Friday, April 28, 2017

What the actual Eff, brain?

I just found out for the 87th time that I am losing TGB for a week. She is going to Wyoming. First she was going, then she wasn't, then she wasn't sure, then she wasn't, then... she's fucking going.

So she is getting an all expenses paid trip to Wyoming.

I chuckled as I wrote that.

My whole family has been there but me so I picked it.

I've been to Wyoming a lot. It's flat. And cold.

Like Jason's mom.

I love you, Jason.

I also love you, Jason's mom.

Please don't shoot me.

Jason started it.

And when he asked me to stop, I did.

Then he started again.

He was raised wrong.

You should take him to Wyoming.

And leave him there.

FOREVER.

Titty sprinkles!


Thursday, April 27, 2017

I could see the city lights

I screwed up my iTunes and have to go back and reinstall all my music.

Long story short: over the course of the last year I created so many fucking duplicates I finally deleted everything and started over last night.

I love me some Frank Turner but, for fuck sake, I do not need six copies of England Keep My Bones on my computer.

Three, maybe four at most.

The cool thing about all of this mess is that I am rediscovering music I forgot I have (and for some reason never loaded into iTunes).

How I don't own the first Garbage album is beyond my ability to comprehend. I own literally everything else they have ever done and have owned their first one a few time but, not now. I have to change that.

I blame Shirley Manson for my love of women who take zero shits from anyone.

Speaking of women, I have always had a hate/hate relationship with Mother's Day and it is just around the corner.

It's no secret mom wasn't a part of much of my life before dad died.

When I was really little M day was a reminder that I was a worthless piece of shit because, obviously, if my own mother didn't want me I must be.

At some point I realized my dad was hauling the load for both parental slots. He did a fucking amazing job of it. So, I turned M day into a reason to celebrate him.

If he did the job of two parental units, he got two fucking holidays.

Between you and me, he deserved 366 holidays a year.

But since he died mom has made an effort to, I dunno, be somewhere in my life. And I have to do a thing on M day because it's expected and would be bad form if I don't or some shit.

I'll send her flowers.

I'll think about my old man.

Life is not some neat, pretty thing all the time.

Titty sprinkles!


Wednesday, April 26, 2017

This chick, yeah, she's a badass

I have a new crush. Her name is Angaleena Presley. I blame Charlie.

I watched a live broadcast of an Angaleena concert because I am a firm believer in supporting my friends' endeavors.

Charlie left a life behind and decided to pursue a life in music management. While I have cheered from my cozy, comfy beachside seat, she has made it happen.

So, I decided the very least I could do is check out this Angaleena chick.

I set a reminder so as to not miss it.

Then, a couple of days or so prior, I come home and hear music I had never heard before.

What am I listening to?

Angaleena Presley.

Really?

Yep. This is the new album. 

This is really fucking good. 

I KNOW! This is my second time through listening to it. 

I  sat down and just listened.

That has not happened to me since the first time I heard Southeastern.

So I expected a good show.

I ended up absolutely smitten and pretty much blown away by the sheer badassery.

A woman who is whip smart, can write the fuck out of a song, cusses like a sailor, and takes zero shits from anyone is my kind of woman.

I expected something good. Something that would impress me and glad for Charlie.

I did not expect to steal the record from my wife so I could crank it on my way to work this morning. But you can bet your dick that is exactly what I am doing.

I did not expect to go down the Angaleena Presley rabbit hole. But I have a pot of coffee by my side for just that sort of adventure.

Do yourself a favor and click play.

Titty sprinkles!


Postscript - if I didn't genuinely like Angaleena's music, despite how much I love Charlie, I would have written a post about my boner this morning. I already had it typed out. #truestory.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

I was cranky then I found this video and now I am happy

Not every word play is a pun. A lot of people seem confused about that.

It used to be fun to get punned by people who know I hate them. Now everyone does it.

And it's everyfuckingpuntheyfindontheinternet. With zero attention paid to whether it's been posted to my wall a time or three already.

Seriously, it takes minimal effort to click my page and scroll down a bit to see if you're being redundant.

If I have to read the stupid shit you post you can at least take four seconds to click and scroll beforehand, dipshit.

So if you are going to pun, step your fucking game up and pay attention to how the game is being played.

Casual-dehyde, that shit was funny.

Now go fuck off this fine Tuesday morning. It's gorgeous outside for fuck sake!

Well, maybe not where you live, but you should fucking move someplace nicer anyway.

Titty sprinkles!


Monday, April 24, 2017

I'll find a place for me and you

I had thoughts this morning.

Then I heard the new Emily Barker. Thoughts ceased, tears commenced.

I love the description of the song in the video. In a nutshell, and paraphrasing badly, it's about a dude trying to get his family out of bombed-to-fucking-hellistan.

It's an emotionally compelling song. Watch the video. All of it. Let the ton of bricks hit you at the end.

Then remember, we have got to do better as a species.

You'll get your sprinkles tomorrow. Today, hit play and just listen.



Sunday, April 23, 2017

Somebody improved this song

I am awake entirely too early.

We had a double feature date night last night. J-Law and Kate B for me, Chris Pratt and generic white guys for her.

I think movie critic is the most bullshit, made-up job ever. And stupid people keep encouraging it. Every time a person tells me something like, the critics didn't like that movie I make a judgment about said person.

Mostly, that they're a fucking idiot incapable of thinking for themselves.

You're so salty this morning, Rudy.

I don't know why that's bad. Salty means I have fucking flavor. So, eat me.

I think the tip of my nose is sunburnt. Or a zit is forming.

I need coffee.

Titty sprinkles or whatever.


Friday, April 21, 2017

I suspect I will lose two of my eight readers

I went to bed annoyed.


I woke up at 3:47 this morning annoyed.


In the last couple of days there seems to be a trend on social media of people telling the rest of us what we are not allowed to joke about.

Rape. Molestation. Suicide. Mental Illness. Faith. Weight. Race. Blah. Blah. Fucking blah.

Even some of my comedian friends are hammering out lists of things others are not allowed to joke about.

Listen up, motherfucker, I don't get offended by much, but you tell me I am not allowed to make a joke and I will fucking fight you.

Maybe YOU cannot tell jokes of a certain topic and that is your business. Maybe YOU won't laugh at jokes of a certain topic. Again, your business.

One of my favorite comediennes tells a joke about the time she was raped. It's fucking hilarious and brutal. Tell her she's not allowed to make that joke and I suspect you'll end up with a stiletto in your fucking skull.


You may not like laughing at yourself or your personal tragedy - and that is completely understandable and absolutely your purview. But do not allow your issues to regulate what the rest of us can and cannot do.

If it isn't funny to you, don't spend your money on it.


Just because it isn't funny to you, doesn't mean it isn't funny. Sure as fuck does not mean it should be verboten.

My dad was an alcoholic with severe depression. On the last day he ever woke he drove his motorcycle straight into a brick wall. On purpose.

That was the day I was sent down the road to becoming a comedian. I dug deep into the ugly of the thing that was making me the saddest I have ever been and found the funny.

Ugly things happen to us all. Those things are not funny when the happen to any of us. I get that. Any intelligent person would. And yes, there are things I will never make jokes about. But I will not tell you or anyone else you are not allowed to.

And yes, there are people out there who say things for the shock value.

Fuck 'em. Seriously, just fucking change the channel, hide the post, whatever.

But stop telling the world what we're allowed to find funny. Just cause you can't find the funny in cancer/rape/suicide/blahfuckingblah, doesn't mean I can't.

Titty sprinkles!







Thursday, April 20, 2017

Don't mind me, I'm just babbling

Fours years of high school, eight semesters of English:

B
D+
F
F
F
F
D
D+

Summer school and night classes brought those Fs up to passing. Barely.

Yet, my arrogant ass thinks I can write a thing and people will read it.

At least seven of you are reading this. I take that as a fucking win.

My point is simple: do the fucking thing you're too afraid to try.

Don't ignore that voice in your head; make it your bitch.

When that voice in your head starts to riddle you with doubt stop whatever it is you are doing and say, go fuck yourself. Sure, people will back away from you, but you'll also feel better.

Believe in yourself.

If the the people in your life don't believe in you, that's okay. Don't be a butthurt pussy about it. Just get on with doing your thing and they will come around.

You will be pleasantly surprised at who ends up being your loudest cheerleader.

When I was in HS I fell in love with Eric Clapton.

I was 19 when the movie Rush came out so I drove to Tower Records and bought the cassette because EC did the soundtrack. On the way home I got a flat. I pulled over, left it cranked and ended up a collapsed mess on the side of the road when Tears In Heaven came on.

Nineteen was a brutal fucking year for me.

Clapton carried me through a lot of it.

Titty sprinkles!


Wednesday, April 19, 2017

A punk, punk

When I first heard it, I thought it was Gina is a punk rocker. 

I'm still not entirely convinced it is not.

Aaron Hernandez's death disproves the notion any man's death diminishes me; some people make the world better when the cease to exist.

I've just been staring out at the sea for the last ten minutes.

I want to die at sea. I mean, if I get a choice in the matter. If you ever read, Rudy passed away today out at sea don't be sad. Instead, know I got out my way. Most of us don't.

Whatever happens to me, I sure as hell do not want to die in some fucking hospital bed.

Maybe in my sleep in my own bed. That wouldn't be too shabby.

But out at sea is still my first choice. On a kayak, a boat, swimming with sharks, makes no difference. Then you can just toss me overboard and be done with it.

Or cremate me and then take me back out to sea and toss me overboard. If we go with that option, dump my ashes in the Monterey Bay. Maybe leave some chunks of bone so the otters can use me to crack open their dinner.

Okay, glad we had this talk.

Titty sprinkles!


Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Something about ride the banana?

I don't want to write anything this morning.

It's not writer's block, it's I fucking just don't wanna fucking do it and fuck you for trying to make me  do it block.

So many fucking pages with fucking autoplay video. Just know, I close that fucking page instantaneously the moment I hear that shit. I don't care what you want me to see, if I click your fucking page and a video starts blabbing at me when I'm trying to read, I am gone.

Fuck you cnn.com. Fuck you the most for that shit.

I am going to London in a few weeks. Fucking excited about that. Lots of people to see. Lots of music. Gotta get my fashion game back on point. This shorts and flippy floppy shit doesn't work for the polished turd that is Londontown.

I have a couple pairs of nice shoes. One pair of nice socks (thanks, Debra!). Couple nice jackets. Now I just need everything else.

Posh, bitches. I am going to look posh. As fuck. In London.

Titty sprinkles!



Monday, April 17, 2017

It's too early to think this heavy

I slept in this morning.

I've had a single sip of coffee.

That said, I will still likely fuck up the title or some grammar or leave out words or forget commas.

Watched The Discovery last night. Essentially, it's centered around what happens when we die. I liked it. If, when I die, I get to do the thing in the movie I'll be cool with that. A lifetime full of regrettable mistakes gives me lots of potential landing spots.

Watch it, don't watch it. Solid 6.5 out of 10.

As a result of watching it I had so fucking many dreams about people who have died in my lifetime. I also had at least two dreams featuring Rooney Mara. Fortunately, she was a brunette in my dreams.

I dream about people I've lost a lot.

I have my own theory - and I have zero doubts that it is unique to me.

When I dream about someone dead I believe there is a part of them that is really here connecting with a part of me. For a moment, we hang out, catch up, love and laugh all over again. The goodbyes are always more sweet than bitter because I know I will see them again.

Sure, I could be wrong. It could all be the machinations of a heartbroken brain.

But who fucking cares?

If the brain has found a way to help us heal, help us cope, and it hurts literally no one, that cannot be a bad thing.

I need more coffee.

Titty sprinkles!