mockable.org

Dear Dumbass,

Yesterday was St. Patrick’s day.  A magical day where everyone’s a little of the worst part of a stereotypical Irishman. Because some guy allegedly drove some snakes from some Island to somewhere else, we are given license to drink a German beverage and talk like a leprechaun until we vomit green bile on someone that isn’t our husband/wife. We get to stumble around and make inappropriate suggestions to members of the opposite sex and act like a total piece of shit without having to endure an intervention and (most of the time) nobody even calls the cops.  It’s truly a beautiful phenomenon.  The only better holidays are the Super Bowl and Cinco de Mayo because we get to be equally retarded (that’s right, I said it – one’s brain functions are in a state of retardation) without all the preachiness of the religious people who think this is an excellent “teachable moment”.  Yes, we understand the irony of wallowing in sin as we celebrate the deeds of a saint…or at least we did up until all but our essential brain functions shut off (by the way, it appears that one’s bladder isn’t really all that essential – I’ll clean that up in the morning…or maybe the afternoon) now shut the fuck up.

Quick tangent – Right now some of my best work is in the field of Facebook comments…check out this little gem I just posted – “So I’m hanging out drinking with Bignar (ed – Bignar is John Bignar, a guy I went to high school with), and he’s had 8 beers. I don’t know if you know this, but Bignar drives a Ford Escort. He finally decides that he wants to get a bunch of girls from the service (an escort, if you will) and drive her around in his car. So he’s driving around with escorts in his Escort. He finally has that 9th beer and he starts flailing and blindly throwing punches in every direction. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a carload of escorts fleeing an Escort. It was some fucking night…” So anyway…there’s more where that came from, so go be my facebook pal or whatever…

Everything about this most holy day is beautiful…except for one thing – people like you.  You stare at me with a condescending eye as I sway back and forth like Muhammad Ali on a boat.  You point at me as you lean over to your other soapboxing friend and say, “That’s why I hate St. Patrick’s day.  All the goddamned drunks.”  On behalf of all the slobbering neanderthal perverts like me – go fuck yourself.  Going out on St. Patrick’s day and complaining about the drunks is like going to a NASCAR race and complaining about all the cars.  To borrow heavily from Mikey of the Goonies:

The next time we see sky it’ll be over a different day – a day wrought with responsibilities and sadness. The next time you sit down, it’ll be at a desk in front of a computer rather than 5 feet from two hot girls who are ten years my junior, drunkenly grinding on one another as though they are attempting to start a survival fire through the power of groin friction. That middle-aged woman and her friend over there who keep glaring at our table, they want the bestest stuff for society.  And most of the time we’re willing to provide that for ‘em.    ‘Cause most of the time it’s her time. Her time, up there. Down here it’s our time. It’s our time down here in the public urination and debauchery.  Our time to kill the brain cells that remind us of the meaninglessness of existence.  Our time to vomit on the stage while singing “You’re So Vain” on the Karaoke machine.  It’s our time goddamnit so for once in your life would you shut up and let us be drunk and stupid for at least three nights a year?  We’ve earned it – and besides this is our biblical right as sanctioned by the catholic church. That’s all over the second we ride up Troy’s bucket.

Wow.  I’ve motivated myself.  Despite the fact that it’s 8:30 in the morning on the day after St. Patrick’s day, I think I might take the day off and go out drinking and get in a fight with someone smaller than me…and of the opposite sex.  So to wrap up, please leave us ridiculous drunks alone on our special day.  Maybe you could go down in the basement and watch a movie or something.  Or you could take to the internet and tell strangers and former classmates about how “stupid” the holiday is.  I’m sure that’d be much more fun than tongue kissing a stranger that smells like makeup and cigarettes and then yelling, “WOOOO!”  Whatever you do, just do us a favor and leave us to it, ’cause it’s our time.

Sincerely,

metten

America, still reeling from the news of Scott Baio’s untimely passing, enters its fourth day of mourning on Tuesday.  Candlelight vigils have been held nightly at dozens of locations around the country, and devastated fans worldwide are tying bandanas around their right legs, in remembrance of the fallen actor and cultural icon.

The tributes have been glowing and unceasing.

“(Baio’s) contributions cannot be overstated,” said U.S. House of Representatives Minority Whip, Eric Cantor.  “I think it’s safe to say he was the voice and face of a generation.  The man was a giant, and there will never be another like him.  Someday I hope to see his face on Rushmore.”

Eric Schmidt, CEO of Google:  “For one hour on Thursday afternoon, all search results at Google dotcom will return nothing but Scott Baio-related results.  Also, for the remainder of the month, the left O in our logo will be Chachi’s head.”

Breaking an almost thirty-year silence, legendary author J.D. Salinger released the following statement to the press yesterday:

“I, like so many, was and am an avid fan of Mr. Baio’s immense talents and contributions.  Indeed, in early 2002 I was involved in a minor fistfight in a Cornish bar, when another patron insinuated Dr. Jonas Salk was the greater man.  I had to set the fellow straight on the matter.”

L.L.L. Anderson, Director of NASA:  “All of us at the institute are devastated by the news of Mr. Baio’s death, and our best wishes go out to his friends and family.  In recognition of his unsurpassed contributions to the human race, we have received signed statements from seventeen world nations, all agreeing to refer to Earth’s moon as “Scott” for the balance of the year.  Godspeed, my good man.”

Jerry Hill, president of Pretentious-Ass Blog Commenters of America, left the following identical comment at dozens and dozens of websites and forums over the weekend:  “Goodnight sweet prince.”

On Monday’s edition of NBC’s Today Show, co-host Matt Lauer teased an upcoming segment with the following words. “Move over Jesus?  Was Scott Baio the greatest human who ever lived?  In a few minutes you’ll meet two people who are making the case.”

Scott Baio began his career as an actor, famously portraying the character “Chachi Arcola” on the 1970s situation comedy Happy Days, as well as a short-lived spinoff, Joanie Love Chachi.  He later enjoyed success in many fields, including physics, chemistry, physiology, race relations, bluegrass music, soccer, and animal husbandry.

Baio died Friday, following a freak accident involving a “potato gun.”

While metten continues his annual walkabout/bender/suicide attempt, please enjoy this excellent offering from Chuck in Belpre.

Being self-employed is a wonderful thing. I set my own hours and if I feel like having a slob day and sleep until the crack of noon I can. On the other hand I have a strict set of rules I hold myself to. One of those rules pertains to appointments. If I make an appointment with a client for 10:45 a.m. I am there at that time, or maybe even a few minutes early. Apparently showing up on time and ready to work is something that has gone the way of the steamship. Clients seem to be impressed with punctuality.

I have been feeling my age recently and that just will not do. Oh, I know that after more than five decades of living and abuse the body will start to break down a little. And not giving it the utmost in care doesn’t help much either. There was that period that passed in a George Dickel and Black Beauty haze. But it was fortunately short-lived. But, I am carrying more poundage than I should. Think large Chrismas goose. And the Winstons are not exactly contributing to my general well being. Most mornings find me horking up a gelatinous mass in colors of caramel or desert khaki.

So I bit the bullet and made an appointment with my doctor…better known as the Angel of Death.

My appointment was for 2:10 p.m. and I showed up at two o’clock on the dot. As I approached the receptionists desk I was once again amazed at how much she resembled Bernadette Peters in The Longest Yard, right down to the beehive hair-do. Well, if Peters was carrying an extra fifty pounds or so. I have had the same doctor for over a decade and yet she can never remember my name. I told her who I was and that I had a 2:10 appointment. She looked at her appointment calendar for way too long and then told me that the doctor was running a little late and I would have to wait. No big deal, that happens sometimes and it’s usually not a long wait. But I had to ask how long and she informed me that the doctor was behind on his rounds at the hospital and it would be an hour wait…or possibly longer. I am not easliy excitable and usually keep calm in most situations but I could hear the sound of rushing wind building inside my head as I thought of sitting in the waiting room for an hour or more. I mean how many times can you watch that educational tape that all doctors seem to have on a loop telling you in that condescending voice which cruciferous vegetables are the most healthy or how to lift heavy objects without throwing your lower back into spasms?

I figured if I had that much time I could put it to good use and get some errands done while the doctor made his way across town. I told Bernadette I would be back in about an hour and this is where Rod Serling entered the office.

She told me that if I left I would be charged for a missed appointment and would have to re-schedule. I said, ‘But the doctor isn’t here.’ She said, ‘Yes, but you have a 2:10 appointment and if you leave then you will have missed your appointment. That’s office policy’. The wind in my head became tornadic.

I said, ‘So if I leave while the doctor isn’t here and come back when he is here I will still be charged and not get to see him even then? That makes no sense.’

‘It’s office policy.’ she said. ‘And you are holding up the line.’

I turned around and tried not to flinch but I think I made a noise like someone had stepped on a baby chick. Standing there was the largest human being I had ever seen. It was if someone had stretched a t-shirt down over a small haystack. I had no idea you could get Billy Idol shirts in that size. It had a mop of greasy hair and a beard that would have made Jerry Garcia weep. And it was wearing red sweat pants and flip-flops made from recycled tires. It spoke. ‘I have a 2:15.’

I told him the doctor wasn’t here and he said that was ok with him. ‘I seen a new People magazine over there I haven’t read yet.’

I guess there are plenty of pictures in People. I would have bet anything that he moved his lips as he read.

So I sighed heavily and did what any red blooded tough guy would do. I sat down and waited.

Remember…bend your knees and eat your Brussels sprouts.