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

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Holy crap the vultures are eating my head!

Shit man, your vituperative yet commiseratorial Ruler has been busier than a fucking armpit mousse salesman at Burning Man.
Hope everyone's doing alright.
Special thanks to Helmut Schtrünt the Nazi Künt for all the Scandihoovanian shwag.


Thursday, September 22, 2011

Jeez, I forgot about this

Yeah, so concert season is upon us once again, so you know what that means, your Machivellian (you may think you know what that means, but you're wrong) yet egalitarian Ruler can kiss goodbye relaxed, peaceful weekends hanging out at the Palace.
All part of the price of admission when your kid is a burgeoning virtuoso (rhymes with "Heard you're so-so"), we're looking at at least one and often 2 or more concerts per week to attend, all fucking season.
So last weekend on Sunday was the National Symphony Orchestra under the direction of this dude:

Playing the entire suite of Gustav Holst's

The Planets (Op 32).
It was great, I haven't heard the thing live in, well, a fuck of a long time.
I realized during the concert that I actually played it (at least the first movement, you know, Mars: The Bringer of War) in school.

Of course, if you have even a passing familiarity with Metal, especially Black/Death Metal, you've doubtless heard the first movement, either as a guitar solo or played over the PA before the band takes the stage.
And, as is also well known, dickcheeses like Isao Tomita and Greg Lake became famous simply for covering it.

What amazed me, though, during the concert, was how utterly shamelessly such überhacks as John fucking Williams and Hans Zimmer (the Stephen King and Thomas Harris of film composers), and, to a slightly lesser degree, Vassilis Konstantinos "Basil" Poledouris, have hammered out entire careers (and walked off with countless awards) by simply cribbing every fucking note of their stuff directly from the suite.

And yes, before you ask, Holstie-boy penned the thing in 1916, so there's no doubt who came first.

Just listen to this:

Sound like something you've heard in a movie??
Sound like EVERYTHING you've heard in a movie???
No fucking kidding.
I would, in fact, go so far as to say that, if Gus Holst had decided to become a professional lacrosse player or some fucking thing, you can bet that this cross-eyed fucker

this tubenecked cocksucker

and this cheese-eating sonofawhore

would all be laminating fucking membership cards at fucking Blockbuster.

Of course, on the other hand, Ridley

would have directed all the Alien sequels, and wouldn't that have been a swell deal?


Tuesday, September 20, 2011

If you were smart...

You'd be looking over here>>>>>>>
There's worlds of goodies just a click away at our clan-associated blogs.
A Wee Irish Fella, telling you more than you could ever want to know about the intricacies of adjusting the pickups on your old Tele, why, you just follow his simple and easy-to-follow directions, and you will very likely suddenly discover that your crappy old 'Caster has suddenly become a brilliant instrument.
James Burton

and Roy Buchanan (may he rest in peace)

look out!

As well, our dear friend Remittance Girl has provided a comprehensive product review on some state-of-the-art, erm...personal appliances that some of you babies may find most helpful in making informed purchases.
Sorry, there may be video on that, but I'm so far out of my aegis on this one that I wouldn't trust myself.
You just go and inform your bad selves.


Monday, September 19, 2011

With friends like that...

So the young woman to whom I made reference here was kind enough, specifically in reference thereto, to send me a link to an actual (digital, obviously) photograph of herself, wearing a garment similar to that discussed.
By the ocean.
Showing the exact physical features I described as being singularly, erm...motivating.

That's great.
Like I don't have enough problems with my fuckin imagination.

And no, I ain't going to share it with you degenerate bastards.


Friday, September 16, 2011

Want to hear something funny?

OK, so it's like Dec 1999 (don't ask how I remember), and I'm a Manager at what was then Taiwan's largest employer, a company that persists in characterizing itself as the world's 3rd largest PC manufacturer.
The department had cut some kind of asshole arrangement with the local office of one of the world's largest ad agencies, and, as part of the deal, they were supposed to provide support & training to the product marketing departments.
These invariably consisted of some lowlife on foreign posting coming around and giving total bullshit presentations which couldn't be understood by 98% of the attendees, being presented entirely in standard conversational American English, and comprising such lame, obvious content that it was patently insulting to the remaining 2%.
The agency, apparently, was responsible for the creation of, among other things, The Jolly Green Giant, Morris the Cat, Charlie Tuna, the Maytag repairman, the Pillsbury doughboy, Tony the Tiger, and the fucking Marlboro Man.

But these tired-ass cocksuckers are foisting upon us this banal crap, full of cheesy, worn out spew, with the WORST, most dismal Wurd clipart, like




Anyways, this one time, we were invited to visit these motherfuckers' sumptuous office complex for a very special presentation.
It was supposed to, you know, be a treat.


Anyways, me and my number one guy, Señor Salario Perdido, we ride our bikes over there, in PISSING down rain, and we fuckin go up.
Now, as with most firms of this ilk, these cheese eating cock knockers had spent like BILLIONS on their offices, the joint just fuckin STANK of shitheel design executed for its own sake.
You know how it is, the less you really are providing to customers, the more the presentation has to be gussied up. If you're going to sell folks air, it better come in a pretty nice damn can, right?
Now, this fucking joint had one of those GENIUS designs going on, where the fucking doors look like walls, the walls look like windows, and the windows give you a headache.
Particularly, in this case, they had made this big fucking huge Meeting Room with the one wall floor-to-ceiling glass, perfectly clear and unmarked, and the fucking DOOR was this huge slab of dark wood, again, floor-to-ceiling, hung on fucking tracks with no hardware or markings anywhere on it.
One of those fucking retarded offices where the poor receptionist spends fully half her day showing every fuckin visitor how to work the fucking doors and shit.
ANYWAYS, we all go in through this stupid-assed door.
And they got some kind of fucking ass-hatted video presentation for us to watch.
And they got the old wheeled stand with the big fuckin TV on it and the VCR.

That's right, VCR, kids.
So, of course, the numb bastard who's giving the talk thing has NO idea what he's fucking doing, so he calls in the house AV guy.
Here's where things start to develop.
Now, the first thing you need to know is that the kid is one of these fucking benighted waterheads who fucking runs everywhere, because they're stupid enough to think it makes them look important and the boss will somehow mistake it for diligence.
Also, in this case, Flunky McPinhead thinks it will look good for him if he runs away the second he's finished fixing the fuckin TV.
Trouble is, after he came in, someone slid the stupid solid slab of oak door closed.
So the dopey fucker fixes the TV, and leaps to his fucking feet, and runs out the door at full fucking throttle.

And runs STRAIGHT into one of the fucking glass walls.


Fuck me, I'm choking here right now from trying to stifle the laughter.
The fuckin pinata-head hits the fucking glass so fucking hard, he literally bounces back like five feet, before falling flat on his ass.
And me and Señor Salario are just
we're laughing so fucking hard.
Now, despite me being management, we were already on numerous shit lists, mostly for refusing to play along when everyone else we worked with would stand around a boardroom table and, regarding a huge steaming three-coiler crapped right in the center, discuss loudly among themselves how it was ice cream.
And me and Señor Salario would kind of stand there, going, like "But...but...but...it's not ice cream, it's poop!".
So, needless to say, us convulsing with contained paroxysms of screaming hilarity wasn't gaining us any fuckin points with our bosses who were there.
Finally we settled down and were calm, and finally, the whole ordeal was over and we got up to go, the entire dept. was going out for food and beer, so, at least we could get fucked up on the company tit, so we had that to look forward to.
And then, as we walked out of the Meeting Room (literally with our hands held out in front of us to make double fuck SURE we were going through an actual doorway), sure enough, the first thing we see is Jimmy fucking Neutron, sitting at the receptionist's desk with a wad of TP the size of your head, COVERED in blood, pressed against his fucking nose.
And me and Señor Salario are fucking off again, laughing our jeezin asses right off.
Trust me, in those days, the laughs were few and far between, we had to enjoy the crap out of the few we got.


Good evening ladies and gentlemen

...and welcome to the Universal Amphitheatre. Well, here it is, the late seventies going on 1985. You know, so much of the music we hear today is all pre-programmed electronic disco, we never get a chance to hear master blues men practicing their craft anymore. By the year 2006, the music known today as the blues will exist only in the classical records department of your local library. So tonight ladies and gentlemen, while we still can, let us welcome, from Rock Island Illinois, the blues band of Joliet Jake

and Elwood Blues,


Blues Brothers!


Wednesday, September 14, 2011

I got no excuses here

May fucking Pang (back in the day)

I feel like I should offer some qualification or explanation

but honest,

I got squat.

Just, you know...damn.


Success without college

Hey, I'll tell you who had a pretty sweet fuckin gig going, this SOB:

you fuckin A, bubba, Indian chow

for every meal, more hot hippie chick trim

than you could shake a yawarah at, and hanging out for weeks with George freakin Harrison.

Bet your fuckin ass the Haha fuckin Reeshie never worried about whether his duds matched, no fucking way, man...


Just so's you know

In response to a casual mention by my BFF (Best Fucking Friend), I actually prepared a huge long post last week regarding the whole fuckin Bello deal

but finally I didn't consider it appropriate.


I KNEW this was going to fucking happen

Listen, babies.
I don't make this shit up.
Everything I do has a good fucking reason.
As fucking Barnes

would say

Now, I got no fight... with any man who does what he's told. But when he don't, the machine breaks down. And when the machine breaks down, we break down.
See, here's the deal.
Pretty much my entire wardrobe, with the possible exception of T shirts, but pretty much everything I wear every day, is one of, or a direct derivative of, these colours:

It's my system, and it works well.
I might skew a little darker in the winter, but otherwise, it's a blessed oasis of consistency and dependability in an otherwise chaotic and unpredictable universe.
Consider it my personal hedge against entropy.
Probably the worst that can ever happen is that I'll end up, either due to the laundry crap shoot, or simply not turning on the lights, going to work in the dreaded khaki/khaki matchup, with the result that I either walk around all day looking like the world's oldest (and largest) Chien Kuo Boy's High School student



Anyways, you wouldn't be-fuckin-lieve the fucking stick I get for this around the palace.
See, to me, every shirt or pair of kecks is different.
I don't have any fuckin difficulty differentiating between British khaki

and desert tan

to me it's like a fuckin rainbow.
I'm afraid I don't have any choice but to surmise that girls are just too dumb to make out the variation.

So anyways, in the interest of getting a little peace and quiet, the last time a new shirt order went in, your sagacious yet sprightly Ruler actually got a couple that were, well...colours.
And yes, they went into regular rotation, seeing wear once a week or every other week.
You know, it's important to exhibit maximal adaptability.

But, sure enough, sooner or later, it was bound to happen, I'm grabbing out my clothes in the morning, and the Ranette sees them and gives me the stinkface.
So I say, you know, what?
And she says, sounding like she'd caught me pissing in the sink or something

"You're not planning on wearing that shirt with those pants, are you?"

And I'm like, why not?
And she says

"Because they don't go!"

Well fuck me.
OK, fine, what the fuck ever, so I go and get the other coloured shirt.
And I say, OK, is that better?
And she says

"Ugh, that's worse, now you look like a Christmas tree!"

So I went back to the first one and told her if she didn't like it she could pound sand up her ass.
Or something like that.

See, this is what happens when you FUCK with the SYSTEM.
Catch me fuckin buying something coloured again, I don't fucking THINK so.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Jeez I hate to say it...

Because it's a Macka song,

but, dang, Getting Better off of SPLHCB is just a fucking wicked good song.


Friday, September 9, 2011

Hose shmose

I think I might be on my own for this one, but, seriously, does anyone else find nylon stockings to be singularly disgusting?
(Sorry, I couldn't get an image without generating massive amounts of pronographicanial-type content)
Honestly, my stomach just churns when I see a woman wearing them.
Who exactly had the genius fuckin idea that these cocksuckers were attractive??
And fuckin pantyhose??
Fuck me, have you ever seen a woman wearing them??
Motherfucking hideous.
I'm getting queasy just thinkin about it.
Really, one of the great things about women here, they very rarely wear those fuckers.
Probably a combination of the fact that they don't usually need to shave their legs-oh wait, that probably has nothing to do with it.
Yeah, it's probably just that it's usualy too fuckin hot and humid.
Whatever, I don't give a fuck as long as I don't have to look at those fucking disgustipating (thanks Popeye!)



Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Badasser (veći frajeri) than you...

They're called Bojna za specijalna djelovanja, or BSD.
The Croatian Special Operations Battalion.

They call them the Cobras.
Not only do they carry the VHS, a real nasty-looking bullpup assault rifle made in Croatia, for jumping out loud

They're trained in all kinds of S&R and humanitarian skills in addition to kicking ass without even asking for names, let alone taking them.

(Does anyone know how to say "Remove caption from thumbnail" in Croatian??)
On top of ALL that

They actually sing The fuckin Ballad Of The Green Beret when they finish training, only they sing it like:
"These are men, America's Croatia's best"

and then, for the big tear-jerker ending

"Back at home a young wife waits
Her Green Beret has met his fate
He has died for those oppressed
Leaving her this last request
(Ba dum dum dum)
Put silver wings on my son's chest
Make him one of America's Croatia's best
He'll be a man they'll test one day
Have him win the Green Beret"

my babies,

is badass.

Here's the original, if anyone (wink wink) can find a version sung by the Croatian Ass-Kickers, let me know.


Saturday, September 3, 2011

That's living

Boy, I'll tell you.
The boss tells me to knock off at 330, I meet the Ranee & Ranette after school, drag up home, have a quick Power Snooze, meet up with the Wee Irish Fella in the heart of Ass Fuckin Soup for an exchange of goods and a few icy cold

And then home for a bacon fuckin sarnie

with double cheese, and fucking Raiders

on DVD.

Does that sound like a Friday to you, Indy?

Indy says "You fuckin A, bubba."


Friday, September 2, 2011

Now, you don't REALLY hate anyone...

That's what Ma used to tell us when we were kids, when we'd be all, you know "I HATE that show/teacher/food item/classmate/relative etc", as, you know, kids do.
And it was sound commentary, really.
I even say it to the Ranette when she does the same.
I believe it's good to discourage the promotion of casual rancor, you know?
So yeah, you don't REALLY hate anyone.

Of course, on the other hand...

I'll tell you, last week, when the news broke that Jobbo the Fuckin Hutt was taking a powder, I couldn't have been happier.
I woke up the next morning all excited and shit.
I figured that iTunes would have spontaneously transmogrified onto a streamlined, functional, effective piece of easy-to-use, helpful software.
Sort of like Lord of the Rings or Narnia or some fuckin deal, where, you know, the evil fucking demon-wizard

croaks and suddenly all the wee forest people

are freed from their hundred-year-old enchantment and suddenly turn back

from being frogs or rocks or what the fuck ever.

Apparently, I expect too much.


Okay, okay

Alright, I should qualify that, SOME Americans are alright.

Like the hot redheaded girl ones.

And chicks from Arkansas, mostly.

But the REST, why...


Thursday, September 1, 2011

Fuckin Americans

You know, I try not to talk about it too much, but them fuckin Yanks and their fucking gun deals, sheet mon, how can you look at this and not be utterly stupefied??

I mean, it's like you raise your kid up from the age of 5, telling him he needs to carry a fucking can of fucking kerosene

and a box of fucking matches

around with him everywhere he goes.
And then, when he turns 16, you start telling him places where he CAN'T carry them, like to the fucking GAS STATION, because there's an increased chance there might be a problem.
And he freaks out.

And they say people here are stupid...
I'm scratchin my fuckin head here...