Ever gotten blank stares from your friends back home when you mention an awesome local band that they couldn’t possibly have had exposure to? Yeah, me neither, but I’ll bet it’s happened sometime. Well, since no college channel would be complete without esoteric music, I propose that instead of the MINDLESS GARBAGE they play on other music networks nowadays, Local Beat will showcase a few local bands and various other musicians from around the college scene.
And I’m not talking about those nappy hippies you know from Public Speaking that have their own
Television has everything. Sports are at home on ESPN, ESPN 2/3/4/5/U and Classic, and Fox Sports Net; rednecks have a moonshine-induced chokehold on the Outdoor Life Network; even women can capitalize on what little strengths they have by turning on the Food Network. If you’re interested in something, and studies show that most people are, then with the advent of stolen cable, you’re able to access it 24-7 by flipping on your tube.
This is why I’m going to make an obscene amount of money by selling my idea of the all-college network, University Television.
Let’s face it, MTV had potential for becoming the network for university-aged youngsters. It’s still the network that is most closely associated with today’s youth…and that pisses me off. I don’t want to be affiliated with Date My Mom, regardless of how many of your mothers I’m physically involved with. Laguna Beach, or whatever
I was on the toilet for
Here’s a cold hard fact that you must now chew and swallow: if you are reading this, you are not macho. Period. Case closed. Real men do not read anything other than GUNS AND AMMO, SPORTS ILLUSTRATED,or SHAVED BEAVER.
Do not mention FIRE IN THE BELLY. Do not clutch your copy of IRON JOHN. Sit your soft little ass down and listen up. Understanding macho means that you don’t possess it. I have proven myself to be the pussy that I am by writing this piece. (I’m wearing a powder blue cotton print shirt and peach panties as I type) [sic] Ernest Hemingway, you say? Wrong. Ernest lived a very macho life and wrote some very macho stories. But Ernest threw it all away by blowing his head off with a shotgun. Very unmacho. Real men do not commit suicide. Real men know just how much life sucks. Real men grit their teeth and take it bill after bill, war after war, tumor after tumor. You don’t greet Death, you punch him in the throat repeatedly as he drags you away. I think John Wayne said it best when he said, “Fuck Death and the lung cancer he rode in on.”
Macho is a very slippery thing. You don’t read about it, you don’t write about it, you don’t even know the correct spelling of the word. In a
vain attempt to keep some semblance of masculinity, I didn’t research the roots of the word while writing this article, but I can only assume
that “macho” comes from “machismo,” which sounds a hell of a lot like machine. Being macho implies a tough, hard, blocklike approach full of pistons and rods and axles and other big steel-type stuff.
It’s hard to live by the old macho code these days. They’ve chipped away at it over the years, slowly but surely. Drinking has been reduced to a few beers or a couple of whiskeys, if that. Otherwise, your AA friends begin to stare across the table with that “I personally think you have a problem and that all alcohol should be banned so that I won’t feel the urge to drink myself into a naked stupor but I’m not gonna say anything” look on their faces. No mess, no mauling, no mistress, no mas.
From time to time, people try to use macho as an image builder. Bush tries to make himself seem like a card-carrying Mace Club member. He’s not. The last macho pres. we had was FDR. FDR – a man stricken by polio, stuck in a wheelchair, fighting the Nazis all the while smoking 3 & 1/2 packs a day. “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself!” Yeah, and staircases, of course. And soccer and dancing.
I think the death of macho is easily located on a very recent map. Sometime in the late ’70s-right around the time the Village People
released “Macho Man” and Barry Manilow sang “Copacabana” and Robby Benson was mewling his way into the hearts of teenage ultra-virgin, men made a serious mistake. We started TALKING to each other. We stopped punching each other and began discussing why we wanted to punch each other. I’ll bet my right nut that if I had done some research, I would have found a dramatic decline in facial cuts and brain contusions starting in 1977. Now we’re supposed to be sensitive. We are supposed to share our feelings and cry at funerals and care about our hair. We’re, in short, supposed to be women. Hello, my name is Shirley. Touch me in the morning.
I believe in equal rights. I believe that women should get equal pay for equal jobs. I believe women should have control of their bodies and be in positions of power. I believe we should have the same size shoulder pads in our suits. But I also believe that men should be men and women should be, well, women. Women should be soft and smart and mysterious. And men should have their own tools. I pine for the sheer stupidity of the old macho days, when men would brandish hammers and build huge, bulky cars that sucked up gas and tore open the ozone layer and crushed small animals beneath totally useless but totally cool-looking tail fins. When men were apes with good shoes and a dental plan. John Wayne, John Huston, Bill Holden, Bob Mitchum, Clark Gable, Babe Ruth, Lee Marvin, Sam Peckinpah. Men who drank and fought and puked and ate raw meat right off the bone and drank some more and fought some more and puked again and kept on drinking. Men who died of massive heart attacks or sudden brain seizures or who just plain fucking blew up. Men who had cancer six or seven times. Men made out of leather.
My dad was one of these men. My dad once cut off his thumb with a power saw, duct-taped it back on, and drove himself to the hospital smoking a Camel un-filtered on the way. My dad’s theory was simple: no pain – no fucking pain. My dad smoked 5 packs a day, worked 3 jobs 7 days a week, ate beef for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. One night in 1985, he ate a big steak dinner with a side order of bacon and extra steak fries. He ordered some coffee, sat back, lit up a cigarette, and exploded.
#5 White people wearing FUBU
Let me first say this, you are not a bad ass, you are not cool, your ancestors were never oppressed, and secretly everyone is making fun of you. I’m all about hip-hop, its culture and fashion. That being said, the occasional t-shirt or jersey is fine, but if i ever see you with a straight billed hat cocked to one side with FUBU on the front I might just do you a favor and kill you (maybe even twice if I’m in a bad mood or if I’ve been under the influence of tequila–which is likely). White people wearing FUBU is like a Jew driving a German car, they just shouldn’t for principle. Other unacceptable trends in list, i put them in a list cause if I really need to explain why you can’t wear these you might as well go join the EMO in his (i use his as a term loosely) grave. so here we go: fake anything….no fake gold, platinum, silver even for you really broke asses, diamonds (especially when you have a 10k paperwieght plugged into your ear–you are not a running back for the Saints, we know you couldnt possibly afford in a lifetime with your paychecks from McDonalds), and even those gay ass glasses I already told you to take off your face. If your not a pro player you can’t pull the look off, hell even they have to wear suits and ties–catch the drift numb nuts.
So now that we got this straight I’m going to resume my normal daily function, looking at girls by day and taking them home by night. If you took some notes from this, and reading a few Gaudio articles wouldn’t kill ya either, you should become a little more likely to get laid. If you still can’t get laid, well at least your not at a Star Wars convention. Its better to whack off, than get made fun of and still have to go home alone and rub one out!
copyright alky 2007
Here comes another rant on metrosexuals and the like. I’m not trying to be overly offensive, who am i kidding of course I am. As yet another binge goes by, the weather begins to turn to warmth and my balls will matriculate from their hibernation spot and make the final descent to their fleshy patch of skin commonly referred to at my satchel. This means I am starting to notice things like the return of cleavage, short skirts, and somehow the guy wearing that god damned pink shirt has to catch my attention because….PINK IS A FUCKING GIRLS COLOR YOU HOMO! If you really want to argue this point with your pink shirt saying “real men wear pink” i would like to tell you to shut your cockholster before you get beat up. Your mouth is slightly short of a cum catcher at the sperm bank anyways so nothing you have to say is important you nancy! Now that we got that straight we can move on to the upsetting things I see.
#1. Sunglasses Rule
If it is past 8pm in any season (even earlier in winter) you do not need fucking sunglasses on your fucking face. There are always exceptions, if your name happens to be Stevie fucking Wonder, your exempt. If you have an unsightly face and your glasses cover up that shit, well, don’t wear glasses go see a doctor or something cause your gonna scare someone when they possibly take your herpes infected face home. I’m all about stopping the spread of diseases, and in your case ugliness (not to mention stupidity…thats another blog). The only people allowed to wear sunglasses at night in fact are celebrities, and the reason for that–they have six to eight zeros behind their name and they can do whatever the fuck they want. You however are not even out of scrub status, in fact take that stupid fucking aluminum foil out of your mouth before someone sees you with it. I wouldn’t want you getting sympathy from someone falsely believing your a some guy with Paulsy or Down’s Syndrome, they have way more intelligence and class than you could ever hope to achieve.
#2. Excessive grooming
Yes, I’m talking to you! Quit looking around like you can pass this one off. If you spend more than 30 minutes in the bathroom/shower for any given occasion you can return your sack, dick, and testosterone in…I’m sure there is a depository at the Democratic National Convention, it’s like that little boxes in womens restrooms for tampons just for your manhood. Now I’m not saying you shouldn’t maintain the playing field or anything like that. Trimming the bush is an effective way for you small pecker carrying dick bags (due to bad luck at birth, steroids or whatever) to make your shit look bigger. The old saying, “trimming the bush makes the tree look bigger” might help you get laid at some point in your miserable existence. This is in reciprocation of the female party doing the same hard work for you. However, just because they shave their legs that you should follow suit. Keep it simple, your manhood can only take so many hits. Think of Jackie Chan playing Battleship with your nutsack…three hits and the sub is sunk, so compare that to your game once she finds out your take more time than she does just to leave the house!
#3 EMO’s and really any guy wearing womens clothing…
I don’t care what your fucking excuse is. Get your ass to the nearest graveyard, dig a hole, slit your wrists and hop in. At least that way the only effort the rest of society needs to put in is covering up your worthless ass, your not even worthy of being chopped up and fed to an Ethiopian. There is no excuse on my fucking planet to be wearing womens jeans. If you really think it makes your ass look better or something along those lines, maybe you should kill yourself and pray your return as a female. No monthly bleeding, no jeans with extra hip room–got it? And NO–you may not substitute goth trends for your inability to recognize which side of the store is designated for penis. Black t-shirts with some heavy metal band on the front, large metal chains around your neck or coming from your wallet (do you really want people to think you have a metal chain connected from your ass to your package?), spiky objects of any sort, and excessive facial piercings are all off your radar. What is so fucking hard about being normal?
#4 Popped collar
I don’t know why this hasn’t ended yet, but I still occasionally see popped collars outside of the designated areas for popped collars. Whats that area you say? Fashion shows, just because they do it doesn’t mean you can, they get paid to look overly gay (probably because they are gay). You don’t paid to act like a dumb ass do you? No, ok then, put that collar down before I rip it off and and castrate you. Like the sunglasses at night, leave it in the 80’s, especially if you were born in the 80’s! No one brought back the tight rolled jeans so you can’t bring back the popped collar.
cont next blog…
copyright alky 2007
I would like to take this opportunity to belittle and possibly beat you if I knew who you are. Don’t take this the wrong way but you are like my boss. I have more respect for his name tag than I do you, at least it is more than three inches long (translation since I’m sure reading is problematic for you–I just said you have a very small penis). I’m sure you already knew that though as you are the one that has to look down and see that depressing sprout of flesh. Hell that patch of skin below it that usually holds balls is probably the reason you have to steal to get nice things in the first place. Its fucking christmas season you douche! You don’t steal from people during this season (though I do hope you got frostbite along the rim of your asshole while you sat in my car fucktard)! In fact you should not be stealing at all (at least from me), why not go steal from some mansion in Carmel–oh, thats right cause they hire people to shoot people like you on sight. Don’t worry I’m not gonna shoot you if I ever find you. Castration, would be a godsend. No, for you-syphalis infected cum bubble, you shall get water torture, followed up shortly by some painful neurotoxins taken from a very pesky jellyfish. Then I’ll give you a day in my basement to recover as i defocate on you at random hours of the day and night, while you listen to the lovely sounds of Kenny G (I bet you like that shit too). Once that is complete we shall go over my playlist on my Ipod you stole, having deep discussions about what each song means to you and why I shouldn’t beat you for every song I lost on it. Next, I will cut up my leather jacket you stole and make it into a whip. I will beat you so hard with it, slaves will appear saying “damn my mastah didn’t even whip me that hard!” Moving right along, it would then be time for some tequila, not for you, but for me since it makes me a very angry person (no, I was not drinking tequila whiloe writing this to give you a hint on my devilish abilities). I will then bring out a small knife and cut you all over roughly 1000 times. Don’t worry I’ll treat each wound so you dont go and bleed out on me. Next I will take each bottle of cologne you stole and mix it with acid and randomly spray you with it until you are in so much pain you can’t even scream! Ok thats enough of me being nice, after that I will slowly disembowel you and leave your corpse dragging behind my car until your bones have nothing left to scrape on the pavement. if a cop happens to ask me why I have a body dragging behind my car, I will simply tell him that you are related to terrorists and President bush told me it was Ok. Speaking of terrorists, I will have to also interrogate you. Maybe you are of middle-eastern decent and just forgot to drop your towel in my seat as you got out of my car. Hell thats probably what you used to wipe your fingerprints from my car (yes they did come look for fingerprints–be scared if they happened to get yours–cause this may come true quicker than you think). If for some reason none of this ever happens and I never actually find you, I hope karma kicks in and tommorow you split your sack in half and carry your testicles in hand all the way to the hospital. After that I hope they find out you have some horrible disease that is dibilitating but not fatal. You know one that will turn you into a drooling (but living) vegetable for the rest of your worthless life. Actually, I just hope your life turns to absolute shit and you wind up being mistaken for some child molesting, cop killikng, maniac. And then your ass gets to meet Bubba and every day you can only look forward to waking up just to grab your ankles as Bubba rocks your world! Hey, at least your getting laid I guess :P. When Bubba wears that ass out I hope he makes a new one on ya, and even tattoos tits on your back and makes you dress up like a little catholic school girl!
copyright alky 2006
This article is to remind you about the shittiness of living in Indiana. This is the time of year where my brain has some little ..hiccups.. and makes complete spoken sentences damn near impossible. A typical thought my come out like this, ..I can’t believe Steven Jackson is such a HOLY FUCK ITS COLD dumbass, shooting at disabled people. I hope he goes to OH MY GOD ARE MY BALLS STILL ATTACHED jail for a long time.
When I have to sit in the back of class and spend an hour picking my balls out from between my lungs because it is so cold, you’d think I would learn to get the fuck out of town this time of year. No, my insolence is even higher than you imagined. Even worse than my balls ascending, is the fact that now there will be NOTHING to do in Indiana. All the fun activities you can think of are raped in the ass by Jack Frost (at least he gives a reach-around … or so I hear).
This leads to my other problem. I have certain times of the day when I am bored off my ass. It’s more like when I don’t have enough time to do something fun, but enough time that there is a long period of boredom. With this cold weather creeping in, I’m reduced to making you people laugh at my stupidity.
Look if we kick Jack Frost’s fucking ass we won’t lose anything but 3 months of misery. We are leaving Europe out of this because they refuse to get rid of France. So that means if you are a winter sports person you can go over there and still have your fun. Back to the point, we can still have the important x-mas, cause Rudolph is a pussy and he will land on rooftops with out snow if I tell him to. Hell he does it for people in Arizona anyways, we are just gonna make him do it in Indiana.
Now you ask how do I plan to accomplish this feat??? Well a simple mirror will do the trick. Ladies, I am taking all you damned mirrors from your makeup and building a giant mirror to reflect even more sun to warm the Midwest up. It’s not like you need them anyways. Look in a real mirror at home before you go out to apply make-up
You: WHERE was the Finnish national curling team during all of this?
Friend: I’m not sure exactly, but they showed up about an hour later with a few handles of vodka and some Swedish runway models.
Nice. You can always count on those guys. If it weren’t for the Finns, your chances of getting with a Swedish runway model would be approximately equal to the odds that the Catholic church publicly accepts evolution as scientific fact. However, you can now strut around proudly knowing that only one of the aforementioned scenarios is completely laughable and absurd. You snap out of your erotic daydream rather quickly when you realize that your grandma and a mother lode of explosives are now unaccounted for.
You: WHY wasn’t anybody worried about my grandma and the pipe bombs?
Friend: We were all so busy trying to hook up with the Swedish runway models that we kind of forgot about her. That is, until you stumbled upon the pipe bomb she had planted in the fridge. I’ve never seen a drywall screw get emb3dded so deep into somebody’s armpit before. The pain was so intense that you went into shock and wet yourself.
Mysterious injury in a perplexing location? Check. Stain on the pants? Check. The story of the night forgotten is now revealing itself to you like Pee Wee Herman at a movie theater. There’s only one question left to answer. It’s the key to your investigation, the Rosetta stone to your drunken hieroglyphics.
You: HOW much action did I get?
Friend: You were making out in the corner with one of the models for quite some time and I thought you were destined to score, but then she left with the Finns and you ended up futilely trying to go down on yourself, but that’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
You: IS IT TRUE THAT EVERY GUY HAS TRIED TO GO DOWN ON HIMSELF AT LEAST ONCE?
Friend: Yes. Whether or not he’s comfortable enough with himself to admit it publicly, every guy has tried to go down on himself at least once. It’s just something you have to be sure you can’t do.
ok so i’m just kidding about the last part…i would have said lick your elbow or touch your elbows behind your back but its just not nearly as fucking funny!
It’s an otherwise typical Saturday or Sunday or