendations welcome.
P.S. I’m going to be offering a new service along with this Happy Hour “blog” for NFL football season. I will be providing you with the Official TWFHH NFL Pick of the Week, so that you may prosper from my prophetic (albeit non-information based) tendency in the field of professional football matchups. This service is free of charge. Unless you lose money on it.
This week’s pick: Seattle +3
2 QBs vying for a position in Seattle's starting lineup vs. Rivers, who will probably only play 2-3 quarters. Plus, without a first-rate offense, SD's special teams will try to find a way to lose the game.
Shark week had the worst ratings this past week in its history.Know why?Because nobody’s afraid of sharks anymore!Know why?Because they’re not nearly as frightening as the news!
I’m sorry nobody won a round of free drinks on me from the would-be US debt default.But look at it this way: you didn’t lose anything either.Except for the value and future of the money in your pocket (unless you’ve got silver and gold in there) as well as any remaining faith in our political system you may have somehow been preserving in the recesses of your psyche.
At this point, if anyone actually remains a loyal Democrat or Republican, then I urge you to chow down on a heaping double-dose spoonful of LSD and pray that the chemicals open up some new connections in your frontal lobe.Don’t worry about the side effects, because if you find yourself in the aforementioned category, you’re already hallucinating anyway.
Our two-party system resembles nothing more closely than a bowl of poo looking in the mirror at itself.And the only winners in a poo vs. poo showdown are those who arm themselves with extra-strength Imodium and a healthy tolerance for mind-altering substances.(And by mind-altering substances, I mean booze!) Everyone else ends up covered in night soil.
Booze for clarity and sanity is what I’m advocating here, people.Because we are all completely fucked at the hands of these mad crappers.The plane is set to crash into the mountain.And there’s so little you can do when your ass is on fire besides jumping heiney-first into a large body of water.But even then you have to be able to swim or hold your breath.
Which brings me to this week’s holiday-coincidence moment.On August 6th, 1962, Harry Houdini performed his greatest feat ever, holding his breath for 91 minutes underwater in a sealed glass tank before escaping in grand fashion.Of course, three months later, the greatest magician of all time was dead from appendicitis at age 52.Christ.What are you gonna do?
Well, there’s always Happy Hour.I’m not saying don’t’ try to patch the sinking ship.And by all means, if you think your appendix may have ruptured, you should see a doctor.But otherwise, take a big beer and put it in your tummy, and come on down to your local pub and talk to people about the best ways to put out underwear fires.
Today, we’re celebrating with a Rhino Bar half-priced Happy Hour, 5-9.Saturday, we’re celebrating with a series of movies about teachers.We’ll have Bad Teacher (the new Cameron Diaz flick that’s not even available on DVD yet!) and Billy Madison, among others.And we’ll supplement our learning experiences with lots and lots of (legal) drugs!Woo!
