Illegal Legal Advice

Papa John Steals Pizza from Himself

 

I just saw one of the new Papa John's Pizza TV ads and I'm amazed at its mediocrity. Right from the start, I know bitching about it on the interweb is exactly what they want, I just can't let it slide. It just doesn't make any damn sense.


Why the hell would the owner of Papa John's wear a mask to impersonate Jerry Jones and steal his pizza? The black guy makes sense, but Jerry is his business partner. Once more, he's stealing money out of his own pocket and making one of his employees look bad.

Jerry will call at some point and be like "Yo, where's my pizza?" Then the pizza dude's supervisor will ask the pizza dude "Yo, why didn't you deliver Jerry's pizza?" Then the pizza dude will be like "I was face to face with the man, I gave it to him myself."
All this confusion will lead to a triangle of frustration.(A triangle of frustration is like a love triangle, but far less sexy.)

Now Jerry's super pissed and wants the pizza dude fired. Then while the pizza dude's job hangs in the balance, Papa John is hiding in the dark whispering the company slogan into a camera.

I called a Papa John's and tried to do an interview, but the employee wouldn't submit to the use of her voice on BBaT.com. Anonymously she would confirm that the commercial made little to no sense and raised another question that holds some water. Why would a millionaire commit a B and E (breaking and entering) himself when he could hire someone to do it for him? Good point.

Remember the good'ol days when Jerry was a rapper and the world made sense?

A Beautiful Disaster

Clay vs. Music

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

The Crooked I...represent in moderation

 

 Photo Courtesy of Sarah Boyer

This playa was found near Barton Elem. represent.  

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 the 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 fallen soldier's funerals 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. 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 world 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."

 

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 or caliber choice, but age versus dedication are separate worlds. My 30+ years on this planet have taught me one thing, and one thing alone, now is the time for me to gang-bang.


Art by Matthew Palladino

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 merely front game. I demanded 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 entrée 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. While the event is commencing, I'd be more than happy to go pick up the cold-cut platter at the deli for the after party. 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 professional so I'm taken seriously as a candidate.  

I was also thinking, instead of jumping me in we could have a cook-out. Then the worst thing that could happen is messy hands, 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. We'll all be jumping in something that night. We'll laugh until we cry, there will be no need for teardrop face tats that night. :]

REAL TALK.

Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. 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 résumé to show 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.



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

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.

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.


Art by Matthew Palladino

 

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 near the pumps. What caught our attention was a man on a Harley lurching forward into a pylon and stalling 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 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 as they zigzagged perilously through traffic to share a moment together. 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 earlier.

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. Blindly opening email attachments is how I live on the edge.

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.

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. 

World vs. Airhorn

Only Zombies Can Save Us

As I sit in traffic I notice what folks are doing around me. I see long faces and uninspired gazes. Every now and then, someone will come alive to spew venom at a fellow motorist. I fear the day I'm in the company of someone with more ammo than self restraint. Being trapped in a hopeless situation is the worst.

As I wait in line at the grocery store I observe the people around me. Most seem angry or indifferent about the time wasted waiting to purchase and consume. The folks's with kids are occupied with saying "no" to the child's demands for candy. While others sneak a free read from the fish-wrap that tells the secrets of  famous people.

As I merely exist, all I see are people attempting to cut their rope and escape. Yet no matter how hard they try, pride, addiction or love keeps them from seeking their independence.

Fear is a powerful motivator, but it can also be the noose around your neck. Either way, below our surface we're all hoping to hell there's just a little more than what we've already experienced.

There's a sort of hopelessness to it all. The monotony, the repetition and the uncertain destination can get to you. Most of us wake up, go through the motions of a job and fake it until we're off the clock. And we do this for the sake of our own self preservation. Some look no further than the next day, others are planning the next big purchase, while a few are motivated by the noble pursuit of the well-being of another.

The mindless actions of people scare me, the future and my own personal apathy ,about everything, is frightening. Some movie about a Pandemic that spawns flesh-eating drones from the bodies of deceased humans seems lame, but yet the world can't get enough of it these days.

The US and the world are in a financial tailspin. Not everyone has hit total rock bottom. They might think they have, but like pain tolerance it's all relative to what you've endured previously in your life. The man missing a leg might have the final word over the man with the paper cut.

The daily battles, plus a bleak fiscal future and the invented oppression we create to justify our lackluster existence, breeds depression. Trust me I lack a degree in psychology, but I've got a great deal of "on the job training." Not giving a damn is great in theory, but we refuse to become a zombie. Instead, we revel in their demise as we bathe in the digital bloodbath.

A zombie personifies the ills of society, our failures and everything we hate. As we look on, we couldn't be more in tune with the characters attempting to conquer the mindless, bloodthirsty and apathetic. We're more than the fly on the wall witnessing the plot unfold, we are that hopeless victim full of anger that's powered by an unyielding blind hope. All the while, the audience is seeking revenge for something they can't quite define.

This is more than escapism. It's group therapy by means of mob mentality. All the things that try to destroy us are suddenly well defined and can be killed without remorse. Sure, as the credits roll nothing has changed. You're still living paycheck to paycheck, our government is pitiful and the 80% of the population you can't stand is still alive, but hey, it could always be worse. In a way, it's beautiful.

The next zombie Apocalypse you witness allow yourself to be inspired.

Cow Pie vs. Ruger .44

USA vs. China

Let's Form a Suicide Pact :)

Suicide pacts are funny. According to the first sentence of the Wikipedia "suicide pact" entry: A suicide pact describes the suicides of two or more individuals in an agreed-upon plan.

Not to be confused with the super-sheep that take part in mass suicides such as the Heaven's Gate Cult. Nope, instead of following the ass in front of you into the slaughterhouse, this is more along the lines of wearing matching jerseys to a sporting event. Baaaaa, let's all kill ourselves.

Shakespeare's most well-known play, I think it's called Rockafaldo and Juliet, made suicide pacts seem cool. Instead of just sneaking off to live their lives together in infinite bliss, they offed each other with poison. I guess that's neat. When I had to read it in school I always thought to myself, "So I can't wear a shirt that says FART on it, but I can read stories about self-inflicted death over a skank. That's super."   

I've always wondered, how much planning goes into these life-ending decisions. Do people make a note on a calendar or is it more like shoplifting a candy bar, you know do it quick before you wimp out.

I guess there has to be a note or some sort of statement of fact that confirms the joint decision. Most importantly, if it is a "save-the-date" sort of thing, how many get canceled or postponed indefinitely because of weather, fear and laziness? 

Another thing that bothers me is ,in most cases, these couples, troubled triads and like-minded people love each other. What? I don't want someone I love to die, I want some jerk to die. I'd only join a suici-pact if the following people were on the list with me: Jay Leno, The Aflac Duck, Charles Manson, Bruno Mars, Lebron James, Any religious TV Evangelist or any run of the mill child molester.

I'd clean house and be known as a the world's best janitor. A real martyr the public could get behind, not just some foreigner from a loser country with an agenda that only makes sense to him and a deity that doesn't exist. I'd be, dare I say...(dramatic pause)... a hero.

Look for a letter in the mail if I hate you. It'll be a brochure with sweet colors, pics and convincing points why you should join me in jumping off the top of Bank of America Plaza aka The Big Green Pickle in downtown Dallas.

I'm pretty sure I can make this happen. My skills in persuasion can only be rivaled by my tedious deidication to the logistics it will take to complete the mission. See you jerks at "The Pickle"...(yet another dramatic pause)...soon.

Jesus Spoke to me Today

I ran into Jesus today, at work. He works in the same complex as I do at a roofing company. I enjoy our conversations. I've spoke to Jesus once before about truck tires and rims.

We also discuss the weather and current events, but today was different. He told me to tell the world of his message.

So here it is:

"My brother's dog just had a litter of pit bull puppies. If you know anyone wanting a dog let know." Amen. Let the world rejoice and follow his voice to the promise land.

Let us pray that the brother of Jesus has both sets of papers for the parents of the litter. For it is written, that the value of a puppy is directly proportional to the evidence that ensures it is indeed a pure breed.