According to this interview in the late 70s, Arnold Schwarzenegger liked to participate in gang bangs with black chicks and his dad was a Nazi officer.

Labels: hate, perversion, politics, pop culture

On my way back to office during lunch today I saw something so utterly ridiculous I am still in shock. While waiting at a traffic light, I pull behind a Dodge Neon. A sticker is placed squarely in the back window that reads "Brakes Are For Pussies." Easy Johnny Nitrous Oxide, you would be lucky if an old lady with a walker did not beat you up a hill in that high-performance fluorescent blue bucket of four cylinder shit that you call an automobile.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, stupidity

I have a problem with Jehovah's Witnesses. It stems from the fact that they like to pound on my door early on Saturday mornings. One particular Saturday these Restorationist pricks came a-knocking. I awoke from deep slumber, threw on a pair of boxer shorts, stumbled down the stairs and opened the door. Before me stood two brainwashed youngsters spouting off at the cake chute about Jesus. Politely I informed them of no soliciting ordinance that governs the town home complex. They responded by telling me they obey the law of God and not the law of man. I was tempted to deconstruct the entire history of human law all the way back to the Code of Hammurabi, but I was tired so I slammed the door on their Jehovah-loving faces instead. My lady lives in the same town home complex and gets the door-to-door action, pamphlets and letters. I read one of their pamphlets; it was a detailed dissertation about the evils of pornography. Jehovah's Witnesses think pornography is bad. You see what I am saying? They are completely out of touch. Unfortunately, according to this, their tribe in increasing.

Labels: porn, religion, the fairways, wife

Weddings are usually a source of happiness as two people commit and celebrate their love in a timeless ceremony amongst family and friends. They are also a great place to get rip-roaring drunk and fuck some shit up. While I never bit a man's finger off or smeared cake on a child, I do recall (vaguely) one wedding I attended six years back:

• The ceremony is in North Denver and I ride shotgun to it with my cousin, Monica. Both of our mothers asked us to show up early and help set up chairs. We arrive 20 minutes late because we had to stop for cigarettes.
  
• Monica and I sit in the back of the church during the ceremony. We make crass comments about a family member's hairpiece that gives him the appearance of a young Ringo Starr. Joking in a British accent I say things like, "Hey Paul, it's time to get married." Monica giggles like a dirty schoolgirl.
  
• The ceremony ends and Monica and I realize the reception is at the Boettcher Mansion (near Golden, Colorado) nearly an hour away. We stop off at a local liquor where nobody speaks English before we begin the trek.
• In the car we consume alcohol as quickly as possible. We smoke many cigarettes.
• We arrive at the reception hall drunk. I sign the guestbook "Matt." I have neither a gift nor a card for the couple. Nels and my sisters have saved us seats at a table. We proceed to the bar.
• The greatest combination of words in the English language: open bar.
• After dinner, our table is trashed and loud. Family and friends shush us. Nels and I decide to get a round of anisette shots for the table for the toast. We drink all the shots on the way back to the table and wind up going back for more.
• The anisette shots are downed at the table before the toast even begins. Then we remember they bring around champagne for the toast. Instead of waiting for the caterers to pour us the bubbly, Monica acquires a bottle for our table and after taking the first pull proclaims, "No more for me. I have to drive home."
• The garter belt ceremony begins. Nels, my sister's date Mike and I stand in the pit of bachelors. The garter is flung and gets caught in the chandelier. Nels and I decide to hoist Mike up to the chandelier to grab the garter. Our sense of balance is skewed thanks to the alcohol we have consumed and Mike nearly falls on his face as we lift him. Mike braces himself against the chandelier, grabs the garter and jumps down. The chandelier swings wildly for about five minutes. My grandmother looks scared.
• I see a hot girl and ask my Mom if I am related to her. She says no. I ask hot girl to dance. At this point I have spilled liquor all over the front of my shirt and smell like a brewery but she says yes anyway. As we dance I sing the song being played loudly in her ear. When the dance is over she informs me she is leaving and gives me her phone number. As she walks away I blurt out, "You look hot, and I am not just saying because I am drunk." (Days after the wedding I forget the number is in my pants pocket and it gets ruined in the wash).
• Reception ends late. Nels and I talk the bartender in giving us some beers for the road. We smuggle them out in our dress pant pockets.
• Monica ends up chauffeuring most of our drunken table home. We get stopped at a sobriety checkpoint. Luckily, Monica is now sober and passes with flying colors. I sit in the backseat staring blankly at her walking a straight line with an open beer in my hand and the remnants of a twelve pack at my feet. Much later I realize that if I were asked out of the backseat we would have all spent the night in county lock-up.

Labels: colorado, denver, drinking, family, mons, nels, tomfoolery, wedding

Christ it is hot in this office. I bet one of those skinny bitches turned up the thermostat again. They are always cold. It could be 102 degrees outside and they put on a sweater because it is "chilly out." Whenever one of them says, "I think it feels fine in here" it means that it is 15 degrees hotter than it should be. We need to crank up the air conditioning. I want it so cold in this place that we could hang slabs of beef from the rafters.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, summer

If I ever had a prosthetic leg and a beef with a heroin dealer, this would be me. Of course, if I were truly committed to beating someone with a prosthesis, I could develop a mental disorder and freeze my leg in dry ice so they cut it off.

Labels: amputation, crazy, drugs

I periodically type Matt Brozovich into Google to see what pulls up on the list of search results (usually me or something related to me dominate the top five). Recently I discovered I have a web alter ego; a Matt Brozovich that hails from Murrysville, Pennsylvania, plays drums in a speed metal band called Headcase and likes to say things like "You are a homo."

Labels: dopplegaenger, matt brozovich

Ernest Hemingway had a son named Gregory. Gregory married Ida. They got divorced. Gregory got a sex change operation and became Gloria. Gloria remarried Ida. Gloria died in prison. Ida now wants a chunk of the Hemingway fortune.

Labels: crazy, pop culture

I just returned home from a visually exquisite, physically exhausting backpacking trip in the Sangre De Cristo Wilderness. I tagged along with Nels, his wife and their two dogs. I have pictures but I am too wiped out to retrieve my digital camera from the bag and plug it into the computer to share them with you. You will see me, with my mountain man beard and all my backpacking glory later this week. Many humorous anecdotes and witticisms were exchanged as we toiled along remote mountain trails, but in my opinion, the best came from me (of course) when discussing anal sex: "It is a game of inches."

An interesting footnote: On the way home we took a minor detour to see Bishop Castle. In case you are unfamiliar with Colorado lore, for the past 30 years eccentric Jim Bishop has been building a castle, all by himself. We had to see it to believe it. As I bore witness to over 30 years of one man's work (and enjoying the anti-government mantras written on sandwich-board signs dotting the castle landscape) I could say only one thing: "Interesting. Hey, are you guys ready to go?"

Labels: colorado, health, nels

Proof positive that some graphic designers go overboard with Photoshop.

Labels: art, career, geekery

Today in Colorado, it is fucking hot. Like Africa hot. Like flames of hell hot. People are finding all sorts of ways to keep cool. I log onto my computer after dropping a deuce in the corporate washroom and I have this IM message flashing on my screen:

Jake: A 28-ounce Mountain Dew Livewire Slurpee, my friend. It is a high that never lets you down.

Amen, Jake.

Labels: colorado, data slaughterhouse, im convos, jake

Larry Flynt is a scumbag pervert that peddles smut to like-minded scumbag perverts who enjoy seeing pseudo-lesbians piss on each other and stuff wine bottles up their assholes. That being said, I love it when he pulls shit like this.

Labels: death, lesbians, pop culture, porn