Kaye: We met everyone before the trip at our friend's house in Highlands Ranch. The Exterra looked out of place around all the Audis and Beemers.
Me: Fucking Highlands Ranch. A girl I used to work with told me she grew up in Highlands Ranch. I told her, "No wonder why you are so boring." Living on streets named Wildcat Aspen Lane or Wild Mountain River Court or Bobcat Sunset Honeydew Boulevard.
Kaye: All the houses look the same, too.
Me: We went to my cousin's poker tournament down there awhile back. "Our house is the sage green house on the left side." Oh really? EVERY OTHER HOUSE WAS FUCKING SAGE GREEN. One house is brown, then ecru then sage green. Repeat until you want to rip your eyes out of your skull.
Kaye: Ha! It's the crazy homeowners associations down there. Our friend had to have a shade of gray approved before she painted her house.
Me: Jesus, is it 1938 Russia down there? All bleak and ubiquitous? Motherfuckers waiting in line for toilet paper?
Kaye: Nice.
Me: Actually, that is not fair. They are probably waiting in line for a Starbucks latte. Or some trendy plates from Crate and Barrel.

Labels: colorado, denver, im convos, kaye, rage

You like to ride your bike. I do too. It is a refreshing work out as the warm wind blows on your face while you work up a sweat as your legs pump like engine pistons. I notice you have a Starbucks there. In your hand. As you ride your bike. Sipping on a be-whipped Frappuccino while you ride leads me to believe you are not serious about exercise. I could have never know that from looking at you, however. You know why? You are wearing a triple-XL spandex racing suit like you are training for the fucking Tour de France. Seriously? That is what you decided to wear while riding your bike today? To Starbucks? Squeezed into spandex like some generic-wrapped sausage at the grocery store? Where does one even find a triple-XL spandex racing suit? Is there a Bicycle Village Big and Tall somewhere around here? At least pretend you are serious about losing wieght by draining that Caramel Light (I will swear on my infant son it had to be a Caramel Light) before you get back on your bike. Thanks for the fat guy pressed ham shot post-Chipotle, too. Helps with digestion. And by "helps" I mean comes back up in chunks with stomach acid in my mouth. Dick.

Labels: burritos, gluttony, open letter, rage, sports

Check out these freak shows crying over dead trees. Are there not more pressing things to waste your energy on other than a decaying old growth forest? My favorite part of the video is when Moonbeam lets out a guttural scream and all her dirtbag friends follow suit because I sense they are all actually suffering. I find comfort in hippy suffering. I would love to get in the middle of that mourning circle with an ax and start chopping down something. Or start a good old-fashioned tire fire. I would even settle for just punching a stinky white guy with dreadlocks in the face.

Labels: rage, stupidity

Last night, after a home-cooked Italian feast courtesy of my mother, we settled on my parent's couch to catch the 2009 Grammy Awards. Some highlights:

• I now remember why I have not watched a Grammy Awards show since 2005. Its called Coldplay.
• Enough with the onstage collaborations. Seriously. I doubt anyone in America has been dripping in anticipation for a Paul McCartney and Foo Fighters jam session. There is a reason why two Beatles are dead; God does not want the surviving members to play their songs anymore.
• I cannot count how many times Dean Martin must have turned over in his grave after seeing this. Being as his next of kin were in the audience watching, I believe they were legally within their rights to kill one (if not all) of the performers that took a shit on Dino's memory and then wiped their asses with it. Except maybe MIA's unborn child. That kid is innocent. My rage spares the unborn.
• Jennifer Hudson: Look, I understand your family was murdered just a short while ago, but could you have at least sent your assistant out to find a dress that did not look like you you just ate a plate of crab legs at a seafood restaurant?
• Alison Krauss and Robert Plant recorded music together? I thought Robert Plant was dead. At least he has been dead to me after the Honeydrippers fiasco.
• Is there anything left for Kanye West to not bitch about? Even the Commish is with me on this one.
• Stevie Wonder. Sigh. You just make me sad.

Labels: music, pop culture, rage

A response to the five things I supposedly do not know about my penis:

1. My dick does not make chicks fat. While I make no argument that nature gave women the raw deal with the subsequent carrying and birthing of children (and "fucking with their metabolism") I am certain that my dick was not the catalyst for your weight gain. Perhaps its the fact that your children (the ones you probably nagged your husband for because your biological clock was in overdrive) keep you too busy to work out for five hours in a week. Or maybe its because you have not adjusted your diet and are eating like you are still pregnant. Or maybe its because when women get older their metabolism naturally slows down. Or maybe you are just lazy and in need of an excuse for looking like a whale.
   
2. It does smells bad when it is not clean. Going down on a guy after he played in a pick-up basketball game and his cash and prizes were a tad gamey, eh? I am really sorry about that. I am guessing it is akin to going down on a woman two days after she is off her period. I mean, you could have stopped sucking it, right? Maybe asked him to take a shower? But no, you just kept going at it. Thanks for confirming that you are, indeed, a dirty cocksucker.
3. It does want to go in your butt without permission. First and foremost, my penis is not a gentleman. He is a scandalous, immoral, evil piece of shit that is usually the root of my problems. While I do not always agree with those decisions (read: my ex-girlfriend), we tend to compromise and present a unified front. I am with him on this one. We are not going to ask for sodomy approval because the answer is invariably going to be no (unless you drank enough wine). Most women outside of pornography do not ask for anal sex, so it is always better for me (and my penis) to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.
4. It does not mind a helping hand. Within reason. As an owner of a penis for over thirty years, I can assure you I have learned how to handle my junk. I also learned to steer clear of greedy bitches like you who cannot go one minute in or out of the bedroom without wanting to be pleased. While rubbing your moose knuckle is a good move (and one which I am glad to perform), it is also only doable from a few positions (none of which I am guessing you are into). So instead of complaining about it, maybe you should acknowledge the fact that you are clitoral rather than vaginal with your orgasms and ask for stimulation before or (gasp!) after I release the hounds.
5. It does stay hard with a condom on, but it sucks. I will wear a viking hat and a wet suit if it means I am getting in there, but condoms kill all sensation (try making out with someone while wearing a trash bag over your head to get an idea). Still, I have common sense. I would definitely not de-rubber with a self-proclaimed dick professional such as yourself.

P.S. Peen? Really? Are you writing in your girlfriend's junior high yearbook or something?

Labels: rage, sex

Nick just informed me that The MB has been blacklisted by the unnamed big oil and gas company he is employed by. This merely confirms the fact that the entire oil and gas industry is against me. Fuck you, oil and gas industry. If I could drive a solar or electric powered automobile and not look like a homosexual (or worse, Ed Begley, Jr.) I would. I long for the day when the world runs on inexpensive and efficient alternate fuels and oil executives are getting their heads cut off with scimitars by angry Arab assassins that no longer have a viable export. May your financial coffers dry up with the Permian Basin.

Labels: blacklist, rage, tomfoolery

First and foremost; it's called lotion. Look into getting yourself some. The skin on your legs looks like the leather on a catchers mitt that hasn't been oiled in twenty years. Your knees are more dry and calloused than a constructions worker's hands. Aren't all women supposed to be moisturizing themselves with fervor? My wife has at least twenty five tubes of lotion spread around in strategic locations. There must be five alone in her purse. After you are done stuffing your cake chute with that sandwich, walk down to the Walgreens and pick up some Jergens. Preferably with Aloe. That leads me into my next issue; your mouth. Are you hearing the shit that is coming out of it? Seriously. You live in Wash Park. I get it. The entire lunch crowd on 16th Street gets it. You loudly proclaimed it three times in casual conversation to your coworker as if it was a badge of honor. Congratulations. You live in an awesome neighborhood in a house that is one hundred years old, has shitty square footage, no garage, rusty plumbing and bad wiring that you cannot afford to update because you spend all your income on a ridiculous mortgage. I am really proud of you. What's that you say? You need to get out and run around the park to lose some weight so you look good in a bikini this summer? You have child bearing hips and a sperm bag, honey. Even with a stringent exercise routine and a crash diet that does not allow you to eat your coworker's leftover Reuben, nothing short of cutting your head off and putting it atop Jessica Alba's body would make you look good in a bikini. Even then. Your mouth would still be attached to the head. I suppose we could sew your mouth shut. That would definitely make you more attractive. Still, it is your head. Your thoughts, opinions and twisted views on reality are still in there. That settles it, then. Even with your head atop Jessica Alba's body, you still would not look good in a bikini. Finally, I direct this parting shot to the clueless gentleman sitting across from you. Please do not encourage her anymore. Your leading questions and weak compliments are only exacerbating the situation. Do you need a slump buster this bad? Just pay for sex with a transvestite hooker and get it over with. Nobody will fault you, man. Especially a guy just trying to read the paper and enjoy his Italian sub.

Labels: 16th street mall, denver, downtown, open letter, pop culture, rage

Being as its Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and I am white, it seems only fitting and respectful to Dr. King to bash white celebrities that I despise. I am sure Dr. King would agree that all that brotherhood and hand-holding business would be out the window if these jag offs were standing next to him:

Scott Stapp. Can someone please grab this guy with their arms wide open and squeeze him until his eyeballs pop out of their sockets? If not, we will have to keep getting updates like this. I checked out his bitch's website and noticed that she bears an uncanny resemblance to the brunette Carolina Panther cheerleader that got arrested for trading fur and slap boxing in a public restroom.

Peyton Manning. The most entertaining part of the NFL playoffs for me is watching Peyton Manning fail. Take a seat next to Dan Marino, Peyton. You have a long career of post-season disappointments and bad commercials ahead of you.

Tara Reid. Please bury your face in a mountain of cocaine and breathe deep ala Tony Montana, Tara. How Taradise has not been canceled yet reinforces why the plug needs to be pulled on the E! Network.

Labels: music, pop culture, rage, sports, tomfoolery

I was pulling for the Indianapolis Colts to go undefeated this season. Not because I like them, mind you, but because I am sick of the 1972 Miami Dolphin alumni celebrating like the worthless, glory deprived, ex-jocks that they are. Their lives are so empty that they follow undefeated NFL teams around the country with a bottle of champagne to open when said undefeated teams lose. In that fabled 1972 season0, the Miami Dolphins played only two teams with a winning record. They are proud of this accomplishment? That is like being proud of the valedictorian honor at summer school. I equate their "record" to that of a runt bastard I attended high school with who bragged about going undefeated in NHL '95 on Sega (he failed to mention that he turned offsides and icing off, played against the computer on easy mode and forced unfair trades through the league that netted him Wayne Gretzky, Mats Sundin, Mario Lemieux, Jeremy Roenick, Ray Bourque, Al Iafrate and Patrick Roy). I can do without Bob Griese telling me how magical the '72 season was on Sports Center every time the "record" remains unbroken, too. You know what would have been magical, Bob? Teaching your son how to throw a goddamn football and how to handle his liquor. Were you not on the bench nursing sore fallopian tubes most of that 1972 season anyway? So just shut the fuck up. That goes for all of you.

Sidenote: Dig this video on fainting goats.

Labels: rage, sports, tomfoolery

Links related to super glue and litigation that have been sent to me by six different people today:

• A woman who super glued her ex-lover's penis to his abdomen, his testicles to his leg, his ass cheeks together, put nail varnish in his hair and wrote profanities on his back while he slept is being sued for $30,000. Jesus. Whatever happened to blowing a guy's best friend to get even?
• A customer glued to a toilet seat in a Halloween prank is suing Home Depot. "This is not Home Depot's fault," the gluee said. "But I am blaming them for letting me hang in there and just ignoring me." I probably would have left his crying ass to rot on the commode, too. I am not busting down any public bathroom stall door to make sure some weepy dude is doing alright.

Labels: rage, tomfoolery

Do not taunt the ice cream man. He has to deal with snotty, whining, fat little bastards like you all day long and is liable to have a short fuse. More than likely he will be a foreigner from a country where it is socially acceptable to punch a chubby kid in the face. When you are in line getting your bomb pop, just smile, pay the man his money, thank him for his convenient delicious cold treats and walk away.

Labels: open letter, rage

The MB will be experiencing down time for few days as I ditch Yahoo! Web Hosting* and make the transition over to Joyent. Until then entertain yourself with this:

• Four men steal a goat, beat it to death with hammers, butcher it and then trade the goat steaks to a drug dealer named Smalls (he uses the meat to feed his fighting pit bulls) for crack.
• German artist Gunther von Hagens wants to build a corpse art factory. The girlfriend and I will be in Chicago the same time his exhibit Bodyworlds is showing. I will have to talk her into going to see it (Read: Vanilla Stoli).
• A woman digs up the remains of her ex-boyfriend to spite his family. She adds insult to injury by drinking the beer and smoking the cigarettes that were buried with him.

*After being a loyal customer for just under five years, Yahoo! Web Hosting failed to inform me that my package was lowered five dollars nearly six months ago and did not bother switching me to the lower rate automatically. After emailing Yahoo! about this oversight, they responded with an auto-generated email thanking me for my inquiry. In short, Yahoo! Web Hosting sucks the sweat off of a dead donkey's balls.

Labels: death, drugs, geekery, rage, technology

According to Men's Fitness Magazine, Houston is the most overweight city in the United States and Seattle is the healthiest. Colorado has two cities listed in the top five for the most fit: Colorado Springs (3) and Denver (5). We represent from a mile-high, America. On the other end of the spectrum is Texas, which has three cities ranking in the top ten for the most fat: Houston (1), Dallas (6) and San Antonio (10). It is called proper diet and exercise, you fucking whales. Stop eating so much Carl's Jr., get off your cousins and take a run around the neighborhood or something.

Labels: colorado, denver, health, rage

Can somebody please lob a live hand grenade in Tommy Lee's direction? The fact that he has procreated, fashions his hair with kinky white man dreads and makes music that sounds like a 300-pound wolverine getting sucked into a jet engine should be reason enough.

Labels: music, pop culture, rage

An armless man threatens to kill his mother with his prosthetic metal hooks. He lost his arms after detonating a homemade grenade during a five mile high speed chase with West Virginia state troopers over a traffic violation.

Labels: crazy, rage

Every morning I walk into my office building and I run into the whale that works on the first floor and is pushing two and a half bills. She has a handicap parking pass hanging from her rear view mirror and waddles out to her car periodically during the day for a smoke (sitting in her car and smoking, mind you, not actually standing up and smoking). In these situations I get angry for the handicapped community. She does not look nor act legitimately handicapped, she just has a difficult time slinging her immense weight around. Handicap parking is reserved (rightly) for paraplegics and little old ladies with plastic hips who have a hard time getting around. I want to push that blubber factory down every time I see her. I am certain she would argue that her condition is due to an overactive thyroid or predisposition to obesity. I am certain there is medication to treat a thyroid condition, and if one does not have money to purchase said medication than one should quit wasting five bucks a day on a pack of cigarettes and save their pennies. If you are born into an obese family that does not mean you have an excuse to be fat, it just means that you inherited a low metabolism and need to be cautious with what you eat and get regular exercise. Being obese is not cool unless you are the Blob. I am sure this guy would agree with me.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, gluttony, rage

During my freshman year of college, you could not go anywhere without hearing the song "Breakfast At Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something. For those of you lucky enough to never have heard this scourge upon popular music, let me assure you that if faced with a choice of inserting your genitals into a meat grinder or listening to this song until the end of time, you would gladly drop your pants. I first heard this lyrical cluster fuck late one night on a lonely road near Amarillo, Texas. I was sharing driving duties on the way to helping my good friend Julie move into her dorm room at TCU. As Julie lay asleep in the passenger seat, I was fumbling with the radio on a quest for programming that would keep me awake when I came upon "Breakfast At Tiffany's." After listening to one minute of this pussy band wax philosophical about a former relationship where both parties had nothing in common but the enjoyment of a 1961 Audrey Hepburn film, I was on the verge of hurling myself onto the highway in front of an eighteen-wheeler. Here is an insight into why your relationship probably fell apart, Deep Blue Something; while you were busy playing the sensitive card, talking about cotton candy and kittens and watching old chick movies like a middle-age gay man with a personality disorder, your woman was dropping ecstasy at a frat house and getting fucked on a stained couch by a guy who still had his balls intact. I was hoping that would be the only time I would ever hear that song, but unfortunately, for the next year and a half it haunted me everywhere I went. Thankfully, the one-hit wonder that was Deep Blue Something faded back into obscurity and I went on living my college musical life in the zen that was the Wu-Tang Clan. Enter this past Saturday morning. As my lady and I were eating a delicious breakfast at Le Peep, "Breakfast At Tiffany's" comes on over the Muzak. I began to panic and look around for a loaded gun or stabbing implement to kill something.

Labels: college, music, rage, wife

After watching the Chicago Cubs blow a three games to one lead over the Florida Marlins in the 2003 NLCS and missing yet another World Series opportunity, it is my opinion that the franchise should end as of three o'clock today. Lock up Wrigley Field, cut the players severance checks and end the fucking ball club's existence. The Cubs have not won a World Series since 1908. That is 95 years and ample time for any professional sports organization to get a title. For those Cubs fans blaming mystical forces, I assure you the Cubbies postseason collapse had nothing to do with a goat or an over zealous fan, and everything to do with allowing your opponent to score 8 runs in one inning and your pitching ace giving up seven earned runs in the final deciding game (tying only four other pitchers in history for most earned runs against in a game seven). Congratulations to the Florida Marlins. Good luck in the big dance.

Labels: rage, sports

I have bore witness to some wicked drunks on the Jagermeister and I, too, have succumbed to the unadulterated madness that dwells within the green bottle. One hazy night long ago my brother-in-law bought me seven Jager Bombs while we hung out at the worst strip club in Denver. The night concluded when a patron actually took a swing at one of the strippers. While she was still dancing. Behold the rage that is a seventeen year-old girl after succumbing to the Hunt-Master. When I was seventeen, most girls got their buzz on with wine coolers or some other fruity ghetto swill. The times they are a' changin'.

Labels: bro-in-law, denver, drinking, glory days, rage, strippers

I am looking forward to being an old man. I plan on wearing a Fedora hat, having a cane with a cobra handle that I will point at young punks when I am angry, eating at the Sizzler early bird and loudly complaining to the Hispanic busboy when the salad bar is out of bacon bits and falling asleep in my lounge chair while watching Matlock. I might even add throwing rotten fish at people into my old man modus operandi.

Labels: age, rage

Humans share the planet with many living beings, plants and animals and our relationship with them is symbiotic; we use them to sustain existence. If I had to, I would go out and kill for my food. Thankfully, I live in a capitalist society and the advent of labor specialization keeps me up to my tits in lean ground beef provided by animals that were kept in pens and treated as commodities. All economic systems exploit people, animals and environments. No amount of holier-than-thou liberal rhetoric is going to stop people from eating meat. It is unfortunate that animals do not have opposable thumbs and the ability to reason, but that is why humans are on top of the food chain and animals are not. So once again PETA, shut your filthy grass-eating sewers and let me enjoy some delicious meatloaf in peace.

Labels: food, politics, rage, science

Last night, in midst of an early winter storm, it took me three and a half hours to drive home from Boulder. This drive, mind you, is normally 20 minutes. Apparently, Boulder uses an environmentally friendly alternative to road salt that does nothing to ice when the temperature is below a certain level. The roads out of Boulder were like a hockey rink. During this period of time, I was a seething cauldron of anger. When I got home I wrote this. Enjoy.

The Catholic Church may provide a consequence free environment for pedophiles but it condemns tea bagging. I cannot believe kids get in so much trouble for this nowadays. In the locker room during my high school sporting career, tea bagging was nothing compared to guys pissing on you in the shower or sneaking up behind you and covering your face with a protective cup dripping in ball sweat (a.k.a. the Gas Mask).

Labels: boulder, colorado, glory days, rage, religion, sports, tomfoolery

Delaware is a miserable little state. Just ask Jonathan Chait, a writer who was caught in traffic on one of their toll roads. He spent countless hours researching why he hated the tiny expanse of land so much. After reading his dissertation, he convinced me that Delaware is a state running amok with backwards legislation and parasitic practices. I now despise Delaware and everything they stand for. Fuck you, Delaware. And while we are at it, fuck you too, Texas.

Labels: america, politics, rage

My neighbor moved in less than one week ago. I attempted to say hello to him and he ignored my friendly platitudes. In the early hours of this very morning, I decided my neighbor is stupid and I hate him. Around midnight, I had just finished watching American Pimp on HBO when I remembered it was trash day. I walked down the stairs and into my garage to put the trash cans out and I was smacked around like a trailer park wife with the pungent aroma of gasoline. My first thought was my car was leaking gas, so I checked underneath it. Nothing. I concluded that my neighbor was huffing gas in his garage like some middle school kids in a deserted park. I did not think too much of it so I shut my garage and proceeded upstairs to bed. Within minutes the smell of gasoline was everywhere and strong enough to make me nauseous. In a rational and calm manner I proceeded to yell obscenities out the window. I noticed emergency lights outside on the street and next to his customized, rusted Ford Bronco a team of police and firemen were circled around it. Apparently, MacGyver ruptured his gas tank with a screwdriver trying to change his oil in his garage and instead of finding a bucket or some empty liquid holding device to catch the falling fuel, he let the gas pour out all over his garage, started the vehicle quickly and drove it across the street leaking gas the entire way. He parked next to the gutter and let the gas leak into it the sewer and then walked back to inside and went to bed. In the end, he received a ticket, his piece of shit Bronco was towed away and my town home was awash in gasoline fumes until about 6:30 this morning. The stupid fucking bastard. I hope he trips on his front steps and the fall renders him immobile so I can walk by and kick him in the face until he dies.

Labels: l-i-v-i-n, rage, stupidity, the fairways