Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Craigslist Gold: Vasectomy

I'm gonna hand the keys over to a complete stranger today, not out of general laziness or lack of ideas, but rather out of deference to an incredible story. I don't care if this turns out to be one man's vivid imagination, it's too good not to pass on. So without further (Freddy) ado, here's an all-star Craigslist tale about a vasectomy...

I'll try to sum up a funny story that happened a few years ago:

I got a vasectomy.

I met a girl soon afterwards. She was nice and attractive but with a selfish streak that raised a big red flag. She was 32 at the time and I could practically HEAR her biological clock ticking. Regardless, she was a good lay, easy on the eyes, and reasonably good company.

I did NOT tell her about my vasectomy and I always used a condom with her to protect against STDs. She assumed, obviously, that the condom was only used for birth control. Silly girl.

We date for a few months. I never made any move towards commitment but she brought it up ocassionally. For me, this was a casual but pleasant relationship. For her - as I was to find out - it was part of life-changing series of events that she was planning very carefully.

Four months into dating, I get the "I'm pregnant" talk. She's going on and on about how the condom must have broke and now we really need to think about getting married "for the baby". She's positively giddy. She has a baby in her and she thinks she's gonna have a good meal ticket (me) to go along with her new 7lb annuity.

At this point, I'm just as giddy. I get to pull the reverse "oops" on her. I figured that she slept with some bad boy and got knocked up. Good thing I was using condoms! Better still that I have a serious mistrust of women who can't think beyond their own uteri.

So I wait a couple of days to "think about all this." I meet her again. I say I don't want kids and that she should have an abortion. I know where this is going and sure enough it goes there. She goes completely batshit insane on me. There were the usual insults about my manhood. There were threats of legal action. It was all very ugly and I was loving every minute of it.

Well, I let her stew for a few days. She leaves me nasty messages on my phone. She sends awful emails. I'm laughing hysterically.

It was time to drop the hammer. While she was stewing I was busy. First I get a notarized copy from the urologist who performed the vasectomy. Next I get a notarized copy of the TWO test results indicating a "negative test result for sperm" to show I'm sterile and shooting blanks. Finally, I get a letter from a shark attorney stating he has seen the other documents and is prepared to litigate against this woman if she continues to communicate with me in such an unpleasant manner. Also, the letter states that we will insist on DNA testing to show that the baby is not mine. I'm ready.

I meet with this woman at her place. I bring flowers and a small bit of jewelry to show I am willing to reconcile and assume my responsibilities as a new father. I also have stuck in my pocket the documents I have prepared.

She's all giddy again. Her plan is going perfectly - or so she thinks. We talk about our future. We have some pretty good sex. Then, as I am about to walk out the door, I ask her the $64,000 question. "Are you sure that this baby is mine?"

Well, she goes batshit insane again. Hell, she ought to. Her plan could completely unravel if there is ANY question about my paternity. Oh, she's really screaming now. How dare I question her morals. Do I think she's a slut. I'm just trying to weasel out of my responsibilities... blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I'm not really mad. I'm kind of embarrassed for her. But since she won't shut up and the neighbors can hear all of this, I ask her to step back inside and sit down. She sits on the sofa and calms down a bit. She is glaring at me with all the moral self-righteousness that only a woman can muster up. She thinks she has me trapped. She is 100% convinced her plan has worked. Oh, the tangled web of lies and deceit she has wrought around herself and I am about to hack through them with a few pieces of paper.

I reach into my pocket slowly. I extract the three pieces of paper and unfold them slowly and deliberately.

I tell her simply, "You're screwed".

Her look doesn't change. There is no way she can fathom what I have prepared.

I continue. "I am sterile"

Her look changes just a bit. Something is beginning to sink in. Naturally, she reverts to women's logic. "You're full of shit. You're trapped and you know it."

I hold up the letter and the test results. "Three months before we met, I had a vasectomy. Here is a notarized letter from him stating what I had done. Here are two test results showing that I tested negative for the presence of sperm. Blanks. I am shooting blanks. That baby inside you is simply not mine."

This woman is not to be swayed by logic and clear documentation. "Bullshit, those are fakes."

I was ready for that. "No, they are real. This last piece of paper is from my attorney. It's a simple letter to you that states if you pursue any kind of legal action against me for child support that I will insist on a DNA test to prove paternity, that is, to prove that your baby is not mine."

I give the woman all the documents. She reads them slowly, deliberately. With each passing second she can feel in her soul that she has made a very bad mistake. With denial swept away, she started to cry. It's a small cry at first. Then it becomes deeper and more painful. By the time she gets to the letter from the lawyer she is sobbing.

I had no sympathy for her. I turned and walked out the door. Even after I closed the door I could still hear her sobbing.

Epilogue -

I never heard directly from this woman again. I did hear through my friends that she did indeed have the baby. I also heard that the real father was some guy in a band she had met. I assumed that after 30, women stopped going after musicians, bikers, criminals, and thugs. Silly me for thinking the best of American women.

The Moral of the Story: Get a vasectomy but keep it a secret.

(Thanks to our friend Teddy for passing this one along)

Slack Link of the Day: I'd love to see a Super Troopers fan at the helm of a major paper, only so we can catch a headline about this story about fake anthrax on a Missouri college campus that reads "Officer Farva to College Kids: It's Powdered Sugar, It's Delicious."

Slack Video of the Day: Here's a great one from Deadspin, one that makes us all pine for the carefree college days...

Slack Song of the Day: I have no idea how this happened, but I'm about to post Kenny Loggins movie tunes. My apologies. But they're awesome. Enjoy them. Cherish them.

Here we go: I'm Alright [Caddyshack], Meet Me Half Way [Over the Top], I'm Free (Heaven Helps the Man) [Footloose], and of course, Danger Zone [Top Gun]. Loggins + Movies = Genius.

Slack Show of the Day: Ya know, it's the four-year anniversary of the 2/28/03 epicness at Nassau Coliseum. And I'd be remiss if I didn't post a link to the most debated and disputed show in Phish's entire history. As an eyewitness to the aural carnage, I think it was the best concert of theirs I saw after the [first] hiatus, and I'll just leave it at that. And anyone who bashes it based on others' more positive reactions should die of gonorrhea and rot in hell. Laces out!

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Shaun Livingston's Knee Surgeon, I Presume?

It ain't as bad as Joe Theismann, but don't watch this if you're a bit on the squeamish's not what you'd call a pretty injury.

I swear I've seen a lot of stuff in my life. But that...was...awesome! Sorry 'bout your [knee], man, --Thomas Callahan III

Wait, Hold It, Lemme Get This Straight...

Tell me which is worse: The fact that my biggest television guilty pleasure is the occasional Deal Or No Deal episode or the fact that this contestant has made over his entire physical appearance so that he's looked just like Howie Mandel since the show debuted?

Wait, I know the answer, and it's not me. I swear it's not.

So let me get this all sorted out in my head here: Of the world's six and a half billion people, and of this country's 300 million, the man you've chosen to emulate almost to the point of scary single white female obsession is fucking Howie Mandel? Are you shitting me? Are you (Yahoo) serious? Shit, now that I say his name, I think molding your appearance to look like Yahoo Serious makes more sense to me.

All my life I've wanted to look exactly like a C-level celebrity, and this contestant is living my very dream. He's the one that gets to answer, "Yes, I've been told that!" when passersby ask him, "Holy shit, anyone ever tell you that you look just like that awfully unfunny comedian who used to blow up a rubber glove on his head in a patethtic attempt to get people to laugh with him?" That's gotta be a fun conversation.

Good for you, Fake Howie, or whatever your real name is (I'm guessing it's not Fowie Fandel). You say your daughters love it and I believe you. So if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go convince my mom to re-make herself into Elayne Boosler and my dad into Dom Irrera.

Slack Link of the Day: This middle-school teacher is so unmistakably moronic that I'll just excerpt the cop's statement: "She learned her lesson. Program your dealers into your phone."

Slack Video of the Day: For a look back at the dawning of the Age of Aquarius and the burgeoning psychedelic movement, check out this strangely inviting 1966 promo clip of Donovan’s Sunshine Superman.

Slack Song of the Day: One of my old favorites has come home to roost -- here's that wicked Plane Crash from the Treymoe.deski Tsunami Benefit at the Roseland Ballroom in February 2005.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Run, Forrest Al, Run

There was a moment when Leo D and Albie Gore were doing shtick last night when the former vice man faked an announcement that he'd be running for the presidency in 2008. The shtick ended poorly and predictably, and its comedy was only matched by Clint Eastwood translating Italian from some lifetime achievement symphony dude.

But I think Gore should have announced his intentions, for real, right there, and I'm not even half-kidding. And I'm not talking about doing it for teevee ratings, I just think the timing would have been perfect. Tell me you wouldn't have committed to voting for him right then and there if he delivered the following speech I'm now creating on the fly:

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm in it. I'm down. Gore in the hizzy.

I thought the 2000 election would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. But in reality, that bitterly contested loss set me free. That loss helped me become a complete person, not just the fake-smiling bozo deluxe I had become that pretended to affect change. I was my father's son -- my father, the politician -- and the pressure I faced on a daily basis from the time I was young to become the President of the United States made me uneasy and cautious.

But after more than six years free from the bastardized partisan political system that's been attacking the heart of our democracy, I can tell you in all honesty I no longer have the time for polemics nor the inclination to count the many ways that congressional gridlock fills campaign coffers. I am not beholdened to a party any more, unless there's a party fighting for the greater good of which I'm unaware.

The United States of America has been humbled on the world stage by our own unconscionable hubris and gross incompetence -- hoisted by our own petard, if you're into old timey cliches. We can all stand up and say we want change and claim we will change, but we have to be about change. And it starts with the way we choose our leaders. Some of the candidates on both sides of the aisle are friends of mine, but do we really want another gladhanding career politician in the White House? I used to be one, and I'd go back kick my own ass if I could.

I'm about getting things done, not about appearances. I have clout with world leaders and the leaders of the largest global corporations. The issues that matter most to the world matter most to me, in real life, not on the campaign trail. And I'm ready to bring positive change to this country and to the world, to repair the seemingly irreparable damage we've incurred to our global standing, our military, our education system, our environment, and most of all, our sense of being an American. I want to revert to a time when everyone felt pride for this country, when everyone felt we were, in fact, a force for good. It's time to put an end to our love of plastering Canadian flags on our backpacks and luggage to be liked.

I don't think I have all the right answers, but I know what I'm capable of. I know what you're capable of, and together, I know what this country is capable of. I'm not asking you to vote for me, I'm asking you to listen to me and watch me, and I guarantee you'll find the man you want leading this country for the next four years. And if I lose, I'll grow back the beard and never shave it off. I promise you that. Good night, and may God bless deez nuts.

P.S. I just made out with Ellen backstage. True story.

Slack Link of the Day: Stay away from Rulon Gardner! The former Olympic wrestling champ is basically filming his own version of Final Destination 4. The rasslin' hero of the 2000 Olympics survived a small plane crash over the weekend, just a couple years after being rescued in the Wyoming wilderness (though he lost a toe to frostbite) and getting hit by a car while riding his motorcycle. I want a "Rulon Gardner Wrestles Death and Wins" shirt.

(Oh, and in case you're interested, I watched Final Destination 3 recently. It's as not awesome as you think.)

Slack Video of the Day: Don Fiedler and I hit up the Red Lion around the corner from my apartment for the early Sunday morning Carling Cup Final between powerhouse Chelsea and powerhouse-but-sitting-all-their-starters Arsenal. The match paired up Arseweb youth versus Chavski experience, and it certainly did not disappoint. For Americans looking to dip their toes into the sport without diving all the way in (I made a diving joke there because that's the number one complaint I hear about English footie), this was the match to watch.

In addition to the spirited up-and-down play throughout and surprise early dominance by the young Arsenal squad, we saw John Terry get kicked in the face and knocked unconscious, Theo Walcott score his first ever goal for the Gunners, and a quasi-brawl erupt between the two sides in injury time. Shit, this was probably the first time I ever saw more than 100 minutes of soccer played without the regulated extra time required to break a tie.

But the goal that won it was incredible Didier Drogba header off a cross from Mr. Jazz Hands himself, Arjen Robben. Check that shit out. Chelsea should have won this match, no doubt. But it was the manner in which they won it that made this one one of the most interesting League Cup finals in a long time. And the full English breakfast was lovely. Delicious.

Slack Song of the Day: Let's hit up some North Mississippi Allstars music this morning, just for this shit of it, 'cuz I got nuthin' else: Shake 'Em On Down, Bad Bad Pain, and Snake Drive.

Friday, February 23, 2007

I Want a New Case

I never remember my dreams. Ever. I guess that's the downside of habitual drug use. Well, one of many downsides, including but not limited to dry-mouthedness and being a fucking idiot all the time.

But this morning I woke up with that all-too-real feeling that the lucid dream I just had (and actually remembered) wasn't in my head. I didn't dream I ate a huge marshmallow and woke up with my pillow missing a la Bazooka Joe, but my first moments of being awake this morning came with a confusion I'd like to never experience again.

It started off innocently enough. Walking down 5th Avenue with my brother and mother, my cell phone rang with some disheartening news. Both my grandmothers and my great aunt had died, apparently all of old age with no connection to each other. The three of us wept openly, but somehow this news did not deter us from walking into an obviously fictional establishment that was part-OTB, part-casino and part-jewelry store. I'm pretty sure it was a co-venture owned by Bobby Flay and Scott Baio called "Scott and Bobby's House of Awesome."

I began to play a game with which I was wholly unfamiliar. It involved a briefcase with numbers and hooks on the inside and a batch of keychains with numbers on them. If the numbers on all 10 random keychains matched up with numbers inside your briefcases, I would've won $3 million (a figure that my subconscious somehow bumped up to $28 million later in the dream). I began to play as my brother and mother watched intently.

So far so good, cruising along, the first five all matched. Then the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, the ninth, and ultimately, without building the drama any further, all 10 matched. To quote that weird guy from Vegas Vacation, "I won the money. I won the money." I had just won $3 million, but none of the three of us wanted to celebrate publicly. We silently toasted our victory and dedicated it to our family members who had just been pronounced dead.

My brother and mother left this place, and I closed up my winning briefcase. I was about to go cash in when a salesperson of sorts of the floor came over and asked, "You won, didn't you? You just won $28 million, didn't you?" It was loud enough to cause a commotion, and people started to flock to my station. "No, no. No winner here," I bellowed, hoping these scavengers would disperse. And that's when it all went downhill for me...

A man with a raspy voice next to me said, "Let's see what's in the case then" and he started clutching at it, which is when I started to panic. "Stop, stop!" I yelled, but this man kept reaching for it and trying to open my briefcase in one motion. He overpowered me and took control, setting it on the table and opening it up. "Looks like you won," he said, and then I noticed who it was: Huey Lewis.

Fucking Huey swiped my winning case, and now the crowd was so large because I'm a winner and Huey Lewis is in the House of Awesome. And as the crowd engulfed us, my case fell to the floor in slow motion, keychains flying everywhere, things breaking off. The sales girl immediately raised her hand and says to me she says, "I'm sorry, sir, but the briefcase touching the floor disqualifies you from the winnings. I can't verify that nobody pulled a switcharoo while it was on the ground." WHAT?!

I pleaded for what seemed like hours, but I couldn't get anywhere. The rules were rules, and I was entitled to nothing. I screamed at Huey Lewis repeatedly, cursing his name, even dropping him my story of the world-famous Huey Lewis Coincidence, and all he could give me was a halfhearted shrug and a plea that he "didn't do it, maaaan."

And just as I was about to pull out my nine, I woke up. Strange. Any dream doctors in the house wanna take a swipe at that badboy?

Slack Video of the Day: Thanks to my man coach for finding this...

Slack Song of the Day: It's Herbie Hancock. Covers. Do it.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Don't Even Try It

Strangely, this PSA is 100 percent real, and I've never seen it:

Now if only someone told him at an early age how addicting masturbating in public theatres can truly be...I know from experience.

You'll Never Swing Alone

Bear with me through this post, then I promise I'll get back to real blogging...

I know, you're all tired of the soccer shit. But this is bigger than soccer. This is about being a huge fucking jerk. And we love that.

This is about a man with the ugliest human qualities getting a shot at fleeting redemption and improbably ending up in the history books. This is about a seemingly disheveled club coming together after a hellish weekend to score twice on foreign soil for one of the biggest victories in recent history.

This is about a guy allegedly attacking a teammate with a golf club and both of them ending up on the scoresheet, together forever like Rick Astley says, with the winning goal coming from the foot of a man who had been victimized by the very teammate who delivered him a perfect pass. You honestly can't write endings like that.

As I mentioned the other day, Craig Bellamy is a jerk. He's a bigger horse's ass than Terrell Owens with a rap sheet longer than a black man's cock. And yet he got the starting nod, even after this weekend's ridiculousness. So when he scored to level Liverpool with the defending Champions League trophy holders, the might Barthelona, he only had one thought on how to celebrate:

That's right, a Johnny Carson-style swing. He could have gone all Joe Horn on us and brought out a real golf club from somewhere on the pitch, but instead played air golf. Bloody brilliant. So let's recap: Bellamy hit Riise with a club, expressed no remorse, got the starting nod, scored a huge goal and then celebrated by swinging a fake golf club. And if that's not the greatest asshole move in sports, I'm not sure what can top it. It may be English football, but that level of dickheadedness is about American as apple pie.

Either way, huge win for my Reds. I'm not complaining.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Self-Promotional Milestone: One Million

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm pleased to announce that at 1:37 and 20 seconds, a fine young gentleman or lady from the Towerstream Corporation in New York City became the one-millionth overall visitor to the fierce playground of irreverence known as Slack LaLane.

We'd like to commemorate this event by filming ourselves jerking off to the Sitemeter (back-lit) and then watching it on a loop for the next 24 to 36 hours. It's gonna be awesome...and hot.

Many thanks to all of youse that helped make this possible, and a special thanks to the 1,000,000th visitor, who may or may not be receiving a set of steak knives and a Best of Richard Moll DVD.

What Is Art? Is Art Art?

So CNN's Paula Zahn is running a prime-time special tonight called Hip Hop: Art or Poison, attached to the tagline "Shocking images and lyrics have America asking if hip-hop has gone too far."

Art or Poison? Jeeeez. I can't understand something like "Art or Not," but "Art or Poison?" That doesn't seem, like, you know, racist?

What, was "Art or Gangbanging Thugs Trying To Sleep With Your White Wife and Steal Your Son's Wallet and Bike?" too long to fit on the screen? Didn't want to go with "Art of Just No-Talent Darkies Trying To Widen the Growing Generation Gap Between You and Your Pants-Sagging, Hat-Tilting Wigger Kid?" I mean, if I were running the news network, I'd go with "Art or N-Words?" Basically the same.

Slack Link of the Day: Someone needs to tell Crossing Over Presidential Candidate John Edwards that the best path to the White House does NOT involve pissing off the Jews: "Perhaps the greatest short-term threat to world peace, Edwards remarked, was the possibility that Israel would bomb Iran's nuclear facilities." He may wake up with a pig's head and a latke in his bed.

Slack Song and Video of the Day: Since I've now watched my boy Scott Metzger nail Richard Thompson's incredible 1952 Vincent Black Lightning tune at his last two solo gigs, I thought I'd post an original version here. Damn good stuff. Must watch.

(Bonus points for anyone who can identify the post title's speaker)

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

T.O. Is a Pussy

You think Terrell Owens is a clubhouse cancer? Think Romanowski was a douchebottle? Liverpool striker Craig Bellamy makes them look like high-school hall monitors with perfect attendance badges.

I happen to support the most boring team in English football right now. They've been incredibly fun to root for in previous seasons, but this year it's like watching paint dry, or stated more Britishly, it's like watching the lift ascend and descend. Waking up early on Saturdays for Liverpool matches this year has been like driving 35 miles for a 1950s Indiana high school basketball game.

Yet somehow my Reds went all Cincinnati Bengals on us this weekend, eschewing any signs of life on the pitch for plenty of action off of it. Leave it to the Welsh to start trouble: Buddy Lembeck lookalike Craig Bellamy allegedly attacked Norwegian teammate John Arne Riise with a golf club following a dispute over karaoke (a Fjordian slip, Craig?). Nobody's particularly sure whether the argument stemmed from Bellamy's desire to sing 2 in a Room's Wiggle It and Riise's choice of 3rd Bass' Pop Goes the Weasel or whether there was another reason.

Liverpool players also made waves elsewhere this weekend in Portugal, where the club was practicing before tomorrow's enormous match against Barcelona in the Champion's League (the last two CL winners facing off). Three other known jerks -- Jerzey Dudek, Robbie Fowler and Jermaine Pennant -- got into a barroom scrape, proving you do never walk alone or drink alone or fight alone, and they may or may not have had a run-in with la policia. In all, manager Buster Bluth Rafa Benitez fined 15 of his 22 players today.

But the real story here is Bellamy's penchant for jerkstoreishness. Again, think T.O. and Romo were bad dudes? Bellamy's dwarfs these fools: He's even been described many times as the only person that can start an argument with himself. On the field he's Esa Tikkanen and Claude Lemieux on meth; off it, he's part-Mike Tyson and part-Ike Turner, making for one full-time asshole.

In the past five years, the 27-year-old Bellamy has hit a woman in a nightclub, he assaulted a local student while at Newcastle, he's been charged with racially aggravated harassment outside a nightclub (though later acquitted), he headbutted an opponent before Zidane made it cool, he threw a chair at Newcastle's assistant manager, he was fined £80,000 for calling his manager a liar (which led Graeme Souness to grab Bellamy by the throat and drag him into the empty Newcastle training-ground gym), and recently he was cleared of assaulting a teenage girl in a nightclub, which I'm sure he did anyway.

I'm not sure where striking your mild-mannered left midfielder/ defender with an iron AFTER the fact ranks on Bellamy's list of transgressions. But, shit, if it fires up the Reds for the Champions League fixture at Camp Nou/Nou Camp in Barcelona tomorrow, I'll be one happy man. Do it for Riise's bruises, boys.

For more on the Champions League, make sure to stop by and read Cardillo's latest post over at That's On Point, which has quickly turned into my favorite blog on the world wide cyberweb.

Slack Link of the Day: Hey, how long's it been since I posted a Strong Bad e-mail in this space? Let's rectify that shit, post-haste.

Slack Video of the Day: For the record, the only part of NBA All Star Weekend that was actually entertaining was the Chaz Barkley v Dick Bavetta footrace (and the smooching aftermath). Seriously, Barkley needs to race someone every year. Make this happen.

Slack Song of the Day: This morning I posted a link to this Bela Fleck and Bruce Hornsby stream over on Hidden Track, and it's so good I thought I'd share it here as well. Piano and banjo, an lovely duo.

Friday, February 16, 2007

Mid-get Fight, Mid-get Fight

Jerry Springer really should be the President of these United States. He's got his finger on the pulse of America more than just about anybody out there, except for maybe Tim Hardway.

Slack Quotation of the Day: I just started watching the underrated Sarah Silverman Program, and I'm really glad I did. Last night's episode had one of the better delivered lines of all time, from Sarah to her AIDS Awareness staffers: "We have a chance to make change. If we can put a man on the moon, we can put a man with AIDS on the moon. And then someday, we can put everyone with AIDS on the moon. So who's with me?" Classic stuff.

Slack Song of the Day: My friend Neddy reviewed last night's Arcade Fire show at Judson Memorial Church around the corner from my apartment, and at the end we included a link to download the 2/13/07 show there. Check it out, and it's all yours.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

He Got Skeeeeellz, Balls on Chin

I wish I had a huge vault of reserves like Scrooge McDuck. Aside from the leisurely baths in a giant pit of Krugerrands I'd enjoy regularly, I'd also have the financial flexibility to take out 10 full-page ads in the NBA All Star Game program that all proclaim in 72-point bolded font "Timmy Hardaway loves the cock." I seen it.

The mike cut out and the video doesn't show this, but Hardway went on to express his all-out hatred for cockfighting, Dick Butkus, all books and articles by Gay Talese, both the colon and the semicolon, the Shaft movie franchise, ECW wrestler Balls Mahoney, and the One-Eyed Willie character from The Goonies. Smart move, buddy...they don't call him Timmmmay for nuthin'. At least I don't think.

Nice work by my man AJ on the Timmy graphic...

Slack Link of the Day: I think I'm in the wrong business -- I should be breeding ants: "A Chinese business executive was sentenced to death for swindling $385 million from investors in a bogus ant-breeding scheme, a court official said Thursday." Yahtzee on all counts. I mean, does it cost that much to breed ants? And if you're caught, you die? Wow. China's pretty fuckin' awesome.

Slack Video of the Day: My friend Siwook passed this Monty Python sketch along this morning, something I'd seen but had forgotten just how fucking brilliant it is. It's the Greeks versus the Germans, an excellent match-up of International Philosophy. Clever girl.

Slack Song of the Day: I woke feeling a little bit of the rock and/or roll. Let's kick it with some Rose Hill Drive -- here's Look on Yonder's Wall, The Showdown and The Guru from 4/7/06 in Boulder.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Happy Valentine's Day...Go Fuck Yourselves

For lack of a better post, let's turn back the clock one year and take a look at one of my favorite (and only) female-related posts. It's the best I got on this thing called Valentine's Day.

I mean, I remember this snippet of conversation like yesterday:

Drunk Girl: I can't believe you're rejecting me. Nobody rejects me. Don't you know I just dated Michael Olowokandi?
Ace Cowboy: The Kandi Man? Wow, I really like the Clippers.
DG: Well, I like three things: hard alcohol, big cock, and hip hop.
AC: I can provide you none of those things. I've heard of hip hop, though.

Ahhh, the salad days, when going to Mad River was a decent idea. I can't wait to give myself the date rape drug and take advantage of my junk tonight. It's gonna be a solid V-Day without the V.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Art + Slides = Museums Rock

You thought we were finished with the Great United Kingdom Recap, didn't ya? No, our little experiment in exhibitionism meets voyeurism ain't done, and it's high time we returned to my Anglophilic douchebaggery disguised as subpar blogging.

To make matters worse, I'm gonna go all Artsy Johnson on you with this one. Okay, not really. I was told I had to get to the Tate Modern while touring London, something I had already planned but needed some motivation to actually accomplish. Modern art on a soccer trip? It was 50/50. But three of my friends had just returned from our jolly ol' mercantile motherland, and they informed me of a surprise that'd await us should we follow through on our plans.

My mind went nuts. A can't-miss surprise? Maybe Sir Elton John and his wife Dame Olivia Newton-John are playing the lobby! Maybe they have real pterodactyls flying around the main floor! Maybe the GEICO Cavemen sing showtunes for passersby! Possibilities: endless.

As it turned out, the surprise was even cooler than promised: They had fucking slides. The Tate featured working, curvy, fast-paced shiny metallic tubes like waterless waterslides that patrons could take from the third, fourth and fifth floors all the way to the bottom. For free. This was too good to be true, and Don and I couldn't wait to try these fuckers out. Come on and take a free riiiide.

As it turns out, the slides are free, but you still need a ticket with a reserved time stamped on it to ride down. And since the fourth and fifth floors were jam-packed and we didn't have all the time in the world, we could only do the third-floor slide. Still, better than nothing. Below, check out Don's launching into the slide.

And now for the moment nobody's been waiting for, here's a full clip I took of my eight-second Ride Down the Tate Slide.

And, praise Jebus, your ol' pal Ace makes it out the other side:

You cannot misunderestimate for one second how cool it is to see a Dali and a Rothko and a Jackson Pollack (or is it Jackson Hewitt?) and then slide down a metal chute to get your checked coat. This might be the greatest museum installation of all time, albeit temporary. It only lasted eight seconds, but I'll keep that one for a lifetime.

One the way home from the Tate we passed this place: I'm 99.44 percent certain that the entire menu consists of pudding pops and black-on-black racism. Just reporting what I heard.

Gotta love it...I can only hope all the waiters wear Cosby sweaters.

Slack Link of the Day: Former Masshole Governor Mitt Romney has officially tossed his hat in the ring for the 2008 Presidential Election. I mentioned this possibility in a December 2005 post, and I stand by what I said then: "There's one flaw in this plan, and it's a huge flaw. Romney is, um, Mormon. And conventional wisdom tells us there ain't no way this country is electing a fucking Latter Day Saint to the highest office in the land." First wives, though? That'd be hot.

Slack Song of the Day: Stream some Apollo'll dig it.

Previous UK Posts on Slack LaLane: Joe Lieberman's Favorite Match; Contrary To What We Were Told...; I'm Back, Baby; Lamb Vindaloo Pwns Face; Checking In With You Yanks; and So Long, Ol' Chaps.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Be a Contrarian: Put On That Red Light

I'm in total Jesse Spano mode right now -- there's no time, there's never any time -- so I'll just remind everyone politely that The Fucking Police reunited at The Grammys last night and announced a full slate of North American dates at a live rehearsal an hour ago.

Last night wasn't necessarily their best performance on record, but Sting did wear a sleeveless number and Stewart Copeland still looks like a wicked combination of Ted Danson and Andy Dick.

For more details...hey, holy shit, I've got a music blog! And I'm awesome! So just go on over there and check out the tour dates...

Friday, February 09, 2007

Used Cars & New Laughs

You gotta love a used car dealership that will both sell you a quality automobile and fuck your wife in the same visit. I'm not sure what this clip is from, but it's a definite gut-buster.

Thanks to Danny Noonan for sending that one over...fannntastic.

Slack Link of the Day: Our friends over at Usual Place of Abode tell us the GEICO Cavemen are branching out -- check out the crib.

Slack Link of the Day II: The world's best sportswriter under 30 is out with another gem of a feature piece, hangin' with the fourth-ranked Wisconsin Badgers basketball team before its win against Penn State on Wednesday. Sweet work, Lukas, take a bow, son.

Slack Song of the Day: I'm feeling a bit of the RANA bug this a.m., as inspired by my friend Neddy's weekly minimix: So here's Poop Georgette III, Ghetto Queen, and Livin' Was Easy from 4/21/04.

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Joe Lieberman's Favorite Match

Our fifth and final match of our Four-Jerk Football Fantasy Camp took place in Birmingham. Some magazine recently named Birmingham an up-and-coming music scene, but the city seemed more like a place lacking any redeemable qualities whatsoever. Nothin' doin'.

Our host for the day: Martin O'Neill's Aston Villa Football Club. The Villans started off the year pretty hot but have been languishing recently as their early luck trails off. If you ask me, I think the poor karma at Villa Park all began when striker Juan Pablo Angel shanked a penalty kick wide and then scored an own goal for Tottenham Hotspur within the span of two minutes back in mid-October.

Villa were the first tickets we acquired in our arduous search for ducats in a foreign and generally ridiculous system. Someone in our group had a connection to Randy Lerner, owner of both the Cleveland Browns and Aston Villa, and I'm glad this one worked out for us: On one hand we had the brand new strike force of John Carew and Ashley Young (both making their home debuts); on the other we had a West Ham United club fighting for their lives to avoid relegation (for the uninitiated, the bottom three clubs get demoted to a lower division).

Throw in some very talented players on both sides and one of my favorite youngsters in Gabriel Agbonlahor, and we were ready for some top-flight football. Oh, and hey, NFL Legend Jim Brown was there. For real, yo. I bet he was so angry the whole time.

Villa scored in the 36th minute when the Young fed Carew for a pretty goal, finally scoring after a bunch of solid chances. And while someone watching at home on television probably couldn't really see it it, Gareth Barry dominated the play for Villa. He was everywhere, and he made absolute fools of several of many West Ham midfielders and defenders (including but not limited to the over-matched American Jonathan Spector). Incidentally, Barry absolutely schooled Spector at one point, leading West Ham keeper Roy Carroll to run out 30 yards and get up in his grill. That was, as the English say, "awwwwkward."

Spector also played very poorly with his winger on the right side, Israeli international Yossi Benayoun. I love watching Benayoun scoot -- he's got serious talent -- but he didn't really play all that well. He was all sizzle and no steak, or keeping with his heritage, all sizzle and no brisket; all Numbers and no Deuteronomy. As I said, he and Spector played horrifically together on the right side, which is clearly not the first time Israel and the United States have combined to just completely fuck shit up. Political and soccer humor, you love it.

The match and our 450 minutes of soccer both came to an end with a mad goal-mouth scramble by trailing West Ham, which had at least three strong chances at the back of the net with little time remaining. Thomas Sorensen, the Villa defense and the crossbar combined to keep the home side's clean sheet intact, and Donnie Fiedler and I had just seen five home teams win five matches (Handstand and Zebra caught one draw at Emirates). Sweetness.

And if you've made it this far, I hope you've figured out by now that this entire post was just a front so I could post those clever little Israeli jokes about Yossi Benayoun. Truth.

Slack Video of the Day: Here's a cool video I shot of Aston Villa and West Ham exiting the tunnel and some panning of Villa Park.

Previously on Slack LaLane: I'm Back, Baby (An Introduction) and Contrary To What We Were Told (Cardiff Reflections)

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

W.C. Girls: Join AEPi, Bitches

About 37 people have sent this to me in the past 24 hours, so I figure it's high time I finally got around to posting it.

If you've never been to Weiner's Circle in Chicago, you're missing out on the greatest unintentional performance art in history. Couple that with a fucking incredible hot dog, and it's just the best possible late-night snack in the entire country. Truth.

Now join AEPi, you goddamn hook-nosed fraternizing bastards.

F*ck Da Eagles Girl Hits Maxim

Remember this classy Saints fan? The girl whose shirt should have read Fuck Dese Titties is back, and she's sluttier than ever...

Say hello to Maxim's latest semen target. And here's a little video of this strung-out strumpet to go along with those possibly NSFW pics...

Slack Link of the Day: Where are my Libertarian friends on this? Ban Proposed On Walking While Talking, Listening To iPod.

Here's a tip for State Senator Kruger: Instead of this traveshamockery of superfluous legislation, how about stressing that everyone look both ways before crossing and perhaps waiting for the light to change? It's a fairly simple concept. Wanna legislate something stupid? Pass a bill stating how big a douchebag you are. With this kind of idiocy, it's no wonder you're a state senator. Burrrrrrn! Not really.

Slack Video of the Day: Here are four videos I shot over in the UK that may or may not make it into a future post, so I figured I'd throw them up here now: Chelsea and the refs warming up at Stamford Bridge (from close distance), Didier Drogba celebrates yet another Premiership goal, Aston Villa and West Ham emerge from the tunnel, and Cardiff City celebrating a 1-0 lead over lowly Barnsley.

Slack Song of the Day: Studio Phish, just because people often forget how frighteningly awesome Rift is -- The Wedge and It's Ice.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Contrary To What We Were Told...

I cannot confirm the myth about people running like a Welshman. We didn't see a single runner in Wales while we were there. Not one. I feel betrayed. And tired. And a bit like I have palsy.

We spent a mere 20 hours in Wales for Cardiff City's 2-0 victory over lowly Barnsley on Friday night, but we were shocked to find out that nobody runs there. Not on the streets. Not in the train station. No running, anywhere. There's apparently very little running in Wales. There was some running on the Ninian Park pitch itself in Cardiff, but the only starting Welshman, Joe Ledley, ended up being carted off for the remainder of the match after a botched attempt at running.

We didn't see Liverpool at West Ham on Tuesday, so we missed a chance to see Craig Bellamy running like a Welshman. We had a good shot on Wednesday, but Blackburn's Robby Savage broke his leg right before our trip and did not play. Rovers' manager Mark Hughes is Welsh, but he didn't run anywhere. Bastard.

I wonder what the Welsh words are for "What a fucking letdown." I wonder whether I'd even be able to even read 'em, considering I have no idea how to pronounce anything in Welsh, let alone platforms:

C'mon! Are you freakin' serious, Wales? How many Ls and Ws and Ys do you Welsh wanna use to create words? I refuse to speak fluent Welsh until that shit gets fixed. Sorry, llwyfixed.

On the way from Wales to Birmingham for the Aston Villa 1-0 victory over West Ham, we decided to act like six-year-olds and desecrate everyone's photo in the tabloid newspaper. And by "we," I really mean Donnie Fiedler, who created new headlines and scribbled penises and boobs into just about every shot in the paper. But the first target was six-foot, seven-inch beanpole and Liverpool striker Peter Crouch.

The Gangly Handful had a most unfortunate pose in the photo accompanying his article, and the halogen-lamp striker with the stroke of a pen quickly become Crouch Hitler. Hey, Crouchler sure beats the celebratory Crouchbot, if you ask me.

The last thing I want to force into your mouths and throats heads is a song that'll be climbing the UK Pop charts in no time. Our love for Norwegian winger and Blackburn standout Morten Gamst Pedersen is well-documented. The Arctic Monkey's name was the focal point of our trip to Dewey Beach this past summer and clearly a main player in our jaunt to the UK, where we watched him in person stink it up against Chelsea in a 3-0 rout of Rovers last Wednesday night.

Gamst (seen here about to try one of many unsuccessful corner kicks) that evening surely sucked the biggest, floppiest donkey dick that donkey dick suckers have ever sucked. Both he and the rest of the Rovers didn't even show up, but that doesn't change our love of Gamst. Nor does it halt the production of this hit single we're about to produce. Sung to the tune of Bon Jovi's Bad Medicine, try getting this one out of your head any time soon, suckers:

Gotta love the "Rx" symbol thrown in there for good measure. Actually, you really gotta love that we almost took this sign to the Chelsea/Blackburn match itself. What a bunch of jerks.

Gaaaaamst, Gaaaaaamst Pedersen. Plenty more to come...

Previously on Slack LaLane: I'm Back, Baby (An Introduction)

Quick Sexy News Hits

We'll return to more Four Jerks in the UK trip madness in a bit, but first let's check in on some sexy news stories making headlines...

Page 4 Daddies Program Doing Fine
So apparently the Mark Foley Scandal has generated more interest in the congressional page program among America's teenagers. Either this is a blatant case of "there's no such thing as bad publicity," or more and more of our nation's youth is looking to be reamed hard by a father figure type in the Library of Congress. Time will tell.

To the Moon, Alice
This one's all over the place today: A NASA space shuttle astronaut freaked the fuck out and tried to kidnap a romantic rival in a bizarre love triangle with a man she wasn't even involved with. Navy Capt. Lisa Marie Nowak pepper sprayed a woman and tried to abduct her from a parking lot at the Orlando airport, only to foul it all up and get arrested. The best part is that Nowak, who is married with three kids, had adult diapers to cut down on potential rest stops as she made her getaway. Just goes to show, even in zero gravity, women are fucking nuts and should be treated like lepers at all times.

Praise Jesus: Mind Over ManBatter
I meant Mind Over Matter there, sorry. But in a startling case of Jesus working miracles, "The Rev. Ted Haggard emerged from three weeks of intensive counseling convinced he is 'completely heterosexual' and told an oversight board that his sexual contact with men was limited to his accuser." I have no joke here, I just think this dude's story is awesome. I mean, seriously, wouldn't you like to know what kind of intense counseling goes along with helping someone get over homosexuality? There's a whole porn flick waiting to be made here.

We'll be back later with more of Slack LaLane's English Vacation...

Slack Video of the Day: Spanish Miguel just sent over this clip of a sweet goal from Sevilla's archives -- the replay is tremendous.

Slack HT Plug of the Day: The latest edition of Pullin' 'Tubes is up, and today we're featuring some quality videos, including my mean assessment of a Northwestern A cappella band butchering Bruce Hornsby's The Way It Is. What a shame.

Slack Song of the Day: I threw an old 1992 version of PJ's Once in that link above, so let's stick with the Pearl Jam catalog this morning -- here's Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town from 5/30/03 in Vancouver. I really love that tune.

Monday, February 05, 2007

One On, One Off

This morning I made it clear that this week would be dominated by soccer reflections and personal memories of our trip to England and Wales. But I promised mainstream posting, and I also promised to sprinkle in some quote-unquote, other shit. Here's some other shit:

Similarly hilarious to a football in the groin...thank Coach for the vid.

I'm Back, Baby

Even though it's still the same language over there, most of our week-long trip to the United Kingdom would be lost in translation.

As I alluded to in my trans-Atlantic drop-in last week, this trip could be summed up with the tag line, "Four Yankee jerks moving sarcastically through England's monuments, landmarks and football stadiums one day at a time." And unless you were along for the jerkstore ride, I'm not sure any of it will make a lick of sense. It barely makes sense to me, and about all I know right now is that the "F.C." must stand for fantasy camp, not football club.

But I'm gonna try to do my part on this here rag to crack out some posts that youse can all get behind, that will translate into mass comedy instead of the private joke material. You know, like why is this picture below funny? Because this man is waiting for Don Fiedler's able body to exit the handicap stall at Reading's Madejski Stadium (aka The Mad Stad). Handstand's got a video of this scene, and the look on Don's face after exiting the loo is priceless.

So let this serve as an introduction to some more analysis from our trip to England and Wales, sprinkled in with some other shit about which you'll actually care. More to follow, chaps...

Slack Link of the Day: They may remain Sleepless in Seattle, but at least they won't be Bonerless out there: "Sexpresso coffee shops take Seattle by storm"

Slack Video of the Day: Since I have no real use for this video in a post this week, here's a little clip of our view from the London Eye.

Slack Song of the Day: In honor of last night's Super Bowl Halftime Show, in which Prince tore the imaginary roof off the sucka, let's do a little Purple Rain this fine frigid morning.

Friday, February 02, 2007

Lamb Vindaloo Pwns Face

It's difficult to convey the level of hilarity that accompanied us to London's Bangalore District last night. I could try, but I would not be successful.

I'll say it like this: I just woke up, and my ribs are fucking killing me from being doubled over in laughter for much of the night. Although, I may have also been rabbit-punched in the ribs. I can't really be sure.

Reunions abound, my tripmates met up with their European friends on this evening, our last remaining night with no soccer on the menu. So nine of us grabbed a handful of pints together at a few pubs along the way before heading to the famed Brick Lane for a nice big curry meal. Yanks in tow, we followed the lead of two story-telling Irishmen and their cute Aussie friend, Don's country English friend from Brighton and another of Handstand's boys, a former Azerbaijani co-worker. What a PC ad -- the United Colors of Pat Benetton.

Allow me to quickly interject a small anecdote here. Before last night I went the full five days of our trip without smoking the pot, without thinking of the pot, without even much concern for it. And make no mistake, that's a milestone for me: I think the last time I went that long without smoking at least once was before I had pubes (which coulda been when I was around 20). Still, I was feeling really good about this newfound abstinence.

Zebra then informed me that one of our Irish friends possessed the grass, and instantly I remembered what it's like to be a Man of Reefer in a Town of Pints. We became fast friends, and on our way from one pub to the next (still before dinner), he decided to spark a doob for the benefit of Mr. Ace. Again, up to that point, I had not seen it, not asked for it, barely even thought about it.

But within 10 seconds of his lighting the jay, an English policeman on foot coming the other way materialized out of nowhere and turned around, marching right towards us. He had us the whole way, too, sidling up to us and asking us to step aside. Not holding anything, and not having smoked anything yet, I knew I was allright, and I engaged the man with the funny hat in immediate conversation.

He said he smelled the shit, I said "Whaaaaaa?" He said empty your pockets, which I gladly did (knowing our Irish friend had the Motts), and we went on our way with a handshake and a British smile. Of course, nothing bad happened, nothing too bad really could have happened, but it's just incredible that our first run-in with any sort of police interests occurred the very second the first bit of grass entered the picture. Kids, don't do drugs.

Two joints and a handful of pints later, we settled on an empty Brick Lane restaurant and settled in for a traditional Indian meal. And it's a good thing we picked an empty place: Our loudness and obnoxiousness knows no bounds. The tagline of this trip so far has been "Four jerks moving sarcastically through England one landmark at a time" (you'll hear that one again, and possibly see it on a T-shirt), and this dinner was no exception, just more people.

One guy did the full ordering for everyone: Spicy shit all around. We weren't fuckin' around this evening. Don made sure we got some Lamb Vindaloo -- "Lamb Vindaloo always spicy" -- and nearly everyone that sat near it began to sweat from just its proximity. Zebra screamed that his eyebrows started sweating. That's when Handstand the Younger, not a fan of hot or spicy apparently, dug in for a brave bite.

"Dude, you might wanna...," Zebra started. But before he could even finish that sentence, Handstand uttered "Oh my God" as the blood drained from his face. He shot out of his chair, ran over to the door, pulled on it three times before realizing it said "Push" and barreled onto the street where right outside the door he vomited up the Lamb Vindaloo, the rest of his meal and the many pints he'd imbibed.

A worker told him he couldn't throw up there, so he moved into the street where he continued to empty his stomach like I did my pockets earlier. Nothing a sidewalk hose couldn't fix, really. Nothing we couldn't make fun of for the rest of the night, really. Chalk up another victory for the Vindaloo.

The rest of the night involved befriending the owner of a bar that claimed to be a wild boar hunter in Afghanistan, and Handstand heckling the shit out of the taxi driver that took us back to South Kensington. Incidentally, it cost 40 pounds to take six of us back to the flat -- that's $80 to go about the distance from the Upper West Side to Tribeca. Seems fair. Bloody wanker exchange rate.

We're off to Cardiff to peep people running like Welshmen.