- When three year olds can’t dance, why must they make them sing also? It sounds like an angry mob of toddlers, but with sequins.
- This music is all remakes of the real versions. And I thought comedy was lowly job to have. What do you do? I sang a hip hop version of “Viva Las Vegas” for a seven year old dance team. Next month we’re redoing a snappy version of “It’s My Party.”
- Someone just yelled “Work it!” to a three year old girl. This is disturbing.
- The young ones mostly stink and the 14 and ups make me feel like a perv. This is a no win.
- White dance teachers shouldn’t teach white kids hip hop. The shiny silver caps aren’t helping toss out a hip hop vibe.
- Now girls are dancing to “Lollipop” the old version. Thanks Lil Wayne for ruining this song for millions of innocent youths.
- Seriously, old people. The recital has been on for 17 minutes and you have to go to the bathroom? Wear a diaper next time and quit bumping into me.
- My niece is so much better than the hack next to her, I almost feel bad.
- Strip clubs have ruined half these outfits, although I didn’t think so at the time. Even worse is the announcer – he sounds like an Andy Griffin version of a strip club DJ. He is too excited to be here.
I was playing a stupid game and one of my FB friends IM’d me. I hadn’t talked to this guy since the mid-90′s. Small talk…a lot of “ha ha’s” and “what are you up to’s”. Basic small talk. He then told me I probably heard he was gay. No, I didn’t get the memo – but congrats (?) Then he asked if I was married. I kind of saw where this was going… Next he asked if I was gay. I encourage anyone under the strain of hiding something coming out and being comfortable with themselves. That said…me? Gay?
I have never had this asked to me before, but I’ll give you some background. I had a bisexual guy tell me once I would win a “straight off” contest, whatever that means. I’m not saying tone of voice matters, but my voice sounds like The Hulk having sex with a grizzly bear while Hank Williams Jr. is singing in the background. Not much for fashion, I wear plain t-shirts and jeans all the time. I don’t use hair product. I hate dancing, unless I’m really drunk. I drink beer at nice restaurants you’re supposed to drink wine at because I don’t drink wine. I don’t wear pastel colors. I have filled so many stereotypes of straight guys I should carry a club and drag chicks by their hair back to my cave.
Then after all this blather, I realized he hadn’t talked to me since probably 1994. I probably hadn’t went through full puberty and he’s using Appalachian gaydar on me – probably not the best gaydar to use. Also, hatred of ex-girlfriends should not be confused with sexual orientation. I wasn’t offended, just confused (not that type of confused, LOL). Perhaps my pre-puberty self didn’t exhude all this alpha male you see now. Or I had a lot of panache for a high school freshman, what with my Starter jacket and black tennis shoes. Maybe it was all those gay bands I listened to, like Pantera and GNR. Lastly, suppose the fact that I didn’t understand women at 15 - oh wait, I still don’t and no man does. Whatever. Now excuse me while I do something manly, like eat a lion and shit bald eagles.
I was in a store today waiting in line and I just HAVE to tell you it was great. This singer, named “Taylor Swift” was singing about being a young lady and this guy just didn’t appreciate her at all. MAN IS HE GOING REGRET THAT! I’ll bet he’ll get his comeuppance soon! I bet she doesn’t have any other semi-upbeat songs that deal with this original topic. It’s so tough being a millionaire blonde post teenager with a national tour and record deal. When will she find true love? Next some singer that dresses weird will probably sing about being different, but she just doesn’t care. If only some “Lady” will sing about that. My day would be complete.
I stayed in a Days Inn last night. Apparently, Days Inn is Sanskrit for “Huge narrow pillows and hard lumpy beds.” I woke up with a baseball just above my beltline. I, like millions of Americans, have a HORRIBLE lower back. How you say? Working in the coal mines? A childhood of picking crops? No, a powerlifting injury so severe, my manhood was eternally damaged.
I started powerlifting for football in HS in 1995. I went from 145 lbs. of pencil necked nothingness to the stacked inhuman factory of mass you see today in just 18 months. There was a little blip though. My sophomore year I entered the Philo HS regional meet at 165 lbs. I benched, I deadlifted, I conquered. I was in third place, then the squat came up. I have massive Mildred Coen legs, which is gross for my grandpa, but awesome for me. I could squat 455 lbs. back then…but as I was warming up, I thrust my hips forward too far and blew out my lower back. My spotters were trading a fresh can of snuff, so at least my sacrifice was not in vain (sarcasm).
Long story short, I dropped to knees and could not stand up straight. Even though I finished my “warmup”, they wouldn’t count it. Fine. Instead of fourth, I don’t win. Then they gave out the awards. It turns out b/c I didn’t finish the last lift “officially”, I got last. Ninth place by five pounds was a fat chick named Heather (or Jenny, I kind of blacked out at that point). Her three lifts beat my two due a dumb technicality that I didn’t say “This is my lift.” I had to walk in front of 300 people and get my “This guy is weaker than a fat chick” award.
I was so angry I ate the ribbon. Literally. I ate it. Then I punched walls until my hands were swollen. The next year I put up 1175 lbs. and finished 7th in the state of Ohio at 185 lbs. Yet the stain of finishing below a woman, even on a technicality, haunts me to this day. That’s why, when a drunken woman says “I can take you!”, I am uncomfortabally aggressive. TAKE THAT HEATHER! (Elbows and throat punches). “My name is Ellen!” We’ll see who’s better! I should be in physical and mental therapy…
I was picking up a rental car a couple days ago and it was a situation that instantly brought rage. The A/C was set on broil, there was a huge green fly – the kind you see on dog shit – buzzing around me, and some guy brought in his three kids under six. The older girl was fine, but heathen one was running around ducking into offices, causing the already unmotivated rental clerk unnecessary pauses which were more maddening with every bead of sweat running down my back. Then the youngest (with no shoes on, of course) started shaking the candy machine and screaming because no free candy was coming out. At that moment, I decided my life’s goal is to invent a toddler shock collar, like the ones that people use for yappy dogs. FDA approved, of course. I smiled and looked around for a recipient to my witty idea, but the gentleman to my left was putting a huge dip of snuff in his cheek and it was sloppily falling on his sleeveless shirt. The moment was gone forever.
PS – As I type this, some idiot in the next hotel room is loudly clapping exactly four times everytime the Heat score and yelling “WTF” at the TV every time the Mavs score. This has been going on for 45 minutes and is showing no signs of stopping. There are less than ten cars in the parking lot and four floors, each with 40 rooms. And she is next to my room. Message received, God, message received.
So this will be short – more on Monday Night Live to come. I have a show this weekend in West Virginia small town. The booker sent the itinerary. I called the contact and said, “Hey, she forgot to include the street number.” His answer? “There is no street number. Just drive through town and you can’t miss it.”