TDAC™ 2005
The Day After Christmas went off without a hitch last night. A cast of half-dozens was there to drink and play various pseudo-games under the harsh winter sky in Racine, Wisconsin. The gallery is up, with commentary this time. Bonus pictures are from an earlier drink we had with Big J and the unflappable Rachel Roth. Seriously, I’ve never seen her flap even once. That’s a good thing, I’m pretty sure. James Walters was on injured reserve with a torn ACL, and Wirksuwhazz was out of town on official business. Maybe next year, guys. Maybe next year.
–traditional afterparty: scientist’s parents’ basement and homemade pizza at 4am
Happy Holiday
Just remember, every time you say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas” God kills a kitten.
Did you get everything you wanted for the holidays? I got undershirts, gift cards, cashola, and Arrested Development Season One. I am still a little hungover from last night’s drinking. I started at 4pm-ish, and the train didn’t stop until I got home at 2am. Vodka, all night. Barf. I think I’m gonna go make myself a bloody mary, but what if the reason I’m hungover is that I drank 5 bloody marys last night? Barf again.
–seeya soon whazzer
On Your Marks…
I’m leaving in a few hours to fly back to Wisconsin. Barring unforseen airplane crashes slash weather related crap, I’ll be there tonight at 10pm (Central). Like Santee Claws, I have a sack full of goodies for girls and boys, but unlike him I also swear a lot and have a penchant for vodka.
Here’s what I’m looking forward to: time with family, and TDAC 2005 (awwww yeah). If you’re interested in hitting the fabulous Racine bars with us on December 26th hit Mike Jones up on the low, cause Mike Jones about to blow. Til then, from the front lines of The War On Xmas: Happy Holidays!
– fuck bill o’reilly. seriously, he’s a waste of fundmental biological constituent parts.
Poor, Downtrodden Souls
This is an ultra-stupid topic, but since I haven’t thought about it in roughly 15 years, I thought I’d rant for a second.
1989 was an interesting year. Apparently, someone in Hollywood decided that the plight of the rich & famous was worth creating a movie called Troop Beverly Hills (Roger Ebert’s review). For those that can’t or won’t remember, Troop Beverly Hills seemed to be a harmless abortion of a movie about a Girl Scout-based troop of girls from Beverly Hills who are looked down upon by the other, better troops around the country. After montages of shopping, unique cookie-selling ideas, and being rich set to fun, late-80s music, the pint-size heiresses overcome all odds to win the Best Girl Scout-ish Troop trophy at the annual Jamboree. Overall, it’s harmless 80s tripe. Except for the fact that when you think about it, it’s the biggest slap in the face to anyone making less than $500,000 per year.
The heroes of this farce are little girls whose parents are movie stars, ultra-rich business people, and what appears to be Communist dictators. They want for nothing, yet we’re supposed to feel all sad because some poor girl in troop NotRich treats them like the elitist shits they are.
The movie basically takes the premise of these kids’ organizations (Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, etc.), which primarily exist to afford lower-to-middle class kids a sense of teamwork, responsibility, social conciousness, and environmentalism, and says, “What if they did all that, while shopping at the Beverly Center?” Fuck you Hollywood, right in your ass. Social conciousness is not realizing that you can extend the fabulousness of Rodeo Drive deep into the forest on a nature walk.
The ending is absolutely surreal. The “triumphant” scouts of Troop Beverly Hills are cheering and celebrating the fact that their street-savvy richness won the competition for them, and then their parents jostle their way through the crowd of poor losers to get to the front and applaud the fact that their children have won in life… again. If I was one fo the other kids standing around I would have found the nearest sharp implement and shanked Shelly Long within an inch of her life, whether a Communist dictator was present or not.
– who cares about this movie, but fuck what it stands for.
PS– This review, by an apparently gay man who holds the movie up as “high camp”, completely misses what Ebert picked up in his review. The movie could have been satirical, but instead chose to revel in the richness of Beverly Hills. There is no salvation of characters, other than Shelly Long going from a rich bitch to a rich bitch who isn’t a bitch to the half-dozen rich kids she chaperones a few days a month. bleh. High camp my ass, it’s just awful.
Happy Birthday Ashley!
Happy 22nd Birthday! I’ve got your gift, and you’ll get it when I get home on Friday. Til then– seeya in the funny pages.
–dear god not the family circus
[UPDATE]: On This Day in 2004 I announced on Whazzmaster that Wirkus and Jessi were getting married. Huzzah! A few choice comments on that and the subsequent thread:
[December 22, 2004 10:27 AM] by sean
Congtrats wirkus. Im pretty amazed. If youre having a wedding ill be there. ill hop a bus and make the long trip through mexico. also if your cruise is going to take you by honduras or nicaragua let me know an ill say hi. whazz out.
[December 22, 2004 02:37 PM] by wirkus
Well thank you to all you congratulators. Sean, hi! Hi, Sean! I’m sure my lovely fiancé would also say thank you if she were not so busy bouncing all over the great state of WI. How did I trick her into it? First I took my credit card to a jewelry shop and demanded their most sparkly ring. The sparkle coupled with my age advantage was enough to manipulate her. Hardee har har. No really, we’ve been dating for two years and things are going well, so it seemed like the most logical next step. As far as the wedding goes, you all have some time. Next summer or fall, a good year and a half. Unless you want a bag lunch affair held in a local pasture. But yeah… I’m happy, she’s happy and Parker too seems to be ok with it, so I guess everybody wins except for anyone with a secret crush on either Jessi or me. Whazz on
[December 22, 2004 10:40 PM] by bellgirl
Thanks for all of the congratulations, I’m currently looking into which pastures will be open this summer so I’ll keep you posted Cal. I want you to be there even if you do get in a fight with some of the cows.
But for real, I am very happy and floating on cloud nine with graduating last Sunday, getting engaged on Tuesday, x-mas this friday and a cruise next week, I wish life was always full of this much fun! Hope everyone else is having fun during the holidays, we’ll keep you posted about the pasture!!
The Greatest Party Ever
Cal just can’t tell a story. No matter how many bladdy-blu’s you throw in there, it doesn’t make it informative, nor does it make beetles shoot out of your nose. I alone exist to provide those things to the world.
For those that don’t know, I was in The City this weekend on a vacation. A Cal Vacation. He took me to all places «Cal» in the city: his favoritest coffee shop, book store, and exotic pet store (JELLYFISH! LOBSTERS! ~AS PETS!) We also went to The Mint, where I retained the Bust-A-Move crown and may nearly have convinced everyone that I was a Michael Jackson-ized Young M.C. But the moments that stand out, for me, were those from 1am-ish until 4am-ish when I was at the greatest party in my life. Non-qualified. The Pig Pinata party, Whazzgiving 2003, the first Wrestlemania party (AUSTIN V. ROCK!), and various other pay-per-view Nonsense Extravaganzas stand out as Top 5 contenders, but this party takes the crown for the sheer sense of surreality that pervaded the evening. Ever wanted to feel as if you were living in an episode of Aqua Teen Hunger Force? You would have loved to have been there. ONWITHTHESHOW!
As the party at The Mint wound down, Sam told us she knew about a warehouse “6am Party” goings on somewheres in The City. I grabbed Cal and we dove into a random car that would ultimately lead us deep into the heart of… DUNH DUNH DUHHHHHHH: Hunter’s Point. This is a journey into the worlds most largest and notorious projects. Sam told us with a serious dose of seriousness to, “lock your doors, now.” We complied.
The only sound accompanying our ascension up the steps into an old, huge warehouse was the far-off thumping of bass and a very mean-sounding dog barking furiously in the inky blackness. Whether the dog was mad at homies invading his warehouse turf or mad that he wasn’t invited with other, meaner-looking dogs we’ll never know.
As soon as we entered the building my spidey-sense started tingling. Everyone at the party (at that point) was dressed in suits or tuxedos. They all looked at us with disdain as we entered. I carefully laid my coat near the door and pulled Cal aside.
I told him “This is not a party we’re supposed to be at. Keep your shit close at hand in case we get kicked out.” He protested, but I simply said that in case shit went down, he would be well to know where his coat was.
We were welcomed by some woman in a ball gown, who directed us to a kitchen with 100+ bottles of booze and ice chests full of… well… ice. The woman who invited us (Sam’s friend) had brought a case of Corona, so I had one of those.
It’s very hard to describe the enrvironment, but I’ll give her a shot. A really huge second floor of a warehouse. Very nice hardwood floors, with Japanese screens separating out roomish-areas. A large dance floor, a large room with only a holiday light-decorated ping pong table, a kitchen, an old-timey bathroom with free-standing tub, and stairs that went up to a kind of suspended deck that hung over the rest fo the room with no walls surrounding it. It appeared that the hanging room was the bedroom. Lighting was nice, and they had crammed what was seriously a 20 foot version of Charlie Brown’s shitty Xmas Tree in there with the same shitty (on purpose), sparsely decorated feel. At the peak I would say there were upwards of a hundred people there, but the crowd ebbed and flowed. I had the feeling there were secret parts of this mystery house that people were disappearing off to, but never directly saw anyone pull a book off the bookshelf and have it spin around to admit them to a lair, hallway, or lab.
So far you may be saying to yourself, “So what, Zach went to some rich guy’s 2 million dollar studio apartment. What’s so great about that?” When Munch painted the bridge in The Scream, an innocent observer may have derisively commented, “Oooh, he’s painting a bridge. How “crazy”! How avant-garde! No one’s gonna remember this shit in the morning.” Now, like Munch, I say to you “Eat shit and die. If you don’t like my stories go to http://www.crabapples.com and read about crabapples you asshole.”
Anyways, we sauntered over to the dance floor and they had some pretty good hip-hop on so we were getting jiggy and all that shit. Yes, even Cal. Especially Cal! I gave him a dance lesson: step 1.) it’s all in your shoulders. step 2.) except when it’s in your hips. Sam then pointed out that two of the women there were way into capoeira. They were all over the place in their nice evening-wear. Sam said they would usually be doing the kicks along with it, but since they had dresses on they probably wouldn’t. Extremely awesome to watch anyways. Floor show: check.
Shortly after that, we were all getting funkdified and such when attention turned to the movie being projected on the wall of the warehouse. It was 15 feet wide, so kinda hard to miss. All of a sudden, the movie that people weren’t really paying attention to turned into a scene where a woman and a man were having sex, missionary-style. Then the man grabbed a chicken and attempted to cram the chicken in between him and woman while they went at it. The chicken was going nuts and flapping everywhere. The woman was screaming (though I only surmise at the “screaming” because I was reading the subtitles) “Chickens! My god!” Just when it seemed like the shock had worn off, another chicken flew into frame as if thrown, and the man grabbed that chicken by the neck and looked like he was trying to force it INTO the woman if you know what I mean. Chickens were flapping and pecking like mad. The woman and man were both bleeding everywhere from where they had been pecked. I looked around the room and then noticed that the… entire… party… had ground… to… a… halt. Everyone was staring at this display of craziness. The music was still booming in the background, but almost all time had ceased to flow. Shocking moment: check.
Shortly after that I excused myself to the bathroom. The bathroom door had no lock. As a matter of fact, the door didn’t close in the conventional sense. If you closed it, it would just swing open again. Kind people in suits and tuxes held the door closed so their friends could go wee wee without being seen by everyone. I did not have a suit on, ergo I had no friends in the bathroom line. I just peed with everyone chatting in plain view. On the back of the toilet was a sign that said, “One square per person, no toilet paper available.” At that point (maybe 1:30am) there looked to be only about 10 squares left. Someone had written an addendum to the effect: No Pooping.
As I exited the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of a naked guy. My imeddiate thought: “Holy Shit, some guy got naked. They’re gonna throw this guy out of here.” Oh, how little did I know. My next thought: “The naked guy is playing an ALTO saxophone.” My next thought: “He’s pretty good tootin’ on that thing.” For the next little while the party was abuzz with talk of Naked Guy. All he had on was a bow-tie. Oh yeah, and he was about 60 years old. And waxed from head-to-toe. And pierced. Just trying to establish the scene for you. It was around this time that we collectively noticed that no one in the suits or tuxes seemed particularly perturbed by the state of things. The ratio of unclothed-to-clothed at a party is typically 0, so any deviation from that is cause for excitement (definitely) and alarm (perhaps). The guy was playing his tunes and people were having conversations with him just as if everything was right as rain, the bees knees, and all those other sayings. I happened to be walking past a suit-covered gentlemen who was talking about the naked guy. “Wow,” I interjected, “What’s up with that guy?” The man gratefully explained “what’s up with that guy.” I’ll try to paraphrase his explanation.
Oh yeah, that’s just John (not real name). This is his eleventh year doing that. When he got here earlier tonight he asked if he could get naked yet. We told him to wait until later. It was pretty funny, the first year we had this party was down on Ocean Beach. It was cool, all the surfers came over and joined the party and we had a bonfire. Then John got out of his clothes and started playing his saxophone. The last thing I remember of the night was the cops busting up the party, and John running away from the cops up the beach, waving his saxophone in the air.
Case closed. Naked Guy was a beloved fixture of this social group. It was easy to accept; all I did was skew my temporal worldview to include naked musicians and everything was back to “normal.” Naked alto saxophone player: check.
Shortly after that conversation a woman in an evening gown showed up with her white pit bull on a choke chain. It rambled around the party and licked beer off the floor. From what I remember, it’s nipples were fucking gigantic. The dog’s, not the woman’s. Random pit bulls at swank affairs: check.
Then The Speech started.
Apparently, we were at the holiday party for either the most insane or coolest (maybe both) company on earth. Part of the evening was to be a speech by the CEO/Founder/Maybe the janitor. Let me now set THIS SCENE up. They brought out a ladder, and set it up right in front of the wall where they were projecting the movie. A guy with a suit and long kinda scraggly beard put on a headband with a flashlight and ascended to the top. He sat on the ladder and told us matter-of-factly it would be a long speech. And then he launched into a LONG SPEECH. I stood and listened to the whole thing, and for this reason: this guy was apparently the leader here, and he had arranged an awesome party. Whether or not it cost him a jillion dollars was beside the point, he hadn’t thrown me out when I walked in with jeans and polo to his swank affair. He deserved my attention. So he started blathering on about “Number FOUR: Jim is cool!” and whenever he raised to toast to one thing or another, I dutifully raised my glass and yelled, “To BLAH!” Cal was standing next to me and he started to get cranky. “This speech is boring,” he said to me. Then he turned his ire on the speechmaker, shouting “BOO!” I grabbed him by the arm and asked if he’d like to get atacked by a pit bull and then thrown out in the rain. I threatened him that I’d punch him if he didn’t shut up and let this modern-day Jesus give his speech. I swear to god, if Cal would have been at the Last Supper he would have sat in the back pouting until Jesus was saying, “And my body is bread, and my blood in wine and stuff–” when he started yelling, “BOO! Jesus, you are soooo boring!” Then Jesus probably would have crossed his arms, I Dream of Jeanie-style, and turned Cal into a salamander. Anyways, I quietly yelled at Cal until he went over by Sam, who was standing far from the speech. Then he came over by me and booed again and I punched him.
Oh yeah, and while all this is going on; while the speech is being made, and people are toasting, and Cal is complaining about the Length of the Speech, Naked Musician is flanking the ladder as if he is the honor guard, and every time Jesus uses a rhetorical flourish in his speech, Naked Musician lets loose with a alto sax improv routine. doodle-doodle-doo! Oh yeah, and the whole time of the speech he’s bouncing up and down ont he balls of his feet, so his donger is waggling around. Best Speech Ever That I Didn’t Know One Major Point Being Made Due To Threatening Cal, The Platform The Speech Was Made On, The Accompanying Music, and Other: check.
Shortly after that we left. We got about half block away in the car when Sam turned around and said, “That was a pretty cool party. Let’s go back in.” Sam’s friend and I were enthusiastic, but Cal was monstrously against this idea. He started coming up with any and all excuses to leave. I jumped out of the car, ran around in the rain, and did a dance, but instead of convincing him to come back in, Cal only yelled at me to, “Shut up and get back int he car.” I obeyed, because by this time I’d had about a liter of vodka and several beers. As soon as we were speeding back through Hunter’s Point, I was passed out. Jostled awake at Cal’s house, I mumbled something to Sam, went inside, and slept the sleep of the damned on Cal’s couch. He woke me up 6 hours later with a text message from his bedroom to the living room:
From: Cal Hedling
Hey hey hey!
10:58am 12/18/05
The End.
Technology Is Great
A several-step process:
- Go here: http://widgets.yahoo.com. Download and install the Yahoo Widget Engine for Windows or Mac (whichever, if you don’t know which one to get then you don’t deserve Whazzmaster being served to your very desktop).
- After it is installed, download and install this widget.
- Open the preferences for the newsreader widget. You now have two choices:
- If you want to get the last 6 posts to Whazzmaster delivered to your desktop, paste the following URL into the “Your RSS feed” text field: http://www.whazzmaster.com/~whazz/whazzmaster/blog/index.xml
- If, like me however, you want to see the last 6 COMMENTS posted to Whazzmaster, with links straight to the comment, paste THIS URL into the “Your RSS feed” text field: http://www.whazzmaster.com/~whazz/whazzmaster/blog/comments.xml
- Enjoy getting Whazzmaster updates every X minutes. I know I will.
This is the end of your tech support. Figure the rest out yourselves. I don’t reccomend software lightly. I figure it’s gotta be easy enough for you retards to understand.
–when you mouseover the user, it shows an excerpt of their comment