Welcome to The Tribe.
Your Humble Ruler, Rajah Cheech Beldone, King of the Gypsies.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Bummer, man...

Jeez, I'm counting smokes.
Very possibly one of the most effective ways to guarantee you're going to have a totally depressing day, really.

Like when my kid said to me "Dad, you know you can live without mayonnaise."
And I answered her "Yeah, sure, but what's the point???"


Friday, August 26, 2011

Friday's Fun Poll

Holy crap.

OK, so if you were to meet your acrimonious yet compassionate Ruler on the street as he presented 23-odd years ago (see above), you would most likely assume that he was

A. An extra from Justified
B. A Manson Family member out on parole
C. A professional Cautionary Tale employed by High School Guidance Counselors around the world
D. A guy like Tom Hanks in Cast Away except he landed on an island with chili dog trees

Believe it or not, I used to get sex.
Loads of it.
The good kind, too.


The unexamined life...

I've noted this previously during the hot weather, but it continues to astound me.

Goes like this.
I wake up in the middle of the night.
I go to the bathroom and offload several hundred mls (fuck that asinine measurement of common liquids in cc, what the fuck is that all about??) of excess fluid.
I go to the fridge.
I take on several hundred mls of fluid.
I go to bed.

Shake my hand, I'm the world's most expensive fucking water heater.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Rounding the clubhouse turn...

Now if you don't believe that cocaine is good,
Just ask Karl Rove or Elijah Wood
Hey, hey, honey take a whiff on me
I swear to FUCK, we're almost through here, honest, your Raj has spent the last 4 weeks stuck at Item 6 of a constantly changing 10-item To Do list.
Which pretty much means I'm turning into my Ma.
Except slightly taller.

I've been trying to impress the following on the Ranette for a while now, and I think it's finally took, she can complete the sentence when I start it.
It's something you should all remember.

Never mind the TV commercials, you give car keys to a monkey, he's still just a monkey with a set of car keys.

I'll see you soon, my babies.



I saw this ad the other day at the Dr's office, and had to rip it out to show you guys.

(The Taffinator tells me the caption reads "The best gift for Valentine's/Lovers' Day")

I...have no words here.

Friday, August 19, 2011

How's THAT work???

Can you believe it, them fucking simians that work down on the Fab floors, them little cheese-eating motherfuckers, they get to wear fucking shorts to work, man!

Does that seem right to you?


Come here...no, closer...closer

Fucking clown in traffic this morning wearing a big stupid bright red Glory Glory Man U T shirt. Obviously having no idea whatever of what it meant.

Too bad Miss Fuckin Taipei wasn't there, she'd have delivered him with a fucking cuffing he'd not soon have gotten the fuck over.


Taking my life in my fuckin hands

Fuck me, I just rode up in the elevator with FedEx Boy

Except, you know, he had shorts on.
And he was a wee Chinese fella.

Anyways, he had like about 700 fuckin packages, and he was laser gunning the fuck out of them.
I was getting kind of edgy there in that confined space, it was like a fuckin Pink Floyd concert gone horribly wrong or some fucking thing.

Good thing I don't got a fuckin pacemaker or a fuckin plate in my head or nothing, I'd have probably gotten the fuckin AIDS or some fucking thing.


It's like I never left...

Hey, I'll be go to hell, I just found out that fuckin Yvonne de Carlo was actually from Vancouver.

Did you know that? I sure didn't.
When I was a kid they used to say she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
She's alright, but I don't know about that.

For that vintage, I'd probably be getting a lot more excited about, I don't know, like maybe fuckin Gracie

Or, definitely, O fuckin Hara, shit mon, are you familiar with the expression New York Fucking Minute?

Nice nuts, Mo.

Still, Y de C deserves respect for at least 2 things.

First for being brave enough to let The Chucksta chew the crap out of the scenery all around her in The Mother of All Bathrobe Operas:

Your eyes are as sharp as they are beautiful.

That still kills me every fuckin time. She must have kept a towel in her wardrobe to wipe away the bits of cheese flying off his performance.
Coupled with Johnny Boy "Leatherpecs" Derek there, it was probably like being locked up over the long weekend in Kraft's fuckin Cracker Barrel factory or something.
Actually, she looked pretty alright in that

I wouldn't be climbing over her to get to Presley, that's for fuckin sure.

Oh, and the other thing she deserves eternal gratitude for is being part of the Greatest Hollywood Story Ever. You know, the one Tony Curtis dined out on for decades.
I can't find decent video of it, unfortunately, I know he's told it on Letterman, at least twice.

If you don't know it, it goes like this*:

"When I left the Navy, I used the GI Bill to get into the Dramatic Workshop, which was located at the President Theatre on Forty-eighth Street. Walter Matthau and Harry Belafonte were students there, too. We were all just trying to make it. Later on, I went out to California, and good things started happening for me. When I came back to New York to do a promotion for City Across the River, they gave me a suite at the Sherry-Netherland and a huge black limo. I took it around to show my buddies in the Bronx and then went by the Dramatic Workshop. It was a terrible, rainy afternoon, and who do I see out in front? Walter Matthau. He's got a long, heavy coat on with a Racing Form sticking out of the pocket, and he's looking down at the gutter. Here I am in this nice, warm limo. And there he is, this grumpy guy surrounded by a cold, miserable world. The look on his face says, "What's ever going to happen for me? Nothin'!" So I tell the driver to pull alongside him and stop. Now Walter's watching the limo. I roll the window down, look at him, and say, "I fucked Yvonne De Carlo!" Then I roll the window back up in a hurry and tell the driver to get the hell out of there.
I got no followup for that


*SHAMElessly copied from the most excellent, always delightful, Death Diva Extraordinaire Mr. Scotty's http://www.findadeath.com. Go there now and enjoy the CRAP out of it.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Viewer Mail

That's right, actual mail from actual viewers.

Miss Taipei comments:

Dear Rajah-san,

what are your views on rioters? In Syria, perhaps they have a fairly pointy point. In Manchester, however, with the looting of Foot Locker and the burning of Miss Selfridge, I think they are filthy steaming oven-chip-fed pikey troglodytes who should be shot in the arse with rubber bullets and made to lick up the broken glass from the shops they have smashed up.

But then I've always been slightly right-wing.

While I understand the urge to 'stick it to the man' more than most, more and more I find myself humming the works of Messeurs Biafra et al. You know the one.

Hell in a handcart, hell in a handcart.

So, like, seriously, when we'se establishing our own waiguafarian state on Lanyu? There'll be a job in my government for you if you sort out the canoes.

Goin to hell in a Safeway buggy, as the old man would say.

Well, heaven knows the Raj is no fan of Big Bidness and its attendant pathologies, or even property ownership in general, frankly one defers to a roughly Anarcho-Primitivist paradigm, given a choice, with a return to pre-agrarianity in its entirety.
Even so, I can't really say I hold much truck with wanton uninformed destruction of property, especially when it's perpetrated by 3rd gen suburban yobs.

The only measurable consequence possible is some poor wage-slaving bastard ending up being deprived of his/her shit day wage.
I mean, seriously, what are you fuckin guys, seven?

If we need to go back to basic civics, go read the passage in Chapter 3 of The Grapes of Wrath where Muley Graves and Tom and the Reverend discuss the futility of finding someone responsible for the mass foreclosures and evictions that one can actually locate and shoot.


ps Oh, and this entire post was fueled by Led Zepplin....I know you were wondering.  And me? I fuckin HATE pikeys...

I owe you

Hey, you know what, I just realized this morning that half of you sad bastards, having followed these directions to the fucking letter, are probably still wandering around Taida, loster than a motherfucker, because I, in my haste, skipped not one, but TWO crucial olfactory signposts, both of which are critical in finding the fucking bridge.
So for all you poor fucks that have been at loose ends since that post, here's the two missing steps (FWIW, that whole area is, as is known, Ass Fucking Soup, so at least you won't have been bored).
So, AFTER this:

Then the jungle smell when I skirt the base of the mountains.

You go RIGHT into the pervasive stink of raw pig shit, moving around as we are behind the University Farms. Me, this is one of my favourite parts of the ride, again, it ain't exactly back on the farm, but it's the closest I'll fuckin get for the rest of the day.
Then we turn on to Keelung, and right away we're moving through a cloud of fresh baking bread smell, there's a bakery around there somewhere.
This bit is almost as enjoyable as the pig shit smell.
Maybe even more so, depending on your particular orientation.
Actually, right after that, there's a wee bit of a bonus entry. If you're real sharp, you should be able to sniff out real live Raj plasma, that being the spot where that dopey broad tagged me...

Anyways, then it's

Over the bridge, which is so high up and open, the air is kind of disturbingly fresh.

So I hope this gets you guys back on track.


Trust me, it's better this way

Hey kats & kittens
Really sorry, I've been seriously irritable lately, so I've been unable to put together a decent post that consisted of much else than just bitching about shit.

All the crap I get for talkin about what makes me happy, I can only imagine the flak I'd be fielding if I was to post about what makes me annoyed.

I'll be back among you very soon.

Still yours,


Monday, August 8, 2011

You STINK, mister

There's only a couple of them drunken old local fucks out tonight, but it's weird, these guys always give off the most rancid fuckin beer stink, I don't really know why, maybe it's because all they drink is shitty fuckin Taiwan Blue Can.

Whatever, walking by them, it's like the old man just got home from the Legion.

I remember I was about 14 or 15, I must have been crewing for some band, I know I was too young to be playing in a bar.
Anyways, it was the first time I'd ever walked through the back room of a bar, and the second I walked in and was smacked in the fizz with that unmistakable sharp reek of stale beer and staler cigarette smoke, I almost passed out.
It smelled EXACTLY like Granma and Granpa's front porch in Red Deer.
You know, where they kept the empties stacked up.

I probably smell like that all the time.

Love Hurts

So a few years ago I had to stop wearing my wedding ring, because the heat and humidity were giving me problems with a rash under it.
So I started wearing it around my neck on a chain.
It's platinum, I think, and fairly heavy.
So 2 or 3 times a week when I come home and change my clothes, it'll be on the outside of my undershirt.
So when I go to pull my undershirt over my head, the ring will whip up and bean me one right in the center of my forehead.

Hurts like a motherfucker.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Running on fumes

I don't know how much I'm going to be able to throw down here, I'm almost out of jam.

BUT I was just downstairs having a butt, and a knot of them sexual Oompa Loompas walked by, Tagaloggin at each other like crazy.
In addition to everything else, they smelled fuckin GREAT.

In case I don't get to it later, here's your Friday fix.
As I mentioned earlier to Sockland Man, there's nothing at all wrong with the original of this, but this woman is fucking AMAZING.

Have a good one, babies.


Thursday, August 4, 2011

Feudal gestures

Oh, and everyone go Google "santorum".

Off you go now.


Dumber than a bag of hammers

Honestly, is there anything on the planet fucking stupider than them stupid-assed empty glasses frames that everyone's been wearing for the last year or so?

I fuckin swear.
These fuckin trilobites would buy fucking snot if someone told them it was a fashion item.

Hee hee, speaking of halfwits, they got them automatic revolving doors at the front of the building here.
I just saw this dopey-assed broad so fucking absorbed in her fuckin iPhone that she went in the wrong fuckin way.
Hey, lady, bad news, NASA just called, looks like they're pulling that Rocket Scientist app.
Seriously, if she was a dog, Gramps would be taking her out behind the barn with the 12-gauge.

Oh, and the iPad rule still stands.


On the Road

It may seem like I talk a lot about my daily commute.
But, if you think about it, it's a pretty major facet of my day-to-day existence.
As well, it's when I do most of my thinkin.
But you know, it ain't like I'm ensconced in the comfort of my 5-year old Tercel whizzing past the carpool lane.
Really, if you've ever spent nearly 2 hours every day locked in a death struggle with 5000 years of culture, vying with approximately 800 to 900 crazed Celestials for the same six-inch space down the side of a poorly-tuned city bus with nothing but body hair and a fine sheen of sweat separating you from blunt force trauma and major laceration, well, you know it makes an impression.

I used to know a guy who said the 3 most useless questions in Taiwan were:

What was he thinking?

Well, I guess he won't be making that mistake again, will he?
Do you smell something?
I swear I could almost drive to work with my eyes closed, just tracking smells.
Starting in my neighborhood, which smells like, well, my neighborhood.
Past the Famerse Baozhi store.
Then the jungle smell when I skirt the base of the mountains.
Over the bridge, which is so high up and open, the air is kind of disturbingly fresh.
Over the overgrown vacant ground on the other bank, which has a distinct grass and mold smell.
Then along the river, which smells like you'd expect.
Past that one breakfast shop that always seems to be frying chicken.
And then down into the exhaust and hot concrete stink of the underground motorcycle parking lot, or, as I refer to it, the Two and a Halfth Circle of Hell.
Finally, there's that weird long-chain polymer smell as the elevator goes past the fab floors.

Oh yeah, also, across from the local office of  The Wee Irish Fella's company, I pass the Juice & Chicken House.
Which, of course, always makes me think of

After all, who doesn't like chicken & waffles???


Viewer Mail

That's right, actual letters from actual viewers.
OK, not actual "letters", like on paper or anything, but certainly a couple submissions to the old Tribal Suggestion Gourd.
So, hey ho, let's go!

OK, so one member, who shall remain nameless (hint, he's the only Cuban-Seminole Nazi sympathiser here), complains about your vindictive yet deferential Ruler logging entire posts about my preferences in women.
Well, my response here is twofold.
First, I've met the Countess, your lovely spouse, and she struck me as a most discriminating and tasteful soul. Hence, it's quite a stretch to envision her even letting you sit beside her. Ergo, one would assume that you'd be eternally grateful for even virtual vicarious action, whatever form it may take.
Second, if you don't like it, go fuck yourself.

In our next bit of feedback, a young lady from Chunghua submits that, and I quote, "Whenever I go to your blog, I can't get to my blog."
Allow me to phrase my reply in two parts.
Firstly, so what's the problem?
Additionally, if you don't like it, go fuck yourself.

Raj welcomes all questions and comments, and you can be assured that every suggestion will be considered with the same gravity and attention with which it was submitted.

Hey, you guys!
Jeez, we ain't had any new joiners for a couple weeks now, so I'm announcing a Membership Drive.
Until further notice, if any of you bring a new member who joins up, I'll give you a smoke and a gum.
Unless he's a real asshole, then I'll have to kick your ass.


Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Fuckin Hollywood

I ain't the first to say it, but, really, instead of being amazed at how many shit movies get made, it's actually more accurate to be amazed that any decent ones get made at all.
This is just a tiny slice of the decades-long history of (what would end up being) Tim Burton's remake of Planet of the Apes...

Fox (Studios) became frustrated by the distance between their approach and (writer Terry) Hayes' interpretation of (then Exec Producer and directorial candidate Oliver) Stone's ideas, as producer Don Murphy put it, "Terry wrote a Terminator and Fox wanted The Flintstones". Fox studio executive Dylan Sellers felt the script could be improved by comedy. "What if (the scripted hero, to be played by an agreeable Arnie)  Robinson finds himself in Ape land and the Apes are trying to play baseball? But they're missing one element, like the pitcher or something." Sellers continued. "Robinson knows what they're missing and he shows them, and they all start playing." Sellers refused to give up his baseball scene, and when Hayes turned in the next script, sans baseball, Sellers fired him. Dissatisfied with Sellers' decision to fire Hayes, (subsequent directorial candidate Philip) Noyce left Return of the Apes in February 1995 to work on The Saint.
Which, as we know, worked out great for everyone.
Nice pants, Fatmer.

Oh, and studio exec Sellers?
...a drunken Dylan Sellers crashed his car, killing a much-loved colleague and earning jail time.
And the final Burton effort was just fucking dogshit anyways.

To say the least.

Sorry, what about the who there then?????

That just kills me.


This is good, too

OK, this may be difficult for some of you to believe, but I ain't actually all that fussy about my preferences vis a vis female-type women ladies.
I certainly wouldn't be selective enough to say I had a "type" (although I do seem to marry more than my share of ball-busters).
And there are a couple of things that I find somewhat off-putting that can detract from my enjoyment of a particular woman, I mean physically, but there aren't really too many of them.
AND I wouldn't say that any of them are bona fide dealbreakers.
I ain't going to share them with you anyways, since, as always, your intransigent yet empathetic Ruler prefers to focus on a more positive elucidatory experience.

Accordingly, there are a couple of specific configurations that, quite frankly, reduce me to a gibbering simian in full rut.
At least one of these propensities we've discussed previously .
And Her Highness The Princess and I have discussed as well your Raj's lifelong affection for tastefully decorated girl feet.

But one of my all-time Top 5 configurations, and I really can't begin to explain why, one of my very favourite presentations...

The (preferably baggy) cargo pants with the tight tank top.

This may be due in part to far too many hours squandered in the company of this shameless hussy:

I can't find any good piccies of this (probably a good thing or I'd currently be down the hall in  the Men's instead of writing this), but you can see a beautiful example of this on Jemma's dad's Guatemalan caregiver in Season 3 of Sons of Anarchy.

Naturally, the fact that she's a total Latina hottie with a rack from fucking Krypton doesn't hurt, but you'll have to take my word for it, this exact combo is pretty much all that's needed for me to just plain lose it.

Fortunately (at least for me), The Ranee is often known to rock this actual wardrobe scenario, with her fuckin throat-cuttingly lush physique.
NOT that I've ever mentioned my personal investment in it.
Dang, it's almost enough to make me wish I were sexually active.



Everything I know about life...

I learned from Al Fucking Swearengen...

I could do an entire fuckin blog just of his collected wit & wisdom, but it's more fun watching the show.

Anyways, take that with you as you set out on your fucking day.


Monday, August 1, 2011

You'd think there would be some fucking thing...

Man, I'm sorry, I just got nothing to offer, really.
I mean, if I can't keep my fuckin self interested for more than two sentences, what are the odds that I'll be able to scintillate the lot of you?

Yeah, sorry, Taff nailed it, them vanilla Oreos were pretty much crap.
I was kind of hoping they'd be like Canookistanian Girl Guide (yeah, we call them that, not that Girl Scout horseshit) cookies.

The vanilla ones. Like everything else that comes from adults when you're a kid, there was a bigassed compromise (and you all remember what Larry David defines one of those as). EVERY box was, naturally, HALF chocolate and HALF  fuckin vanilla.
My big sister was a Guide, so we always had some around, but, of course, you had  to eat the fuckin chocolate ones.
And no, I didn't grow up in one of those houses where you could just snipe the vanilla half and leave the fuckin chocolate, where's the lesson in that???

I got a constant battle trying to instill this ethic in the Ranette, you know?
Like why it ain't OK to skiff the fuckin topping off a piece of pizza and leave the fuckin crust.
Or why when you want another serving of the fucking mosta...

You can't just scarf off the fucking Top Cheese.
You know, it's like taking only the drummies out of the order of wings and leaving all the flats and tips.

Like, you know, an American.

Anyways, the Cream Fucking Soda was fuckin transcendental, as always.

Oh yeah, I owe yiz for last Friday, don't I?
Beat this, I dare you.