Wednesday, June 25, 2008

My day is chicken soup on a paper plate: Good and Bad

I'm having a great day. Seriously. I don't think my day could go any better. As a metaphorical analysis of how exceptional of a day I am having, I will proceed to compare my stupendous day to other screamingly hysterical scenarios in life:

My day is an elephant with two trunks: Productive
My day is a Chinese woman with a perfect driving record: Questionable
My day is a pedophile babysitter for Miley Cyrus: Overpaid
My day is an ant eater in Rodney Dangerfield's kitchen: Full
My day is PeeWee Herman in a mall during a Jonas Brothers concert: Inappropriate
My day is a puppy in a butt sniffing contest: Frantic
My day is a Sharpie pen with a non-dull tip: Original
My day is a brand new port-o-potty filled with super models covered in mayonnaise: Oddly Entertaining
My day is a pair of Birkenstock's purchased from a store in Humboldt County: Authentic
My day is a condom hanging from a pot rack: Notable
My day is a television with tinfoil bunny ears and no remote: Annoying
My day is Joan Rivers' career: Winding down
My day is me catching a friend masturbating to a JC Penny's catalog in a closet full of camping equipment and VHS Disney films: Hysterical
My day is a roller coaster full of lepers: Unorganized
My day is Boy George's anus: Busy
My day is Michael Jackson at an all-boys bible camp: Overwhelmed
My day is a dyslexic, alcoholic toll booth attendant: Sufficient
My day is Jamie Lee Curtis' penis: Functional
My day is the fact that I watch the movie Troy and work out at the same time: Disturbing
My day is Danny Devito's...anything: Short
My day is Amy Winehouse: Over soon (oh! burn!)

You get the idea.

Monday, June 16, 2008

The Declaration of Indiscretion

It’s always nice to have a friend who knows everything about you. There are no secrets, no judgments (well, a few judgments), tastes are mutually shared without conversation, and there is little or no worry of making an offensive faux paux in there company. All in all it is a great feeling to be that close to someone…until the faux paux which previously rendered itself not existent, becomes reality.
My friend is roughly 5’ 9”, blonde hair, blue eyes, legs for hours, and is obviously female. We had our initial run at intimacy only to later find out that we absolutely despised one another for the simple fact that we were far too similar. Her favorite song became my favorite song and two people singing as loud as they can to the radio is absolutely one aspiring vocalist too many. Her favorite food was my favorite food and we both fought to the death over the last surviving egg roll. Her favorite television show turned out to be my favorite television show, and as she had adopted it a year before I had, she made it a point to systematically destroy every episode with mirrored rhetoric of all scripted dialogue (not to say I wouldn’t have done the same thing had I been fortunate enough to see the pilot). Conclusively, the only thing we willingly shared was our dislike of Jimmy Hendrix, Brussels sprouts, and Kirsten Dunst, non of which one can establish a relationship on.
We are at dinner one night, which was not uncommon at the time, when I see a girl for whom I held sincere admiration for, and found very attractive, walk through the door of the restaurant. Me being me, I wave her and her man-friend over to sit with us. Pleasantries ensue, and the conversation leads to the discovery that none of the people at the table are in a relationship. My friend, surprisingly found “Man friend” to be attractive (I say “Surprisingly” because in my opinion I was far better looking), and obviously I was engrossed with the girl sitting across from me. The conversations become sighted with Hot Pants and I holding our conversation, and my friend and Mr. “I Brush My Teeth Too Much” apparently hitting it off superbly. For some reason I find it interesting that even though two people who have known each other for a long time, and gone through the incessant rigmarole of trying to date and failing like clock work, can some how still find the strength and drive to be jealous at the most inconvenient times. Unintentionally, my friend and I begin taking tiny jabs that start with harmless banter and move to malicious attacks using verbal artillery.

Daris- “Why did you order salad? You hate salad. I think the last time you ate anything green I had your face in the bushes at Brian’s parent’s cabin.”

Friend- “Oddly, I noticed you ordered steak; is that so you can get a feel for what it’s like having a piece of meat in front of you that you can actually see without lifting your gut and standing in front of my parent’s closet mirror?”

Daris- “Eat up; the restaurant bar closes in an hour. You only have so much time to get drunk and make a scene.”

Friend- “So, Justin (Mr. Clean) you said you were visiting from out of town? Where are you from?
Justin- “I’m actually from Georgia. I’m up here visiting Mary (Hot Pants) for the weekend and we thought we would come here.”

Mary (Hot Pants)- “I am finishing my last year at school here and I told him that he had to come up and visit me once before I graduated.”

Daris to Friend- “Honey, it looks like the bathroom might be out of order, you may have to be bulimic at Starbucks”.

Friend- “Don’t worry; I can always use your empty wallet as a barf bag cheapskate.”

Mary- “You guys seem to get along…not so well. Are you alright?”

Justin- “Yeah, we can take off if there’s something wrong.”

Friend- “No, this is just our humor, kind of off the wall. Sorry, Daris gets a little testy if he doesn’t get a little ‘testy’ before bed time.”

Daris- “She’s a raging drug abuser. Seriously, hide your valuables.”

Justin- “I think we’re going to go. Waiter! Check please.”

Mary stands up and puts her cloth napkin onto her plate, “Yeah, I hope everything works out alright. We actually have to get going. It was really nice seeing you Daris.”

Daris- “Yeah, we’ll have to do this again sometime when her Chlamydia isn’t flaring up.”

Friend- “I’ll will kill you bitch. Seriously, that was like 3 years ago.”

As Mary and Justin leave the restaurant in a state of obvious awe and panic, I could only thank the omnipotent Lord there was someone like my friend to share evenings like this with. I don’t know what I would do without a friend that truly cared.

Daris- “Love you.”

She was already half way through Justin’s mashed potatoes.

You can't win 'em all

The night started pretty early on Saturday. Around noon to be exact. The boys and I went up to Tahoe to enjoy the lack of o-zone and overabundant supply of uninhibited women. As usual, a couple of mistakes were made on both my part and the part of the crew that day. For starters, I was lucky enough to be standing on one of the most beautiful beaches in Tahoe surrounded by hundreds of gorgeous women in bikinis, yet was somehow forgetful enough to leave my prescription glasses and/or contacts at the house. This little issue effectively turned a beach full of half naked models into fuzzy blobs of hair and curvy tropical colors. Our method for finding the perfect temporary beach site is made up of a three part selection process: 1. Listen for music, 2. Look for zee boobies, 3. If there are children within 30 feet, keep moving. After finding a spot that had a guy listening to Bob Marley on his stereo, a group of roughly 4 or 5 good looking girls directly in front of us, and no children, we set up shop. As I have come to learn with beach party scenarios, there is a good chance that your enjoyable time at the beach can morph into an insane explosion of college debauchery based completely on the location you choose when first arriving. Within 3 hours of our arrival, roughly 300 people had made our spot on the beach, the most insanely happening location on the lake. Girls are running around topless, beach volleyball is being played at Olympic proficiency levels, jet skis and wave runners are hitting the sandy beaches at 20 mph sending drunks flying through the air in hopes of getting attention through inevitable personal bodily harm. We had all the makings of a really great time.
As the sober driver, a lot of the time you resent those around you; at least I do; especially when you're the sober driver at an epic beach bash that rivals even the greatest B-Rated teen movie scenes. There I am, unable to embark on this journey of irresponsibility, squinting like a Korean Glaucoma patient trying to pass a driver's test, sober and getting sunburned. I pack my stuff up and tell the guys that I'm heading home. The rest of the evening consisted of my unwavering ability to be a poor-sport blended with a hint of my defeatist attitude that allowed me wallow in the disappointment of missing out on a great time. I know you may be thinking, “How can this be a good story? Is that it?” Yes my friend; that is it. Sometimes you have to take the good times with the bad, suck it up, and charge $44.99 to your roommate’s cable account on a UFC fight, eat everything in the house, and leave a giant mess in the living room for them to clean up while hung over. Thus is the life of the Designated Driver.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

On the verge. In the Fringe.

Check out The Fringe Magazine as it is one of the dopest publications around. Truth.

Friday, June 13, 2008

Dicture Messaging

Homie Dallas had this to say regarding boys taking pictures of their tools and bestowing them upon the public at large. I can barely drive and sing along with the radio without hitting something; I think she may have successfully completed the DMV test course while making this. Kudos yo.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Rat Bastards

Let me paint a picture for you.

A man waits in the passenger seat of a silver Jimmy in front of Walgreens, his cigarette aching to be extinguished. His unkempt brown hair and oversize sunglasses issues a metro sexual tag that is reminiscent of any cast member of "The Hills" or maybe an Olsen twin as a man. Another gentleman exits the store and moves quickly across the parking lot with a single plastic bag filled with red and beige squares. The second man looks surprisingly similar to the smoking fem in the Jimmy; his hair a mess and glasses large enough to act as a windshield for those walking to his immediate left or right. Jumping into the vehicle and speeding away, the flip flop wearing, hackie sack playing, Abercrombie and Finch buying preppies sit in silence with shit eating grins plastered across their faces listening to Offspring as loud as the remaining, unblown speaker would go.

As they approach the house their hearts begin to beat faster; their hands begin to sweat; glances are exchanged that share the giddiness and pure joy that is going to be the future 15 minutes. The Jimmy comes to a halt three houses down from the target. A final deep inhale with an equally dramatic exhale shared by the two men confirms that it is time to put hours of planning into effect. They exit the vehicle leaving the doors ajar in order to minimize the production of unnecessary sound which may give away their arrival. Leaving the doors slightly open would also create a more complication-free escape. The sound of the plastic bag rustling in his hand, the second man suppresses the sound by stuffing it under his home made Atmosphere tee while rushing to the side entrance of the garage of a blue and white house. Both men duck while running, looking from side to side for any enemy that may hinder their advancement. The door is unlocked, jackpot. They slip inside and though it is barely 9am, the light from outside has overexposed their pupils and upon entering the dark garage both men stop and stand motionless, allowing their eyes to adjust to the darkness of the pitch black room. Like re-finding your seat in a movie theater after reluctantly leaving to take a piss, the two walk with their hands in front of them through the darkness while tripping over boxes, bicycles, and city supplied recycling containers. After taking an abnormally long time to get from the exterior door to the interior entrance, which totaled an astonishing 17 feet, the men quietly open the door to what turned out to be a laundry room filled with cats and slip inside. Though it may sound strange, I would prefer a room filled with dogs than a room filled with cats; dogs are pack oriented and learn from one another whereas cats are independently incompetent and will continue to meow and rub on you whether you smell like cat nip or month old sour milk.

The two men move slowly and quietly from the laundry room to the living room where a sleeping body keeps a sofa from escaping. The television blasts infomercials on a channel which, as of 11pm last night, was more than likely an adult oriented animated cartoon involving either a talking dog, a talking fish, or a talking robot. The men move to the front of the sofa and unflinchingly reach into the Walgreen’s bag for their version of a WMD. The men take a moment to re-learn the art of setting a mouse trap, because let’s face it, unless you work in an office building and the janitor is on strike, or you live in a house that needs a thorough cleaning, not many people use mouse traps on a daily basis. After solving the riddle of setting the hinge, two traps are slipped inside the shoes resting next to the sofa and four more are placed gently on the soft cushions around the body. The men move quickly from the living room to the kitchen where 15 more traps are set unobtrusively in locations most likely to be used over the next month or so. By the looks of it, the dish rack to the right of the basin would have been the most logical place to set a trap as it seemed like the last time dishes were washed in the home was the morning after the Last Supper. With the kitchen laced, the remaining 45 traps were set throughout the house: the tub inside the shower curtain, inside shoes, behind alarm clocks, in bathroom drawers next to the tooth paste, inside personal mini fridges; no place was off limits. The two men slipped out of the house and back to the Jimmy just as quickly and quietly as they had arrived. The job was done. Offspring returned to intensify the joy of the mission’s success.

If you have never been to someone’s house, it can be a daunting task trying to get the address right. In the heat of mischievous division one can overlook certain elements of a plan that generally deem themselves “unoverlookable”. Getting an address right is definitely one of those things that seems so incredibly basic that there is no way one can screw it up; unless that person is in the middle of an Offspring and excitement induced blackout on the way to set mouse traps all over his buddy’s new house. Excitement could not be contained as the two men approached their friend the day after the attack. Hoping he would be completely destroyed by the plethora of mouse traps strewn about the house, the two men could barely hold back fits of intense hysteria while confessing to the masterful plan. When the victim was sincere in explaining that his house had no such aftermath and that he had conveniently woken up that morning and taken a “mouse trap free” shower and shave, the two assailants couldn’t believe what they were hearing. There was absolutely no way their target could bluff this well and there wasn’t a scratch on him. There was, however 4 police cars and an ambulance that showed up at 412 Ridge Drive that morning, and being that “lucky non-victim” Ricky Masty lived at 414 Ridge Drive, he was able to give a detailed account of a man covered in red marks and bandaged hands telling the police that he “had no idea what kind of maniac would do such a thing”. Woops.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

I'm gonna make it so dry for you. Like a desert. Rawr.


My friend Jen is an amazing artist. She has recently asked that I show some of her stuff on here in hopes that you too would like to immortalize your four legged family member (and no, I don't mean drunk uncle Ralph at Thanksgiving). Check out her website with all of her art and know that if you see something you like, she is for hire!!

Jen McCutcheon Art
Contact Jen on her Myspace!

Macaroni and Me

I was sitting in my kitchen, cooking up some mac and cheese and thought that it would be fun to take apart the pepper mill and see how it worked while my water was boiling. Little did I know that a time bomb of black death was sitting quietly in my hungry hands. I continued stirring the noodles and water while unscrewing the lid.

Let me set the scene a bit for a better visual: My kitchen is a fuckin' mess. There are plates, cups, fruit bowls...everything I own is on the counter of my kitchen.

I finally get the pepper mill open and look inside, of course there isn't the regular ground pepper one would expect, just the little pellet, rabbit shit looking pieces of pepper. Now, based on the name of this quote, you thought you saw how this story was going to end: pepper in the nose, Daris sneezes, drops the mac and cheese, the end...oh no. The water finishes boiling, I get out the milk, butter, and disgusting, yet delicious, artificial powder that is to be added to make the contents of the blue and yellow box come to life. As I tear open the powder bag the pepper grinder mysteriously falls off the bar into the pot of water, I get scared, rip the bag open, yellow shit goes everywhere, I knock the milk onto the floor trying to save what I could of the yellow crack being powder bombed in the room, and drop the whole paper package into the bowl of noodles. Now I am standing there, milk draining onto the floor, cheese shit everywhere, the paper package for the cheese shit is sitting the pot of boiled water, and the only thing I can think of is how i am going to be able to capture the aforementioned events in a blog. So I start cleaning up the yellow asbestos on the linoleum, and pretty soon I get a nice little cloud of the poweder going and sneeze for like ten minutes. Long story short, by the time I was done trying to make mac and cheese I was sitting in a cloud of mustard gas so frustrated and pissed off at Kraft, I had to take a nap. Now I am really hungry and all I have is another box of mac and cheese. WTF.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Jessica Alba and her husband Cash Warren have welcomed a baby girl, her rep confirms to

Honor Marie Warren was born Saturday at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles.

Alba's father was overheard saying "she's beautiful." Warren — in a T-shirt, jeans and baseball cap — was spotted carrying food into the maternity ward Sunday.

Alba, 26, and Warren, 28, announced they were expecting last December. (See more surprise pregnancies here.)

During her pregnancy, Alba admitted, "anything could make me incredibly angry or break down crying. That’s not something I’m used to.”

Her one fear about mommyhood: Breastfeeding.

She told Extra she had a dream, and "it had to do with breastfeeding, which is the only thing I’m paranoid about. More than giving birth.”

She and Warren got engaged after announcing their baby news.

They quietly wed in the Beverly Hills courthouse's ceremony room on May 19.

They just moved into a $4 million Beverly Hills home with their three dogs.

"It's a lot of stress to buy a house, have a baby and get married in six months," she recently told USA Weekend. "It's a lot of life-changing decisions. I'm really, really secure and happy in my relationship."

-Us Weekly Magazine Article


Hung out with mom and pops this weekend. My brother came and stayed in C-Town with the boys. We rocked Tahoe's socks off. I'm sunburned again.

Hence the absenteeism.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008


A collection of actual drunk quotes(Drotes) issued by Daris, or by any number of his Associates.

“I don’t care what you say. I’m eating that bagel.”

Moments before a wreck at 4am in Sacramento- “Yellow isn’t even a color. Only Green and Red matter.”

“There’s a fish in my beer…and a little castle…what the fuck…”

Moments before getting hit with mace- “Listen. Listen. I know a guy who works here. We’ll be cool.”

“I do have a condom on.”

Moments before never being seen or heard from again- “Fuck you guys. I’m going home.”

Moments before getting fired- “Bosh…It’s Dars…I don’t flee good. I can’t be in tday.”

Moments before getting a DUI- “I’m cool guys. Look at me. I’m seriously. Look at me. I love you man.”

Moments before getting another DUI- “I’m cool guys. Look at me. I’m seriously. Look at me. I love you man.”

“It’s impossible to get arrested at a carnival.”

“Oh my god, you have Taquitos. We gotta make these.”

“Guys, come here! The Girls Gone Wild commercial is on! Aaawww yeeeaah.”

“What do you mean this isn’t my kitchen?”

“4s are for whores!”

“Coop is a cool guy, but I don’t think he treats you right. Come to my room, I want to show you something.”

“It’s not a twist-off stupid. Use a lighter.”

“I’m sleeping on your trampoline dude, turn the sprinklers off.”

CED. It's real. It's here.

The Stories of the Day/Week/Whenever they came out

Another dose of funny news.

The New Time Wasters

Hookers and liquor stores brace for an increase in business. It's Christian World Youth Day!!!

Elvis is not alright for a girls name. Metallic: Still Acceptable.

British family reunions turn into speed dating services with new study.

Graffiti may make you look really, really gay.

Once you want to be entombed like a delicious snack which is provided in a silo-like cylinder. mmmmm.

The insanely boring and mundane body of what this woman is talking about is only trumped by the drab, tweed suit wearing, suburbia dwelling, losers leaving comments about the post. My God, I made it through the first 4 or 5 sentences and woke up 45 minutes later only to find out the fire alarm in my building had been going off for 44 minutes. Screw Ambien, I'm printing this article.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

My Flawed Friend

When trouble finds the one it’s looking for,

When despair is something that must be suppressed;

When you swallow the key to your own front door,

When your family show turns burlesque.

When a pain in your ass moves to your head,

And a decision made leaves you looking back;

When that sinking feeling moves to the surface,

Exposing the strength and the drive you lack.

The time has come for a serious change,

A serious move from the rocks to a plain.

The time has come for a simple plan,

The hardest fact to face is the one at hand.

So ante up because the cards are down,

And use the hurt to defeat the frown,

And the sinking may surface but I won't let you drown,

Your success is hidden beneath your flaws renown.

- Words for a misguided friend. By Daris Smith.

Brangelina's Maternal Millions

I thought it was pretty interesting to learn that OK! and People magazines are in a bidding war for the first pictures of Brad and Angelina's twins. The fact that they are in a bidding war isn't news, but the price at which the war is currently waging is news. 15 MILLION DOLLARS. I think this is the beginning of the end for civilization. When two people can bone in a gazebo over a vacation in Vancouver without wearing a rubber and make 14,550,000 dollars more than I will in my lifetime...something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Monday, June 2, 2008

The Things I Hate

I hate when you make Jello Gigglers and then they fall apart when you are trying to cut them into heart and star shapes. I would have just made "Jello" if I knew it was going to be such a pain in the ass.

I hate forgetting to put a backer between checks/carbon copies and I write through five sets of checks at once.

I hate that when I wake up at 2 in the morning and I want to watch tv for 10 minutes before falling back to sleep and the only thing on is either Jesus Freaks or a psycho selling "The Gazelle" running machine.

I hate that I drive a V8 that gets 8 miles to the gallon and people think it's ok to make me drive places without giving me gas money because I'm too nice to leave them stranded.

I hate that people care about things just because it's "the thing to care about" for the day. No one cares on Monday that 9 soldiers died in Iraq, but that same day it makes front page news that Paris Hilton's sentence got cut by 30 days. That's not hot.

I hate that phrase, "that's hot". Knock it off. The person who coined it is only famous because she's a whore. Is that "hot"?

I hate "Construction Zones" on the highway that last 10 years. If you didn't have the money to finish the job, why did you start it? Seriously, it makes our state look like shit.

I hate margarine. You AREN'T Butter.

I hate when the best things happen at the worst moments.

I hate the sound of a time clock when you clock into work. Can't they make one that doesn't make a massive "thump". It's 2008.

I hate flip flop that cost 3 dollars. You know they are going to destroy your feet, but they're 3 dollars.

I hate sleeping in cars on long drives. You go to sleep in one town and wake up in another. I get confused if I wake up on the opposite side of the bed.

I hate telephones with annoying rings. They should let you test the rings at the store before you buy the phone. How am I supposed to know if the ring for my new phone isn't going to drive me/my dog absolutely insane every time it rings?

I hate people on the radio with "non-radio" voices.

I hate the fair. It's really just a place for juvenile delinquents to run rampant and 15 year old girls to get hit on by 40 year old men.

I hate local television commercials. Don't make a commercial that costs 60 bucks and put it on CBS. I don't care if you have "amazing service" at "half the cost". You Suck.

I hate people on Myspace that have 9 trillion friends. Do you really want to be known for being the person with the least amount of real-world responsibilities to consume the time in your day?

I hate running outdoors. You're trying to get healthy but everyone still sees you looking fat in the process.

I hate CDs that only play in certain CD Players. Who decided to make ones different than others. Did someone see the one CD Player that plays them all and say, "Hey, lets make ours only play certain kinds of music"? You are stupid.

I hate when a group of Mexicans speak Spanish and I don't know what they are saying. They could be talking about how great grapes are and I'll think they are talking about me. America. Speak English.

I hate forgetting to put suntan lotion on one part of my body. Blotchy sunburns are not attractive.

I hate overly excited waiters. It's just lunch.

I hate people with novelty license plates. Is it really that important that we all know you're a PIMPDDY?

I hate cats. They're too good for everyone, yet they beg to be fed and must live indoors.

I hate that I used to have Starz and Showtime and nothing was ever on. Now I have HBO and Encore and nothing is ever on.

I hate bums who have pets. You are a mooching contradiction.

I hate when people walk slower than the speed of smell through a cross-walk. Just because you are a pedestrian does not mean I won't kill you with my vehicle.

I hate flying now-a-days. I don't have a gun. I am not a terrorist. I am not smuggling drugs. I don't praise Allah. I do want a window seat. I don't have plastic explosives in my water bottle. I don't care what the in-flight movie is (like it would matter if I did). You don't have to keep telling me to put my seatbelt on. I don't need to know where the life jackets are, we're flying to LA (it's land the whole way you fucking idiot).

I hate people who wear tennis shoes without socks. You spent 150 dollars on Jordan's and can't afford 4 dollar socks? I hope you get athlete's foot.

I hate getting messages that end with, "If you don't repost this within the next 4 seconds, you will never have sex again" I have sex with girls all the time while NOT reposting. How do you like me now.

I hate when people leave their phones on in quiet places and when it rings they answer them in a voice that is inappropriately loud so people think they are "hip". Cell phones were invented like 15 years ago. If you just got one, you are poor and its probably my cell phone that got stolen that you are talking on. Stop trying to be cool.

I hate girls who used to be bitches because the used to be pretty. You are fat now and no one likes you. Go cry in your raw cookie dough, that's what you get.

I hate Bluetooth ear pieces. The world is doomed if people are too lazy to hold a phone up to their ear for a 30 second conversation. You look like a chode who spent their last dollar on lazy.

I hate social security. If you didn't have the foresight to plan for your future, you shouldn't get to have one.

I hate math. The only people who should be required to take math classes are the people who make calculators.

I hate people who say "huh" even though you know they heard you the first time. I just sit there and stare at them when they say "huh". You heard me retard.

I hate people who use Post-Its at an inappropriate rate. They are suppost to be reminders, not binder paper.

I hate when people call me "Sport" or "Bud". I have a better job than you do, I am more highly educated, and I will slap you in the mouth if you call me that again.

I hate people who buy a $70K truck and make 10 dollars an hour, live with their parents, and can't afford gas or insurance. Killer ride bro.

I hate it when I flip someone the bird on the road and they pretend not to see me because they know they drive like a toddler. I get no satisfaction.

I hate wine snobs. It's booze. You're an alcoholic. Here's a glass of water.

I hate baseball. If you can be 50 pounds overweight and have someone run for you after you hit a flying object and still be considered an "athelete"...

I hate American Idol. 180 million people watching burnt-out celebrities rate a bunch of karaoke singers is about as entertaining as Donald Trump screwing a llama while it runs across a field (which I would totally watch).

I hate that houses cost 500K and you aren't allowed to just find some land and build your own.

I hate trendy accessories. I believe that when someone buys a Gucci bag and puts a Coach wallet inside, they are unhappy with their life.

I hate the porn girls who send me messages and try to be my friend on myspace. I write them messages all the time about eating shit and foot rot and warts...they leave me alone after that.

I hate telemarketers. If you are going to call me noon, I might politely tell you that your job is lame. If you call me at 7pm during dinner with my family, I am going to tell you that your life is worthless and your children think you are a failure. Don't cry, it's true.

I hate when businesses have crappy "hold" music on their phones. I don't want to hear Paul Harvey talk about Garlique or whatever while I'm trying to remember what it was I was calling about in the first place.

I hate people who voted for President Bush, twice, and now complain that he is a tool. You're the reason our country is fucked up. I hate you. (Thanks Brianne)

I hate girls who only look pretty with make-up. If you get out of the shower the morning after we hook up and look like you got beat to death with a hammer, that is false advertisement.

I hate being the only one in our house that does dishes besides the girlfriends of the guys. You live there too fellas. Don't be fucking lazy. Clean up after yourself. You aren't 6 years old. Dicks.

This list was brought to you as a public service announcement to further spread daily cheer by Daris Smith.

Have a fantastic day.

There was an old woman who lived in...a 30k dollar Roger Vivier.

Jay Ay Em saw this crazy stiletto jamming ass down I80 coming back from Sonoma and was quick enough to grab a snapshot. She's guessing it's going to or from the Sex and the City premiere. I'm guessing Serena Williams is crawling through her closet right now super pissed that she can't find her favorite pumps.

Nice snag Cutch.


This weekend I was lucky enough to see Robert Downey doing something other than snorting blow, running guns, and stashing hookers in the trunk of a Maserati. Granted, he did play a womanizing playboy fueled on scotch and scripted wit. Iron Man turned out to be a pretty fun flick with Jr. holding the reigns as the comic relief as well as a dramatic acting force that makes the movie worth watching. Though we don't see Iron Man come to life until the final 30 or 40 minutes of the movie, Hollywood's "seed of sequel necessity" is planted using the incredibly deep character development which consumes roughly 90 minutes of the drama/action flick. Apparently the CGI budget for the film was cut short in an effort to afford The Downey. Oddly enough, Jr. was only paid 75 dollars for the roll and the other 250 million went to Tanqueray, extras willing to put out, Rogaine, a collection of vehicles leased from Beverly Hills Audi, and a legal team on retainer.

Most of the time, if I were going to give away key plot points of a movie, and you have yet to actually go see the movie, I would tell you to stop reading right now, go see the movie and then come back and read. This is the exception. No matter what you know or don't know about the plot of this movie, it is going to be the same film. Plot holds about as much weight in this film as Calista Flockhart standing on a weight station scale, in zero gravity, after not eating for a week and a half. The movie opened without any type of introduction and I found myself turning and looking up toward the projection window for a drunken operator who had started the movie half way through. But alas, he was sober and right on cue. The development of the new characters comes at the audience so fast it would make Paris Hilton's music career seem long lived; the plot is so incredibly unstable the Vietnam veteran's memorial amputee unit would have a better chance at doing a conga line; and the ending makes as much sense as the cast of 'The L Word' playing an underwater game of rugby against a group of quadriplegic Chinese immigrants high on ecstasy. It's that odd.

Anywho. I finally saw the newest Rambo last night, and it turns out a movie can actually have no emotional attachment to the audience what-so-ever and still be awesome. If you are in the mood to see the entire Korean nation get man-raped by a 60 year old Italian with roid rage, check that shit out. Good stuff.