Lil Wayne went to see a basketball game. Turns out, the seats he thought he was entitled to were already taken!
The nerve!
So he got butthurt and pouted to ESPN.
But for real, if I was in the seat-filling business, I wouldn't want my paying customers to have to sit next to him either.
People are starving, getting furiously slaughtered overseas, and Lil Wayne makes headlines by feeling unwanted at a basketball game.
Not only should he get flagged for the race card fail, but he apparently tried to play the celebrity card by thinking he deserves the seats that were already sold out. Already sold to someone else.
Then he went on to say that at his concerts, he deprives his loyal, paying fans of his best performances until he spots a fellow celeb in the crowd. In which case, then it's OK for him perform a little harder.
Oh hey there, we're back after about a week or so. Been busy.
So obviously if you've made it this far, you've read the title of this particular post. And maybe you're worried that I'm about to go on a rant about how horrible feminists are. Well they are horrible. But that's not the point here.
The women's history class was pretty lol though. You knew the "professor" was gonna be a fat lesbian waste of life. Note that the waste of life part comes from her morbid obesity and horrible "opinions", not the lesbian preferences.
Obviously the class was a joke, and in between the man-bashing, we watched a few oddball movies like The Majestic. Not sure how that movie fits in a women's history class, but it held the "professor" back from man-bashing for a couple days.
But here's a funny little story about one of the "projects" we were assigned.
We each had to bring in a song to play for the class and talk about how it relates to women. I don't really remember much else about the assignment - just the song that I chose to play.
Surely you are aware that Strung Out is one of my favorite bands, and they had conveniently just released a new record - that might as well have been glued in my cd player.
So it was natural that I would pick a Strung Out song to bring in.
And I sure did.
The song is called Razor Sex. How's that for a song title to share with a bunch of feminazi psychos?!
Here, listen to this tight little jam RIGHT MEOW:
When it came time to share, you know the "professor" wanted to put the only two dudes in the class on the spot. Her scowl found me first as she asked (told) me if I brought a song in; I answered affirmatively, and walked my CD up to the late 90's style CD boombox, popped it in, and announced the band name and the title of the song.
"The band is Strung Out, a punk band from California; the song is called Razor Sex."
The one other dude in the class immediately yelled out something about "those dudes are still around? Awesome!"
His stoned enthusiasm was cut short by an audible grimace from the "professor" as she repeated the title of the song angrily.
However, that frown slowly turned upside down as I explained that the song is about how men use and abuse women for licentious ends, like sex. FYI - it's really not about that. But that didn't stop me from going on for a roughly thirty seconds about how wrong it is for men to, well, basically exist.
Really the only thing that would have made it better would have been a sentence or two about rape.
Somehow I got an A in that class, though that could have been due to me VOLUNTEERING AT A DOMESTIC ABUSE SHELTER for the community service portion of a project in that class.
To striving for just good enough, because the marginal amount of satisfaction or pleasure that can be found in "great" just isn't worth the time or the goddamn effort.
To a job you hate, because you have no idea where to even start to change that.
To working overtime, because yeah, you could use the extra money, and fun and life and family and living can wait till next weekend. Or next month.
To never saying no, because honestly, it's just easier to say yes, and do it.
To doing something you don't want to do for the next 50 years, because it never occurred to you that you don't have to.
To having done something you didn't want to do for the last 30 years, because it just went by so fast.
To having no idea that you've already given up, because life has beaten you down so many times.
Sometimes, I have just the most fleeting flashes of these feelings. And worse, they've gotten more frequent and intense as I've gotten older.
OK, this may be kind of pathetic, but ever since I became a working professional, I've always wanted to play in a work softball league.
And now thanks to Citibank, my dream is a reality! All you fucks out there that are blaming big banks for the housing crisis, what about the little people like me, that are playing on big-bank sponsored softball teams?
What about us?!?!?!
Well get PUMPED because your boi is the MVP of the league! Hitting, fielding, base running, making the pouty face from second base, WE DO IT ALL. Shoot, they even got me doing a little first base coaching.
Whatevs.
We had our first doubleheader of the season last Thursday, and despite losing the first game 18-5, the night was a resounding success! Also, fuck you, I accounted for at least 50% of the team's offense, in both games lol, including an inside the park home run in the first.
Thanks throwing errors!
Anyway, I was slapping softballs like mouthy wives and this song was PUMPING in my head, PUMPING ME UP.
From my first at bat in the first game to my last at bat in the second game, it was PURE FUN and PURE PUMP.
Everybody was having a blast, nobody was pissed, people were smilin' and laughin' and my PUMP was at an all time high. The frigid temperatures, the tight muscles, the near strains, pulls, and tears, nah, none of that could hold us back.
Especially in the second game.
Yeah, we had the lead through the first five innings, then of course the other team jumps up by three in the bottom of the sixth. So there we are, top of the seventh, last inning, down by three. At least I get to bat third!
Before I know it, there I am sliding across home, bringing us to within one.
Next up, my homeboy ****, crazy dude, good sized, always a smile on his face, he's gotta do something.
CRACK!
The line drive sails into right, over the deep shortstop, in the hole between right and right-center. He's a bigger dude so he's trucking around the bases, and oh shit, yeah, he just touched third and he's going for it - ohhhhh!!! HERE COMES THE THROW!!!
Oh shit, right to the catcher, perfect throw, **** is close and he knows it. So he dives.
And winds up at a dead stop, belly on the ground, about three feet from home plate.
OUT - GAME OVER!
WOW, THE DRAMA, THE PUMP!
So close, so much fun.
Can't wait for tomorrow night's game! Also can't wait to listen to the sweet song immediately below!
Let's ease back into this blog-business with a nice little story about workplace race relations, shall we?
I hope you've heard of the game/time waster knows as MFK. Of maybe you know it as marry, ferk, kill. Or maybe as bed, dead, wed.
Never heard of it? Take a guess how you play.
OK, name three people to a friend, and he or she has to choose one to marry, one to ferk, and one to kill. Pretty easy right? If you can put together three good names, you can get some interesting answers out of the group.
So, a couple rounds deep at lunch a couple weeks ago, homeboy's eyes widen as he spots a trifecta of perfect subjects for the next round of MFK. For my next round of MFK.
Bear in mind, instead of each of the three full-worded options, we instead utter the individual letters: M, F, or K. You know, to avoid being overheard at work talking about actively murdering or boning somebody. Tryin' to avoid that HR ish.
Anyway, Following dude's wide-eyed gaze, I turned around and what did I spy but three morbidly obese, troll-women waddling around the cafeteria. Before I even had a chance to think about what I was saying, I confidently spit it out:
K(ill)
K(ill)
K(ill)
And that was before I remembered the next lunch table over was packed with about 7 African American lunch-goers.
Happy ending though, nobody outside our table heard my little MFK indiscretion.
The other day, I happened upon a band called El Creepo!. Yes, the exclamation point is part of the band's name.
For the most part we've got acoustic rock, with a few peppy jams mixed in. But the vocals, almost whispered at times, combined with the fucked up lyrics, give it kind of a subtle unsettling vibe. Whatever that means.
Love the part about the Jonestown holiday lol.
Check out this little uptempo acoustic jam featuring super PUMPYsynths bouncing around. And considering we're in April, you gotta get PUMPED about super PUMPYsynths.
In other PUMP news, we have two (2) of our friends coming into town on Thursday night. They are tentatively planning on staying until Monday, but I'm not sure they'll last that long lol. See the kicker is, it'll be the two of them, both female, Heckyeahwoman, and ME.
All in one tiny ass little house, with one bathroom. Truly pity she who uses the turlet after me.
But whatevs, we're gettin' ready for their impending arrival.
Shower cameras mounted.
Creep-mode dialed in.
Full-on cleaning almost completed.
Ladies, we are ready for you! And we're super PUMPED for this weekend!
True story, there is a tall man terrorizing the Tampa area. This weirdo usually hangs out around parks, trying to find pick-up games of basketball - during which, he will grab the ball and maneuver around so that you come into contact with his stinky, naughty bits.
Truly an unpleasant experience.
His signature move is the "bait and switch junk grab". As you're grabbing for the ball, his junk magically appears. In the way of your hand.
Another one of his famous moves is to let the ball go loose, then as you scramble for it, his sweaty ass gets in the way. Of your face.
