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Archive for February, 2006

In Which I Realize My Generation’s Mistake

February 24th, 2006 No comments

I’m not going to get into why the song popped into my head, but there it was –

It’s getting late have you seen my mates
Ma tell me when the boys get here
It’s seven o’clock and I want to rock
Want to get a belly full of beer

And it hit me like a ton of cobblestones.  My generation let a bi-sexual Englishman tell us that Saturday night’s all right for fighting and belived he knew what he was talking about.  That’s how drop-dead fucking stoned we were.

In hindsight, yes, it’s a snobby, spit-on-the-poor-for-their-horrible-manners song.  But who read lyrics back then?  Certainly if we had, we would have realized that if one of our number “set this dance alight” (or anything alight, for that matter) we would have mercilessly beat the living shit out of them because, ironically, they would be acting like a homo.  And yet here was Elton John singing Saturday Night’s All Right (For Fighting) in a Donald Duck suit and we thought nothing of it.

Daddy’s sorry, kids.  If it’s any consolation, he’s clean and sober now.  I hope it’s not too late.

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In Which, If I’m Lucky, I’ll Finish This

February 23rd, 2006 1 comment

Something always seems to come up lately as I sit down to write.  Work.  The Radio Show.  The need to blow digital heads off.  Oh, and parenting, too.

And the utter and complete time-sink of the Kvetch Board.

Sweet merciful Christ, make it stop!  A few weeks ago, I had a block of time and in a rare show of self-control, vowed to spend the day focused on things that would advance my little pipe dreams of artistic success.  And it was wonderful.  Why don’t I learn?  A year or so ago, a Board stalwart and Boston legend finally got fed up and announced, “Fuck this.  I’m going to stop wasting my time here and write jokes instead.”

Indeed.

This past couple of weeks, thin skinned three years olds ran rampant and an old scourge went off his meds to start some shit.

A couple of points –

1) If you spend even three minutes spot-reading posts, it should become apparent that just saying “hello” is cause enough for someone to shit on you.  Sorry!  That’s just how the Board is.  So what kind of mental illness causes you to believe that you’re special enough to avoid this kind of treatment?

So, I would ask Mr. Angry – if you hate the Board so much why bother posting?  Oh, that’s right, because you get instant access to a bunch of comedians that will work for free.  Sorry!  Let me put it a different way – why bother responding to every single slight against you?  Post your shit and go.  You hate them anyway, so why bother trying to prove anything?  Save yourself the stress.  If not, find a therapist that can help you get over your pathological need for respect by those who you disrespect.  Additionally, who wants to work for someone who tells people to fuck out right out of the gate?

2) Fighting with pyschos is masturbation without the release.

I’m not saying that I’m not guilty of this.  God knows there’s a certain catharsis in a well-crafted fuck you.  But, my god, wake up!  If you’re so deeply into your sqabble that you can’t see that you’re getting played…I don’t know what to say.  And just what the fuck does “putting people on notice” mean?  You mean, like that guy in Stripes?  “You touch my stuff…and I’ll kill you.”  Pyschos are like boggarts.  The only way to get rid of them is to laugh at them.  Unless, of course, you’re a boggart, too.

3) The “K” stands for Kunt.

Every nine months to a year, someone appears on the Board and, with only a few months of actual performance under their belt, proceeds to tell ten-year veterans exactly how the Comedy Scene should work.  Sometimes, after being served what I’ve recently heard as “a big glass of Shut The Fuck Up” they quietly recede into the shadows.  And sometimes not.  Sometimes they continue to spout off no matter what’s said or who says it.  After all, once you’ve performed for six months, you’re a veteran, right?

See?

I’ve run out of steam.

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In Which I Liveblog The Blizzard

February 12th, 2006 No comments

9:27am – Woke up

9:28am – Get coffee, look out the window

9:29am – Jesus christ there’s a fuckload of snow!

9:30am – Still snowing

9:31am – Still snowing

9:32am – Still snowing

9:33am – Still snowing

9:34am – Still snowing

9:35am – Still snowing

9:36am – Still snowing

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In Which I Post The Headlines

February 10th, 2006 No comments

IMS Health of Fairfield Connecticut released a study yesterday showing sales of sleeping pills rose sixty percent since 2000. President bush declined to comment on the study and instead urged reporters to “sleep…sleep…everything’s just fine…just keep sleeping.”

The Primary Caregiver of the Feminist movement, Betty Friedan, was buried on Monday with a spatula, a mop head and a toaster to ease her transition to that big kitchen in the sky. Of all the eulogies delivered, the most surprising came from a representative of the Teamsters who thanked Friedan for “freein’ all dose chicks from dere bras. It seems like a small ting, but it really made working construction a lot more interesting.”

Officials in Alabama are now looking into the possibility that a rash of arsons involving Baptist churches might be motivated by hate. While many of the state’s residents support this decision others are angered that the effort will take away from a current investigation into whether guns play a role in armed robberies. Beth Holloway Twitty, who spoke on the condition that anything she said must be rebroadcast a minimum of twenty times within a twenty-four on all major news outlets, condemned both investigations and called the governors priorities “out of whack.”

And here’s another installment in our series – News Stories That Need No Punchlines – This time we travel to far-a-way Hull, Massachusetts to meet Kimberly Lynn Dasilva, a former strip club waitress who now hosts in-home sex toy parties, who was arrested by the FBI on Wednesday for mailing condoms filled with gasoline and Drano to various media outlets and a motorcycle club. When asked for a reason, the former strip club waitress who now hosts in-home sex toy parties said she was tired of being mistreated by men.

Showing the doggedness that made this country great, the wardens of the Guantanamo Bay Detention Center And Spa have almost successfully squashed a hunger strike among the prisoners of war in the army of a country that actually doesn’t exist. A guard who gave his name as Johnny Terror Crusher explained that “ain’t nobody gonna die without them telling us the information that we know that they know that that ain’t telling us. After they tell us, then we’ll kill ‘em.”

The Jehovah’s Witnesses got caught shorthanded and unawares as the actual beginning of the end of the world took place today with the announcement that Barry Manilow’s new album, “The Greatest Songs of the Fifties” shot to number one today. A spokeszealot for the Jehovah’s Witnesses who spoke on the condition of the Rapture, said, “This is truly the devil’s business. May God strike down the heathen and fornicatators who purchase this horrible travesty.” Mr. Manilow was unavailable to comment as he had his mouth full of a Christian baby.

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In Which Amos And Andy Explain It All Fo’ You

February 10th, 2006 No comments

Even those old, lovable negros, Amos and Andy, think the Muslims are over-reacting to the stereotypes portrayed in the Danish newspapers!  Take a listen to the special commentary they recorded exclusively for Hbee Inc Radio!

 

 

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In Which I Offer Some Advice

February 7th, 2006 No comments

So your best friend takes off with her old eighteen-year old racist, homophobe boyfriend leaving you with her three kids and the next thing you know she winds up dead in in the front seat of a car Arkansas after a shoot-out with the police.  One would assume that the press would show up and that you would want to look nice for your fifteen minutes with Greta and Nancy.  Of course, “nice” is a relative term.

You might, if you lived in West Virginia, consider “nice” to be a polyester pants suit in a pastel or perhaps a subtle pattern.  Or a white blouse and a skirt.  Or a blouse and jeans.  I mean, you’d want to show your now-dead friend in a good light.  But even if you didn’t give a rat’s ass about your friend (maybe she trained her kids to steal your oxycontin and while it’s true that you did sleep with her old eighteen-year old racist, homophobe boyfriend you only did it to get on Jerry Springer and you wanted to tell her but the Jerry Springer folks told you to wait until the day of the show and you really don’t know why they stopped returning your calls (and she really should chip in for part of the long-distance bill) that’s no reason to teach your kids to steal) you’d at least want to give America a good impression of yourself by not answering the door in bare feet, sweat pants and a t-shirt that read “I’m Immature, Unorganized, Lazy, and Loud, But I’m Fun”.

 

Classy!

 

Or maybe you would. 

(PS – Personally, I would have gone with the “It Takes A Bitch Like Me To Love A Bastard Like You” t-shirt.  But, again, that’s just me.)

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In Which I Present The Case Against Cloning

February 1st, 2006 No comments

Look, I understand, as should we all, that this does NOT occur in nature and therefore could never be reproduced verbatim. 

I mean, jesus, I’m assuming that she blinded so that even her eyes could be fake.  Ergo, a clone of this would produce the same chubby black girl that first contacted Dr. 90210.

BUT – a clone would, if I understand it correctly, produce a replica of someone that would choose to do this to themselves.  Or two replicas.  Or three.  Follow the Fibonacci sequence and…well…sweet dreams.

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In Which He Just Wanted To Help

February 1st, 2006 No comments

Robert M. Mardirosian is a helpful and non-judgmental guy.  As a lawyer, he doesn’t judge a client who shows up with a bag of artwork and no place to stay.  The client told him someone gave him the artwork and that’s good enough for Bob.  Still, Bob, as a lawyer, cautions the client not to sell the artwork that someone gave him free and clear.  Bob even gives him a place to stay!  Bob is a helpful and non-judgmental guy.  And being helpful (and non-judgmental) when the client with the painting turns up dead, he wants nothing more than to get the paintings back to the original owner…and get the reward…for the paintings that weren’t stolen…by his now-dead client.

And if he moved the paintings from Boston to Monaco to Switzerland, what of it?  They were safe, right?  And if all this took place in 1978, he’s got other things on his mind.

Thus, Bob defended himself on WBUR this morning while the incredulous Bob Oakes (pronounced “ooks”) frequently interupted with “You’ll forgive me if me if I say that I think that a lot of people on the other end of the radio are saying to themselves…”.  Bob wouldn’t hear of it.  Maybe he made some mistakes, sure, but “if it weren’t for me, Bob Mardirosian, those paintings would have been sold a long time ago and never would have been recovered.”  I guess he’s right.  At any point in time during that twenty-seven year period the paintings could have been “fenced”, as Mardirosian aptly put it, and lost to the world.

So, thank you, Robert M. Mardirosian, for your tireless sacrifice!  Thanks to you, precious and expensive works of art did not get into the hands of scumbags.  Or at least not sold to them.

(Oh, wait.  Had Bob Oakes read the Globe article, he might have asked why Mardirosian tried to sell the paintings twice and pointed out that they only got found because Mardirosian tried to sell them again through a shell company he set up.  Oops!)

(Oh, and Mardirosian now paints and sculpts “full-time”.  I guess the paintings left a mark on his soul and that he could now identify a Cezanne, which he apparently couldn’t do in 1978.  Thus is the power of great art.)

 

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