Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here*

In the midway of this our televised life,
I found me on a gloomy couch, astray
Gone from the path direct: and e'en to tell
It were no easy pizza roll, how savage wild
That September, how robust and rough its games,
Which to remember only, my dismay
Renews, in bowls of chips not far from my picks.













"You lie!"

They're right here. Sheesh.

AFC East: New England. Why? The All-American All-Pro of Professional Allness is back from horizontally bopping supermodels -- knee injury, right -- the Dolphins are a nothing but a mirage from a genie's bad acid trip, the Jets, even with Snarlin' Bart and the 385th attempt at Broadway Joe II (oh, Kenny O, how close you were), are a work in progress and Let's Go Buffalo are a submediocre collection of has-beens, never-will-bes, role players and The Narcissist.

AFC North: All Pittsburgh has to do is keep Roethlisberger upright -- but please stop calling him Big Ben, a misguided token of esteem, unless you want to ignore his perennially, um, bad, bad decision percentage. Look, Jim Plunkett won two rings as well, just sayin' -- and they'll cruise on the back of their monster defense. Baltimore is Pittsburgh, Jr. (where else but here can you get such stellar insights?), the Bengals are processed chicken with the part of the Colonel played by My Arm's In A Slingin' Carson Palmer. There's a sick rumor making the rounds that Cleveland has an NFL team, but I've seen no proof.

AFC South: Indianapolis, because they have the best quarterback in the division, by far. Watch former THE Ohio State University receiver Anthony Gonzalez blow up. Sure, losing Stampy will hurt, but talk about regressing to the mean; no way the Titans go 13-3 again, too much has to go Jesusy. Jacksonville got blistered by injuries last year (by December, their o-line was gum, rubber bands and MacGyver's mullet) and that won't happen again (noticing a theme? Just playing the odds) and poor, poor Houston, destined to win 7-9 games when they could win 10 or 11 if they played in the shithole known as the NFC West.

AFC West: San Diego in a laughter-filled laugher. The other three teams should be glad the NFL doesn't have relegation.

NFC East: The Giants because they still have the most talented group of 53 in the NFC. The Dog Whisperer will mostly be a non-factor, but even with Jim Johnson's retirement to the cold, cold earth, they'll still blitz like motherfuckers. Sure, Plastic Surgery's Team is playmaking at running back, but they always choke in December on both sides of the ball. Always (at least since 1997, which was an entire century ago). Washington, good job with Five Year Plan no. 3.

NFC North: Green Bay because Aaron Rodgers will throw fewer picks than Favre. If only the Norsemen had the current Packer QB, then I'd be saying enjoy South Beach in February. The Bears? Sure, they have a shot if the receivers can 1)hang on the to ball and 2)put up with Cutler's whining. The Lions are the Lions, but rest easy, Detroit, at least they're not the Browns.

NFC South: Every year one of these fuckers goes from worst to first, but I say this year, dammit, New Orleans shoots that trend [brain note: "they did finish last, you moron."] [ed. note: oops] in the skull with a twelve gauge and finally plays stomach-churning defense (it's been the vomit-up-blood variety, so this is an upgrade) to help out their serial killing offense. Who doesn't want to see Drew Brees flinging it 40 times a game? Atlanta isn't a fluke, but look for Michael Turner to suffer The Curse of 370. Did you see the Panthers' defense down the stretch last year? That's their big problem, not the annual Delhomme meltdown. As for Tampa, when does Freeman start, week seven, eight?

NFC West: Seattle, because some sacrificial lamb has to take the division. Transmuting into such a gooey pile of torn ligaments and cracked bones won't happen again, but neither will the Cardinals' otherworldly run. Talk about an extraterrestrial flukeworm. They gave up four hundred twenty-six points and I'm not seeing LT time traveling to town. En plus, Kurt 3.0 is due for his semiannual deprogramming. The Niners and Rams suck until contrary evidence comes to light.

AFC playoff seeds: San Diego, New England, Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, Baltimore and, someone crazy, why not Jacksonville, though don't sleep on the Texans.

NFC playoff seeds: N.Y. Giants, Seattle, Green Bay, New Orleans, Philadelphia, Minnesota.

Super Bowl: fuck if I know. New England over, oh, the Giants. Belichick's revenge. He might even shake hands this time unless blinded by basking in his own hoodie hubris.

*especially you, Utah, since it's a sports post. Just remember, suffering builds character. So start building. Don't forget your hardhat, I don't want to get sued.

Totally tubular

Thou shalt not suffer a YouTube-less post to live!


















"You're not even trying anymore, are you."

Nope. Enjoy. Or not, I don't care.



If you think that's spooky, imagine if today was turned upside down!

Satan blearrrrrrgggggghhhh, etc.

To Google Read makes our speaking English good

Okay, so I'm a dirty, dirty liar. I simply didn't feel it was appropriate to avoid the internets until Wednesday. All those posts in the reader, coupled with all those requests and periodicals and patrons to process -- oops, I didn't say anything about soylent green -- would only result in a bloody conflict with the historical importance of Actium entre my primitive, lizard desire to slack under the sun and my edumacated, modern-day drone programming to attend to the agendas and subcommittee-forged goals of the monolithic state.

At least a few things haven't changed:
1. The Browns still suck.
2. The Indians still suck.
3. Hussein X still hates options and Vans. What a major league asshole. Okay, I hate 99% of the music on the Vans Warped Tour as well. I'll give you a pass on that one, puppet.

Wait. Does this post constitute labor? Did I just throw the proletariat under the bus, on today of all days? But the bus is public transportation, which is what many of us working stiffs take along with our medication, so if I'm going to throw them under anything, it should be that and not a fleet of limousines, right?

















Try the vodka, it's made collectively!

It's pay day

Work that swanky monocle!

Actually, not until next Friday, International How Does It Feel Day -- if you're going to get righteously indignant, be ready for a month-long death metal jihad, just sayin' -- but since this is my last post until after the long holiday weekend unless I die then I hope to materialize enough ectoplasm to type from the beyond the grave, ooky spooky, I had decided to begin concocting brilliantly subversive plans to anatomically --

"Dr. Frankenstein, I presume?"

--shut up, Stanley, I mean, atomically and paradigmatically shift the chemical bonds of blogging molecules, conjuring such an ingenious orbit of various digital and prose media that you'd swear dark age alchemy was indeed as factually true as the leprechaun, but then I realized that I'm me, which means I am required by law to put up a picture of a scantily-clad chick and/or something stupid, accompanied by some mildly humorous verse, but then I realized what the fuck do I care, then I realized I really should get started on at least pretending to care about this research paper, then I realized this paragraph has, despite staying in the same ballpark frank, become the mustard, which I'm sure a lot of you don't like, but I love mustard -- much better than ketchup, even moreso than catsup -- so I'm going to sit here dreaming about mustard while you all do whatever it is that you do on weekends, just wipe up your own bodily fluids. Oh, that's right, a lot of you are also in long-term relationships. Wipe up your own cheese doodle dust off the couch cushions during commercials.
















Picture of a scantily-clad chick.


















Picture of something stupid.

This verse is mildly humorous
If your funny bone is humongous
Like a 1950s sci-fi man-eating fungus
That is trying to live among us
By abjuring chowing man, woman or pet.
Good luck with that, but don't hedge your bet
For after chomping the hedge -- roughage! -- oh, the table he'll set
with knife and fork and gooey innards, um, as dead as a New York Met.

P.S. Does anyone else get spam for Dish Porno?

"Read it again."

Oh. Dish Promo. That's decidedly less sexy, even with big savings.

Be sure to tip your waitress.

Of course I take requests, overt or otherwise (apparently), you bloodthirsty --

Hey! Here ya go, Nunly, just for you!

















Hmm, this might come in handy.

Not tonight, dear, I have no head to ache.

Dance, monkey, dance?


















Oh, you can't -- 'cause you're dead!













Speaking of the dead, are you here for my brains, Mr. Zombie?

"Hussein lull kids teevee Hitler sleep, chomp, chomp, chomp!"

Children are the future, only that of your intestinal tract.

Ingenious!

Frozen in time

All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.
All work and no play makes Randal spontaneously combust.

Combustibly golden -- relax, I'm not going to axe murder anyone; no axe -- is the new Crowes, Before the Frost...Until the Freeze, aural late summer afternoon, likely their finest since Amorica. You know, that drugged-out genius of a platter with the American flag bikini crotch shot. Recorded "live" up at Levon Helm's sprawling ramshackle compound (don't sue me, Bubs, I can't compete with cop cash), the sweaty, grimy consistency of a veteran band aimed for and only partially hit on the pre-hiatus Lions and post-slack Warpaint is slathered over all twenty (eleven on the physically groovy and rockin' hard copy, nine on the mellow, sporadically countrified free download) tracks, extra crisply produced; good job, Stacey. Rambunctous opener Good Morning Captain is the closest they tread to head-knocking, bar band riffery, but there's a sly playfulness -- helped by Chris Robinson's vertically-shrinking, horizontally-expanding range, thank ye, old age, you ain't so bad -- that carries over to Been A Long Time (Waiting On Love) which, after barreling in and out of a rumbling organ furrow, wraps up with a slick Allmans/Thin Lizzy lick flicking duel between Rich Robinson and Luther Dickinson. Hell, son, I Ain't Hiding doesn't even try and conceal its thumping, cosmic disco core, but don't fucking ask me how, it works. A couple of tracks on the second 'disc' venture a bit too far into hillbilly land for my tastes, most notably Roll Old Jeremiah (but that's quickly offset by the beautiful Lady of Avenue A) but these are confident, skilled players at the height of their personal zeitgeist. Bring on the cryogenics tube, this is potent stuff and I wanna soak in it for awhile before going back to pretending I'm working.

Conceivable!

Can't see that --



-- without being reminded of that.















Managing to single-handedly ninja your way past the neverending WND-sponsored wingnut candlelight-n-moonshine vigil after Cheney's death to dig up the sinister corpse and salt and burn said putrefying remains before they have a chance to reanimate into an unstoppable flesh-eating ghoul? Inconceivable!



















Finding out that the Dums are indeed not hacktackular sellouts to the military/industrial complex that most assume, but are in fact actual spineless jellyfish creatures -- from beyond the stars! who crashed in New Mexico over 60 years ago and are kept upright and mobile through plutonium-powered nanotechnology gravity implants controlled via the radiowaves of a mother brain housed in the Nevada underground? Conceivable!
















Calling into work on Tuesday, February 9, 2010 to use eight of the billions of hours of sick time I've accumulated because I'm still vomiting my insides out because of the naked, drunken revelry in the wake of the Browns improbable Super Bowl victory over the two-week long Brett Favre love fest known in other circles as the Minnesota Vikings? Inconceivable!


















Continuing to redefine the term "shitty blog" day after day with such off-putting, unfunny tripe? Conceivable!

The power of pasta compels you!

Sure, he's a pointless buffoon, but if I'm about anything, it's being a champion of searching for pointless buffoonery to post about:

Catholic League President Bill Donohue presented a paranoid side of his personality to Fox News Monday morning, declaring that “militant, dogmatic” atheists are “out to get” Catholics

Just the naughty Catholic school girls, Billy Dee.

A few sly .45s. Works every time.

No, that's not spaghetti in my pocket, I really am happy to see you.


















Speaking of cans of RC, Ted Kennedy died? When did this happen? Did someone liveblog his funeral? I hope someone remembers to liveblog mine. I'll have a special brownies, looping DVDs chock full of Cleveland's finest sporting chokes and, to lighten the celebratory mood even further, the song stylings of Motörhead. I figure Lemmy is a member of the cockroach/Keith Richards family; they'll all outlive me and the inevitable zombie apocalypse.

Speaking of rock and/or roll, in honor of the new Black Crowes album which I'll be snagging after work -- try and contain your excitement, youthful hipsters, you might rip a skinny jean and drop your iPod flush with crap down a sewer -- here's some old Crowe.

Cathedral

Spire to spire,
millions yesterday, today one
on royal nave flattened by sweat and smoke,
formless grey tracks back and chokes on
black breaking everywhere:
black matte downpour reprise,
black trees and charcoal fused
by smudged plexiglass thumb.
Hitch an armful of ghosts
tangled in bag and wire pantheism
to cross the worshipful bridge, steel rails and eye
swallowed by the letterboxed sky.

A Busmas Carol

In media res.

“You will be haunted,” resumed the Ghost, “by Three Bus Drivers.”
Randal’s countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost’s had done.
“Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Dante?” he demanded, in a faltering voice.
“It is.”
“I—I think I’d rather not,” said Randal.
“Without their routes,” said the Ghost, “you cannot hope to avoid work. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls Six.”
“Couldn’t I take ’em all at once, and have it over, Dante?” hinted Randal.
“Expect the second on the next morn at the same hour. The third upon the next morn when the last stroke of Seven has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more for I have to close the Quick Stop; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us despite your copious toking!”

A BUNCH OF POINTLESS AND BORING EXPOSITION.

“Before I draw nearer to that scrapheap to which you point,” said Randal, “answer me one question. Are these the tire marks of the buses that Will be, or are they oil stains of buses that May be, only?”
Still the Bus Driver pointed downward to the boneyard by which it stood.
“Men’s fares will foreshadow certain stops, to which, if persevered in, they must roll,” said Randal. “But if the fares be departed from, the stops will require an all-day pass. Say it is thus with what you show me!”
The Bus Driver was immovable as ever.
Randal crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the nameplate of the neglected bus his own name, Randal Graves.

EVEN MORE POINTLESS AND BORING EXPOSITION, THIS TIME WITH SOME MELODRAMATIC HANDWRINGING.

“Hallo!” growled Randal, in his accustomed voice that was so frightening to little children their heads rang with the horror of the mill for days, as near as he could feign it. “What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?”
“I am very sorry, sir,” said the Permanent Temp (So As To Avoid Paying Benefits). “I am behind my check-ins.”
“You are?” repeated Randal. “Yes. I think you are. Step this way, sir, if you please.”
“It’s only once a year, sir,” pleaded the Permanent Temp, appearing from the Shelf. “It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday with one of the coeds, sir.”
“Now, I’ll tell you what, my friend,” said Randal, “I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,” he continued, not exactly leaping from his stool because he was lazy and middle-aged, and giving the Permanent Temp such a dig in the clip-on tie that he staggered back into the Shelf again; “and therefore I am about to raise your salary!”
The Permanent Temp trembled, and got a little nearer to the book cart. He had a momentary idea of knocking Randal down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help and a syringe of thorazine.
“A merry Busmas, Permanent Temp!” said Randal.
And so, as Random Patron observed, Cthulhu bless Us, Every One!

There goes being lazy for four months.

"Independent study, a bit geeky?"
No, listen: merci to my Frenchie teach,
brain train can keep 'a rollin' to seeky
frog wizardry usually out of reach.
"What the fucky are you babbling about?
Dammit!" Serves you right, hubristastic ass.
"Moi? You think you've got clout." Naw, I just shout.
"Seriously, you spaced out on grass?"
Wanker, I'm just high on being alive,
One, two, three, four, yellow dye no. 5!
"Prizes for existence, you'd win the boob;
at least you didn't post one more YouTube."



Randal 1, brain 0, halfway to the Browns' 2009 win total.

Another famous person has kicked the bucket

I worked long and hard on that tribute. Sniff.

Strange Days

When the wheelie bus smells not like stale urine and smokes but blueberries and cream oatmeal, you know you're in for strange days. I'd like to investigate further -- I have a working theory about the cause being the rotting corpse of Wilford Brimley, for do not healthy oats run through his veins? -- but I'm afraid it would be an unnecessary distraction in my quest to reform health care. That doesn't mean I'm in favor of you spying on me, because I'll be damned if I'm held liable for your death via boredomitis.

Incidentally, if you've noticed a sudden proliferation in YouTubes chez Randal, you're not blind. No, they haven't been surreptitiously procreating in the backseat -- at least I haven't noticed any condom wrappers and even electrons practice safe sex -- I'm simply preoccupied with offline writerly endeavors and since my brain cannot multitask, well, witness the numbing coma suffered by this dump.

Well, back to holding the hands of newly-minted freshman. Apparently, computers mutate into flesh-eating monsters when used for something other than OMG!NOOB!LOL!teenageMySpace fucking.

If only the world would get off my lawn.

Check My Brain

High quality! Hi-Fidelity! Hi-C! Oh yeah!

"Who in their right mind would want to check your brain?"

You mean, who in their right mind would want to check you?

"La la la la."

That's what I/you thought. Anyway, scienticians, deranged serial killers, zombies. Preferably the latter, 'cause then you'd finally shut the hell up and I could get some sleep.

Self-titled vocalizing merged with Degradation Trip-style riffing, man, I cannot wait for this album as much as you all cannot wait for this post to end, but since I'm a jerk, it ain't over 'til the new guy sings and unlike that wuss Beck -- some patriot you are, sniff, sob -- I refuse to take a forced vacation, unless I or my brain tells me to.


















Go on and cut that sucker up, exotic Hawaiian, I support your independence 100%. Shocked at my nonchalant acceptance of such a blasphemous mortal sin, are you, filthy hippies? Don't be, for once they're out of the union, that'll finally disqualify Hussein X -- ah, Pretzeldent Biden, good times -- and, even more important, no more hearing about the greatness of Spam. Oh, don't worry about having to buy new flags, Texas can count for two. Or we can simply occupy Canada or Mexico.

"Aside from the Alice, that was quite possibly your worst post ever."

Shrugs.

Scrambled eggs

No, I'm not here to sing the praises of breakfast -- All Glory and Honor to Breakfast, Amen -- but scramble for something to throw against the wall. Eggs aren't as good as one would think, for they're far too runny; nature's creepy crawlies they are not. So, let us harken back to the Golden Age of this blog when I used famous birthdays as a posting save because of insidious brain drain, an affliction working on Black Death hyperdrive this week. Wikipedia, ho!

Let's see, Philip II Augustus of France (did a paper on him once upon a time en français, big A, but what do you expect when you slip the prof a twenty), noted limey pervert and artiste Aubrey Beardsley, famous conqueror and hooptician Wilt the Stilt, and a bunch of other people, most of them also dead. Speaking of corpses and blood, Countess Bathory did the mortal coil shuffle way back in 1614, the commies rained on Prague this day in The Year of the Hippie and in 1831, Nat Turner said 'fuck you cracker' and got his rebellion on.

One more thing. Since Americans, like the NCAA, are self-deceiving hypocrites, I suggest that we as a nation adopt one of their practices. The University of Memphis, for using an ineligible 'student-athlete' -- vaguely similar to saying I was hired for my looks instead of my vast repertoire of people skills -- must officially vacate their 38 wins and 2008 Final Four appearance and give back all the loot they earned for such on-courtery. Sure, I know it happened, you know it happened, but it didn't happen. We should do that with the BFEE. Sure, I know there were eight years of fuckery, you know there were eight years of fuckery, but if we officially say there weren't, everything will be fixed, and Hussein X is off the hook for that whole justice gig.

Harboring doubts? Watch and learn, chumps: no, the Browns did beat the Broncos. The Drive never happened, nor did the Fumble. Oh, sweet memories of my youth, how I love you so. See how easy that was? Thank you, NCAA!

Let's celebrate!



If that doesn't make you want to relive those days, you're beyond help.