Now I know I can sometimes come across as obsessed with physical appearance (especially my own). I assume most people realize that I am satirical and merely acting conceited for the sake of a laugh that I inevitably don't get. But I did realize something today. A ground-breaking, Earth-shattering, life-changing realization that can only be described as... ground-breaking, Earth-shattering and life-changing. I was finally given undeniable proof that I am one of the 100 hottest people in the world! I can tell you are as excited as I am.
Now you may be asking yourself just how Nancy Pelosi (side note: spell check recommendations for Pelosi = Plosive, Pelvis, Peloponnese, Pelagic) doesn't have drool running down her chin. The answer? She has assistants that constantly wipe it off for her (because she is retarded, you see).
But you may be saying to yourself, "Dean, how do you know you are one of the hottest 100 people in the world? You haven't seen everyone in the world."
And you are correct. I have rarely left Tennessee. But that is why we have magazines. Maxim compiled a list of the 100 hottest people and I can only assume they did their due diligence prior to publishing such a list. So therefore I can also only assume they did, indeed find the hottest 100 people on the planet. But they must have skipped over my neighborhood. After reviewing, there is no way I'm not at least in the top 20.
So that is the purpose of this essay: To prove that I belong in discussions of the physically elite.
Exhibit A
What is this? This is a picture from the Maxim Hot 100 party... of a field mouse, something that farmers keep on their land to keep the grass from growing too high and Rocky's sidekick.
Now I don't know what number these monsters are, I am guessing somewhere towards 100 - but obviously they did not line up from 1-100 in the buffet line (shhhh... don't anger the one on the right).
Exhibit B
How in the hell does one even go about growing a transparent beard? It looks like he transplanted ass hair onto his face and bleached it. And when did Screeches girlfriend get the Dr Pepper commercials? I swear if I was the CEO of Coca-Cola and you told me about this picture I would snap your neck before you finished the sentence.
Exhibit C
Corn rows on a girl are inexcusable. The only way she would look worse is if you put her in a denim skirt with a belt around it. And maybe some close-toed shoes. And you know the old adage "you can't polish a turd"? This picture comes to mind. What is with all of the make-up? I haven't seen an attempt like this since... well since I let this fuzzy bear-looking thing eat after midnight.
Exhibit D
No. 17 - One spot ahead of Marissa Miller. Can a magazine understand me when I tell it to burn in Hell?
Exhibit E
Look... all personal feelings aside - gross
Exhibit F
Now I realize you may not think that is a bad choice for number 10 on a top 100 list of attractive people. I would not disagree until you consider that this is the same person when she does not have a photo shoot coming up.
Exhibit G (as in GROSS - Zing!)
Maybe I could see it if he wasn't in drag. Youknowwhatimsayin?
Exhibit H
You may be asking yourself who this gem is. This fine thing is your very own number 52
Oh like you didn't know?
Exhibit I
Now I won't disagree that canckles and cigarettes are a dynamite combo. I think it is pretty clear that Lily Allen is on her way to tape her exercise video - set to release when fat people come back in style.
Exhibit J
Hey, who is that beside Cameron Diaz? Is that... Mickey Rourke?
You get the idea. They are ugly. Like... not even the best looking people in your group of friends ugly. I think I have made my point. I'm not going to sit here and pretend I am flawless. Why just the other day I had a hangnail. And those things are gross.
So this is your call to action. Write Maxim magazine and demand they do more thorough research next year. We will not idly sit by and be lied to. If you want our vote we demand the truth! You will never become president by restating empty phrases in different ways over and over again... Wait. What were we talking about?
Friday, May 15, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Obviously Not Miss San Fransisco
I don't like to take sides (*). I hate to take sides more than I hate to take NyQuil (why does it taste so bad? Can't we do something about that?). But there is something happening right now that I have to address. Something that is so entirely not news worthy it should have never been an afterthought in the mind of anyone... anywhere, yet has become what seems to be the top news story of the past week. I'm not talking about our government giving $30 billion more to the AIG "rescue" (which I will now refer to as the "AIG Prolonged Euthanization / Bend over and pull up your skirt, tax payer")... Not The CFO of Freddie Mac committing suicide after only being on the job since last September (did nothing ever come up about handling pressure situations in his interview?). Nothing about our new President implementing a plan to save the US $100 million (.0005% of this years planned spending deficit? Really? thanks for the insulting reach-around, BO.). Nothing about a war or sports.
Nope... Miss California caused a "scandal" by answering a loaded question honestly. I know, right? You don't care either. Now I don't really know who or what Perez Hilton is, but I'm pretty sure it is gay and I'm almost positive it should not qualify as a "celebrity judge." Nevertheless someone let this talentless monstrosity ask a question to a poor girl that has worked her entire life to look fantastic in a 2 piece (I sympathize because I know the sacrifices it takes to look impeccable in a thong).
So it asked this poor girl her opinion on gay marriage. And her answer was... about as smooth as a herpes outbreak. She states:
Now I know what you are about to say. "Dean, your hair looks ridiculous. Why don't you get a hair cut."
But that is beside the point. Focus here. Can you understand the picture I am painting? Hollywood has jumped on board with making fun of this poor girl. HOLLYWOOD! No, not even Hollywood. Those goblins that became famous for no other reason than having rich parents and not wearing panties. They make Sean Penn look smart.
And it's no wonder journalism is in the tank. People blame the internet. Its not the internet. It is the the uninspired morons that contact these people and ask their opinion.
What? Too far?
Look... all I'm saying is that George Strait is one smooth talker when it comes to the ladies.
Not only that, but can we all please agree that if you ask someone's opinion on something you can't get mad when they give it to you? It's pretty clear what answer was going to serve Perez Hilton's agenda. And Miss California was expected to give him the only kind of satisfaction she could ever give him.
But she didn't. She answered honestly. And now I can't look at any news outlet without reading or hearing about this "scandal." This isn't a scandal, people. This is a competition that is 90% decided by physical appearance and the ability to not fall down in heels. And then they ask them a question and given the opportunity, one contestant stated what she believed in. And a large percentage of the country agrees with her or it would be legal everywhere. But we don't hear from that percentage. We hear from Kim Kardashian.
The only mistake Miss California made was not understanding that the only people that care about the Miss America pageant are gay men. She should have dodged the question and still not completely abandoned her beliefs and answered like this:
She would have received a standing ovation and have the crown right now.
I'm just saying that I'm right... about everything. Even when I contradict myself.
And Perez Hilton is not so much a celebrity judge as an unfunny, untalented, fat eye sore that makes more money than me for reasons I will never understand. How did it even get on TV? That is atrocious. I'm serious. Write your congressman. We demand a Dean be on TV!
U.S.A., U.S.A., U.S.A.!!!!!
* I really like to take sides
Nope... Miss California caused a "scandal" by answering a loaded question honestly. I know, right? You don't care either. Now I don't really know who or what Perez Hilton is, but I'm pretty sure it is gay and I'm almost positive it should not qualify as a "celebrity judge." Nevertheless someone let this talentless monstrosity ask a question to a poor girl that has worked her entire life to look fantastic in a 2 piece (I sympathize because I know the sacrifices it takes to look impeccable in a thong).
So it asked this poor girl her opinion on gay marriage. And her answer was... about as smooth as a herpes outbreak. She states:
"We live in a land where you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite. And you know what, I think in my country, in my family, I think that I believe that a marriage should be between a man and a woman. No offense to anybody out there, but that's how I was raised."
Now I know what you are about to say. "Dean, your hair looks ridiculous. Why don't you get a hair cut."
But that is beside the point. Focus here. Can you understand the picture I am painting? Hollywood has jumped on board with making fun of this poor girl. HOLLYWOOD! No, not even Hollywood. Those goblins that became famous for no other reason than having rich parents and not wearing panties. They make Sean Penn look smart.
And it's no wonder journalism is in the tank. People blame the internet. Its not the internet. It is the the uninspired morons that contact these people and ask their opinion.
"Hey, Paris... what do you think about Miss California's answer to the question on Gay marriage?"
"People need to be more tolerant. If it weren't for Gay people, no one would have bought my sex tape... Please pay attention to me! Look! I shaved (pulls up skirt)"
What? Too far?
Look... all I'm saying is that George Strait is one smooth talker when it comes to the ladies.
Not only that, but can we all please agree that if you ask someone's opinion on something you can't get mad when they give it to you? It's pretty clear what answer was going to serve Perez Hilton's agenda. And Miss California was expected to give him the only kind of satisfaction she could ever give him.
But she didn't. She answered honestly. And now I can't look at any news outlet without reading or hearing about this "scandal." This isn't a scandal, people. This is a competition that is 90% decided by physical appearance and the ability to not fall down in heels. And then they ask them a question and given the opportunity, one contestant stated what she believed in. And a large percentage of the country agrees with her or it would be legal everywhere. But we don't hear from that percentage. We hear from Kim Kardashian.
The only mistake Miss California made was not understanding that the only people that care about the Miss America pageant are gay men. She should have dodged the question and still not completely abandoned her beliefs and answered like this:
What's up with men anyway? Why can't they spend more than 10 minutes in Target? Amirite, ladies?
She would have received a standing ovation and have the crown right now.
I'm just saying that I'm right... about everything. Even when I contradict myself.
And Perez Hilton is not so much a celebrity judge as an unfunny, untalented, fat eye sore that makes more money than me for reasons I will never understand. How did it even get on TV? That is atrocious. I'm serious. Write your congressman. We demand a Dean be on TV!
U.S.A., U.S.A., U.S.A.!!!!!
* I really like to take sides
Friday, April 10, 2009
Kanye Humbled... Still Hated
There are not too many things I am ashamed to admit. I tend to have outlandish opinions about things and people often disagree with me about these things. Nevertheless I think I make a strong case for my opinions and much like Charles Manson; it all makes sense in my head.
For instance, I am not ashamed to admit that I think french fries are a better side item to a steak than a baked potato. I should probably not admit this. I should probably say something healthy so everyone thinks I am healthy, and therefore better than their tubby self image. But I don't say something healthy. I say french fries. Because they are a gift from God when accompanying a steak. It's the truth. So next time you are at the Sizzler (or wherever your significant other takes you on your special day), and your waiter asks you what side you would like with your "steak" - as you peruse the side items and try to decide between rice pilaf, loaded baked potato or creamed whatever... go with the fries. And do it with pride. Besides, by the time you dump everything in the kitchen on your baked potato to give it flavor, it is 7,000 calories. Man, your eating has gotten out of control... just sayin'.
Another thing I am not ashamed of, but probably should be is the television programming that I enjoy. There are shows that I enjoy that other people (including my wife) find completely ridiculous. I can watch Gangland for hours if I don't have anything to do. I can't explain why, but I really get into the show. I unconditionally love hearing stories of crime organizations, mafia, mobs and gangs torturing and killing each other. It is fascinating. If you don't believe me, log onto your Blockbuster or Netflix account and find The Iceman: Confessions of a Mafia Hitman. A guy can have a normal family life and kill over 100 people for the mafia in his spare time. The EXACT same way I can look beautiful after only 2 hours of sleep (ed. note - this may not be the same thing at all, but it is still true).
I also cannot get interested in shows that just about everyone else loves. This mostly applies to comedies. The most notable example of this is Flight of the Concords. Everyone seems to think this show is hilarious. I have never found anything I have seen on that show even remotely funny. We are supposed to laugh because they they have a straight face, huh? Well I refuse to fall in line with people I am convinced are only laughing because they are afraid they aren't getting the joke.
"Hey guys, I have a great new idea for the show! We will wear a funny hat. (uproarious laughter) Yeah, yeah! We will wear funny hats and ride unicorns. (More laughter). Oh, man I'm on a role. Then we will sing. We can sing a song about... about..."
(Someone else chimes in) "A song about... a box! We can pretend we are boxes... HAHAHA!!! But when we do it we will include long pauses and stare at the camera with straight faces. HAHAHA!!!"
I just wrote an episode of Flight of the Concords.
Another show I have never found funny is Southpark. I know it is supposed to be hilarious. The problem I have with Southpark is the reason Sasha Baron Cohen is supposed to be hilarious. Anyone can be funny by saying things people find offensive. It doesn't make you funny. Now believe me... I am not sensitive. I do not feel bad for people that get made fun of and rarely anything offends me personally. But I still don't find it funny to make fun of people in a way that society finds "shocking." I am supposed to think Trey Parker and Matt Stone are funny because they have a cartoon retard farting on their show. Ha! They made fun of retards! Hilariously shocking! Did they really name the black kid Token? Genius!
To sum it up: saying things that other people won't say does not make you funny. It may make people laugh, but it does not make you a funny person. I guess it is a niche that can make somone rich, but it is just not funny to me.
That being said; Southpark did something this week that they should get an Emmy for accomplishing. They absolutely skewered Kanye West. So much so that he apologized for his own Ego. I'll say that again: they made fun of Kanye West until he decided HE was a douche bag (I always thought that was one word, but spell check tells me douche bag is two words. Interesting). Don't get me wrong... what I saw of the episode was not really funny. But apparently it was effective. He wrote on his blog:
"SOUTH PARK MURDERED ME LAST NIGHT AND IT'S PRETTY FUNNY. IT HURTS MY FEELINGS BUT WHAT CAN YOU EXPECT FROM SOUTH PARK! I ACTUALLY HAVE BEEN WORKING ON MY EGO THOUGH. HAVING THE CRAZY EGO IS PLAYED OUT IN MY LIFE AND CAREER."
"I JUST WANT TO BE A DOPER PERSON WHICH STARTS WITH ME NOT ALWAYS TELLING PEOPLE HOW DOPE I THINK I AM,"
This seems like a backhanded admission of guilt. Like saying, "I'm beautiful, but I don't even realize it." Regardless I applaud his effort in trying to sound like a person I don't want to get run over by a train carrying dynamite.
I think I speak for everyone when I say that a great start to obtaining modesty would be return back to the world of lower case letters.
But is it too late? Will we ever be able to forgive Kanye West for his tantrums at award shows? For claiming he is the voice of our generation? For feeling waaay more relevant than anyone else thinks he is?
I can't. Or I won't. Either way, I am really looking forward to retirement. That will be great, won't it?
For instance, I am not ashamed to admit that I think french fries are a better side item to a steak than a baked potato. I should probably not admit this. I should probably say something healthy so everyone thinks I am healthy, and therefore better than their tubby self image. But I don't say something healthy. I say french fries. Because they are a gift from God when accompanying a steak. It's the truth. So next time you are at the Sizzler (or wherever your significant other takes you on your special day), and your waiter asks you what side you would like with your "steak" - as you peruse the side items and try to decide between rice pilaf, loaded baked potato or creamed whatever... go with the fries. And do it with pride. Besides, by the time you dump everything in the kitchen on your baked potato to give it flavor, it is 7,000 calories. Man, your eating has gotten out of control... just sayin'.
Another thing I am not ashamed of, but probably should be is the television programming that I enjoy. There are shows that I enjoy that other people (including my wife) find completely ridiculous. I can watch Gangland for hours if I don't have anything to do. I can't explain why, but I really get into the show. I unconditionally love hearing stories of crime organizations, mafia, mobs and gangs torturing and killing each other. It is fascinating. If you don't believe me, log onto your Blockbuster or Netflix account and find The Iceman: Confessions of a Mafia Hitman. A guy can have a normal family life and kill over 100 people for the mafia in his spare time. The EXACT same way I can look beautiful after only 2 hours of sleep (ed. note - this may not be the same thing at all, but it is still true).
I also cannot get interested in shows that just about everyone else loves. This mostly applies to comedies. The most notable example of this is Flight of the Concords. Everyone seems to think this show is hilarious. I have never found anything I have seen on that show even remotely funny. We are supposed to laugh because they they have a straight face, huh? Well I refuse to fall in line with people I am convinced are only laughing because they are afraid they aren't getting the joke.
"Hey guys, I have a great new idea for the show! We will wear a funny hat. (uproarious laughter) Yeah, yeah! We will wear funny hats and ride unicorns. (More laughter). Oh, man I'm on a role. Then we will sing. We can sing a song about... about..."
(Someone else chimes in) "A song about... a box! We can pretend we are boxes... HAHAHA!!! But when we do it we will include long pauses and stare at the camera with straight faces. HAHAHA!!!"
I just wrote an episode of Flight of the Concords.
Another show I have never found funny is Southpark. I know it is supposed to be hilarious. The problem I have with Southpark is the reason Sasha Baron Cohen is supposed to be hilarious. Anyone can be funny by saying things people find offensive. It doesn't make you funny. Now believe me... I am not sensitive. I do not feel bad for people that get made fun of and rarely anything offends me personally. But I still don't find it funny to make fun of people in a way that society finds "shocking." I am supposed to think Trey Parker and Matt Stone are funny because they have a cartoon retard farting on their show. Ha! They made fun of retards! Hilariously shocking! Did they really name the black kid Token? Genius!
To sum it up: saying things that other people won't say does not make you funny. It may make people laugh, but it does not make you a funny person. I guess it is a niche that can make somone rich, but it is just not funny to me.
That being said; Southpark did something this week that they should get an Emmy for accomplishing. They absolutely skewered Kanye West. So much so that he apologized for his own Ego. I'll say that again: they made fun of Kanye West until he decided HE was a douche bag (I always thought that was one word, but spell check tells me douche bag is two words. Interesting). Don't get me wrong... what I saw of the episode was not really funny. But apparently it was effective. He wrote on his blog:
"SOUTH PARK MURDERED ME LAST NIGHT AND IT'S PRETTY FUNNY. IT HURTS MY FEELINGS BUT WHAT CAN YOU EXPECT FROM SOUTH PARK! I ACTUALLY HAVE BEEN WORKING ON MY EGO THOUGH. HAVING THE CRAZY EGO IS PLAYED OUT IN MY LIFE AND CAREER."
"I JUST WANT TO BE A DOPER PERSON WHICH STARTS WITH ME NOT ALWAYS TELLING PEOPLE HOW DOPE I THINK I AM,"
This seems like a backhanded admission of guilt. Like saying, "I'm beautiful, but I don't even realize it." Regardless I applaud his effort in trying to sound like a person I don't want to get run over by a train carrying dynamite.
I think I speak for everyone when I say that a great start to obtaining modesty would be return back to the world of lower case letters.
But is it too late? Will we ever be able to forgive Kanye West for his tantrums at award shows? For claiming he is the voice of our generation? For feeling waaay more relevant than anyone else thinks he is?
I can't. Or I won't. Either way, I am really looking forward to retirement. That will be great, won't it?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Your New Hero
Clint Eastwood may be many things (old, wrinkly, old)... but he is not a sissy. In fact, he went on the record as saying that we are a "pu$$y generation". I tend to agree with him because... well he might grunt at me if I don't. And this is my last clean pair of boxers. But today he made me the happiest man alive. Clint (that's what I call him) told Der Spiegel magazine (I think that is German for "Barely Legal", but I could be wrong)that people have lost their sense of humor when it comes to race jokes.
Now I know that the sensitive thing to do here is to call him old and out of touch. And to say that he does not understand what it is like to... whatever. The only reason I am not saying that is because I agree with him by a percentage that is so much higher than 100% it has not even been invented yet. Get over it and go back to your tee pee, redskin.
Now I know there are some words that are off limits. I begrudgingly concede that I should not be saying certain words in reference to certain races. But listen - I'm not going to preface my sentences with, "Now I'm not racist. I have black friends." If you have to make it known that you have black friends, you are probably only have one and its because he acts like Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. I wouldn't say I have as many black friends as Tupac, but I can think of at least 8 white guys I'm friends with that act like Tupac so that has to count for something, right?
As Clint puts it:
I wish I could refer to my friends as, "Albert the Chinaman" or "Lucas the Mexican" or "Webbed foot Wes" without people looking at me funny. I deal with Indian people (red dot - not feather) on a daily basis and I will fight anyone that argues against the fact that it is easier to lift up a Buick than to get them to write a check.
I think the fact that the difference of people from different areas/backgrounds/ethnicities is so obvious it becomes almost offensive not to acknowledge it. Like having your grandparents tell you something is "off the hook." Or having me tell anyone they are as good as me at anything.
No one hates political correctness more than me. If I think of something, I just want to say it. I hate censoring myself. I am also not very good at it. Like that time I laughed at the lady who got her hands eaten by monkey on Xanax. Admittedly that wasn't very polite, but come on. Someone gave Xanax to a monkey. Now substitute that woman for a Chinese guy. What if I had said, "Of course the monkey had to keep eating him. Otherwise he would have been hungry in half an hour." Now is it actually racially insensitive to say that Chinese food is mystically un-filling? If so, why? Why would any Chinese person care that the food of their ancestors has a reputation like this? Or maybe my censor just doesn't work and that's why I don't get it.
Maybe I'm just being selfish because I want to say whatever I want. Or maybe it's because I just realized the yogurt I am eating for lunch looks like semen and I'm trying not to think about it, but I think we all need to lighten up. Otherwise - when someone invents a time machine, we aren't going to be able to use it. Because if we go back in time 30 years or more, everyone is going to kick our sissy asses.
Now I don't think anyone should intentionally try to offend anyone. I just don't think pointing out a difference between two groups of people is necessarily offensive.
Let me be the first to say if you would like to make fun of me for being any of the following, feel free:
White
Tall
Unable to jump
A fan of country music
WalMart shopper
100% limited to one dance move
My southern accent
My deep voice
Handsome
Great at everything
Or anything else you can think of, but I think that pretty much sums it up.
Now I know that the sensitive thing to do here is to call him old and out of touch. And to say that he does not understand what it is like to... whatever. The only reason I am not saying that is because I agree with him by a percentage that is so much higher than 100% it has not even been invented yet. Get over it and go back to your tee pee, redskin.
Now I know there are some words that are off limits. I begrudgingly concede that I should not be saying certain words in reference to certain races. But listen - I'm not going to preface my sentences with, "Now I'm not racist. I have black friends." If you have to make it known that you have black friends, you are probably only have one and its because he acts like Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. I wouldn't say I have as many black friends as Tupac, but I can think of at least 8 white guys I'm friends with that act like Tupac so that has to count for something, right?
As Clint puts it:
'People have lost their sense of humour,' he told Germany's Der Spiegel magazine.
'In former times we constantly made jokes about different races.
'You can only tell them today with one hand over your mouth otherwise you will be insulted as a racist.
'I find that ridiculous. In those earlier days every friendly clique had a "Sam the Jew" or "Jose the Mexican" - but we didn't think anything of it or have a racist
thought.
'It was normal that we made jokes based on our nationality or ethnicity. That was never a problem.
''I don't want to be politically correct. We're all spending too much time and energy trying to be politically correct about everything.'
I wish I could refer to my friends as, "Albert the Chinaman" or "Lucas the Mexican" or "Webbed foot Wes" without people looking at me funny. I deal with Indian people (red dot - not feather) on a daily basis and I will fight anyone that argues against the fact that it is easier to lift up a Buick than to get them to write a check.
I think the fact that the difference of people from different areas/backgrounds/ethnicities is so obvious it becomes almost offensive not to acknowledge it. Like having your grandparents tell you something is "off the hook." Or having me tell anyone they are as good as me at anything.
No one hates political correctness more than me. If I think of something, I just want to say it. I hate censoring myself. I am also not very good at it. Like that time I laughed at the lady who got her hands eaten by monkey on Xanax. Admittedly that wasn't very polite, but come on. Someone gave Xanax to a monkey. Now substitute that woman for a Chinese guy. What if I had said, "Of course the monkey had to keep eating him. Otherwise he would have been hungry in half an hour." Now is it actually racially insensitive to say that Chinese food is mystically un-filling? If so, why? Why would any Chinese person care that the food of their ancestors has a reputation like this? Or maybe my censor just doesn't work and that's why I don't get it.
Maybe I'm just being selfish because I want to say whatever I want. Or maybe it's because I just realized the yogurt I am eating for lunch looks like semen and I'm trying not to think about it, but I think we all need to lighten up. Otherwise - when someone invents a time machine, we aren't going to be able to use it. Because if we go back in time 30 years or more, everyone is going to kick our sissy asses.
Now I don't think anyone should intentionally try to offend anyone. I just don't think pointing out a difference between two groups of people is necessarily offensive.
Let me be the first to say if you would like to make fun of me for being any of the following, feel free:
White
Tall
Unable to jump
A fan of country music
WalMart shopper
100% limited to one dance move
My southern accent
My deep voice
Handsome
Great at everything
Or anything else you can think of, but I think that pretty much sums it up.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
A Letter To The Prosecution (From Barry Bond's Testicles)
Related Story Here - It will only make sense if you read the article. Trust me.
Barry Bond's Testes
"The Sack"
S.F. Giants Office
2/20/09
Dear Assistant District Attorney,
I realize that me and my nutty twin have become a "hot topic" in the on-going allegations of Papa Barry's steroid use. We completely understand that there is a side effect of steroid abuse that correlates directly with us. We still have to respectfully request that you refrain from bringing us into the proverbial "spotlight" as evidence to incriminate our once proud owner.
You see - life has sort of taken a harsh 180 for us over the past decade or so. To be honest, it was never really that great to begin with. I guess there were some good times in the early 90's. Hanging with (and from) a professional athlete definitely has had its advantages. There is nothing more thrilling for a testie than having a high-end Filipino hooker snort rails off of you for $2000 an hour. Heck, there was a time when I would have rivaled Einstein's brain for the world's most respected and envied organ. And if I'm guilty of anything - it's loving that life too much. And you can't really blame me for it. Let's face it- I'm pretty much just along for the ride here.
Now, don't get me wrong - I do accept some responsibility for Barry's actions. I admit that I played an "influential" role in his decision making abilities. But, hey... can you blame me? What else do I really have to look forward to? Had I known what the future would hold, I would have enjoyed myself a little more, laughed a little harder, forgave people that I had been denying, rode a bull and so many other things Tim McGraw made sound so good.
You see it all started to go down hill for us towards the beginning of this decade. Mrs. Bonds was starting to hit the Ben and Jerry's a little harder. Her thighs began to look like two bags of dimes. The money went to her head and she threatened us specifically on numerous occasions. It is said that women age like fine wine. In our experience, they age more like bread. And the women on the side? Well - they were fun at the time, but nothing spells regret quite like itchy rashes and painful discharges. Needless to say - life at home was volatile and life on the road was a veritable Russian roulette of break outs and suppression.
I don't want to sound like a whiner here, but have you ever been crammed in an athletic supporter for three hours a night for 130 games per season? No? I didn't think so. Imagine being blind to the outside world, stuck in a sauna - sweating your scrotum off and praying that the piece of plastic that is separating you from a 100 mph fastball or a catcher's knee is going to do the job it was hired to do. And the smell... ohhhh the smell. Listen, being a testie is overrated. There is really nothing all that great about it. Imagine for a minute if it was considered taboo to scratch your face in public. Yeah - that would suck: well welcome to my world. Or if your arm got stuck to something and you just had to leave it there. God forbid anyone see you peel your arm off of your ribs. You might be accused of fondling yourself.
And now this. Now you want to display and fondle us like two shriveled little Benjamin Buttons; looking like we belong to a 12 yr old despite the fact that we have been on the Earth for 40 years. Please - take pity on us. I get the feeling things are only going to get worse for us from here on out. Now all we have to look forward to is retirement and thanks to the HGH - we will pretty much be dead at that point anyway. It's bad enough that we compare to a hose pipe spout relative to a 3,000 sq ft house.
So we respectfully ask... nay, beg - that you leave us out of this argument. There should be plenty of other evidence here to convict. I don't think I can spend another sleepless night waiting for that knock on the door that calls us to court. I also don't want to have to buy a new suit. My old one is way too big now.
Thank you in advance,
Barry Bond's Testicles, LLC
2/20/09
Barry Bond's Testes
"The Sack"
S.F. Giants Office
2/20/09
Dear Assistant District Attorney,
I realize that me and my nutty twin have become a "hot topic" in the on-going allegations of Papa Barry's steroid use. We completely understand that there is a side effect of steroid abuse that correlates directly with us. We still have to respectfully request that you refrain from bringing us into the proverbial "spotlight" as evidence to incriminate our once proud owner.
You see - life has sort of taken a harsh 180 for us over the past decade or so. To be honest, it was never really that great to begin with. I guess there were some good times in the early 90's. Hanging with (and from) a professional athlete definitely has had its advantages. There is nothing more thrilling for a testie than having a high-end Filipino hooker snort rails off of you for $2000 an hour. Heck, there was a time when I would have rivaled Einstein's brain for the world's most respected and envied organ. And if I'm guilty of anything - it's loving that life too much. And you can't really blame me for it. Let's face it- I'm pretty much just along for the ride here.
Now, don't get me wrong - I do accept some responsibility for Barry's actions. I admit that I played an "influential" role in his decision making abilities. But, hey... can you blame me? What else do I really have to look forward to? Had I known what the future would hold, I would have enjoyed myself a little more, laughed a little harder, forgave people that I had been denying, rode a bull and so many other things Tim McGraw made sound so good.
You see it all started to go down hill for us towards the beginning of this decade. Mrs. Bonds was starting to hit the Ben and Jerry's a little harder. Her thighs began to look like two bags of dimes. The money went to her head and she threatened us specifically on numerous occasions. It is said that women age like fine wine. In our experience, they age more like bread. And the women on the side? Well - they were fun at the time, but nothing spells regret quite like itchy rashes and painful discharges. Needless to say - life at home was volatile and life on the road was a veritable Russian roulette of break outs and suppression.
I don't want to sound like a whiner here, but have you ever been crammed in an athletic supporter for three hours a night for 130 games per season? No? I didn't think so. Imagine being blind to the outside world, stuck in a sauna - sweating your scrotum off and praying that the piece of plastic that is separating you from a 100 mph fastball or a catcher's knee is going to do the job it was hired to do. And the smell... ohhhh the smell. Listen, being a testie is overrated. There is really nothing all that great about it. Imagine for a minute if it was considered taboo to scratch your face in public. Yeah - that would suck: well welcome to my world. Or if your arm got stuck to something and you just had to leave it there. God forbid anyone see you peel your arm off of your ribs. You might be accused of fondling yourself.
And now this. Now you want to display and fondle us like two shriveled little Benjamin Buttons; looking like we belong to a 12 yr old despite the fact that we have been on the Earth for 40 years. Please - take pity on us. I get the feeling things are only going to get worse for us from here on out. Now all we have to look forward to is retirement and thanks to the HGH - we will pretty much be dead at that point anyway. It's bad enough that we compare to a hose pipe spout relative to a 3,000 sq ft house.
So we respectfully ask... nay, beg - that you leave us out of this argument. There should be plenty of other evidence here to convict. I don't think I can spend another sleepless night waiting for that knock on the door that calls us to court. I also don't want to have to buy a new suit. My old one is way too big now.
Thank you in advance,
Barry Bond's Testicles, LLC
2/20/09
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Pet monkeys - No Laughing Matter
I'll be the first one to admit that society makes it difficult for extremely attractive people like me to live the same life as ugly people. I'm not asking you to feel sorry for me - I am just acknowledging a social issue.
You know what else is difficult for society to deal with? Chimpanzees. Chimpanzees have long been a menace to such things as: Christianity, Bananas, Potheads and Sougourney Weaver's emotions. Some cinematic classics would have you believe these fun-loving, poop-throwing evolutionary links are just like us - but better actors. Nothing could be further from the truth as evident from this article (seriously - read the article).
My favorite excerpt from the article follows:
"The bizarre scene unfolded in Stamford, when Travis suddenly attacked and tore up the face of 55-year-old Charla Nash, who was visiting his owner Sandra Herold Monday night."
You want more details?
"'He bit both of her hands off and the cop told me he just kept eating her (ed. note - CONGO!). It's terrible,' Lynne Mecca, a friend of the victim, told CBS News."
And more still...
"'She retrieved a large butcher knife and stabbed her longtime pet numerous times in an effort to save her friend, who was really being brutally attacked,' Conklin said.
Travis ran away and started roaming on Herold's property as police arrived. Officers set up security so that medics could reach the critically injured woman lying on the ground, Conklin said.
But the chimpanzee returned and went after several of the officers, who retreated into their cars, Conklin said. Travis knocked the mirror off a cruiser before opening its door and starting to get in, trapping the officer.
That officer shot the chimpanzee several times, Conklin said."
So to recap - Cops...with guns... ran from monkey and locked themselves in car...
The article also mentions that the chimp was on Xanax because it had become agitated. Then it goes on to say the reason the monkey attacked was unclear. Then I go on to say, "IT'S BECAUSE YOU GAVE XANAX TO A MONKEY!!!!" You know that part at the end of a drug commercial where the micro machine guy rattles off the side effects of the drug really fast? Well this Chimp was either going to get diarrhea, an erection lasting longer than four hours or go ape sh%t (zing!) on someone's face.
The article goes on to explain that Xanax can actually increase anxiety when first introduced to the patient. I looked it up and the medical journals definition of "increase anxiety" happens to be "tear someone's face off" so I don't really see how we can blame the monkey.
But cops ruined the fun like my high school buddies said they always would and killed the chimpanzee... but not before, "The victim suffered "a tremendous loss of blood" from serious facial injuries, according to Conklin." (ed. note - Blood loss from the face!!!!!).
I know this is kind of sad, but just think - at least I'm still undeniably handsome. It could be worse. If anyone needs me, I'll be staring at myself in the mirror.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Mexico Clots Attempt to Give
This weekend marked the beginning of my crusade to be the world's greatest person. The first step in this process Saturday morning was making sure my hair looked top notch. The second step was to do something selfless to help others (and maybe even hurt me - for an added touch of selflessness). The obvious choice here is to save a little boy from the jaws of a crocodile, but since it looks like I missed my chance - I decided to do the next best thing and donate blood.
My blood type is O negative and referred to as "universal." This is just another in a long line of things that make me a genetic specimen (no wisdom teeth / 20/15 vision / deep, dark and engaging eyes). Now I know from past donations that my blood type is particularly important because it can be used by anyone (anyone that wants a little bourbon in their blood. Am I right fellas? *hi-five!). Anyway, as I soon found out - I should have taken my chances with the crocodile.
Upon my arrival I was asked if I had an appointment... to give blood. I assumed they did not turn people away that are trying to give blood so I was forthcoming and honest when I looked the security guard in the eye and said, "no" (Why does the red cross need a security guard, anyway? Who is trying to case the red cross?). Apparently if you do not have the foresight to make an appointment you have to wait to do your good deed - as the red cross volunteers move like the employees at the DMV.
Eventually I am moved into a cubicle and the cardboard curtain is slammed... or scooted behind me. As I am waiting I realize I am sitting the the larger, more comfortable chair in front of the computer that is certainly reserved for the red cross volunteer and not for some do-gooder that thinks he deserves the big chair. I adjust to the more appropriate seat and start to feel like I am awaiting a meeting with my probation officer. Finally a woman sticks her head around the curtain and says, "Are you the one that had Hodgkins?" to which I reply, "I hope not..." She gives me a confused look and moves to the next cubicle and asked the same question. The man in that cube responds, "yes." It occurs to me that since I could hear his answer, he could probably hear mine. So far my attempt at being a good person has backfired.
A short time later a woman scurries into my cube and takes her seat in the big chair. She asks me my height and weight. I tell her and she gives me the inevitable, "You are tall." I ask if that means they are going to try and take more of my blood. She assures me I will be treated without prejudice.
I glance over her head at a chart on the wall. The chart lists blood types and the types of blood they can use in a transfusion. I swell with pride as I look at O negative. Check marks across the board. Then I notice something worth inquiring about.
"Wait... so if I'm O negative, I can give blood to anyone, but I can only get blood from another O negative person?"
"Yeah"
"Well that sucks."
"Yeah I guess it does."
Despite my administrators poor bedside manner and my own disappointment, I resist the urge to throw a tantrum and leave and proceed with the donation. I'm a real giver. Next step - the prick. Not that kind of prick. the finger prick. Ok not that kind of prick either. You are impossible to talk to sometimes.
So as my volunteer prepares to prick my finger (ed. note - tee hee), She lines her sterile equipment on the desk in front of me. She asks for my middle finger and I give it to her. No I literally flip her the bird. I thought it was funny - she looked at me as if to say - "That's original." I guess I am not the first person to do that.
She proceeds to stick my middle finger with a needle and draw blood. She puts the blood on a disk and sticks it in a machine on the desk. She waits for the results and as they pop up she says, "Oh... hold on a second."
She then gets up and walks out. She comes back with her superior. If you have ever been in a medical facility and someone looks at the results of your test... looks confused... gets up - walks out and returns with their supervisor... it sucks. At this point I have convinced myself that that machine tests life expectancy and they are trying to find a nice way to tell me I have 30 seconds to live.
The supervisor looks at the machine's results and says, "yeah, it's a little high." At this point I can't take any more and just want the bad news. "What's high?" I ask. She replies, "Your iron is a little high. It just means you can't give double red cells. You can still donate." Now I had no intention of donating more than the rest of the population, so this does not concern me.
I don't know what iron does, but it sounds pretty tough. So I ask the next logical question:
"High iron in my blood, huh? Does that mean I'm a super hero?"
"No, it means you are at risk for prostate cancer."
I feel this is an inappropriate time to request an exam so I decide to try and learn more about how this may have happened.
"Do you eat alot of meat?" She asks.
"Look at me, lady. The closest I come to a vegetarian meal is a steak wrapped in bacon with steamed hot dogs."
"Well that's probably how your iron got so high."
She then proceeds to take my blood pressure and tells me that it is good. I ask which is more important, iron or blood pressure. She tells me that blood pressure has to do with my heart so it is more important. I tell her she hurt my prostate's feelings.
Now before anyone donates blood they are subjected to a series of questions that... in all honesty I can't imagine admitting to even if they were true. The administrator leaves the cubicle as the questions are answered on the computer.
Q: Have you had sex with a prostitute in the past year?
A: What's today's date?
Q: Have you taken any illegal drugs intravenously in the past year?
A: Is Crack legal yet?
Ect...
When I am done the administrator walks back into my cube and proceeds to review my answers. As she is reviewing them, she pauses again and asks me if I have been outside of America or Canada in the past year. I already answered this on the test, so I assure her I have been to Mexico. She clicks a button and asks me what city. I tell her Playa del Carmen and she clicks another button. Then she asks if I visited Tulum while I was there. I tell her yes and I have the t-shirt to prove it. Then she drops the bombshell on me.
"You are being deferred until June of this year."
"What do you mean 'deferred'?"
"You can't give blood today. You have to wait until it has been a year since you were at Tulum. Here is a coupon for a free Sonic hamburger for your good intentions."
"Wait - why can't I give blood?"
"Because Tulum is a risk for Malaria."
"Well that wasn't in the brochure... Could that be where I picked up all of my extra iron?"
"Could be... sign here."
I sign a piece of paper that states a understand I cannot give blood. I walk out ashamed, rejected and embarrassed.
So there it is. My attempt at saving a life or two was ransacked by America's beard. Not to mention I went swimming in an underground cave in a place where malaria is as common as refried beans. Thanks, Mexico. Cancer patients all over America thank you too.
My blood type is O negative and referred to as "universal." This is just another in a long line of things that make me a genetic specimen (no wisdom teeth / 20/15 vision / deep, dark and engaging eyes). Now I know from past donations that my blood type is particularly important because it can be used by anyone (anyone that wants a little bourbon in their blood. Am I right fellas? *hi-five!). Anyway, as I soon found out - I should have taken my chances with the crocodile.
Upon my arrival I was asked if I had an appointment... to give blood. I assumed they did not turn people away that are trying to give blood so I was forthcoming and honest when I looked the security guard in the eye and said, "no" (Why does the red cross need a security guard, anyway? Who is trying to case the red cross?). Apparently if you do not have the foresight to make an appointment you have to wait to do your good deed - as the red cross volunteers move like the employees at the DMV.
Eventually I am moved into a cubicle and the cardboard curtain is slammed... or scooted behind me. As I am waiting I realize I am sitting the the larger, more comfortable chair in front of the computer that is certainly reserved for the red cross volunteer and not for some do-gooder that thinks he deserves the big chair. I adjust to the more appropriate seat and start to feel like I am awaiting a meeting with my probation officer. Finally a woman sticks her head around the curtain and says, "Are you the one that had Hodgkins?" to which I reply, "I hope not..." She gives me a confused look and moves to the next cubicle and asked the same question. The man in that cube responds, "yes." It occurs to me that since I could hear his answer, he could probably hear mine. So far my attempt at being a good person has backfired.
A short time later a woman scurries into my cube and takes her seat in the big chair. She asks me my height and weight. I tell her and she gives me the inevitable, "You are tall." I ask if that means they are going to try and take more of my blood. She assures me I will be treated without prejudice.
I glance over her head at a chart on the wall. The chart lists blood types and the types of blood they can use in a transfusion. I swell with pride as I look at O negative. Check marks across the board. Then I notice something worth inquiring about.
"Wait... so if I'm O negative, I can give blood to anyone, but I can only get blood from another O negative person?"
"Yeah"
"Well that sucks."
"Yeah I guess it does."
Despite my administrators poor bedside manner and my own disappointment, I resist the urge to throw a tantrum and leave and proceed with the donation. I'm a real giver. Next step - the prick. Not that kind of prick. the finger prick. Ok not that kind of prick either. You are impossible to talk to sometimes.
So as my volunteer prepares to prick my finger (ed. note - tee hee), She lines her sterile equipment on the desk in front of me. She asks for my middle finger and I give it to her. No I literally flip her the bird. I thought it was funny - she looked at me as if to say - "That's original." I guess I am not the first person to do that.
She proceeds to stick my middle finger with a needle and draw blood. She puts the blood on a disk and sticks it in a machine on the desk. She waits for the results and as they pop up she says, "Oh... hold on a second."
She then gets up and walks out. She comes back with her superior. If you have ever been in a medical facility and someone looks at the results of your test... looks confused... gets up - walks out and returns with their supervisor... it sucks. At this point I have convinced myself that that machine tests life expectancy and they are trying to find a nice way to tell me I have 30 seconds to live.
The supervisor looks at the machine's results and says, "yeah, it's a little high." At this point I can't take any more and just want the bad news. "What's high?" I ask. She replies, "Your iron is a little high. It just means you can't give double red cells. You can still donate." Now I had no intention of donating more than the rest of the population, so this does not concern me.
I don't know what iron does, but it sounds pretty tough. So I ask the next logical question:
"High iron in my blood, huh? Does that mean I'm a super hero?"
"No, it means you are at risk for prostate cancer."
I feel this is an inappropriate time to request an exam so I decide to try and learn more about how this may have happened.
"Do you eat alot of meat?" She asks.
"Look at me, lady. The closest I come to a vegetarian meal is a steak wrapped in bacon with steamed hot dogs."
"Well that's probably how your iron got so high."
She then proceeds to take my blood pressure and tells me that it is good. I ask which is more important, iron or blood pressure. She tells me that blood pressure has to do with my heart so it is more important. I tell her she hurt my prostate's feelings.
Now before anyone donates blood they are subjected to a series of questions that... in all honesty I can't imagine admitting to even if they were true. The administrator leaves the cubicle as the questions are answered on the computer.
Q: Have you had sex with a prostitute in the past year?
A: What's today's date?
Q: Have you taken any illegal drugs intravenously in the past year?
A: Is Crack legal yet?
Ect...
When I am done the administrator walks back into my cube and proceeds to review my answers. As she is reviewing them, she pauses again and asks me if I have been outside of America or Canada in the past year. I already answered this on the test, so I assure her I have been to Mexico. She clicks a button and asks me what city. I tell her Playa del Carmen and she clicks another button. Then she asks if I visited Tulum while I was there. I tell her yes and I have the t-shirt to prove it. Then she drops the bombshell on me.
"You are being deferred until June of this year."
"What do you mean 'deferred'?"
"You can't give blood today. You have to wait until it has been a year since you were at Tulum. Here is a coupon for a free Sonic hamburger for your good intentions."
"Wait - why can't I give blood?"
"Because Tulum is a risk for Malaria."
"Well that wasn't in the brochure... Could that be where I picked up all of my extra iron?"
"Could be... sign here."
I sign a piece of paper that states a understand I cannot give blood. I walk out ashamed, rejected and embarrassed.
So there it is. My attempt at saving a life or two was ransacked by America's beard. Not to mention I went swimming in an underground cave in a place where malaria is as common as refried beans. Thanks, Mexico. Cancer patients all over America thank you too.
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