Words From The Brain of The Giant Head
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From The Brain of The Giant Head
Merry Christmas To All,
And To All A Good Night
As this year winds down to the great Christmas time
Unfortunately for you, I feel obliged to speak in rhyme.
The lights are all up, around the house filled with glee
But still no sign of foot rubs from the mean LGB.
I’d really like to decorate, but I don't think I will
Cause I'm lazy and tired and feel kind of ill
And dragging a tree up three flights of stairs
Sounds about as much fun as clipping nose hairs.
So I packed up the car and was ready to go
Only 8 hours of traffic out of Chi-ca-go.
I started my shopping a lot later than planned
So I hope the LGB appreciates her new rubber band
My sister will be happy she bought me that sweater.
When I give her a cold and an accompanying letter.
My parents will get the best gift of all
As I promise to cut the grass at least once next fall.
So we’ll travel to Grandma’s for a big Christmas feast
And gossip about which relative that we like the least.
Then we’ll pull up a chair and sit with great poise
Belting out songs and carols that sound more like noise.
My family starts singing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer"
But you know we’re all thinking, "I can’t wait to leave here."
Cause Santa is coming and if I don’t get to bed quick
He won’t stop by my house and I’ll be really ticked.
Last year we were late and when I glanced under the tree
No presents were found, all we found was Elf pee.
So this year instead of leaving Santa cookies and milk
I left him some vodka and magazines filled with filth.
And just as I caught him in a compromising position
My camera went click and he changed his disposition.
"Little Brian," he said, acting sweeter than pie
"Please give me that picture or I’ll give you a black-eye."
"Mr. Santa," I said, "Or should I call you St. Nick."
"First house train your elves and your reindeer, you prick."
"Your sack has an Xbox, you should leave it, I gather"
"Or this Pic will end up in the lap of Dan Rather."
After hours of whining and lots of complaining,
He sat in a chair and started contemplating.
He reached round his back and gave me my loot
So I tossed him the photo and grabbed his red suit.
Then I shoved his fat ass through my door which was leaner
And I said "Merry Christmas" as I gave him the finger.
He glanced at me once and then spit in my yard
And said "Next year all you get is a pink unitard."
Another year washes up and goes down the drain.
From Buddha, The Wise One, The Guru, The Brain
Give a shout out to your dad and one to your mom
Merry Christmas from all here at WillYee.com.
From The Brain of The Giant Head
Don’t Sue McDonald’s, Chubby
Big Macs...mmmm. BK Whoppers...mmmm. Meat on a stick...mmmm. I’ve always been a big fan of greasy, fattening foods, especially from finer establishments like McDonalds, Wendy’s and Taco Bell. The food is served fast and costs less than an average paperclip. And with a Drive-Thru ordering station, the only effort on your part is to pull out the change from under your car seat.When I was younger my Dad taught me the four basic food groups:
1) Fried Meat
2) Grilled Meat
3) Fast Food Meat
4) Doritos
As you can see, three of the four groups have meat in them and the fourth one might, but it has yet to be confirmed. I once asked a vegetarian if she could eat Doritos and she said "No," so I have my suspicions about the Nacho Cheese. I’ve never understood the ways of a vegetarian, because from my understanding if you’re a vegetarian you can’t eat meat. And I eat meat for breakfast, lunch, dinner, post dinner snack and dessert. But then again, I never understood geometry either and I’ve successfully lived without it for 8 years now, so I just assume there are some things even my brain can’t comprehend.
The other day, while I was sitting inside Burger King’s dinning area, sucking down a double bacon cheeseburger with a Super-Duper-Jumbo-Colossal-Nascar collector’s cup drink that could hold the state of North Dakota if needed, I came across this news story in the local newspaper:
"Lawsuit claims McDonald's burgers and fries are making kids fat."
My initial reaction was "No Shit?" My second reaction was to march right up to the counter, grab the nearest cashier and ask her to refill my drink because I was thirsty and no matter how big they make those cups I seem to finish them in just under 7.3 seconds. After lugging the 842oz. cup back to my seat, I read more about the story.
According to the AP (All-knowing People), a group of lawyers filed a class-action lawsuit against McDonald’s on behalf of New York children who "have suffered health problems including diabetes, high blood pressure and obesity." The lawyers went as far as calling it a "national epidemic."
Now, even if I weren’t a genius, I would think every bumbling idiot in the country, including Ted Nugent, knows that fast food isn’t healthy. Just like in grade school, anything marked "Grade D" isn’t exactly of high quality. But at least you won’t get spanked for bringing a Big Mac home.
I laughed years ago when Ronald McDonald and company paid out the Hamburgler to that old lady who poured coffee on her lap. I chuckle hard every time I cruise through the Drive-Thru window and notice the Hot-Coffee warning sticker. But my heart, including its four clogged arteries, goes out to McDonald’s on this one. Those who know me know I love to blame big corporations for everything. To this day I believe that the Bay of Pigs Invasion was actually orchestrated by Microsoft, but suing a fast food restaurant for a child’s round figure is like suing a cow for smelling bad.
I like my Big Macs greasy. I like knowing that I can get it in less than 30 seconds. And I like watching Toby McGuire in Spiderman 4 times a day. Does that mean I should blame McDonalds every time he falls off his Spidey-Web? Of course not.
McDonald’s shouldn’t be paying these kids because they can’t fit through the turnstile at Yankee Stadium. They should paying me back for every time they gave me McNuggets when I ordered Big Macs.
And now every time I see a small child go into Micky-Ds, there’s only one thing I’ll ever be able to think about: I bet vegetarians are glad there’s no meat in beer.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Get Yourself "Boxed" In By SwissFarlo
Once upon a time, many moons ago, I was the frontman and guitarist for the now infamous band, Optimus Prime. We were the punk rockers you’d love to love and love to hate and love to see on MTV one day, but that day never came. Why? Well, much like other famous rock bands that broke up over drugs, egos, and money, we too had a problem that was insolvable at the time. We all left for college. (See VH1’s Behind the Music: Optimus Prime.)I miss the days of playing loud and the cops knocking on our door. I miss kicking over amps and smashing things just because we could. I miss the Authority Guru’s (and our drummer Aaron’s) Mom’s brownies she made for us after band practice. I always assumed we’d eventually become the most famous rock band to ever emerge out of the greater Cincinnati area, but since we are on an extended hiatus, I’ve found another band that could steal the title.
The other day I received the gift of a CD by a Cincinnati band named SwissFarlo. Now, for the record, I should note that the lead guitarist and singer is a friend of mine named My Cousin’s Boyfriend Tim. He doesn’t look like your typical rockstar and his sideburns are longer than a Pink Floyd album, but he’s clever and witty and shares a love for comfortable chairs with me. The rest of the band’s lineup includes Matt, Andy and Mike, a few guys also from the rough side of the city known as The Westside.
So, of course I was hesitant to pop SwissFarlo’s debut CD, "Boxed," in my Discman because, as you all know, I’m a Nazi about my musical taste and have standards higher than God. I believe 95% of music is garbage, 3% is acceptable for elevators, and the final 2% is good enough to hold a place on my wall of CDs. I’ve been known to bash my friends’ bands before cause I’m too honest to lie, so it took me quite a few days before I finally decided to listen to their album.
Much to my surprise, the musical beats and guitar strums were catchy. They were the kind of riffs you find yourself humming on the drive home from work or in the shower or on the toilet. You can’t get them out of your head, much like Hanson’s Mm’Bop. But unlike Hanson, SwissFarlo’s lyrics are fairly entertaining and the band has talent with an Elvis Costello feel to them.
On the first song, "Oh No," the inaugural line from the band is: "Well are you smiling? Oh No." I would have to disagree, as I would say "Oh Yes." But that was because I found a gas station selling its fuel for just over a buck a gallon which, if you lived in Chicago and saw that, you’d be smiling too. The song was pretty good as well.
Another tune on the album that caught my ear off-guard was track number 6, called "Roman Candle." It’s slowed tempo and revered refrain of chanting, "I’m not gonna fade away, I’m not gonna fade away," is so self-indulging and introspective that it’s the most punk rock song I’ve heard in the past 3 years. Of course, every other band I’ve heard sounds like Creed or Winger, so I’m not sure if my statement above is such a major compliment, but if they continue to do what they are doing they can prove themselves as a really good, if not great rock band. From my understanding, they’re already becoming a staple in some local Cincinnati bars, like Top Cats and the Comet.
I figured I should get someone else’s opinion before giving my final recommendation, so I called musical sage Death Metal Fan to my rescue. Now, Death Metal Fan doesn’t just rely on his own musical judgement to decide how good an album is. He recruits his dog, aptly named "James Hetfield," and locks "James" in the room with us as we sit back, have a few beers and listen to the SwissFarlo CD. Apparently, if the dog likes the tunes, it relaxes him and he poops on the floor. Now I know what you are thinking -- will Dave Mustaine ever leave Megadeth and rejoin Metallica? While I don’t have the answer to that, I do have an answer to the unorthodox dog test.
That dog let loose, leaving 5 piles of dung on the oakwood, which Death Metal Fan told me was equivalent to a 5 star rating. So, ultimately, I got the second opinion I needed and I can highly recommend this CD and so does "James."
He thinks it’s "The Shit."
In all seriousness, this CD is good. Real good. And I recommend you check out SwissFarlo’s Web site, www.datawaslost.net/swissfarlo, and buy their album "Boxed." It’s cheap (only $9, I think). It’s enjoyable. And it’d make a good Christmas present for that sibling of yours that you want to smack around for listening to EMO. Plus, when they get big you can say, "I was one of the first to own SwissFarlo’s Boxed."
And who knows, they could be opening for Optimus Prime’s reunion tour in 2004. (Negotiations are still in the works.)
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Thanksgiving: AKA
The Start Of Christmas
As all you history buffs know Thanksgiving started back in the 1600s, well after Chris Columbus discovered North America. It was on a cold day when the Indians and the Pilgrims sat down to celebrate a big turkey dinner after beating the Braves in the World Series. (It wasn’t until years later that the Pilgrims formed the Yankees, named after Yankee Stadium.) All the buffalo were scarce, so they ate turkey because that’s what you eat on Thanksgiving. And that’s history, as we know it today.What the history books failed to mention about Thanksgiving was what happened the next day in a town near the big celebration -- The Great Early Christmas Sale at Plymouth Mall.
Chief Squanto, sales supervisor at Ambercrombie, was on the verge of losing his job due to his poor sales record, shortcomings in advertising, and his inability to speak English. He was also under heat for his tabernacle sacrifice of a potential customer — they frown on death caused by employees at Ambercrombie, but smile on robbing them blind.
As he was eating his leftover mashed potatoes the morning after Thanksgiving, he finally came up with an idea to get back in his boss’s good graces. He planned this super sale in which people would flock to the stores and buy gifts for their loved ones, keeping small quantities of hot items such as matches, Lincoln Logs, and Nintendos in order to drive up the price. The sale was a huge success, but Chief Squanto got fired a month later when people didn’t know what to do with the gifts.
In walks Pilgrim Steve, marketing executive and developer of Play-Doe.
Pilgrim Steve understood the public’s cry, for he was once part of the public, and turned to his trusty Bible for answers. Since he couldn’t find any answers there, he called his friend Jimbo and they came up with Christmas, an acronym for Come Help the Rich In Selling Toy-buyers Massive Amounts of Stuff. They picked to celebrate it on December 25th since everyone was already off work for Jesus’ birthday. Christmas instantaneously became a hit.
Now our Forefathers, Phil, Ted, Bob and Stinky, saw the economic gains of this newfound holiday and developed it even further. They created a mascot (a fat man in a red suit), reindeer (to keep the animal rights people off their backs), Charlie Brown’s Christmas (so they could sell videos) and mistletoe (so even Stinky could get some lovin).
The Pilgrims accomplished something that had never been done before in America and became a tradition for years to come. They screwed everyone out of their money.
Historical Note: Stinky’s love affair was a miracle and gave him happiness until three years later when he was thrown in prison for not keeping up on his child support payments. (Sounds like a Jeopardy question to me.)
Over 500 years later, Christmas is still a big success for retailers. Improvements have been made, including lights, decorations and wooden reindeer statues for yards that the neighborhood kids can rearrange in X-rated positions. Every year the powers that be create a new toy sensation, like Tickle-Me-Elmo, causing eager parents to kill one another to get their hands on one for their 2-year-old child, thus keeping population control for the country.
And as Christmas starts earlier and earlier every year (Independence Day this year), I sit back in my chair and curse the Pilgrims for what they did to ruin this country. I hate the Yankees.
I want to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving and a fun shopping season. Give my love to the families and send a piece of pumpkin pie to The Brain, 3616 N. St. Louis Ave., Chicago, IL 60618.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Routines Are Bad, Um’Kay
For four years of my life I was a college student. I had incorporated a very intricate, thought-out daily routine that took me two months to perfect in order to save as much time as possible each and every day.Step 1: Wake up when alarm goes off at 8 a.m. for Biology class.
Step 2: Turn off alarm and yawn.
Step 3: Close eyes until body gets the full amount of rest it needs, which usually means resting until 2 p.m.
Step 4: Get up, and skip things that waste time like showering and brushing hair.
Step 5: Walk to offices of classes missed that morning and tell teacher that you would have made it but you were trapped in a deep conversation about McCarthy-ism and it’s affects on the 70s.
Step 6: Eat McDonalds.
Step 7: Practice your hand-eye coordination for 6-7 hours, using a Nintendo or Play Station.
Step 8: Go to bed.
This usual routine worked beautifully for my first two years of college. While I learned nothing about the anatomy of a starfish, I found every possible shortcut in Mario Cart. Which worked out well, because I don’t remember anyone in college having an "Anatomy of a Starfish Party." And those shortcuts not only won me plenty of races, but also transpired into party-conversation pieces leading me to life-long friendships.
My final two years of college were a bit more critical, as I 1) Had to start preparing for my post-college life and 2) Slowly started to be concerned with my GPA (Generally Pathetic Assessment). While my parents complained about it being low, I calmly pointed out to them that it was only 2 full points shy of a perfect 4.0. Realizing their mistake, they then apologized by rewarding me with my very own Guidance Counselor named Old Ted.
Now, Old Ted was an expert in the area of turning mediocre students with no ambition into mediocre students with little ambition. The wrinkles in his forehead and curls in his mustache gave me confidence, though, as I knew he had been a guidance counselor for at least 240 years. Papers were scattered all over his oak wood desk. His bookshelf was concave, bending in the center as it was heavily weighted by large books, magazines and a Rosanne Bar Bobblehead doll. On top of his desk sat a funny looking computer with stiff keys and a piece of paper hanging from it. When I asked him where his monitor was, he politely smiled and called his computer "Atype-writer." I guess older folks need to name their appliances to remember what they are, so I smiled and nodded and figured that the mystery of the monitor would never be solved.
After flipping though my file, looking at report cards, teachers’ comments, and bar tabs, he turned to me and asked me the ever important, "What Do You Want to Do With Your Life" question. Any honest college student will tell you that what he or she mostly wants to do is create a groove in a couch somewhere in front of a 50" TV and continually mooch off his or her parents until striking it rich on the lottery. But all students give the same lie that brings a smile to the advisor’s (or parent’s/relative’s/friend’s) face.
"I want to work in a job where I feel like I can be a highly productive member of society."
But Old Ted saw right through me as my scruffy chin, nappy hair and Death Metal T-shirt steered him away from advising me toward a career in medicine or law.
"Do you like music, son?" he asked. This question was a surprise, a curveball, a query no other adult had ever asked me before. After much thought of how to impress him, I gave him a detailed response.
"Yes."
"Then I think you should be in a rock band," he replied. This unbiased counselor was speaking from his heart. He had finally found me a career I’d be more than happy to take over. I almost jumped out of my chair to hug the old man but I was fearful that his frail bones would shatter faster than Mark McGwire’s Home Run Record.
"Where do I sign up?" I asked.
"Well," he commented, "First you will have to learn musical theory. Study the Greats like Bach and Mozart. Practice everyday, all day long without breaks. Live out of your car since it’ll be the only housing you can afford and eat bread and mustard sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And after about 20 years, you might be able to afford a one-room apartment, but you’ll have to forego furniture and settle for sleeping on the cold floor. And if and when a record company finally notices you, they’ll sign you to a contract that pays you slightly more than a cashier at McDonalds."
All of a sudden, being a rock star didn’t sound as appealing as it did when it was initially mentioned. It included the three things I hated most: 1) working hard, 2) being poor and 3) mustard. So maybe the life of a rocker wasn’t the path I wanted roll down. But I knew I had no ambition to be anything important either, like a banking executive or a dentist or a belly dancer.
"What happens if I never get signed to a record deal?" I asked.
"You become a guidance counselor."
He then typed up a note I could pass along to my parents that said, "Brian is a hard worker, he’s just misguided right now. I assess that his life in academia will improve over the course of the next two years." That was the biggest load of garbage I had ever read, but I’m sure it would satisfy my parents enough to leave me alone, so I was content.
I left Old Ted’s office feeling no better about my future then I did when I walked in, but I honestly wasn’t all that concerned in the first place. And I visited Old Ted once a week for the next 2 years. I didn’t learn much about myself, but I learned plenty about Old Ted. His angst toward life comforted me. He had fallen into a routine he could not escape, and I decided from that day on I wouldn’t let that happen to me. When I graduated I left Old Ted behind. We haven’t talked since. But I know he’s still there, keeping a close eye on me. And Old Ted, if you are there and reading my column, one mystery still remains that I’d like you to answer for me:
Where did you keep your computer monitor?
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Pull Down Your Pants and Cough
Once a year it’s important to see that guy that charges you a second mortgage just to enter his office. No, I’m not talking about a scalper for a National Football League game, I’m talking about your General Practitioner of Medicine -- also known as your doctor. You voluntarily go to this guy (or gal) who always has bad news, like quit drinking or start exercising or stop sniffing glue while at work. You give him two of your paychecks and ask if he’ll take your plasma as payment for the rest. Oh joy.Of course I bring this up cause it’s time for my own yearly check up, the one day I hate more than any other day of the year. And to make matters worse, it’s on a Monday and I enjoy Mondays about as much as I’d enjoy getting poked in the eye with a sharp stick. But I suck it up and go cause if I don’t I’m sure my leg or arm will fall off from lack of healthy activity and monitoring.
So I walk into the doctor’s office at 8 a.m., since the only hours that are ever available are 8 a.m. and 8:10 a.m., and inform the receptionist that I am here. She hands me a set of forms that resemble the SATs that ask me questions like, "What is your Social Security Number?" and "What is your ATM password?"
After filling out the stacks of forms, I plopped down on one of those horribly uncomfortable waiting room chairs and picked up an issue of Seventeen magazine. Liv Tyler, daughter of giant-mouthed Steven Tyler, was on the cover to promote Lord of the Rings, which meant this issue was as old as Christmas -- which is when I must have bought that Poptart I ate for breakfast.
So after 6 hours of waiting in the lobby, a nurse called my name and had me move back into an examining room to wait another 6 hours before the doctor finally made his entrance.
Doctor: "How are you doing today young fella?"
Half of me wanted to yell at him for that remark since I was 23 years old, but the other half of me wanted a sucker, so that side beat the crap out of the other side and it shut-up.
The Brain: "Fine. I’m just here for a general checkup."
We started going through all the normal things you have at a doctor visit, like sticking out your tongue, saying "Ahhhh," letting him molest your chest with his stethoscope and dreadfully stepping on the scale to see how much each of your new chins weigh. Maybe I should lay off those Poptarts.
Finally comes the part that is generally reserved for porn -- the dreaded pull down your pants, turn you head and cough ritual. This might be the most humiliating act any man has to perform, other than buying his wife tampons.
So I drop my pants like any good patient would and immediately looked toward the ceiling. While the teddy bear and rainbow tiles comforted me for a moment, reality shoved its way back into my mind as I felt a finger jab me between the boys.
Doctor: "Okay, now turn your head and cough."
As I turned my head and began coughing, I noticed the door to his office was left half way open. This wouldn’t have bothered me as much if Northbrook Elementary’s 3rd grade class wasn’t taking a tour of the doctor’s facilities at that exact moment. So 30 little heads with 60 little eyes glanced at me, a grown man with my pants down and a doctor fumbling with my good stuff. While holding back the tears I did the only thing that I could think of to hide my embarrassment. I waved to the children and said, "Don’t do drugs." Valid advice if you ask me.
Anyway, the doctor finally rose from south of the Equator and told me everything checked out all right. No hernias. No testicular cancer. No weird splotches. Life was looking pretty good again, and I reached down to pull my jeans back up until the doctor stopped me again.
Doctor: "You’re going to need to leave those down for a minute."
The Brain: "Why? I thought the twins checked out okay?"
Doctor: "Oh they did, I just need to run another test."
At this point I was extremely confused. Usually the groin check ends the physical because you can’t look the doctor in the eyes afterwards. I was about to ask him what the other test was, but all of a sudden I noticed him putting on a new pair of gloves. He put some sort of goo-ey jelly on his index finger. Finally he spoke.
Doctor: "Bend over."
The Brain: "Are you kidding?"
Doctor: "No, bend over."
The Brain: "No thank you."
Doctor: "I need to check for..."
I stopped listening to that quack, pulled up my pants and ran. I ran fast. I ran long. I ran right into a pole. The receptionist began yelling, "Sir, you need to pay your bill." So I handed her a blank check, telling her to fill it out for the appropriate amount which I’m sure was a couple of thousand dollars and scrambled to get the hell out of there -- after grabbing a sucker, of course.
When I got outside, I stopped and took a deep breath of the fresh air around me. It felt good. I was out of there. The humiliation was over.
Then 30 little heads with 60 little eyes walked by. A voice rose out of the crowd.
"HA HA, we saw your wiener!"
I’m glad to know third graders are maturing faster these days.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
CLASSIC BRAIN: The Time I Tried to Get Some Tongue
Since The BraiN was on vacation this week, WillYee.com has decided to post a BraiN column that originally appeared exactly one year ago on RhymesWithTruck.com. If you’ve read it before, read it again for a chuckle. If it’s the first time you’ve read it, make sure you are wearing a diaper so you don’t ruin your underwear.
Back in late great 1988 I was approximately nine years old, Guns and Roses led the music scene, and Jordache jeans covered every grade-schoolers’ legs. Every boy was discovering that girls really weren’t so bad. Holding hands was no longer considered a "you’re a sissy" thing, but now was the hip thing to do. Little Sally began wearing a bra, not that there was anything underneath that bra, but it still impressed us nonetheless. I decided it was time to make a move on Little Sally.
I devised a full proof plan. First, I would wine her (Kool-Aid) and dine her (Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches — I even broke out the crunchy peanut butter for this special occasion). Then, I would take her for a ride on my 1986 Huffy 4-speed, with blue and gold trimming and handle bar brakes. And finally, the icing on the cake, a trip to the giant oak tree behind the janitor’s barn that we called "Make-Out Point." (I guess the icing on the cake was more for me than for her.)
So on that Wednesday, I put on my nicest pair of jams, had my mom touch up the steps shaved in my hair, and put on my bright green T-shirt cause everyone knew that wearing green on Wednesdays meant you were horny (not that any of us knew what "horny" meant, but we knew it must have been something special).
When I arrived on the playground I was feeling pretty confident. Nothing could stop me. She would have to like me. She wouldn’t be able to resist me. She might even let me slip her the tongue.
But then I saw them.
Little Sally was not alone like she normally was. She had her arm around Jack "The Zipper’s" shoulders. Jack got the nickname "The Zipper" back when we were little cause he’d always forget to zip up his pants after taking a leak, and, since we were the kind compassionate people that most little kids are, we pointed and laughed and properly nicknamed him.
I couldn’t believe this jerk was stepping onto my turf. Little Sally should have her arm around me, not him. I wasn’t going to get to take her on my Huffy. I wasn’t going to get to go to Make-Out Point. I wasn’t going to get to slip her the tongue. Damn!
Something told me to leave them alone. It was my mom after she beat my ass for throwing water on the crotch of Jack’s pants and telling everyone that he wet himself. It wasn’t the brightest move, but it was the most tactical thing I could think of at the time. And it earned me a week’s worth of after-school detention.
Little Sally never gave Jack the time of day after that. But she never gave me the time of day neither, nor any other boy in our class. And when we reached high school, she started dating Samantha Jones, who looked like she ate Jack the Zipper’s entire family and apparently had a way with the ladies.
And to this day I still think about Little Sally and the bra she still can’t fill. And Samantha Jones and the children she ate. And Jack the Zipper, with his pants all wet and his zipper down, getting laughed at by all the other kids in our class. I remember each day when I say to my boss, "I forgot I’m not supposed to call ‘The Zipper,’ sir. I’ll get your coffee right away and have the report on your desk by noon."
From The Brain of The Giant Head
You Know You’re Right, It Smells Like Teen Spirit
Many of you who know me know I’m a punk rock fan. While I put the chain wallet to rest many moons ago, I still head-bob and knock things over with the best of them. In fact, I still have bruises on my tailbone from crowd surfing back in the late 90s and, earlier this year, the Authority Guru and I got back out on the mosh-pit floor to show the youngsters that we still had it. And when they beat our out-of-shape bodies senseless, we did what any self-respecting adult punk rockers would do. We waved our beers in our over-21-stamped hands in their faces and laughed.My obsession with punk has led me to follow the Nirvana legacy very closely. I was one of the biggest Nirvana fans back when corduroy pants and flannel shirts were making their way to local mini-malls. (I’d like to thank my Grandpa Klems for letting me steal some of his clothes. My Grandma always said ‘He’s never changes the way he dresses, yet he goes in and out of style every 10 years.’) The "grunge phenomenon" started. And it was started by a punk-rock trio from the city where it always rains but the people have tons of energy -- Starbucks, Washington.
I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news about frontman Kurt Cobain’s suicide. I was helping my Dad build our new computer desk, and by ‘helping him build’ I mean getting the tools from the garage and cleaning the sweat off his forehead with my sleeve. It was a devastating day for me and for my sleeve. The voice of my generation was gone. My Dad comforted me with the wisdom only a father can give.
"Son, I dropped a screw in the carpet. Find it."
It’s been more than eight years since My Generation’s voice took his life, but two years ago rumors started flying about an unreleased Nirvana song that had been hidden in a vault no one could find. Lucky for us, the vault was made out of cheese and drummer Dave Grohl’s dog found the final recording by Nirvana.
The remaining band members were working out plans to release the song as part of a greatest hits CD, which was supposed to be released in February, 2001, the 10-year anniversary of Billboards’ number 1 ranking of Smells Like Teen Spirit. Everything was going well until Her Beastliness got in the way.
Courtney "I need to fire whoever does my make-up" Love sued the band members to keep them from releasing the greatest hits album and the new song. As Cobain’s widow, she had a one-third equal right in the band’s decision-making including release dates, song track order and pizza toppings. An agreement was reached last month by Love and the surviving Nirvana bandmates. When asked how they reached a settlement Love responded, "Money, more money and extra anchovies."
So this week, the Nirvana Greatest Hits album was released, featuring the unreleased Nirvana song, "You Know You’re Right," along with a new song from the remaining members called, "Courtney Love Can Suck It." As a partner, though, Love will receive one-third of the profits from the album. While that settlement is all water under the bridge for Nirvana, a new lawsuit has been issued from Love’s former band, HOLE, as they are pissed that Nirvana stole the title and lyrics of "Courtney Love Can Suck It".
Radio airplay has been heavy for the previously unreleased tune "You Know You’re Right," with the song shooting straight up the charts. It brings back the feeling we had as youthful teenagers, children of the Baby Boom generation, that needed an escape from hair bands and cheesy pop music. And now, faced with almost the same problem, Nirvana is giving us the same escape.
The song, which mixes deep bass rhythms with the scratchy guitar licks of the grunge masters, features an angry Cobain screaming "Pain" in the background of the song. Was he talking about his own emotional pain? Was he talking about his own physical pain? Was he talking about the pain of waking up to Courtney Love’s ugly face every morning?
I have my guess and I bet you have yours.
And You Know You’re Right.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Run All You Want, But We’ll Eventually Hook You In
On my drive to work this morning I was listening to the radio and the radio had very little to say. "Unemployment is up." "The Market is down." "The Economy sucks." All the usual garbage I am forced to listen to on my daily commute from my nice warm bed to the hell that pays me slightly better than minimum wage.A lady called into the radio station to complain about the news. "This is the lamest news I’ve ever heard," she said. "All you guys ever say is ‘Unemployment is up.’ ‘The Market is down.’ ‘The Economy sucks.’ What gives?"
The irritating radio jockey replied, "Well ma’am, we always say that to sucker you in. Everyone cares about unemployment. Everyone cares about the market. Everyone cares about the economy. If we can sucker you in and hook you, you won’t change the station. We just need to catch you, and that news blurb always catches everyone."
"Unemployment is up." "The Market is down." "The Economy sucks."
And he was right. I fell into the trap, hook line and sinker. I stayed tuned into his station. He lured me in and captured me.
After hours of scratching my butt-crack and cursing the heavens above for inventing traffic, I finally became very interested in a news story on this station that didn’t involve political scandal or cow tipping. Over the course of the past couple of weeks, some egghead in the Washington D.C. area has taken a long distance shooting device that fires bullets further than fireworks and aimed them at unsuspecting citizens, notably ones that are low on gas. The radio (and presumably TV) networks have labeled this guy the D.C. Sniper. They tossed around ideas of The D.C. Sicko and the D.C. Moron, but Clinton and Dubya Bush could sue for copyright infringement.
Aside from the Sniper and his killing, which makes about as much sense as Michael Jordan’s cologne ("The Scent of a Sweaty Basketball Player), what ticked me off was every politician proclaiming that "We plan to seek the death penalty for the Sniper when we catch him." The death penalty is what we do for criminals who steal lawn flamingos (See Texas law). This is a different kind of criminal -- a malicious, cold-hearted stupid-head -- with an unprecedented type of crime. So I propose an unprecedented type of punishment.
Instead of killing the killer, I think torture is the way to go. Our nation would be better served to hold a lottery, at $1 a ticket. Through this lottery, select 100 individuals (on top of all the family and friends of the D.C. victims) to participate in the punishment events. Everyone has anger stored up inside of him or her and this would be a perfect way to legally let out the aggression you have from catching your spouse cheating on you in your own home or someone eating your last Hot Pocket.
After the winners are selected, they are flown to D.C. and taken to the jail of the Sniper. Here, the festivities begin.
Each person will get a turn to hold the miscreant by his feet and dunk his head in the toilet for an hour, flushing in 4-minute intervals and giving him a wedgie for good measure. If you can rip the underwear, you’ll get another turn at the end of the week.
When the swirly phase is over, it’s on to Phase Two. Apparently this Sniper has a fancy for Tarot Cards, so we should definitely make good use of that. Everyone from around the country can each mail in one card with a message written on it in black ink. Messages can range from "Burn in Hell" (or "Burn in Heck" for children under the age of 16) to "Die, Bastard, Die" to "Don’t Eat Yellow Snow"
Next, each lottery winner will take 5 Cards received from the public and personally shove them up the Sniper’s butt, one at a time. If the Sniper moves or tries to push any of them back out, a victim’s family member gets to punch him in his twig and berries. This process goes on till all 500 Tarot Cards are stuffed in his large intestines at the same time.
We save the best for last. The final phase of the punishment involves the Sniper being taken to a white room where he is forced to listen to Michael Bolton albums for one week straight. After that I can’t imagine he would want to live any longer. He ruined so many lives, now we have ruined his. And this would serve as warning to all future copycats. Death doesn’t scare criminals, but Michael Bolton does.
And as I negotiated my car through traffic and devised this strategic punishment plan, I continued to think about the D.C. Sniper. I just can’t believe anyone would think he or she could get away with random murder without facing any consequences. The cops need to catch the Sniper and catch him now. They keep offering bubbling messages through the media that don’t work. They need to hook him in, and there’s a simple way to do that.
"Unemployment is up." "The Market is down." "The Economy Sucks."
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Go Rally Monkey!
The World Series, my favorite sports platform, begins this week and is a battle of two incredibly different teams: Disney’s Anaheim Angels versus Barry Bonds. This might not excite you but it tickles me. Barry Bonds is a shmuck. He is the player you either love or you hate or, like me, you love to hate. And he will lose because Anaheim has one thing the Giants don’t possess -- The Rally Monkey.What is the Rally Monkey?
Apparently the legend of the Rally Monkey began back on June 6, 2000. The Angels were losing by four runs late in the game to none other than Barry Bonds’ San Francisco Giants. A couple of young video crew members were bored. While working hard on the job, they had just finished a game of Hungry Hungry Hippo when they flipped on TV and saw the movie "Ace Ventura, Pet Detective." They saw the monkey in the movie and spliced him out, using very technical equipment that I will call ‘scissors.’ They shot images of him jumping up and down and put colors around him using wax-coated design instruments I will call ‘crayons,’ and they flashed their creation on the jumbo-tron. The fans in Anaheim started chanting. The chant got louder and louder. Finally, the whole stadium was chanting in unison.
Anaheim Angels Fans: "What the hell is that? What the hell is that?"
Well, I never said people from southern California were bright.
The video guys took their crayons and wrote the words "Rally Monkey" underneath the simian and flashed him back on the screen. Finally, the crowd got the picture and began chanting, "Rally Monkey, Rally Monkey."
The Angels rallied to win that game against the Giants and the Rally Monkey was born.
This spur of the moment instinct by these video guys has led to an unexplainable phenomenon in Anaheim. Now everyone in the city owns a Rally Monkey -- Kids, adults, grandparents, elephants. Don’t believe me? Check out these pics at RallyMonkey.com. The Rally Monkey has even been arrested a couple times for getting unruly. But is he the greatest mascot in sports?
With the Rally Monkey hype, fans of the Calgary Flames of the National Hockey league decided they needed something to get their team fired up as well. On Thursday night a man took off all his clothes, climbed over the glass and ran across the ice in the nude. The man got cheers from the 15,000 fans in attendance as he ran to the center of the rink. Not surprisingly, this genius forgot that ice is slippery and fell, conked his head on the frozen mat and knocked himself unconscious. So this guy passed out in the middle of a hockey rink, naked in front of 15,000 fans. While embarrassing, he emerged as the leader in team spirit by inventing The Nude Dude.
So I’m encouraging all you hockey fans to take to the ice in nothing but your socks. Wear your team enthusiasm loud; just don’t wear it on your body.
After thinking this over, I decided The Nude Dude has more spirit than any other fan of any other sport, including the Angels. And while I predict Anaheim will win the World Series in seven games, the Naked Fan in Calgary might have taken team enthusiasm to a whole new level. Anaheim can take great comfort in one thing, though.
They’ve never gotten frostbite on their Rally Monkey.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
I Feel Pretty And Witty And Gay (Meaning Happy)
When our grandparents were young, the word ‘gay’ had different connotations than it does today. When my grandfather called a man gay, he simply meant that the man was happy and in good spirits. Now when I call a man gay, he generally punches me in the face. Why? Because the word gay now refers to men (and women) that fancy the company of the same sex in, well how should I put this, in booty calls.Now I’m not here to debate the moral issue of being ‘gay,’ as I really don’t care who you like as long as it’s not the Yankees, but I did find an interesting trend in Hollywood as they have recently tried to ‘out’ one of their own ‘A’ list members. His name is renowned. His action figures have sold millions. He has two buck-teeth that drive me crazy. Hollywood and the media have ‘outed’ Nickelodeon superstar SpongeBob Squarepants.
The debate over gay cartoon characters started years before SpongeBob entered the scene. In January of1999, Tinky Winky, the baggy-toting member of the PBS kids’ show, The Teletubbies, was denoted as "the gay Teletubby" in the New Year’s Day edition of the Washington Post. His creators claimed that the Teletubbies hadn’t even hit puberty yet, although they were concerned with Tinky Winky’s fondness of Broadway shows.
[Editors Note: Rumors in LA say that with the show not garnering the ratings it once did, Tinky Winky has auditioned for a role as the fourth PowerPuff Girl.]
Now while I had seen the Teletubbies show multiple times because I enjoy the seizures it induces, I had never once watched an episode of SpongeBob Squarepants. So I flipped it on the tube the other night to develop my own opinion in this situation. The episode revolved around SpongeBob getting a new pair of shoes that he "absolutely loved." That sure pointed in the gay direction, but I wanted to give SponeBob a chance to defend himself cause he seemed like such a nice guy.
So I called SpongeBob’s father, creator Stephen Hillenburg, to get to the bottom of this, and I did get to the bottom as Hillenburg told me to dig a hole and bury myself in it. But a publicist called me back and got me an interview with the man, er sponge himself, SpongeBob.
The Brain: How are you doing today, sir?
SpongeBob: Just peachy. And don’t called me sir. I prefer to be called Tiger.
The Brain: Um, okay...Tiger. What do you enjoy most about working in television?
SpongeBob: Well, I get to meet tons of celebrities like Matt Damen and Ben Affleck and, my favorite, Leonardo DiCaprio.
The Brain: Um, yeah. Speaking of Leonardo DiCaprio, I’ve heard rumors that he’s gay. If you were him, would you tell the world you are gay?
SpongeBob: Is he gay? Well that’s just the greatest news I’ve heard since I found out that that humor columnist, The Giant Head, is gay.
The Brain: WHAT!?!
SpongeBob: Yeah, everyone here in Hollywood has been talking about how gay he is.
The Brain: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?! I’M NOT GAY!
SpongeBob: Oh, YOU’RE the Giant Head? Sure you’re gay?
The Brain: No! You are.
SpongeBob: No I’m not! You are.
The Brain: NO I’M NOT! You are.
SpongeBob: NO I’M NOT! You are.
The Brain: YOU SUCK, SQUAREPANTS!
SpongeBob: KISS MY YELLOW ASS!
After our conversation, I was able to determine that, while on the show, SpongeBob is a fun-loving cartoon that all the kids love, in real life he’s a real prick. I hate him and I would love to ruin him.
In fact, while he wouldn’t admit it, SpongeBob square pants is gay. GAY GAY GAY! And I don’t mean happy. He’s Gay-er than Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street and Natalie from The Facts of Life. Tell all your friends! Tell everyone!
TAKE THAT SQUAREPANTS!
Disclaimer From The Brain-- If you don't have a sense of humor, you suck.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Spread the Gospel of Minsterfest
Someone once told me he felt overwhelmed with holidays and thought there were too many throughout the year, and I turned to that person and said, "Are you stupid?" Holidays are what make this country great. They get us out of work. They give us an excuse to eat craploads of food. And they give us a reason to drink till we unintentionally wet ourselves.I love holidays.
A good friend of mine, Nice Smile Mitch, invited me to her hometown, a small corner of Ohio called Minster, to celebrate the only holiday people from Minster know how to celebrate. They call it ‘Minsterfest.’ It was named by way of a contest, in which children under the age of 10 wrote in and made suggestions. And since, at that time, there were only 3 children under the age of 10 in Minster, the suggested names for the party were "Giant Party," "Minsterfest," and "I Think I Have The Flu." A committee of 7 people voted and Minsterfest was born.
According to it’s Web site, (oh yes, it has a Web site), over 80,000 people flock to the village the first weekend each October to enjoy three fun-filled days of parades featuring colorful floats, marching bands, and famous celebrities such as Donny Osmond. They play games like The Beer Tray Rally and are punished for losing by running a 10K race.
While most people’s eyes are generally set on the arts and crafts area, what interests me the most is the invitation to sing and dance to German music. I love to sing (just ask anyone within shouting distance of my shower) and dance (I can walk like an Egyptian and Cabbage Patch), and polka-ing might be the perfect venue to display my spirited skills.
Now as you all know I’m a City Guy, (pause for a moment as I break into the theme song of the best Saturday Morning TV show around, City Guys), and the thought of small towns gives me the heebee geebees. I also picture people from small towns walking around in overalls with grass hanging out of their mouths while talking into a tin can attached to a string. While these images scare me, there are some advantages to townie life, like no crime, you know everyone, and gas is only 15 cents per gallon. And, most importantly, people still care.
Early on I realized I couldn’t make it to the metropolis that is Minster, and three tears ran down my face cause I really wanted to experience small town life. My smile returned when I learned that I don’t have to attend -- I could vicariously watch the whole thing via Webcast on the Internet. Minster may be a small town, but contrary to my belief it has the basic necessities like cell phones, irritating AM radio hosts, and broadband Internet connection. I love technology.
And I know that I always give Mitch a hard time for growing up in a small town, but I also compliment her all the time for making the jump from small town to big city life. It’s hard to do. But eventually she will enjoy some of the finer aspects of living in the city like the rest of us City Kids -- air pollution, traffic, neighborhood crime, etc.
I applaud her town for starting Minsterfest, and I propose that it be a national holiday in recognition of small town life. Most of us in the city don’t appreciate what we have and take for granted all the life there is to celebrate around us. Minsterfest should teach us that there’s more to life than watching TV and getting food delivered. And from now on, in the spirit of Minster I am going to take advantage of life. I will get off my butt and explore more of the city. I will visit museums. I will volunteer my time to shelters and soup kitchens. I will...oops, sorry have to run. FRIENDS starts in a few minutes and that pizza I ordered should be arriving any minute.
If you have a chance this weekend, head on up to Minsterfest and have a blast. Thanks to Mitch for being such a good sport in all my small town jokes. And don’t worry, one day you’ll be smiling down on me from heaven as I suffer in a small town the Bible refers to as HELL. I hear God has a sense of humor on that stuff.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
A Farewell to Sneaking from the Red to the Blue
Last weekend I said goodbye with thousands of others to one of the most memorable, most colorful and ugliest baseball stadiums to ever grace our great nation. The artist formerly known as Riverfront Stadium in Cincinnati held it’s final games this past weekend and I had a chance to waive farewell from the blue seats where I sneaked down to from the red. And on Monday night, I got to see the Big Red Machine play one last time. Bench, Griffey, Morgan, Perez, Concepcion, Foster, Geronamo and of course, Charlie Hustle himself, Pete Rose. I even got a Pete Rose Bobblehead.So many great memories will be locked away forever with the closing of the stadium that looked more like an ashtray than a baseball field. All I need to say is 4192 to Cincinnatians and everyone knows what I am talking about -- the price of two hot dogs and a beer. Or I could mention the time Lou Pinella challenged the first base umpire to a Frisbee contest and tossed the first base bag out in right field. Pinella won. His prize: an ejection.
While most kids my age weren’t alive when The Big Red Machine held center stage, we did witness the resurgence in 1990 with the Wire-to-Wire team that swept the powerful Oakland A’s. Eric ‘The Red’ Davis was every young boy’s hero. Barry ‘Hometown’ Larkin became the greatest shortstop of our generation. And I sported the Chris Sabo goggles game in and game out, even though I didn’t need glasses. And as much as you try to deny it, I know you owned a pair of Sabo Goggles too. You probably still wear them late at night when no one is around.
These are the heroes that make Riverfront memorable -- that and the one-inch of urine on the bathroom floors.
My greatest memory at Riverfront was my 9th birthday. My dad took me down for a game. We parked in Indiana, as many people have to with the lack of downtown parking, and hustled over to the park -- well, I hustled as my Dad strolled, but I had to because his legs were twice as long as mine. It was a 0-0 game in the bottom of the 9th with 2 outs and no one on. Paul ‘I kick the ball to the shortstop’ O’Neill came to the plate, and with two strikes hit a ball (that still hasn’t landed) over the right field fence to give the Reds a 1-0 win. The fireworks exploded immediately. And as my Dad and I left the ballpark, I found a $5 bill on the ground, which my father made me give him to reimburse him for my ticket. It was the greatest birthday of my life.
I’d try to pick another favorite moment, but it’s hard. They are all my favorite moments. I was at game two of the World Series when Joe ‘I have a mullet’ Oliver had the game-winning hit in the 10th. I was there when Norm ‘Nasty Boy’ Charlton crashed into Mike Scioscia at home plate. I was there the day before Tom ‘My Arm Fell Off’ Browning pitched his Perfect Game (DAMN!). And I was there the day they turned off the lights for the last time.
It’s hard to imagine the Cincinnati Skyline without the round bowl out front, but by next spring Cinergy/Riverfront Field will be no more. On December 29th of this year, the Stadium will come falling down by way of the biggest implosion in Cincinnati history. They Stadium that took 4 years to build will evaporate in 38 seconds. It cost $3 million to erect. Once you stop laughing over me using the word ‘erect,’ step back for a second and realize that it will take $25 million to knock it down. The home of our memories may disappear, but the heart will always be alive, especially each time we pay 7 bucks for peanuts.
And while I’m sure Major League Baseball will fine me a million bucks for mentioning the banished Pete Rose’s name at the beginning of this column, I’m sure I can sell his bobblehead on eBay and still walk away with a profit.
We’ll miss you Riverfront -- sort of.
I’d like to give a shout out to Lu and Derek. Thanks for reading my column. (And for not throwing garbage at me when you met me in person.) Tell your friends. If you keep on reading I’ll keep on writing. I have plenty of info stored in this Giant Head of mine and I’m happy to share it. --The Brain
From The Brain of The Giant Head
The Meaning of Life
Sometimes late at night, when you’re hanging out with your buds (and by buds I mean one guy friend and eight girls) you find yourself playing silly games like Truth Or Dare or Twister or Pin The Tail On The Sleeping Parent. While this brings a few laughs, especially when games are combined and someone’s Dare is to run naked up the stairs and pin the tail on the parent, by the end of the night the games end and deep conversation persists. But the same question is asked time and time again, with no real answer -- That is, until now.Every Person That Exists’ Question: "What is the meaning of life?"
Every Person Sitting Around Every Person That Exists’ Reply: "I don’t know."
Your Friend The Brain: "That’s easy."
Historians, religious leaders, psychologists and cheese heads have racked their minds, studying everything from archeological artifacts to football stats attempting to understand our place on the planet we call home and yet they’ve come up with no definitive answer. Sure, they’ve speculated Meaning Of Life theories such as family or friends or to improve ourselves in God’s eyes or that there is no meaning.
But I am here to tell you there is a Meaning, my friend! I have found it. And you can find it too -- At your local IKEA.
Brace yourself while I reveal the Meaning of Life:
The Meaning Of Life is (drum roll, please) A Lay-Z-Boy.
That’s right folks, a comfortable recliner, which allows you to put your feet up and your butt down in the softest, most heavenly place your butt can be. I put all the pieces together when I was visiting my folks. My Mom has a Lay-Z-Boy that I’d be willing to drive the five hours from Chicago to Cincinnati for just a mere ten minutes in the cozy, easy-to-get-into, impossible-to-get-out-of chair that, as I see it, does it’s part to make this world a better place.
All those other theorists have it all wrong. The Meaning Of Life is Family? Yeah, think about that next time your Dad tells your friends about your underpants skid-mark problem or your daughter calls to let you know that while the car is fine she accidentally parked it at the bottom of the Ohio River. These issues, which are aggravating, are deemed moot the minute you turn on the massage feature in your deluxe Lay-Z-Boy.
The Meaning Of Life is Improving Ourselves in God’s Eyes? The joke's on you, pal, cause at this very moment God is sitting in heaven ignoring your day-to-day antics as he turns on the temperature-control mode for his LX Deluxe Lay-Z-Boy, which came with a miracle button, a punishment button, and a picture-in-picture flat screen TV remote attached to the arm.
There is NO Meaning Of Life? PAHH-LEEEASE. Tell those disbelievers to plop down in the greatest invention since the last greatest invention. With such soothing, relaxing, formfitting, adjustable comfort available, how could you NOT believe in a God or in a Meaning Of Life? There has to be some greater power looking over us to provide such an amazing device -- let me rephrase, such an amazing friend.
The Lay-Z-Boy is proof to me that there is a heaven. But if heaven lacks comfortable chairs, I don’t want to go there.
And I am putting in my order today. In fact, I’m buying two. One for me and one for Mrs. Truebro -- I still can’t look her in the face since pinning that tail on her in the nude.
A Note From The Brain: The LGB found out that Lay-Z-Boy is currently celebrating its 75th birthday. Call your closest Lay-Z-Boy representative and, with a friend, sing ‘Happy Birthday" in rounds. I promise they’ll appreciate it.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Peanuts! Popcorn! Collective Bargaining Agreement!
Ever see the movie "The Sandlot?" It’s about a young lad named Smalls that finds a group of kids who love the game of baseball. They never stop playing the game. Rain, shine, sleet, tidal wave, whatever...they play because they love the game. And while Smalls isn’t perfect and makes mistakes, he still goes out and plays every day -- no matter what.Aside from my family, friends, and Nacho Cheese Doritos, Baseball is the number one love of my life. I’ve been hitting balls and fielding grounders before I could even say ‘multimillionaire,’ and while I’ve tried to avoid writing about the possible labor strike, I figured with the Walkout Day less than a week away, it was finally time that I covered this dreadful topic:
Millionaires fighting with billionaires and screwing the average person.
Generally a pessimist, I thought from day one of the season that players and owners would sit down and hammer this thing out as quickly and efficiently as possible because 1) It’s in their best interest and 2) I didn’t think they’d be stupid enough to replay the ’94 season. People haven’t forgiven them for that year. Just ask the 10 people that still attend games in Montreal.
Let’s address the problems:
Problem 1: Money. It’s not because players are complaining that $10 million a year isn’t enough, they just want the right to be able to make $25 million a year. It’s not because the owners don’t want to pay $25 million a year, it’s that they don’t want 8 clubs going bankrupt in the process. What the players don’t understand, which, for the first time ever the owners do, is that they can’t charge people $273 per ticket, $9.75 per beer, and $5 to use the bathroom and still expect people to frequent the ballpark.
Problem 2: Competitive Balance. In baseball there are currently four economically categorized types of teams:
Small Market Teams
Middle Market Teams
Large Market Teams
The Yankees
No team in baseball can compete with the Yankees. They have unlimited funds, a monopoly on championships, and an owner willing to cut off his left testicle to win. He’s even willing to throw in the left testicles of other owners if he has to. If you don’t think there’s a competitive imbalance in baseball, find out which team had won 25 out of 100 possible championships in the 1900s. I can promise you it wasn’t the Montreal Expos, Minnesota Twins, or LaSalle Lancers, all of which are economically challenged.
Problem 3: No Cheerleaders. I know this has nothing to do with the labor issue, but it sure would be a nice addition.
Problem 4: Drug Testing. Players say it is against their rights. Using illegal drugs is a ‘right’!?! If I was an owner I’d just walk around the clubhouse grabbing everyone’s package -- if it feels small, he’s probably on steroids. Even if he isn’t, tell the player it feels small and he’ll own up to any excuse you want him to. (Girls, this also works on husbands.)
Are the players and owners going to agree on anything ever? Probably not. Are they stupid enough to not learn from there past mistakes? Most definitely. Will they lower prices so fans can still attend games? You have a better shot at physically sticking your head into a shot glass. So that brings up the real question: Will there be a players strike? I reckon so.
And when they come back from another labor stoppage, will I continue to go to baseball games and watch it on TV? Of course I will. I love the game too much to turn my back on it like the players and owners. Did I mention I also have ‘Sucker’ written across my forehead?
I don’t love the game of baseball because of the players. And I certainly don’t love baseball because of the owners. I love baseball because of the game played between the foul lines, a game where size doesn’t matter and anyone can be a hero. A game I can watch while reminiscing about baseball’s past with my friends. A game where a hot dog tastes better than any other place on earth.
A game meant for kids on the sandlot.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Elvis Is Remembered, Though I Don’t Remember Him
Every generation has many musical and celebrity influences with one entertainer standing 200 feet above the rest. In the 80’s, hair bands might have ruled the day, but Michael Jackson was the King of Bad Hair-dos and the artist that everyone tried to listen to but couldn’t cause their ears were covered by ugly hair. In the early 90’s, flannel shirts and corduroy pants covered every skinny and tubby that walked down the high school hallways thanks to Nirvana. In the late 90’s, also known as my generation, spiked blue hair, eyebrow rings and massive hatred for pop culture was the new pop culture influenced by (my favorite band) Green Day. And today, the kids have, um ... Eminem. What he actually stands for, I'm not quite sure, but I guarantee it's just as important as my breakfast decision: Fruit Loops or Wheeties?This week, another former pop culture icon was honored for having a 25th anniversary. While the anniversary isn’t a happy one, I'm sure our dark haired, blue-suede shoe wearing hero is wiggling his pelvis from his home six-feet under.
Elvis has entered the building.
See, most of you don’t realize how easy we have it. Back then, parents were up in arms over his shaking crotch on TV. These days you can shake your crotch, stick it in a light socket, and fall down and convulse on MTV and most of us will laugh, shrug, then turn on ESPN's World’s Strongest Man Competition. How times have changed.
I don't remember Elvis cause he died before my giant noggin was born. And I don’t know what the appeal was because his tunes were musically inept, all 342 of his movies had the exact same plot and he never once smashed a guitar (the weenie). His butt was quite sexy, I'll give his followers that, but eventually it turned into two sexy butts, then three sexy butts, then one tub o' lard, the two tubs o' lard, then Rosanne. It was one ugly metamorphosis.
While I didn't travel south to Graceland to celebrate the anniversary of the death of this reckless rock star, I read about it in practically every newspaper known to man, including the National Enquirer which claimed he is still alive and gave birth to a two-headed alien named "Pug." What really confuses me, though is why he would name a child Pug?
Now I'm too lazy to celebrate the anniversary of any celebrity’s death, just as I’m too lazy to change the channel when Days of Our Lives is on the tube (I swear, I’m only watching it out of laziness), but I can sympathize. I once lost a rock star myself. And while Vanilla Ice didn’t actually die, his career sure did, and I mourned for at least 3 years. Every once-in-a-while I even used to shave lines in the sides of my hair in his honor, but I have grown into my laziness and those days are long past.
So, I say to all you Elvis fans, "Let the King be dead." He's been celebrated more than Jennifer Lopez’s breasts, and that is just wrong. He had his time and now that time is over, so let it go. I’m sure the King is up in heaven with a Coors Lite in one hand and a pound of dope in the other, smiling on us all and hoping we get on with our lives and attend to more important things.
The Brain has left the building. And is driving home to catch the last half hour of Days of our Lives...um, I mean Terminator 2.
Note From the LGB: Let us take this moment to remember our dear departed Elvis. Let us also take this time to thank each other for not making the pilgrimage to Graceland with all the other loons to stand out in the rain, overnight, while holding a candlelight vigil. We must fight back our tears of sorrow as we eat our fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. He would have wanted it that way. Elvis left the building 25 years ago...GET OVER IT!!!
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Don’t Visit The Future Hole of America
Have you ever had one of those places where you dreaded going? Like heading to that corner Payless so your mom can buy a new pair of heals or to the over-crowded bar with expensive booze or to little Johnny’s house because his parents think TV is the devil and refuse to buy one. Everyone has a place that they loathe. I am no different from the masses, and I, too, have a destination that I dread more than going bald.I hate Indiana.
While I’ve never spent much hanging-out time in the state (for good reason), I’ve driven through it more than 2 million times and can assure you that if you’ve never been there, you’ve never experienced hell. The nicest highways are held together with duct tape and paste. Hugging both sides of the road are dead grass, cell phone towers, and tractors probably built sometime around the Truman presidency. And never, I repeat never, stop anywhere to pee.
The rest stops along the highway are more like outhouses with a pop machine that sells Check Cola and has signs that say, "You Are In Indiana." Thanks for the help, Indiana, as if the puke-colored skies didn’t give it away. Aside from the "Wet Floor" sign that hasn’t moved in three years and the sketchy character that will offer to help pull down your pants, the rest area isn’t much different than other rest areas. (And by ‘not much different’ I mean ‘COMPLETELY different.’)
A few times I have been known to skip the rest area altogether and stop at any one of the finer Indiana gas station establishments, such as ‘Barney’s Gas and Anchovies’ or ‘Honus’s Fill-Um-Up and Move-Um-Out.’ While rumor has it that at least two dozen have died from the toxins of the manure stench roaming in the air, my guess is that the estimate is quite low. The clerk at the counter always has a mullet and wears a filthy Dale Earnhardt T-shirt with paint stains on the sleeve. If you’re lucky, maybe one of the patrons shopping in the gas station speaks a form of English you can understand and can translate to the worker.
Good English: I’d like ten dollars on gas pump number five.
Indiana English: I’s takin these many nickels worth on dat pump done over-dare.
Good English: Do you accept credit cards?
Indiana English: Can’s I pay wid a cow?
And so on.
After thinking about it time and time again, I believe it’s time to begin campaigning what I believe would improve our blessed U.S. of A.
I think we should get rid of Indiana.
Think about it. Do we really NEED 50 states? That always sounded a bit excessive to me. The number ‘49’ has a nice ring to it. What has Indiana done for us, anyway? Sure, the state produced Larry Bird, but do you think he lives there now? And name one other accomplishment Indiana can take credit for? Haystacks? Cut-off jeans? Inbreding? They kicked out Bobby Knight, which, in and of itself, is enough proof to pick Indiana up and throw it in the Atlantic. Or maybe we could use it for economic gain and sell it to the British, because we all know they are dumb -- just listen to Ginger Spice talk.
Am I crazy? I don’t think I am. If the government is willing to waste its precious hours debating the start time of Halloween and whether or not Martin Luther King Day should be a national holiday, then I feel I am fully within the realm of proper topics. And the more people I get to jump on my bandwagon, the more likely I can get Indiana dumped somewhere off the Florida coast.
While I know many people may be concerned with having a giant, gaping hole on the eastern side of the mid-west, I see it as an opportunity to rid us of the most boring state in the country. It would also solve our land-needed-for-garbage-sites problem, as we can throw our trash in the hole and let China deal with it. I’ve now killed two birds with one stone.
There may be some people who fight my quest. There may be others that want more incentives and want me to cut deals to get my legislative notion passed. And I’m not completely unreasonable and I would cut a deal.
I’m willing to throw in Wyoming.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Hey Officer, Quit Poking At My Man Muscle
I think I’m a fairly normal-looking guy, aside from the size of my giant head. Occasionally I might skip a day or four of shaving or avoid showering till the 15th of the month, but other than that there’s not much difference between me and your average suburban kid. Well, not everyone thinks so.
I was travelling down 74 East back to Cincinnati (a five-hour drive) for a family event. I had only stopped 11 times to pee, which is four off my average. Two burgers from the Home of the Whopper later, I crossed the state boarder into Ohio, the place where famous people stay away from at all costs because they know they might get infected with a case of the stupids. The cruise control was set. Johnny Cash was bumping out the stereo. Everything was just hunky-dory.
Then, I saw the same set of red and blue lights flashing I saw on an episode of Cops.
It was a cop.
This mean, balding, midget of a cop pulled me over for reasons that made about as much sense as brushing your teeth before going to the dentist. We had an opening exchange that went something like this:
Me: How’s it going officer?
Officer Midget: SHUT YOUR FACE, PIPSQUEAK! (meaning-‘I’m in no mood to talk’).
Me: Is there a problem officer?
Officer Midget: The only problem is scum like you! (meaning-‘Yes’).
Confused and a bit terrified, I handed him my license, registration, and car insurance card. My hands were shaking faster than a politician’s at a primary, I was so nervous. And it showed.
Officer Midget: Get the hell out of the car! (meaning-‘Step out so we can chat’).
Me: You go to hell you short piece of dog poop! (which actually sounded more like "Yes, sir" when I said it.)
I got out of the car. He made me open up my trunk and dump everything out on the side of the highway, including two jugs of windshield-wiper fluid, a Joey Lawrence CD, and my Spiderman underwear. Lucky for me, I left my WonderWoman underwear at home.
Officer Midget: Put your hands up against the car! (meaning-‘Put your hands against the car’).
Me: Why?
Officer Midget: We have a lot of drug smuggling from around your parts. (meaning-‘I think you have drugs on you and I’m not afraid to have a dog sniff your genitals to find them).
He began to roughly pat down my sides with a cocky smirk on his face, as if I was a murder convict that escaped two days earlier from the state penitentiary and he caught me by using his supreme ‘intelligence.’ Only slightly offended, I would have forgiven him if had let me go right them. Unfortunately, he only grabbed me tighter.
As the pat-down continued I felt movement crawly up my leg. All of a sudden I realized his dumb midget hands were fondling my go-betweens right there on the side of the highway!?! He rubbed around, poking and grabbing and yanking -- and getting a little too much enjoyment out of it.
Finally, after 45 minutes of him sniffing around for cocaine and pot and every other drug that didn’t exist, he let me go. But before I could get away he made one final note.
Officer Midget: I pulled you over because you swerved a little bit in the lane.
Are you kidding me!?! Swerved!?! If he was going to lie he could have at least made up something more exciting like, ‘I pulled you over because I thought you might have been a Nazi James Bond double agent and be selling illegal narcotics to children with large heads.’
There was at least one bright spot, though. His midget hands now smelled like a man who hadn’t showered in weeks. It was only the 14th of the month.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Some People Need A Smack In The Forehead
Dating is a way to meet the person that you are going to spend the rest of your life with. Some people are looking for a soul-mate. Others just want someone to comfort them along the tough road of life. Me? I just want someone to rub my feet occasionally. But sometimes, most times, you treat that person with the most respect on your first date and then you realize they will never call you again because your private jet only seats 4 people instead of 6.Some people are just shallow and materialistic.
Now I don’t normally embarrass people by posting their emails, I usually just ridicule them till they run home crying to pick up a dozen eggs to throw at my house, but I felt the honest need to share this with everyone. Apparently the email below was written by a girl residing in my sweet home of Chicago. She talks about her first date with a young man from the area. The email was sent to, what looks to be, a friend that isn’t much of a friend, because that person sent it to all her friends and now the email is in wide circulation. In fact, it was featured on FOX news and has gained immense publicity. Just read it, and then I will comment on it below.
The update
Well...Mr. Casey O'Brien showed up at my door at about 8:15ish. Sporting a pair of cute jeans, a button up and a black jacket. For his outfit I would give him about a B. As for looks, he was cute but on the shorter side and his hair was a little too long. Far from a mullet but longer than I would prefer but let's not dwell on that because he can kinda get away with it. So for looks, I would probably give him another B. Car- BMW, like I stated before. A great car, he'll have to get and A for that. He gets an A+ for his manners and politeness. Marcie, he opened the car door everytime! Super polite. Overall general appearance will cap at a B+.
AS for the place we went to, another "A". The Tasting Room is an excellent date place. I was never the wine connoisseur but I'm gradually thinking I could become one. We had 4 glasses each of different white wines and a cheese flight, which was the perfect food mecca to go with the wine. Place is awesome, I recommend all of you guys to attend this place for a night out with your man/woman. We also headed over to this place called the Black Duck. Another great place! The date place itself gets an overall "A". (By the way Girls- this summer we must hang out on Randolph, so many awesome places!)
I can go into great detail of what we talked about and such but, that would make for an extremely long email. The date ended with me getting intoxicated but not like crazy intoxicated, but I was drunk. No hangovers. I'm assuming he was fairly intoxicated but since he was driving, I didn't want to know, so I never asked.
By the way, as for myself, I get an overall A+ for how damn cute I looked. I sported a pair of fun longer Capri pants from Guess in a darker khaki color with my white shirt from Hanger 18, that has my lower back showing with my new cute fitted black jacket with empire sleeves from Armani. I was a BABE. He didn't stand a chance. My worries of not being cute were so swept under the rug with the outfit I pulled off last night.
Before jumping to any conclusions, YES, I stayed the night, only because I semi passed out on his couch and he was polite to ask if I wanted to head home and I just said he could take me home in the morning, NOTHING happened. Honestly only a kiss derived from this date and it didn't even happen at his place. I believe it might have been executed at the Black Duck but I'm not so sure on the exact time and location. But can I add, GREAT kisser.
The date kiss gets an "A". Really, I haven't had that great of a kiss since,well we won't go there but it has been a long time. I might have to go with the fact that I might have mastered the skill of French kissing, no joke. As long as I have potential to work with, I can execute a pretty intense kiss.
Lauren- you would have loved Casey's attitude. Actually I think all of would have appreciated how he called me out on my stupid logic of thinking. Somehow, it came up on how random it was for us to meet and shit and how when he said the very first time we talked for me to give him a call and my response was, "Really, I'll let you know now, I won't call you, so I suggest you write my number down and give me a call". Hence the wait of a week or so for his first initial call was due to my shallowness or whatever you would like to call my way of playing the field. Doesn't really matter, he still called and I didn't.
So, question is, where do I stand on the whole outlook of Mr. Casey O'Brien and the date... The car, the money, the job, the cute apartment, the boat-which by the way only seats 6 people, so I really don't consider that really amazing, his mannerism and his great kiss will probably lock in another date but...I can tell you now unless he cuts his hair and sends me gifts, it won't lead me to seek anything more than my 1st 30 year old FRIEND (Oh by the way, I think he's only 29, but still, I'm rounding up). Plus, the summer is just around the corner and guys are EVERYWHERE, I need to keep the options open and my schedule free to lock in some other great summer flings...
Well, I hope you've enjoyed the day in the life of Miss Jackie Kim and please feel free to comment on my date, my outfit, the kiss, or whatever else. If you need any more major details of the date please contact me in one of the following ways: phone, email, personal visit or text messaging. Oh, I might be heading to a Cubs game with him next week. We'll see.
Oh by the way ladies- His cute friend Brian, is single and also a day trader. Which by the way, being a day trader is pretty money, literally in a sense but he gets to throw on lounge wear for work and is home no later than Noon. Are you kidding me? Where was being a day trader on career day in Elementary school? --Jacqueline
When I initially read this I laughed for about a half an hour. I didn’t know whether to be sad that people in this world are that shallow or to go out and buy a boat that seats more than 6. Every once in a great while, I think to myself and say, ‘Self, are you wrong about the world? Is everyone actually kind and unbiased? Are they empathetic and looking for the true inner beauty in everyone? Are they as smart as you and only hiding it underneath their thick skin to remain humble?’
I think this email aptly answered that question and I no longer have any doubt. I really hope this email circulation does three things: 1) Embarrasses this girl to the point where she becomes a lesbian. 2) A bird poops in her hat. 3) Forces this girl to wake up, smell the real world, and buy her own damn BMW. Maybe then she will learn that if you write an extremely shallow email and send it to someone that’s not really your friend, you will be featured on From The Brain of The Giant Head.
Moral of the story -- Give The Brain foot rubs whenever possible.
If you don't believe me that this is a real email, go toSun Times Report On Shallow Gal
From The Brain of the Giant Head
Once I Had a Twin Brother
Every family has an extended family of friends. If yours was like mine, you were all friends because all the parents had kids roughly the same age and your moms were on the PTA together and your dads helped coach your little league team to an 0-12 record. You spent the night at each other’s houses every other weekend. You went on vacation together. You were babysat by the eldest siblings of the group, and by babysat I mean being forced to watch New Kids On The Block videos. You had some of the best times of your life.
This past weekend was quite an exciting time for me. And I’m not talking about the Benjamin I dropped at the floating casino or the cop that grabbed my private parts (which I’ll talk about in next week’s column — trust me, you won’t want to miss that). I’m talking about the extended family reunion picnic I attended.
Now a few of these people I had seen from time to time at the usual festivals and restaurants and adult bookstores, but there were quite a few that had been out of my radar screen since Vanilla Ice was the King of Rap. This was my chance to see some familiar faces, albeit with facial hair and adult features.
I admit, I was a little leery at first. Nerves kicked in when I started realizing that I hadn’t seen these kids since before I had sideburns. Sure, we were all great friends, but after a decade of being apart and discovering who we were in high school, how well would we fit together now?
How close were we, you ask? Well, my family of four morphed into a family of six every summer when we signed up for our Phillips swim-club passes. Although I only have one blood-related sister, I had a younger "sister" named Tiffany "Klems" and a twin brother named Adam "Klems." We spent about everyday together for three years.
I remember riding bikes down to Howie’s baseball card shop with Adam to buy the latest edition of Beckett Baseball Card Monthly to see how much our Lance Johnson cards were worth. It was at his house I had my first viewing of Spaceballs (still one of my favorites) and Disorderlies, the Fat Boys classic.
I remember playing basketball in the Brehms’ backyard and having Adam Martinez skunk me while being a good foot shorter than my admirable size of 4’11".
I remember making the late night news with Brian Brehm, which we recorded and, to be like the pros, made commercials for. The speed stick deodorant commercial with Hulk Hogan was my personal favorite. And I remember the giant map of New England that we made, but I can’t remember why, not to mention singing the killer church song "Blest Be The Lord" while riding in the station wagon. As you can see, we were cool even when we were younger.
I remember looking up to Randy and Johnny, the 2-years-older-than-me chick magnets. I remember my plan to turn Nick into the next Mark McGuire. I remember thinking the girls were icky until age 12, then just assuming I would marry one of them. I remember little Robbie...who isn’t so little anymore.
And as I saw them all again, playing Major League Cornhole and eating enough food to feed Zimbabwe, I realized we have all grown up. We all have new dreams and new plans and new sneaker sizes. But we all have the same ability to get along, just like we did before we had driver’s licenses. And I guess that’s quite a comforting thought.
The Brain would like to thank his Mom and Dad and everyone else that helped out to make this reunion possible, including everyone that showed up. Maybe we can make it an annual event. He would also like to curse his sister for waking him up at the ungodly hour of 7:30 in the a.m. to hold the picnic tables and for rubbing it in by beating him at War. I hope the dog leaves a present in your bed.
From The Brain of the Giant Head
How Could You Hate Screech?
Every Saturday morning from fifth to eighth grade was spent exactly the same way for most kids of my generation. You woke up, ate a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, pretended to read the paper so your parents thought you were more of an adult, and then grabbed the remote and joined Zach and the gang for another valuable lesson on Saved By The Bell. It was your happiest moment of the week, save when your teacher, Ms. Oldenstick, fell and her left boob came flopping out.
While Zach and A.C. kept all the young ladies’ hearts pounding and Kelly Kapowski was hotter than warm urine on a cold day, there was always one character that set up the others for their comedy. He was the butt of every joke. He could be a bit irritating at times, but his good-hearted charm is what made him loveable.
Samuel "Screech" Powers.
You might wonder why I’m bringing this up, considering most of us haven’t watched the Bayside crew in about 10 years because we either 1) got jobs, or 2) realized that City Guys is a much better show. But the LGB found a site the other day that took me by complete surprise.
Now while I’m not nominating Dustin Diamond for an Emmy anytime soon, I do think it’s a slightly ludicrous to devote an entire Web site to a person’s complete hatred of the curly-haired geek. This site goes so far as listing his TV Resume, pictures, his blood type and an autographed sample of his sperm. For a person that hates Screech so much, you’d think that taking the time to develop a Hate-Screech Web site would be the last thing on his mind...but you would be wrong.
Most of you, like me, understand that Screech was a WB character that somehow made it to regular network television, but when you’re 11 years old he’s the funniest thing since The Oldenstick Boob Incident. And though I’d rather get poked in the eye with a sharp stick than watch Adult Screech on Saved By The Bell: The New Class, I think back to my childhood and realize that the program is made for grade schoolers, not people with driver’s licenses.
Although I think this kid is nuts, I am a firm believer in freedom of speech and admire his initiative and rebellious attitude. Granted, my friends and I rebelled against things too, like teachers, parents, and country music, but we never had animosity toward a fictional character. Most of us were too busy trying to get the pink dye out of our hair, which, two days earlier, we thought was a great idea.
And I guess there could be worse things this kid could be doing other than picking on Samuel "Screech" Powers. He could be selling drugs or pimping prostitutes or fantasizing about Mel Gibson. Or he could’ve done the worst thing that anyone in the history of the world could ever imagine.
He could have devoted a page to Steve Eurcal.
Let’s see if we can get this kid to make another Web-site. Email him at garrettbrown@hotmail.com, copy me (fozzie007@yahoo.com) and ask him to make the "Anti-Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen Page." Maybe if enough of us send emails, he’ll do it.
From The Brain of The Giant Head
Looking At Graduation
A Year Later
Ah...graduation time again. It was only but a year ago I stood in the shoes of the millions of graduating college seniors and, for the record, my feet smelled a lot better. It was the happiest, yet most saddening time in my life. I was forever finished with homework, exams, term papers, skipping class and sleeping in till noon. I was leaving a land where I actually PAID $10 grand a year to suffer and moving into a land where I got paid $10 grand to suffer. At least the latter way I could suffer while watching my 50-inch TV. And what have I learned one year removed from the college scene?
Not a damn thing.
Sure, I can now go to the doctor all by myself, but I also have to pay for the visit out of my own pocket. I can buy all the clothes I want, but Mom no longer washes them for me. And contrary to my previous belief, I’m not eligible for the Senior Citizens Discount even though I’m the arthritic age of 23. Maybe I did learn something.
Life stinks.
At the time I was very adamant about escaping the college life that gave me a rather large beer-belly and permanent Nintendo thumb, but after one full season of bills, 6:30 wake-ups and the cancellation of Titus, I’m ready to go back.
Some of my friends just took the long walk in the cap and gown this past weekend, including the host of Will-Yee.com and of course, Authority Guru Alex. I asked the Guru a few questions dealing with college and graduation. Here’s what he had to say.
The Brain: What did you get out of college?
Authority Guru Alex: Since enrolling in college 5 years ago I have accomplished the following:
- Missed 5 years worth of good night sleeps.
- Developed and refined over 6,000 techniques for skipping class and getting away with it.
- Diligently compiled a debt consisting of tuition bills and bar tabs that rivals the national deficit.
The Brain: Are you happy to graduate?
Authority Guru Alex: Were the Jews happy when Auschwitz was liberated?
(Editor’s Note— I think that’s a ‘yes.’ I’m just impressed he could spell Auschwitz.)
The Brain: What's more impressive and why: Tito Jackson's singing career or Will graduating in just under a decade?
Authority Guru Alex: I would have to say Will's graduation amazed me more. Not to discredit Tito, but who would have ever guessed that a poor, misguided, Asian street urchin from the rough Southside of Monford Heights could ever rise out of such oppression and adversity. And, to do it in under ten years!?! UTTERLY ASTOUNDING.
The Brain: I heard you tutored him for years?
Authority Guru Alex: When I first took Will under my wing he didn't have two pennies to rub together. But, with a little tough love and some Mr. Miagi-style guidance he was able reach his full potential. I guess it just goes to show, with the help of a few Elder graduates, even the lowest of the low have a chance to make something of themselves.
What will the Authority Guru have to say a year from now once the real world smacks him around a bit? Probably the same as now because he is the ever-knowing Guru. We applaud him for his goodwill work and saving a St. X boy from the crime-driven streets to help him make something of himself.
See LaSalle kids, there’s still hope for you.
Have a question you’ve been dying to know the answer to? Want to see your name in lights? Email me fozzie007@yahoo.com and I’ll get together with the Authority Guru and we’ll solve your question.
From The Brain of The Giant Head
Before They Were The ‘Shoemakers’
Last weekend I saw something that I never thought I’d see in a million years, and no, I’m not talking about Ben Wagner’s latest dance moves. Limousines were driving me everywhere. I was offered food every five minutes. Alcohol was free. And when I arrived, an announcer yelled my name into the mic as the crowd went wild. What was going on, you ask?Jeff and Ann got married.
Now I’m not exactly the sentimental type, since my college diploma is piled somewhere under my dirty laundry and I still laugh at fart jokes, but this special occasion for two close friends of mine almost brought me to tears. (If the LGB danced on your feet, you’d come close to tears too.) So this is column is dedicated to them.
I remember Jeff and Ann before they were "The Shoemakers."
Jeff was a young soccer buff that planned to play professionally, earn millions, and then waste it while supporting his friends’ booze and video game habits. I met him for lunch at the end of every week, affectionately known as "Frisch's Fridays," in which he refused to pay for my food week in and week out. What a bastard.
I remember a young group of boys with plenty of time on their hands forming the now infamous Wet Moose Society. Jeff was a founding member. While groups like the Young Christians of America focused on good deeds and charitable work, we focused our efforts on spreading the gospel of apathy and laziness — two very important causes. One time, one member of the WMS puked all over the side of Jeff’s car while another spent the rest of the night yacking at the Afghan Whigs concert. But Jeff didn’t get upset and took care of his Moose brothers. That was very kind, but I still think the bastard should have bought me lunch.
Speaking of concerts, I can recall a certain Fiona Apple concert where Jeff "Shoe-Daddy" Shoemaker showed off his perfection of the suburban head-bob and the punk-rock skank. I laughed when he not only impressed us, but also impressed the 39-year-old leathered-up hillbilly woman dancing behind us. She offered to take him home and let him "do the two-step mosey" with her. He politely declined, noting that there was only one true woman he would ever do the two-step mosey with.
Ann was also a young soccer star but had an even bigger dream of winning the Olympic Gold for running in track, a sport she practiced each time she chased the getaway mobile after we toilet-papered her house. Two reindeer posed naughtily and one cement pig in her yard later, she got even in a big way.
The Wet Moose crew was catching a bite at good ‘ol Perkins before an evening of mischief. After the checks were paid and the hostess’s hand was high-fived, we dipped into the parking lot only to find that Shoe-Daddy’s car was no longer there. After hours of panicking and a soiling of our pants, we later discovered that Ann and her delinquent friends had copied Jeff’s car keys and moved his car into The Bowl’s lot. It was a prank that had gone unmatched. Until now.
We finally got even, didn’t we Moose fans. We permanently dirtied your floors, Ann. We gave you a never-ending mound of laundry all over your bedroom and piles of beer cans sporatically thrown next to your couch. We gave you something you can’t return to JC Penny or the Gap Outlet. We gave you something that will remind you of the Wet Moose Society every day for the rest of your life.
We gave you Jeff. Glad we got the last laugh.
Congratulations to Jeff and Ann for not only tying the knot, but also letting us all be a part of the wonderful ceremony. I hope you have a lifetime of happiness. And I will know if you do, because Roger and I will be living in your basement for years to come. --The Brain
You say Potato, I say "What the Hell are You Talking About?"
I am a worldly traveler, as many of you know. I was born and raised on the sunny beaches of Cincinnati, spent some time in New York and decided to make a home for myself in the windy city of Chicago. I spent four years of my life in the Mecca that is Athens, Ohio. I've traveled from Mexico to New Orleans to Macomb. Even though we all speak English, I find that we never know what the hell others are talking about.
When I lived in the Big Apple, happily named the Big Apple because that's what they throw at you in order to steal your cab, my girlfriend and I went to a restaurant on the bottom floor of the Empire state building. Here is my exchange with the waiter:
Waiter: "Can I start you off with something to drink?"
Me: "I'll take a pop," but Waiter hears: "Donde es elbano?"
Waiter: "I'm sorry, but we don't carry that," looking at me like I am an alien from the planet Vulcan. "We have some cold sodas if you like to try one."
SODA. Who in the hell calls it SODA? More importantly,
why is this waiter trying to pick my pocket?
Me: "Fine then, I'll have a SODA."
The universal language that all Americans share changes depending on what part of America you're in. In Columbus, when I say "Gym Shoes," they tell me I'm talking about "Tennis Shoes." In Texas, when I say "Trial by Jury," they say I mean "Lethal Injection." In California, when I say, "Let's make with the Lovin," they say, "Let's make with the Lovin." (I guess some things are universal.)
Now, this might not mean anything to you but it sure bugs the crap out of me. It's generally bad enough that when I go to a restaurant they seat me next to a mother, her son, and his twelve obnoxious friends that keep throwing French-Fries at me. I wouldn't mind so much if they would refrain from loading them with ketchup before the assault.
On the other side of me, of course, is the man that ordered his hamburger with a detailed list of Dos and Don'ts because he knows they will screw it up and he is looking forward to taking out his aggression and getting a meal free.
Angry Man With Mullet: "I want my hamburger with everything on it except onions, tomatoes, pickles, ketchup, mustard, Mayo and beef. And I'd like you pick all the seeds of the bun with your toes. Did you getthat?"
Waitress: "Uh yeah."
The waitress returns ten minutes later with the food.
Mullet Man: "These seeds were picked off with your elbow! Bring me a manager!"
And so on. So when I go to a restaurant, the last thing I need is to argue the semantics of the carbonated-unhealthy-comes in a can-drink that my mouth is dying for. It doesn't even work when I try to be specific.
Me: "Can I have a Pepsi?"
Waiter: "We only serve Coke."
Me: "Can I have a Coke?"
Waiter: "Actually, we only serve soda."
As a wise man once said, "I will not call it Soda because Soda is stupid.
Sounds like a valid argument to me.
For Pete's Sake, Leave the Toilet Seat Up!
The differences between men and woman couldn't even fit in the Grand Canyon. A woman thinks with her heart. A man thinks with his wallet. A woman wants to talk on the phone for hours. A man wants an entire conversation to span one word: "Sup." A woman wants to cuddle. A man wants to . well, let's just say that he doesn't want to cuddle.
The biggest argument men and woman squabble over today originated sometime after outhouses were banned in all states, except for West Virginia. It's an argument that has the potential to be as prominent as World War II or the cancellation of Full House. There is no middle ground on this dispute and men and women will fight about it till they day they have to switch to Depends. What am I talking about?
The Debate to Put the Toilet Seat Down.
Time after time after time I get yelled for leaving the toilet seat in the vertical position after emptying my bladder. Now I don't think girls understand how much energy it takes to undo your zipper, whip out and hold a gigantic, um, thing -- Elaine from Seinfeld once summed up a girl's thoughts and said, "I don't know how you guys walk around with those things?"
Then, as if that wasn't worse than a Tae Bo workout, you have to aim with great care and delicacy toward the center of a white canvas that has no target. The pressure builds every second you're in there. When you're finally finished and at ease the last thing you want to do is waste more of your precious energy by lowering the toilet seat.
Girls are always complaining, saying things like, "When it's the middle of the night I can't see, and if the seat's not already down I might fall in! Don't you care about me!?!" First of all, of course we care about you. Where else would we get our foot-rubs after a hard day of work. And second of all, the excuse about falling in is dumb. I've gone to the bathroom in the middle of the night (remember, guys have to sit down too sometimes) and never had a problem. Did you ever hear a guy complain about falling in? Of course not. You know why?
Cause we have enough sense to look.
Now I'm sure it's common courtesy to lower the toilet seat when a female is waiting in line to pee, which I'm willing to do, but when a man is waiting in line does a girl ever put the toilet seat up after she pees? NO! She callously only thinks of herself.
It's not my intention to pick on girls in this column, but I am a boy and am doing it on this issue for three particular reasons. One, your logic makes no sense. Two, I'm lazy. And three, your logic makes no sense.
Girls can have it only one of two ways. Men could either leave the seat down all the time and risk staining it yellow, or they could leave it up all the time and pee in the appropriate area. Sure, girls will bear the brunt of the work to put the seat up and down, but isn't that better than sitting in a ring of urine? If I was a girl, I'd happily choose option number two and quit my complaining.
But alas, I am not a girl so I will never understand. And on a side note to Lovely Girlfriend Brittany -- I didn't pee on my hands, so why do I have to wash them after I'm finished?