Have you ever heard of Big Week?
No, it is not the aerial bombing of the 1940s.
And no, it is not the Biggest Losers counterpart – Smallest Winner.
Where I am from, Big Week is Rodeo week. It is held every year toward the end of July and is supposedly the largest on the west coast.
Now, I may have redneck tendencies, but I am no cowboy. Disney Sing-A-Long has contrived a list of requirements one has to ascertain to be designated a cowboy. A cowboy needs a horse, a hat, a pair of fancy boots, a set of shiny spurs, and a rope-o-o-o if he wants to be a cowboy. Let me calculate my haul of currently owned items…Carry the two, subtract the W, add pie, pumpkin preferably…Zero. That suggests my attire for such an event is exiguous in comparison to fellow attendees. I end up looking like a Hipster-Wannabe-Cowboy with a plaid shirt, skinny-FIT jeans (there is a difference), and some shoes. Meanwhile, I see men and women dressing to the nines in their western wardrobe. I’ve always wondered, wow, for a country guy (or girl) they sure look spiffy. I’ve wondered how they have kept their clothes so crisp and immaculate. I’ve come to the conclusion it is because they only wear the shit once a year. Now, my town has its fair share of rednecks, but we are more infamously known for our gang affairs. Local law enforcement is just not well versed in managing snapping Broadway gangsters. One would reckon that Jazz Hands 101 be a prerequisite to graduate the Police Academy. Regardless, fact of the matter is this town does not have that many country people. We do have a lot of pretenders. And none are The Great.
I know this to be a fact. I have friends who participate in these rodeo festivities. Friends who are only cowboys for 168 hours. While not the same amount of hours, I liken it to how long it felt when watching James Franco’s movie. It appears to be a lengthy carving of time, but put in perspective with the 8766 hours in a year, it’s rather brief. It does not prevent them from embodying their western clothes and jumping up on that “high horse.” Pun(s) intended. For one week they think they are some badass cowboy. Until I remind them, “You work at Carls Jr., you don’t listen to country music, and you’ve never even ridden a horse. The closest you’ve come to western is selling me a Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger. Now, which window do I pull up to? The second? Why do you have two windows, but only occupy one? I want to know what’s behind window number one.” Okay, I got carried away with that fabricated conversation, but the drift has been got.
There are exceptions to this rule. Women. I do not care if you have never seen the stars above the city glow. If you want to slap on some daisy dukes, roll up your t-shirt, and rock some boots you go right ahead and do so. There are so many cheap jokes here, I’m talking five cent spittoon cigars worth, but I will take the high road, the one that leads off into the sunset. In a car.
There are only two positives that come from Valentine’s Day.
The first being Brach’s little candy hearts. I love those chalk candies. I pop them like House pops pills. (Bummer. This reminds me of the fact that House M.D is over and all my analogies involving that subject matter will soon be antiquated.) I devour those candy hearts like they are going out of style…Wait a second…This is, however, excellent news for my future spouse. I have designed a plan and all she will have to do to make me happy is to give me the “stuff”. A few pounds will suffice. As for this year, I have to buy it for myself on the Black Market. It is a little liquor store around the way, “Black’s Market and Deli;” delicious sandwiches.
The second is chocolate. This is not as luxurious of an item because its availability does not pertain to a specific duration of time. You may not be able to find exquisitely petite red boxes that scream “I’m getting lucky tonight!” or heart shaped chocolates, but chocolate is nevertheless present during every waking moment of one’s existence. Still, Valentine’s Day gives us, or shall I say me, the excuse to indulge. I put on my fat boy pants and go to town on that box. Nom-nom-nom-nom.
Which brings me to the point of all this. Why is it when you buy a Valentine’s box or classic See’s Candy assortment box that there is only ever one delicious piece of chocolate? And you know the piece I am talking about. The highly coveted caramel. The battle for that caramel piece gets intense too. Once that lid is lifted and the chocolates are exposed, it’s game time. The winner is that lucky sonofa%$#$# that get’s the golden egg: the chocolate caramel.
Here is how it goes down: I start this race by biting into one. Coconut? Flippin’ coconut? Why? Did I ask for an assortment of God’s most inadequate creations? Am I going to unearth Justin Bieber in the next one? This is horrible. I try a second chocolate. Nuts. If there is one way to quickly ruin a good thing it is by adding nuts to food products. Judging by past female reaction, that may be a quick way to ruin all good things. I bite the third chocolate. Some kind of dark yellow cream. Not horrible, and I’ll eat the entire chocolate, but by God I have to get back down to brass tacks and find that caramel. And it is usually in, on, or around this time that someone walks by and grabs a chocolate, and wouldn’t you know it, it is the caramel. It is upsetting. Not because I did not get the chocolate, I can live with that, but that they did not put in time for that caramel.
When it comes down to it, Forest Gump was right. Life is a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get…in a box of chocolates. People have to experience the bad ones to know the true value of the good. Or they could just buy the box that states what each chocolate is, but that would negate this whole post. And that, my friends, is no Bolshevik.
Have you ever thought: “Wow, I just can’t get enough of these titillating thoughts. I wish there was a way in which I could have all of the greatest recorded material in one place!”
Look no further. You postulated, predicted, inferred, and guessed it. Here is the greatest collection of videos from Titillating Thoughts that has EVER been assembled. It has screechy vocal chords, skits, celebrity impersonations, AND MORE. This collection has it all. And if that wasn’t enough, if you order now you will get all the videos PLUS a pair of nail clippers WITH FREE nail filer, yes I said FREE! Just call the number below to order this:
1-800-Ifyouareinterestedinsendingmemoneycomment (We’ll be in touch.)
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Note: Videos are in chronological order.
“CartoonGate” – (2013): A diddy I made about Nickelodeon cartoons from the 1990s. If you like oldschool Nickelodeon, you’ll like my rap. It is to the beat of Rugrats.
“Trying Desperately” – (2013): A little rap I made after a long hiatus. I like the beat.
“Leaving On a Jet Plane” – (2012): This is just a casual performance. I am trying to sing while playing a little diddy on my guitar.
“The Girl” – (2012): A semi-decent acapella cover of City and Colour.
“Kiss to Build a Dream On” – (2012): A karaoke version of a Louis Armstrong classic. It is done by and in the style of Louis Armstrong and Kermit the Frog.
“Believe” – (2011): A karaoke Brooks and Dunn rendition done by yours truly. If you like country music, here you go.
“The Break Through” – (2010): My hip-hop single. Aight?
“Guy Love” – (2010): Let’s face the facts. Scrubs is the best show ever. A tribute to it. Allow the hilarity to ensue.
“The Do-Do’s” – (2008): An underrated video. From an outsiders prospective it is a stupid simple concept and took too long to make. From my perspective it is flippin’-amazing. Fun stuff. Also, has a little bonus song in the last portion of the video.
“I’m Yours” – (2008): A cover of Jason Mraz’s song. One of our first…And last band videos.
“Anti-Drug Commercial” – (2008): Great concept.
There you have it!
Feel free to post your thoughts and vote on your favorite of the bunch.
Books. Only a letter away from having my complete interest…You know, ’cause I love to cook and all. Ahem. Ahem. Still, I stand not at ease with books, but at attention. I love a finely worded sentence that when woven together with one thousand six hundred and ninety-one others, placed on a delicate roll of parchment, and professionally bound, construct a book. Books provide me with a mind-bind fond-bond experience! Once upon a time I thought about becoming a librarian. (Sidenote: Are you aware that all librarians have master degrees? I was completely unaware of the educational prowess it took to become a librarian. It turns out that you do not just need a pair of glasses.) Instead I settled upon a career in teaching. Just the same, fortune and fame are not in my future. Only an ample amount of free time awaits me. Such is the horrible trade-off (>.>). But with that time I can read these books that I have so fervently excreted over. Ever hear of the white album? Yeah…
I enter into sporadic spurts when involved in books. There will be months on end that I only read for necessity, and not out of the necessity of pleasure. Then, out of the fog (because the blue is limited in my realm), I will immerse myself in word soaked paper and read. I have been tracking my progress with GoodReads.com; a site I suggest you join and friend me, even if we are not actually friends and it is just a mutual agreement to criticize one another’s atrocious reading selections. Well, your atrocious reading selections, unless of course you are reading what I am. Then it is okay. Straight up. Word. Speaking of such, I do not care for the phrase: “The book is too wordy.” It is a book. It consists of nothing but words. And I know what they mean, but before we fix the book, let’s fix their vocabulary. Too wordy? Gah! I digress…
Now that I have expressed my interest in books and have established the amount of time I have to read such wonders; I need to find them. This is where I stand at another ill-slated front. Do I buy, borrow, or steal? I want to start defining my book collection, but I do not want to forfeit appropriate currency to build it. I have found myself wavering on a borrow/buy concept. First I will borrow the book from el biblioteca (library). I like borrowing from the library; the books have character. They are soiled and worn. Just imagine all the fecal matter that has been disposed of in the presence of one book. That is a lot of shits. And with shits, comes innovation – ideas. Or maybe just shitty ideas. On that same topic, I often wonder which is dirtier, a pornographic magazine or a library book? That’s a good ‘ole mind tickler. Anyhow, I borrow the book, read it, and if I enjoy its contents I will splurge the three dollars at a thrift store or Amazon PRIME and purchase that book for my collection. I know, this concept leaves people dumbfounded. Why would I buy a book I have just read and have no intention of reading it again anytime soon? Good question. No equally good answer. Because my bookshelf is bare? Because I want to support the authors (who are mostly dead)? Because I want my collection of books to be a representation of myself? Science fiction and fantasy mixed in with a touch of non-fiction and historical accuracy. Not all in one book of course, but that’s not to say that it can’t be. Historically accurate fantasy. Do you believe in magic? Perhaps in a young girls heart…Or maybe I buy the book just because…I do what I want.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year…Or at least it is according to the lovable tunes of the frequency modulation. And quite honestly, I concur. Who doesn’t love Christmas time?
If you do not love Christmas, get out.
No, seriously. #Serious. See, I am even using hashtags. Yeah. This just got real.
The hoary winter winds are the perfect way to usher in a White Christmas. However, a frosty blow does not necessarily correlate into a snowy peak. If you catch my drift. (That, my friends, was a wind-pun trifecta.) There is nothing finer than when the weather outside is frightful. It awards the opportunity to consummate one’s affection of hot chocolate. Toss a candy cane in that cup of bliss; it and I will both melt. Yes, it is a marvelous thing, until…You get to the bottom. Culminating under all those delicious tastes of chocolately goodness is the sip of hell. And although I know that it is coming, I still place that cup on my lips and tilt it back. The peppermint aroma vigorously penetrates my nostrils and that nip of hot chocolate slips down my pallet; except there is little chocolate and peppermint galore. It burns like the DICKens…Hm. That might be a less holiday friendly burn. Regardless of burns, it is a sure fire way to clear your respiratory system if you think you might be falling victim to the pneumonic plague (Christmas cheer isn’t the only thing that is infectious this time of year).
Then, once the nostrils are clear of mucous membranes, you can embrace the fir. I know I do. I gravitate towards Christmas tree lots. It’s an addiction really. Smelling the sweet needles of joy. I don’t garden, but come Christmas time that is the department you will find me in. I am more of a Noble Fir man myself, but from time to time I have an afFIR with a Grand Fir. Other times I find that I just PINE for a Scotch. And no, that is not short for a Scotch Pine…Sometimes I just want a drink.
Add the lights (Go big or go home), carols (fa la la la), holiday goodies (popcorn balls and mint & chip cookies), and I can’t forget the movies. Christmas brings back claymation at its finest. Except for “The Leprechauns Christmas Gold.” Come on now leprechauns, you have your day. Yes you are green and look like little elves, but no. Not Christmas. I prefer to stick with the classics. My two favorite Christmas films are “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” and “White Christmas.” And then we have the always awesome Doctor Who Christmas special.
All the fine traditions of Christmas take me back to a simpler time. Each year is like a trip with the Ghost of Christmas past (I always picture Jiminy Cricket); reminiscing. Yet as I grow older, my childish joys diminish. The magic of Christmas is a gift that can fade. That is until I see the excitement on little children’s faces when they speak of Santa Claus. That is something that I look forward to replicating with my own devilish offspring someday. The magic of Christmas…
Hmmm…It got a little sentimental right there. Unintentionally so.
Lets wrap things up. Thank goodness I am dealing with words and not wrapping paper because it would be a mess. Too late for that you say? Ho Ho Ho…Funny. Let me attempt it anyway. I just want to congratulate a specific someone on their early Christmas present and wish the rest of you a Merry Chr…Bah humbug!
Ha. No really, Merry Christmas!
The drug of obsession, still sought with severity.
The frantic pursuit is bogged with despair,
The ecstasy remnants daubed with err.
The needle’s depleted, the traces remain.
The presence retreated, the memories engrained.
The euphoric sensation, emotionally thwarted.
The attainable elucidation is perplexed and distorted.
My addiction is plain, happiness my fixation.
My ability to obtain, manifested in desolation.
And so I remain enslaved to humanistic desires.
Immersed in cessation and what the future transpires.
On my search for the fountain of youth, I stumbled upon Kombucha. It is commonly referred to as an elixir. Kombucha is a food supplement prepared from a symbiotic colony of yeast and bacteria that is added to tea for its alleged health benefits. Basically it a mushroom soaked in tea. Appealing right?
Now, I am not a fan of mushrooms or tea, but maybe when the two come together the lights will dim and the soft melodic voice of Marvin Gaye singing “Let’s Get It On” will penetrate the mixture. It can’t be all bad, right? I know someone who is a dedicated kombucha drinker and swears by its health advantages. I value this person’s opinion, so I am willing to test this drink. Here goes nothing.
(Apparently it is all about the pomegranate flavor, but I could not find that one so we will be evaluating Gingerberry.)
Alright so my day is almost complete. Here is my experience with Gingerberry Kombucha.
I awoke at 8:00 AM and consumed half of my kombucha drink. It was surprisingly tasty. It has a vinegar odor and taste to it, but it just reminded me of Easter and sunburns. The flavor is similar to that of a weak white wine. I read stories that people often felt a little buzz from the product. I did not receive that kick. My kombucha is the Enlightened variety. I think I need to bump it up and get the 21+ version because I am missing out.
When I left to work at 9:00 AM I felt a little energy serge, but I believe I fell victim to the placebo effect. Nonetheless my stomach did not begin its morning growling ritual at 11:00 AM, which was a definite plus. I had lunch at 12:30 PM and I devoured the second half of the kombucha. I was a little hesitant to drink the bottom portion because that is where the “culture” is found. I’ll hate all day on this culture. It’s the chunky stuff at the bottom of the kombucha. I set aside my hesitancy and drank the rest. The second half of my workday went by smoothly. I did not suffer from that downward spike that lunch usually produces. I left work with plenty of energy and a Broken Bells whistle (which they played at my work). Coincidentally the person who is pro-Kombucha also introduced me to Broken Bells. Strangely compelling…
Overall as Tony the Tiger says, ::crickets chirping:: Tony the Tigers dead. He is not saying anything. I will attest to the value of kombucha. Good product. I may be investing more into it in the near future.
On a sidenote:
I feel like there is not enough funny material in this post. Here, this should help.
Not helping? Can’t say I did not try. You could say that I did not try hard enough, but shh…on that one.
The old gray mare she aint what she used to be. Many long years ago.
Or maybe she is? I don’t know. It’s a horse. Let me get some Elmer’s for my artwork and let’s be done with it.
I ought to have said old gray people aint what they use to be. Why you may say? Let me count the ways.
- Speed – I have noticed that old people have two speeds. They are either a tortoise or a hare. There is no casual acceleration. The bearing’s in which this occurs most frequently is on the road. There are old people driving 25 MPH in a 50 MPH zone. Yes, I know you may have driven a Model T and are use to the 25-30 MPH speed, but see that number “50” on the speedometer, it’s okay to push your Buick to those blazing speeds. I feel like Flash each time I pass one of them on the road. I have super power abilities!…Dang, it is just an old person. Oh fecal matter! And no I am not talking about your colostomy bag sir. Then there are those old people speedsters. The ones that make me look like a chump for going 80 in a 65 when they are charging forth at 90-plus. These are daredevils. No, not like the blind superhero, more so the risk-taker variety. It could be that, or that they fell asleep at the wheel. Nap-time down the stretch. Or they could be trying to match their speed with their age. Not sure, but they are swift and hazardous.
- Patience – Old people seem to lack patience. I noticed this in my retail experience. They are complacent with counting out their $4.56 worth of pennies, but when it comes to me doing my portion of the work, they will not stand for it. Quite literally, I have had to get chairs before. I have put some thought into it and I cannot fathom why they are so impatient. At eighty-two, where do you have to be? A doctor’s appointment? I know they have limited time, but come on, what else are they actually going to accomplish? Is that blood test the highlight of their day?
- Eye sight – Eye sight fades. Look at me for example, I never had much of it to begin with. So I am sympathetic to their loss. Others do not share my compassionate ways. I have a friend who often thinks old guys are looking at her. A week or two ago we met up and she stated the same case. Two old guys were staring at her. Rightfully so, I bet all guys look at her. Modest in her clothing, but worth a double-take. So why is it that she only notices old guys? It is not because they are perverts. It just takes longer for their eyes to focus. They are not as quick as the young whippersnappers.
Once normal people, they have now transformed into old people, the last stage of life. What are you going to do? It’s the elderly transformation.
Original Facebook Status Update:
You always catch old guys checking out girls. It’s not because they are more perverted, it’s because their eyes need more time to focus. Give a guy a break.
Barbie is not the only one to live a life of plastic. Currently I carry no currency. It is much more manageable and applicable for me to use my debit or credit card. It has gotten to the point that I often question why my wallet has an opening at the top. Is that so I can store old receipts I’ll never need and coupons I’ll never use? I think so.
I know many people who live this same lifestyle. It is a life without physical monetary funds. Well, some of them do not have any monetary funds, and that is a whole different lifestyle. For the purpose of this blog we will not be discussing people who Hobo Baggins-it, but those who Captain PiCARD it up. It is gradually becoming an acceptable lifestyle, but there are still situations where only a Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Grant, or Benjamin can bail me out. If I ever call on you pay my collateral please bring a Cleveland, McKinley, Madison, or Chase; I’ll keep the change.
One of the worst places to be without money is at a bar. Yes, many of them accept cards, but there is still a collection of dive bars that deal in money only ventures. This I know through first-hand (left hand too) experience. I was at a little dive bar and I had just ordered some drinks. One by one they were placed in front of me. When all was accounted for, I scooped them up and walked away. As I did, I heard a sharp tone ring from the lips of the bartender, “Hey, you still need to pay!” I turned around, my eyes flashing on the CASH ONLY sign. Damn. I did the only thing I could to get out of this conundrum. I chuckled lightly and said, “All I have are fives…And they are all high.”
Another incident occurred when I was crossing the Bay Bridge. I was new to traveling the area and I was unaware of the toll troll. As I came upon the bridge I began to see signs for CASH or FASTRAK. Where were the signs for neither? Now the logical thing would be to turn around and go get money, but a bridge only has one exit, and I would not need money there. I pulled up to the window that read CASH on its electronic screen. I was hoping that the “/CREDIT”-part had burnt out.. I handed the man two dollars and thirty-seven cents in change. I thought I would receive The Rock-brow raise, but I was just waived on through (Yeah, wordplay). Either the employees at the toll booth care little about their job, or are horrible with math. All I know is it saved me a thirty dollar fine, which I would have paid for with my credit card.
So yes, monetary forms of all types are needed, but you know what, I’ll keep to my cards. It makes for an experience.
Original Facebook Status Update:
I was getting drinks and the bartender said I still needed to pay. I said all I had was fives and they were all high.