GOT MY VOTE:

Well there you have it folks, the Republican National Convention is over and in a move that surprised absolutely no one, former Masachu… Massecheu… Massichewset… (F@%K!)… former governor Mitt Romney ended the affair by accepting the nomination to run for President of the United States of America.

"Yes, thank you for naming me the best of what was left of your limited options."

Really? We needed three days for that? Couldn't do that in one evening? Hell, we knew going into it that he was gonna get the nod. By contrast, we never know going into Oscar night who's gonna win anything. And they manage to hand out about thirty of those things in one evening. It just feels like three days. And now we gotta do the same thing for Obama… sorry… President Obama (respect)? Three more days of speeches and bullshit all so he can officially tell Mitt Romney to just take his white ass back to Massuhchu… Massassipi… Come on auto correct! Help a brother out! 

"Huh? What? Four more years? Yeah… sure… whatever."

Of course no one is even talking about Mitt and his acceptance speech today. The big story is the guy who stole the show before Romney even found his way to the stage. Yeah, Clint Eastwood is the hero of the day for making the event something to give a damn about with his rambling crazy talk conversation with an empty chair. 

"Look, I said I'm sorry I did that on you. I didn't know that it'd be a wet one."

As he went on and on and on having a debate with his imaginary friend, I just imagined a bunch of people backstage demanding to know who let him take a chair out there in the first place. Not anyone's fault really, the guy's like 80 years-old, he asked for a chair and everyone probably just assumed he was gonna sit his tired ass down for a spell. He's Clint Eastwood for God's sake! The man was Dirty Harry and The Outlaw Josey Wales and the guy with no name in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Later on he was grizzled cowboy William Munny in Unforgiven, grizzled Secret Service agent Frank Horrigan from In the Line of Fire… then he cocked it all up by playing a flower picking photographer in Bridges of Madison County. But then he was back to his old self as a grizzled boxing trainer who (SPOILER ALERT!) puts Hilary Swank down like Old Yeller in Million Dollar Baby and all was right with the world again. And Gran Torino… don't even get me started… because I never saw it. (Is that bad?) 

Judging purely from the cover it's the touching story of
an old man, his love of cars, guns and high-waisted slacks.

Point is, he's Clint F@%king Eastwood and if he wants to sit down to give a speech at the RNC then dammit, Clint Eastwood can sit down to give the damn speech! So who the hell was gonna stop him when they saw him heading toward the stage followed by a production assistant carrying a stool?

What happened when he got to that stage… yeah, that was kind of a train wreck. A train wreck that we the American people should totally take full advantage of on November 6th! You know where I'm going with this, you know what I'm about to say, just be thankful that it's not gonna take me three whole days to say it. We need to elect Clint Eastwood and the Empty Chair to be President and Vice President of the United States of America in a write-in vote! 

Why? In a word: Fear. Other countries would be afraid of us. Iran, North Korea, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Afghanistan, China, Canada… yeah, I said Canada… would all be too afraid of President Crazy-Talk and Vice President Furniture to ever f@%k with us again. Who the hell is going to mess with a country insane enough to take marching orders from someone whose entire cabinet is possibly made up of the voices in his head? Or perhaps — as my just as crazy friend Terri astutely pointed out — maybe even actual cabinets?

"Hang on, I'm in a meeting with the Secretary of the Interior… of my skull."

And after the rest of the world shits itself and goes to the corner like we tell it to, then we can focus on the rest of the problems facing our nation, like the economy. What's that you say? What could President Eastwood do about the economy? Didn't you see that Super Bowl ad he did last year for Chrysler? Here, take a look: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PE5V4Uzobc

Don't feel like investing an extra two minutes? Well here's the condensed version.

"Grumble mumble… cars… mumble grumble… hard work…
grumble mumble… get off my lawn, America!"

That's some uplifting shit right there! First time I saw that thing I went right out to my garage and tried to build a damn car from scratch! When I realized that I had no skills whatsoever to do such a thing, I instead went out and stole a car. But dammit, I made sure it was an American car because that's what Eastwood inspired me to do! These days my cars, my electronics, my clothes, my drugs (prescription and narcotics), my guns and my hooker purchases are all 100% American thanks to Mr. Eastwood!

That's what America needs, that's what America deserves and that's what we can give America on November 6th! Plus, as an added bonus, his daughter Alison Eastwood is pretty hot and likes to take her clothes off so maybe we'll get more of that too.

Granted, this was taken a few years ago and she may no
longer be this hot, but still… BOOBIES!

A shame that it's too late to get Eastwood and Chair on the official ticket. I have a feeling the Vice Presidential debate would've been awesome… and probably a little too close to call.

"Well I knew Al Gore, I worked with the man.
And you Mr. Chair… are actually a lot like him."

WHAT THE HELL, MAN?

Yeah, I know, two weeks since the last post. It's like I'm not even trying anymore. Well, technically I'm really not. That sounds like a rather douche thing to say but there is good reason.

Life. Life is the reason. Life, with its annoying habit of changing and throwing curves and needing to be dealt with. As much as I'd love to sit here and type out boobs jokes for you all day long… Oh, that reminds me… 

Yeah, Sofia Vergara knows how I like it. 

Unfortunately, there's those aforementioned changes that require my attention. With that said, I probably won't be posting anything for at least another week. Hopefully I'll be back on a more regular basis once life has stopped bending me over the hood and having its way with me. (Don't worry, there's no visuals for that.)

So come on back in a week or so, there'll be cake. 

Wait… boobs AND cake? Oh Sofia,
you make me so happy! 

A TALE TOLD BY A DIFFERENT IDIOT:

It's like they're advertising the world's most bizarre cure for erectile dysfunction. And it's working. 

Well I was gonna talk about The Dark Knight Rises today. Finally saw it, figured it had been a couple weeks so anyone who wanted to see it had probably already done so, thereby making it safe to discuss plot points and spoilers. But then there's the rub, it's been a couple weeks and everybody's seen it, that shit's old news. Nobody wants to hear me talk about that. You know, as if everybody wants to hear all the other stuff I yammer on about most other times. But at least all the other blather that erupts from my maw is usually current (somewhat).

So without DKR as a subject that leaves me with…

This space for rent.

Yeah, that's the problem here, I got nothing. I mean if I wanted to do a current movie post then I could talk about the Total Recall remake, except I didn't see it. From the box office it's posting so far it seems no one else saw it either and from the crappy reviews I've read, I'm thinking that we're not missing very much.

All right, besides those three things we're not missing much.

And while we're on the subject of boobs, (always comes back to them somehow) let's talk about the hottie with the triple nub-nubs for a second. Why do most people — and by 'most people' I mean several specific women that I know — seem obligated to remind me that Little Miss Tri-Tit's rack isn't real? Happened just the other day at work and I wasn't even talking about the boobs. Just jawing with a buddy about how sad it is that the movie got remade in the first place when one of the front office girls passed by, overheard the chatter and just had to add her two cents with: "You know that girl's three breasts are fake, don't you?"

Now if I had countered with something along the lines of — "No f@%king shit, dickbreath! And if I didn't know, why would you go and just ruin it for me like that? Supposing for some reason that I was actually naive enough to believe that the filmmakers had scoured the world to find an actress with just the right natural attributes to play such a part and that she was a miraculous gift from God and the next step in human evolution, why you gotta be a bitch and try to spoil that for me? Wanna tell me what happens at the end of the book I'm reading? Wanna tell my kid that there's no Santa Claus and that Grandma's not really on a retirement farm running and playing with other old people? Of course they're f@%king fake! I know they're f@%king fake! The Millennium Falcon is fake too but that doesn't make it any less awesome! Matter of fact, who let you out of the f@%king kitchen so you could come here and waste my time? Run along and make yourself pretty, sweetie, the men-folk are talking!" — then I probably would've gotten into a lot of trouble. So instead I just went with the classic: "Shut the f@%k up and go make me some money!" Still got into trouble, just not as much since I used fewer hurtful words. Didn't know harassment lawyers charged by the syllable, did you? Well you've learned something today.

"Here at the law offices of Fucktard & Manhands, we make a
living off the stupid shit that comes out of Mr. Savage's mouth."

The situation was not entirely my fault though and you'd realize that if you knew this woman — we'll call her Nellie McNitwit since legally I'm not allowed to mention her name, what with pending litigation and all. Also legally banned from buying cough syrup in the Tri-State area and parts of Florida. Not sure what one has to do with the other but if the law made any sense then it wouldn't be a crime to publicly defecate in a dog park. For the record it is a crime, punishable by police-induced, non-sanctioned nightstick beatdown. And that's two things you've learned today.

This is what the officer looked like after
the third hit sent me to my happy place.

Anyway, last week Nellie pulled the same type of shit she always does, had to go and douche all over a conversation that didn't even involve her. A few of us guys were talking about the Olympics — beach volleyball in particular. And okay, I'll admit, in this instance we were being a bunch of pigs about how hot it is when the American team wins big and basically dry humps one another into the sand. (Like they did the other night. Congratulations ladies… and thank you.) And Nellie just had to drop by and remind us all that both Misty May-Treanor and Kerry Walsh-Jennings have husbands (hence the hyphens) and children. Bitch trying to take away from the beauty of the moment… as if anything could.

VICTORY WEDGIE!

Well Nellie McNitwit's a fool and I'll tell you why. We — talking about guys like me — don't care about real shit! If we wanna believe for just a moment that Misty and Kerry are making each other a little moist with their embrace, then we're not going to let reality get in the way of that. Hell, I bet even their husbands are thinking the same thing when they see it and they're made better men for it. You say the gold medal ladies ain't really as into it as we like to think they are? Big f@%king deal! You say there's no such thing as a chick with three boobs? We say, so what? Still nice to see that shit and fantasize of the day when science gone horribly wrong makes it actually happen. Same goes for things such as chicks who enjoy giving more than receiving (you know what I mean), the purity of college sports, that sexy specimen of manhood we see staring back at us in the mirror and the American Dream. None of those things are real, all of it is bullshit and we don't care! So if you're a lady and you happen to be like Nellie McNitwit and enjoy raining on a guy's parade then ask yourself this, do you want us getting just as real about what we think of your outfit?

Didn't think so.

As for my thoughts on The Dark Knight Rises… which is where all this started and probably should have stayed. But I thought it was… ehh. Coulda been better, coulda been shorter, coulda been tighter with the plotting. All in all… ehh. But the Dark Knight trilogy is over now, that story's been told and I'm on to the next thing which happens to be this!

Hey, when did Neiman Marcus start selling guns?

Mmmmmm… I just love that new Bond movie smell. It smells like… America. Even though he's British and works for the British government. But I mean, if you really think about it… Shut the f@%k up and go suck a bug!

Shit! Now I gotta call Fucktard and Manhands again. Let's see, how many offensive syllables was it this time?

It was under ten, I'll get a discount.

DOUBLE O DID YOU KNOW:

Did you know that in the 50 years of the James Bond franchise, 007 has not set foot in either Australia or Canada? Seriously. Dude's been all over the world, gone balls deep in hundreds of ladies — and maybe even a couple of dudes… 

Yeah, I'm talking about YOU Roger Moore! 

But duty has never called him up to the Great White North or Down Under to defend Queen and country. 

The reason for this is obvious, both those places suck. I mean, look at 'em. 

Not a Subway or Starbucks for miles! Is this what Hell looks like? 

Well now my purpose is clear, I am destined to rectify this oversight by penning a screenplay that gets 007's ass in both locales and his dick in all their women. 

Standard issue equipped with lasers and grenade launchers.
Plus they're ribbed for HER pleasure so that's nice too.

Coming never to a theater nowhere near anyone, 007 in: Koalas Die Cold.

Oh and yeah, I said duty before. Heh heh… sounds like poop.

THIS ONE'S FOR THE ONE PERCENT:

Dawn, for many it's the official start of a new day. The sun breaks the cover of the eastern horizon, burns away the mists as it begins its majestic arc into the sky. And you watch it happen two or three, sometimes even four times a week. But you don't welcome the new day from the comfort of your bedroom or the living room or any other room in the house for that matter. Greeting the sunrise from home is a luxury you haven't known for quite some time. You regularly watch morning break in a way that God never intended for human-kind when he created the phenomenon, from behind the wheel as you head up Route Something-Or-Other on the Whatchamacallit Highway. You're traveling a distance far greater than any one-way stretch you'd ever go for yourself. But that's the point, you're not making the trek for yourself because you're not by yourself, you've got company, the reason you're on this journey in the first place. Your offspring, the fruit of your loins is snoozing in the back seat. You're doing it for them.

Where you two headed? Where's your daily pre-dawn ritual take you at such an unholy hour? What's at the end of that long road you're traveling?

A training center of course. (The Olympics are happening. What else would I be talking about?) A far off facility (because these things are never in your hometown) dedicated to shaping young bodies, hearts and minds into championship calibre weapons of athletic grace. Training for what? Well that varies with the traveler and the charge under their care. Could be an aquatic center, instructing young swimmers and divers in the chlorinated arts. Could be a school for gymnastics, teaching young boys and girls to fly high and stick the landing. Could be a place of learning for any of the winter disciplines like skiing, skating, curling… seriously, you gotta go somewhere to learn to curl. That stuff don't come naturally.

Could be any one of a couple hundred different things, the specific sport doesn't matter. Your child wanted to learn, wanted to try, wanted to be the best at whatever their heart desired, so you wanted that for them too. That's why you don't greet the dawn, you beat the dawn, out there before the sun even has a chance to get warmed up. While other people are reaching for their first cup of java, your first cup of the morning is a distant memory on the verge of making the return trip into the world by way of your bladder.

At the training facility (after reliving the aforementioned bladder of course) you'll sit. And you'll sit. And when you're tired of sitting, then you'll sit some more while your young one receives lessons in their chosen discipline.You'll watch them train, you'll read a book, maybe you'll talk to other parents, sometimes you'll even sleep and then when they're all done for the day you'll climb behind the wheel and head back from whence you came with the rest of your day still ahead of you, all the normal life things still to be done. Always errands to run, a household to be maintained, most likely a job to show up for, hopefully with a boss who helps you out with a flexible schedule and a boatload of understanding. After all, that training stuff ain't free, bills gotta get paid, glory don't come cheap.

Sadly, for every one hundred stories such as the one I just made up here, studies that exist only in my head suggest that ninety-nine of them don't end in glory. An unfortunate amount end with injury, some end due to unforeseen circumstance, some simply end because the child's just not good enough. Harsh to say, but still, it happens, all too often. And sometimes a complete loss of interest is to blame. For some reason the kid just hangs up the swimsuit or the skates or the… whatever gymnasts wear. (They still call them leotards or has that been deemed politically incorrect for its use of the word 'tard'?)

Whatever the case may be, these fictional results are clearly supported by the fact that actual research is hard. My numbers say that ninety-nine percent of you early-morning road warriors will see your efforts go for naught, your Olympic dreams for your child will go unrealized. You won't get to travel to a distant foreign land to watch your progeny compete and win. No commentator will tell your story of sacrifice to the world while dramatic music plays over a documentary montage. The network cameramen will have no reason to seek you out in the crowd because you won't be there.

But for that truly lucky, truly blessed one percent of you, well you get to take a ride on an emotional roller coaster and make faces like these. 

While you watch your babies do stuff like this. 

And yeah, then sometimes… that happens. 

With all due respect to the ninety-nine percent, (well, THIS particular ninety-nine percent anyway) it just wasn't meant to be for you. No sense feeling blue about what your kid coulda been, appreciate them for what they are… failures. KIDDING! (Kinda.) So just occupy your living room like the rest of us and watch as NBC reaches new heights of ineptitude in their coverage of the one percent that we can all live with. This one percent is willing to share the wealth — metaphorically speaking of course — with the rest of us. They're good like that.

Congrats to all our medalists thus far and all those yet to be crowned in the coming week of competition. Although I suppose that in the spirit of sportsmanship and goodwill I should be sending out well wishes to all the medalists no matter their nationality. 

But yeah, I was raised in the era of Reagan and Rambo, so I'm not gonna do that.

USA! USA! USA!

IT'S ABOUT THAT TIME…

It's August, training camps have been open for a little while now, pre-season is about to start, soon it will be September and that can mean only one thing!

Yeah, I know, my slavish devotion and sycophantic loyalty to Tom F@%king Brady did little to help Him get over the mountain that was the Giants defense to achieve Super Bowl glory last year. I fully take responsibility for that one. All my fault, obviously my faith wasn't strong enough and I didn't sacrifice enough corrupt politicians on the altar of His greatness.

But he has forgiven me my transgressions and I am once again among the favored of His flock. This year will be different, this year will be better. This year the halls of the Church of TFB will run red with the blood of corrupt fat-cats and echo with the sounds of His victories!

Or not, we'll see.