Archive for June, 2007

Insomnia is awesome

I have always been a world-class sleeper.  I have never had a problem falling asleep, only with waking up.  The rest of the Stonies know this well, and it used to be a game for them to see how much punishment I can endure before my mind can be jarred from the iron-grip of slumber.  Activities used to try and wake me have ranged from, violently shaking me, hurling pillows, hurling books, or even the dreaded, “heavy metal alarm clock.”


For those of you who are not hip to this maneuver, it is when an asshole (usually Stoney) places a guitar next to the head of the sleeping victim.  The next step includes wailing on the strings until the guitar wielder’s fingers bleed, or the victim wakes up in a severe state of panic and bewilderment.

 These were always fruitless endeavors for the Stonies, because nothing short of a sonic boom could wake me up; a sonic boom, or a precision punch to the surgical scar on my foot by Stoney.  Due to this inherent super power for sleep, I have been forced to acquire many alarm clocks over the years.  Currently, I have three alarm clocks in my room, along with the use of my phone’s alarm clock function. 

However, I found myself in a peculiar situation the other night; I, Roughty, was having trouble sleeping.  I know the reason for this, (my 6 hour nap in the middle of the day) yet still, my mind and body were delving into uncharted territory.  So I used this time to catch up on the multitude of infomercials TV had to offer. 

I am a well-seasoned veteran of the infomercial market.  We all know those nights when you strike out with all ladies at the bar, or you have no friends, and you must return home in disgrace with only your TV and enticing offers to comfort you.  I feel I would be remiss if I did not outline some of the more classic TV offers that have been filling useless airtime in recent memory. 

The “Get rich quick websites”. 

These infomercials cash in on your love of two deadly sins, your gluttony for sloth.  Are you a lazy bastard?  Excellent!  Go to this website, and you can begin working out of your home.  Watchers are regaled with instant success stories of users who are now making upward of $500,000 a year.  Or, for the more prudent capitalists, you can make roughly $2,000 to $5,000 a month, all from the comfort of your home.  (Insert token Dank hermit joke here). 

These infomercials are flawed by their vagueness though.  What soul-selling activities must I conspire on with the insidious looking pitch-man?  The insomniacs are never given a hint of what must be done to achieve their maximum earning potential.  Seemingly, all you must do is visit whatever site is being glorified, and soon you will be lining the walls of your urine/beer/bong water soaked apartment with cash. 

Enzyte male enhancement.


 We have all seen “Smiling Bob”, the grinning fool who prances around to an ear-piercing whistle of a theme song.  “What is Bob smiling about?”, the narrator queries.  Well, Bob has a raging boner.  The joy is not limited to Bob, his wife has an equally disturbing grin on her face which can be construed as either pleasure or fear. 

Bob also lives in a town with men who are riddled with metaphors for their ineptitude.  These poor souls are burdened with anything from limp garden hoses to sagging cocktail wieners.  Only this visual stimulus can alert viewers to the severe problems faced by men who aren’t glowing like Bob.  To make matters worse, all the women of this community are hypnotized by Bob’s beaming self-confidence, furthering the sexual drought their husbands are mired in. 

Regretfully, the vagueness of “male enhancement” may have trouble connecting with the knuckle-dragging constituency.  Those of lower brain functions may be left to wonder what is being enhanced.  Tongue-in-cheek jokes usually soar over the heads of these people, and aren’t they the ones we should be helping the most?  Get with it, Enzyte. 


Now, when you are talking about the bed infomercial racket, you are talking about two powerhouses; the “Sleep Number Bed”, and the “TempurPedic Bed”.  Each has a distinct marketing strategy.  But each strategy is predicated on the fact that you can’t sleep; therefore you need a better bed.  Genius. 




The spokesperson for the “Sleep Number Bed” is Lindsay Wagner.  You readers may remember her as, “The Bionic Woman.”  What were the ad execs thinking here?  Why the fuck would the Bionic Woman need a comfortable bed?  She’s bionic for crying out loud; just implant a sleep program in her, or whatever you scientists do. 

Okay, allowing that oversight, the Sleep Number Bed still falls short in the ad game.  The people watching these late night infomercials are mostly lazy, lonely people.  What use will they have for a bed with two different comfort zones?  Seriously, I don’t really give a fuck how comfortable Teddy Ruxpin, or my imaginary friends are next to me.  The Sleep Number Bed may be a quality product, but I will never know because I am so outraged by their ludicrous ad campaign that I will never give it a try. 




Here’s the heavy hitter.  NASA created this bed, thus, astronauts slept on it.  Hey, I always wanted to be an astronaut!  Sign me up.  However, TempurPedic’s advertising genius does not end there. 

This bed is now known for its famous, “wine glass test”.  Apparently, the rocket scientists at NASA tired of tracking galaxies and black holes, and turned their fervor toward the domestic problem of alcohol-related bed accidents.  And by God, they came through for us.  Now we can let the kids jump on our bed, or get busy with our significant others without worrying about the precariously resting booze at the foot of the bed.  The sheer brilliance of this new technology hits home when the beer or wine you just set on your bed, has spilled everywhere as you jump on your shitty mattress in celebration of this breakthrough. 

Not to be left as a one-two punch of ad brilliance, the TempurPedic also stands by its ability to get rid of, “morning stiffness”.  Wow, now they’ve done it.  I am really curious how those scientists will get rid of my morning stiffness, it seems like such a…oh wait, you mean BACK stiffness?  Ohhhh, ok.  I was about to say, that seems to be in glaring contrast to the Enzyte infomercial that was previously aired.  So, no back stiffness, huh?  That’s just as good I guess. 

Hair restoration.


I will keep this brief, because as a man, this is not a laughing matter.  I will undoubtedly lose my hair, and so will most of the rest of you.   However, there’s a societal issue that needs to be addressed. 

According to these infomercials, bald people are not allowed to swim.  Now, I haven’t attained all the particulars, but in my limited research, I have found that bald men cannot swim in public pools in the continental US, or in the Pacific Ocean.   This would explain the frightening exuberance with which men who have undergone hair restoration show, as they splash into the pool for the first time with their new head of hair.  Bald men’s civil rights are in jeopardy people, write your Congressmen. 

The granddaddy, “Girls Gone Wild”.


During each session of infomercial viewing, it is impossible not to find the never ending loop of, “Girls Gone Wild” infomercials on, “Comedy Central” or “Spike TV”.  Seeing as the core constituency of infomercial viewers is lonely, single men, this is quite a cruel trick. 

Sorry, you didn’t get that girl you were eyeing all night?  Well, with a nominal fee of $19.95, you can watch all the girls you want, and they’ve gone WILD!  Plus, they will throw in the, “Spring Break Edition” for free, because your weak ass will need a new tape on another lonely night very soon. 

It’s no secret why the guy who created these videos is worth a bagillion dollars, exploiting lonely men is easy.  The secret is, how does this mouth-breathing non-savage get all these young girls to disrobe and go wild?  Well, have comfort fellow savages, he has used up all his good luck and will be living an agonizing life in Hell. 

Well, this bores me.  I think I will pop an Enzyte, find out how I can start earning $5,000 a month from my computer, lay in my TempurPedic bed with my new head of hair, all while watching the antics of wild girls on Spring Break.  What will you do with your afternoon?  

if stoney and roughty can…

… plug a show as horrible as curb your enthusiasm, i don’t feel bad about letting you all in on a little secret.  that secret is called John From Cincinnati.  (unfortunately, google has not yet realized how great this show is, so there are no images that would give you a feel for the cast and setting.)  rip if you must, but i have to warn you — this series is the shizznizzazzle. 

ok, i’ll set the stage.  it takes place in cali., right on the beach, probably la, but i dont know. 

there’s a family of surfers — a granddad (about 50), a dad (maybe mid 30’s), and a son (12 or 13).  they are all fucking shredders and have each been very successful in the pro surfing world. 

there’s this guy named john.  he’s not from cincinnati, but you all know this if you have tvs.

there’s rampant heroin usage and massive references to reefer, but i haven’t seen any cheefed as yet.

there’s a fly, bombdiddly surf shop and aliens and skateboarding and smoking hot honies.  there’s suicide and bone-breaking and miracles and gnarly waves.  there’s also  ed o’neill. 

if this isn’t enough to interest you, i recommend that you view the following video from the wwwdotyoutubedotcomwebsite.

and while we’re at it, why don’t you check out the opening credits?  this is a very good song, too, if you ask me.

you owe it to yourself to check this show out.  i never thought i’d like it, but i am hooked on it now.  it’s cool.  check it out. 

plus if enough of you subscribe to hbo, i get a free stuffed tony soprano doll.

Konichwa, bitches

Puts everyone to shame.

 p.s. stoney’s a bitch

General Status Update

Holas, loyal readers and Stalin searchers. Holas.

The countdown has officially begun, and like any good travel journalist on the hunt, I’m going to beat this one into the ground.

El Grande Mission con Los Angeles is about to begin, in exactly 3 weeks. 3 weeks from today, Suityourself and Roughty will be touching down in LAX, no doubt drunk as shit from the beverage delights at high altitude.

I need to buy a weed card before they get here. That’s my only real life goal at this point. I’m not sure on the specifics, but here’s what I know. First, I have to go to the doctor. My chosen illnesses will be severe social anxiety and insomnia. If I don’t smoke weed in the morning, then I can’t go to work, because I am crippled by my inability to interact with other humans. That’s what I’ll tell them, at least.

Anyway, I’m bored with that story now.

What the fuck am I doing lately? Nothing. I’ve cut my drinking by about 60-75% a day, which is pretty good. My man-tits are starting to go away, just a little bit, and my fat gut is also receding slightly. Today, I have to take the dogs to vet. I got my tires changed, oil, air filter this weekend. This is my last week to finish my car registration, so I had to get a fucking smog test for $60, and going back to DMV tomorrow. Worst.

I thought the California DMV would suck balls, but you know what? It’s the best DMV I ever went to, right in Santa Monica. Quality.

In other news, my little brother, former SWS member Haganav is off to Amsterdam next Monday for 6 weeks. Then he comes home to Florida for 2 weeks, then he’s going right back to Florence, to do his last semester of school. He’ll be there from like August to November, or something ridiculous like that. What a bitch.

I remember the first time he got stoned, I was passing through Tallahassee, and I was like, “Bitch, you’re getting stoned tonight.” We got a fat bag, for too much $ of mids, and I rolled a huge blunt, and we drove around and listened to Jimi. Little Haganav was a STONED motherfucker that night. Then later, I ate a bunch of his girlfriends pills. She ate some too, and tried to drink it down with the big boys. Silly girl, throwing up all over the freshman dorm stairwell. Silly little biotch.

Well, I don’t have anything for you fuckers. Unlike some other blogs, I believe in maintaining a state of utter worthlessness and lack of cohesion to this site. That’s why I wanted all my buddies to blog too.

Who wants to read my bitching all the time? Nobody, just like nobody wants to just read a blog that only has pictures of Danknuggets taken by his mom just before she gives him his nightly spongebath. That’s the real beauty of this piece of shit. None of us have to put in full effort. We can all coast off the mediocrity of each other, and the sum of all parts definitely does NOT equal the whole, or something. It’s much less. Trust me.

heading west…

…is a frightening prospect.  pretty worried over here.  what if the moviestars like the oompa loompa are too sophisticated for me?  shit, what am i saying?  more sophisticated than ME?!  ME?!!  i know.  you’re all saying to yourselves, “suit, why are you worried?  you are the classiest mutherfucker since don johnson.”  well, i know.  i know.  i mean, it is my divine providence after all.  i’m like lewis and clark.  except more like clark, cuz i’m not going to shoot myself after i get back home. 

all the same, i’m a little worried.  they might be on a different level of consciousness, and maybe i won’t even be able to communicate with them.  worse yet, i might wreck the rental car or get my wallet jacked at lax.  shit, they might blow up my damn plane  — atlanta to lax.  sounds like a lot of fuel in that boeing. 

no good stressing out, though.  that’s why, with this post, i’ll chronicle some of the main reasons why i’m looking forward to l.a.

1.  crossing the mighty mississippi — never done it yet and am looking forward to it, big time.  a big milestone for a waterman like me.

2.  going to another mlb ballpark — dodgers stadium should be fun.  as long as they sell beer and caps, i’ll be all good.  a mets’ loss (or, better yet, a terrible injury to beltran) would just be icing on the cake.

3.  seeing my ole pal roughtonious — live 2 hours down the road from him and have to go to l.a. just to touch bases with a guy i used to see 5 times every day.  p.s. roughty, i apologize for stealing all those subway station sandwiches from you.  i always blamed in on stoney, but it was really me sometimes.  also, while i’m apologizing, sorry for laughing at you for the sj punch to the grill.  you did have it coming, though…  pffft.

4.  feeling comfortable in another city — when you’re a homeboy like me, you really get confident when you go someplace else and can function like a reasonable human.  not sure if this will happen, but i’m thinking positive.

5.  not leaving my wallet in the bar — stoney will remind me this time after the “off the wagon” incident in greenwich vill.  if not, he’ll have a new permanent roommate.

6.  going to the actual locations where some of my favorite movies were shot — training day, friday, don’t be a menace to south central while drinking your juice in the hood.

7.  going to all my favorite places from 90210 — the beach where brenda met dylan, west beverly high, the radio station where david silver learned about speeeeed.

8.  meeting lady t. — after all the hype, i’m ready to meet the genuine article.  if she can make our boy take nudie pics off the blog, she must be a wonderful person.  —editorial sidebar — yes, i’m kissing ass, boys.  this is what you do before you go and share a teeny living space with somebody you never met before.—

9.  the pacific ocean — another one of those things i never saw before.  should be suhweet, gnarly, bodacious and that hang ten sign you do by sticking out your thumb and pinky finger and jiggling your hand around.  maybe i’ll finally get to see the monster swells like on point break.  i’m paddling out, bra!

10.  smoking west coast rocks — i heard they’ll make you grit your teeth until they fall out.  i already packed up my tire pressure guages and steel wool.  yall know how we do.

most of all, though, there’s number 11. scratching the shit out of my pal stoney’s cd collection — i’m sitting here listening to let it be, and wouldn’t you know it, the shit is scratched right to hell — right in the middle of the long and winding road, no less.  why don’t i take it out and put in something else like the love below?  oh.  that is scratched to shit as well.  oh.  what about all your sublime cds?  you guessed it.  looks like someone ran them over.  bob dylan discs?  fuuuucked up.  broke a cd player with one of them just last week – seriously.  why are all my cds scratched?  i’ll tell you.  it’s this blog’s fearless leader — mr stoney.  it’s almost as though he destructulated my shit on purpose.  oh well, iain’tmadatcha.  all i’m saying is you better hide your shit, holmes.  for real.  i’m bringing some rusty nails and broken glass for the whole collection.

all jokes aside, i can’t wait to see my friends again.  the only thing that would make it better is if dankkkkk could come.  what am i saying?  i know he could come if he really wanted to.  (peer-pressure’s a bitch, muthafuckah.) 

Fucking weekends

Fuck weekends.  Mostly because I don’t have weekends like you 9-5ers.  Apparently people still need to eat on the weekends, so I have to work.  However there can be a bright spot, such as today.  All day today, a downtown pub has free pool and $4 pitchers of all beer.  I’m sold.  “I spend my cash and time with grass and wine.” 

If anyone can tell me what song that lyric is from, I will be quite impressed.

I will be back tomorrow, for now, it is time to spread some Irish ruggedness.


And some Irish charm.



Richmond doesn’t even know what’s going to hit it.

P.S. That last picture is in response to your request Suit.

fuck titles


school might have been for fools once, but i assure you that staining decks makes you want to turn to the darkside. 

that’s it. fuck staining decks.  p.s. somebody send me some disaster relief money.