Monday, November 12, 2018

The Fact that Franklin the Dog has the Words "Franklin the Dog" Written on the Back of His Jersey is Quite Possibly the Dumbest Thing that's Ever Happened in the History of Man(or dog)kind

This is Franklin (the dog). 

There are a lot of things to complain about these days:

Wildfires. The rising cost of milkshakes. Leaves.

But the stupidest thing out there right now—and quite possibly the stupidest thing in the history of Western Civilization—is the fact that the 76ers mascot, Franklin the dog, has the words “Franklin The Dog” written on the back of his Sixers jersey.

Literally the only picture of his back I could find. 

Now, you may be thinking, “What’s the big deal about Franklin the dog having the words “Franklin The Dog” written on the back of his jersey?” Or, you may also be thinking, “Based on the costs of milk, electricity and manual labor, $7.99 sounds like a perfectly reasonable price for a handmade, handspun milkshake,” and you’d be right about both. But Franklin the dog’s jersey doesn’t have to say “Franklin The Dog” on it. It can just say Franklin. Because that's his name. Franklin. Not Franklin The Dog.

I am guessing that the Sixers wanted to make it crystal clear to the public that Franklin the dog is a dog and not a human. But did they really need to? In the entire history of the NBA, not one player has ever needed the words “The Human” underneath his name. Not even Kevin Pittsnogle, who for all intents and purposes, was an inbred.

That wasn't nice and I'm sorry. 

This is because we, the general public, know what humans look like. This is also because there has never been a professional basketball player who was also a dog. But even if there was, I don't think we'd need a constant written reminder that that dog was in fact a dog.

This leads me to believe that the Sixers organization thinks its fans are colossal fucking idiots.

And they might be.

They really might be.

But are Sixers fans really that stupid? If a giant, blue-haired mascot who kind of looks like a dog ran out on the floor during a timeout and started shooting t-shirts out of a cannon, would Sixers fans really react by saying something like, “Holy shit, Irv! That guy whose last name is Franklin isn’t paying attention in the huddle and omg is that the new Fortnite dance?!”

The only other rationalization I can think of as to why the Sixers might've put the words “The Dog” on the back of Franklin’s jersey is because they were so disappointed with the design of Franklin’s dog costume that they felt it was necessary to put the words “The Dog” on it. This would easily clear up any possible confusion. Plus, this way, people wouldn’t think that Franklin was a bear or a mouse or former San Diego State shooting guard, Jamaal “I am not a dog” Franklin.

In the Sixers defense, the Phoenix Suns gorilla has the words “The Gorilla” stitched on the back of his jersey, but that’s because his name is The Gorilla. Franklin’s name is not Franklin The Dog. It’s Franklin.

The San Diego Chicken, also known as The Chicken, has nothing on the back of his jersey. I can’t ever remember a time when people were confused by this.

My friend Ryan’s dog is also named Franklin. Never once in the past decade when Ryan was telling me a story about Franklin did he have to stop halfway through to make it clear to me that he was talking about his dog eating out of a trashcan and not his daughter.

This is not actually LaDanian Tomlinson.
This is the San Diego Chicken wearing a LaDanian Tomlinson jersey. 

I guess it wouldn’t bother me so much if Franklin (the dog who is also the Sixers' mascot, not my friend Ryan's dog) didn’t suck so hard, or if he had one redeeming personality trait, or one signature move, but he doesn’t. I’m not even sure why the Sixers picked a dog as their mascot to begin with. I understand Swoop (an eagle) for the Eagles. I understand The Phillie Phanatic (a phanatic) for the Phillies. I even understand Gritty (an alcoholic) for the Flyers. But Franklin (a dog)? Did Ben Franklin even have a dog (dog)?

A quick Google search will tell you that (Ben) Franklin did not have a dog, but that his son William did. There is no record of that dog having a name. The same Google search will also tell you that Ben Franklin said this about dogs:

“Those who lie down with dogs get up with fleas.”

Seems silly then to name your mascot after a guy who wasn't even fond of dogs. And yes I realize that the above quote was actually just a metaphor, but still, that's not a very nice thing to say (about dogs).

This is probably a good time to mention that Franklin (the dog) is not actually a dog, but a man dressed in a dog costume.

Maybe that’s why Franklin (the dog) has “Franklin The Dog” written on the back of his jersey. To start a dialogue. To get people thinking and talking about what a dog actually is. Is it a fluffy, funny creature with a wet, dumb nose? Or a ruthless competitor who will eat your face off?

I'm not entirely sure, but I do know that Jimmy Butler is a pit bull.

And that Markelle Fultz sniffs his own ass.



Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Even Though There is No Reason to Watch The Bachelorette This Season, There Might Be Like, Two, Maybe Three Reasons

Ugh, I'm sorry, buddy.
I truly, truly am.  

At first glance, this season of the Bach seems the same as all the others.

The Bachelorette is completely mole-less.

There are three different guys named Clift.

And last night, while a white person told a heartbreaking story about accidentally finding out that his ex-girlfriend was planning on breaking up with him, I ripped a fart so loudly that my cat Frank jumped up, hid under the couch and missed the entire cocktail party AND rose ceremony.

But (and that's the key word here: but) (in fact, that's always the key word) (because in the history of words, the only word that has ever truly mattered is but) (well, and butt) (because you should never pay attention to anything anyone ever says before they say the word but) (because after they say the word but, then they get to what they REALLY want to talk about) (sooooooo, but), this year, there is also this guy:

Is that a soprano saxophone in your pocket or
is that four soprano saxophones in your pocket?

Forget about the fact that he's a stunt man.

Forget about the fact that there's an 83% chance that I subscribe to his PornHub channel.

Forget about the fact that this past year he averaged a career high in points, rebounds and field goal percentage for the Oklahoma City Thunder.

Look. At that. Hair.

Can you imagine?

Can you imagine everand I mean evergoing on a date, or engaging in a conversation, or running a high pick and roll with a man who looked like THAT?

Because I can't.

I cannot.

I don't know how anyone could.

But the thing is, the thing that is more mind-blowing than any sort of small land animal that might live in his hair, is that he seems like a pretty nice guy! And is far from the most ridiculous human being on the show.

Because there's also a guy with a lisp.

A black man who CRIED.

And this guy...

I've never. 

... who literally got no airtime. None. Zero. A massive mistake on the part of the producers, who chose to show us a best of three dodgeball match instead of oneand I mean one30-second clip of this man pouring essential oils into a diffuser.

Also, can we pause for a second?

Does it blow your mind that these people have the conversations that they have? Like, about anything? Like, "Hi, we've known each other for nine minutes, are you thinking private school for our kids orrrrrrrr..."

Do you ever have serious conversations with people? Because I don't. And I don't know any people who do. At least not any that don't end with one person saying, "Okay, I have to go take a shit," because those are the only types of conversations I'm interested in having. The kinds where one person tells the other person that they can no longer talk to them, because shit is about to explode out of their ass.

Back to this post that has no coherent theme or message or reason for being writtenlet's finish it off with this:

The Evster's Sex Tip of the Week Despite the Fact that I Haven't Frenched Kissed My Wife with Actual Tongue in Over Three Years

So last night, this guy posted up Becca for the old Winnepeg Wall-Banger, one of the all-time classic moves in Bachelor/Bachelorette history.

No idea what's up with this picture quality.
It looks like a goddamn Impressionist painting. 

But notice his right hand.

He's got it slapped up against the wall like he's pissing into a urinal on the New Jersey Turnpike when clearly he should have grabbed her left wrist, held it above her head, then taken her other hand and pressed her wrists together, while switching over to hold her wrists with his left hand, and then slid his right hand back down her mole-less bod, before grabbing her underneath her left thigh, pulling her leg around him, putting himself in the Cincinnati Clamper, before whispering in her ear, "Just so you know, I've seen at least four episodes of My So Called Life."

Her panties would have immediately explodedand he would've guaranteed himself a spot in the Final Three.

Okay, that's enough blogging for one week/the rest of my life.

I hate you all!

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Sixers vs. Heat: Game 2 Breakdown. Is it Time to Die?

I want Belinelli to kiss my belly. 

There’s an old saying: You live by the three, you die from cancer. It’s completely untrue. You can also die from AIDS or dysentery or in my case, sad and alone, from some sort of undiagnosed rectum infection, as I complain to my Jamaican nurse about Robert Covington being wildly inconsistent.

I mean, as much as I love guys shooting the ball directly into the backboard, and Marco Belinelli taking off-balance fadeaway 27-footers, you can’t rely on just shooting threes. Just like you can’t survive on only eating meatball hoagies. That being said, I have eaten meatball hoagies for three, mayyyyyyyybe four, of my last five meals and will obviously die from them.

I think it’s clear that the Sixers need some sort of inside presence to get them some easy buckets. If only they had a 7-foot, skilled, athletic, hilarious African man who had a personal vendetta against the Heat’s starting center and an unrelenting desire to play.


Oh well. Amir Johnson was serviceable.

Of course, it’s not Embiid’s fault that the Sixers lost. They just got outplayed—specifically by a 36-year-old, possibly bloated, legend. We knew D Wade was going to go off at some point, I just didn't expect it to be on a night when tip-off took place literally a half an hour before his bedtime.

The truth is, even though Kelly Olynyk and Justise Winslow are certified bitchmaids, I kinda like how physically the Heat played, and you can't deny that they have some certified goat master generals.

Goran Dragic is a BEAST (who shoots the most adorable little floaters).

Head might've actually exploded three seconds after this photo was taken. 

Ronde DiVincenzo's tooth is hilarious.

AND an Abe Lincoln beard. 

And James Johnson seems like a real one.

He’s even got a ridiculous neck tattoo that says something like MAYMAY.

It obviously doesn't say Maymay. 

Turns out (and I did some research on this, seriously), it actually says "NAYMIN 3.9.13"—in honor of his son who was born prematurely on that date and battled for his life. So that's nice for them.

Plus, when Johnson was on the Grizzlies, they had a neck tattoo giveaway in his honor, which is pretty much the most incredible giveaway in the history of giveaways.

L, O, and then follow that up with another L. 

By the way, further research (aka a Wikipedia search) showed that James Johnson was arrested in 2014 for beating and choking his wife. So fuck that guy.

I always thought a cool gimmick would be to make NBA shooting sleeves—or form-fitting, long-sleeve shirts—with individual player’s tattoos on them. Like you could get an Iverson one that had "HOLD MY OWN" and "ONLY THE STRONG SURVIVE" on each arm. We could call them "Sleeversons." Boom, four million dollar idea.

Sadly, the series is now all tied up at one.

I do NOT have four million dollars.

And Hal Greer is dead.

What a lousy time to be alive.

Until Thursday.

Friday, April 13, 2018

Sixers vs. Heat: 7 Not-Even-Close-to-Important Questions

Why is Richaun Holmes so out of frame in this pic?

Despite the fact that they kicked Trevor Booker to the curb, the 2018 Philadelphia 76ers have gone on to become the greatest team in NBA history.

Sixteen straight wins.

Two rookies better than Donovan Mitchell.

And one sideline reporter, Molly Sullivan, who should be required to ask the same question to every player after every game:

Can you believe that I have this job? I can’t believe that I have this job. What was your mindset going into the 4th quarter knowing that the most basic, boring, blow-dried chickenhead, had this job?

This Saturday, the Sixers will attempt to blow-dry the Miami Heat (which is something you already know, and a fact that I didn’t need to include in this article, but I did need some sort of transition to talk about the Heat, so here we are).

Just a few years ago, the Heat featured one of the most legendary NBA trios of all time: Glen Rice, Rony Seikaly and Rony Seikaly’s 10-inch cock. Now, Miami has thrown together a hodgepodge of mediocre talent that includes local products Wayne Ellington (from Episcopal) and Donte Divincenzo’s brother, Ronde Divincenzo.

Can't even come close to figuring out what ethnicity this man is. 

So, seeing as I don’t have the intellectual capacity to come up with a legitimate, coherent theme for this post, I figured I might as well take the easy way out and come up with Seven Not-Even-Close-to-Important Questions going into the series.

Let’s go!

Who Has the Worst Haircut in this Series? 

If you are a human being who has an actual working brain, odds are that you immediately thought of Richaun Holmes—whose braided man bun has, in my opinion, held him back from becoming the first player in NBA history to attempt, and complete, a flip dunk.

RoCo is also in the mix, based on the fact that he has the same haircut as every 13-year-old kid in North Philadelphia. But the worst haircut in this series, BY FAR, belongs to Kelly Olynyk.

How 'bout that one straggler hair just twangling off the side?

Honestly, it’s not just the hair, it’s the goatee. Well, and the hair. And like, the everything. Why are you doing this, Kelly? Can you imagine naming your kid Kelly?

Can you imagine naming your kid Kelly and having the last name Tripucka?

How does this man not have a podcast? 

What an amazing world we live in.

Which Player is Most Capable of Eating Another Player? 

Bam Adebayo.

Will There Be Any Questions About Actual Basketball in this Post? 

It’s possible!

(But not probable.)

Ugh, fine.

Let’s try one.

JoJo vs. Hassan Whiteside. Talk to Me. 

Not exactly a question, but okay.

Before the whole mental health craze took off—and it became cool to have anxiety and panic attacks and multiple gay lovers—we had a way of describing people like Hassan Whiteside. They had "attitude problems." My wife has an attitude problem. I once tried to show her the proper way to slice a mango and she canceled my cellphone plan. True story.

Hassan is a classic example of a man with mental health issues. An ornery malcontent, with an undiagnosed chemical imbalance, who could be triggered by even the slightest change to his daily routine.

Enter a 7-foot African man wearing a mask.


Whiteside really might throw not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, but six mangos right at Embiid's face.

Honestly, I don't know what the deal is with these two. I don't know if they genuinely hate each other, or if it's all an act, or some combination between the two, but I do know that I have to go to a Bat Mitzvah on Saturday night and miss the game—is that fucking unbelievable or what?!


Can Anyone Stop Ben Simmons? 

I’m sure there is a Kardashian out there somewhere nodding her head, but until they dig their claws into Benny Boy, the answer is no. Also, it was kind of a rhetorical question, so, whatever.

Ben Simmons is so fucking good at basketball. He is SO fucking good at basketball. It's nice that he's starting to get his due—and people are comparing him to Magic and LeBron and a young Carl Herrera—but he's still sort of underrated. I pray to God that he doesn't get mixed up with a white woman.

How much do you love Fultzy?!?

Hollywood couldn't have scripted this. Young, chipmunk-cheeked child goes #1 in the draft. Gets paid $5 million to forget how to play basketball. Sweet, way-too-understanding coach shows a ridiculous amount of patience, before he finally loses it during one, dumb press conference. Chipmunk-cheeked child agrees to try and play basketball, becomes youngest player ever to record triple double, is immediately asked by Molly Sullivan, "What was your mindset going into the fourth quarter?"


Sixers in three.

Monday, September 11, 2017

If You Didn't Watch the Miss America Pageant Last Night Then You Are Living a Goddamn Lie

Google Image search: "Miss America's freshly shaved armpits."

Yeah yeah yeah, we get it, Hurricane Irma hit and destroyed a bunch of homes and killed a bunch of people and it's also 9/11 and we'll all #neverforget and black lives matter and Colin Kaepernick died but omg get over it51 chicks were on TV last night strutting around in bikinis and high heels and if you didn't think I would blog about it then you clearly have no idea how the human male penis works.

Normally I would've taken notes and come up with a whole theme for this post, but it's honestly amazing that I still remember the password to this blog. So I'm just gonna share the four most bonkers things that happened last night because I don't even come close to caring about you or this website.

Let's go.

Miss South Carolina...

... knows everything about aliens.

Pretty incredible considering that literally no one in the world knows anything about aliens.


Not one thing.

And there is not one scientist, not one professor, not one NASA ASTRONAUT whose job is to EXPLORE THE UNIVERSE who has ever uncovered any information on aliens whatsoever... but Miss South Carolina knows everything about them.


Miss New Jersey on the other hand...

... can eat fire.

She can eat fire.

Miss New Jersey can eat fire.

And yet she decided that for the talent portion of the show she would be puttin' on the ritz instead of swallowing a goddamn North Korean nuclear missile. Also, I'm no alien expert, but I'm pretty sure that eating fire is not even a thing. Like, you can't do that. You can eat nachos. You can eat a doorknob. But you can't actually eat and digest a giant ball of flames.

Or maybe you can?

What do I know?

I got a D in high school biology and I'm not even sure if eating fire would fall under the umbrella of studying biology. Is it chemistry? I think it might be both. I also think that I just figured out what biochemistry is. Be honest do you think I'm the smartest person who has ever lived? BE HONEST.

And helloooooooooooo, Miss Pennsylvania! 

Forget about the saxophone.


Nothing says "crown me America's ultimate sweetheart" quite like a Hillary Rodham Clinton #pantsuit. They should've just given her the title right then and there.

And then snatched it off her nasty ass head, because...

Just your standard, run-of-the-mill, double yodeling ventriloquist. 

Sadly, I couldn't find Miss Louisiana's performance from last night on YouTube (probably because Chris Harrison's an asshole), but I did find a different Miss Louisiana (from 1988) who was ALSO a ventriloquist.

Also Dak Prescott threw for 268 yards and a touchdown to lead the Cowboys past the Giants and a few guys got brain injuries that will probably lead them to one day blow their brains out.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

The Bachelorette: Breaking Down the Micropeens

I do not talk about this man once in this post. Not once. 

A chick I know recently had her heart ripped out, stepped all over and thrown against a refrigerator. In the months since her ex-boyf broke up with her, she has contemplated sui, experimented with essential oils and downloaded various sex apps on her telephone.

She now has three rules when it comes to dating:

1. No cats
2. No Samsung Galaxies
3. No micropenises

Sadly, the producers of The Bachelorette do not have the same set of standards. This season, they chose to cast the biggest bunch of bozos we've ever seen on this show (including one guy who wore a #vest).

So, even though the only thing I hate more than this TV show is this blog, I figured I'd rank these new contestants based on the size of their micro peens. Because if there's one thing in this world I know about, it's other men's dicks.

Let's rank them from macro to micro, starting with:

Fred (legit hammer cock)

Real one.

I don't care how many brothers Josiah had to cut down from trees, nothing can be more traumatizing than growing up with the name Fred. What an amazing, hilarious thing to call a person. Dogs are named Fred. Car mechanics are named Fred. Fred Flintstone is named Fred. I can guarantee that Fred has a huge, huge dick. I know this because he is black.

Literally Every Other Black Guy (totally normal-sized peens for black guys)

Hi guys. 

Three hundred years of persecution. Thousands upon thousands of dope dance moves. And six full seasons of Martin. Yet, all it took was 20 minutes of this show to shatter my lifelong belief that black people are naturally cool.

The guy who kept licking his lips? Nope. Could not handle him. The grown man who calls himself Diggy? Stop it. I liked Larry the wrestler. And the dude who constantly talked shit. But even Josiah -- and yes, very sad, very very sad about Josiah -- but dude, you don't need to tell us your whole life story on day one. Save a little something for next week. Save a little something for when you're about to be sent home. And after all that, after that judge gave you a second chance and saved your life and steered you away from a life of crime... you went and became a lawyer?

My friend Kenny Rosenbaum is a lawyer. There's nothing special about being a lawyer. Lawyers wear shirts, with buttons, and go to work and be boring. I thought Josiah was gonna say that he went on to do something that actually mattered. Like started a nonprofit for the homeless. Or resurrected the civil rights movement. Or played small forward for the Pistons. But no, he's just another stiff who wears slacks. Nice guy though. As is Kenny Rosenbaum. If you're reading this Kenny, hi Kenny.

Rachel's Dog (dog dick)

Nice doggie.

This dog definitely has a dog dick. I can tell because he is a dog.

Also, ABC dedicated three separate segments to a guy named Jamey, but only gave Ruffles 15 seconds of airtime? Unacceptable.

Guy Who Wore a Fireman Outfit (slightly above average sized dork)

I hate writing this blog so so much.

I'm sorry, anyone who has the confidence to wear a double-breasted fireman suit must be packing heat. Because I have never, not once, not ever ever ever, met a cool fireman. I know that people think they exist. I've seen the shirtless calendars. I remember after 9/11 when the NYFD guys were going on Ellen's show and being all brave and stuff. But firemen, EMTs, dudes who are into anime, bloggers: all 100%, USA-grade, certifiable micropeens.

The Colombian Guy (cold, refrigerated, pre-cooked hot dog)

You can almost feel how cold and wet that dog is from the pic, can't you?

I appreciate this guy going on national television and taking his tongue and touching it against a black woman's tongue, but anyone who acts that aggressively must be overcompensating for something. This man is nothing special. Also, when kisses Rachel on the cheek he makes a stupid "mwah" sound and my wife can't stand when people do that and I support her in every way possible so I officially LOATHE him.

Whablammo Guy (Mike and Ike)

What is that right-shoulder lean/dip move?
And why are those Mike and Ike's so blurry?
And why would I possibly care?

Obviously I hated this guy, but I also didn't hate him. But I hated him. But I also didn't. But I did.  Like, I want him to be murdered, but I don't hate him. But I do. My wife had to walk out of the room when he came on screen. I kinda liked him. But I still want him to die the most horrific painful death imaginable.

Blake the Physical Trainer who Claims to Have a Golden Dick (Combo)

I can't.

Somehow, this dude was more embarrassing than the Whablam guy.

Quick side note: You can totally tell when I've had enough of writing this stuff, because it just becomes one-line answer-city. Let it be known, you are now entering one-line-answer city.

Another side note: Update on my boner potion that I'm taking. For those of you who didn't read my last post, my friend Guitar Jr. recently sent me some boner potion that is supposed to be "The Viagra of the Amazon." I am currently on Day 4 of taking the potion (three times a day) and I miiiiiiiiight be starting to feel the effects. Not that I'm walking around all day with a full-fledged jackhammer, but I did wake up this morning harder than Chinese arithmetic. So I've got that goin' for me.

Now back to your regularly scheduled blorg post.

Jonathan the Tickle Monster (Tic Tac)

I've never.

Clearly this guy is on the spectsh, right?

I am not a violent person (mainly because I have zero muscle tone on my body), but if a grown man were to ever have me close my eyes, stick my hands out and then tickle my rib cage, I would slug him in the face with a stapler. This man is certifiable.

Chris Harrison (slimy, shriveled-up mushroom)

Google image search: "Soggy, Wet Mushroom"

At one point in the show on the show on Monday, Chris Harrison referred to After the Final Rose as "AFR."

Guy who told Rachel "I wanna go black and never go back" (inverted turtle head that literally sits inside his own asshole)

Yo. Fuck this guy.

This song, entitled "Coffee," is a certified banger. When I played it for my friend, Hart (and keep in mind, the hook goes "black coffee no sugar no cream black coffee no sugar no cream"), he thought it was actually about coffee. Turns out it's not. Take a listen and see if you can find the deeper meaning. Hint: It's about having sex with a black man. 

See you next week. 


Thursday, May 18, 2017

Mommy Dead and Dearest: Wooooooooooooo, Dusty!

Wowzers bowzers.

There's not many things in this world that deserve a "wowzers bowzers."

The view from Macchu Picchu? Wowzers bowzers.

Those hot breakfast scrambles that come in an iron skillet with biscuits and gravy and full-throttle, level-19 diarrhea? Wowzers bowzers.

Kim Jong-un's haircut?

I'll take "Wow Bow" for 800, Alex. 

But now you can add a new wow bow to the list: Mommy Dead and Dearest, HBO's latest documentary about a sick, sick, sick mother who keeps her daughter captive until her daughter finds an autistic pervert to slit her throat. This story, my friend, is a certifiable wowzers bowzers.

Honestly the whole thing is just gut wrenching. And horrible. And downright bonkers. With so many bonkers characters and so many bonkers moments that a good portion of the bonkersness gets lost in the bonks because you're so busy freaking out about the bonks. They could've made an entire documentary just on Gypsy Rose's dad's hats.

So seeing that you probably missed out on some bonks while you were bonking out, let's go over some of the other wowzers bowzers that didn't get nearly enough attention in the doc.

Such as:

Oh, hello. 


I absolutely loved Dee Dee's nephew, or cousin, or whoever he was--you know, the former lead singer of Seether. What was he? A welder? I didn't even know welding was still a profession.

Although to be honest, I couldn't get over the fact that he was wearing that stupid winter hat during his interview. I figured he was probably bald and/or trying to get a VH1 reality dating show, but turns out he has a nice full head of hair. I found him on the 'Gram. He also happens to be one of those fitness dudes who cares way too much about his bod. Check out his Instagram page; lots of pics of him with his shirt off, and also this picture of his super boring breakfast.

Underscore Kim Underscore Broussard likes it. 


And then of course there's Nicholas Godejohn, you know, the guy who slashed Dee Dee's throat and said he might want to rape her, but no no no he's not into necrophilia, not at all, he wouldn't rub his dork on a dead woman's body, never, never, but he would masturbate in a McDonald's for NINE STRAIGHT HOURS.

How is that even possible?

You gotta think that after, oh, I dunno, four minutes? someone woulda said SOMETHIN'. And by the  eight-minute mark, someone would've thrown a Filet 'o Fish at him. Maybe, mayyyyyyyyybe, if he was quietly JACKING HIS DORK RIGHT OFF HIS BODY, with some sort of ball gag in his mouth to muzzle his grunts, he coulda slid under the radar for, oh, I dunno, 11 minutes? But nine hours?! How is that even fun?

In somewhat related/not that related news, my buddy Guitar Jr. recently got wayyyyyyyyy into essential oils, and gave me some sort of organic aphrodisiac potion that's supposed to help your boners. Not that I need help with my boners, I mean, I can still get a bone job, I can, I totally can, I will go to any McDonald's right now and get a full-fledged bone job, but it's just that, you know, when you turn 40 (and yes, ugh, I recently turned 40), your bone jobs aren't quite the bone jobs they once were. Sure, sure, they still bone okay, but they don't quite bone out like they did when you were 19. That being said, I have yet to try the bone job potion because I'm scared I might break my bone. To be continued, I guess.

Amazing that this could be the second creepiest dude at your local McDawgs.


Back to the Gypsinator. I know. I know. It's ridiculously sad that Gypsy Rose was being treated for cancer without actually having cancer, but her singing performance at that cancer charity benefit was downright shitty. I'm guessing she was trying to sing that shitty because her mother told her to sing that shitty, but that singing was really, really shitty.

But regardless of how shitty she sang, how did she (and Dee Dee) get by all those doctors? That's the scariest part of this whole thing (even scarier than that pic of Gypsy Rose licking a knife, which, you gotta admit, was kinda hot?), that doctors can be so stupid.

My wife (who is real) gets very upset when I make fun of doctors, because her mother, father, brother and stater-in-law are all docs, but a lot of doctors (and people) are just plain ole fucking idiots. How they managed to let Gypsy Rose slip through the cracks--so, so sad. And I understand that Dee Dee was a master manipulator, but still. Ugh.

I couldn't find a picture of Gypsy Rose singing,
so here is a picture of her stepmom's all-white New Balances instead. 


But maybe the most bonkers storyline that slipped under the radar involved Dee Dee's stepmom. You know, the old ass lady with the all-white New Balances who might've been from Louisiana, but also very well could've been from some former country in the Eastern Bloc. Anyway, how about the fact that Dee Dee tried to kill her by feeding her ROUNDUP?!

What does that even mean?

She sprayed Roundup into her Cream of Wheat?

I mean, I'm all for pulling a prank from time to time. In college, I filled up my friend Noodle's Brita with salt and waited under his bed to watch him drink it, and after he took one sip and almost barfed all over the place I felt so bad that I immediately popped out and apologized. He ended up beating the shit out of me and pulling my pants down in front of pretttttttttyyyyy much every chick in our entire dorm. Lucky for me, I could still pull off a somewhat respectable bone job at the time.

Anyway, pretty good documentary.

I recommend it.

Moving on, The Bachelorette starts this Monday and I do not not not want to watch or blog about it. But many of my readers (three) asked me to, so maybe I will (I won't). I mean, I have written (on just this blog alone) over ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY posts about that stupid sexxxual game show. I just can't anymore. But I might. Anyway, I went to Dollywood last week. Here's a picture of Dolly Parton with Kermit the Frog.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Observations While Eating Pancakes on a Random Tuesday in a South Philly Diner

This is a picture of pancakes because this article
has something to do with pancakes. 

I used to work with this guy named Brad, and he's exactly the type of Brad that you think he'd Brad.

He drank Muscle Milk. And put paste his hair. And one time when we were out to lunch he called a waitress "doll" when he asked her for more oyster crackers. I was mortified. By the time the young lady had brought Brad his crackers, I had crawled under the table, crab-walked out of the restaurant and put in my two-weeks notice back at the office.

You see, there are very few people in this world who can pull off calling someone "doll". One is my Aunt Frayda (who is not my real aunt). Another is Don Draper (who is not a real person). And then there are waitresses in South Philly diners, the type of women who not only smoke a pack of Newports a day, but probably eat them.

This was not my waitress but it might as well have been.

As I stopped into a South Philly diner last week, I was greeted by one of those waitressesDonna, dark-haired woman with even darker mascara who might've served in Vietnam.

"Just the one today, Doll?" Donna asked me.

"Yep," I said as I nodded by head, even though I'm now realizing that saying "yep" and nodding your head are basically doing the same thing.

"Sit anywhere you'd like, Hun."

"Thank you terrifying woman," I said.

And so I did, grabbing one of those big ole booths with the long leather seats. The kind of booths where you need to slide on in, like getting into the front bench seat of a 1963 Buick Skylark, not that I've ever been in a 1963 Buick Skylark, or even know what a Buick Skylark is, but it just seemed like the right analogy here so let's just go with it. 

Immediately after sitting down, another waitress (who was wearing Skechers Shape-ups) came over to me and also asked, "Just the one today, Doll?"

This question somehow stung a bit more than the first time it was asked. Possibly because this new waitress spoke in a much louder tone so everyone in the place could hear her. But then again, who cares, there's nothing wrong with eating alone. Plus, there were only like three other people eating in the restaurant, and two of them were over the age of 90 and possibly dead. Regardless, I nodded and she gave me a menu. It was 86 pages long.

I obviously didn't need a menu. No one who goes to a diner needs a menu. They're all the same, and have everything you'd ever want to eat: omelettes, veal parmesan, raisins. Besides, I had come for pancakes, and planned to get whatever version of the Hungry Man's Special that this diner offered (they offered 12). So I put my menu down and took a look around. Donna was playing pinball. 

Over the speakers, Billy Joel was playing on the radio because every time anyone has ever eaten in a diner Billy Joel has played on the radio. In fact, after the Billy Joel song ended ("Only the Good Die Young"), another Billy Joel song came on ("It's Still Rock n Roll to Me"). I'm not lying. I know that I have a tendency to lie a lot, especially in this blog, and I even lied in the first paragraph about Brad being named Brad. His real name is Josh. I just called him Brad because I didn't want to hurt the real Josh's feelings if he ever read this post. But I know that Josh isn't much of a reader, so I doubt that he'd even read this far down anyway. Either way, Josh is actually a really nice guy, and a good friend, and he probably loves Billy Joel. As does my Aunt Frayda and literally every other Jewish person you will ever meet.

The rest of the diner looked pretty normal. There was a counter. And a bunch of booths. And people who looked like they were going through serious bouts of depression. I felt right at home. 

This is a picture of a diner. 

The pancakes and eggs and sausage and bacon were all pretty ordinary (in that they were fantastic). I gobbled it up quick and drank a cup of coffee and took notes for this post that said things like "whipped butter is bout dat LYFE." But I did see something that I'd never seen before in my 39 years on this earth: a man eating two bowls of soup.

He didn't eat them at the same time, that would be ridiculous. But he still ate two bowls (which is somehow almost as ridiculous). After he finished his first bowl (pea soup, I believe), he simply slid his bowl over to the waitress and said, "Give me another."

Such confidence. 

Such rudeness! 

But such confidence!

Who eats two bowls of soup?! This guy apparently, who proceeded to slurp up his second bowl while yelling at a woman on his cellphone. He kept telling her, "Damn girl you must be pregnant because you don't normally act like this." As of the writing of this article, it is unclear if he or she is still alive. 

As I sat there in awe—at both the fact that a man would eat two bowls of soup AND talk to a pregnant woman that way—I suddenly felt a rumble bumble in my stomach. I took a deep breath, shoved some more pancakes into my fat slut mouth, and tried to ignore it. Then I felt another rumble. And another. Then I prayed to Jesus. I was going to shit my pants.

I looked around for my waitress to get my check, but she was nowhere to be found. I figured maybe she was sitting in the back enjoying a nice warm bowl of raisins. After around 15 seconds, and seven more rumbles, and sweating through my entire shirt, I got up to try and find her. We had a crisis on our hands. And potentially in my pants.

As I walked up to the counter, searching for someone, anyone, good god where are these people, and who the hell eats pea soup, I was pretty much shuffling around the place like James Brown. Then finally, my beautiful disgusting rough wonderful waitress walked out of the kitchen.

"Oh hey!" I yelled, voice cracking, waving nine dollars in the air. "Is it possible to get my check?"

"Nope, not possible," she said with a sarcastic smile, clearly unaware that at any moment I might blow the doors off the entire block. 

I fake laughed and threw a wad of bills at her. No idea how much I threw. Could've been $20. Could've been six. I can't even believe I was carrying cash. But I just chucked it as far as I could and duck-waddled to the nearest bathroom. It was occupied, obviously, so I grabbed a fork off a nearby table and smashed it into my shin. Then I thought about using the ladies room. Then I decided to use the ladies room. Then I got scared to use the ladies room and power-walked five city blocks back to my office where I had a full-blown seizure in an elevator before I destroyed the industrial strength plumbing in my building.

Not really sure what the point of this whole story is. 

I think maybe it's that pancakes are delicious—and that you need to seriously reevaluate the type of things you're reading on the internet.