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

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Kroatian Korner

OK, so I feel a little bad about snarking on the peanut butter comment (the one here from The Princess, not this one here from Dickwadgruppenf├╝hrer Fritzi von Eatinbooger, he can go fuck himself).

In a very bizarre moment of actual dignitive cossinace there the other day, I was downstairs and one of the foul mouthbreathing oafs who deliver shit here pulls up in front of the building, and gets off his shit scooter all fucking betel nut stainy and rubber flip floppy.
And he pulls off his shitty rubber poncho, to reveal a brand new Nike warmup jacket.
For the fucking HNS, for fuck's sakes.


This is totally freaking weird, and not just because I'm one of probably 15 people in this whole fucking country who actually know what
Hrvatska

means when we see it on the back of a garment, not just because this fucking cephalopod has no idea what he's wearing, but also because, you'll remember, we are in the ONLY country in the world outside of North America where there's ZERO awareness of (proper) football.


And, besides, well, fuck me anyways.



Of course, one should mention that, even given the cream of Croatanian womanhood on display here, even if one were to attach them end to end, they wouldn't come close to one of Her Highness, but that really goes without saying.

ANYWAYS, in honour of the superlative Croataciousness of everyone concerned, it's time for...

The Croat Quiz!!

Easy peezie lemon squeezie, win a date with Patrick Sweezie, 'cause he looks so Japaneesie and he speaks that Taiwaneesie.

One question.
Two BIG prizes.
OK, everyone ready?

Here we go.
FOR
One smoke

and a  fuckin teabag

Name AT LEAST two things, that you probably encounter hundreds of times every single fucking day, that were discovered/invented in Croatia.

Rules:
Don't go fucking cheat, you lame fuck.
The Princess is, obviously, not eligible.

Alright, let's hear from yiz.

Raj




Looks like livin, don't it?


As I was mentioning to Wee Irish a couple weeks ago, in MY family we do the groceries at the Blue Supermarket, it being mucho cheaper than Wellcome.

(now sing the Wellcome song...now stop it from running through your head for the rest of the day and driving you to suicide...go on, I dare you)

The downside is, of course, that the Blue Supermarket is TOTALLY local, so if you want something that's even a wee bit exotic, you're screwed.
As a result, they only stock the small jars of Skippy (the only non-welfare peanut butter available in most places)
Of course, around my house, this is only a slight improvement over a single-serving packet like you get on an airplane.


But, you know, one makes do.
Only minor problem is that I'm constantly having to harangue The Ranee to grab some when I run out.
With very little recourse available to her invariable retort of  "What are you doing with that stuff??

Uhhh, well...eating it???
So imagine my surprise a while ago, when I opened the cupboard and saw, not one, not two, but THREE fuckin brand new jars of Skippy Super Crunch.
Apparently they was having a fuckin Buy 2 Get 1 Free or some fucking thing.

Yes, I married well.

But THEN, yesterday I was gettin me breakfast ready
(and no, I ain't going to tell you WHAT I was putting the peanut butter on, in the immortal words of Marshall the Chauffeur

I don't know who you are, I don't want to know. It's taken me my whole life to find out who I am, and I'm tired now, you hear what I'm saying? )

And I was getting down to the bottom of the jar, so I checked up in the cupboard to see if there was any more (no, I haven't been counting), and sure enough, there was a fresh jar sitting there.
So I said "YESSSSSS" and made Popeye arms.
HOWEVER, there I was this very morning, once again, preparing me breakfast, and, as you expected, hit the bottom of the jar.
So, acting for all the world like I knew what I was doing, I whip open the cupboard door, and what to my wandering eyes should appear but FOUR FUCKING JARS of You Damn Skippy!!




I fucking tell you, sometimes I'd swear I live on fucking Donkey Island.

Raj


Thursday, November 17, 2011

The next logical step

So the Wee Irish Fella is Shitfacedbook buddies with this one dude who has a pHD in fucking Electromagnetic Transference Encapsulation or Radar Supersonic Transmitualtory Protocols or some fucking thing.
Maybe he's just a plain old Rocket Surgeon.


Whatever the fuck, I think I need his help.


Here's the deal.
I'm driving in this morning, right?
And yeah, you fucking comedian, it's raining, ha ha ha.
Anyways, I'm listening to, like the soundtrack from Doomsday, I guess.


The score bit, not the Adam & the Ants



or the Frankie


bit, which is, you know, cool and all, but then, suddenly, I feel totally compelled to listen to Busload of Faith off of New York (as discussed previously), as, you know, one does.



But unfortunately, number one, I'm driving here, in pretty significant fucking Chongho Morning Rush Hour Raining Traffic, and, second, even when I do stop for a light, I'm going to have to dig around under me fucking rain poncho, into me pocket and wrestle out me fucking iPod, and then I'll be lucky if I can get the right album and track selected and get the fucking thing back in me fucking pocket in time for the light to change, or I'll have approximately 8 or 40 thousand fucking crazed Celestial motherfuckers in rubber gear charging up behind me and I'll be lucky if some fucker don't end up having to scrape me off the road with a fucking coal shovel and fold me into a bigassed paper airplane and sail me back across the fucking river to my house. So what happens is I'll get half fucking way to Lou and then have to ditch when the light goes fucking green, and I'm stuck with whatever happened to be up when the time ran out. And don't get me wrong, we LOVE Handel's Judas Maccabaeus, but when you got a craving for Unca Lou, it just ain't the fucking same.
And besides, me fucking Pod will probably get fucking wet ANY fucking ways.

Yeah, I done this before.

So here's where the Wee Irish Fella's buddy Lex fucking Luthor comes in.
I should ask him and see if he can make me fucking iPod work...

inside my fucking head!!!!

How fucking badass would that be?
You know, I just think up the menu and then, you know, fucking blink or some fucking deal, and I could change songs.
Sort of like Firefox



Except for I wouldn't have to think in fucking Russian.

And I wouldn't suck.

Hey, this deal's sounding better and better all the fucking time....

Raj


Friday, November 11, 2011

On the other hand

Of course, the good side of being out in the beastly weather all day is, obviously, coming home.
Stripping off all the sodden gear and pulling on nice dry, warm sweat clothes, and heaving it out to the back balcony to hear the ferocious downpour, with a wee dram and spark a smoke, well, it's just lovely.

Sort of like this (at the risk of hillbillying constituent Highlandish elements)...


Cuddle up, babies.

Raj

Shortest post ever

Whatever you say, Jim

Now, I tend to do my best to respect artistic works, as much as possible, with the same level of  meaningfulness as their creators did.
Not that I'm an artist (unless you know a gallery where they do shows of putting peanut butter on stuff that nobody's ever thought of and/or breaking wind) (wait, OK, I wasn't thinking about Manhattan there, never mind), but I have been very close to several in my life.
And I reckon that it's just simple good manners to respect what they produce, we'd like to think that it contains things that come from their innermost selves, yes?
Please note that this maxim rarely applies to Hollywood.
So, when it comes to music albums, especially good ones

Yes
Erm, no

I generally try to avail myself of the original lineup of songs, in the original order in which they were issued. I figure the performer probably wanted them enjoyed that way, to some extent or another.
As Grumpy Old Unca Lou said in 1989


in the liner notes to New York, one of the greatest rock and roll albums ever made


It's meant to be listened to in one 58 minute (14 songs) sitting, as though it were a book or a movie.
Wise words, Unca Lou.
Erm, well, except that, like, most folks don't read a book in one sitting.
Anyways, we get the point.
So I generally feel kind of uneasy or even guilty when I avail myself of a Greatest Hits or Best Of or other compilation.
Within reason, obviously, I mean can anyone really blame me for, you know, neglecting to compile the full catalog rather than



No, I didn't think so.
So, when I was in the mood for some Doors, I got the, you know, whole albums, to really experience them the way they meant me to.
And I put on Strange Days




Now, I probably haven't listened to this whole album for nearly 30 years, at least.
I mean, who fucking listens to a whole Doors album????
Except for, you know, flat-chested 19-year-old girls who haven't smiled since Elementary school and wear
for eye shadow, and who are scraping to save up every possible cent from their job as Second Assistant Manager at Sterling Gifts down at the mall to fly to Paris and leave an actual vial of their actual blood

at Jimmy's grave in Papa Chair's...

ANYWAYS, so yeah I started listening.
And after a while, Horse Latitudes came on.
Have you listened to this?
I mean since High School?






Uhhhhhhhhhh, yeah.
OK, Jim.




Raj

Ok, that'll fucking do

Alright, all kidding aside this is getting kind of retarded here.
I swear to fuck, I got mould growing on my eyeballs.
Now, I ain't an idiot (or even a Yank), I went to school, I understand how shit works.


But honestly, it has been pissing fucking down for about 6 days STRAIGHT, I mean without ever stopping. Sometimes it gets kind of light before going back to the kind of rain that would probably fucking concuss you if you went out with your head uncovered.
But it never stops.
And here's what I don't get.
Where the FUCK is all this FUCKING water coming from?
I mean, if I understand my 2nd grader's Hydrologic Cycle correctly, and I certainly would like to think I do, if it's been raining non-stop, which it has, none of this fucking water can evaporate back up into the fuckin cloud layer, right?
So what the fuck?
Beats the shit out of me.
All's I know is that I'm sick of checking my boots for fucking mushrooms every morning.


Raj
ETA: And no, this still doesn't qualify as "complaining" about the weather

Thursday, November 10, 2011

And we all fucking shine on...

Hey, help me out here, does a 24-hour turnaround qualify as Instant Karma?


Because, sure enough, all the way across the bridge this morning, I was stuck behind a guy with a?
That's right, a shitty fucked up mudguard.
So, yeah, you guessed it.

His weeyo...spwayed watoh...in my face.



Sorry, I got to go, that picture is kind of making me sick.

Raj

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Whatever you say there, sport...

So yeah, we're in the middle of one of those late fall 10-day rains.
One of those deals where staying dry is futile, if you can get where you need to go and your smokes and wallet aren't soaked, you're ahead of the game.
Naturally, there are plenty of folks who have it way worse, we don't really suffer from a monsoon season here, and The Creator knows, it's still King Fuck better than this



happy fucking horseshit.
Anyways, complaining about the weather is like trying to figure out a way to get a girl to enjoy a trip to the hardware store.
Even so, after a few days you start trying to think up a way to rig a dehumidifier to carry around in your pants.

Anyways, I'm on the way in the other morning, and it's you know, just fucking pissing down.
As it does.



And I'm at a light, and this fucking office goofball pulls up beside me, and starts talking to me.
Now, I'll fucking give him this, his timing was impeccable, he started talking at exactly the moment that Crown of Thorns had finished The One and hadn't yet started Rock Steady.



Two seconds either way and I would have just given him the old Headphone Point and waved him off.
Anyways, I turn to look at him and he fucking goes

"Yo wee-oh...spway watoh...in my face"

Uhhhhh, well, OK, dude.
Apparently he was complaining about the integrity of my rear mudflap.
I honestly had nothing to contribute, I just said something like "No shit?".
And then Jean et al kicked in and the light changed.
Whatever, pal.

Raj

ETA: As always, if you're in the dark about the references herein, well, it's high time you stopped being lame, get busy

So far so good

Well, at least this far, none of that freaky deaky mondo bizzarro shit has been happening to me this week (touch particleboard), so that's a bit of a relief.

Of course, I got so much fucking work shit going on, I'm busier than an ass-wig salesman at a Harry Reems Impersonators' Convention



(What's he looking at? I don't know, what do YOU think he's looking at??)

So maybe all kinds of inter-dimensional weirdness has been going on all around me and I just haven't noticed.

In the dearth of recent activity here, however, I hope to heaven that you all have been checking out the action on our Affiliated Member's Sites, over there on your right-handed sided orientation region there, you know,
over here>.
Both of these fine sites have been providing quality posts recently, as always, so what the JEEZ are you waiting for??
Git on it, boy!





(to quote the immortal Sleepy LaBeef...oh yeah, I believe I actually carried that guitar, ask me about it sometime)

Raj

Friday, November 4, 2011

Son of tell me THIS ain't fuckin freaky

And there's this one malicious old fuckin cow in the neighborhood, too.
When I used to have a different (as in fucking stupefyingly bloodcurdlingly horrific) job and I took public transportation every day, I used see this old bat most mornings.

As is pretty common here, she was charged with exscorting the grandkids hither and fucking yon, and as is ALSO pretty common here, she was still doing it when they were way old enough to be out on their fucking own.

(No shit, man, I see these fuckin 14, 15, and 16-year-old boys all the fucking time, sitting on the back of a scooter or bicycle being driven by their Ma or Grandma, who is usually about half their size, escorted around like they're Stevie fucking Wonder or something.
Man, when I was fourteen, the ONLY fucking way you'd see me in public with me Ma is if she was making my fucking bail down at the Remand Centre or something.)

Anyways, this evil old bitch used to be at the fuckin bus stop every fucking morning, with her two fucking grandkids, a girl maybe 15 and a boy a couple of years younger.
The girl seemed OK, pretty fucking indolent and semiconscious, like lots of girls get at that age, always with a fuckin plastic bag containing some random conglomeration of starch and salt and oil passing for breakfast shoved up against her face, removed only so she could ruminate in slow motion, like a fucking Holstein on Quaaludes, her mouth wide open the whole time so the whole world could supervise her masticatory precision, whether they fucking wanted to or not.

Yeah, that's right, I said she seemed OK.

Because her little brother, who the vicious old harridan would really escort, was like a fucking train wreck, kind of a borderline Forrest Fucking Gump, except he probably got good grades. Total shuffling mouth-breather, his gaze perpetually fixed on the ground about 4 inches ahead of his feet.
And several times I saw this deleterious ancient harpy just fuckin WHACK the miserable little fucker with her umbrella, for not fucking shambling along at quite a brisk enough velocity for her fucking liking.

Not entirely unlike one of these deals:



Anyways, the whole point of this, and where the really freaky part comes in, is that this nasty old witch, this malignant fucking crone, is like an EXACT Chinese version of ME OWN granny (the Jeezis one not the drunken one), the one who fucking abused and terrorized me fucking baldheaded all the time I was growing up.
I can't really get into it without pics, but believe me, she is the spitting fucking image.

And now I see her walking every morning when I DRIVE to work at a completely different time.
Like she's fuckin haunting me from beyond the fucking grave.

Get lost, you fucking malevolent old slapper, Halloween's fucking over.

Raj
ETA: I was going to try and insert another image, but guess what kind of results image searches for Nasty Grandma generate? Go on, guess.
CB

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Strength and Honour. Strength and Honour.

So I'm just watching the Gladiator Special Edition,


more Rusty & Ridley


Cold enough for you there, Ruzbo?



It'll fuckin do, Rids.
than you could shake a hoplomachi at
Are you not enter-FUCKIN-tained???

Not to mention, obviously, the fucking Double Tap of the last paying gig for not one, but TWO of the finest Movie Lads ever, both of these boyos.



and

You.
Sold me.
Queer giraffes.
I want.
My money back.

Indeed.
Anyways, I suddenly had this flashback last night to when I was about 8, and I did a big report on Gladiators for school, which I was really into because I thought they were so cool.
And I EXPRESSLY remember getting the librarian to let me use the Opaque Projector (you know what that is, yes? NOT an Overhead Projector using transparencies) to project this exact painting


onto a sheet of paper I had taped up on the wall so I could trace the image of the standing gladiator for the cover of my report.

They said I needed a closing sentence because it kind of ended abruptly.
So this is, you know, that.

Raj

Tell me THIS ain't fuckin freaky...

As most of you know, I been in the same neighborhood for lo, 14 years or something.
So, you know, I kind of know the local folks, at least to see them, colourful lot that they are.
There's this one cat I see every couple weeks or so.
As is often the case, I first noticed him because he doesn't look like everyone else, unlike, well...everyone else.
I don't think he's a Garbage Uncle (not that there's anything wrong with that), but he's obviously on the lower end of the working class scale, I usually only see him walking or riding one of those crap old iron China bicycles, but a couple times I've clocked him riding an old Sanyang 125 work bike.
He's quite distinct looking, one of those dudes with a size 9 body and like size 7 skin, with like negative 20% body fat, all big eyes and face stretched tight over bulging cheekbones.
He also frequently has a wee bit of a moustache and chin beard going, which is pretty notable in itself around here.
Sort of puts one in mind of a young Uncle Ho


or the guy in Heaven and Earth who starts out rich and knocks up LeLai


(Who, we now know, is actually an actor named Long Nguyen, and not only does a lot of good work, but is additionally part of the freakishly star-studded All-Star Pirate Gang in that stupid movie Ford made with Crazyassed Anne Fuckin Heche and Ross from Friends [and don't ask me what the fuck is gong on with Heche's fuckin boob in the poster there, I haven't the faintest idea]


with said Gang further comprising, and I'm not fucking kidding here, Honorary Tribesmen and overall Wicked Cool Dudes


Tem Morrison



Danny Trejo


Insanely busy Stunt Master John Koyama,

and one of the coolest humans anywhere, our old buddy


Cliffy Curtis.
And, despite all that, it still ain't worth watching that piece of shit, what a fuckin crapfest)

Anyways, my neighbor guy, he's definitely a working dude, he's as brown as a nut and only wears long pants in the deepest winter, and never wears anything other than rubber flip flops except occasionally gumboots in a big rain.
I've seen him sometimes heading down Wuxing with like 5 or 6 little kids, like 3 to 6 years old, clustered around him, but I've never seen him with a woman, which is a little odd, but nothing compared to what's comin up here.
Now sometimes, I'll see this guy and he's really let the old chinny whiskers grow out, to like several inches, which REALLY enhances the HCM effect.
And then the next time I see him he's cut them back to a more abbreviated length.

So anyways, there I am, last Thursday, I think, on my way to work, sitting on the Tumbler at a light, waiting, like I do every single morning, and a motorcycle pulls up beside me, I can see out of the corner of my eye there are 2 dudes sitting on it, and I glance over.
And the guy driving is this neighbor guy I've been telling you about.
With the longish grown out beard.
And the passenger?
Is the fucking neighbor guy with the beard cut short!!!!!
The fucking
BOTH
of him are sitting on this fucking motorbike!!!!

And they both smile and give me the fucking nod!!


The guy
is
fucking
TWINS!!!!

I swear to fuck, I can't remember the last time I was that close to making in me fucking pants.
Honestly, it's a good thing it was a bright sunshiny day out, if this had happened at night, I'd probably be locked up in the loony bin right about now.

Yeah, I need more shit like that in my life.
Jeepers.

Raj