There is actually no connection between the next two videos, other than the fact that I watched them on the same day, and I thought it might be really cool to get these kids together for a playdate or something:
Yer Poppa ain't usually all zeitgeisty in his hate, but apparently I'm not the only MF who's nixing the bracketology this year despite being a sports fan in general. Dudes have their reasons. For me, it's about my ever-waning ties to the product. In my ever-contracting mind, college basketball has become a thing for:
• college kids
• dudes who still wish they were in college
• dudes who really really like basketball
• dudes and chicks who went to one of the colleges that give Dick Vitale super-stiff wood
• dudes and chicks who went to colleges that got really good at basketball only recently and now have a nationally viable brand name because of it (which, technically, is a subset of "colleges that give Dick Vitale super-stiff wood")
• people who will wager $5 on anything
Anyway, I'm not any of those things right now. So ... no bracket.
(Sorry about all the orange dicks. Kinda looks like some Keith Haring shit, though, which is nice.)
This time, instead of Brendan Fraser as a caveman, it'll be a WEED MOVIE about some amazing 30,000-year-old cannibis hidden by a hesher squirrel.
(This 2,700-year-old marijuana stash was probably some bamma shit. The movie would have to be about kush of biblical quality.)
At the end of the video for Butch Walker and the Black Widows' "Synthesizers," the legendary Wooderson (Matthew McConaughey) slips into the ladies' room with a wink and a whiskey.
I think we all need to be open to alternative interpretations of why he's going in there.
If you run or do yoga, you obviously know about the endorphins.
Yes, they are basically the same thing as smoking crack.
Last time I checked, crack addiction was uncool.
So, if you're preparing to post a Facebook status update about running or yoga, ask yourself the following fundamental question:
IF I JUST SMOKED SOME CRACK, WOULD I BE BRAGGING ABOUT IT?
No, you probably wouldn't.
But if you did just smoke a giant crack rock, and you did decide to brag about it on Facebook, you are awesome. Ain't nothin' gonna keep you down!
ADDENDUM: People also could start posting whenever they get laid: "I just had sex for 3.7 minutes! So awesome!"
The assumption of this "Matador 21" show in Vegas is that two decades after they started taking my money, I have grown into the kind of adult who can just drop everything and spend hundreds of dollars on a trip to Vegas for an awesome concert. FUCK THAT, MATADOR. YOU CAN'T SPEND 21 YEARS HELPING MOTHERFUCKERS BE SLACKERS, AND THEN TURN AROUND AND BE ALL LIKE, "HEY MAN, PAY BIG BUCKS TO SEE YOUR SLACKER HEROES." Seriously, Matador dudes, seriously. This shit is rife with contradictions -- and don't you dare say that it's a test of my loyalty, because I've got some motherfucking bills you can pay:
But it's actually chocolate sauce. Y'know, like Heidi Klum, as you see here.* Except you strap a stuffed shorebird to your crotch to hide your chucky, and you use little BP flowerbursts to cover your nipples. You can cover your ass with an object of your choosing (mud plug?). YOU'VE GOT SEVERAL MONTHS TO PERFECT IT, SO GET CRACKIN' NOW.
(NOTE: SHOREBIRD-ON-CHUCKY NOT SHOWN)
* Klum's choco-slathered pics were published before the Gulf Coast oil spill and therefore she has nothing to do with the idea for this Halloween costume.
Hilarity! Dudes and chicks mindlessly singing the word "boobies!"
Fast-forward to about 1:20 on this one:
About 1:07 on this one:
This lady gets the gold star. Check 1:19:
If I had more time and some Kutiman gear, I'd make a montage of nothing but "HONEY GOT SOME BOOBIES LIKE WOW, OH WOW."
Take a close look.
Yeah, sure, the combination of the granny glasses, the soul patch and the quasi-shag haircut make him look like the aging crate-digger that he's supposed to be. But it's still Steve Zahn. Minnesota guy. Perpetually tweaked out. I know dudes who are crusty indie-radio types, and they're never as wound up as Zahn is when he's actually trying to act mellow.
Love you, Steve. Love the character. Love the fact that WWOZ is a character in the show, too. But you gotta go to Heroin Factor 9 for this role, and right now you're at like Factor 3.
ADDENDUM: Forgot to mention that I did think the ass-shot was bold, yo.
ANALYSIS: Although Mr. Songz obviously is speaking in shorthand here, the sentiment, as expressed, is far too convenient for my tastes. Here's why:
THERE IS LOTS OF SHITTY, CHEAP CHAMPAGNE OUT THERE
(If you don't know what I'm saying, check the bottom shelf at Giant.)
So, whenever I hear Mr. Songz make the immediate causal link between "drinking champagne" and "having dough," I find myself unable to take him seriously as a lyricist. Everybody needs an editor, yo.
NyQuil is still the same, but Leary is not. When I see him here again, many years later, in full Asshole mode, I'm newly struck with the feeling that he's a link between the coke-y bullshit of the '80s (see: David Carr) and the deliberate self-loathing of subsequent eras (see: my record collection). (Back then, I just thought he was showbiz.) Sure, Leary's comedy-druggie-asshole contemporaries were either more intellectually refined (Hicks) or more loudly brilliant (Kinison) but they also tend to be more, uh, dead than Leary is right now. In Leary's case, you can almost see the coca evaporating from his soul ... or at least he was really good at acting that way. Thus: Rescue Me. So maybe I'm just celebrating his longevity, with a side order of respect for his evolution. Yeah that's it.
I'm also taking NyQuil this week. Vid:
By Monday, as your happiness freezes in a giant snow drift, you will seek comfort in opiates.
This is for your own good, trust me, Mr. Psych Major: C.G.'s shiz is down to like $115 on Amazon, but seriously, don't buy it now. Wait like six months until dudes start selling it to used bookstores so they can get money for weed.
No, it's not a schieze-film festival. It's information provided by this promotional video from Blahzay Blahzay, a favorite around Your Cesspool Parts. Blahz is back. We love some Blahz. I think we even have the "Danger" CD single in the vault. And yeah, we lied about going on hiatus. Suck it. Video:
Hey pals, I am recently and totally enamored with the intro to Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Move Film For Theaters. It makes me feel the same way I felt when I heard thrash metal for the first time. I can't remember that moment, but I can remember what I felt like. It was the '80s, maybe there was chocolate milk involved. Vision Street Wear, maybe? A Chevy Vega? Your mom? One of those little smoke bombs that you buy at the drug store in late June? A scraped knee? Spontaneous erections? It's this. Mastodon did it:
STUPID AWESOME BONUS: "Guitar Hero" custom:
I was hoping the dog would be the one to shout it:
This is the band that killed music forever, just in case you're keeping score:
ONLY POLICE-TAPE IS MIGHTY ENOUGH TO CONTAIN SUCH DANCERS:
If you don't concentrate on the actual content, this is trippy as fuck:
As nature embraces change and young men prepare their sexual-experience-acquisition schemes, we at Pop Cesspool choose an autumnal mood. This is the season of the nerd. To wit: Uriah Heep, "The Wizard," which seems to be about a real wizard, not your mountain-dwelling stoner uncle, or, for that matter, your dungeonmaster ... still, though, nerdfactor: high:
But only if the ball is really small and really soft.
And the weed is really up.The little goalpost skull-crack at the end is a nice touch. Hippies wouldn't bother with a vanquishing flourish like that.
I have no particular knowledge about what inspired "Nearly Lost You" by the Screaming Trees, but for nearly two decades, I've always assumed it was a love thing, y'know, he nearly lost her but he didn't.
Today it struck me, though, that it's probably more of a dude thing, like, holy shit, dude, when your eyes rolled back in your head for a minute, I thought I nearly lost you.
In that scenario, the dude lived, obviously.
The rapper Drake is about as concrete as they get: He has shit and he wants shit, including money, nice things, and your pussy. He describes what he wants and what he'll do with it. Sometimes he talks about his superiority. Other times he talks about obstacles to acquiring the things he wants. But generally his rhymes dwell on shit that is possible to acquire in the physical realm.
Except, y'know, this line from "Best I Ever Had":
"A past life," as in "reincarnation?" Damn, that's some metaphysical graffiti right there. My initial reaction was, "he thinks like this when he gets high," but I realized that it's possible he just wrote that shit off the cuff, without concern for the dissonance it creates. So I'm gonna save his bacon right now. Here's how Drake should play it, if anybody asks about his spirituality: "Yo, I talk about that past life shit not because I'm into Hindu or whatever, but because I want money and your pussy in that past life, too."
As far as catch phrases go, this one has legs as long as a 5'11" stripper. Thank you Teresa, real housewife of New Jersey, for saying it. And thank you Danielle, real skank of New Jersey, for prompting Teresa to say it. The applications are endless. Use it on your housewives, your momz, your boyfriends, your kids, your bosses. Doesn't matter what the situation is. Burned your toast? "Prostitution whore." Windows Vista is acting up? "Prostitution whore." Somebody is watching a Bravo reality show while an important sporting event is on? "Prostitution whore." Don't let go, people. It's a keeper, and the world is full of prostitution whores.
... I start to hear Enigma's "Sadness, Pt. 1" in my head.
That is, various chunks of this hot mess, such as this silly nugget:
... should be read aloud, and reverently, to this colossally unsexy '90s bullshit:
HE GOTS AWESUM BONERZ UNDERNEATH THA DESK.
Translation: "If we could, we would."
Eminem on German television. Thank God for the curse words:
Wrapping up "chicks and darkness" week, I, Poppa, would like to end on "chicks." So, forthwith, I note that I am not easily swayed by gimmicky Web ads that prominently feature boobies. This is because the chosen boobies typically are clipart boobies, and if there's one thing I can say about clipart boobies, it's, "seen two, seen 'em all."
On a higher level: Because my brain is trained to know that there might be boobies over there, I'm usually able to peripherally enjoy the boobies -- as much as clipart boobies retain an iota of entertainment -- without, y'know, actually falling for the marketing ploy.
I see, but I don't look, because I am strong.*
This ad really jarred me into looking, however, because it's not really about boobies, it's about cleavage. Fuckin' power of suggestion. Shit, they got me. I didn't notice her white-ass teeth until right now. At least I didn't actually click on it:
* HOORAY FOR CONSCIOUSNESS
So when you watch this advertisement for a credit-report agency ...
... have you noticed how the camera totally lingers on her ass?
Here's what I take away from it: The plot is that Jackass Curly-Haired Dude married his Dream Girl, but her credit was bad, so instead of having a suburban home full of connubial bliss -- or being a hotshit bachelor -- he's forced to live with her in her parents' basement. Thus, the heirarchy is this:
Suburban home w/ Dream Girl
Awesome bachelor pad w/o Dream Girl
In-laws' basement w/ Dream Girl
The message is supposed to be: Free ass and/or spousal love means nothing if you've got to suffer for it, so check your credit and your spouse's.
But that ass-shot is too conspicuous. It seems to be a defiant, rebellious, subversive piece of editorializing by the director.
So I take away this message: Ignore the marketing content of this commercial. If you can get a young chick with a firm ass to actually marry you -- and her parents are willing to financially support you in any way, even through quasi-subsidized housing -- just shut the fuck up and tap that ass.
I am a man of few aristocratic proclivities, but I have no qualms expressing a seasonal urge to consume Pimms No. 1 Cup, perhaps at the expense of culturally mandated sojourns with mint juleps, a concoction that I find most pleasant, but perhaps lacking in intrigue, even when made with a highly preferable variety of bourbon.
McG (left): He's a little fleshy in the face. Very well fed. It could mean a tiny cock, though. If that's the case, he's bluffing mightily, with the intention of warding-off an actual dick-measuring contest with Bay -- which, if you think about it, is a low-probability event, unless people like McG and Bay do happen to have dick-measuring contests when they're at the same party or whatever. I don't think McG is bluffing, though. This motherfucker probably has a big, fat, Old World sausage cock, with a set of healthy-sized balls, just for style points. He doesn't have the eye of the tiger -- he has the eye of somebody whose brain is constantly fighting for the blood flow that is otherwise diverted to his schwantz.
Bay (right): That sly grin can only mean one thing: Every possible dick cell in this guy's body goes toward length. His anaconda has a mind of its own, and it's probably chasing your mom down the block right now. Say hi to her for me. And tell her that Bay can't control that thing, even on a good day. Yeah, sure, that long, skinny dick is kinda creepy because it's somewhat limited in the girth department. But this is a cock-measuring contest, which usually implies a comparison of length, not volume.
Verdict: Bay. Meat-man McG shows strongly, but Bay simply lets the snake do the talking.
If I ran a Mexican drug cartel that sold a lot of weed, I'd stop murdering people to protect my business. Instead, I'd get with Hollywood to create a new-generation Cheech and Chong. Because right now, when the American public* thinks of "Mexicans and drugs," it thinks of severed heads in beer coolers, kidnapped politicians and tunnels under the border. So, y'know, the smart PR move -- for the savvy dealer -- would be to shift the paradigm back to "dopey Chicano dudes who just wanna get high." CNN:
* When I say the American public, I mean the people who don't buy weed. When many weed consumers think of "Mexicans and drugs," they are probably just glad to have the hookup, even if the weed is shitty.
I'm in line at the register. One kid comes inside to buy a Twix. I don't know how much a small Twix costs, but it's possible that the kid was going to buy it for less than a dollar and then sell it as part of the charity hustle -- for like, a dollar. That's a decent markup, percentage-wise, so I won't front on his acumen. (Or maybe he just wanted a Twix.)
Other kid comes inside, starts saying something to the kid with the Twix, who is in line beside me.
Twix kid stiffens up, waves his hands at the other kid and then whisper/screams: GO WATCH THE STASH.
Rule number one of the candy-charity hustle: Don't let the merchandise out of your sight.
Because, dude, if I'm out there on the sidewalk, and your Toblerone is unattended, I'm gonna gank it.
|"George stayed up all night worrying about Chef Pisghetti's weed problem."||.|
Let's call it "porn creep" -- the slow dispersion of fleshy flotsam and jetsam onto pages that otherwise should be visually benign. Like, say you've chosen to download some music from Nah Right -- you know you have a folder of like 8,000 shitty tracks from there, so don't even give me a hard time -- and they serve the mp3 via zshare. The download page sometimes will be plastered with harmless auto or gadget ads.
And then sometimes you get this:
Anybody eyeballing your screen is gonna see barely-contained breastices, ass-up poses and "WHO IS HANNAH MONTANA'S FATHER?" On the same page. You're a total fucking perv.
Now, this isn't an anti-porn rant. My glass house has lots of nasty smudge marks on the windows. There ain't enough Windex in the world to clean that shit up. I am totally exaggerating. But I wish zshare would eliminate that titties ad.
T-Pain: Have you ever been in the VIP room of your favorite street club
Pop Cesspool: No.
T-Pain: And you got a shawty on you, kissing on your neck, making you feel like she so in love
Pop Cesspool: We've already established that I have not experienced this setting.
T-Pain: Now you done grabbed you a couple a drinks, and you feeling like it's about time to cuddle up
Pop Cesspool: You are making broad assumptions about my social habits.
T-Pain: And you said shawty what's really up, and she takes big sip out yo' cup, and she said it'll be 60 bucks
Pop Cesspool: This microeconomy is equally unfamiliar to me.
Bravo is not like crack anymore -- it's like a pile of burning autumn leaves: slightly acrid and mildly destructive, but strangely pleasant nonetheless. In that context, I find myself consuming "The Real Housewives of Atlanta" because ... it is there. And within the useless haze I have found Kim, and Kim levitates me with stoopidity:
NOTE: Jan, the professional, is ICE COLD.