Wednesday, October 28, 2009

"There are Listed Buildings" by Los Campesinos!

If you're like me... brutally handsome, fueled by rage, currently nude... then there's nothing you enjoy more than a fizzy, ray-of-sunlight, pop song. Next to liquor, of course. Liquor will always be our first love. I mean, who are we kidding??? Buncha drunks.

But anyway, toe-tappin', poppy, indie rock makes you feel for three minutes like the weight of the world isn't resting directly on your windpipe. It's a bright piece of minty chewing gum after five cups of bitter, black coffee. It's aural penetration with a unicorn's dick.

So... give this song a listen then...

Don't you feel better about everything? The hate in your heart is, at best, now lukewarm. Why, I bet if a shambling homeless gentlemen were to saunter across your path, you wouldn't even have the urge to drag him into the nearest stairwell and beat him to death with a cinder block! Hell, you might give the ol' fella a shiny quarter and tell him in a jolly voice, "the coffee's on me tonight, Scruffy!"

Yes, he would probably turn on you, ripping at your face with his filthy street fingers, biting at your pulse points because the homeless can smell blood, but still. The point is, Los Campesinos! makes music for happier days. Isn't it great? Yeah... it's pretty great.

P.S. Sorry you gotten eaten by a hobo. Them's the breaks.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Five Halloween Costumes That Absolutely Will Not Get You Laid

NOTE: All of these costumes are available at the much-hated douche factory known as Ricky's Party Supply. However, do not ever, ever buy these costumes.

Lunch Meat

Before you go selecting a Halloween costume all willy-nilly... particularly one that involves a "hilarious" play on words so noxious it causes birth defects in unborn babies... you really need to think about the kind of associations it will bring up in the minds of women. Example: You're dressed as processed lunch meat... meat, in the context of a sexy Halloween party, equals your dong... processed lunch meat smells like a chemical plant trying to fart out a pig... ergo, your dong smells like something women would run away from and possibly spray with mace, not something they would let near their "area." So buying this costume essentially makes you the guy at the party with a smelly penis, whether it's true or not.

(p.s. if you buy this costume, chances are you have a smelly penis anyway; not saying that IS the case, just saying it's probably true)

Biblical Character

You know what gets women hot? Religion. Specifically dudes from New Testament times that knew Jesus personally and stoned women to death for having periods (or whatever). Oh yeah... tell me about the Christ child, baby... oooh... that gets me hot... now tell me about how all females should be subservient to men.... Eh, I guess it doesn't really matter, as there is no one... NO ONE... stupid enough to wear a religion-themed Halloween costume to a proper party anyway. Having a good time and the concept of religion are like flavored body oil and holy water. These costumes (and there were several to choose from) are strictly for those that attend Church functions on Halloween and it's a pretty good bet no one's getting laid at those anyways, so I guess go fucking nuts. Be Joseph, be Malachi, be goddamn Moses and get your tablets on if that's your pleasure. Just don't expect to be getting biblical with anyone, if you catch my meaning.

The Shocker

Oh, c'mon. Even the worst-case-scenario frat guy, with his backwards fitted ball cap and Tapout shirt and Teva sports sandals soaked in Milwaukee's Best, would take one look at this costume and declare it "a bit much, brah." Girls see this and think, I could try to sleep with him, but I'm not sure if I'm necessarily in the mood to bang a guy who's basically threatening me with anal penetration from the get-go. I mean, maybe I'd be down with it if he used some subtlety and a few shots of Wild Irish Rose, but... so blatant with the "this is the part that goes in your butt, tee hee,"... yeah, I think I'll tag out with the sexy fireman instead. Long after the party is over, the guy dressed as The Shocker can be heard saying to passers-by, "No, get it... it's The Shocker, man... my WHOLE BODY is the... hey... GET IT?"

Yes, guy dressed as The Shocker, we get it. You, however, will get nothing, forever and ever.

Guy Caught Out on a Windy Day

What are you, a lazy French mime? Do you really want to spend then entire party "walking against the wind" to make your costume's scant visual joke work? Unless you happen to be amongst a large group of conceptual artists that are dressed up variously as "girl walking up stairs," and, "guy waiting in line to buy a copy of Art Forum from an Israeli bodega clerk," and, "man's inhumanity to man as defined by the strict Brechtian logic inherent in, but not exclusively germane to, his earlier plays," then I think you're going to get several hours of blank stares and a lot of not-pussy.


Oooookay, let me get this straight: You scoured the length and breadth of popular culture, took into consideration all that was available to you in terms of Superhero costumes and wish-fulfilment outfits (your Cowboys and Astronauts and hunky Policemen, etc.) and the best thing you could come up with... your absolute ideal costume... was MOTHERFUCKIN' GEPPETTO FROM PINOCCHIO???
"Yeah, this year I'm really feeling like an old Italian puppet maker who longs for a child of his own. That's what my heart wants on Halloween, dudes."
Listen to me and listen well... Girls will see, and ONLY see, a creepy old man pedophile that wants to fuck boy puppets that he built to his exact anatomical specifications. They won't see sweet, innocent Disney purity and love. They will only see your dick, covered in splinters.
No. Just no. If you really want to dress up as Geppetto, do it at home, away from people, where the entire population of a party won't snap on you so hard you'll shit your pants every morning when you wake up and realize that you're still you.

Monday, October 26, 2009

In the Event of My Death...

When you wake up as many times as I have covered in a slick, clammy mixture of barfed-up liquor and Cheez-Its, your head pressed to the base of the toilet because it's so wonderfully cool, your limbs contorted against the bathroom walls and the tub like a Cirque du Soleil dancer run over by a city bus, you begin to think long and hard about your own death. It could happen to any of us, after all, and the odds only go up the more the shots of tequila tell you that the best way to avoid arrest is to headbutt the police officer in the cock.
So, with that in mind, and assuming that I could be killed at any minute by means natural (my liver exploding like a zeppelin made of bourbon) or unnatural (a bouncer twisting my head all the way around until it pops off my body like a champagne cork), I feel it would be in my best interest to write down my last wishes as a matter of public record.
Should any of you loyal, though severely neglected readers see a news story about your ol' buddy C-dog tragically meeting his maker (most likely nude from the waist down), you'll now know exactly how I want the Long Goodbye to go.

Without further adieu...
In the Event of My Death...: The Last Wishes of C-dog
-Originally, I had planned on being an organ donor because saving lives after your dead is kind of awesome and noble in a Spawn/Ghost Rider sort of way. However, it is not at all hilarious. So, instead, I'd like for one of you to remove all my organs and bake them into some sort of savory pie. Then, invite all my closest friends over for a "mourning session." Serve them the pie, but don't tell them about the extra-special ingredient (me). After the pie is gone, reveal the big surprise: Tell them they just ate me. HA!!! It will literally be the funniest thing ever. You might want to put a few tarps down, because people will probably vomit. From laughing too hard, not because I wasn't delicious. Trust me, I am goddamn delicious.
-The parts of me that don't go into the joke pie, I want burned. And I don't mean cremated... I want someone to build a big funeral pyre like the fucking Vikings used to do. Torch my shit on that and let everyone be warmed by my awesome death fire. Play some Swedish black metal to set the mood. Then whoever doesn't have to work the next day should band together and lay siege to a neighboring village.
-There should be two funerals; one that's normal, and one that's normal except for there are Slip N' Slides.
-Gather together all the women with whom I have been "intimate." Make them fight to the death. The winner gets to be burned with me on the funeral pyre! Or, if she's not into that, she gets a $20 gift card from Applebee's.
-Pick one homeless guy and give him all my stuff. Tell him he is King of the Homeless. This should infuriate the other homeless people, but they'll be too drunk or strung out on hard street drugs to do anything about it. Long live His Majesty Stinky Carl, King of the Homeless!!! May his glory reign until his death from tuberculosis and/or his gangrenous leg!!!
-Find someone who you deem "better than me." Like, a businessman or a well-to-do shop owner or something. Kill him. NOBODY IS BETTER THAN C-DOG, EVEN IN DEATH!!!
-Last but not least, as the embers of the funeral pyre begin to smolder, as one lucky lady emerges from the Ring of Battle covered in blood and ready to claim her gift card, as His Majesty Stinky Carl attends his crowning ceremony (it's behind a check-cashing joint), I want everyone who has ever known me... via the internet or from actual human contact... to just get fucking hammered in my name. With each shot, toast to my memory. Salt each beer with a single teardrop cried out just for me. Drink, drink, my people... for your days have gotten a little darker now that C-dog has passed on.
-Or, you know, send a funeral wreath or something. Those are good too.