A tip of the hat to Radiohead (aka, white people finally have a rap feud)

Thom Yorke: Just say "No" to vapid, jail bait, sex tarts pimped out by their talentless, washed up fathers and smut-peddling rodents from Orlando.

Take THAT dad. Oh wait. You took the picture and Mickey had it published. Nevermind.

In a move that makes my heart warm and would enrage 5 year-olds nationwide if they had ever heard of them, Radiohead (as if they weren’t already awesome enough) told the vacuous Lolita plastered on every item possible sold to girls aged 1-20, to go away. “We don’t do that” was the actual response to Miss Cyrus’s wanting to meet them. Offended, Miss Cyrus had vowed to “destroy” Radiohead.

The story pilfered from Rolling Stone

Yellow death!

The allergy cocktail I’ve been on since the numerous pine trees in my immediate vicinity started spraying their sperm all over everything I own has rendered me a bit apathetic towards updating as of late. I’m in a haze of antihistamines and decongestants which leaves me staring off into space for extended periods of time and the theatre playing in my mind seems to be directed by Kubrick. On the other hand, the beginning of this rampant tree splooge-fest signals the end of my winter (and more directly, lack of football) Seasonal Affective Disorder. I woke up at a quarter ’til 6 this morning, ready to, you know, join society again instead of wallowing in my bed until 10 like some opiate enthusiast.

So, considering as how I’m now motivated enough to post, yet too nebulous to go into depth about anything, here is a hastily strung together list of some sort:

A barge full of rocks knocks down a bridge. Way to go MDOT!

1. Pop’s Ferry Failboat: Apparently God does not want the good people of Biloxi to be able to get anywhere. I suppose, since it was knocked down about 4 years ago, that they would’ve put in pilings that looked like actual bridge pilings and not like one of those 6th grade science projects that uses toothpicks and glue to hold up buckets of sand. What’s next? A zeppelin crash into the Bay Bridge? An explosives-filled pelican kamikaze-ing into the intersection of 49 and 90? All the more reason to hurry up with the R & D of personal jet packs for our main mode of transportation.

2. I don’t care about “March Madness”, but I adore the ADD-inspired, Robot Chicken-esque flipping between the games that are coming down to the wire. I also enjoy heaping scorn upon the pasty, flabby, “Pop” drinking forehead of the Big 10. Last night’s Seina/Ohio State and FSU/Wisconsin games both came down to the wire, and CBS allowed us to watch both games finish.

3. I plan on destroying my Netgear wireless router in some over-the-top needless fashion and buying a proper Airport Extreme. I’m leaving the mode of destruction open to the 3 or 4 of you that actually read this drool pit. The destruction will be filmed and posted. I’m serious about this. Give me some suggestions. The best I can come up with is scribbling “FUCK YOU” on it with a Sharpie and chunking it off the Huey P. Long bridge into the Mississippi River, set to Europe’s “The Final Countdown”.

4. I’m getting excited about Jazz Fest. If you’ve never been, buy some tickets and come on down: New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival

5. East Bound and Down had better be more than 6 episode, series equivalent of a short roman candle, because it’s genius. I guess it hits home when you grow up in a town where someone like Kenny Powers is revered.

6. I have a series of interviews set up after almost a year of searching. You know the economy sucks when you’re excited about being only 50% on your way to actually drawing a paycheck.

7. I’ve figured out why I love Johnny Cash so much. His voice sounds almost exactly like my paternal grandfather’s. Speaking of which, Johnny’s “Orange Blossom Special”, particularly the second stanza, is especially apt for me right now. I need some sand in my shoes.

Meh. That’s enough.

Cabin fucking fever

I’m the type that is NOT happy being around the same people or the same places for extended periods of time. I need adventure, changes of scenery, changing faces, foreign languages, weird foods and horrific moonshine.

It’s beginning to get to me, folks.

Oh, Ms. Patrick. You surely are a handsome woman.

 

What does she do again? Oh wait. I don't give a crap!

 

Seriously. What does she do? Isn't she one of those teacher-banged-a-boys?

Here’s the rest of Danica’s photoshoot.

Dear NASCAR, 

Hi. We’ve never talked before, but I thought I’d drop you a line. I find your quasi-sport tedious, staggeringly lowbrow and ultimately boring. I know, I know. I’m a Southern male heterosexual of middle class descent and I’m supposed to like you. Well, I don’t. And I never will. Well, I hate to use the term “never”, since there is an exception. Just drop the pretenses of supposed respectability (as if something so dizzyingly common as NASCAWR is) and do what Ms. Patrick (above) has done: Become a semi-nude circus act. 

Hear me out. If NASCAR was composed of chesty women drivers who drove around in circles for four hours in transparent vehicles and exponentially lost their clothes as the race progressed (can you think of how awesome the cockpit camera shots would be!), surely you would not only hold on to the vast majority of you current fans, but would pull in the people who should watch, but do not. Now, surely there are enough labor-weary grease gibbons throughout the rural South and Midwest that due to either substance abuse, genetics, or alien anal trauma have come up short in the raising-your-daughter-not-

Leanne Camshaft! She likes pleasin' men-folk, starving herself and performing acrobatic sexual acts, most of which are illegal in her homestate!

to-be-a-stripper department and long in the my-daughter-has-giant-knockers-yet-access-to-orthodontics to provide enough buxom drivers, pit crews and commentators with little to no morals to immediately fire the alcoholic, craggy-faced, tickfaw shock N AWERs currently employed in your service. 

 

The numbers on the cars of course would be corresponding to fans texting in who was hottest that week. For instance, Chesty Dipstick could be firmly (huh-huh) in the top five points winners, yet a misadvised nipple piercing or a black eye could drop her down considerably, yet the addition of baby oil or lip collagen (whatever Brett Michaels’s of the world like best…again, voted on by texting) could knock her up (huh-huh) to a sure-fire winner.

Football, baseball, and basketball would all wither away and you would wield ultimate control over all of us, instead of just the meth addicts of the world like you do currently. 

I’m waiting on my royalty checks. YOU’RE WELCOME!

Sincerely, 

Angry

Apparently…

Faulkner is still alive and is still scribbling on the wall. These photos were taken in Faulkner’s Alley this afternoon:

Massie: Alabamian for “PSYCHE!”

 

Get away from me, Satan!

There are a handful of absolutes that are never subject to wavering. I, like most people, grow and evolve as time passes on. For instance, when I was in high school, I thought Korn was a pretty awesome band. I used to run from the kitchen when I was a toddler when onions were being cooked. When I was in college, I thought Ann Coulter was perfectly reasonable. And of course, there’s the wavering I’ve done as far as professional goals and aspirations are concerned (I don’t think I want to go to law school…I want to be FREEEEEEE). 

 

Sorry I missed that block, Mr. Croyle. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Croyle?

 

 

There has been but one thing that has never shifted or even so much as budged since I was a kid – My unhealthy hatred and burning ire for Alabama Crimson Tide football. From the bandwagon fans that seem to pop up every time they go on a run to the multiple times we were literally robbed of victories by the officials, I wish nothing but ill upon the Tide.

Yesterday’s signing day also introduced a new shift in my paradigm as far as how I perceive this day-long orgy of narcissism. Usually I’m a casual observer, reserving my contempt or praise until the kids that were signed actually prove they were worth the paper they faxed in, by judging them on their prowess on the field. But yesterday was special. Yes, it still hold true that you can’t judge a class until they prove it on the field, but I already have an addition to my group of favorite Rebels. 

With his flick of a hat, Bobbie Massie accomplished what I have always wanted to do, and what probation and six consecutive losses to Auburn (it would have helped if I didn’t hold the coach who won those six consecutive Iron Bowls in the same company as Mussolini and Hitler) could not: a breath-taking, hunched over, vomit-inducing kick to the groin to anyone who cares about Alabama football.

That hat-juke was a five-star slap to the face and for that, I’m eternally grateful to Mr. Massie. Well played, sir. Very well played.

Mississippi: Squirtin’ out some babies and lovin’ on some Jesus!

 

"Hey YAWL! Does this mean I'm the manager of Dollar General now?"

 

 

 

I wonder if…maaa-aa-aaa-ybe…just maaaa-aaay-be if there might possibly be a connection between this and this.

 

I’m probably imagining things, right?

If you don’t visit Mental Floss, I suggest you start doing so.

I found this particularly entertaining.

Soapbox

 

Yep. I'm pretty much a spoiled asshole. You probably are, too.

 

 

Go here. 

Watch this documentary, please. It’s not preachy or political. In fact, it very well might make you a better person. We are so sheltered here in America and take so very much for granted. This really made me reflect about how much of a pompous jerk I am. For instance, I was rude to the barista at the coffee shop the other day for preparing someone else’s drink before mine. Or how I just have to have a new plasma TV, even though my current one works fine and I never watch TV other than the occasional movie or specific TV show. Maybe, just maybe the world doesn’t revolve around our insular “problems” and we could actually do better for our fellow man. 

You can get it via Netflix.

This. THIS is why I hate modern America.

THIS KID’S A TEXT MANIAC

OMG! 14,528 MESSAGES IN A MONTH!

RELATED STORIES

• CARS SHOULD BE NO-PHONE ZONE: SAFETY GROUP
• NYPD DAILY BLOTTER
• GOODFELLA’S HILL OF A FLIGHT

RELATED TOPICS

 

By SUSANNAH CAHALAN

Click for photo gallery

HOLD THE PHONE! Greg Hardesty tries to pry a cellphone out of the madly typing fingers of his 13-year-old daughter, Reina. “Who are you texting, anyway? Your entire school?” he asked her recently.

PHOTOS: Text-Crazed Teen

A teen in California recently clocked 14,500 text messages in one month. Do you think that’s a lot?

Yes, I can’t imagine sending that many text messages.

That’s nothing, I send more than that a month.

Last updated: 2:36 pm
January 12, 2009 
Posted: 2:09 am
January 11, 2009

Greg Hardesty didn’t LOL when he got his teen daughter’s cellphone statement.

All he could think was “OMG!”

PHOTOS: Text-Crazed Teen

The California man’s 13-year-old daughter, Reina, racked up an astonishing 14,528 text messages in one month. The online AT&T statement ran 440 pages.

“First, I laughed. I thought, ‘That’s insane, that’s impossible,’ ” the 45-year-old dad said. “And I immediately whipped out the calculator to see if it was humanly possible.”

He found it was – barely.

It works out to 484 text messages a day, or one every two minutes of every waking hour.

“Then I thought maybe AT&T made some mistake on the bill,” said Hardesty, of Silverado Canyon.

The reporter for the Orange County Register grilled his daughter on her texting habit – by text message, of course.

“Who are you texting, anyway? Your entire school?” he asked.

“Well, a lot of my friends have unlimited texting. I just text them pretty much all the time,” she explained.

She messages a core of “four obsessive texters” – all girls between the ages of 12 and 13 – on her LG phone.

Reina had a karaoke birthday party, and while other people were singing, she was texting her best friend sitting right next to her.

She even texted her friends to brag about the high number of text messages she had logged when her parents got the statement.

Her texting soared last month because “it was winter break and I was bored,” Reina told her parents.

Luckily, Hardesty has a phone plan that allows unlimited texting for $30 a month. Otherwise, he estimates, he would have owed AT&T $2,905.60 at a rate of 20 cents per message.

The average number of monthly texts for a 13- to 17-year-old teen is 1,742, according to a Nielsen study of cellphone usage.

Hardesty admits he himself punches in 900 messages a month – 700 more than average for his age group, according to Nielsen.

Hardesty and his ex-wife have since placed restrictions on Reina’s cellphone use, ruling she cannot text after dinner.

scahalan@nypost.com

 

Did you catch that?

 

Reina had a karaoke birthday party, and while other people were singing, she was texting her best friend sitting right next to her.

I tend to think of myself as a pretty liberal guy, but I can think of no punishment that would be severe or appropriate enough as a good old fashioned stoning for this most useless of people. I take that back – I don’t mean to be flirting with some Dostoevsky parable over this girl’s fate…I’m obviously being facetious. However, it is a terrible commentary on us as a species when we have virtually become islands to ourselves. Can anything be more self-serving or disdainful of the essence of humanity than texting someone right fucking next to you? 

This is why people can’t hold a conversation for longer than 15 seconds these days. People begin to have this I-just-suffered-a stroke look on their faces when you use more than 10 words in a sentence. We aren’t used to communicating – actually communicating, not typing out ‘lol’ on a qwerty keyboard – with one another and it can only lead to bad things. Our food is too easy, the way we’re entertained is too easy, and the way we interact and form our morality and humanity is boiled down and reduced to a few trite letters hastily punched out with cheetos-colored thumbs, more involuntary responsive than voluntary.

Is there an answer to this malaise? Most likely not. There will never be an end to texting, nor should their be. It’s kind of useful, but useful in the way that netflix is useful or those really long soft spikes on the bottom of my golf shoes are useful. It’s shameful that this is what our once-great society has devolved into and even more shameful that we could – if we actually gave a shit about anything besides our next fast food fix – resolve at least by the next generation. 

Get out people. Leave your cell phones at home or turn them off. Have drinks and enjoy some good food, and for God’s sake start speaking to one another. And if you answer a text or a phone call or check your email when you’re at a table or sharing a drink with someone, you really deserve to be stoned. Or phoned with a thousand blackberries, because you sir/madam are an asshole.