Monthly Archives: April 2012

When Life Gives You Lemons

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There are several popular theories about what one should do upon receiving a bucket of lemons from life.

Some people think you should make lemonade. If you ask me, that’s a little too obvi. I mean, what ever happened to thinking outside the bun? Like, get the fuck out of that bun, guy. Shun the bun, guy. Shun the bun and head for the border. Yo quiero Fourth Meal. That’s innovation. Plus, it takes more than a bit of lemon to make some fresh squeezed ‘ade. Did life give you sugar as well? Cuz lemon juice by itself is fucking gross. Bitter beer face to the max. YUCKY. But if life were to (literally) sweeten the deal by throwing in some sugar and some high-quality Aquafina h2o water, then maybe lemonade IS the answer. But the saying isn’t “If life gives you lemons, sugar, water and a big ass pitcher, make lemonade.”

Those more materialistic people say you should paint those lemons gold. Because gilded lemons are worth a buttload more than just regular yellow ones, everybody knows that. Gold is like super expensive. It automatically makes you awesome as nipple-farts. That’s why all the hip-hoppers wear gold necklaces and gold teeth and gold pagers. To show everyone how much more funky fresh they are than us regular folk.

Those capitalist pig types say you gotta take those lemons, hold on to them until their market value rises, and then sell them back to life for twice what you got them for. At this point, the only way they can afford their monthly lemon payments is to take out a second mortgage on their house and milk their childrens’ college fund until it’s dryer that Joan Rivers’ crumbly snatch biscuit. That’s when you know you have life by the taint. The classic switcheroo.

Jimmy Buffet fans say you should take the lemon slice it up and put it in your Landshark. Alcoholism is the only way that Parrotheads, these flabby middle-aged white folks with hawaiian shirts and socks’n'sandles, can pretend that they are still relevant. See, alcohol effects judgement and lowers inhibitions and one should not drink it if pregnant. Especially if you’re pregnant with a baby. Especially if you’re pregnant with a baby that you would prefer not to be deformed. I mean sure, we all WISH we could disfigure our unborn children and get drunk every night and sing “Pirate Looks at Forty” while The Buff is up there shredding his acoustic. But alot of us feel a responsibility to society to not hit up BuffeTupt Tour 2012, and instead, get a job, and raise our children, and continue having self-esteem.

Those more spiteful and bitter personalities say you should take that lemon from life and then squeeze the lemon juice into life’s eyeball holes. And while life is momentarily blinded by the juices, you  shank it in the guts with a sharpened screwdriver like 14 times. And while life is lying on the ground, screaming, bleeding to death with lemon juice in it’s eyes, you pour gasoline all over life’s clothes and set it on fire. After a few minutes of burning to death, you piss on the smoldering charred remains. That’s what life gets. I’d like to see life try to pull that shit again.

The prevailing assumption of all of these theories is that being given lemons is a negative thing. Like the worse thing in the world that you could ever receive is a lemon. Like lemons are the equivalent of a thermos full of diarrhea. Like lemons killed Tupac. Like the showers at Dachau were squirting out lemon juice.

This assumption is erroneous! Erroneous, I say! There are people out there that would go apeshit for a basket of lemons. Just think, there are little black African kids with HIV/AIDs and crazy bellies and flies swarming around their oversized heads, eating nothing but sand and hair, and we are pissed of about getting some lemons?! Delicious, juicy lemons? Lifegiving fruit?! Sure maybe they’re a bit sour. And maybe they’re one of the more acidic members of the citrus family. But they are better than eating sand and hair and thermos’s full of wet, runny, butt juice.

So next time life gives you lemons, be glad you’re not one of those black African kids with the big head and skinny malnourished bodies and the HIV/AIDs and the flies and the machete wielding warlords that chopped up your parents and the sand and hair and the lack of potable water. And worst of all, imagine how tiring it would be for the Wichati people to have to kneel every time someone mentions the name of their sacred white bat. Shikaka. So tiring. I bet they get shin splints out the ying yang. The only thing that they have to live for is the hope that Lady Blacksmith Mambazo will come out with a new album. Fat chance African kids, fat as fuck.

Here’s our advice: When life gives you lemons just fucking take them and eat them. Rind and seeds and all. There’s no need to even bother chewing. Swallow them whole. There’s vitamin C in there. Don’t be a fucking jizzwad.

Big Willie Style

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In honor of the release of the third installment in the opus that is MIB, or if you’ve been living in a fucking ditch for the last fifteen years and I have to spell it out for you: Men In Black, we at LBCHWHFB have decided to compile a list of our favorite Bill Smith vehicles from the past Willenium.

Actor, rapper, father, philanthropist, actor, whatever the man touches turns to gold. He’s like Midas, but with a way bigger dick and multi-platinum hit singles. Not to mention that perfect smile topped off with that unforgettable mustache. Not a lot a people know this, but Midas actually scored a Billboard top 100 in 1972 with an album entitled, Chodeshaft Overdrive. This groundbreaking album actually went double platinum but at the award ceremony, Midas turned it gold as soon as he touched it. What a total stupid idiot dickhead. We bring that up in order to contrast the achievements of the Frickity-Frickety-Fresh Prince, Big Willie himself.

He did so much in his short, short life to be proud of. The only complaint we have was that God took him too soon. But we know he is up there in heaven now, making fun of Carlton and neurolyzing folks. And so in memory of Will and MIB3, here are are our absolute favorite moments from our absolute favorite black man that there ever was.

1. His role as Jackie Chan playing Mr. Miagi in The Karate Kid 5: The Pursuit of Happiness. LOVE the scene when Daniel san and Miagi are in the bathtub together.

2. I Am Legend of Bagger Vance. Playing alongside white people, Matt Damon and Charlize Theron, Will plays a “magical negro” that plays golf and his dog gets eaten by scary zombies. Like, they are like half zombie, half vampire cuz they can’t go in the light but they are 100% scary. I bet when they were shooting, Charlize was shaking in her little booties cuz she was so scared. But I bet Will was like “Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, You zombies better not come over here or I’m gonna shoot a golf ball at you.”

3. One word: Hitch.

4. Tea Cake Walters in Made in America. If you haven’t seen this Ted Danson/ Whoopi Goldberg driven film experience in all it’s glory, then sister, you haven’t lived. Ted Danson is a big time assmuncher car salesman. Whoopi is a African queen (as always) who owns a shop where they sell dashiki’s and other African shit. Nia Long is Whoopi’s daughter, who after being created in a lab somewhere goes out looking for her father, the sperm donater.

She finds out it’s Ted FUCKING Danson, and this is where the hi-jinx ensue. This movie has everything. Monkey humor, Bear attacks, Jennifer Tilly’s ass, and  last but certainly not least, the man from Miami himself, Willie Smith.Will plays Nia’s friend named Tea Cake and they ride around town on a motorized scooter. Shit is the titty-sex fa realz. Netflix or Red Box the dick out of this film ASAP. But for the full effect, it really should be seen on one of your grandmother’s taped-off-TV VHS’s. If the VHS just happens to come with two films recorded on it, and the second is Little Big League, then that’s just the best bonus feature a guy could ask for. More like boner feature.

5. Donkey from the Shrek series. Boy got straight jiggy wit’ it, y’all. Na na na na na na na. Na na na na na na. He was acting so funny like a donkey and stuff. Talking about waffles and stuff. AND HE MARRIED A DRAGON! omg. Too funny, you guys. How do they think up this stuff? Seriously? How the fuck do they think up this stuff? They must be smoking so much acid over at Dream Works. They must be eating so many magic mushrooms and smoking so much heady nugz and listening to Dave Matthews, bro. Trippin’ their nards off. I bet they just turn off the lights or whatever and listen to “Ants Marching” on repeat for like 9 hours. Dave, man. Fucking Dave.

6. Ali. The greatest. The mother fucking greatest. A diamond in the rough. Big Willie plays Prince Ali, a fake prince who is trying to get all up inside Princess Jasmine’s tight little Juicy-Juice squirtbox. And she’s got on this sexy little blue number with her midriff exposed. You’d have to be Marvin Gay not to chub out every time she wiggles dat azz on screen. Except this piece of shit, Gilbert Gottfried, hypnotizes the Sultan and turns into a giant cobra and locks Jasmine in a giant hourglass. But he’s no match for Ali. He was all like “I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. You can’t beat the greatest because I am Prince Ali.”

We here at LouBegaCalled will always love you. Rest in Peace fresh, sweet prince.

Rumors About Breakfast

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There’s this nasty rumor floating around out there in the ether that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. That’s just nasty. I don’t know where everybody came up with that nastiness.

Sure, breakfast is good. You know, cereal and waffles and eggy mcmuffs and shit. I’m not trying to say that breakfast isn’t good. If that’s what you think I’m saying then you need to fucking chill, guy. Like back the fuck up. You need to quit putting words in my mouth or I’ll put my boot in your ass. It’s the american way. Come at me bro. Come fucking at me. All I said was that it’s not the best. But it’s good.

I don’t even know how you would measure the amount of importance between breakfast, lunch, and din din. They’re all so unique and important in their own individual ways. It’s like apples and ba-nay-nays, kid. They’ve all got their own thing going. I mean, lunch has it GOIIIIIN ON. Sandwiches. Soups. Salads backstrokin’ in chunky bleu cheese. Dinner has spaghetti and meatballs with marinara sauce and some garlic bread. Maybe some Parm Cheese sprinkled ever so delicately. I’m talking a soft kiss of Parm Cheese like the touch of a woman. Shit’s out of control. Double O C. I’d like to see someone try to say that they don’t like sandwiches or spaghetti and meatballs with marinara sauce and some garlic bread with a straight face. Fat chance. As if. What to the ever. Pinch me cuz I must be dreaming. Never gonna happen. Not in my house.

Seems to me that everybody out there is making these wild claims about how important breakfast is meanwhile they have no empirical evidence to back up their statement. Hello, it’s the fucking scientific era. We’ve got a whole theory about how science works and how we can decide if things are important. It’s a strict set of principles to prevent a bunch of screwheads from making nasty claims like the one in question. See, there’s something about a hypothesis that you have to test. And then you observe what happens and then you’ve got yourself a theory. And theories are great. There’s a bunch of really good ones. There’s one about relativity. There’s one about monkeys turning into people and shit. And once a theory becomes important enough, the head scientist declares it a scientific law. He calls all his scientific friends over to his laboratory and everybody wears lab coats and they play with each other’s sphincters and have a gay old time. And that’s the best. Seriously. It don’t get much better than that. But as far as I can tell, this whole thing about breakfast has not gone through this process. Where’s the evidence? Where’s the proof? Gimme some thing I can see. Gimme something to talk about. Gimme some lovin’. Gimme one reason to stay here.

I feel like what maybe happened was somebody got all pissed off at lunch and in a fit of emotional, irrational thinking declared breakfast the most important, just to get under lunch’s skin. Now, I don’t know about you, but that seems a little childish. Last time I checked, we’re not in middle school any more so leave your fucking bullshit drama at the door. Seriously. Take off that faggy Eastbay backpack, unzip the front pocket, slowly remove your bullshit drama, then kindly eat a whopper size portion of cock. Cuz we don’t need that shit. Sure, lunch can be a taffy-pulling cunt from time to time. I’ll admit that sometimes I get the urge to go get lunch, hack it up into little pieces, and feed it to the stray cats that live in the cardboard boxes behind the Best Buy. But that’s only because I don’t have the patience for lunch’s ‘tude and I’m a felinophile. Is that a crime? Not if I don’t get caught. Anyways, what I’m trying to say is, yeah, me and lunch bump heads sometimes but you don’t see me dragging breakfast into the matter with some vile slanderizin’.

I suppose that it is also possible that whoever started the rumor just made a premature judgement. Since breakfast is first and all, I bet he was like “Holy cow, these Honey Bunches of Oates are fucking delicious. Breakfast is important.” Except he never really gave lunch and dinner a fair crack at it. He just went ahead and blew his “important” load early at like 7:30 in the morning like a horny schoolboy who is now gonna be late for class. I’m a firm believer that whenever you are trying to decide on something as important as being important, everybody in question should get a fair chance to state their case. That seems like the least you could do. Innocent ’til proven guilty, ya jackweed.

Maybe that’s just the democratic side of me. It’s my red, white, and blue showing. And let me tell you one more thing, those colors, the red, white, and blue ones that I was just talking about, they don’t run. I’m as American as they come. Shit girl, I got a gun in my backpack right now. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll show it to you. Maybe I’ll even let you hold it. You’d like that wouldn’t you? That cold steel between your fingers? The power to just shoot anybody in the nads that you wanted? Right in the nads. That’s what being a god feels like.

You know how people say guns don’t kill people? That’s not true. They kill people all the time. I’ve killed like nine people with my gun. Not like little kids or anything, I’m not some sort of weirdo. They were elder folks on the verge of dying anyway. I could sense death was upon them. Looming like a dark aura. And those cats behind Best Buy told me it was the right thing to do, so I went ahead and put those old fuckers out of their misery. You should have seen them, pushing around shopping carts, reading the label on the can of peaches, being fucking old.  They had it coming and I don’t regret it for a second. In fact, I should be praised for my humanitarianism. I should be given a trophy by the mayor or a root beer float party or something. Or at the very least say something about it in the newspaper.

You know that’s the problem with the news these days. Their priorities are all fucked up. It’s like…Elian Gonzalez? Who gives a shit? Everyday with the Elian Gonzalez stories. I’m so sick of hearing about him. I get it, he floated over in an old tire and watched his mom get eaten by sharks, let’s move on. Take the kid to Disney World, get his picture taken on Splash Mountain, maybe get him one of those turkey legs in Frontier Land, go watch the animatronic bear jamboree, and let’s talk about something that really
matters. LIKE GLOBAL WARMING. It’s hot as shit outside and nobody is saying anything about it. It’s April and it’s 85 degrees and I’m sweating my dick off. Literally. Sweating. My. Dick. Slap. Off. I got no dick now.

How am I supposed to procreate? I’ve always dreamed of starting a family but that dream is squandered. SQUANDERED. Now if I want to start a family, I’m going to have to adopt and that shit sucks. There’s a reason that those kids real parents didn’t want them. Probably because their heads were too big or they’ve got two left hands. I don’t want one of those orphan babies, I want a normal baby. One from my now non-existent penis.

I guess I could always just steal a baby from the hospital or something. I’m not sure how strict their security is. I bet they have video cameras at least. So I’ll have to wear like a mask or a bandana. I think the key to stealing a baby from the hospital is all about confidence. If you just pretend like you’re the legit and play it cool, nobody is going to fuck with you and you can just stroll right on out with your own little bundle of joy. By the time anybody notices that baby is gone, you’ll be a third of the way to Costa Rica in an all white, linen suit. Like Panama Jack. Except Costa Rica. Costa Rica Jack.

See, in Costa Rica nobody gives a fuck. They don’t have police or rules or indoor pluming ormoney. It’s just like a bunch of chill ass fuckers chilling out like a motherfucker. And when I say “chill ass fuckers” I don’t mean they fuck asses. Sure, some of them probably have. I’d be willing to bet that there are a handful that fooled around in the anal department but I doubt they’re all into that. I’d have to see some statistical evidence before I jumped to that conclusion. Some cold hard evidence. And that’s what I’m getting at people. E-vi-dence.

See, we’ve got a whole scientific process we have to go through before we can declare an entire sovereign nation a bunch of ass fuckers. It’s a strict set of principles to prevent a bunch of screwheads from making nasty claims like the one in question. See, there’s something about a hypothesis that you have to test. And then you observe what happens and then you’ve got yourself a theory. And theories are great. There’s a bunch of really good ones. There’s one about relativity. There’s one about monkeys turning into people and shit. And once a theory becomes best enough, the head scientist declares it a scientific law. He calls all his scientific friends over to his laboratory and play with each other’s sphincters and everybody wears lab coats and they have a gay old time. And that’s the best. Seriously. It don’t get much better than that. But as far as I can tell, this whole thing about breakfast has not gone through this process. That’s all I’m saying.