Monthly Archives: March 2011

Heroes of the Civil Rights Movement ep. 2

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Carl Winslow (born Aug. 16, 1948) is the first African America police officer on the Chicago police force, proud husband, and father of three. When he’s not keeping the streets of Chicago safe, he enjoys time at home with his family, and a few times per week/episode, the autistic kid from down the street who wears suspenders and collects Winslow’s daughter’s dirty underwear.

His fellow law enforcement agents know him as the “Big Kahuna” because he’s got that a no-messing-around, let’s-get-down-to-business kind of attitude. And because he is fat. He began his career as a police sergeant in Chicago during a time where Chicagoans or Chicagoites or Deep Dish Douchebags, as they call them down south, were afraid to give black people guns. They were always saying stuff like “Black people can’t have guns because they’ll shoot their eyes out.” Well guess what Windy City fuckers, that’s a hurtful and inaccurate stereotype. Despite facing racial discrimination at every turn, Winslow’s hard work, dedication, rotundness and good old fashioned spunk lead to his promotion to lieutenant, and eventually captain. Captain Carl Winslow. That’s got a motherfucking ring to it. Winslow earned his firearm the only way he knew how: shooting people in the knee caps, shooting down chandeliers so that they fall on crooks, thereby immobilizing them, firing at bad guys’ cars as they drive away and hitting the gas tank, whereby making them explode (Side Note: shit looks dope in HD), and finally, setting the record for consecutive hours spent spinning his Beretta on his the left index finger before holstering it quickly. Unfortunately his career in the field came to a tragic, premature end when Winslow shot himself in the eye. Now he travels around to Chicago middle schools with D.A.R.E. All the kids make racist jokes about what he’s hiding under that eye patch. They’re always like “I bet Officer Winslow shot his eye out cuz he’s black and that’s what black people stereotypically do when they shoot guns.” Racist sons of bitches. Still, Winslow marches on, spreading the good word to all the little chilluns in the community. Except Steve Urkel. Fuck that guy. Amen.

Another hero for dat azz.

The Urge to Kill Myself

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Sometimes I get the strong urge to kill myself. Not because I’m depressed or mentally unstable or my life sucks or anything like that. It’s just because I’m lazy. Some days, it seems like it would just be easier to kill myself than to get up at be at work by 9:00 and pretend to be returning emails for 3 hours while I google news articles about domesticated animals attacking their owners. Like, some days I would rather just kill myself than have to go to Dillard’s to buy a new pantsuit because I left my Uniball in the pocket when I washed them and it bled everywhere. Tom from Accounting was like “Anyone ever heard of pocket protector?”  And I was like “Fuck you Tom. The last thing I need is for you to give me shit right now. I have enough going on. Mr. Peterson has been up my ass lately about these M-93′s and I would seriously rather kill myself than sit here and listen to your bullshit. Plus, a pocket protector wouldn’t stop me from washing my pen, you cleft-lipped faggot.” Then he whispered something to Pudding Dickenson in the cubicle next to me. That really burned me up. I’ve had a super-mega-huge crush on Pud ever since I started working here. I know that he’s engaged and I’ve actually met his fiancé Sharon, who is a really nice lady. Too nice if you ask me. Seems like she’s hiding something. Just saying. I’m not saying I would do anything to break them up. I don’t want to complicate me and Pud’s relationship like that. He just gets me. Ya know?

Listen to me! I’m sorry. Back to the topic at hand. Sometimes I would prefer to just off myself than deal with all that jiz-unk. Like, I would rather kill myself than have to call the guy to come fix my garbage disposal, then wait around for him to show up to fix the garbage disposal, and then maintain small talk with him until he’s finished fixing my garbage disposal. Uuuuuuuuuuugggggggh! That’s the sound I make when I get the urge to kill myself. Gotta wash my clothes? Uuugh. Gotta put air in my tires? Uuugh. Gotta go around getting my neighbors to sign these sexual predator forms? Uuugh. I honestly would rather end it all. I have this feeling almost every time I have to do something I don’t want to do.

This often leads me to think, how would I choose to kill myself? Obviously I would lean towards something that doesn’t require a lot of energy or set up. I would rather kill myself than have to set up some elaborate means of commiting suicide. I want something quick and easy. I’m not trying to make any big statement or anything and I don’t have time to set up some Rube Goldberg suicide machine, where I get my shirt ironed, an egg fried, my ficus watered, and dozen poison darts fired at my face. I think one of the best ways to kill myself would be to let a domesticated animal kill me. I’ve done a lot research on the google and found that it has several distinct advantages:

1) It’s effortless. All you have to do is hold still. Just let your domesticated animal do all the work, whether it is a chimp, elephant, pitbull, or whatever. It doesn’t get any easier than that, unless you choose to starve yourself to death but that takes such a long time. You’ll end up just sitting around for days waiting for it to kick in. And as far as I’m concerned, I would rather kill myself than have to wait on myself to starve to death. Whereas with the domesticated animal route, it could take as long as a couple seconds.

2) No clean up. Especially if you are working with a domesticated tiger or something. Chances are, if you give them enough time, they will eat you entirely. In fact, they will buff and polish the floor with their sandpapery cat tongues to get every last bit of your tasty remains. Considering that people don’t prefer to buy the apartment where some guy was just mauled and devoured by an animal, the shiny floors might actually help the resale value.

3) Circle of life, bro. It’s mother fucking nature. And I, myself, am I huge Elton John fan, so I would consider this kind of a dedication to his songwriting. You guys remember that scene in Almost Famous when they sing Benny and The Jets in the airplane? Classic.

Ugh, I don’t feel like writing anymore. I would rather kill myself than keep writing this blog piece. Seriously.

Things I Would Rather Do Than Eat At Cracker Barrel

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  • Go to a Coldplay concert.
  • Have Uncle Kracker as a biological uncle then get molested by him.
  • Hire Steve Buscemi as a nude model for my sculpting class.
  • Watch  an According to Jim marathon on mute.
  • Eat some fresh Georgia peaches fresh off the vine.
  • Play checkers in the Cracker Barrel store, and then leave before eating.
  • Shave’ my pubies and glue them to my eyebrows so I look like the dad from The O.C.
  • Be outed by my granddad at Thanksgiving.
  • Eat raw chicken and get salmonella then eat raw salmon and get chickenella, ROFLCOPTERZZ.
  • Be Kathy Bates’ vibrator.
  • Take ecstasy with Rip Torn in the bathroom at a Jethro Tull concert in 1986.
  • Steal from and then subsequently share a prison cell with OJ Simpson.
  • Bake a fatty loaf of banana bread and give it to the orphans.
  • Funnel sand into my Urethra Franklin.
  • Sip on a frosty Monster Margarita on the sunny shores of Daytona Beach while Jimmy Buffet blares from my battery operated Bose portable stereo system. Meanwhile, my wife of 16 years rubs a mixture of spf-60 and Cheetos residue on her pasty, flabby tum-tum and complains about how she can’t go swimming because she’s surfing the crimson wave AKA sporting the red badge of courage AKA riding the cotton pony AKA her vagina is reenacting the battle scenes in Saving Private Ryan AKA Aunt Flo is in town and is making her poop blood out her pussyhole, and she doesn’t want to get eaten by sharks.
  • Go camping.
  • Pick up all the dirty diapers in the Walmart parking lot, across the street from the Crackel Barrel.
  • Sip on some bourbon, reading Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury in a country-style rocking chairs on the porch of the Creckr-Buurl.
  • Volunteer at Nana’s retirement home.
  • Volunteer for anything at all.
  • Go Jet Skiing with my tightest bros, bro.
  • Apply to MIT, go to school for 6 years, invent a shrink ray, accidentally shrink my beloved children, find them in my bowl of cereal, feel relieved, figure out how to reverse the shrink ray to return them to their normal size, write a screenplay about the whole thing, sell it to Disney for briefcases of money, pour all the money on the floor and roll around in it, buy a really post-modern house with a pool, do a little coke, do a little more coke, get addicted to coke, run out of money, try to figure out some way to suck more money out of Walt Disney’s bloated ass, “accidentally” blow up my beloved baby, let him rampage through Las Vegas while I do coke off strippers clits (two birds, one stone), sell the sequel to Disney, live happily ever after.
  • Have sex with a fresh, hot Krispy Kreme doughnut.
  • Meet Reese Witherspoon.
  • Have a taste of Reese’s pieces (pussies).
  • You didn’t hear? Reese Witherspoon has 4 pieces (pussies).
  • Yeah, it’s weird, I know. But that’s how God made her and who are we to judge, riiiight?
  • Like, cuz God is omni powerful and omni knowing and omni potent sometimes we don’t really understand His master plan. Does that make sense?
  • We are pretty much like ants to God.
  • Reese Witherspoon would be like our queen cuz she has so many vaginas and she can pump out worker ants to build furniture and shit.
  • Like in Antz with Woody Allen. and Danny Glover. The Glove. Glove Man. G-Love. Special Sauce.
  • Antz was so much better than A Bugs Life.
  • Yeah, okay, A Bugs Life had Kevin Spacey and RandyNewman doing the soundtrack.
  • I’ll give you that. Love some Randy New-New. Rando Calrissian. Newman the Jewman.
  • It’s the age old battle between Pixar and Dreamworks. We all know how the story goes.
  • It’s a tale as old as time.
  • Shrek vs. Toy Story. Madagascar vs. Finding Nemo. Kung Fu Panda vs. Ratatouille. Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit vs. Up.
  • Shit’s serious.
  • Imagine a movie with Woody, D. Gloves, with DJ Handy Randy Jew-boy on the 1′s and 2′s.
  • That’d be something worth watching.
  • I would much rather watch that than eat the shitty, geriatric food that they serve at the Cracker Barrel.

How to Make Your Band Successful

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So you’re in a band and you’re looking for something to make your group stand out to venues, radio DJs, record companies, and hot ass fucksluts ready to drop trou and do the slip-slip-squirt in the alleyway next to your parents’ apartment. I know, I know. I been there, kid. Shit, I’m still there in a lot of ways. I know how you feel and I’m here to help. I’ve had plenty of experience in this field over the years with all my bands: Houis Louise and the Nouveaus, Buster Himen, Dickey Salt and the Dick Salt All-Stars, The Mermen with Salty Dicks, Shrunken Salty Slug Dick, Pumpkintits Horrorhouse, Moose Cock, and Oasis. Here’s a few little suggestions to help you hit it big.

1) Get a cool band name. This is a must. The name provides the first impression. First impressions are EV-ER-Y-thing.  It can make or break that shit. Here’s a tip: don’t name your band “The Something.” And when I said “Something” right then, I did not literally mean “Something.” I just meant like, whatever you put in there. Not like “The Whatever”, you know what I mean. The point is, you could insert anything in there and it still won’t work. And I’m not referring to “The Anything.” You know what, never mind. You’re making this way more complicated than it has to be. All I’m saying is that band names which are nouns preceded by the article adjective “the” just don’t work. It’s a proven fact. Never have, never will. If you’re band falls into this category get ready for a life of gaining weight, working at Guitar City, and DJing middle school dances. If you’re looking for an eye-poppin’ badass name, I suggest using the Gerund Phrase Technique (GPT). It’s simple and easy to use. A gerund phrase will begin with a gerund, an ing word, and might include other modifiers and/or objects. Gerund phrases always function as nouns, so they will be subjects, subject compliments, objects in the sentence, or in this case a band name. I suggest something vague, morbid, or ironic and as always, alliteration is Tittyville, U.S.A. Read these examples to give you an idea:

Fisting the Dragon Pussy

Snorkeling in Sand

Bowling for Soup

Cock-Gagging for Cocaine

Smelling The Pit

Making Satan a Sandwich

Wearing My Dad’s Face

Pretty good right? Right. Prepositional phrases usually work pretty well too….This just in, I just found out on the Google.com that there is a band named “The Gerunds.” I’m sure they think they are being very cute and clever, but this doesn’t count as GPT. At All. I’m not sure who they are or where they are from but I will guarantee you this: The Gerunds will never amount to a god damn pile of mother fucking peanuts. You hear me?!  I am willing to bet two of my hard-earned twenty dollar bills that not one member of The Gerunds would even know how to get it up for one of these dirty truck sluts.

2) Get a girl in the band. This has proven successful for musicians such as No Doubt, Talking Heads, Fleetwood Mac, Ray Stevens, The White Stripes,

Not really sure which one the girl was. The one on the left?This ambiguity makes for maximum appeal.

The Cranberries, Smashing Pumpkins, and Prince. Some supple fox will really improve your band’s appeal. Cuz you see, sexual predators listen to music too. This is a highly untapped demographic ripe for the plucking, shucking, and/or ear fucking. Just don’t be surprised if you get a lot of balding men slushing around under their trench coats in darkened corners. Here’s the one real problem with adding a girl to the mix: girls aren’t very good at music. On occasion you may find one that can sing okay but those are rare. Like, rarer than a meteor shower. I mean, how many times does a Wynona or a Dusty “Beaver” Springfield come around? Once every meteor shower, that’s how many times. A good solution to this problem is to let the girl play bass or tambourine. These “instruments” require very little talent and as long as those tits are perky and as long as she ain’t no plumper, it doesn’t matter what the fuck she is doing. You definitely don’t want her to play guitar. Girls are too busy going to the mall, eating ice cream, and having their periods to learn the chords and scales necessary to play guitar. Also, be careful not to have too many girls in the band or the band will be awful. I strongly suggest no more than one. Two maybe, if it is necessary to have a tambourine and a bass.

3) Unplug the bass. Nobody is paying attention to anything the bass is doing. Save yourself the electricity. Why run up your girlfriend’s parents’ bill? Plus bassists are typically thickheaded dickheads. Thick, dick, heads. Furthermore, bass is hardly a real instrument. It’s just a low guitar with 4 strings (Or +5 strings if the bassist is particularly pretentious). It’s like, if you don’t want to take the time to learn the chords and play guitar, then get the fuck off everybody else’s coattails and get the fuck out of the band, you piece. of. shit. The only reason to even have a bass in the band is if you’ve got some girl that isn’t good enough to play anything else.

4) Shoot heroin into your eyeball. There’s lots of blood vessels in your eyeball. And it will make you’re music better.

5) Have a few hits then two words: Go Country, ya’ll. Take that sound that your fans have grown to know and love and add a lil’ twang to it. Start singing about small town America, cold beer, creek beds, and what it’s like to be in love. Sing about your truck. Sing about your mama. Pull out your Alabama Black Snake and show it to a relative. Then sing a song about it. Wear a cowboy hat. Put on some all white jeans and a plaid shirt. Throw up on yourself in the parking lot of the ‘Dega Superspeedway. Strum an acoustic guitar. Make a music video that is just shots of nature and you making out with a pretty blonde wearing cut off jean shorts in the woods. If the pretty blonde just happens to be your bassist then it’s a win-win. My advice: do a duet with Shania Twain. People will flip. Make a music video for it, and see if you can get Shania to eat out the bass player. Preferably in the woods, or somewhere in nature. I’m telling you, everything gets better when you gone country. Look at them boots!

Just Some Cactus People

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Cactus Person #1 – Stewart Konigsberg: The Well-Intentioned, Bumbling Yet Seemingly Respectable Businessman-Husband

He finds being a cactus-person a curse. Every morning Stew curls up into the fetal position in the shower, inserts his bottle of BIG SEXY HAIR hairspray into his rectum, crying “Why?! Why couldn’t I just be a normal person?!?” He has trouble being intimate with his sexy, slut-ass. 2% milky fat skinned wife, Michelle, and has lurking suspicion that she’s been getting that Pennsylvania-in-Virginia action from Big Dale, who sells razor-sharp steak knives and lives in a trailer next door, while he’s gone to the office. And he’s right. She is. They be pokin dis way and dat way and dis way and dat way. All. The. Live. Long. Day. He got that ass in the wheelburruh, the crabtrap, the piggy-n-a-blanket. You name it. Big Dale delivers those earthquake ‘gasms by the baker’s dozen while she screams “Come Mr. Tally-man, tally me orgasms!”Mr. Man has to wear his chest-high fly fishing waders when he comes over cuz that pussy be gushing like the mighty Cumberland. Cast a line in, he can eat for weeks. You know how the story goes: teach a man to fish. Except he’ll never get the taste of salmon out of his beard. Ole boy’s got FEMA on speed dial from the threat of potential pussy flooding, I tell you what. Got himself an inflatable tube, two paddles, and a life-vest he keeps in the basement, just in case he has to paddle his way out.

But it’s hard to blame Michelle for her infidelity- and it has nothing to do with Stew’s flaccid, prickly little bread and butter pickle. Sure, those razor sharp spines covering his body have taken their toll on their physical relationship, but he’s also not emotionally available for her, you know? Of course he tries. He loves her, or at least he thinks he does, that is to say, if he knew what real love was. He thinks he knows, but he has no idea. It’s like that show Diary on MTV. He thinks he knows, but he has no idea. This is the diary of Stew’s Views on Love and The Human Condition.

Because of his inability to make significant connections with loved ones, Stewart suffers from intense bouts of depression. Don’t tell Michelle, but 3 months ago he was fired from his job at the firm for pounding a fifth of Wild Turkey 101, Donnie Draper style, taking his shirt off, and puking on his secretary’s desk, then strangling his secretary, starting a trashcan fire in his office, catching a pigeon with a cast net, roasting it over the trashcan fire, hurling the charred dead bird at his secretary, screaming “I said hold my calls!,” stuffing a handful of Perocets and Pepperoni-Pizza Combos into his mouth hole, washing it down with Elmer’s Glue, and carving “Michel” into his forearm with a letter opener, then losing consciousness, waking up in the hospital, yanking the IV out of his arm, and running bare-assed in a hospital gown down Martin Luther King Boulevard, screaming “Why?! Why couldn’t I just be a normal person?!?”

Everyday since then he has spent 9-5 in his 92 Honda Accord DX, behind the Lowe’s, inhaling barbiturates and whiskey, trying to muster the courage to either kill himself or Big Dale one. Everyday he pussies out.  Every night he “gets off work” and comes home.  Dale just happens to be over watching TV, gingerly drinking ginger ale. According to Michelle, Dale just happened to drop in to “show off his new selection of quality handmade steak knives.” He just “happened to get back from his fly fishing trip.” Michelle just “happens to have a fat wad of goo in her hair.” Something smells awful fishy (and it’s not just Big Dale’s beard).

The Big Mouth Billy Bass and the Economic Downturn

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The economy is fucked up, you guys. Seriously. Shit is crazy. Ain’t nobody got jobs. Gas is 63 bucks a gallon.  Three consecutive weekends, tickets to Biebs 3D has been sold out when Sharon and I got to the theatre. You know things are bad when Randy leaves American Idol. What the fuck else does he have to do? Play bass?* That’s not even a real fucking instrument jackhole, it’s just a guitar that’s missing two strings. I mean, honestly. Dubs t fuck is going on around here? Last time I checked, this was America. Land of the free, home of the blind. Helen Keller? Ever heard of her? So what happened? Folks wanna blame Wall Street, they wanna blame the government (or as I like to call them, ” dot gov”). People wanna say that it’s the Chinese, the Jews, W the President, the Baldwin’s, whoever. Everybody is blaming everybody, like a turd just floated to the surface in the h-tub, and no one is looking at the facts or trying to fix the problem. No one but your neighborhood friendly bloggers here at LouBegaCalled. That’s right dipsticks, we done solved the economy. Peep this.

Wasn’t it just 10 some odd years ago that America was on top making that sweet, sweet cheddar cheese skrilla, not a care in the goddamn world? Footloose and fancy-free? What had happened? What has changed? What could’ve happened in ten years that could have caused the economy to collapse? I’ll tell ya. I’ll tell you right now. 4 words. BIG. MOUTH. BILLY. BASS. Boom. Take a minute and wrap your mindtits around that, and let a brother explain.

Think back. What was the one thing everyone had in their homes back in the late 90′s/early 2000′s?  Whose living room wasn’t complete with the joy of song coming from an electrical singing trophy fish that hung on the wall? That’s all I’m saying. You bring back the BMBB, and you bring back this country. I know what some of you are thinking. That the Billy Bass was serving a purpose back in those days, creating a sort of redneck backwoods-rape feng shui, distracting us from the horrors of terrorism and the aftermath of 9/11.  What possible use could one get out of a BMBB in today’s ever-changing technological metropolitan world? How bout you shut the fuck up for two seconds and I’ll tell you? For instance, I use my Big Mouth Billy Bass as a sybian while the hubby is away, riding it to full orgasm, as it’s tail fin slaps my juicer, all the while bellowing Take Me To The River. And that’s just one example! We start getting these back into folks’ homes, we start to see real economic  change in this beloved country, our United States. Urrybody gon’ be making money hand over fist, just the way I like my handjobs.

If there is anything we can learn from Billy it’s this: Don’t worry be happy. It’s like Alan Greenspan says, money = happiness. That’s why they call these things depressions. We need to not be afraid to spend that shit! That’s the only way to both be happy and get this economy bumpin’. And I know some of you are thinking, “Hey Lou Bega, money can’t buy you happiness.” Who the fuck told you that? Your poor parents? Yeah, thought so. Rich families are too busy taking the yacht to Barbados for the weekend to instill that value in their children. Pretty sure it can buy you happiness. Case and point: go buy 4 BMBB, hang them on the wall in the basement, smoke some DMT, press the little red buttons, and enjoy.

* For those of you that haven’t read the March 2007 issue of Bass Player, former American Idol judge Randy Jackson is a well known session bassist playing with such artists as Journey, Urethra Franklin, Tracy Chapman, Mariah Carey, Bon Jovi, Herbie Hancock, Bob Dylan, Billy Joel, Roger Waters, and George Michael. He was not in the Jackson 5.

A Pome

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Bobby got into salad bars

lotta heartbreak, lotta heartbreak

that boy from down the road

decided one day that he’d try to dice a radish

just one radish

you know how that is

gateway shit

he started getting into the lettuces

romaine, iceberg, spinach, mixed greens, mother fucking black seeded simpson

next it’s carrots

then cucumbers

olives, croutons, hard boiled eggs, little bits of bacon

he started fooling around with dressings and stuff

ranch, italian vinegrette, thousand island, chunky bleu cheese

things led to things

before he knew it, had a full salad bar operation going in his basement

not a day went by when he didn’t turn to that salad bar to solve his problems

his family never saw it coming

then one day

boom

face down in shredded cheese

little pieces of ham everywhere

because he was dead.