Sunday Column

Let's pretend I'm like a real writer and this is a newspaper, not a blog and this is my column. Today I'm a music critic and you get to hear about the music I hate.

I fucking hate David Bowie. I hate his voice, I hate his hair. I hate that fruity Ziggy guy. David Bowie isn't a rock genius, he's a monotonous asshole. I hate David Bowie. What brought me to this conclusion is that I was watching VH1's Classic something or other at like 4 'oclock this morning and that 'This is ground control to major tom' song came on and I felt like tearing my hair out. He wouldn't shut up with that voice of his. I hate David Bowie. Sure, I could've turned the channel but I was oddly fascinated with his freakishness and mesmerizing terrible voice. Plus, I couldn't find the remote. Actually, I could but it was under Sweet Alice's ass and I didn't want to wake her.

Man, he's annoying isn't he? Every friggin' song is the same. And that face of his. Don't get me wrong, I hate Michael Moore way better but I'd still like to kick David Bowie in the nuts. And that's what I'd do too. I'd be all like, 'hey David Bowie, can I have your autograph' and then I kick him right in the balls. And then I rip out his fruity contact lenses and do something with them that would be bad but I can't think of the bad thing right now. David Bowie is bad and people shouldn't like him. His popularity makes me unhappy. David Bowie fans should stop liking him and start throwing pies and rotten turnips and parsley as well as eggs that are past their expiration date at him whenever he appears in public.

Then Mr. Mister came on and Alice woke up and they were singing about the Broken wings and Alice says, "Stick your stupid chaturbate metaphors up your ass". Then I was like, "Damn, I wish I thought of that". Speaking of broken wings, I woke up this morning and found a dead bird by the pool filter. One of the cats did it, I'm sure. This "bird" was little more than a spine and broken wings. These broken wings weren't flying anywhere. Well, that's not technically true. When I swept up the "broken wings" and tossed them over the fence, they did kind of fly. But it was short-lived and the last "flight" for these broken wings.

Oh, and I also hate Pink Floyd. Don't get me started. Put down the fucking bong and step away from the table. Ditto - The Grateful Dead. Tie dye isn't a fucking political statement.

I'd also like to beat Donna Summer to death with a shovel.

Don't you think I should be syndicated?

How To Make The Perfect Fire

I'm lucky enough to have a fireplace and I make fires all the time. Even when it's 90 degrees out. I just turn up the air conditioner. Does that waste energy? Sure it does. Is it good for the environment? Who gives a fuck. Ya know what? Let's talk about the friggin' environment for a second. I used to be a flaming liberal once and I read this book called The End of Nature and guess what? There is no end of nature.

Let me give you an example. Have you ever played touch football in the street as a kid and you run out for a pass and your jasminlive friend throws the ball over your head and you run face first into a tree? Me too. Well, who won that battle? You or the tree? That's right - the tree did. And the tree will win every time. Unless you have a flamethrower. And let me tell you, the environmentalist wackos have gotten so bad, they've made me actually hate the environment. The environment can kiss my ass. I don't actually litter or anything. But not because I respect the environment it's because litter is unsightly. The environment doesn't care about you, does it? Remember hurricane Isabel? She was all like, 'Hey, I'm taking some of the shingles off your roof and while I'm at it, I think I'll destroy your aluminum siding as well as rip all the gutters off your house'. I know what you're thinking - a hurrricane isn't the environment. Bullshit. It's a byproduct of the environment. The environment's bad breath, if you will. So screw the environment.

Where were we? Oh, building the perfect fire. I suck at making fires but I've learned this surefire method that's easy, as well as surefire. Buy those fake logs that burst into flames. Once it's all flamey and burning, throw some real wood on it. Then keep throwing real wood on it. Then throw an empty McDonald's bag on there when you're done with your Big Mac. Then, just for the hell of it, pour some vodka on the flames just to see what happens. Then add another log. Do this all day while your drinking heavily. Also, buy those fireplace tools. Don't stick your hands into the flames like I did. Men without arm hair look weird, just ask my wife.

And that's how you make the perfect fire. Oh, and if you're coming here from IMAO and miss all his typos, here:

Peeple comming frum Frakn J's blog, welcum too my blog. I m bill. I may nut b as funni as Frank J but I spel beterr.

Me And The Glennster

If you were worried, Glenn just called me and everything's cool (Yeah, we talk on the phone from time to time). I apologized for the Suckwatch thing and he apologized for forgetting about me for a year. Shit happens between good friends. So, we lit up a cigar and poured ourselves some good scotch and he, for the first time, told me he loved me. That kind of freaked me out because I'm happily married. But there it was - like a huge pink elephant in the, uh, phone. I told him I wouldn't post this but really? What do you say when Glenn freakin' Reynolds says he wants you? I'm not saying he's gay. But why is he always saying I have such pretty blue eyes?

It's not like I don't appreciate the link and all the hits but I love my wife and I am not sleeping with Glenn Reynolds. I don't care what he offers me. I'm trying to run a respectable blog here and InstaPundit, temptress that he may be, will not sway me from my marital duties or from the faithful jasminelive readers that come to me for spiritual guidance.

I am the Yoga blog. Now put your fucking legs behind your heads, assholes.

Bill Makes You Feel Better About Your Crappy Job...Unless You're a Dentist

Some days I really hate my job. Who doesn't, right. But today, I knew it would be particularly bad (hence no blogging until now). So I was driving to work and passed a dentist's office and I thought, man, that is one suckass job. Now as all of you know, I hate people. I hate talking to people and I hate when people talk to me. But how about if you were a dentist and hated people? Well, actually that would be kind of cool because you coud torture them all day long and they couldn't even complain about it because your hand is crammed in their mouths.

Still, imagine the dread of going into work every morning knowing that the entire day will be filled with bad breath, spit, blood, bloody spit, mucous, bad teeth and gums and more blood? Think about it - don't you loathe yourself as a patient - lying on your back, gagging, choking, spitting out bits of rotting food that you missed, spitting blood, rinsing, spitting out more blood. I would hate me if I were the dentist and I'm pretty sure they do. So remember that the next time you go to the dentist. He loathes you. He loathes his job. But he loathes you more. Oh sure, at the end of the day he might get some satisfaction from saving a tooth or by sparing you some pain by ripping out your nerve endings with plyers but in the end, it's a sucky, bloody, spit-filled disaster of a job and he probably goes home and gulps down a bunch of painkillers that he was supposed to give to you but decided he hated you and doesn't care about your impacted molar, then washed it down with some bourbon and then burned all your damn x-rays.

I have a feeling that all dentists are a bunch of friggin' pillheads but can you blame them? I know accusing all dentists of being drug addicts is a sweeping indictment but since when have I ever been fair? Or balanced for that matter. Or even truthful. So the next time your bitching about your miserable job and even more miserable life, punch yourself in the face so your mouth fills up with blood and go stand in front of the bathroom mirror and start spitting bloody saliva into the sink. Then look up at yourself. That's what a dentist sees everyday of his horrid life (except Wednesday's - that's golf day). And that's why he loathes you and that's why he loathes his job. So my point is, you could be a dentist.

There. Now don't you feel better? Your welcome.

Grumpy Old Mennonites

That's the movie I'm working on except I'm not that good at writing screen plays. Hell, I'm not that good at writing, period. This is going to closely resemble Grumpy Old Men except it won't be that funny because Mennonites just aren't that funny. Is Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon dead? I think they are, so I would cast Jack Nicholson as the Matthau part and Harvey Keitel can be the Lemmon part. Then we can get Jack Klugman to play the Burgess Meredith part because he's got throat cancer and his voice is all gravely. Is Jack Klugman dead?

Anyway this will be more slapsticky than Grumpy Old Men because like I said, Mennonites aren't that funny. But there will be several scenes where they hit each other in the face with Shoofly Pies. Ho ho! Hilarity ensues! And one scene where they go into town for supplies on their horse and buggy and are severly beaten by a bunch of young toughs. Keitel ends up in the hospital and that's when Rosie O'donnell realizes she's really in love with Keitel and not Nicholson. At one point Nicholson goes out to the coop with an axe to kill a chicken for supper and raises the axe and says to the chicken, "Here's Jebidiah!", and he has this crazy look on his face. It's very scary. In another scene, Nicholson and O'Donnell have a fight and Nicholson say to her, "Surely, Aurora, you will partake of the hard cider as it will kill the insect lodged in your hindquarters!" That's a good scene. And then there's the scene with crop circles and aliens.

Anyway, I need to flesh it out a little more. I'll keep you posted.

Update: That was a stupid idea and I've scrapped it.

I Like Dreaming...

I dreamt I met Lileks last night. I can hear the collective groan. Just shut up and keep reading. I was in Minnesota for some reason and I was hanging out with Keith and he knew a restaurant Lileks frequented so off we went. He was sitting at a table with some friends and he was just about to start on his salad. To my credit, I told Keith not to bother him but you know how gay people are. Keith walked right up to him and introduced himself and then me. I just giggled. The whole time. I never said a word to him. I just giggled.

He was gracious enough to excuse himself and leave the table so the three of us could go to the bar for a drink. We ordered and he asked me a quesion. I giggled. Finally, he went back to his table, probably because he couldn't stand the giggling. Then Keith left and I was alone at the bar watching Forensic Files (it was on TV while I was dreaming and got incorporated). They were investigating Lileks for multiple homicides in Spokane, Washington. Lileks was a serial killer! I turned around and Lileks was gone. He hadn't even finished his salad.

Then I woke up, went downstairs and had some Fritos. I'm still glad I met Lileks even though he turned out to be a homicidal maniac.

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