You’re welcome!

Here’s a dated That Guy that I forgot to throw up here for whatever reason. Don’t judge me, I don’t get paid enough to really care.

That guy – Mr. I could be a father
Well hey there, piddley-twinks. So for Father’s Day, I went home and visited my dad and my family, even hooked him up with a new Jason Bay T-shirt and a copy of Bill Russell’s new book, while my two younger brother’s gave him nothing but excuses, heartburn and second thoughts on not considering that vasectomy after yours truly came down the chute. But speaking of breaking balls, (insert your own Andrew Dice Clay level OOOH! here)  we were planning on spending most of the day busting on my oldest brother, you remember him from the golf tourney, with the biggest country-fair prize-winning melon perched upon his neck, since he’s getting married soon and this is probably his last Father’s day without his very own sniveling snot filled dreamcrusher of a tax deduction. Well, it took all of about 15 minutes for that plan to backfire, because my littlest brother Wrink decided to go ahead and become that guy. That Guy who jokes about how he could unknowingly be somebody’s father.

We all know some pudwhackin’ doucherag who does this, whether you be sitting at the bar and he drunkenly brags about the last time he was had a stripper riding him bareback during a bachelor party, or maybe about how back in college, he used to get more unprotected tail than a rocking chair in your crazy cat collecting aunt’s house. Sure, this pasty dude with the beer gut that’s wasting time with you used to be a swingin’ Lothario; hell, his bedroom used to be the Studio 54 of the North Shore, and who knows how many young nubile ladies forgot to slap a wrap on his little pink Marc Savard and he ended up slipping one past their goalie.

Most of the dumpcakes who use this line look like they bathe in the deepfryer at Mickey D’s, any chick’s going to make sure his junk’s layered in enough plastic to shield reentry from space before she lets it anywhere near her hoohah, so let’s drop the whole” oh hoh hoh, my mom’s probably already got grandkids running around” act already. Don’t act like there was a time when you used to walk into a nightclub and women would be on you as if you were Shadow Stevens walking into a nursing home with a fistful of Old Country Buffet coupons.

You look like you subsist on diet of nothing but pickles, easy cheese and your own lonely tears, there’s no way you laid more pipe than an Arabian oil sheik back in the day, jeez, the only thing you could’ve possible gotten pregnant is that one especially stiff sock you keep under your bed.  So let’s drop the routine, funnyman, you’re not anyone’s Pop, and you shouldn’t joke about it anyway.

First off, the thing probably would be born with a tail or at least a couple of gills, but besides the genetic challenges, it still wouldn’t be all that fun to have a little mistake running around with half your DNA. It or it’s momma could come a calling for child support, and since you’re not a Denver Bronco, there’s nobody else to lean on for moral or financial support. Suddenly, this idea is less funny and more time consuming than one of Kevin’s fishing stories or shed endorsements. Honestly, you should be glad you’re not tied down with dependent crotchspawn, hell, I’m so grateful from just talking about it, I feel like tearing around the South End after the show and high-fiving all the gay dudes and spending pantloads of my disposable income.

So drop the tired joke about how you could be somebody’s father or I’ll write it down, mail it to that landbeast you call a girlfriend, and have her cram it up your cramhole. Do me a favor, don’t be that guy.

All right, so we’re caught in the middle of a mini-celebrity-holocaust right now, and while I was oh-so-close in my prediction of Elizabeth Taylor being the next one to shuffle off this mortal coil, I’ve got to say, I really think there’s a pattern emerging here. If we follow the clues laid out by who’s recently taken a dirt nap, I think we can figure out who Death will be coming for next. Let’s see…

First we lost the quiet cool of David Carradine, who’s most famous role had him kicking ass all over the place, but only when it called for it…

Then we lost Ed McMahon, who’s affability can’t be questioned, as he was the consumate pro who made everything he was involved in better by his presence without forcing himself upon us…

Then we lost Farrah Fawcett, the iconic 70’s and 80’s star who was one of the hottest people on the planet and pretty much had the best hair (and let’s face it: NIPPLES) in the business…

And we of course we’re all thrown for the big loop when Captain Crazypants himself, Jacko, kicked the bucket on Thursday.

Following up on that, the loss of the burly Billy Mays left us all wondering who was going to shill home-improvent products nobody needs on TV (especially with the Sham-Wow guy locked up for the forseeeable future)…

So what’s that leave us with? Well let’s take all of their best known qualities and see if there’s one celebrity that ties them all together in one package…

David Carradine’s cool asskickery + Ed McMahon’s likable gravitas + Farrah Fawcett’s hotness & hair + Michael Jackson’s 80’s icon status + Billy Mays’ musky manliness = ?????

…Oh no.

Good God, it can’t be…

NOT HIM! LORD, ANYONE BUT HIM!!!

SOMEBODY TELL THAT HORSE TO GET THE SWAYZE TO A PADDED BUNKER!!!!

Here’s a pic of Perez Hilton getting punched. You’re welcome.

That Guy – The Old Hipster

Well hey there, puddingpops. So after making it more than halfway thru the Boston Beer marathon on Saturday with my boy Stevie (I only threw up 4 times!) , and somehow dragging my ass back to southie to my much less than pleased girlfriend, I woke up on Sunday morning in desperate need of some eats to get rid of my killer hangover. I remembered one of the interns was telling me about some new place in Cambridge called the Friendly Toast, and I dragged my still reeking of miller-light-and-shame ass over there for some grub. Me and the girlfriend got a load more than that though, as we found out the friendly toast had already been invaded by the skinnyjeaned horn-rimmed, ironically mustachioed hipsters Cambridge is literally crawling with. But while we were sitting around waiting to be seated, we were lucky enough to come across our That Guy for this week, a special treat you rarely SEE. That Guy the aging hipster.

 Right now, a small confession: I used to be like these fartcakes.  I still have hipster tendencies, actually. I still go out to some indie-rock shows, I still collect vinyl, and I still own more than my fair share of beat-up tee shirts. But then I eventually found out there was better beer out there than PBR and it’s not actually a shameful act to listen and like a Springsteen record, so I stopped hanging out with the scenesters. It also helped that I was the only one without a trust fund and being a record store clerk or a barista wasn’t my ideal choice for a career. So I kind of got sick of it and felt like I outgrew it and that was when I was 25.

This poopmonger apparently didn’t have that problem. 

 He was easily older than Kevin, yet was sportin’ torn up Chuck Taylors and a pederast’s haircut just like his much younger brethren, only  his had  the added on awfulness of a salt & pepper male pattern baldness thrown in. Look, this is just like the old guy in the club that Chris Rock told us about, or the senior citizen tie-dyed hippies that flock to all the Phish shows.  Except this guy isn’t ready to turn in his rock pin covered messenger bag just yet,  and he’s got it rough never puts away his freak flag, because it’s exhausting being a hipster, and turns out, it’s a 24/7 job  of trying to keep up the image that you don’t care if you have an image.

He’s got to act all smug and constantly be hitting the thrift stores looking for the ugliest purple sweatshirt with airbrushed wolves on it. Not to mention he’s got to remember to criticize popular music, quote philosophers who’ve been dead thousands of years on his facebook page, and buy everything organic, even his douche, hell, especially his douche.  He’s got to be so pasty that he makes Conan O’Brien look swarthy, smoke parliament lights with reckless abandon, and wear sunglasses that look like the kind you fish out of a Cracker Jack box. Honestly, it’s a crazy checklist to keep up with, and really, if anybody’s going to do it, let it be the coked-up college dropouts. But dude, when you’re old enough to remember when bands like the Outlets, the Neighborhoods and the blackjacks were slumming it up at the Channel, it’s time to cover up your crappy faux sailor tattoos with a button down and give this 9-5 thing a whirl. When you’ve got back problems and your high school buddies start having grandkids, it’s time to hop off your skateboard.

This buttsmudge was like the hipster’s version of Yoda, telling all the young dork padwans about the days of swapping mixtapes with your pot dealer and telling them how easy it is to find new bands to ridicule now that this new-fangled internet thing has come along. Look coming across an old ass hipster is like realizing the new Eddie Murphy movie stars only one Eddie Murphy and he’s not wearing a fat suit. It’s kind of amusing at the time, but you really have no intention of watching it.  

Clownshoes mcgillicuddy over here was at the table right next to us, so we couldn’t escape him.  If this scumsucker was anymore into himself, he’d get a cease-and-desist order from Kevin.  The fact that I HAD to eat my breakfast while listening to this aged porklump prattle on about his photography and his Prius had me choking on my French toast like… * is it too soon for an extremely off color David Carradine joke? YES! Dammit. *

The point is, hipsters are insufferable blisters on the chapped ass of humanity, but I can forgive the young ones for being naïve and needing a class structure to cling to. But if you’re old enough to remember disco, you should be able to remember what it’s like to hold on to something for too long. Time to let it go, peter pan, and come back to reality, otherwise I’ll take that wallet chain and cram it up your cramhole. Do me a favor, don’t be that guy. 

(Apologies to Mark Hamilton for using his photo, He knows I mean it with love)

The Guys over at Great Boston Experience (John Vergato, in particular) invited me down to participate this year. HELL and YES, I'll be there. We start at the House of Blues, registration's from 10:30am - 2pm. $30 at the door, $25 if you sign up online. There's going to be THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE drinking it up. I was made for this. I'm so excited, I think I just lactated. (Licks shirt) Yup, it's Guiness. That makes sense.  

 For more info: http://www.greatbostonexperience.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/ical/event.php?eid=57590729571

So Bret Michaels from Poison was inexplicably “performing” at the Tony Awards in some sort of montage of suck last night. After he was done yowling like a stroked-out alley cat, he decided to dawdle on stage a bit, even though they were at an awards show for Broadway theater, where hitting your marks and stage-blocking are kind of a big deal. Well, Mr. ”I’m not bald, I just REALLY like wearing cowboy hats at all times, even in the shower” paid for his chicanery, and got absolutely DECKED by a huge set piece that said “BROADWAY” that was being lowered down from the rafters. If that’s not proof God & Karma exists, I don’t know what is.

Video Goodness:

 Honestly, lay off the big guy. He’ll figure it out. Sheesh.
(You can listen to the audio of this on the WZLX home page [look under PODCASTS] soon) 

Well hey there, Buttpuppets. So I go away for two days last week, and when I come back, all you numbskulls are freaking out. Not about Kevin’s cholesterol count (I’m pretty sure there’s not supposed to be 4 digits in there) Heather’s ever growing boobies (honestly, we’re going to have to call NASA about constructing a useful holster or just give up ad nickname her rack Battlestar Honk Honk) or Pete finally shaving off his creepy Spencer-like flesh colored facial hair (Thank god!). No, you were all wringing your dainty little ladyhands over something you should spend less time on than it takes Kevin to hork down a box of twinkies. Why don’t all of you relax, untwist your bitchy-britches and quit being That Guy, huh? You know what I’m, talking about. That Guy who’s worried Big Papi’s all done. Settle down, sparky. Seriously, the Big Papi Pep Talk? Why don’t we write him some mush notes or have a freaking séance while we’re at it? Yeah, Papi’s not even batting my weight currently, and couldn’t hit a cow’s ass with a banjo, but guess what, I don’t care. Everybody goes through long, seemingly never-ending slumps, hell, we call Kevin’s “Slump” adulthood. It’s the first week of June, It’s barely summer, Kevin hasn’t even broken out his stone-washed jorts yet, and last time I checked, nobody’s ever won a World Series in June. Relax. The rest of the lineup has been amazing, the pitching is ridiculously deep, and they can always make a trade for more help if they need it. I know, after this weekend’s Dave Matthews Band and Phish concerts, you can say in all truthiness that there are thousands of unwashed college dropout trustafarian hippies who’ve hit things harder in Fenway than Papi this year, but let’s give the guy a break.  Lowell hasn’t even put in his Just for men beard dye yet, and you want to write off Ortiz for all of ’09.