1. Start dressing like an old man, and not a 12 year old. 2. Buy one of those sweet Zodiac boats. And crab pots. 3. Get Kubs a Rascal Powerchair. 4. Avoid kidney stones. 5. Become an expat. 6. Set up a Hammock at work. And a mini bar. 7. Curse more. Curse louder. 8. Levitate. 9. Start plowing over people that stand in the middle of the sidewalk. 10. Start speaking in tongues on client calls.
And here I thought I was in the pole position for raising young superbeasts. No dice. All the years of influence and passing down awesomeness to my brother have apparently failed. This picture was taken on a trip to Thailand. It proves without a doubt that some people just can't be saved. It takes a village to raise a child. I could obviously use some help.
I'm embarrassed to admit that I watched the mockumentary I'm Still Here. I'm embarrassed because it occurred to me that by watching this film, I am encouraging the narcissistic behavior of a monumental tool bag and irrelevant actor, Joaquin Phoenix. While I always figured his hirsute schizophrenic act a ruse, I was unaware at just how he failed at accomplishing said ruse. Within weeks of transforming into a mumbling modern day Dennis Wilson, people were calling foul on the bit. Shit, TMZ was all over it.
The fact of the matter is that Joaquin Phoenix isn't a good actor. A fact that must have eluded him when he conjured up his own fall from grace fantasy. A fact that reared its ugly head (not a hairlip joke) for every one to see when he couldn't play the part of himself "in the pit of despair." You have to be the type of leading man that sniffs your own soiled toilet paper to actually believe that people will care that much about you getting fat, rapping miserably and doing elicit drugs with prostitutes.
Was he really that good in Walk the Line? I'm a huge Johnny Cash fan, but it ain't like you need vocal lessons to sing what every sunday drunk can belt out at the local dive bar. What else has he been in that deserves praise? Gladiator? Are you fucking kidding me?
So this guy essentially wasted a couple years of his life playing a part, and playing it poorly. He wasted our time by continuing a farce after a year-long blown cover. His twat friends like Casey Affleck that were in on the joke from the get-go wasted their money thinking that said farce was important. Fuck you Joaquin Phoenix. Go away.
On a side note, dude is actually a better MC than half the rappers in Anticon.
Here I am on Christmas Day, hunkering down after a long day of stuffing my face with Jing Jang squid and BBQ pork. I turn on the TV and flip through the channels. Ah, Return of the Jedi is on. It's my least favorite of the original trilogy, but I'm still digesting my lunch, and I like the Sarlacc Pit scene.
I pour myself a glass of ice water to counteract the fistfuls of sodium I've put into my body by way of chopsticks. I get comfortable on the couch. Ok, this is pretty nice. Merry Christmas to me.
Then all of a sudden there's a fucking dildo ad on TV.
On Christmas.
At 4:30 pm.
During a fucking kid's movie.
I'm no prude, but terrible advertising for a device that women use to shake their sugar walls on regular TV is a little odd to me. What the fuck kind of media buy is that?
"Hmm, let's see. Kids love Star Wars. Kids love Christmas. What better time to put our shitty vibrating fake boner ad on TV!"
George Lucas and Jesus are super pissed right now.
(After a little research, I found the Trojan "Triphoria" ad on youtube. It's certainly not as risque as I first thought, but it's still horrible. Something tells me Jared from Subway had a hand in this. Or maybe the fucks that do the 5 Hour Energy ads.)
The spot segued into the Ewok village grabbass scene. Well done marketers. Use the cuddly stuffed animal pygmy tribesman dudes to sell your dildos. Nice.
We have some talented friends here at Superbeast. Take for instance Pat Smith, designer of these Nike SB Yellow Curb sneaks.
Pat's inspiration behind these shoes was our dearly departed mutual friend, Kelley "Little Loud" Lynch. Kelley passed away almost a year and a half ago. We like to remind the world of this dude's superbeast tendencies as much as possible. These shoes are another fitting ode.
I got my pair in the mail yesterday. Thanks Pat!
Kelley will dig kicking rocks and kick flippin' off cloud curbs in these bad boys, I'm sure.
Every year we create a new holiday e-card for our friends and associates. For the second year in a row, good buddy Dave Schwen helped us out with some design help. Put an end to 2010 with a little shirtless air guitar in the wee hours of the morning. Preferably listening to Sabbath.
There are certainly a few artists left with conviction and vision, but for the most part, Hip-hop has issued a state of emergency. The Soulja Boys and Lil' Waynes of the world have turned the art form into a talentless void. The great MC's of eras past are either out of touch or bloated from their own bank rolls. And those back-packer emo cliques refuse to evolve from verbally masturbating themselves over melancholy drum beats.
That brings us to Odd Future. A gaggle of LA teens who channel serial killers, and dangle their adolescent dark arts from basement microphones and youtube video clips. A collective of kids born into the readily available tools of home production, amateur film making, and an audience only as big as the entire expanse of the internet. This group of skaters and swageratti have accomplished so much with very little. And they've done it in the most sinister way possible. It's horror-core rap, spit with an ether buzz. Their content is reprehensible, their skills and gumption are commendable. It's like watching a car crash that sounds pretty damn good.
Pal JT and my little brother Sam turned me on to this stuff and I've been watching with one eye open for a while now. The Odd Future shit has blown up to almost cult-like status now, so I'm very late to the table. Enjoy...or not.
The Meat Team brings home the bacon. The Meat Team butchers bad ideas. The Meat Team carves conversation starters for their clients. The Meat Team delivers prime cuts. The Meat Team tenderizes your BUSINESS! The Meat Team doesn't give a flying fuck about social.
During the late 50's and early 60's there was a fine line between country music and soul music. Both were blue collar, down-on-your-luck genres with roots firmly planted in the South. Little Willie John would often crossover to cover a country standard, and guys like Charlie Rich were comfortable enough to sing soul with the best of them.
Born in rural Arkansas to cotton formers, Charlie Rich set on his path to superbeastdom at an early age. Dubbed the "Silver Fox" by many, Rich began his crooning career after a stint in the military, covering R&B songs in Memphis.
In the late 50's Rich was a regular session musician for Sun Records, playing on tracks by Jerry Lee Lewis and Johnny Cash. By the mid-60's he was a label mate of Al Green on Hi Records, releasing the hit Love is After Me.
This dude will get you in the mood to canoodle with your boo, or belly-up with a Beam and rocks. Perfect blue Saturday music for this superbeast.
Watch as this Disney employee trains aspiring Mickey's and Minnie's while gacked out of his fucking gourd.
How do you succeed in the competitive world of the Mickey Mouse Club? You need an edge. A potent, pure uncut edge. Don't get your khakis in a bunch, bro. You just need a few extra hours in front of the mirror. Perfection doesn't come easy.
So let me get this straight. If I get a tattoo of the Hot Doug's logo, I can eat there for free for the rest of my life? No. Way.
That's what the Chicago Tribune is reporting. Here's the word from owner Doug Sohn himself:
"Here's the deal. It's the logo on our website. I have to be able to recognize it. You can put it anywhere on the body you want. I might not ask to see it anytime, but if I do ask, I have to be able to see it. You get to eat here for free the rest of your life. But what I tell people is that tattoos are permanent, I am not. I eat a lot of bacon, that's all I'm saying."
What do you mean by free? If I came in with a friend, ordered two dogs, two duck-fat fries and two drinks, would I have to pay?
"No."
This isn't just an exclusive club, getting a tattoo of the classic logo is like joining a secret encased meat society. A dark, clandestine organization that people only whisper about. A covert group with the all-seeing eye focused solely on sausages, and duck fat fries. This might be the best news I've heard all year. Thanks to @DarciAlexis and @keithstoeckeler for alerting me to this fantastic idea.
Harvey got into an argument about a lawn mower and a couple of his drunk hillbilly friends decided he was gonna pay. Dearly.
"He cut my beard...and forced me to eat it."
You can't make this shit up. At some point in my life I want to go undercover as a redneck in Kentucky and document stories like this. It will be like Black Like Me, except I won't be black. I'll be dumber than warm bath water. And obese.
Thanks to the amazing minds at Lords of Apathy for this doozy.
Every once in a while, buddy Matt Pruett sends me something so mind-boggling and confusing that I get instant indigestion. This is one of those times. One can only imagine how they got all of these d-list celebrities on one beach. Tubbs? Get the fuck out.
Kathleen Turner has not aged well, she still however has that man voice that 1/16th of the male population deems sexy. Did you know Bud Bundy was going to be in this video within the first 6 seconds? I did.
There are few things that give me sheer, unadulterated pleasure; an IPA that makes your nose hair curl, a productive Sunday afternoon and most of all, animated GIF highlights of all 400 seasons 13 seasons of the Maury Povitch show.
HolyMauryofGod answers such deep questions as "is going to strip club cheating?" and "the DNA test will prove you have 12 kids."
