BENTON

A few years ago I started a band with three guys I work with. No one knows this... yet. Well they know it...now. The name of the band is BENTON. We are badass, so badass that we can put umlauts over consonants and nobody can say shit.

That's our logo up there. I designed it. Badass, right? The "O" has a beard. Fucking badass, man. Yeah, you can't say shit.

Anyway, we have an album. It's an EP. We haven't recorded it...yet. Actually, we haven't written the songs...yet. But that's the easy part, man. We already took care of the hard part...now. We decided on the track listing. Badass.

Track listing for the BENTON EP - to be released shortly after our eponymous debut album:

Noodler
Raze and Matriculate
Space Bitch
Growing Season (bass solo)
The Bulging Seam

Guile and the Lesson Learned (bonus track exclusively available via iTunes)

Yeah... What's that? What did you say? That's right, nothing.

You can't say shit.

Who Doth Molest My Contemplation?

Weekday mornings are reserved for insulated, unhurried commutes in which I look forward to smoothly coasting 30 miles due south - accompanied by some unobtrusive talk radio and a large cup of black coffee. They are not for phone conversations, they are not for early rising and breakfast-making or casual newspaper-reading, and they sure as shit aren’t for bikers.

Yes, bikers. Not the grizzled, bearded, Harley-mounted men in their forties and fifties, but the waifish ass-clowns who willingly impose the fruity nuances of their “sport” on every unassuming driver within twenty miles of a major city.

Minding my own business, I was quietly making the most of a pleasantly overcast morning as I approached the highway onramp. Then, suddenly, I was ACCOSTED by a man standing on the corner of the intersection at which I was stopped. And by accosted, I mean I SIMPLY SAW THIS MAN, EVEN THOUGH HE WAS NOT DOING ANYTHING DIRECTLY TO ME. In my world, you see, there is no difference. Thin ice? Ha! Eggshells? Pshaw! No, my friend, you are walking on nothing more than a fucking layer of warm air with me - by default. ESPECIALLY if you are wearing a neon-yellow body suit and nodding/grinning like some idiot mascot while holding this sign:


Tigga, please. Adding insult to injury, upon closer inspection I ascertained that these poo-flinging derp monkeys were representatives of an organization called the “Bicycle Ambassadors.” Whe-hell, if the role of an ambassador is to promote ill-will and incite near-riots in the minds of otherwise perfectly reasonable God-fearing morning commuters such as myself well then sir let me say that you have SUCCEEDED!

I hit the gas and put this weenie in my rear, um, view. Oh, but wait, there was yet another stop on this particular route for the Misery Bus. At the next light, a phalanx of “Bicycle Ambassadors” hopped and strutted like little roadside vermin - popping their little signs in the air and waving feebly like the saddest pageant contestants you ever did see. I was nearly blinded by the grotesque spectacle, but I managed to glimpse one more sign before I blacked out:

When I came to, I immediately turned the car around and sped back to my home. Storming into the office, I procured a poster board and a Sharpie. Equipped with my own roadside PSA after a few minutes of work, I hopped back in the car and got on the road, ready to confront my thin-wheeled aggressors:

Vengeance will be mine.

Still Basking In The Afterglow

From left to right: Ben Francisco, Partially Obscured Poop Snacks, Placido Polanco, Canadian Tuxedo, Desperate Pickle, Pheewrap, Whofleck.

BONUS POST

The So-called Nutwank

What if every time anyone tried to look you up on Facebook, this happened:



Do you think it would change anything?

Do you think people would become self-conscious about the fact that they weren't being regularly and involuntarily plunged into some hazy temporal underworld - a world in which they were subjected to the probing and flame-ridden pseudo-visage of some terrible undead demigod?

Yeah, there is probably a whole slew of people who would stress over it.

These folks have obviously never seen a good bum train.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

Lucky Pierre: noun 1.) The luckiest botter in a three-man bum chain. 2.) Occasional joint posts arising from the physical confluence of Canadian Tuxedo and Pheewrap at a moment in time. 3.) A delicious poached-egg breakfast dish served only by three hundred year old fine dining establishments.

It was Desperate Pickle's written wish, a night spent as the tender, yielding eggy receptor wedged between the heaving sherry-soaked loins of large friends. Born of this notion, Lucky Pierre arrives to capture the stream of conscious thought between two Centaurs over the course of exactly thirty minutes. It might not be pretty, it might not be cohesive, but it will be real.

And it begins.......now:

9:47: Sherried crab meat. Sherry bomb. Crabs. You filthy botter, there are crabs all over my english muffin. So it seems as such exists a single sole solution for such a saturated sundry: MAKE ME FEEL PRETTY, MAKE ME FEEL GOOD.

9:54: I have spent the last five days with one single piece of inspiration driving my fitness endeavours. The inspiration comes in the form of a recently consumed double-bacon cheeseburger with sauteed onions, mushrooms, pickles, ketchup, mayo, lettuce, and tomato. A pint of fries accompanied the burger. Within twenty minutes of completion I hated myself. I mean, sit-in-a-bathroom-stall-burp-weakly-and-mash-your-loathsome-belly-folds-together-with-both-hands hate yourself. Now, when I run and there is pain, I see the burger. I feel the burger, I speak to the burger, I hate the burger. The burger was my friend when it was just a set of words on a board above a cash register, but once inside me, the burger became the incubus. Fuck you, burger.

10:01: Dear Diary,

I don't know how long I can go on like this. I feel like maybe I should say something to the other crew members, but I think that if I brought up the deterioration of Smits it would be penultimate to mutiny. I know Smits has maintained loyalties within the senior staff, but yesterday's outburst put everyone in danger- needlessly so. Even these loyalties must remain connected by the most tenuous of threads...much like our captain's grasp on the necessary. I checked with Krueger and we have enough power and supplies to make it back to the waystation, but if a decision is to be made, it must be made immediately. Only one mistake, one misguided delay rests between the crew entire and oblivion. I am left with the following question, and the semantic solution required in response. "When one must do what is necessary?" The answer, of course, is that one must always do the necessary, for it would be named otherwise should a choice exist at all.

10:09: As life's odometer continues to roll, confusion mounts. As a youth, the things I didn't understand amounted to girls, my body, why I was in trouble all the time, God, dinner, and how to stay off the bottom step. I have grown. The umbrella of my comprehension is broad in scope, so much so that only a select few items remain outside my cerebral grasp. I offer this list to you in full confidence and in the spirit of non-judgment:
1.) Auto-Tune
2,) Felching

10:16: We're raping everybody out here. Link.

Fin. See you October 16th.

Centaur Deathmatch: Handsome Damaged Goods Edition

Thomas Jane's RAY DRECKER vs. Jon Hamm's DON DRAPER

DEFINING CHARACTERISTIC:

RAY DRECKER: Hung.

DON DRAPER: Madman.

EDGE: DRAW

ANTIHERO QUALIFICATIONS:

RAY DRECKER: A high school baseball star drafted by the majors only to suffer an early career-ending knee injury. Now a sad-sack high school teacher and coach whose marriage has crumbled. With his home recently destroyed by fire and uninsured, Ray turns to male prostitution as a means to support his fat Goth kids and pay for home repairs.

DON DRAPER: The son of a whore who died in childbirth, Don's dad got his mug shattered by a stable horse shortly thereafter. After stealing a dead man's identity during the Korean War, Don fought his way to corporate success while becoming progressively mired in his own web of selfish deceit. Now divorced and renting, Don is trying to swim a bit and lay off the booze. Good luck, Don!

EDGE: DRAW

THE WOMEN WHO LOVE THEM:

RAY DRECKER: His Ex, all clients who mount his giant penis, the neighbour's wife, and his two dueling female pimps

DON DRAPER: Secretaries, psychologists, department store owners, wives of comedians, hipsters, schoolteachers, Pheewrap.

EDGE: DRAW

TYPICAL COUTURE:

RAY DRECKER: Hoodies and sweatpants.

DON DRAPER: Suits. Impeccably tailored, impossibly expensive suits.

EDGE: DON DRAPER

WINNER: DON DRAPER!

Phoodie Phriday

Midnight Hummus

2 medium cloves garlic, peeled
2 cups beluga lentils, cooked
1/4 cup black sesame tahini
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
juice of ½ lemon or more to taste
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon salt or more to taste
fresh ground black pepper to taste

Place garlic into your food processor and pulse until finely minced.

Add the remaining ingredients and process for 1 minute.

Scrape down the sides of the food processor. Taste and adjust for lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Process until well combined and smooth.

Serve with whole grain crackers and toasted pita chips or herbed breads.

Suggested pairing: Ayinger Celebrator

I've Got Something to Put In You

Wednesday night found Pheewrap pulsating deep in the bowels of Northeast Philly.

Just to verify, Constant Reader, Northeast Philly is not a mildly overweight African-American roundheel with a trick jaw and a vial of painkillers. If it was, this post would be hell of a lot more interesting.

No, friends, by Northeast Philly, I mean Fishtown, and by Fishtown, I mean Johnny Brenda's, and by Johnny Brenda's, I mean none other than the Detroit superstars, Electric Six.

"This is my drummer. He's a professional drummer. He's going to do a great job for us tonight."
- Dick Valentine

Thus spoke the legendary frontman of this antiband, and from that point forward, joy was supplied in steady doses to a willing throng happy to indulge in a little-known ensemble playing in a dicey neighborhood on a school night. So what if E6 took the stage at 11:20PM? So what if lathered carney-types spent the night slipping on a beer-soaked floor to treat the surer-footed to a live interpretation of Faith No More's "Epic" fish-flop? It was just a good time, plain and simple.

What really matters is the role of E6 as it pertains to this, the longest of sleepovers. You see, it was Yah-Koab who brought Pheewrap and Canadian Tuxedo to the altar of The Six on a Bushwick Winter's Night many years ago. Through the futher merits of The Six, I came to know Whofleck, whose influence I carry with me through these posts.

The Six is the melange, you see.

The Six is the spice.

Mundane? Nay. Magnificent.

Let's think about this for a little while.

We'll build a room, a room in our home, and it's central feature will be this.

The room will be delicate in its decor, soothing, light in colour, perfumed.

The device will be designed to mold comfortably to an approximation of your haunches. This shape will vary broadly, but the design will bring comfort to all - regardless of weight, musculature, or bone placement.

We will fill it with water. The water will willingly and softly absorb your production, after which it will hover, gently. The smell will be muted, and the splendour of your water-birthed offering will remain until you choose the moment of separation.

Only when you are ready.

Only then.

WHOOOOOOSH......

It's that easy.

It's that........perfect.

THE MAN

THE FIST

THE LEGEND (0:44)

Five Things I Can't Compete With

1.) Lighthouses.

2.) Wildcats.

3.) Imagineering.

4,) Circuits.

5.) Flight.

Anything else, and man, I'm golden...

BONUS POST

There is "epic".....

And then, there is Axl Rose-G n'R-In-Their-Absolute-Prime Epic:

Fuck yes.

The Running Man

Fresh off of my nearly unspeakable Yom Kippur rejection ordeal, I decided to lick my wounds by throwing on the old sneakers and padding my way around the neighbourhood for a bit. Little did I know that another outrage lay in wait.

Now, I don’t mean to single out Asian Woman Drivers, but for a moment, please allow me to single out Asian Woman Drivers. What makes this story so special is the fact that this particular offense was committed WITHOUT AN ACTUAL VEHICLE BEING INVOLVED. I know, I know, stay with me. Just stay with me.

So, there I was, huffing my way along a tree-lined road in the latter stages of my designated Sunday run. Now, know this: I am not the most approachable person. Not on a good day, let alone while hurtling downhill at a moderate speed. But this did not stop the Asian Woman Driver. No, to her, I must have looked like a great big red-faced cab with an ON DUTY light blinking wildly just for her. She was making her way down the short driveway in front of a township building towards a parked car, and upon seeing me, starts waving her hands and shouting.

What disappoints me about myself (today) is the fact that my initial reaction to a small, distressed-looking female obviously trying to get my attention for some potentially important reason was, well, utter annoyance. Ask anyone over 200lbs how much they enjoy coming to a full stop before finishing a long run when it isn’t to vomit, piss, or fall over. Jesus, people, it's fucking science. So, like the jackass I am, I removed one earbud as I approached the woman and bellowed like a crazy befouled spectre: “I CAN’T STOP!!!”

The woman blinks once and cocks her head as I scowl and start to prance in circles around her, running in place, while locking my eyes with hers as my body moved in one direction, then another.

Fucking ridiculous.

Woman: “Do you know how get poduce junkin?”

Jackass: (prancing, eyes narrowed): “What?”

Woman “Do you know how get poduce junkin?”

Jackass: “Do you mean Produce Junction?”

Woman: “Yes! How I get poduce junkin?”

Jackass: “Ugh! you, ugh, you turn left! (changes direction, swivels head), here and then you go up! that hill! (changes direction, swivels head again) and turn.... right! at the (catches breath) light. Go up! the (changes direction, swivels head) hill! and then..... look! for a set of shops (catches breath) on your right. (changes direction) It’s in there. (gasps)

Woman: “Turn left?”

Jackass: “yes.”

Woman: “Right here?”

Jackass: “YES”

Woman “Then go to light?”

Jackass: “YES YES YES THEN TURN RIGHT AND GO UP THE HILL ITS ON THE RIGHT NOW GO GO GO GO!! (puts earbud back in and staggers back out onto the road, moaning audibly).

I don’t know. I mean, who’s in the right, who’s in the wrong, I just don’t know. Fuck, I don't even care. Who stops a winded jogger for directions to a farmer’s market?

Philly, We Have A Problem...

"Michael Vick can sense that he is back. He senses it, the fans sense it, the media senses it, but more importantly - the locker room senses it...."

- Howie Long

"SHOMER FUCKING SHABBOS!"

After a quick run to the bank this morning, I thought that it would be nice to pick up a corned beef special at a great little Jewish deli that I hadn't been to in a while.

The parking lot was crammed, and people were streaming in and out. "Boy," I thought, "I've never seen it this busy." A young man was holding the door for patrons, but as I approached, he gave me the once-over and a mildly hairy eyeball.

"Are you here to pick up a party tray?" he asked.

"Ummmmm, no." I said.

"Well, I'm sorry. We're closed. Unless you're picking up a party tray."

"Oh! Is that usually how it works on Saturdays?" My curiosity here was genuine.

"No. Today is.....a holiday."

Suddenly, it clicked. The Star of David superimposed on the "Saturday" during AccuWeather's five-day forecast leapt to the front of my mind. Duh! Of course! It was Hanukkah!

I smiled at the guy and did that thing you do when you understand something suddenly, the thing where you point, swing your forearm in a slight downward motion, and say "Got it" all at the same time. Try it, you'll see what I mean.

As I returned to my car, the thoughts began to haunt me. Well, haunt is a bit much, but I have demons. Further research revealed to me that today was, in fact, Yom Kippur, among the most solemn and important of days for Jews everywhere. That's great and all, but let's be honest about a couple of things, OK?

The deli wasn't really closed, was it? It was only closed if you didn't order a party tray in advance, the kind of party tray you might be interested in after, I dunno, say, 25 hours of fasting that were about to end at nightfall? In terms of consumer interest, that constitutes a pretty specific group of people, methinks. Would you agree?

So, strictly speaking, the deli wasn't closed.

It just wasn't open to good little Catholic boys who happened to like Jewish things.

That's cool, man. I can just go home and make some tuna fish or something.

/goes home
//makes tuna fish
///feels like an outsider for the 12,315th consecutive day.

Phoodie Phriday

Excerpt from Field & Stream

I sincerely hope the committee that hands out Nobel Prizes in the science fields have taken notice of one Texas chef who recently achieved a gastronomical breakthrough: deep-fried beer.

That’s right. According to this report: The beer is placed inside a pocket of salty, pretzel-like dough and then dunked in oil at 375 degrees for about 20 seconds, a short enough time for the confection to remain alcoholic. When diners take a bite the hot beer mixes with the dough in what is claimed to be a delicious taste sensation.

Inventor Mark Zable said it had taken him three years to come up with the cooking method and a patent for the process is pending. He declined to say whether any special ingredients were involved.

Zable will introduce the dish at a fried-food competition in Texas later this month. He’ll serve five of the ravioli-like bites for a very modest $5. If any of our Texas readers plan on attending this food festival, please report back to the Wild Chef (fswildchef@gmail.com) and let us know how they tasted.

This dish sounds like the perfect hunting camp side dish. But the question is, what wild game do you think it’d go best with? I’m thinking it’d taste mighty fine next to a slab of grilled backstrap. Any other suggestions?

Suggested pairing: itself

Centaur Deathmatch: Four Seasons Edition

Mother Earth's SUMMER SPLENDOUR vs. Her AUTUMNAL RELEASE

CHILDHOOD RECOLLECTIONS:

SUMMER: Vacations, beaches, epic swim team adventures, adolescent sexploits, bicycles, pickup basketball, Double Dragon, The Chatterbox, buffalo wings, freedom.

AUTUMN: Back to school.

EDGE: SUMMER

WEATHER CHARACTERISTICS:

SUMMER: Sweltering heat, blistering sun, dramatic thunderstorms.

AUTUMN: Gradual cooling, gentle breezes, soft rustling branches, Nature's lullaby

EDGE: DRAW

SPORTING IMPLICATIONS:

SUMMER: NBA playoffs, mid-season baseball, the occasional Wimbledon

AUTUMN: NFL kickoff, College Football kickoff, MLB Playoffs, NHL season opener, Thanksgiving day games.

EDGE: AUTUMN

OUTDOOR RESPONSIBILITIES:

SUMMER: Mowing, watering, pool-cleaning, trimming, weeding, power-washing, car-washing, cabin destruction, basketball pole extraction, hedge-clipping, patio furniture scraping and painting.

AUTUMN: Raking, gutters (maybe).

EDGE: AUTUMN

WINNER: AUTUMN!

A Lead Role in a Cage

Do you know the story of Syd Barrett?

Few pleasures are more pronounced then stumbling upon a fine piece of lore that has gone undiscovered. Here's one...

So, Pink Floyd is the one hugely important band with which I have almost no familiarity. Syd Barrett was a founding member of Floyd, an influential guitarist, innovator and co-creator of their signature sound, and was, as it turns out, completely insane. After a few years of increasingly bizarre behavior and drug addiction, he became a liability. The final straw came when he approached his bandmates with a new song called "Have You Got It, Yet?" It was a straightforward song, but after the first go, Syd kept changing the arrangement and obviously nobody could learn it. All the while, Syd is singing "Have You Got It, Yet?" When Floyd discovered that they were being put on, it sealed the deal. Syd was let go and fell out of touch, descending into his own hell, presumably. Stories of his onstage antics are just as entertaining, playing one chord for an entire set, stuff like that.

Later, in 1975, after years apart, Syd shows up - completely unexpected - at Abbey Road Studios as Floyd is recording Wish You Were Here. They are recording, of all things, "Shine On You Crazy Diamond," which was written about Syd. He is unrecognizable, overweight, bald, eyebrows shaven, and speaking utter nonsense. Roger Waters is so shaken by this he is moved to tears. Syd leaves, and is never seen by the members of Floyd again.

He died in 2006. Over the course of nearly four decades, David Gilmour had made it a point to make sure every cent of Floyd royalties due Syd found their way to him, and he left his two brothers and two sisters about $3 million.

A Crazy Diamond, indeed.

"Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom,
blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!
You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well you wore out your welcome with random precision,
rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!"

Time to Smite

Zulu chieftain: "grrrrrrrr..."

Barabbas: "Grrrrrrrr!!!"

Adam Morrison: "GRRRRRRRR!!!"



Zod: ............

The Princess: "Oh Nooooooooooo!"

-------

-------

/movement beneath the ashes

//rising

Joaquin Phoenix: "......nermph?......eeee"

The Other White Meat

Blessed fogbringer.
A life of rounded corners
Where once, there were blades.

Gentle velvet drapes.
Window treatments for the mind
Keep harsh light at bay.

Like tiny secrets,
Each offering a whispered
Dose of hazy sleep.

The Day Scott Hartnell Tried To Live

Saturday saw many things for the post-pubescent Canadian Tuxedo. After sleeping for 11 hours, I roused my fire verm and ambled out into the sunny day, bravely moving forward on my wobbly fawn legs. After a few hours of studying for the aspiring mental health professional's equivalent of a flaming hoop, it was determined that a study break was in order. I textually baited my roommate to wander around the desolate urban streetscape with promises of giving him my last clove cigarette. Trading a controlled substance for temporary companionship is nothing new to me. Ask Desperate Pickle just how desperate he gets sometimes (ANSWER: NyQuil and over-the-pants handjobs desperate) and you will understand how little I have to offer other people without access to a 24-Hour pharmacy.

As we walked the narrow thoroughfares of lower Manhattan, I was totally oblivious to the fact that I was mere minutes away from a life-changing event. I came away from this event wanting to erect a mosque. So many things had to happen just right to be positioned the way I was for what happened next. How far back can I take the chain of events that needed to occur in such a way that I would be able to have this chance occurrence? My life is the Unrated Director's Cut of Crash. Or Crash. Depending on if I've masturbated recently. Slow people walking, missing the first R train, waking up randomly after 11 uninterrupted hours, being born in April 24+ years ago...all of these events were relevant and necessary to what happened next.

Out of a seemingly unmarked boutique on an otherwise sparsely populated side-street stepped a large man in a black t-shirt and jeans. Usually when I see this while I'm out walking, it's me noticing my reflection in the window of BabyGap- but only after I finish my mental fantasy of making an adult set of coveralls entirely out of hastily-joined Osh Gosh B'Gosh baby coveralls. But this time was different. This man was not me. This was not my beautiful house, and the woman with him was not my beautiful wife. She was his wife, and that was his tied-back mop of reddish gold curly hair, and the the world I inhabited that afternoon was his oyster. For the man was none other than Philadelphia Flyers Power Forward and Gritty Winger, Scott Hartnell.

"That's Scott Hartnell," I said with certainty as I simultaneously and inexplicably pushed my Chicago-born (walking) partner. My speech turned to chopped declarative sentences as I transformed into the creepiest person ever, walking into the middle of the street to get a better look. Yes, I flanked Scott Hartnell while he was shopping with his wife. Because I am not small, and because I was drooling, Scott Hartnell saw me and stared, smirking at my dumbfounded recognition. No one else was around. It was just me and Scott and 7 million other residents of a small island who decided they didn't need to be on that stretch of sidewalk that day.

Me: "You're Scott Hartnell!"
Methought: You're Scott Hartnell! It's Scott Hartnell! Santa?!

Scott Hartnell: "Uh, yeah, hi!"
Scottthought: Christ.

Me: "Oh wow. Hi. I didn't want to bother you, but I'm a really big Flyers fan."
Methought: You're talking to Scott Hartnell! He hasn't punched you in the face yet!

Scott Hartnell: "Oh, no problem." *Easy-going chuckle* "Thanks man, are you guys from Philly?"
Scottthought: It speaks!

*Scott Hartnell offers his hand*

I look down. I notice its size, its ruddy complexion. The hand of a man who shoots left and punches people and probably (maybe) fingerblasts the woman standing next to him with. The hand that gave me this memory. The hand that has wiped Scott ass.

*Shakes Scott Hartnell's hand eagerly*
Methought: YOU ARE TOUCHING HIM. HE HAS TOUCHED THE PRONGRRRRRRR!

Me: "I'm from outside Philadelphia, this is my roommate here. He's from...Chicago. It was a brutal playoffs in our apartment, man."
Methought: You fucking idiot. First of all, there's no way Scott Hartnell doesn't think you're gay right now. Second, was it a brutal playoffs? Do I even know about brutal playoffs? Scott Hartnell played pro hockey for 9 straight months and then came two games away from winning the most hard-fought and celebrated championship title in all of sports and it was hard on ME?! IN MY APARTMENT?! I want Scott Hartnell on that wall, I need him on that wall. Third, you are sweating so, so much right now.

Scott Hartnell: *Raised eyebrow* Oh yeah? How'd that work out?
Scottthought: Queers.

Me: "It was really rough but,"
Methought: Are you describing your gay sex, you idiot? God damn it you are blowing this.

Me: "I'm excited about the new season. Good luck with camp and everything!"
Methought: You are not going to ask for a photo or an autograph. Ignore the pen in your breast pocket. The man is shopping with his wife/girlfriend/sister in the off-season in New York City to get away from cretin mongoloids like you. Do not look him in the eye. Look at the ground. That's what you deserve.

Scott Hartnell: "Oh, thanks. Glad you're a fan." Or something.
Scottthought: I'd be totally willing to sign an autograph or take a picture with this young incredibly gay man, but Jesus Christ he just keeps turning red and staring at the ground.

Me: It was really awesome meeting you, thanks, have a great weekend!
Methought: OFFER ME A TRYOUT! MAKE ME YOUR QUEEEENNNNNNNN!

Scott Hartnell *to my roommate, as we walk away from each other*: "Hey man, I like your sneakers.

*Camera Pans to my roommate's feet. He is wearing his orange and white and black Reeboks. Camera pans to Scott's feet. He is wearing identical orange and white and black Reeboks. Camera pans to my head exploding while antimatter rushes in to fill the vacuum that has spontaneously formed*

Roommate: Haha oh wow that's so crazy!
Roommatethought: Haha oh wow that's so crazy!

Scott Hartnell, Scott Hartnell's Wife: *Laughter, Exit Stage Left*

Me: That was Scott Hartnell!
Methought: I will think about nothing else for the next 9 years.

Roofin' ain't Easy

Post-apocalyptic construction progress has been slow here at La Casa del Pheewrap. The roof, a surprisingly important part of any home, it turns out, has been my white whale for several weeks now. Finally, with all preparations in order and the weather cooperating, the day of the grand reconciliation was upon us. Blue sheets of hole-riddled, wind-whipped plastic would be replaced by a glorious battery of little asphalt soldiers all lined up nice and neat to protect my wounded home from the elements. A big-boy roof!!

Then, this:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: dkern@derprestoration.com
To: pheewrap@hurtmail.com
Subject: Re: Tomorrow
Date: Wed, 8 Sep 2010 16:05:57 -0400

Pheewrap,

I just received word that my roofer's father died yesterday, which is why we were able to offload the shingles but not able to actually complete the repairs. I have another trusted roofer coming to you tomorrow (definitely).

I swear to you that I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. Insulation and all other work is still scheduled to be completed this week. HVC work was done today.

Dervil
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

OK. I mean, what do you say to that? So maybe it is the contractor's equivalent of "the dog ate my homework," I don't know. All I knew was that I wasn't going to ask for a death certificate or an obituary clipping. I slipped back into Zen mode and awaited the arrival of TRUSTED ROOFER.

Yesterday, I returned from my morning errands to find my saviour's noble chariot heroically positioned at the foot of my driveway:




Fuck my life.

As I warily approached my own home for the third consecutive month, my first impression was that a crazed, shirtless Jose Contreras was scrambling about on the roof like Gollum. When I was spotted, Jose gestured wildly at the one patch of shingled roof from his thirty-foot perch: "Hey big guy, you like? You like?"

I swallowed hard and asked if there was anything I could get for Jose and his guys. Team Sanford jumped at the chance to take my money and put in an order for three sandwiches. Just as I was leaving, Jose padded down the lawn with three crumpled $1 bills in his hand. They didn't smell very good. "Hey big guy," he says. "Can you grab us a pack of Newport 100's while you is out? We $2 short." I smiled, took the bills, and got in the car.

As of this moment, the tarp is still on the house, and the truck is still in the driveway. Jose and his band of merry hammerers are nowhere to be found.

Phoodie Phriday

Picadinhos

1 lb shrimp
2 lbs pork tenderloins (cut into 1 inch squares)
6 potatoes (peeled & cut into 2 inch cubes)
1 cup white wine
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 dozen littleneck clams
1/4 lb chorizo sausage, sliced thin
1 lb black and green olives
6 pickled pepperoncini peppers
salt
1/2 lb scallops
1/2 cup balsamic vinegar

Brown pork in a hot skillet until golden brown with 4 tablespoons of olive oil. Add potatoes and chorizio into pan. Saute with the pork until the chorizo loses some of its red color.

Clean clams and steam open. In a 13 x 9 pan, add pork and chorizo mixture, clams, scallops, pepperoncini, olives.

Pour wine and olive oil over mixture and cover with aluminum foil.

Cook for 40 minutes at 350. Garnish with bay leaves and serve with white rice.

Suggested pairing: Chimay White

Checkpoint Reached

Part Two in a Series.

Waiiiiiit a Minute.......

Hey, what's this?

What have we here?

Down a bit, a little more, now over to the right. Some more..... ah-HA! Well, well, well.......

Look, Deus, it's a new Follower. Lucky #11! One more and we'll have a full set of disciples!

So, 11, what do you have to say for yourself? You thought you could just slip in unnoticed and watch quietly from the back of the classroom? Didn't you brush up on the rules of engagement so kindly outlined by Canadian Tuxedo?

Well here's your chance, 11. Get out in the yard and push someone. How about you grab that comment section down there and introduce yourself? Go ahead. We're waiting.

PSA #1

I have some advice for you.

Don't mess around with this beer.

Seriously. Do. Not. FUCK. Arounnnnnnd. With this beer.

I know beer. I know beer well, I enjoy beer, I can handle beer, I trust beer, I love beer, listen to me: Do not fuck around with this beer.

I fucked around with this beer once. Ohhhhhh, there were consequences.

Here is the Top 1o list of things that came about as a result of my fucking around with this beer:

10. Vomit.
9. Panic.
8. Sexist posturing, comments, followed immediately by racial tension.
7. Dual and simultaneous hamstring cramps.
6. Hanging spittle.
5. Cold, dirty tile.
4. Humiliation.
3. Whispers.
2. A long look in a mirror far away from home on a weekday.
1. Tears.

Some of life's lessons we all need to learn for ourselves.

This isn't one of them.

A Message From the Deus

I see you.

I see you, and I know you well.

You hapless voyeurs... You witless husks, waving your feeble flags of recalcitrance as you get in line like so many marching ants. Powerless husks.

Disgusting.

I would seethe, if you were worth it.

Instead, I will simply recoil........out of pity. See? No. You are blind. Like broken vermin. Like sickly, wriggling, wet mistakes given life by utter accident.

I see you.

Thank me that you do not see yourselves.

Feel the Byrne: Part Two

The Twin Lakes brewery tour was saved by our introduction to Rob, the current brewmaster.

Rob was an aging hippie. Rob was a musician. Rob spent eight years living in Wisconsin, and Rob knew how to make great beer from scratch. Rob also told us this story.

Rob and his buddy, Chris, worked for several years as roadies for various bands. Chris had a little more success in this area, or at least he worked for better-known acts. Among these acts was David Byrne. In 2001, Byrne was touring in support of his Look into the Eyeball album and had booked a handful of Philadelphia-area dates. This brought Chris and David Byrne into town for one magical night at The Electric Factory. Rob, as a loyal friend and fellow music lover, got the call from Chris to join him backstage for the post-concert decompression.

We talked of nothing related to the show with Rob. I simply know that afterwards, the three of them decided to make their way downtown for a few drinks at a relatively unassuming establishment. They arrived at a small watering hole on - of all nights - karaoke night. So, just to recap, Brewmaster Rob, Roadie Chris, and David Byrne are sitting in a Philadephia bar on Karaoke night. And nobody recognizes anybody......

Byrne, amused, brilliant, and content from a show he deemed satisfactory, leans towards Chris in the darkened bar. "Have a look at the book. If you see anything of mine, put your name in. If they call on you, I'll get up there and sing it." Chris pages through the book and sees the usual arsenal of Talking Heads classics. Deciding to go big or go home, he puts in for "Once in a Lifetime" and returns to the booth with Byrne.

The time comes, and Byrne, true to his word, slinks up to the modest stage with his head down and face obscured. The familiar salvo of the expectant drums and the thrumming pop-up-now-fall-back-down bassline begins as Byrne keeps his back to the audience.

With the opening verse imminent, Byrne whirls, and suddenly becomes ten feet tall:

"YOU MAY FIND YOURSELF........LIVING IN A SHOTGUN SHACK."



Those in the know gasp, erupt, and appreciate.

POSTSCRIPT: A thrilled patron approaches Byrne once he has finished, looks at him with awe, and says: "DUDE! Do you KNOW who you ARE???"

Dead to Rights

Names and specific personal information have been changed to protect the guilty.

Everything else presented in the following post is exactly as it happened.


GoToAssist (11:29:32):
Thank you for contacting McAfee Consumer Support. An agent will be with you shortly.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:30:21):
Hi Pheewrap, this is Swaami from McAfee Technical Support and I would be assisting you today.

Customer (11:30:36):
hi swaami.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:31:48):
Not to worry, we will leverage all our resources to resolve this issue because your concern is our concern.
Swaami Gatthathalia (11:31:49):
How do you currently connect to the Internet? (Dial-up, DSL, Cable, or Wireless)

Customer (11:33:15):
wireless. Swaami, do you understand that i have already spoken to someone today and that they were not able to resolve the issue? I provided my earlier service request number so you can refer to the work that has already been done.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:33:39):
Pheewrap, not to worry. I will try my level best to help you.
Swaami Gatthathalia (11:33:48):
Pheewrap , for verification purpose, may I have your home telephone number with area code first?

Customer (11:34:14):
just want to make sure you know the history. my number is 5558675309

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:34:29):
Pheewrap, I am happy to assist you with this issue. In order to assist you better, I need to gather some basic technical information about your computer. I will send you a pop-up, please click on 'OK' to provide me the information.

GoToAssist (11:34:38):
Representative Swaami Gatthathalia has requested system information from customer Customer.
GoToAssist (11:34:44):
Customer Customer has sent system information to representative Swaami Gatthathalia.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:35:06):
Thank you for providing system information, Pheewrap.
Swaami Gatthathalia (11:36:19):
Pheewrap, from the system information it is clear that you have not installed McAfee in your computer. "My Security Shield" is not a protecting software but an infection which act as an antivirus software.

Customer (11:37:08):
I understand. I am unable to open McAfee, and i think the infection is the reason why. I cannot get rid of it.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:37:38):
Pheewrap, from the system information it is clear that you have not installed McAfee in your computer.

Customer (11:38:29):
I cannot install it. I am unable to open the file. I understand that it is not installed. that is why i am contacting you.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:39:28):
We at McAfee technical support are not able to remove the infection but we have a well trained Virus removal team to help you in resolving this issue. I suggest you to contact them for resolving this issue. They have some special tools to remove the infection.

Customer (11:40:16):
can you try to install mcafee remotely? again, the software is on my machine.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:41:49):
Pheewrap, I am sorry without removing the infection we will not be able to install an antivirus.

Customer (11:42:22):
fiine. how can i contact your virus team? could you please forward my request and connect me?

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:43:14):
It’s a fee based premium support for a cost of $89.95, wherein advanced tools are used to eradicate the threat in your system, which can really save your computer files and important data from getting corrupted. If the team finds no virus in your computer, your money will be credited back to your account. Shall I go ahead and place an order for the Platinum-Virus Removal Support?
Swaami Gatthathalia (11:43:24):
The Virus Removal Team will eradicate the infection from your computer and you can avail the service for 5 days. If the computer gets infected within 5 days, our Virus Removal Team will clear the infection without any additional cost.

Customer (11:44:48):
But mcafee failed, Swaami. I had the software already and it allowed the infection to take place. You need to have the infection removed free of charge because the product - which i bought and subscribe to - did not work properly.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:45:16):
I will explain the cause to you now.
Swaami Gatthathalia (11:45:23):
I hope there are more than one user using this computer, Is that correct?

Customer (11:45:45):
No, it is my personal machine. I am the sole user.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:45:48):
Did any one download any music or attachments to your computer?

Customer (11:46:12):
No.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:46:15):
There are many unauthorized websites {porn websites} which are not tested. Did you recall any one of your users usually visits these unauthorized websites?

Customer (11:46:26):
Me!

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:46:52):
Pheewrap, did you usually watch online movies, Online news or use play online games?

Customer (11:47:47):
nope. streaming video from all sorts of news and adult sites. I download nothing but music from itunes.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:48:17):
Pheewrap by downloading the music and attachments infections can attack easily in your computer even the antivirus is installed. By playing the downloaded file we are giving the permission to infections to be activated. Also there are many unwanted popup which is actually a trap for us. If we have clicked on the popup by mistake on the unauthorized websites we are giving permission to the infections to enter the computer.
Swaami Gatthathalia (11:48:43):
So the infectious which are entered by our mistake will not be removed by antivirus installed as this may first affect on the programs files of the computer first.
Swaami Gatthathalia (11:48:54):
Thus antivirus will not be able to delete that file as this may stop the functioning of the computer.

Customer (11:50:06):
i understand, and i appreciate the good explanation. my issue is with a $90 fee to fix a problem that is due to a failed protection. I know that many things are trying to invade my machine but i trusted and paid for mcafee to keep me safe.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:51:53):
Pheewrap, I have clearly mentioned the cause of the infection in your machine and this is not 'due to a failed protection'.

Customer (11:53:24):
well, i need this fixed. is there anything you can do or is this only something that can be handled by the virus swat team?

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:54:58):
Pheewrap, I understand that. But We at McAfee technical support are not able to remove the infection but we have a well trained Virus removal team to help you in resolving this issue. I suggest you to contact them for resolving this issue. They have some special tools to remove the infection.

Customer (11:56:15):
Then please get them involved to resolve this.

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:57:08):
Shall I go ahead and place an order for the Platinum-Virus Removal Support?

Customer (11:57:27):
yes.
Customer (11:57:49):
what needs to be done on my end?

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:58:05):
Let me know last five digits of your credit card you have used to purchase McAfee or your Billing address with McAfee

Customer (11:58:16):
10 windy way
Customer (11:58:20):
beverly hills, ca
Customer (11:58:24):
90210

Swaami Gatthathalia (11:58:45):
That is correct May I place you on hold for a minute while I do this for you?

Customer (11:58:53):
yes.

Swaami Gatthathalia (12:02:42):
Thank you for being on hold. I appreciate your patience. The order ID for this purchase is CS814176548 You can now contact them team directly through 1-847-782-4513. There will not be any hidden charge for this.

Customer (12:03:19):
i will call now

Swaami Gatthathalia (12:03:32):
That is great.
Swaami Gatthathalia (12:03:33):
Pheewrap, is there anything else that I can help you with McAfee products today?

Phoodie Phriday

Turtle Burgers


Prepare handmade ground beef patties.
Top with sharp cheddar cheese.
Wrap in a bacon weave.
Add hotdogs as the heads, legs.
Cut slits in hotdogs for toes and tail.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Place on an oven rack.
Cover loosely with foil.
Bake for 20-30 minutes.

Serve to children and animal lovers, with lots and lots of catsup.

Suggested pairing: cat soup.

The Fuck You Staring At?

Shit look at Newbread, MousePounce. Newbread thinks he goan roll up next to us and just fuggin' READ. First floor first left, son. Room 2A. This where we throw the NAWLIDGE. Newbie don't know the way this row op-er-ates. MousePounce, why don't we tell Newbie here how to operate his fucking shit now that he's in the 1st Grade. Yeah brotractor, I said it. We in the fucking grades now, ranchero. Every fucker in here is looking at a sentence of at least eight years in this building. MousePounce at my feet here? He might get out in 7. MousePounce, he likes them bookz. But he also likes string cheese, so watch your Newbie ass at lunch, or you'll get CheeseFleece'd by MousePounce and damn you get CheeseFleece'd by MousePounce on the first day you goan look STouPID. Better offer him some-a-that though, know'm saying. A little tribute, a little RESPEK. Respek is the stock-in-fucking-trade round here, Newbie.

When teacher asks a question, you fucking raise your Newbie hand if you know the answer. When that bell rings, you shut the fuck up and stare straight ahead. In here, you belong to teacher and other teacher and other teacher and principle. They all got names, but I never learned 'em because I'm too busy being mayor of the baddest row in Room 2A. In here, teacher owns your ass, but in the yard, oh fuck it's so diffs.

That recess yard? That's where we really operate our shit. That's where NAWLIDGE goes to play, son. Newbread, I know you're sittin' there thinkin' "What? Huh?" and that's because you're a stupid-ass Newbread. So I'm gonna tell you one thing that will make or break your time here. Shit defines your Newbie-ass legacy. Ready? This some nawlidge: Push someone. Push someone on the first fuckin' day in the yard, or you'll get pushed erryday till puberty. That's just how it goes. Pick somebody you can push, walk up to them. Say "Hey, I'm new," and then you push that fucker. If they go down, they go down. Don't think about it. Make sure an older kid sees. That's how you start learning how your shit operates, and that's how you know you can hang with me and the Ounce o' Pounce. Taint that straight, MousePounce? Yeah, fucking A right it's straight PounceMaster General. Shit Newbread, is that a Capri Sun?!

Feel the Byrne: Part One

Last night, I wandered off after work with a few lads from the office for some much-needed camaraderie. Our destination: a small, independently-owned brewery in picturesque Greenville. Each Wednesday night, you see, the brewery offers a brief tour of the facility and a few complimentary suds, complete with postgame cheese plate and whole pecans. The lads and I were spiced, to be sure.

Upon arrival, we were struck by the lovely property upon which the brewery was situated. We made our way up a narrow flight to a brightly lit great room with some real keen artwork and furniture. An open section of wall with a few stools stood at the far end, where all the action appeared to go down. Aces, mates! Yes? A class operation to be sure! Or so we thought. When we introduced ourselves as tour prospects to the somewhat bleary looking receptionist/bartender/cashier manning the desk/tap/register, she was taken aback. Odd, especially given the preponderance of “Every Wednesday – Guided Brewery Tours!” paraphernalia posted at every turn. Were we there on a Tuesday?

Well here’s the lowdown, boys. We were told that the tour guide, also the owner of the brewery, hadn’t come in that day and would be unable to show us around. We were welcome to stay for a few complimentary drafts, and for our trouble, we would be granted a half-price rain check to come back under a better set of circumstances. Slightly deflated, we sipped our little malted apologies and wandered around a bit. We weren’t leaving, apparently; at least it didn’t look that way to the fine folks running the ship. About twenty minutes passed when – lo! A miracle! The EX brewmaster just HAPPENED to be available on short notice and would be GLAD to show us around! Or, we could come back in a week for the discounted tour, as had been discussed. The poor bleary woman was making it pretty obvious that option B would be better for everybody, (wink, wink, nudge nudge), but shit, friends, damned if our tired bones weren’t already there. We huddled up, we broke - the tour was on………

OK, so - the dude was a wreck. He was the EX brewmaster for a number of obvious reasons. These reasons included (but were not limited to) an obvious chronic problem involving the consumption of alcohol, a penchant for general incoherence, and absolutely no ability to explain a single thing about any piece of equipment, any room, or any process. In fact, I started to question the brewmaster thing. No, no, I completely banished it from the Kingdom of Believability. Skeptical Pheewrap was skeptical.

The four of us exchanged glances during a particular ten-minute rant in which Captain Bald and Ludicrous was extolling the virtues of having rich friends, when we decided that it was about time to cut our losses and take the evening elsewhere.

But then, in an instant, the tour, and the night, was salvaged outright...

Join me tomorrow for the series finale.

A General Question...

Is it just me, or has modern day warmongering - and its corresponding recruitment strategy - slipped a few notches?