(posted by josh golden)
Yeah, that ain’t bad kid. But I saw an eight year-old in Kenya who did it in twenty-three seconds, and that was in the heat of battle! Sure, he was on a steady diet of cocaine and gunpowder mixed into Coco Puffs, but he’s not the one on trial here. Dads, please approach the bench.
Is this a selection of fathers who want to teach their daughters how to protect themselves?
Is this radical feminism?
Wasn’t there a scene in Forrest Gump just like this?
Holy shit! Is this an international trend!?
Chilling, just chilling.
Fathers, there has never been an abduction or assault on a young child that could have been prevented if only someone would have known how to properly and quickly break down their military-issued assault rifle, clean it and reassemble it before performing a function check.
I applaud progressive parenting in most cases but these are impostors. Just because you take a Barbie out of a little girl’s hands and replace it with a gas-operated AR-15 does not mean you are blurring the lines in the battle of the sexes. All you have done is trained your daughters in preparation to join nineteen year old girls across the states (southern), field stripping, reassembling and firing guns, in bikinis.
I get it: It’s impossible to get that world record with those large sausage fingers you got. If only there was someone in your family with small dexterous hands that could handle the intricacies of a firing mechanism. But Dads, I find you guilty of vicariously living through your children and putting high powered weapons in the hands of a fucking eleven year old. What are you thinking!? I sentence you to death by little girl firing squad. Don’t worry; it will take under a minute.
My name is Josh and I am going to go watch The Professional.
Lucy Vodden, the “Lucy” mentioned by The Beatles in their hit song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” moved to the diamond-studded sky called Heaven on Monday. She died from the chronic and systemic inflammatory disease Lupus, symptoms of which include swollen joints, red rashes, chronic fatigue, and “kaleidoscope eyes.” Brutal and trippy.
The story goes that The Beatles most infamous drugged-out anthem was not based on an experience John Lennon had while on acid, but instead on a picture his preschool-age son Julian drew of a classmate named Lucy. I never liked this telling, because, literally or figuratively, that song is clearly about taking potent hallucinogens, but instead of giving in and acknowledging the obvious leitmotif, he said, “No, I wasn’t on drugs. The song was about a picture my son drew because he is either mentally retarded or bat-shit crazy and believes that stars are sky diamonds and that little girls belong floating in marmalade amongst them.” Way to shirk responsibility, John Lennon. Did you hide your weed on your kid at the airport, too?
Or maybe the picture was drawn by Julian Lennon while HE was on acid. I think I’d rather believe that anyone – even four-year old Julian Lennon – was on acid rather than that the greatest songwriter of the rock n’ roll era was perusing his retarded son’s insane scribblings for song ideas.
The real life Lucy didn’t particularly like the song. And frankly, why should she? The lyrics don’t make any sense, which is less abstractly beautiful when it’s claimed to be about you. She probably felt similarly to the way it must’ve felt to have Picasso draw your picture: “Oh my God, this is so cool. It’s an original Picasso. He’s the greatest. But it doesn’t look like me.”
We all know the feeling to some extent; that point when flattery borders on creepiness. Like when people on cocaine pay you compliments. R.I.P Lucy, whether you liked it or not, you received the greatest cocaine compliment of all-time. It just so happened to be about tripping on acid, even if those Beatles won’t admit it.
My name is Ben and I blogged this.
If you were alive in Detroit during the 80′s (cocaine haze counts), you remember this commercial as vividly as the first time you saw a boob. That applies to both men and women. If you aren’t from Detroit and are still reading this, watch and learn. What was your city doing in the 80′s?!
As a Los Angeles-resident often sporting a Detroit Tigers baseball cap, this song has been sticking in my head lately. I am indeed a fan of my hometown baseball team, but I don’t wear the hat to support the Tigers. And I certainly don’t wear the hat to stand up and tell people that I from Detroit. They’d assume I have a gun. Not even because of Detroit’s reputation as the murder capitol; just because standing up and telling strangers where you are from is something a gun-toting crazy would do. Especially if you shout it, as the song suggests. “I’M FROM DETROIT!” Even typed out that feels too aggressive.
I wear my hat because my haircut (or lack thereof) is under the false impression that we are homeless. When I take it off people start tossing change into my coffee cup. I’m tired of metallic tasting coffee. Just kidding. I don’t drink coffee. It’s for grown-ups. But if I said people toss change into my cup of chocolate milk you’d mistake me for the crazy shouting guy with the gun from the last paragraph.
Usually hats are the fashion choice of the unapproachable. Unassuming outfit, hat, sunglasses, headphones: Everywhere else that means don’t talk to me. In LA a person is conspicuous by their attempts at inconspicuity. The outfit I just described is donned by every celebrity in town. Here I’d more likely be ignored wearing this guy’s hat:
The assumption here is that this man is from Detroit. No one questions that he has a gun or that he shouts things from time to time.
My name is Ben and this blog and me are from Detroit.
This is my 100th post, ya’ll! Thanks for sticking with me, I feel we’ve become great friends!
Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson hosts Saturday Night Live tomorrow with Ray Lamontagne (Ladies, grab something vibrational). The Rock is one of the great, unsung hosts of SNL and it wouldn’t be lame at all to stay in tomorrow and watch him. Here’s the preview:
Saturday Night Live is like Coca-Cola: After all these years the only ingredient removed from that timeless formula is Cocaine. Everything else is the same. And no matter who or what comes along to challenge them, SNL and Coke do their thing and survive the threats.
Let’s raise a Coke to SNL!
Every week you know exactly what to expect and also nothing of what to expect. Not every episode is great (I’m talking about you, Mike Phelps!), but they are all exciting (I’m talking around you, Mike Phelps! You dead-faced pothead!)
100 down. This feels good, dudes. Raise a Coke to me, too. I’ll raise one for you.
My name is Ben and I am 100 times a blogger.
p.s. Don’t forget A FENNIS FOR DEMBO, sports and rap lovers!
Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I come to you on this day of family-oriented subtle racism with a bit of a pitch:
Tired of feeling tired after your Thanksgiving meal? Wish you had the energy to jump rope, or dance a jig, or stand up to pee?
This year, baste your turkey with cocaine. I tried it last year and I couldn’t be happier with the results. Within two-hours of my feast I had completed three years worth of online Christmas shopping and given every member of my family a haircut. Plus I had enough gas in the tank for three rounds of bare-knuckle boxing with Grandma.
You owe me a re-match this year, Grandma!
This year take out the fine china and pile it high with “fine china.” A birds-worth of nose candy guarantees to add a minimum of twenty minutes to your overly sincere and heartfelt dinnertime toast. After all, it’s important to tell everyone you’ve ever met that you love them.
Ever wish you could enjoy your Thanksgiving dinner while running a marathon? Cocaine says, “YES WE CAN!”
Forget deep fried turkey and turducken. You want to do something different this year, try Turcaine. Also known as Corkey.
Corkey Turcaine just might be my new nom de plume.
Here is a picture of my uncooked Thanksgiving turkey:
Charlie’s a delicious turkey!
To everyone who has read my blog, I give you thanks.
Cheers! Salut! L’chaim! Other words that mean “Toast!”
My name is Corkey Turcaine and I am thankful for this blog. You’re thankful for me too, blog? Thanks.