Celebcenter Part 3: (Long Overdue) Morning Edition

(A Revelation Regarding the Sporting World's Relation to the World in Actuality)

Dear Bigmouth Readers ( supposing you A) actually exist, and B) still exist, given our recent unintentional hiatus),

Turns out a lot can happen in 2 months, eh? We could review the litany of catastrophic events cascading down the newswire into the digital puddle that is your idiot box, but it gets awfully depressing incredibly fast. So let's try the shorthand edition: The sky was falling, and fast, until last Tuesday, when we woke up out of our 8-year coma and elected a smart guy with big ears and a funny name. Now most of the world likes us again (European Vacation, anyone?) and the planet may actually continue existing long enough for us to amend the Constitution and elect Schwarzenegger president in 2016 (laugh now, girlie men, but you know it's gonna happen).

So pardon your nascent narrator for abandoning his previous post-a-thon concerning the over-publicized and underwhelming Mr. Favre, but sports have looked about as small as Ralph Nader's chances last Tuesday in the grand scheme of things.

Which, if you think about it, is about right. Reflecting on how my habitual consumption and tracking of daily scores and highlights was quickly replaced by poll numbers and political punditry, I realized something quite profound. It's something that is quite frankly, fairly sacrilegious for a life-long sports fan to admit, but is true nevertheless: Sports and athletes are for men what tabloids and celebrities are for women. It's a nice distraction, a vicarious involvement, a guilty pleasure amidst the gruel and the grind of your daily dullness. And that's all.

So with that admission in the can, I think I speak for all of fan-dom, couch-dom and any other-dom that applies when I ask for a simple favor. Please don't treat our sports news and favorite players like they're bisexual b-list actresses out on an SUV-wrecking coke binge. Yes, it serves the same purpose at the end of the day, but lie to us, would you please? If we wanted to see athletes vamping around with celebrities, we would watch "Dancing with the Stars" willingly instead of pretending that our wives or girlfriends make us do it.

Thank you, and God Bless America.

Celebcenter Part 2: Evening Edition

(A Casual Look Into a Personal Hell of the Sporting Variety)

"ESPN has just learned that Brett Favre's feelings, according to Brett Favre, are extremely hurt." "Yahoo Sports has now confirmed that not only are Brett Favre's feelings hurt, but that the hurting of those feelings has caused a slight rift in the space time continuum that may not be conveniently repaired anytime soon." "If you've got a conspiracy theory about Favre leaving the Packers, a poorly-worded and ill-thought out comment about how professional athletes are different from losers who call sports talk radio shows, or simply a homoerotic and unhealthy affinity for Brett Favre in general, we'll be taking your telephone calls for the next nine hours."

And so it went. On, and on, and further on... and interminably on for hours, days and weeks. On the radio. On Sportscenter. And the intra-nets. Nothing but minute-by-minute, feeling-by-feeling reports and speculation about whether or not a guy who played for 17 years and then retired was actually (COLLECTIVE AUDIBLE GASP!), possibly, going to come back (VISIBLE SHOCK AND PALPABLE AWE!) to play an 18th season. BUT WAIT! There's more. Since he retired his old team got a new quarterback (THE AUDACITY!) and then informed him that he may not be welcome back (WHAT HORROR!). Oh, and did we mention that this had happened at the end of every one of the last four seasons before (SURELY YOU JEST!)?

It is often said that the definition of mental illness is performing the same task over and over but expecting different results every time. If that theory is as true as it sounds, then trying to go about my business as a normal sports enthusiast seeking scores, highlights and analysis while this debacle hijacked all of the normal outlets for such information has been like watching your best friend turn into Hannibal Lector over the course of a week and some change. How do you go from grilling a steak on Monday to pairing brains and chianti by Sunday brunch? 

How is it news that a narcissistic gazillionaire athlete thought that the world still revolved around the whims and wishes of the brain inside his battered helmet? Who cares that a bunch of middle-aged and overweight Lost Boy fans still pathetically live their lives through the aforementioned player, who interestingly enough, doesn't give two shovel passes about them because, well, they're not him? And where the hell is the Dodger score?!?! The answer, my friends, was blowing in the multi-medium wind: Sports, however near and dear to our hearts they might be, have become just another limb in the eight-tentacled shock-topus we call entertainment.

Celebcenter

(A Bigmouth Special Report/ Scinitllating Sociological Discussion in Three Parts)

One would think that these last dog days of summer would be spent in a kind of carefree, heat- induced haze; Youtubing the rapids of boredom at work, lethargically lamping at a bro-tastic bbq, or simply stone cold chillin' like a polar bear in a popsicle factory. Oh, what a glorious existence that would be, were it indeed the truth.

Instead, I have spent the last two and half weeks in a constant state of perpetual paranoia and fear, incessantly stalked by a man I have never met, but who nevertheless haunts my dreams and frequents the very institutions I hold so dear.

This man has, in all reasonable respects of reality, absolutely no idea that the shadowy world I now call home is the result of his recent actions. And to be fair, it's really not his fault that I now cower under the eerie glare of my flatscreen and shiver at the sound of every audible radio frequency. But that man's existence is responsible for my now fractured one, and he and the minions that follow him must be stopped, at all costs.

The man's name? Brett Favre. His crime? Retiring prematurely and then coming back. The result of this seemingly pedestrian change of mind? An all out Great White Media Feeding Frenzy that has hijacked all sports news outlets in a kind of twisted convergence of football, celebrity, and the insanity of a collective consciousness that thinks noise is a synonym for news.
The impact on the perpetually ponderous persona that is your dear narrator? A catastrophe worthy of a three part post-a-palooza, with sociological scintillation to spare.

The Things That Hate Us: Airports!

(Oh, Snap... It's Another Fresh New Feature)

As evidenced by a past post in which I declared my twisted yet oh-so-logical (by my, ahem, "standards" anyway) love for our President of Vices Dick Cheney, I'm a bit of a contrarian when it comes to those special places, people and events that bring a smile to my scruffy face. To get very vague and unspecific, the general principles of grand institutions like chaos, bullshit, and anything in the absurd category get me pretty geeked. And if I get to be geeked while other people are doing the exact opposite, i.e. freaking out, melting down or just plain losing it, then I'm more juiced than Barry Bonds at a smoothie stand. So in the interest of saluting the strange proclivities that staple together your narrator's psyche AND serving up a spanking new entree for Bigmouth Enterprises, we proudly present the first edition of The Things That Hate Us (Or, The Strange Happiness Provided By Supposedly Detestable Entities). First on the list (and in list form, no less): Airports!

1. People Say: "There's so much traffic at the airport."
I Say: "I hope I get to see an altercation between an SUV driver and a traffic cop in a neon
vest."

2. People Say: "The security lines are so long."
I Say: "I can't wait for the speech about the proper techniques for removing your shoes,
followed by the poster that demonstrates that time bombs are not allowed."

3. People Say: "It's such a pain to remove your shoes."
I Say: "Have you ever seen a businessman undress and then re-dress in front of
100 strangers and a sassy black lady with rubber gloves on? Hilarious!"
Or: "Ooh, they're searching one of those elderly terrorists in a wheelchair again."

4. People Say: "My flight's always delayed."
I Say: "There's a bar!"

5. People Say: "There's never any seats at the gate."
I Say: "There's a bar!"

6. People Say: "Everything is so expensive."
I Say: "$15 dollars for a McGriddle? Hooray for capitalism!"

7. Guys Say: "What's with all the gay flight attendants now?"
I Say: "Why yes, I'd love some extra peanuts."

8. Girls Say: "Airplane food is gross."
I Say: "I'm pretty full... I just ate 13 bags of peanuts."

9. Kids Say: "My ears get plugged on the plane."
I Say: "I don't have to listen to the salesman next to me OR the pilot's garbled geography
lesson, cuz I can't hear a damn thing."

10. People Say: "It takes forever for my bags to show up."
I Say: "Dammit, why'd I eat all those peanuts! At least I've got time to buy a
$27 bottle of Immodium before my bags show up."

The Quote Jumble: Iowa Edition

(The Triumphant Return of a Now Possibly Recurring Feature)

Nothing causes a stir more than a weekend spent out of town at a wedding. Co-workers and friends cannot wait to pump you for information; uninvited family members clamor for every last matrimonial detail. Throw a little geographical curveball into the mix (like say, a recently flooded destination located in a very rural, very middle part of the country), and now you've got iPhone- style lines around your block eagerly awaiting your strange tales of cultural clashes and outsider observations. Well have no fear, ferocious Bigmouth enthusiasts, for the occasion of said wedding is also the second edition of our celebration of de-textualized source quotes. Who's ready to jumble?

"Has anyone seen my garment bag?" "It's bloody mary time." "He's never been on a flight that didn't end in a tropical destination." "I'd like another glass, just ice please." "How did you know it was Puddle of Mudd?" "Some guy's in there, with his shirt off." "Gimme a break, I've got a head full of cold medicine!" "Looks like I've got some catching up to do." "I don't see why not, I had four back there last night." "You got your corn on the left, beans on the right." "And that's pretty much when I lost the will to live." "He's probably grillin on my Weber right now." "We gotta go Old Style." "I don't like needles, so I got up into my fightin stance." "Well Woody's and the Lumberyard are back there by the airport." "I ordered a scotch and she gave me Jim Beam." "We don't have a taxi service." "Sir, you can't just sleep in the hallway." "Same clothes as last night... nice!" "Is this the entertainment we ordered?" "By the way, I wouldn't order the orange juice." "Which one of you has the filthy mouth?" "Is that the treehouse you used?" "Dude, we're in Iowa... pick a cornfield and go for it." "We couldn't be farther away if we'd been dropped from Sputnik." "I have six more in the back who've come here looking for wives." "I love Target!" "I think the wine is starting to take hold." "I don't think so... your mom's kind of a deal breaker." "Oh so YOU'RE the corrections officer." "I'd give it a 6.5." "I'm gonna need you to do that at least two more times." "If you're gonna be drinking back there, I'm probably not gonna stop ya." "Hey, cool it alright?" "The only word better than cousin is co-worker." "How dare you question Larry!" "Nothing's gonna happen! We're in Iowa!" "I'm pretty sure there's an ax-wielding psycho out there somewhere." "This is a lot more Children of the Corn than Field of Dreams." "He's gonna orbit her like a satellite." "Oh, so he raised her as his own?" "Thanks for setting the bar so low this trip." "This is the wrong gate."

And there you have it. All of the story, and yet none of the bug bites. A more compelling picture couldn't be painted, unless you slugged some Absinthe and took a knife to the ear. Thanks again, jumble.

Blockbusted

If you're keeping score at home ( and you seem like the type, and that's meant in the best possible/ positive/ uplifting / insert other attempts at flattery way, honest!) you know it's hotter than a bonfire in Uganda, which probably has you sweating like Patrick Ewing in a parka. Couple that little bit of trivial obvious-ness with the fact that there's nothing remotely watchable on tv in the way of sports (wake me up for the playoffs, baseball), celebridiculous reality shows ( bring back Hulk Hogan Knows the Flavor of Brett Michaels' New York Midget Love, VH1) or addictively tedious dramas (where's my methodone-flavored replacement for Lost, ABC? I'm gettin all scratchy and shaky over here!) and you'll probably come to this cul-de-sac of a revelation: It's Summer!

And summer means movies. Lots of movies. Lots of really big, loud, obnoxious... people, complaining about movies. Yes, if there's a movie opening on Friday then there's somebody bitching about it on Monday. Unless of course you read the reviews, in which case someone is bitching first thing on Friday morning. And all because these cinematic simpletons can't decipher a kids movie from an adult-oriented gorefest.

That's right, it'll be your own damn fault and no one else's if most of the flicks you flee to aren't up to snuff. You're not that important; no studio has planned their entire slate of money-makers around your tedious tastes. These big-ass blockbusters are directed at specific age groups and audiences, and that can't possibly please the royal we even half the time. So get wise and make smarter decisions (like milk duds over ju ju bees, for starters). Take a deep popcorn- scented breath and consider your true self. Are you a 15 year-old boy? No? Then what are you doing attending an Adam Sandler/Mike Meyers double-header? Does your significant other posses the same genitalia as you? Didn't think so. So why did you drag them to that Jerry Bruckheimer blow-em up or that Sandra Bullock weeper? 

If you enjoy a fart joke that runs for and hour and half straight, then by all means, check out Eddie Murphy playing seventeen different characters in one fat suit. If not, don't go. Or go, and do us all the favor of keeping your apple-pie hole shut afterwards. The Dodger game is on, and I'm trying to take a nap in front of my industrial warehouse- sized fan.

Let's Commence!

It's graduation season, and if you aren't scheduled to go to any, you better fix that, and fast. Look up an obscure relative aged 18 or 22, tag along to your roomate's sister's hairdresser's kid's coronation, or just drive around town until you find a good one to crash (easy to spot hallmarks are generally balloons, sundresses, and mothers organizing group photos, so keep your eyes peeled). Because while disguised as a culmination of a specific phase of the education process, and considered to be a woefully boring familial springtime duty, it is, in actuality, one of the greatest people-watching adventures you could ever hope to embark upon.

Remember when you had an assignment in school, and you'd think, "Man, I'd pay good money to get out of this right now", because paying money seemed way easier than doing schoolwork? Well scratch that one, kemosabe, because there is no more unhinged and excitedly deranged creature present during the matriculation ceremony than a parent recently freed from the bonds of tuition. They scream. They yell. They bring noisemakers they were recently overcharged for at Party City. If they're aware that their little Einsteins are moving back home directly after the keynote address, they ain't showing it; their behavior would fit snugly into a WWF cage-match crowd or some kind of Guiness-fueled soccer riot. Apparently going to school is a lot easier than paying for school, and boy does it show.

Add the sheer volume of people present at such an event with this mixture of puffed up pride and financial freedom, and you've got a veritable cavalcade of adults that have essentially lost any sense of rationale or self-control whatsoever. Mothers strain with binoculars to locate their grown bundles of joy, who all happened to be dressed alike. Fathers aim telephoto lenses into the sea of caps and gowns like Ahab looking for Moby Dick. And entire extended families gawk at their own relatives as if a circus clown had just unleashed them into a cage of feral bengal tigers with only a squirtgun for protection.

It's chaotic. It's insane. It's entertainment not seen since the days of the Roman Colisseum. So take a long hard look at that invitation on the refrigerator, and rejoice! Then wait an hour or two til' the graduation party, and watch the parents faces closely, when the kid announces they're going to medical school.

Jersey Boys Part 4: The Mamba's Revenge

(An Unexpectedly Happy Ending to Our Somewhat- Awaited Finale)

So you've all been waiting patiently like the good 'lil Bigmouth fanatics that you are, but fanatics get restless, as is their way. Where is the conclusion of this engaging opus on the state of Laker Fan-dom? What fate has befallen our courageous author on his quest to expose the very intricacies of this superfluous social quagmire?

Well truth be told,  your narrator has been doing what he's supposed to as a holier-than-those-guys Laker fan: watching the playoffs. It's hard to write when you're screaming at a flat screen; words fail as you monosyllabically high five your co-workers the following day in the elevator. And if honesty is your game, then try this jersey on for size: The original plan for this final piece was to blame Kobe Bryant for the bandwagon, the bro-sephs and the whole backwards affair.

But it can't be done. He won the MVP. He thanked his teammates ( whom he refers to as "The Bench Mob", which is a great nickname) in his speech after accepting that award. He jumped over a speeding Mazeratti in one YouTube video, and a pool full of dangerous snakes in another. He's gotten his own nickname, "The Black Mamba", because he's so dangerous in the fourth quarter. 

So what once seemed like such an easy equation (selfishly fickle superstar+fairweather fans= what the hell we've been blabbing about for four whole posts) now seems like a pretty big glass of Haterade. You win, Mamba. Now bring on the Celtics so we can make fun of those drunken chowderheads from Massachusetts.

Jersey Boys Part 3: Return of the Man-Children

(The End Draws Near)

The existence of such fairweather fans, while not forgiveable, is understandable. Why watch a struggling sports franchise when you could be enjoying your next door neighbor's star-making appearance on "Cops"? What is utterly incomprehensible to me, however, is how a so-called adult could willingly rock the uniform of a team he is not a part of while watching a sport he doesn't play.

There are t-shirts, hats, sweatshirts, sweatpants and a myriad of other options that display your team's emblem, sir. These items politely showcase your affection while still conveying that whole "grown-up" vibe that everybody seems so keen on these days. Give it a shot. You might find yourself looking remotely employable as a result.

The addition of these jersey boys to any social setting is much akin to the addition of the Ewoks in "Return of the Jedi"; although they're intended to be endearing, they're actually just really, really annoying. Children love Ewoks. And jerseys. And that's ok, because they don't know any better. Imagine if one of your friends told you that they realized as they got older that "Jedi" was their favorite "Star Wars" installment because of the Ewoks. How would you view your friend after that kind of comment?

Anthony Kiedis wears a Lakers jersey to games. Jack Nicholson doesn't. Case closed, amigos.

Jersey Boys Part 2: The Bandwagon Strikes Back

(Our Epic Saga Continues)

So here we have morons of every shape, size and color sporting a specific piece of athletic wear dyed in regal purple and brilliant gold. Although their surnames all differ, the handle on the back reliably reads, "Bryant"; the 2 and the 4 displayed prominently just below are also a given. Are they diehards? Kobe cultists? Over-enthusiastic supporters of the mesh tank-top? Our sideline reporter Amy Winehouse says no, no, no... then nods off in a junk-induced tv time-out.

What they are, in fact, are members of the Lakers Playoff Bandwagon, which unlike migratory birds, cannot be counted upon each spring. Their presence is as erratic as their gameday behavior at the local watering hole, and about as enjoyable to experience as a kick in the mouth with a golf shoe. You'll know them from true Laker fans when you see them, and you'll probably hear them calling Pau Gasol, "Paul" before that. These are the same residents of this fine city of angles that have no problem rooting for USC football and UCLA basketball simultaneously, because you can't have a favorite college team if you never went to one. These are the "proud" fans at Dodger stadium who throw beers at fathers and sons who happen to be wearing the visiting team's hat. They are, besides their beloved Kobe Bryant (who demanded to be moved so much and so often last summer that some people mistook him for Al Davis), the real reason why fans in every NBA city learn the "Beat L.A." chant at birth.

But never fear, faithful Laker supporters. Their joy, like their fanaticism, is fleeting. For how can you appreciate the success of a team if you've never experienced the sorrow of years past?

How do you rejoice over Robert Horry or Derek Fisher's three pointers if you've never witnessed a Van Exel brick? How do you delight in the grace of Pau Gasol when you've never cringed at the dreaded Divac flop? How can you chant "Kobe" when you've never cursed Kwame?

You cannot. Anyone who endured the Del Harris years will tell you that. So we will have our memories of the good, the bad, and the Vlade, and they will have their sleeveless shirts.

Jersey Boys

(A Bigmouth Special Report/Scintillating Sociological Discussion in Four Parts)

On a recent trip to Baja, my friends and I delighted each other by 1) Purchasing wrestling masks
2) Passing out Otter Pops to vendors as we waited at the border ('tis better to give, people, and infinitely more amusing,) and 3) Laughing our asses off at the Grownups Gone Wild shenanigans witnessed at the world famous Papas N Beer cantina in Ensenada. (Big Mouth Note: If your girlfriend goes on one of those 3 day cruises to Mexico, break up with her before she leaves. It'll save you both a LOT of trouble.)

My laughter came to a grinding halt, however, when I realized that 97% of the Sir Perv-a-lots in attendance at that god-awfully entertaining establishment were rocking Lakers jerseys and/or Dodger hats. I was initially perplexed as to the lack of Padres paraphernalia, given the proximity to San Diego, until I realized that all those idiots were probably attending a home game for said team in said city.

Then last night, while I was at the gym (rare occurence alert!) sweating my bald little brains out (everyday occurence alert!), I noticed many a meathead, broseph, and dude-brah sporting the legendary purple and gold as well. Now perhaps, beloved Big Mouth enthusiast, none of this strikes you as odd in the least. Fair enough. But to me this brings about two very disturbing trends, which will be discussed in a four-part post-ravaganza.

The bandwagon has rolled back into Los Angeles, and a bunch of neolithic man-children are celebrating it's arrival in uniforms for a sport they don't play.

I Love Dick

It is safe to say, dear reader, that I am a rather complicated man. One would only have to peruse the menagerie of topics and obsessions contained within these digital pages to figure that out. But the human dichotomy that is your narrator never gets weirder than this: Of all the lovable rogues in this strange and wondrous world of ours, none has a softer spot in my heart than the modern Darth Vader himself. Ladies and gentlemen, I am in love with Dick Cheney.

It sounds insane, I know. How could he, you ask yourself, and you would have every right. How could I indeed. Me, a Bush-hating, hemorrhaging-heart liberal whose brain has nearly blown a gasket after the last eight years of lies, war, torture, wire-tapping and other imperial nonsense of which Dick is the primary architect. But hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter, and seeing as how I was previously obsessed with Saddam Hussein ( and Genghis Khan before that), it's pretty clear that I've got a thing for the bad boys.

Because if you play helpful co-dependant to Dick's abusive tyrant, he comes out looking like a badass. Let's review. He's had four heart attacks and is still alive. He talks in a kind of drunken Donald Duck voice where the first syllables of any answer he gives go "whah, whah whaaaaah". He was evacuated before the president on 9/11. The place to which they evacuated him is some kind of secret bunker that I'm fairly sure has a stripper pole and a bevy of flat screen tv's that show old John Wayne movies on a continuous loop. When told recently that 85% of the country currently opposed the war, his answer was, "So?" And finally, HE SHOT A GUY IN THE FACE, and THE GUY APOLOGIZED for HIS FACE being in the way of CHENEY'S GUN. The guy makes Chuck Liddell look like a Backstreet Boy. He should change his name to Dick Dreamy. Seriously.

So as happy as I am that Governor Bush and his cronies will be off drinking near-beer and snapping towels at each other far and away from our country's seat of power, I'm honestly gonna miss old Dick. Because the villain is always cooler than the hero, and Cheney is as skull-numbingly stone cold eveeeeeeel as we'll ever get in the White House. I guess I'll have to find a rebound dictator to help me get over it. Anybody have Kim Jong Il's number?

The Quote Jumble: Vegas Edition

(The Innaugural Edition of an as-of-yet non-recurring feature)

If you've said it once, you've said it a thousand times; nothing captures the spirit of a story like uncredited source quotes taken completely out of context. Well we here at Bigmouth agree wholeheartedly, and have chosen the occasion of a recent bachelor party in Las Vegas ( Perhaps attended by the author, perhaps not. What are you, a lawyer?) to use as a template upon which to focus that most magical of storytellers' lenses ( Whew. That was a long way to avoid a dangling participle.) Onward to the jumble!

"He said it would be weird being the only girl at dinner. I said it sounded like fun." "Dude! You're funny... we should do some illegal shit later on together." "What were you doing upstairs, extracurricular activities?" "Location?" "Is that the white Baron Davis?" "This is the first and last picture we're taking this weekend. Everybody clear on that?" "Are you in town for the construction convention?" "Bachelor parties are my specialty!" "Thanks for sniffing out the hooker for us." "No seriously. I can't be around any drugs or I could lose my job." "He's not the bachelor! He's already married!" "We stayed up all night and re-invented the wheel, at least three times." "I wasn't exactly sitting on a stack of Bibles when I met her." "A Mormon bachelorette party? Let's go steal their ginger ale." "Whoa, somebody call 911." "This techno music goes great with my irregular heartbeat." "I woke up last night and it took me two whole minutes to find my arms." "The hotel pool isn't the greatest place for a vison quest." "Jim Morrison and a naked indian should be here any minute." "How are things back in the Shire?" "Would you put your feet in my Ugg boots?" "I don't like you. You're funnier than me." "I don't think I have that in my fanny pack." "I know everything about Romania. I'll blow your mind." "It's a 15 minute loan! Fuck you guys!" "Let's make that magic happen now." "Somebody owes me $4.99." "I can sum this up in two words: Dudes and money." "Most forms of German food are phallic." "I bet her hair smells nice, too." "She was from Alaska? Did she have all her teeth?" "Oh look at my goth uniform, my life is so miserable." "I got a sack full of quarters right here. I'm gonna go down to Fremont and make it hail." "We need more dudes on this Dude Bus. Wait, we need new dudes!" "It's not Pac Man Jones, is it?" "What, I can't test out the merchandise?" "Bring me a helmet for these beers and then you can sit down." "I AM being gentle." "Marry you? I would never even date you!" "This town loves a sucker, and tonight that sucker is me." "Here comes the anxiety." "By the time we got home he'd already re-decorated the bathroom." "I've taken the day off tomorrow, for religious reasons."

Almost feel like you were there, don't ya? God bless you, quote jumble, and all who made you possible.

Yo Bama

(Big Mouth Note: Things are about to get political up in here. Proceed with caution, dear reader.)

Recently Bill Clinton made a statement referring to Barrack Obama as "America's imaginary hip black friend" and added that the country didn't need a fairytale like that in the White House. Poor Bill. He's in danger of being replaced as the country's first black president, and he knows it.

Of course, Bubba is right. We don't need an imaginary hip black friend. We need a real one. And as far as I can tell, Obama is that man. I would go as far as saying that EVERYONE needs a hip black friend, and the good ol' US&A is at the top of that list. Let's face it: we're lame. Unpopular.
Unfriendly. And so uncool. We're like Ned Flanders' alcoholic twin brother. Who the hell wants to hang out with THAT guy? Well the hip black guy still does, and he's got a makeover for you that just might work.

Your hip black friend can improve so many facets of your life. First and foremost, he makes you look cooler to everyone who sees you with him. If the United States walked into a club with Barrack Obama, the rest of the world would think, "Damn, that must be a pretty cool country if that guy's hanging out with him." It's called street cred, and it's something that a ball-busting woman and a fiery old man can't get you.

Secondly, your hip black friend can get you into places that you couldn't go to before. There's a whole world (more fried plantains, papi?) out there that the US doesn't know about because we essentially don't know the handshake at the door. Nobody wants the loudmouth capitalist pig ruining their exotic evening, and now they don't have to worry. "You're with him? Si papi, es bueno."

Finally, and most importantly, your hip black friend can get you laid. This is the inevitable combination of points 1 and 2, as long as you've paid close attention and learned something while hanging out with your new homey. We're in the position we are as a country right now because nobody wants to get into bed with us. This in turn makes us cranky and angry to the point that we end up lashing out at people who have nothing to do with us and our lonely little existence. It's the motivation behind every bar fight (or war) you've ever seen. The only dudes throwing down are the ones not getting any lovin (or oil).

So wake up America. There's a world party going on and you haven't been invited. But there's someone knocking at your door with an invitation in his pocket, and it reads, "Obama + 1". Barrack, let's rock.

So Insanely Super

I love football. And commercials. Overall spectacle and grandiosity for no apparent reason? Count me in! So logic would dictate that I am absolutely geeked out of my bald little head in anticipation of the Super Bowl later this week... but oh, how logic fails us come the end of January.

It isn't that I dislike the Super Bowl. It's just that, well, I could care less. Because let's be honest, it's not about any of the aforementioned things above that I love. It is in fact, about nothing at all, and not in the amusing Seinfeldian way, either. It has nothing to do with football (the game is always a terrible blowout), nothing to do with entertainment ( it went from pop crap at halftime to geezer crap at halftime in the flash of a nipple), and nothing to do with funny commercials (Jessica Simpson likes Pizza Hut? That's hilarious!). It is the biggest collection of nothing, nobody's and never-should-haves on the planet, and the result is that the entire planet tunes in.

I understand that we're the biggest, richest country in the world, and that we can throw a party whenever we want. I'm well aware that football is our nation's most popular sport. And I'm all for having as many national holidays as we can muster (Saved by the Bell Appreciation Day? Anyone?). But seeing Howie Long interviewing Nick Lachey about his favorite Doritos ad while Willie Nelson soundchecks in the background for his duet with Hannah Montana as part of American Idol's Tribute to Ol' Dirty Bastard isn't super at all... it's just stupid.

The Dilemma

"I try not to call a guy a douchebag anymore, you know, at least until I get to know him."

- Brad Thorne, professional man of leisure

We've all been there. You're sitting at the bar with your buddy, having a drink, and in walks a beautiful girl, followed by some dude. And that's all he is; just some dude. He could be a rocket scientist or an insurance salesman. A trust-fund baby or a 9 to 5er. And yet, whatever redemptive qualities this man possesses, whatever positive effects he may currently have on society, his crime is clear: He is some dude with a hot girl, and that makes him a douchebag. You can hear the words flying out of your mouth as soon as you spot him, can't you? The mocking tones of your jealousy, formed like concrete and steadfast in their reliability. "What a DOUCHEbag!" you will say, emphasizing the first word with sincerity to gain the nodding approval of your drinking buddy. And you will mean it, every last syllable of it, but you won't know why.

And so the dilemma, dear friends, rears its ugly head once again. Why such a rush to judgment? Where has our solidarity with our fellow man gone? Is there really no greater crime, no more offensive blight on humanity, than enjoying the attention of an attractive female? Or better still, is it so repulsive to actively pursue such a woman in hopes of gaining her company?

The answer  lies in another simple but unsightly truth: The man is a douchebag not because he is with a fine specimen of the opposite sex, but because he is someone you don't know who is enjoying the company of said female. Only ourselves and our circle of friends are worthy of accompanying women of such high caliber, and everyone else be damned. 

But choose your words carefully, fella. There's actual douchebags with hot girls roaming around your fair city as we speak, and you're wasting all of your venom on some average joe who may very well deserve that fox on his arm. Save the verbal firepower for Mr. Muscle Beach with the faux hawk, or the dorm-room hero banging out the entire Dave Matthews catalog on his six string. The guy with the barb-wire tattoo and indecipherable chinese characters on his tight t-shirt? DOUCHEBAG. The normal dude with the hottest girl in the bar? LEGEND.

My Teef Hurt

As I was sitting in the dentist's chair yesterday, having my gums scraped by a metal fish hook, I began to wonder why technology has completely abandoned this profession. There's people walking around with fully replicated synthetic limbs, sheep are being cloned, and lasers are everywhere but Dr. Evil's shark tank. Yet the dentist's office looks like some kind of medieval executioner's lair where you'll be drawn and quartered. What gives? Are dentists not medical professionals? Do they not receive medical training? I sumbit that they are, and they do, so bring the 'ol tool kit out of the dark ages and start demanding updates already. An educated guess would put the development of all these instruments of pain somewhere around the same time period that doctors were employing leeches to do some of their most important work. Call me crazy, but it doesn't exactly set me at ease when I sit down in a chair, look to my left, and see one of the set pieces from Hostel, only to be followed by the phrase, "Open wide."

And the tools aren't the only thing outdated. Even the toothpaste they use is some strange amalgamation of sidewalk chalk and sweet tarts. Is it too much to ask to get some Crest in the house? Those 4 out of 5 dentists recommending all these toothpastes might wanna get the word out a little better and start dishing some samples to their brethren, because I feel like I've just had my gums rubbed with tangy sand.

MEMO TO CRAZY PEOPLE

Please stop being attracted to me. Seriously. I know I’m nice and fairly easy to talk to, but it’s starting to become bothersome. I realize I’m handsome in a realistic, highly attainable sort of way, but now it’s downright annoying. I like being able to pick up my phone at will without screening the call. I enjoy reading email from people whom I’ve willingly given my address. Sorry, but if I’ve denied a friend request on one social networking site, I’m probably going to respond the same when you try it from five other ones. It’s not like I’ll have a lapse in judgment all of a sudden or conveniently forget that you’re insane. Inconsistency like that just isn’t my thing. Which means it probably won’t work out between us, because I’d be reminding you to take your meds all the time, and you’d want to keep your doses erratic, like you’ve always done. Hey, I get it. I have no right to try and change you. You’re beautiful just the way you are, and I’m sure you’ll find someone co-dependant very soon.

But you’re not going to find someone else while you’re driving by my house everyday. At this point, even my roommates won’t date you. Banging on the front door at 4 a.m. wakes them up too, you know.

New Rules

It's a new year, so it's time for some new rules...

Rule #1: No More "Cheesy Christmas Sweater Parties"
You've got 11 months to let this one sink in, so don't get all outraged if you threw one this year. Just don't do it ever again. I got invited to 5 of these things this past holiday season, including one that was a work party. I'm sorry, but when the theme hits the office extravaganza, it's no longer clever or ironic. Pick a new theme. ( Special exemption goes to Robin, Ian and Kelly's. Theirs is awesome.)

Rule #2: No More "Getting Crunk"
Again, no longer clever or ironic. I understand that there's a funny 'lil rapper guy, and he yells a lot, and he's got a pimp chalice, and he was on Dave Chappelle's show blah bah blah. It doesn't mean you need to respond to every Evite in your inbox by claiming how "crunk" you're gonna get (see following rule). Hearing white people say it is about as cool as a cold sore. Cut it out.

Rule #3: No More Evites
Yes, it's an email invitation. No, it's not neccesary. I struggled with this one myself because I actually enjoy writing those things ( and I'm damn good at it), but let's face it: they're pointless. Just send a regular email, give the neccesary information, and be done with it. Either you get a hundred people who respond and then don't show up, or you get no responses and a hundred people at the door. The unfortunate truth is that we all like to look at those things everyday until the party because we want to gauge our own popularity. Well guess what... if no one shows up, then you're not that popular. Wasn't that easy?

Rule #4: No More "Cougars"
Again, I struggled mightily with this rule, for my own personal history with predatory older women is quite storied. Yet still I shout,"Enough!" There are two major problems with this whole subject. First of all, the word has become so ubiquitous that everyone from "Entertainment Tonight" reporters to Oprah to my own mother is dropping it into their conversations. Here's a hint: Anything that Ryan Seacrest's glue-filled head can read off a teleprompter is lamer than a Creed reunion tour. Secondly, since when is desperation empowering? A real "cougar" is a lonely older woman who needs the affection of a younger man to feel younger or prettier or well, anything at all. Demi Moore gets enough liposuction to start a soap factory and all of a sudden she's a figure of female pride and strength? REALLY?

Morrisey Construction Co.

So yes, I did take the name of this blog from a Smiths song, but no, I'm not some raging Morrisey fan. How could I be? I'm not a depressed Latino teenager. But I do have two quick Moz-related anecdotes:

1. When I was in college I was hanging out at a bar with this girl and we were amusing ourselves by writing stuff on each other's arms with a sharpie marker. For some (drunken) reason I wrote, "The Queen Is Dead" on her arm, and she freaked out cuz she was a huge Smiths fan apparently. "Do you like The Smiths?" she asked, to which I replied the only way you can to a hipster girl to gain any kind of credibility. "Yeah, but I like their earlier stuff better." Young romeos, take note: this response can be applied to any band in the history of the world and it will make you sound like the most knowledgeable music aficionado in the universe. Don't say I never gave you anything, kids.

2. I was driving by a construction site once and the sign on the fence said, "Morrisey Construction Co." on it. I immediately pictured Morrisey with a hard-hat sitting on top of his greased pompador, ordering around a bunch of workers melodramatically. The crew, of course, would not be your typical migrant workers, but rather, the clinically-depressed hispanic emo kids that make up the singer's cult following. Hijinks and shenanigans would inevitably ensue.

Did somebody say sitcom?

What It Is, And What It Ain't

Greetings and Salutations dear reader... let me be the first to welcome you to Big Mouth Strikes Again. Actually, I'll probably be the only welcoming you, because who the hell else would be welcoming you to MY blog? I suppose I could've hired a welcoming committee to hand out punch and pie, slapped a party hat on and smacked a pinata upside its ass. Or coerced some of your closest friends to hide around your computer desk, waiting patiently as you made your way over to this salty little corner of the internet to yell "Suprise!" as the Big Mouth page loaded. Seems like a lot of work for a silly little blog though, doesn't it? I agree. So don't worry about any pompous celebrations or self-congratulating speeches, cuz that's not how things work around here at Big Mouth. All you're going to get is me and all the weird theories, observations and obsessions swimming around in my bald little brain. And that's pompous and self-congratulating enough for all of us.