Clay vs. Music

What if 2 restaurants chains had a Baby?

This picture has nothing to do with the story.

Welcome to On the Lobster. Here's your Fresh Hot Cheddar Gay Biscuits. Eat this lobster tail with black beans poured all over it. You can eat it or go home. Who knew a mediocre seafood/bastardized Mexican food restaurant didn't have a chance?

Most of the time when things join forces the result is pretty good. When those homeless kids all put their rings together they summon Captain Planet? Marketing!?! Such a slippery slope. A slippery slope indeed. We should of never put beans on a lobster. We'll comp that, but you're paying for the Shrimps n' Salsa.

Some Days You Win

As you approach the public restroom, you see the cleaning lady taking down the sign that says "Bathroom Closed for Cleaning." She's placing the Windex back in her rolling cleaning command center. You realize that at this moment, this specific bathroom is at its highest level of cleanliness. You open the door with confidence.

There will be no shit-cloud lying in wait ready to bitch slap you with stench. The poop mosaic on the back of the bowel has yet to be commissioned. The drips of urine that puddle in front of the urinal are not present. There isn't even the accumulation of excess soap below the dispenser.

This refurbished world is new and untouched. I feel like Columbus or Neil Armstrong? Am I pioneer, trailblazer or thrill seeker? No, I'm a merely a dude with impeccable timing. As I exit, I pass a co-worker in the hall on his way to the restroom. "Today's my day, Bill," I say in passing. "What?" he replies.

No matter how beat down you claim to be, never miss a chance to celebrate a victory. Some days you win. Some...days...YOU WIN!!! (Mat thrusts his fist into the air)

Floating the Backyard

One time I watched the animated movie Ratatouille...

...and actually made my own Ratatouille. Then one other time I was watching Breaking Bad and I ...you know what, never mind. Forget it. Who likes puppies?

The Crooked I...represent in moderation

 Photo Courtesy of Sarah Boyer

Masters of Their Universe

The Westboro Baptist Church: Savior of Mankind

They're mantra "God Hates Fags" is so brutal on the ears. Even the most pious person might have a bigger problem with that statement than the homosexual act itself. I don't know, I do anyways. From a religious standpoint, it's a contradiction in its syntax if you think about it . The protesting of funerals for dead soldiers and innocent victims is counter intuitive. The gays, straights, black, white, sane, pious, atheist and anyone with a pulse can count the ways they're actions are despicable.

As we ignore our differences and focus our dislike towards this organization, should we thank them? These universally hated people have united us. They've achieved a level of societal cohesiveness I've never seen in my life. It even transcends those few precious weeks after a tragedy when we put our humanity out there for free. Could this be the underlying motivation of these people? Are they becoming the lightening rod not out of ignorance or hate, but as players in a divine plan that the world has yet to see though? The actions of these seemingly heinous people is catalyst for a declaration of humanity by the masses. It's a blatant use of reverse phycology that is working without no one seeing it. Tom Sawyer tricked us again and we're painting the fence. 
 

These people may be brilliant. Every religious figure, in every celestial pursuit, has a story of persecution. A test of humility in order to achieve a higher being or state. On the surface, The WBC's members appear to be bigots, homophobes and fools, but what if behind the scenes they're watching the united front against them and smiling as their higher-level plan unfolds? It drives me crazy to even harbor the thought. Then again, why not? I know folks from all walks of life and not a single one endorses their actions. 

This scheme is no different than the convoluted stories in the Bible where god tests an individual's faith. Such as the story of Abraham. I realize it may be Old Testament, therefore Old School, but when I first read this parable with naked eyes I was sickened. I didn't stop and think it was a test of faith. I thought it was the act of a desperate ,mentally ill, man trying to appease an insecure deity that's even sicker. I still feel this way about any kind of holy literature that demands death. I suppose the whole story sounds better when it's sugar-coated by a man in a suit that practices his diction in front of mirror before he addresses the audience. Not every part of the "Good Book" is an easy sell.  

 

I know the above 'graph is antagonistic to the believers and a valid point to the atheists. It was meant to be. You either accept what I'm saying, discount it as opinion or give it credence. However, my best efforts to elicit any emotion will always fall short to the all encompassing "Hate Love-Fest" that's left in the wake of The WBC's teachings. Could these perceived monsters, be the ever lasting light and the embodiment of true enlightenment?
 
You know, on second thought, maybe I'm giving these back-woods, inbred, hate-mongering, soulless pricks too much credit. Forget I said anything.

The Ramifications of Lotion

Lotion is a hell of an invention. Especially for a person such as myself that is habitually pale, yet enjoys the sun. The flavors are infinite and the utility of such a product is invaluable. Much like frozen pizza or firearms.

Everyday I shake hands with folks, and when there is lotion residue I almost throw up. It really is odd. Out of the bottle lotion is nice, but when not properly rubbed in on the hands of a stranger, it’s appalling.

Rubbing in lotion seems like a basic skill. If you have lotion on your hands just tell me. I don’t want to shake your hand anyway. You’re probably a person I wouldn’t even acknowledge on the street unless I was being paid to be nice to you, much like a prostitute or valet.

Also, as I grab for the door to the office I encounter greasy residue on the doorknob. Because of this nastiness, I now open doors like a hypochondriac. Now I enter the room with aid of a napkin. Which makes me appear OCD to others or worse, European. Either way, all of the sudden, I come off as the crazy one. Even though there’s some skank or brosuf out there making the office unlivable.

A fictional serial killer once said, “It puts the lotion on its skin…” Just for the record, you’re supposed to rub that mess in so you don’t come off as a slimy horse-jacker from a stud farm.

You Leave Now Round-Eye!!!

The following are 10 things to do at a Chinese buffet

1. Wear a cowboy hat. Draw attention to yourself right when you enter the joint.

2. If there is a fresh bread lady, always accept her bread. Take control of all bread within a 50ft radius. Be dedicated. Lie, cheat and steal until you're king of a mighty bread mountain. Four feet is the record.  

3. Make jello a universal condiment. It goes on everything.

4. Take at least three food items with you to the bathroom. It makes you seem mysterious. Throw away the food and come out chewing.

5. If there is a guy that will cook stuff on the Wok, keep winking at him. Go ahead and give him a hug before you leave.

6. Converse with post-it notes to appear deaf. Then, overreact to all sounds.

7. Keep asking the busboy to bring you lobster and a baked potato with ranch on the side.

8. When eating utensils aren't in use store them under your armpit.

9. If you talk to an employee, act scared. They're the hammer and you're the nail. It's time to cry on command if you can.  

10. When paying out, call the cashier "master."

 

On Your Computer

Today's Fortune

My Cover Letter for Joining a Street Gang

I want to Represent!!!

Dear O.G. or Current Gang Leader,
I would like to join your gang! I know most folks become infatuated with your organization in high school, but the way I see it age is just a number. I agree some numbers mean everything, such as your click's area code. However, my 31 years on this planet have taught me one thing, and one thing alone, now is the time to gang-bang.


With that said, I'd like to let you know I'm indeed true to the street. I've got no time for chicken-heads and no person disrespects me. Real talk. Case in point, I fed a seagull a kernel of dog turd cause the dirty bird pooped on my arm. As he hovered over me wanting a handout, I got my revenge. I wasn't going to front game. I demand retribution. So, I threw that doggy deuce up in the air like I didn't care. Revenge is a dish best served cold and if the entree is fecal it really teaches a lesson. Nobody poops on me and gets away with it. It's very easy to use poop as a weapon when you always carry Wet-Ones.  

This is my brother's dog.

Despite my ability to abuse wild birds, I will have an issue with any sort of dogfighting. All I can say is I'm a complicated individual. I would be more than happy to go pick up the cold-cut platter at the deli while you guys quench the thirst for senseless violence and gambling. Don't get me wrong, I do think dogs are dope. I'm currently teaching my brother's dog the "f word." I know cussing is very gangster and there's no need to censor myself, but I'd prefer this cover letter remain frigging professional so I'm taken seriously as a candidate.  

I was also thinking, instead of jumping me in we could have a cook-out. BBQ can be messy, but like I said before, I'll have plenty of Wet-Ones on hand. This way everyone gets to have fun and y'all get to see me at my best. I'm quite the grill master and I'll pay for half the rental fee on a bounce house or magician. Or hey, let's get crazy and have both at the party!

REAL TALK.

Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself and getting off topic. The last thing I'd want to do is get it twisted. Simply put, I really want to join your gang. I want to belong. I want to learn all the hand signs. I want to do shadow figures on graffiti laden walls.  I want to represent. I want to keep it real.

As you can see I don't have a resumé to show you because that would be bragging. I know someone ,such as yourself, has achieved nothing. The years you've spent climbing up through the ranks of the fools before you, only to become a leader of fools, doesn't impress anyone in the real world. But guess what, it tickles my pickle and I think your hella tight. I also couldn't get anyone to write a reference letter that stated I was incompetent. Don't worry, I can unlearn common decency and my honky work ethic.


Which leads me to my next point, my ethnicity. I realize the general consensus is to kill a cracker, but just give me a chance. Sure my skin is white, but I already own ill-fitting and over-sized garments in all the popular street gang colors. I can join any click, at a moment's notice.

I can relate to life on the street. I watch Maury.

Would you like to "keep it real" with me?,

Mat "Left Eye" McD

P.S. - I went ahead and gave myself a nickname. I'm a big TLC fan, can't you tell? Hit me up on my cell. We can talk about it. Then we can plan an ill conceived drive-by that hurts innocent people while we cowardly speed away! I enjoy murking.


 

The Tango and Cash Conspiracy

Citizen Cain, Casablanca or Ernest Goes to Jail come to mind as notable contributions to the world of cinema. How could any movie magician top them? Then, in 1989 the light passed through the celluloid one more time and the bar was raised yet again with Tango and Cash.

Dude B. Fugly

The plot (as if you didn't know): Ray Tango (Sylvester Stallone) and Gabriel Cash (Goldie Hawn's boyfriend) get framed by Yves Perret (Jack Palance) for murder. They end up going to prison where they have to fend off all the people they've put away in the past. At some point, Ron Howard's ugly brother pops up, then they escape. After escaping they meet up with a stripper (Terri Hatcher) and call up a guy that has guns, ammo and a full-blown assault vehicle. Now it's time to clear their name, kill some folks and blow up things.

There escape was much like
Andy Dufresne's from Shawshank

In addition to good 'ol violence and sweet catch phrases. T and C is one of the earliest adopters of the acronym F.U.B.A.R. You've got to give this movie some real street cred. Before we had #YOLO (you only live once), #FML (F@cK my life) or #GSAD (got stabbed at Denny's) , on twitter, we had FUBAR (Flawked up beyond all recognition). Wow, I've used a lot of parenthesis in this blog and this is only the second 'graph.

 

I'm not here to dispute T and C might be a tad dated, but I dare say it's a cult classic. When I first saw it as a kid I was blown away and as an adult I still find it fun. Just suspend belief and cheer the heroes on as they drive their urban assault Suburban through the many fantastic holes in the plot. I'd imagine most folks reading this already know all of the above and are wondering why a review of an old movie serves any purpose. Hang in there, I'm about to shock your whole being.  



Alright we get it you were the Hulk. See you at ComicCon
as you sign a pale boy's cleavage.   

Of course with any success, there's always someone trying to imitate. So, without further delay, I give you Liberty and Bash. Yep, that's the Hulk, Lou Ferrigno. The other guy is a journeyman actor named Miles O'Keefe. Did they think we wouldn't notice a blatant rip-off when we see one? Well, actually they did.

Focus groups pissed on this flick so bad they decided to release it in Mexico, before T and C's south of the border debut in hopes of reaching foreign audiences before they had a chance to see the Stallone/Goldie Hawn's Boyfriend movie. Both movies debuted in 1989, only a matter of months apart.

The plot: The two met in Vietnam and became best friends forever. Then, they meet again during another war that took place in Central America. Now they're back from their missions and want to save the youth of America from drugs. Of course, one of their friends is a junkie that dies. They decide to ignore the fact that junkies just die and decide to wage war against the people that sold him the drugs.

Two men, one of them deaf, against a cartel's army fighting for their already dead junkie friend Jesse. Super. (As I applaud off stage.) I find myself wondering how a deaf person can pass the hearing test at time of enlistment.

Not a total carbon-copy of T and C, but the basic idea and the title just makes you think rip-off at first glance and the fact they opened months apart. However, like I said, this movie was off the radar of everyone. 

I desperately tried to get a copy of this movie to watch, but was amazed at how hard it was to find in a usable format other than Beta/VHS. I have neither hardware. First world problems I suppose.



Sorry, but the Ghostbuster's Ride was way cooler.

I also started to become embarrassed asking strangers if they knew where I could get a copy. "Yeah, hey there, I was wondering if you have a movie called Liberty and Bash? Ugh, ya, it's a bastardized version of Tango and Cash that was released in Mexico," I said. The blank stares of confusion and judgement took it's toll on me and I just gave up the search. I know giving up would be the last thing Tango and Cash would do, but without a mobile assault vehicle I felt powerless.

 

So now you know; now the world knows. I fear the government will soon be coming after me to conceal the truth. If they do, remember me as a beacon of stupidity that shines brightest when you read this stupid story on your smut-phone as you meditate/poop.

Today's Fortune

Real Talk

Harley Davidson Owners Are Just Looking for a Buddy

Jamal is 1 of 33 black
men that own a Harley in the US.

The small-talk begins as I purchase my fuel from the cashier. Then our conversation is interrupted as we look out to the parking lot. We both looked on as a man on a Harley lurches forward into a pylon and stalls his bike.

Of course he's on a Harley. The American standard of cool has been transformed into a mid-life crisis that's a blatant statement of form over function. If riding a German Shepard became the trend this man would abide without question. 

The rebel is no more, Tattoos are no longer taboo and the quest for acceptance picks right back up where it left off in high school. The man stalling his Harley, desperately chasing his youth, will never catch it. He'll most likely be crippled on the road, because wrecking on a bike is inevitable. I always thought ignoring the inevitable is a young man's sport, but times are a changing.

He's definitely not alone in the pointless pursuit of cool.



A Super Gay and Super lame movie.

In fact, the Harley rule of the road: "If you're on a bike, you better talk to me. And if you're too far away, you sure as hell better wave. Make me feel special because I'm not driving a car."

I never knew a common ground demanded so much work. I guess folks that ride motorcycles are just looking for a friend. I watched as two "bad ass" bikers sat next to each other at the red light. The two strangers sought each other out at the stop and began speaking to each other passionately about bikes. Don't get me wrong, motorcycles are sort of cool, but I just don't want an arranged marriage with a man in order to own one.

I know there's other cults of machinery and clubs centered around vehicles. Where the Harley cult differs is they seem to be posers. I honestly think most of them think there's a camera crew making a digital record of their bad-assery 24/7. Being a master of your machine comes second for most Harley owners. The primary focus of finding the elusive jacket that matches their chaps is paramount.


The father of this family owns 3 Harleys.

While I'm on the topic of chaps. I understand chaps serve a practical use, but wearing them when purchasing a slice of pie ,inside a restaurant, sort of says "LOOK AT ME!!!" Look, the helmet you're currently carrying tells us all we need to know. Don't worry, we see you and we're still laughing from when you stalled your hog.

Wearing chaps for fun is also super gay. I've seen some graphic things on the interweb that confirm the above statement. A buddy of mine often emails me attachments titled "Fishing Trip", "Vacation Photos" or "Pics of My Kids." Then when I open it I get a lesson on what it takes to be a power-bottom. In 4 out 5 of these nefarious emails chaps are involved.

Maybe I should start walking up to every person that drives a truck and hug them. I could put a patch on my jacket. I can see it now, my truck gang shall be called THE TRUCK PHAWKS and our rivals could be Hybrid owners, they'd be THE PHAWK TRUCKS.

I'm not above talking to someone just on the guise of a common ground, but I draw the line at toe jobs at the red light. What's a toe job? I don't know, but I assume only Harley brand oil goes on that toe. "It's got to match the jacket!" said the effeminate dance choreographer doing Jazz Hands.

A Eulogy for Lance Armstrong

Everyone be seated, the service is about to start. Afterwards there will be sandwiches and party-liquor for the bored and bereaved. Then Oprah will gently stroke Lance's temple and pull the trigger to finish him off. Thanks for coming. Please turn off your cell phones.

(Amazing Grace fades out)

All of us will be destroyed. The cartilage in our joints will wear thin and tear. The memory will fade and for some it will be totally lost. The confidence that preceded decisions will be yanked back like a dog on a leash by self-doubt. As we all stumble through this experience ,with the world as our stage, we hope for happiness and success. Sadly, the two can sometimes oppose each other dramatically.

If you convinced yourself a human being was capable of "bouncing back" to the level of a world-class athlete, after undergoing cancer treatment to the point of total remission, win the Tour de France without the aid of fantastic performance enhancing drugs that may be deemed illegal, in a sport that is nothing but corrupt, raise your hand. It's okay, my hand is up too. The bogus scenario was as blatant as the previous run-on sentence. Who doesn't love a good a story? A story where the beaten and bruised conquer the realm of the evil, but the above plot wouldn't even fly in Middle Earth.

Everyday the statistics slap us in the face and the people we love are dying at Holocaustic numbers. Bitching about a single man's actions is pathetic. We are up against it and people are focused on one self-absorbed athlete. Being honest is a challenge when the lies become one's entire reality. One can only hope he regrets misleading the world over the regret of getting caught.

The fact that no one's weeping at this funeral is message enough. Instead of a rose, throw a dog turd on the coffin and move on. Stop caring about yellow jerseys and trophies. There's countless people wearing orange that must be cured. They need us on the front line. If we're not kill'in, we're dy'in.

Sorry kids, the legend out lived the man. It happens everyday, yet we act surprised when we get kicked in the teeth. (Cliche Alert) We are the human race and there is no finish line. We will chase the horizon to the vanishing point because we have no other choice. We can't give up and pretend to be a victim.

The existence of god will always spark debate, but the existence of false idols is proven on a daily basis.

Spoiler Alert

Listen, unless your exceeding speeds over 120 mph you don't need a spoiler on your Cavalier, Neon, Jetta, Mustang or any lame car your stuck driving.

Putting a spoiler on your car, when not going over 80 mph, only adds drag. That's right, you just made your car slower in daily driving situations.

Besides, your cool enough without the spoiler. I realize the material world defines you and that's fine. Perhaps, focus on your pho-hawk and go buy a new shirt with flames or skulls on it. That alone will tell me your a douche bag versus after market add-ons to your automobile.

I realize Gadzooks has closed, but you can still get quality flame shirts at such places as Kohle's and select Army-Navy stores.

Thank you for your time on the matter and I expect this action will most likely get me "served." I am ready for any dance-off that might come my way. But when it's all said and done, win or lose, you still lack style and an understanding of basic aerodynamics. 

When you do the Roger Rabbit while wearing a flame shirt you look like an inferno.

Flame on you retarded demons of speed. If society gives you enough rope maybe you'll hang yourself. 

Punk in Drublic

This is Jerry

I might be out of line hating Wal-Mart so much. I recently found out you can grocery shop with a cocktail and the mediocre staff won't even notice.

As I walked past Jerry, a 'Mart employee, I asked for a toast. In any other store, a stupid move, but at The 'Mart, no one cares! I swear I saw a fly sucking the moisture from his tear duct like an Ethiopian baby on the religious channel.

Next time you have to go to The 'Mart, add a little pleasure to your pain. Don't worry about stopping off at the Sonic for the Route 44 cup disguise. I walked around with a stiff gin and tonic in a typical red Solo cup and not a soul, including the cop at the front of the store, seemed to care.

Most of the folks working in this store are narcotized. Their minds beaten by the fact there's 4 hours left in their shift. I can see 3 trapped sparrows aimlessly fluttering through the rafters. The employees that still have a soul share the same fearful look as the trapped birds.

While you’re exploiting the insurmountable sadness, put a brisket and a case of beer on the bottom shelf of your cart. You know, the shelf you only use when you buy a 24 pack of bottled water. Half the time they don't even check it. It works half the time, everytime. If you get caught just convince them you’re as stupid and oblivious as they are. It should be an easy sell.

I realize these tips are a pretty big deal. No need for thanks. I'm here to help people. However, if you would like to show your love, perhaps you could be my designated driver when I go grocery shopping sometime. I asked the elderly greeter at the door, but all I got was a blank stare and a smiley face sticker.

I need to go. My search for a bathroom has lead me to some sort of banana-staging area. As I stumble through the fruit maze, the fear of being placed on the store floor for sale is real. I might be lost, I might be buzzed, but I'm shopping my way. Wish me luck. It's a bananas...B-A-N-A-N-A-S.