Brain..brain! I used my brain to compile these observations….

I still haven’t made my mind up about the new lead singer of Sublime. I’m not sure if he’s a nerd or if he’s a tool. Maybe he’s multi-dimensional. All I know is that Brad Nowell, the original singer, died for his lyrics (songwriting was one of the excuses he used to justify his heroin appetite)- as simplistic as they might have been. Now some new guy is regurgitating mushy music vomit into my ears, like a Mama bird with vertigo. Why has originality in entertainment become as prevalent as diversity in Indiana? I’m tired of the industry feeding me what I had for lunch at dinner time.

Dat Phan is more than just a comic. He is a living testament to the fact that the attack on Hiroshima was a catastrophically violent tainting of an entire Nation’s gene pool. A morally irresponsible act, the ramifications of which can be seen in the physical and mental deformities of generations past, present and future. Dat Phan isn’t Japanese, you retort? Well, his mother’s vagina is. He does an impression of it in his act.

The passing of proposition 19 would make California a better place. You’d have to be a Nazi to vote Nein on 19.

Obama being bi-racial brings an interesting dynamic to the presidency. Back in the pre-Lincoln days, if you were black and white, you had conflicting rights and were considered to be self-employed. My nieces and nephews are mixed, which gives me carte blanch, as far as that joke goes.

Skinny jeans give emo kids the hugs that they never received from their parents.

Wendy Williams is the answer to the age old question: what would happen if Tyra Banks fucked a pile of extra chromosomes.

Christopher Columbus may have not been first to discover the Americas, but he was the first to realize that Indians could be used as dog food. My country celebrating the historically evil has enabled me to miss over a dozen Mondays in school, so I guess it all worked out.

Almost half a decade later, and the remaining Kennedy files are still being kept in an inaccessible, Government-controlled hiding place, along with Dubya’s service record and Reagan’s memory.

Comedy isn’t dead. It might have died briefly in 1994, when Bill Hicks passed and Carrot Top was voted comic of the year, but it was quickly resurrected, thanks to a variety of factors….

Such as:

A handful of classic Carlin HBO specials.

The emergence of such explosive stand-up acts as CK, Oswalt, Atell, Chappelle, Giraldo, Blurr, etc.

A solid alternative scene spearheaded by the likes of Odenkirk, Cross, Thompkins, Galifianakis and others.

The prolific comedy writings of Gould, Apatow (sometimes), Horowitz, David, etc.
…and so on. So, you see, comedy isn’t dead….anymore. If anything, it’s in a zombie state. If it’s done right, it will consume your brain.

-

I have nothing against fatties. Honestly. Some of my best friends are friends with fat people. I recently started a job where I sit at a computer all day, and I can easily see how it could happen to me. I empathize. The intent of this piece isn’t to pass judgment on any individual from any walk (or in this case, wobble) of life. I just find myself growing increasingly weary of watching my Nation- a Nation that, once upon a time, exuded pride and dignity and performance- solidify the perception that we have gone from baddest to fattest. We’ve become an adumbration of Girth, Winded and Fire (roasted marshmallows). I find it especially disturbing that our government, and its bitch the media, are grooming an entire herd, I mean generation of Americans to be obese, desensitized, docile, complacent, apathetic consumer-bots.

The inspiration for this column hit me like a bolt of lightning one dewy dawn as I was out in the farmlands, people tipping. I remember thinking to myself “people tipping? This shouldn’t even be a thing”; but it is, because that’s how bad it has become. It’s pretty ridiculous when a homeless guy with man titties is hitting me up for cash because he’s “hungry”. I don’t think my spare change should contribute to his spare tire. It puts me in the awkward position of having to feel sorry for the guy, all the while not allowing man tits to be the reason why. I had to feel sorry for him in spite of that fact. Needless to say, it took some adjusting. A 12 year old boy should discover voluptuous breasts while sneakily sifting through Dad’s Playboy stash or while watching Cinemax on a Friday night, not in the mirror.

Furthermore, kids shouldn’t learn everything they know about football from Madden 11. These sunlight-sensitive roly-poly’s grow into the guy in the NFL stands that applied his fanatic body paint with a wall roller. The very same sloth that spends 3 quarters of the game shouting instructions to hustle at the conditioned, self-disciplined, pro-bowl caliber wide receiver. There is something bizarre about a guy with a double neck and every square inch of his blubbery, living carcass covered in multicolored paint- a guy that resembles a Mini-Coop with its rape whistle-esque alarm going off- warning a World class athlete that he’s “looking like a fool out there”. That guy’s wife would offer her chubby hubby the same warning, if she weren’t blinded by her own tears.

The real irony sinks in during the commercial break. That’s when you get to see these lean-machine athletes hawk beer and high fructose corn syrup to their portly fan base. Obviously, these guys didn’t get to where they are and stay there by indulging in these products as often as they would like us to. Thanks to satellite TV, which is also endorsed by people that are too busy being successful and productive to have the need for 666 channels, we don’t even have to leave the house on game day. We can watch others make the best of the green grass and blue sky. Get yourself a nifty HD 3D television, and it’s almost as if you were looking out of the window….without getting up!

I think that dead-weight-headed man-tard Hank Williams Jr. belting out “are you ready fer some football?!?!” personifies the media’s manipulated perception of the average Monday Night Football fan. The American Broadcasting Company sees fit to open football’s biggest night with a simplistic jingle, fired out like a cannon ball from a bumpkin’s gullet. They also see fit to choose the ramblings of a more relatable, all be it less coherent, John Madden over Dennis Miller’s scrawny wise-ass and his uppity vocabulary. I believe the most common complaint from the fans, about Miller, was that he was a “word fag”.

It’s a small for instance that’s indicative of a bigger, more dire issue. The advertisement-fueled media wants Americans to be fat and simple minded. Most of the tripe they advertise is unhealthy and contributes to our Nation’s ever-expanding waste line. Why raise the ethical bar by using standards and discretion when it’s easier and more profitable to bring people down to their level. Nine times out of nine, fatties would rather go down in an elevator than walk up a flight of stairs, metaphorically speaking.

Given that the media, the seedy corporate underbelly and our façade of a government are all intertwined and internally dictated; having a dazed and confused populous makes for less questions and less resistance. The final product is obliviously “happy”, power conceding consumers. Everyone wins. Everyone that matters, that is. Never mind the 300,000 Americans that will croak this year, due to obesity related complications. Good hearted folk that will have to be cut out of their clothes, and possibly their homes. They are expendable like Stallone. Whatever it takes to keep the wheels that run the capitalistic nightmare machine turning. The millions of overweight Americans that won’t die this year, might be prone to anti-depression pill addiction, due to their infliction. They advertise that shit all day long, as well. Bonus points for the guys pulling the strings.

By the way, in case you were wondering, having a limb amputated due to diabetes doesn’t count as losing weight. Also, junk food doesn’t make your package fatter. It just makes it to where you’ll never see it again because you physically can’t and no one else will see it because they don’t want to. Like I said in the beginning, this isn’t a forum to put people down- whether they be Jeff Ross fat or Ralphie May fat. I’m genuinely concerned. Resist is my message. Question motive and don’t let the bad guys win. They want absolute power over our minds, our bodies, our financial surplus, our free will- all of it. They’re tics, whose swollen pouches are filled to capacity with our blood. If nothing else, we need to give ourselves a flea bath… Shake it off… Good boy.

Resist. Respect yourself, like that rap group Ninja’s With Attitude told us to do. As Eazy-E always said, “to thine own self, be true”. If you’ll excuse me now, I’m totally going to fuck up an animal style double-double from In and Out so the sadness inside of me can pass out. Catch you later, computator’s.

I hope you enjoyed the title. And now for something completely different…

Poverty blows. I don’t have to tell you that, Los Angeles. You either, everywhere else. Ask the token sleeping bum in front of Bliss Café. I would, but I’ve never seen him awake. My hope is that he’s dreaming of a remedy. It’s not news to anyone. Being broke, on any level, sucks tranny balls. From the down and out that resort to trash thievery in the calm of the night to support a Mad Dog 20/20 habit, to those of us that are slaves to our redundant day jobs- lacking financial independence is not where it’s at.

You’re quality of life will always be restricted, as long as you dread the alarm clock going off in the morning (a sound that I find more disturbing than the death rattle of a righteous man; a sound that should be banned from commercials and television all together). Such is the structure of our Nation. The wealthy bask in the beauty of life, most everyone else can eat shit and die; or you can be like the girl in the infamous “two girls, one cup” video and eat shit and live. Sure, she did it for attention and she did it because she was either hugged too little or too often as a child- but her main motive is obvious. She did it for money. Probably not a lot of money, either. Not enough to be known as “toilet breath” for the rest of her numbered days. Yes, numbered. Hepatitis can be contracted through fecal matter; but enough pleasantness.

The meek shall inherit the Earth, but in the mean time, it’s a rich man’s World. The wealthy dictate everything from media content to who the next President is going to be. The poor have to settle for the illusion that their vote counts and their voices are heard. The wealthy should love the poor. The seven year old seamstress working her fingers to the bone- making tacky Wal-Mart clothes for her spoiled, obese American counterparts (my future children won’t have any toys that were made in China, as they will not be allowed to play with tragic irony) in some drab sweat shop for thirteen cents an hour- that tortured soul is making a lot of money for the corporate cock suckers that choose to produce their product in such a morally illegal way.

The conception is that poor folk tend to have the low I.Q. to go along with the light wallet and that the wealthy tend to be more intelligent. There’s a lot of truth to that. On the other hand: Ashton Kutcher and Lil’ Wayne. Need I say more? I gave a friend of mine a ride to the County building so he could apply for assistance, in the form of a food stamp card. He came back to the car with the card and specific instructions not to write his pin number on the card itself. What the fuck is that all about? The guy is broke, not dumb. Does the State really perceive broke people to be that dim? They wouldn’t tell you that at the bank after you were issued a DEBIT card. The EBT card is similar to the DEBIT card. Apparently, the missing D and I stand for Dignity and Independence. I was more offended by their indirect assumption than he was, then I began to observe the herd that was spilling out of the office doors. Half a moment later, I understood why such a ridiculous warning was given, while simultaneously wondering if the corners of the card were filed down to prevent “uh-oh’s”.

Being just broke enough that you have to be crafty just to make it to the next paycheck breeds its own brand of misery. Case in point, shopping at the 99 Cents Only Store. Where everything is just “99point99” cents. I guess their head of marketing had a second hand education. The point, or decimal, goes in front of the four nines. Their way implies that Chinese toothpaste and High School Musical 3-ring binders run just under a C-note. I know most of their customers don’t notice, let alone care, but I do. Have some pride, brush up on your third grade math, and demagnetize your shopping carts while you’re at it. A shopping cart with a 40 yard radius is more frustrating to the homeless than an aluminum can eating hobo dog.

The only thing worse than shopping at these places, is working at these places. Back in my carpentry days, I had to take a temporary job at Rite AIDS when the equity crash began. During lunch time, the break room would smell of ramen noodles and regret. I peeked over the shoulder of the 45 year old ice cream clerk and noticed that he had manipulated his noodle into the shape of a noose. I’m guessing he had it rough. Perhaps, his home was mobile and his phone was not. It’s an unfortunate existence. A subtle death. That’s why it’s crucial to have a dream.

For me, that dream is comedy. Obviously, I would never treat comedy as a get rich scheme. I’m in this game because I have a deep rooted passion to laugh and make others do the same. However, if the day comes where I can use comedy to escape from such a bleak fate as dedicating a majority of my conscience hours to being at a place that I can’t stand in exchange for a barely ample payoff – bring it on. I would love to write and perform comedy for a living. A living, I say. Not the going rate of an open mic performance, which averages in the neighborhood of negative two dollars.

No matter what you aspire to be, the important thing is that you have an aspiration. To be content with the bare minimum life has to offer is to give up all together. I do alright. I get by. I know that’s not enough. I strive for greatness and I expect a long-term payoff for the quality of my work. I try to help those that are less fortunate than myself, all the while using discretion. Like when this guy on the street asked me for a dollar. Normally, I would oblige, but judging by the fridge box this guy was living in, he was doing all right for himself. Stainless steel with an ice maker. Here I am, filling up ice trays like a chump, and he wants my dollar. What a country.

Anyway, I’ve decided to give this comedy thing my all and to treat it like a legitimate career path. With that being said, I hope to see you guys on the circuit again very soon. If all goes well, me and every other deserving comic that aren’t making anything but rooms full of people laugh will get our comeuppance. Oh yes, our uppance shall come. This way, none of us will ever have to step foot in a 99point99 Cents Only Store ever again.

Why don’t bad things happen to good people more often? Rather, why doesn’t the appropriate thing happen to the deserving person more often? Life needs to teach us lessons, no matter how severe, in order for us as a species to evolve.

There was an incident in Connecticut last year (and I’m really on top of it) that bugs me every time it pops into my head. It was a gratuitously violent episode born from human arrogance and ignorance. An attack by an animal, something that may otherwise be considered a predictable part of nature, was triggered by a person doing what people do best- acting like an asshole. No offense to any homo-sapiens that might be reading this, but the poor animal in this story (a trained ape that had a higher I.Q. than two out of the three guys in Green Day) never stood a chance. His primal instincts were no match for her modern retardation. She deserved a healthy dose of ape-shit craziness. Only thing is, it didn’t happen to her and the ape was killed by the pigs (that’s street for police, whitey) in the woods moments after the fifteen minute attack relented.

I’m getting ahead of myself here. In case you missed it in the news or on Nat Geo (that’s street for National Geographic), here’s the skinny. A lonely old lady wanted to bypass the two-dozen cat route that her fellow widows had taken by getting a chimp. The two of them were inseparable for years. One day, surprise, he snaps and starts acting like an… animal. He maliciously shredded apart his owner’s friend. Not a few scratches and bites. He fucking ate her face and shat out her features. Next thing you know, the cops are chasing him through the woods with their firearms drawn, like he was Harrison Ford in The Fugitive. Obviously, the victim didn’t deserve such a bloody fate. The only thing she did wrong was befriending a buffoon.

You see, the owner was just as responsible for the attack transpiring as the chimp was, if not more so. She tried to humanize the critter in a way that wouldn’t be fit for an actual human. Armed with only the power of perception and utter disregard for decency, the dumb bitch decided to pump her dangerous pet full of mind/mood altering drugs. Xanax, to be precise. Apparently, she noticed that her special little guy was exhibiting the symptoms of anxiety. An anxious chimpanzee, ya don’t say. Isn’t this the same animal that breaks from turrets screeches only to fling hand full’s of feces at anything that is not yet covered in feces? The same animal that displays dominance over a fellow adolescent male by ripping his foe’s ape junk off with his bare hands…talk about cock blocking. The very same creature is showing signs of anxiety? God bless you for noticing. Your faceless friend would thank you too, but post-accident, she can’t open what used to be her mouth without important stuff falling out. The chimp, let’s call him Travis, because that’s his name, drank wine for years with no ill effects. As soon as he started popping pills, it was the beginning of the end. Just like most teenage school shooters, he had a head full of anti-feeling drugs and he snapped violently on the innocent. Side effects may include face consumption.

It’s atypical of mankind to try to meddle with nature. Attempt to fix or improve it with the man made poisons that we desensitize ourselves with. It amazes me that so many parents fail to see how detrimental that shit is for their children, but to give fist full’s of psych meds to a potentially dangerous animal; I don’t see how that’s even legal. Granted, a lot of the testing is done on animals and the rest of the test subjects are poor people. The F.D.A. views them as one in the same. I guess what I find most frustrating about this incident is that it speaks volumes about how warped peoples sensibilities have become.

We’re a nation of dope hating drug addicts. People actually believe the pills that turns their kids into slobbering drones is medication. The worst thing in the World would be for little Tyler to smoke a joint at a party with his friends, even though Mommy has been redirecting his brain signals since he was nine and he would become restless on long trips. Lazy parenting has a lot to do with how deep the pockets of the drug companies in this Country have become. It’s unsettling to walk into a Doctor’s office and see Pfizer stickers plastered all over the donated equipment and supplies. Drugs that fuck us up more than our alleged ailment ever could are crammed down our throats and some of us can’t get enough. The commercials are frightening. Are people really willing to die in order to sleep better or pee less often?

When will America awake from its chemical induced slumber? If a teenager whacking his teachers and fellows students doesn’t wave a red flag, what will? Perhaps eyes would open up a little wider if one of these drugged little shits stayed home from school and ate Mommy’s face for fifteen minutes before ripping Daddy’s scrotum (Junior’s former home) off with his bare hands.

Stop popping pills, America. You’re better than that. I’ll wrap it up now, the Vicodin is starting to wear off.

People never cease to surprise. Every once in a while, here and there, somebody will open their mouth in my direction and proceed to spill out a gem of pure retardedry. After the initial dumbfounded reaction passes, I may grow inspired. Next thing you know, thanks to an absurd statement made by an otherwise harmless fella with a little water on the brain, I have a column on my hands. Finally, societal stupidity works for me, rather than against.

It should be noted, the offender in question is a friend, outside of comedy, and he has an exceptional I.Q. He’s accountable. No excuses. Anyway, I’m running some material by him- nothing too obscure, easily accessible stuff. His critique was inexcusable. He said the writing was great and all but if I want to sell it to the general public I should dumb it down. Mind you, he’s an outsider to comedy, not a Last Comic Standing judge. His demeanor was sincere. He was serious. I had given him too much credit as a human being.

For years, he would relentlessly mock, antagonize and bitch about every stupid person he came into contact with. Now he’s suggesting that I, not unlike Pam Anderson, spread the disease. No dice, dick face. You can’t complain about frustrating idiocy in everyday life then encourage someone else to plant seeds of ignorance and water the existing crop. Get yourself another patsy. I have too much…(not money, what’s the other thing)…integrity. I was sort of irked by his belligerence, but it got me thinking. I wonder what the future will be like if the number of comics that were in it for the right reasons- like being uncompromisingly funny while sticking to their true style- what if these righteous misfits became outnumbered by the type of comic that would take such tainted advice? Let’s just call it what it is, badvice.

As I am well aware, dumb people are inescapable. They’re at work, school, shows, practically everywhere. The only place you won’t find them are places that are tricky to track on the map. If they can get to your town via a straight line, they’re a comin’. However, the optimist in me needs to believe that a slight majority of society is, at the very least, semi-intelligent and equipped with common sense. My faith in that sentiment sometimes becomes shaken.

I’m not gloating, here. Believe me, I’ve had my moments. I think it might of have had something to do with falling out of a moving vehicle when I was two, or maybe it has something to do with the same thing happening when I was five. I’m not pointing any fingers here, Mom. It was the Eighties, before all that car seat hysteria dictated policy. Point is, I’m somewhat intelligent but I do some really stupid shit. Like the time I accidentally sprayed myself in the face with black spray paint or the time I (not)accidentally sprayed myself with the pepper spray that happened to be dangling from my Mom’s keychain, hanging from the unattended ignition. Perhaps it was insensitive of me to refer to the weapon as anti-rape spray. I deserved to burn. Burn I did. Then I ran into a room where my Dad was with about a dozen of his buddies; blithering and panicking like someone that had just tripped off of the mini-bus, crying about my self-inflicted eye melting. The pride he must of felt. I’ve had plenty of Ralph Wiggum moments. I consider myself smart and stupid. Which is why I can be un-biased when I say that smart is better. It’s the kind of World I want to live in.

The alternative scares the herpes out of me. Don’t judge, just imagine the hijinx we’ll be in for once Fox News and Wal-Mart and MTV and American Idol and America’s Got Talons officially take over. The smart people will have to band together in barricaded safe-houses, listening to Radiohead and playing Scrabble until it’s safe to go outside again. It will be a much simpler time. Pesky shoe tying will be a thing of the past! No more stick shifts!! One utensil for EVERYTHING!!! “This many” will become an official unit of currency measure. The streets will be littered with the aloof, as they walk their leashed children to McDonald’s for a sausage sammich. While we’re at it, no more Jeopardy. Think you’re better than me, huh? Bye-bye, Trebek. You’ve shared your final Final Jeopardy clue.

It’s a reality that can very well be right around the corner. While I’m sure that me and most of the comics I enjoy and respect will not succumb with compromise, I can’t say the same for other comics I know personally or some of the mainstream acts that hack it up in return for a handsome living. For the sake of example, I’ll give names but I must alter their identity. Sob Baget and Ben Bailey (I flipped Bailey’s initials, too, in case you were wondering). Saget has a decent brain. It gets plenty of rest, 90% of the time Bob’s on camera. His contribution to America’s Funniest Home Videos caused me intense, crippling depression when I was but a boy. How rude (? like little Michelle used to say in that other show Saget shat on). Playing the game, subscribing to the “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em”” mentality has made Robert substantially wealthy. Nauseously wealthy. Excuse me…(dry heaves of bitter jealousy ensue for many exaggerated minutes)- he has cashed in considerably, but at what price? You part from your precious money at death, greatness lasts forever. Nostradamus is still a pretty great guy, even if he can’t spell Hitler.

Speaking of Hitler, Cash Cab’s Ben Bailey makes no effort to hide the fact that he isn’t the lisping, autistic sounding dingus that he personifies in his stand-up act. More people know him from the Discovery Channel, so they know he’s sharp. Then he goes on stage and his split personality, which happens to have an unhardened soft spot, takes hold. I think he’s playing both sides for all he can get. Put on a good show to get the nerds at Discovery in his favor during the day, dumb it down at dusk for lazy crowds, go home, yell at the dog as a venting mechanism, cry in the shower, go to sleep, get up the next day and repeat. That’s how Ben Bailey must roll.

Other than this spiel, my friends comment had little effect on me. If anything, it had an adverse effect. I’m going to ignore the temptation to have an automatic success of a set by feeding dimmer crowds my easier material. I’m going to joke about the Gold Standard and Corporate Welfare in Crenshaw. Not to imply that the Shaw is slow. Please don’t shoot me.

As far as my material writing is concerned, I’m never going to be afraid to articulate my point of view or to make a joke a little longer in order to make it better. Fuck whoever’s impotent attention span I’m failing to placate. Fuck it with a spoon, whatever that means. It’s sad that “alternative” usually serves as code for “smart”. Why should smart have to settle for being the alternative? Obviously, that contradicts our Nation’s intentions, seeing how we have an educational system and all.

There are signs of hope. Rock group The Scorpions are releasing a “Goodbye” album, with a promised band-wide suicide to follow. Thanks, guys. I think what I get from the 30% of the smartly funny comics and regular folk I encounter conquers the other 70%, comprised mainly of Jackassholes. Which is comforting. If you experience similar frustrations, then build a wall of interesting people around you and pretend that the rest of the planet is okay. There’s only so much you can do to help the comfortably numb. In the immortal words of Franky the mute, “let the clowns hang themselves with silly string”.