My Other Shirt Is a Polo

"Because every blog can't be written by pussies."

Fuck You, Kanye West (Open Letter to an Asshole, From an Asshole)

I grabbed a man by the neck in downtown Chicago last weekend. To be more specific, I had him by the Jesus piece.

“Yeezus might not be in the house!” I announced, holding up the zirconia Christ face to the crowd. “But at least we’ve got one motherfucker with a Jesus piece!”

His chain looked like this, but less fucking stupid

His chain looked like this, but less fucking stupid.

A roar of laughter went up from the crowd inside the Weiner Circle, or at least I thought it did. I was completely shitfaced, and my barometer of self-awareness was broken somewhere between “You’re the man” and “CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT A WANG CHUNG IS?.”

Mr. Jesus Piece and his leather jacket hadn’t seen the move coming. Moments before he and his many chains had been preaching wild bullshit and hurling abuse at the Weiner Circle employees. He hadn’t expected some halfcocked Wonderbread to grab the reins of his hotdog stand revival and take it on the bypass to Topical Town. He took it in stride, however.

“This motherfucker!” he yelled, putting an arm around me. “This is the motherfucker who’s been taking all that ObamaCare money! We’ve all been getting denied, and he’s rolling in that shit!”

“That’s right!” I said. “And I spent it on Kanye West tickets! He postponed! So fuck me!”

With that, I spun around and faced the Wiener Circle employees behind the counter.

“Now which one of you broke mothers is gonna take my order?!”




We were never supposed to be anywhere near that weird hot dog stand on Saturday, November 9.

My friends and I had planned to be miles away in $170 seats at the United Center, lit to the gills and watching a mask-wearing megalomaniac torch every good and natural thing the straight world stands for.

It was going to be a beautiful salute to the self-appointed cockroach of pop culture. But you fucked us, Kanye.

You fucked us good.

The moment your 60-foot Eye of Sauron screen cracked, so shattered the nads, ovaries and precious plans of thousands of well-meaning assholes.

Plane tickets, cab rides and rental cars—all fucked with a jackhammer. Tommy’s first steps and Nana’s wake—missed for nothing. Even bigger losses were the drunken pre-concert reunions, where assholes and douchebags who hadn’t seen each other in years would come together and commune to your wonderful, tragic humor. Instead there was a dirge. A death knell for plans lost and crests fallen.

This isn’t a complaint, however. This is an announcement:


Fuck you, Kanye West.


This isn’t a passerby’s “fuck you,” it should be noted. This isn’t a honk and a middle finger leaving the HOV lane. This is a “I know it was you, Fredo,” fuck you. And it breaks my heart.

When you dropped 808’s and Heartbreak in 2008 and every sheep-blooded geek jumped off the bandwagon, I was there. I defended that shit.

When Gilligan and the rest of the wrist-deep wranglers all came crawling back for My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, I didn’t tell them to suck a dick—I told them to feast upon the dicks. I called for a Roman bacchanalia of dicks to be brought out and served on fine silver trays. I’m talking fucking HEIRLOOM quality trays here, Kanye. Someone’s great-great-grandmother who patched worn-out coveralls for 19th century firemen used to serve ring-necked pheasant on these hand-hammered dishes. She KNEW Eugene Debs, Kanye. Personally. Sexually.

But those pheasants are long gone now, and those trays were heaped with pound after pound of Dick L’Orange and Uncut Penis Piccata—piccata I metaphorically served on fine dishware to people who gave up on you, Kanye.

And it’s happening all over again. The same people who bailed on 808‘s and shrugged through Watch the Throne despised Yeezus—your most batshit, nun-fucking-est album to date. And that’s how you planned it, because that’s what you do—lob sonic fuck-mortars into the sea of “Nothing But the Classics” lovers and giggle as they scream:

“I miss College Dropout Kanye!”

And I tried explain it to them. I ended the bacchanalia, stowed away the dicks brushed in fig honey and earnestly try to get to them—to explain that Kanye West is a creature. He is changing, feeding, morphing, belching. Evolving.

But no more. You’ve killed all that.

Your personal metamorphosis isn’t over, Kanye, but my ability to stick up for its bullshit has been exhausted. The last screaming tang on the zipper of my personal sanity was ripped asunder the moment you refused to do a show in your own hometown because of a broken fucking television screen.

I respect your “artistic vision.” It’s what keeps us coming back. But the list of reasons as to why your excuse is bullshit could be bound and collated.

Speaking of “bound,” lets take a gander at the cinematic miscarriage you and Ass Freight left on the world’s doorstep this week. Just a peek. Because personally, I find it far more indicative of the direction in which you’re headed than any concert postponement.

In the video for “Bound 2,” you and Freights ride a grocery shop ride in front of a green screen showing what might as well be the fucking Grand Canyon.


You did this knowing full and well that the song prayed—BEGGED—for an urban setting. You know it reeked of deep dish pizza and young accountants bitching about Jay Cutler. And you told that effervescence to go fuck itself.


That would’ve been fine—your fans expect these random middle fingers-to-the-world SCUD missiles you like to launch. We bake fucking cakes when the streets run wet with “BUT WHY IS HE WEARING A SKIRT” tears. It’s like Mardi Gras. I decorate a fern. It’s a whole thing.

But this—thing—this be-fucked little half-job you limped out there—there’s no reward in it. There’s no inside joke to be enjoyed by anyone but you anymore. Even at your most serious, Kanye, your music and our enjoyment of it is predicated on the dark laughter it brings—the stuff that toasts to our inner douchebag and swings back at the endless fist-storm of BabyGap bullshit that pop culture heaves our way.

I think if you’re honest with yourself, I don’t even believe you find this one funny. Or inspiring. I think you know this song—a crude but beautiful track that at once reaches back and forward in time—deserved better than tracking shots of fucking horses.


But that’s okay. It’s already over. As I said, my sticking up for your bullshit ended a week before the video dropped. And it feels good.

After a decade of going to bat for you, I stepped away from the plate a moment before you launched a junkball at my soul. The “Bound 2” video was just vindication—a confirmation that I gave up equivocating your “craft first,” “art is everything” bullshit at the right moment.

Granted, I’ll still listen to your music. I’m no hero. I’m just some asshole.

I’ll use your words to stroke my own ego from time to time, and there’s a better than even chance that I’ll grab another stranger and go on Heinous Public Rant, Volume 2, one day. But that rant won’t involve you, Kanye. Its all been said.

So from one asshole to another: Fuck you, Kanye. We’ll talk this out in hell.



Want a good reason to donate ten bucks to a project that will save American cinema? How about this:



Thanks, Tyler. Now we’re all going to be flaccid for months.


Yea. That’s what we’re working with right now for action movies. Tyler. Goddamn. Perry. … delivering justice with a shotgun I can only assume is loaded with sassy quips spoken by big brassy female versions of himself. That is the State of the Union of the ass-kicking genre in this day and age. And that scares the salty sack-fondue out of me.

I don’t want my kids (the biological children I will have in the future, not the looper ones incubating in my crawlspace) to wake up in an America where their only choice at the multiplex is catching a wadcutter at Batman or blinding themselves with Sour Patch Kids in order to survive a Tyler Perry action movie.

Future generations deserve better, and now it’s here:


None of them give a shit.


DRAG HIM OUT!  is the noire brainchild and bloody passion-baby of young producer Chase Kliber and Kliber Films. Set in a world where the strong never sleep and the weak are eaten like fine, thick-cut bacon, DHO is a short film about a pair of sociopathic bronze-balled bounty hunters hellbent on finding and  shitting all up inside of one man’s pillow case. Metaphorically speaking.

There will be shit-kicking. And shell-casings. And dangerous men smoking cowboy-killers in the dark and not giving a good goddamn. Or at least there should beAnd that’s where you come in.

Kliber is a lifelong friend of mine and an up-and-coming young producer whose body of experience already includes working in the art departments of Showtime’s blockbuster original series Homeland and the upcoming movie Ironman 3.

Drag Him Out! is Kliber’s baby, and in order to make his vision of a-bullet-in-every-bad-guy-and-a-foot-in-every-door a reality he needs to raise cash. Kliber Films recently launched their online fundraiser for DHO! on, and has already raised 1/4 of their final goal of $10,000 for the film.


A passion-baby conceived in blood. And C-sectioned with a sawed-off.


So I’ll leave you with this charge: real talent is rare, and when you find it you should invest in it – whether it’s a few dollars dollars or some words of heartfelt encouragement. So if you’re sick of bad hackery and big budgets posing as substance in the entertainment business, and would like to support an original project by a young producer with talent and balls, go and check out the full story of DRAG HIM OUT! for yourself.


A Zombie Survival Guide For Fucking Winners

We all know it isn’t a question of if, but when zombies are coming for your ass.

So the real question then, is what are you going to do when it happens?

What are you going to do when throngs of undead liberal arts majors rush into your lecture and start mealing down your TA’s spinal cord like it’s Fruit-by-the-Goddamn-Foot? And they haven’t had Fruit-by-the-Goddamn-Foot in forever.

Now you’ve got a decision to make- Are you going to be the loser cowering in the back row thumbing his rosary and gulping down the last of mommy’s Midol? Or are you going to be the winner? The guy with the machete and the badass track jacket hacking off undead arms at the shoulder and screaming stuff like “THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE HIGHLANDER!” and “NOW WHO’S CULTURALLY INSENSITIVE FOR BRINGING A MACHETE TO HIS ‘AFRICAN GENOCIDE’ CLASS?!”

So unless you’re a loser, or someone who enjoys the prospect of being dragged outside onto the terrace by a dead janitor so his gall bladder can be eaten al fresco, I think it’s safe to say at this point you’re gonna want to go with the track jacket and machete plan. Winners go to war with cold steel and a warm erection, and they aren’t afraid to use either of them. Possibly in tandem.

Zombie Hitler is getting the veiniest machete/boner combo my heart can physically sustain.

So you’ve got the machete and the track jacket. That it means it’s time to kill zombie and shop Abercrombie- and you don’t wear cargo shorts.  (*some lines sound better in my head.)

Anyways, you’ve bought yourself some time with the machete-jacket madness, but you’ve got a problem- the undead brush jockeys just keep on coming. What you need to do now is find the nearest fat chick who’s still alive, and SWEEP THE LEG, JOHNNY. Boom! She’ll hit the ground like a big sad wrestling mat and start jiggling like a zombie dinner bell. Bam! Diversion!

Dropping Ol’ Flapjacks back there will allow you to find an exit and leave unscathed, as it will take those zombies half a moon’s turn just to separate the stomach meat from all the half-digested flan and French crullers. Just try not to laugh too hard as you dragon kick open the emergency door at the back of the hall.

You did good back there kid – all those fuck-holsters and former Model UN representatives in the front row are getting their skull casings split like skillet queso (And it’s not the good kind of queso, it’s the kind that everyone shares but one person always ends up having to pay for because the waitress is new and doesn’t know how to split tabs or whatever). Those guys are dead, amateur queso.

But you… you’re still pumping blue blood, reveling in the American unipolar moment and sweating Eric Clapton’s baby’s tears in the autumnal heat of yet another long Indian summer. But now is not the time for monkeyshines. You still need to get the fuck out of Dodge. BUT WHO IS DODGE? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

Five-grain-whole-wheat Jesus! Get a hold of yourself, man! Your fear brings shame to the track jacket.

What it means, is that zombies are goddamn probably all over the place right now. They’re attracted to heavily-populated urban areas. A city or town filled to the brim with parking permits and flabby hipped desk jockeys is like a giant Golden Corral to the undead: a veritable all-you-can-face buffet of side fat and undershirts. It’s like five square miles of chocolate-fountain-carnival-food bullshit for them.

So you need to find a vehicle. And by vehicle, I don’t mean your aunt’s ragtop Sebring piece-of-shit menopause machine that runs on sourdough and overreactions. I’m talking a four wheeled machine juggernaut of freedom that runs on dick blood and the American Dream. What you need is a Motherfucker.

What’s a Motherfucker? I’m glad you asked.

A Motherfucker is a mega dump truck like the ones that Jackie Chan somehow always ends up having to drive through a busy construction site in all his movies. The results are always as amusing as they are catastrophic because it’s a big truck and Jackie, well, he didn’t sign up for this stuff, Chief.

“Heading for the ocean… with Jackie Chan as my co-pilot.”

But mega dump truck is just part of the Motherfucker, because in the bed of the giant dump truck is a monster truck (the paint color and graphics on the monster truck is up to you. Mine is eagle-colored, but feel free to explore the space: flame patterns, Chupacabra claws, Robert E. Lee’s face on a Confederate flag… it’s the apocalypse. You can be a douche bag) and in the dump truck’s bed are two jetskis and several large auxiliary fuel tanks. If you can find a Motherfucker, hop in and head for the coast where you can jack a cigarette boat and head straight on to Antarctica… where the sun always shines and the women are hot scientists.

But if you can’t find a Motherfucker, you have to go with Plan B and purchase a big ass shaker of paprika, because…

Well, I’m not going to sugar coat it for you: You are going to die. And it’s not a you thing, I want you to know that. It’s just a zombie apocalypse thing. There’s just so many of them, and so few of you, and at the end of the day it’s really just a numbers game.

But when it does come, that fateful moment when the dead are closing in from all sides and lesser men would turn the gun on themselves—that’s when the paprika comes into play.

Just when the zombies think the jig is up, just when their slavering jaws are but inches away from your savory man-skin, you blow every undead mind in the vicinity by sliding a paprika shaker out of one of your sleeves and yelling a catchphrase (something like “BAM! KICK IT UP A NOTCH!” or “THERE’S A MAP ON THE BACK OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE!”).

And then you shake that goddamn shaker. You shake up a big ass crimson cloud of hot Hungarian pepper dust all over your body.Why? Because losers go out in a blaze of glory.

Winners go out in a blaze of flavor.


It’s a Florida thing.

The Best Movie Named “Taken” Ever (Again)

God is good. Not all the time, but when he is, you fucking know it.

Sometimes it’s subtle, like when your doctor says “Sir… your sack cancer… it’s just gone.” That’s nice, but sometimes God’s benevolent hand is unmistakable in its work here on earth. I have proof. And that proof is a bill for a sliding glass door that exploded shortly after I saw the life-changing words  “Taken” and “2” on my browser screen today. Hurricane doors are great for bad weather, but stand up poorly under the heel of a boat shoe imbued with the Lord’s Joy and hellbent on spreading the Good News to the back patio.

So in honor of the Lord giving unto his children a sequel to one of the finest masterpieces in cinematic history, I must re-post my 2009 review of the original Taken.


The Best Movies Ever Titled “Taken

Due to the slim list of movies that qualify for this award I’m going to go ahead and give The Best Movies Ever Titled “Taken” to the movie Taken. This movie completes nearly every single requirement on the Doctor’s Official Oscar Checklist, a feat only accomplished twice before by the films Good Will Hunting and Army of Darkness.  Movies are judged by the following criteria-


The producers of Taken cut all of the cheesy cinematic foreplay such as set up, subplots, and character development. All you need to know is the main character is “Bryan” (Liam Neeson), a non cliché ex-CIA agent who should’ve been named Jamal Theodore McNasty, because he brings the noise all throughout the movie, and by bring the noise I mean break everything’s face in Europe.

Jamal T. McNasty’s daughter goes with her friends to Paris and is kidnapped by terrorists like most American girls overseas are. Her captors are men from Albania, one of the more unsavory nations in the already unsavory areas of Places Outside of America. You just know they’re going to try to turn her into something horribly destitute like a prostitute or a child actor. This is when Jamal gets on a plane to France to start serving up plate after plate of his favorite potluck dinner dish: Ass Beating Con Carné.

Jamal brought the pain salad.


This movie has more strangely inappropriate sexual content than a televised Shawn Johnson Mud Wrestling Marathon. Jamal searches through and eventually blows up like 5 crack houses worth of scantily clad harlots and pimps until he finds his daughter, who has been turned into another zombie-like piece of sexual merchandise in the 3 days since she has left America. While this may not sound appealing to most, remember they’re in France where this stuff still happens at talent shows.

Dude Hit By Bus 


People Getting Karate Chopped in the Throat

After the first time I watched Jaws I couldn’t take a bath for a week. After the first time I watched Taken I soldered a rain gutter around my neck. This movie is so full of people getting karate chopped in the throat that they should’ve included it in the warning under the PG-13 rating next to violence and adult language. The sheer amount of Adam’s apples that Jamal demolishes into red Sonic Blasts makes you wonder if he’s capable of another kind of violence such as-

Shooting Someone’s Wife 

Yes, this happens, because Jamal Theodore McNasty seriously doesn’t care if you and her used to hook up in the music practice room back in the day, especially when you’re the guy responsible for his daughter’s kidnapping. Jamal came to kick ass and chew bubble gum, and he freakin’ hates gum. He is going to use her as leverage to get what he wants because he’s got at least 35 more dudes to kill before he can redeem his prize for one semi-attractive and poorly written daughter character.

Also, if you’re the guy with J-Man’s daughter on the yacht at the end, you definitely aren’t going to not be shot in the face. Whoops.

Fuck/Marry/Kill: Game of Thrones Edition

Two games will forever be immortalized in the pantheon of mankind’s history – the game of thrones and the game of fuck/marry/kill. Both are cruel and shallow in nature, and both are infinitely more entertaining when the players are blitzed on cheap-ass Dornish Burnett’s. Obviously, it was only a matter of time until the two came together.

The following is the authoritative F/M/K list of characters that should be mounted, married, or murdered from the HBO television series Game of Thrones. Maidens and salt wives first.


The Ladies of the Game

Fuck:     Margaery Tyrell

Someone has to do it. It’s just math. One smoking hot princess + two husbands  does not equal zero trips to Beefsburg.

I don’t care if her first husband preferred tummy-jousting with rainbow boy over dishing out the missionary to his ball and chain. And I don’t care that her second husband is a child.

Nut up, Joffrey. Maybe stop beating on fat chicks with your five pound pussy wand for one second and try whipping out the little thing between your legs that dear old Uncle Dad gave you.

Seriously, somebody has to take this poor girl down to the Gland Canyon. I’m not even doing it for me anymore. We’re ploughing for the realm here, people.


Marry:      Daenerys Targaryen

You have to marry Dany. She’s the Mother of Dragons. You can’t just     beef-house the Mother of Dragons and never call her again. Not if you      don’t want one of her fire-breathing children to hickory smoke the inner lining of your rectum. Also, she’s the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

And gold-digging is a two way street, ladies.


Kill:      Catelyn Stark

“Waaahh! Robb! Stop dominating everything that moves and destroying the Lannisters!! *mewling/simpering* Stop rump-roasting apple-bottomed chicks in the longhall!! *sobs* Remember your vows!! Think of the girls!!” *glaring/additional cockblocking*.

Dead. All day.


Fuill (Fuck… and then kill.):     Cersei Lannister

We all know the one woman in the show we all want to fuill (pronounced “fwill.”)… a certain queen… that we would enjoy stabbing in multiple ways… and in a specific order. Hopefully.


The Men of the Game

Fuck:     Jaime Lannister

Put me in a room with Ser Jaime, a set of resistance cables, and a              strong, but discrete spotter, and I swear the Kingslayer will never walk again.

Bran will have his revenge.


Marry:     Tyrion Lannister

“I want a guy who can make me laugh.”

– Every chick everywhere.

“I want a loaded halfman who will go down and climb on my beef curtains.”

This nasty slut.


Kill:       Rickon Stark

Can’t bang him. Can’t eat him. Kids are terrible.


Fuill (Fuck… and then kill.):     Bronn

Who can resist the Bronn? He’s tall, dark, and handsome, with that mysterious sellsword bad-boy style that says:

“I might kill ya… might fuck ya…but probably both.” Drives me up a wall.

But Bronn does seem like the homophobic type who would overreact and slit your neck open if you slammed your ram in his Mud Gate.


Black Friday: Products I’d Pay For Just to Destroy

The cold bitch slap of winter is in the air, night never ends, and the soil surges underfoot like vagina brimming with milkshake as you tread to your car through the early morning dew. It’s all worth it, though. The wait is over. It’s Black Friday, and you’re going to shop your supple little nads off.

Fuck, you might even kill a motherfucker today if it comes down to it. If it’s a matter of you or little Johnny and his dad getting the last 3D television in the store, then somebody is going to get dropped off at the orphanage after this. And by “orphanage” I mean the Second Mile charity and by “after” I mean after you strangulate his father and get the TV in the car.

But some Black Friday deals aren’t worth sending kids to Child Services over. Some are worthless, shitty, and categorically offensive as a product  deemed worth creating. The following are a few of the items I’ll be waiting in line for on Friday just to kick into pieces:

1.  Stainless Steel Crock Pot (Walmart, $39)Image

Like most men, when it comes to the culinary arts I’m really just eyeballing it. I tend to cook my food by covering its surface area in fire until it looks like something I want inside of me. That said, I do not own a crock pot. I don’t know what a fucking crock pot is. But based on the way the words “crock” and “pot” sound coming out of my mouth together I assume it’s the preferred cooking instrument of moms on the show “16 and Pregnant” for making meals that won’t make life taste any better after the television crew and father leaves.

2.  Eragon DVD (Best Buy $10)

“I got it! We’ll make the main character’s name Eragon!! Like, E-Ragon! It’s like dragon, but with the letter ‘e’ sitting on its face! Because it’s a movie   about dragons! Alright, meeting adjourned, let’s go to  an oxygen bar!”




3.  Honeywell QuietClean Air Purifier (Kmart $79)

People buying their first home “air purifying tower” realize soon after plugging it in that their money could’ve been better spent paying a stranger to fist a handful of dominoes up their ass. Home air purifiers work shittily at best, I don’t care how many “negative ions” you’ve sloughed off their “filters” into the garbage. You know what else collects dust? My fucking window ceils.



What I WILL be buying this Friday, however, is a pair of lace underwear from Rihanna’s new line of lingerie. As long I can find a pair that’s certified pre-owned and they add dynamic  flavor to my chicken soup I’ll consider it a sound investment.


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