Paging Dr. Biohazard

I can hear the birds chirping. Children's laughter. The sound of a six pack being opened.

That's right. After two days of having no hearing whatsoever out of my right ear due to severe congestion, I finally made it to a doctor. Normally, I avoid doctor's offices with all my soul and being, but I got really tired of having to constantly sit on the right side of people in order to hear their conversations.

If nothing else, at least I noticed something while sitting and waiting and waiting and waiting in the doctor's office.

I've concluded that the most badass "symbol" that has ever been created is that of the biohazard symbol. Take a look.

Not only does it denote the possibility of extremely hazardous medical waste, but it also denotes the possibility of extremely boss heavy metal.

Seriously, Biohazard could kick most other symbols asses. Take, for example, the handicapped symbol.


Um, yeah. Stick Biohazard in a cage fight with this little guy and you better believe he'll need more than a wheelchair to get around when it's all over. Actually, the more that I look at it, I'm thinking Biohazard could kick my ass. Although that's not saying much. One time, I took a wrong turn down an alley after a long night of drinking and this symbol beat the shit out of me.

Now, that's embarrassing. It kicked me in the groin, hit me in the head with a rusty lead pipe and walked away. Although I think I heard it exclaim "Have a nice day" as it spit on me. Which was pretty cool of it to do.

The TeBow Legacy

Normally before a big game, I don't taunt the other team's fans at all. It's just tacky. But there's always room for some good natured ribbing, which is why, on the eve of the UGA/UF game, I absolutely have to post this.



Boy, he's quite the looker. And by "looker," I mean troglodyte.

Now, I completely understand that this young(?) man (?) has probably never set foot on the actual campus of the University of Florida. Hell, he probably hasn't seen the inside of a classroom since grade school. And I also understand that every SEC team has their fair share of podunk sons of the soil who claim allegiance to a team and give all the normal alumni a bad name.

But seriously, look at this guy. Raise your hand if you think he was conceived on the hood of a Camaro with REO Speedwagon blaring in the background. All of you? That's what I thought.

If UGA/UF is known as The World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party, then this is the guy that no one invited. He just shows up, drinks your beer, pisses in your vegetable crisper, then passes out on your girlfriend with his small, carnie-like hand (still stuck in the devil horn formation, as if he has some sort of rock and roll rigor mortis) conveniently resting on her left boob.

Even Gator fans hate this guy. His stereotypical mullet and jean shorts do nothing to advance their identity. But look on the bright side, at least the shorts aren't cut off to the point where his pockets (and/or testicles) are showing out the bottom. Although the resolution on my computer screen isn't great, so I could be wrong.

But I do have some bad news for the Gator nation...this guy is actually Tim TeBow's embarrassing brother. He's kind of like Roger Clinton, Billy Carter and Stephen Baldwin all rolled into one oddly pink anthropomorphic ball of Gator meat. It's only a matter of time before he tries to cash in on the TeBow name by writing a tell-all book or setting up a stand on the interstate and selling t-shirts with childhood pictures of him and his big brother Timmy on them.

But until that time comes, I hope he has fun rooting on his beloved Gators. Just stay the hell away from my tailgate.

Oh, and one more thing...

Go Dawgs!

The Current Social, Economic and Geopolitical Climate of McDonaldland

Between work, sleep and tailgating, I've had absolutely no time to write anything new. That's why, for all you Rowdy Bowden newbies, I'm dipping into the Vault and posting something from a while back. And much like Disney, this is only available for a limited time and will soon go back into the Rowdy Bowden Vault forever. Or until I get lazy again.

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As a child, I visited McDonaldland on several occasions. In fact, it became somewhat of a tradition to frolic among the various inhabitants of this wonderful town. But as I've grown older, I've come to learn about the sesame-seedy underbelly of this town's very infrastructure. I've stood by silently for too long. I must be heard.

At the very top of this corruption and disregard for the wellbeing of the citizens of McDonaldland is Mayor McCheese himself. He is the very depiction of the rich, white male with his top hat, monocle and diplomat's sash. Worst of all, he's let his elected position go to his giant hamburger head while the people of his land are forced to only eat from The Dollar Menu. And his appointed officials are no better. Chief of Police "Officer Big Mac" is rarely even seen patrolling the streets. In fact, I bet most of you didn't even know he existed.

But as time has gone on, crime in McDonaldland has reached an all-time high, with crime rates in the unheard of Double Quarter Pound range. That can be attributed mostly to the infamous Hamburglar. His unquenchable desire to steal every hamburger in this once magical land has forced the cute, felt citizens to cower in their homes and horde food. As night falls on the city, his cries of "Robble Robble!" echo through the city streets as he tyrannizes anyone unfortunate enough to venture outdoors. This was especially evident one morning when Birdie the Early Bird was on her way to get her morning Egg McMuffin, when the Hamburglar, mistaking her tiny sandwich for a hamburger, accosted her. She made the mistake of fighting back and is now in a hospital bed, barely able to molt without experiencing excruciating pain.

Now, you would think that this would be enough to make Mayor McCheese and Officer Big Mac stand up and take notice. After all, both of their precious heads are made of the very loot that the Hamburglar seeks, but they do nothing as they sit atop their throne of pickles and mayhem.

Other offshoot gangs have sprung up as well. Most notoriously, The Fry Guys have run rampant, stealing every deep fried potato slice they can get their hands on. Their lust for fries is only eclipsed by their intense addiction to crack cocaine, as is evident in their blank, expressionless, yet extremely googely eyes. In fact, they've almost completely taken over the once peaceful Hamburger Patch, which has become a popular hotspot for the sex trade industry. Sadly, the Golden Arches have been replaced with Golden Showers. The McGovernment began an anti-gang campaign based on the tagline "Keep your eyes on your fries," but merely warning citizens does not combat the problem directly. It's as if this cabinet's motto is "If you don't protect your fry stash, you deserve to have it stolen."

Even the shores are not safe. At one time, the denizens of McDonaldland could play in the water, enjoying Happy Meals. But since the arrival of the elusive Captain Crook, their dinners seem more like Terror Meals. Much like The Hamburglar, Captain Crook's booty is hamburgers, instead of the wildly unpopular and readily available Filet-O-Fish. This leads me to believe that these two super-thugs will one day clash over territorial rights, leaving the ketchupy blood of the innocent in their wake.

And what of McDonaldland's biggest celebrity you may ask? In my opinion, Ronald McDonald has become a joke. In recent years, he has turned his back on his heritage. Newer commercials feature him only cavorting with children from our world, leading me to believe that he no longer wants to associate with his place of birth, instead of helping create inner city programs to stop the crime in its tracks. Even after his best friend Grimace was gunned-down in an apparent milkshake heist, Ronald said nothing. Ronald DID nothing. He simply smiled an empty, painted on smile.

In August of 2003, Mayor McCheese officially named Ronald "Chief Happiness Officer." But I for one believe this does nothing but prove that the Mayor is completely ignorant to what is going on in his town. Because unless we do something our childhood may be erased. I deplore you to begin "Impeach Mayor McCheese" campaigns. Copy this blog. E-mail it to your friends. Just don't let our childhood die under this Big 'N Untasty government. I don't know about you, but I am certainly NOT lovin' it.

Brain Matters Vol. 5

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I've concluded that there is no masculine way to jump over a puddle. It's physically impossible. I'm pretty sure that if I leapt over one with a chainsaw in one hand, a copy of Playboy in the other and Metallica's "For Whom The Bell Tolls" playing in the background, I'd still somehow land on the other side holding a My Little Pony and a makeup Kaboodle with "Y.M.C.A." cranked at full volume behind me.

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Sometimes I find myself really listening to a song that I love and figuring out that there's one part that really ruins the rest of it for me. Take for example Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On." A badass song...or so I thought. There I am, totally feeling Robert Plant's quest to find that perfect girl, no matter how far he has to go.

Until he ventures into "the darkest depths of Mordor." Whoa there, Bobby. Mordor? As in "Lords of the Rings?" Um, yeah. He goes on to complain about "Gollum, the evil one" creeping up and stealing his chick.

Ok, now I love LOTR as much as the next dork, but I don't really want it involved in my quest to find a significant other. And the fact that Plant had his woman stolen by Smeagol is pretty insulting. He must have had a pretty sweet pick-up line, because the looks-decent wagon definitely passed him by, if you know what I'm saying.

Gollum: Why's, hello's there.

Plant's Girl: Ugh, what are you supposed to be?

Gollum: We's the world's greatest love machine.
No! We's Middle Earth's greatest sex machine!

Plant's Girl: Ooh. I like the way your two personalities think.

Gollum: Oh yeah. And we's totally going to use protection.
No! We's don't think it feels natural that way!

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The convenience store across the street from me has a sticker on their alcohol cooler door that proclaims "WE HAVE THE COLDEST BEER IN TOWN!"

Not only is that probably false, but is it really something you want to brag about? I don't know about you, but 33 degrees Fahrenheit is about as cold as I like my beer. Anything lower than that and I just have to sit around and wait for it to thaw.

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Laguna Beach star Kristin Cavallari is set to co-star in the re-envisioning of Revenge of the Nerds. When asked about it, she had this to say:

She also says the only difference between filming a Hollywood movie and a TV reality show is that a big-screen film "is a lot bigger of a production." Otherwise, "with all the takes and camera angles, it's the same thing."

Um, does anyone else want to punch her in the face for admitting that Laguna Beach is completely staged, with multiple takes and angles? I mean, we all knew it was fake, but to blatantly come out like that is just idiotic.

Plus, she's completely pissing me off for being in a remake of a classic piece of cinema. I wonder who's going to play Booger...Puck from the Real World?

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When I'm out walking around the neighborhood, I encounter plenty of homeless people who are making absolutely no sense. But I don't mind. Most of the time their ramblings are pretty funny, but I started thinking...what if they're just a little behind in their conversations? I could walk by and they're still babbling about something that happened 2 days ago. And by the time they get around to talking about me walking my dog, I'm long gone and someone else is staring at them, wondering what the hell they're talking about.

So if you happen upon a homeless guy muttering "My Little Pony. Kaboodle Village People!!" he's not crazy. He just witnessed me try to jump over a puddle last Tuesday.

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If I wrote Bazooka Joe comics.

This one's from the Rowdy Bowden vault.

If I wrote Bazooka Joe comics, updated for today's kids...

Panel 1:
Joe driving his car with Mort (the guy with the turtleneck covering up his mouth) in the passenger seat.

Joe: "Ok Mort. I'll be right back."


Panel 2:
A guy in a ski mask brandishing a glock gets in the car. Mort looks calm.

Thug: "Get out of the fucking car!!"


Panel 3:
Mort is getting out of the car, looking extremely calm.

Mort: "No problem dude. It's all yours."


Panel 4:
Joe runs out of the store, looking pissed.

Joe: "What the fuck dude! You just let that guy steal my car!!"


Panel 5:
Mort is still calm. Joe looks shocked.

Mort: "Don't worry dude. I got his license plate number."


Panel 6: Joe, extremely upset with Mort's stupidity, begins beating him with a sack of doorknobs, rolled quarters and frozen apples.


And scene.

Why moms rule.

My mom is awesome.

Whenever I go home to visit the 'rents (as the kids are saying), my mom, being the ever-forgiving woman who has put up with my hijinx, sarcastic mouth and overall jackassedness for 26 years, hooks me up with a home cooked meal and tons of leftovers. But it always comes with the warning that I better bring her tupperware back this time. Of course, in about 500 trips home, I've only ever remembered to bring it back twice, and that's because I've used it to put some dog food in when I take the mutt on trips and have left it in the car afterwards.

So, after the dog finishes her delicious nuggets of what are supposed to taste like Chicken and Lamb (because, as we all know, a dog's natural mortal enemies are chickens and lambs), I toss the Tupperware in the back of my car. Fast forward to last weekend, when I open up the back of my car and my mom sees all the empty containers.

"Is that my Tupperware?" she asked.

"Mom, I can barely remember my own address. I have absolutely no idea which of these are yours and which ones are Chinese takeout containers that I've cleverly been using to store things in."

She then glances over them for about 24 seconds and says "Nope. None of these are mine."

"How in the world can you tell? They all look the same."

"I can just tell. Moms know these sort of things." she replied.

After looking over them again, I'm pretty sure she's right. Most of them are ones that I've bought or took...um, I mean borrowed from work. I really think something like that is just one of those mom superpowers that you'll never understand. Like always knowing when you're lying. Or knowing when you really need a home cooked meal and some extra tupperware. Because even when she says she wants it back, she really wants you to keep it.

After all, that's what moms are for.

All in a day's work.

I recently checked out Craigslist for any freelance jobs, and under the WRITING category, I found a job with the following requirements:

WRITER NEEDED

Job requires:

Writing, the person must be capable of writing with excitement and style in an engaging way. They must be knowledgeable on a range of topics and be capable of putting together the magazine every month on schedule as well as write content for a website, ads, etc.

Graphic design, the writer will also be responsible for the design and publishing of the Magazine. This person must have strong skills in Adobe Photoshop and Adobe Illustrator or comparable programs and be able to write and design compelling ads.

Sales, the person will be responsible for the advertising sales and follow up of ad space. This will include helping design, implementing and refining a clearly defined sales strategy for ad sales.

Um, so basically, you want a writer who will also COMPLETELY RUN YOUR MAGAZINE! Last time I checked, writing does not also require graphic design, sales and "putting together the magazine every month."

Why don't you just ask me to empty out the garbage cans while I'm at? Oh, you want me to babysit your kids too? Sure, no problem. You have any dangerous medical waste you'd like me to keep in my bathtub for a few months? I'm all for it. No, seriously. You just sit there and relax while I feed you grapes and give you a massage with my toes. It's all in my job description as a writer.

Wait, you're going to pay me how much? Holy shit. Uh...when can I start and what kind of grapes do you like?

What Would Dylan Do?

Actor Luke Perry turns 40 today, which means that Dylan McKay is about to officially be over the hill. I do wonder what he’s been up to since we last saw him on Beverly Hills 90210 (affectionately known as BH9).

Perhaps he went to Europe to find Brenda? Did he have to use the rest of his father’s money to help out Kelly after she got addicted to coke, got horribly burned in a fire and was attacked by a pack of rabid gnus? Did he end up having to help Donna Martin’s children graduate? Was he killed by Steve in a murderous rage after he made fun of his PermMullet? Did he travel to Haita and hire a voodoo princess to bring his long lost fiancé, Toni Marchette, back to life as a loving Zombie Bride? Did he finally shave his ridiculous sideburns after losing most of his hair in a freak Peach Pit After Dark explosion involving Nat, a tub of Crisco, a blow-up doll and a blowtorch?

The world may never know.

How to cope with a loss.

My friends and I take University of Georgia football very seriously. Over the years, we've been there for the great games, the good games and, of course, the games you'd like to push out of your brain and replace with the memory of a really kickass Boy Meets World episode.

After all, the antics of Mr. Hunter and Mr. Matthews are much more pleasant than a heartbreaking loss. That's why we've come up with the perfect way to forget about a loss, bring everyone's spirits up and allow yourself to annoy the hell out of the opposing team.

Just pretend like you won.

It's that simple. It all started after years of traveling down to Jacksonville to get our almost annual loss against the Florida Gators. We didn't want our lack of a win to bring us down, so we'd simply walk out of the game and head to the bars saying things loudly like "Man, I didn't think we'd pull that one off, but I'm really glad we did. Let's go celebrate our victory!"

And when fans of the opposing team start taunting you, just reply with a pat on the back and a "Hey, better luck next year. You guys played a good game, but I guess, in the end, we just wanted it more." Then, you can enjoy the dumbfounded look on their face as they try to compute the situation. It's a lot like when your dog hears a new sound for the first time and can only respond with a tilt of the head.

And the best part? The more they try to argue with you, the more you can try to calm the situation and enjoy their increasing anger. You win in two ways:

1. You get a good laugh out of it and it takes your mind off the loss, allowing you to continue drinking in a positive way instead of drowning your sorrows and talking about what your team could have done differently.

2. You ruin opposing fans evenings. They expected to go out and gloat about their win, but instead end up going home extremely pissed at you because their tiny brains can't process what's going on.

Hopefully we won't have to use this method any more this season, but if we do, it'll surely be a great way to cope with a loss...I mean, a win.

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And now, a few Great Moments in Jerk History that happened this weekend.

Jerk Moment #47332
Saturday Night, Downtown Athens

A stranger comes up to me and asks very politely where Uptown Lounge (a bar that was popular back when we were freshman, but closed several years ago, when we were still in school). I reply very seriously, pointing down the street, "Um, sure. You're gonna need to go about 3 or 4 years back in time."

I could have easily told him it wasn't around anymore, but instead I chose to try and embarrass him in front of everyone. Pretty sweet. For all I know, Uptown has probably reopened somewhere else, but hey, I was drunk and couldn't pass up a Jerky opportunity.


Jerk Moment #56998
Saturday Night, Driving Out of Athens After Our "Win"

We pull up alongside a truck full of large, Tennessee fans who are blaring Rocky Top. I yell out to them my condolences on their loss. They try to come back with some witty, hillbilly retort about how their pet (a strange, skinny, white dog) in their car is a "real Dawg." This is, of course, referring to our mascot, UGA, and how they think their weird looking dog is better.

I respond by saying "Yeah, nice fuckin' albino goat. Better luck next year, losers."

Does it make sense? Not really. Funnier if you were there? Probably, but it's still pretty jerky, and that's something special.

MonoBlogue 10/4/06

If I were a talk show host…


Good morning everybody. Welcome. We’ve got a great blog lined up for you. I think you’ll really enjoy it. Or maybe you won't. But it's free entertainment, so get off my back.

*****

Ok, who’s been watching Dancing with the Stars? Really? All two of you. I’m sure ABC is thrilled about that. Well, this is interesting, contestant Jerry Springer has actually been receiving a record number of call-in votes from his fans, despite consistently getting low scores from the judges.

Apparently, producers were amazed that their “Inbred Baby Momma Streetwalker” demographic knew how to work a phone.

*****

A state senator in Webster County, West Virginia is evaluating whether to run for a second term after photos surfaced of him and another man wearing only body paint.

This wouldn’t have been as big a deal if the other man hadn’t actually been TV’s Webster, Emmanuel Lewis.

That’s just creepy.

*****

On Wednesday, a Japanese man set a new world record by reciting pi to 100,000 decimal places from memory.

That’s right. And coincidentally, that was the exact same number of girls who turned down his invitation to the prom in high school.

I can relate to that one.

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According to a recent research study involving thousands of women and children, breast feeding has no impact on a child's intelligence. It's true.

Some researchers are saying the finding may have no merit, dut to the fact that most of the "children" who showed up to participate in the survey had beards, worked construction and were quoted as just being there "to see some sweet, sweet gozangas."

*****

Ok, folks. We've got a great blog for you. Coming up after the break, an all new iEmbarrassment, Brain Matters and more. So stick around, you won't want to miss it.

Brain Matters Vol. 4

I think it’s pretty common for people to always blame other drivers for their incompetence on the road based on the fact that they live in another state. Someone can cut me off and I get pissed, then notice their license plate.

“Well, it figures. They’re from (insert any state other than mine).”

As if only people in my general vicinity ever learned how to properly drive. But this does seem to be a universal occurrence that spans across more than just state lines.

I’m sure that at some time, somewhere, a devout Amish guy has been hauling his family down to the latest barn raising at Uncle Jedediah’s place, when he got cut off by another horse-drawn buggy.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going!?” Then he’d turn to his wife and exclaim, “Well, it figures. They’re Hicksite-Orthodox Quakers.”

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I’m a pretty random guy. I have a thought, which turns into another, which turns into another and by the time I actually say something about the subject at hand, it’s so far removed that I sound like an idiot.

Someone could be talking about what to eat for lunch, which makes me think of food, which makes me think of how much I like Oreos, which makes me think of the colors black and white, which makes me think of race relations, which makes me think of how some people should be more tolerant of interracial dating, which makes me think of interracial couples having babies.

So, while my buddy is asking me if he should get Taco Bell or Checkers, I randomly ask him “Do you think they can tell what color a baby is just by a sonogram? I mean, if you have a black dad and a white mom, you wouldn’t know exactly what color it is. They just look all greenish on that little screen.”

“Um, I mean…I think you should get Taco Bell.”

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The randomness also poses another potential problem. By the time I get old, even if I’m completely sane, people will just think I’m senile. My thought process would be exactly the same, but just because I can’t always control my bladder, I’ll come across as a crazy old man. What once was quirky could become a little frightening.

So, if I ever reach the age where that happens and you happen to be hanging out with me, just remember that when you’re talking to me about social security and I ask you something like “Why do old people and prunes so closely resemble one another?” It’s not dementia setting in, it’s probably just me being me.