Hottywood Randoms #1

Everyone now and then I tend to speak out of the side of my neck, which incidentally once got me hired at a side show carnival. That job didn’t last, though. I kept getting into small arguments with the midget clowns.

ANYWAY, I thought it would be fun to share some of the shit I think about when the voices in my head are giving me the silent treatment.

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Are Blind Dates Worth the Trouble?

My dear, poor, unsuspecting friends; we need to have a little chat about something we all know about but are sometimes too shy (or embarrassed) to discuss.  BLIND DATES.

Blind dates are not always all bad.  They’re not always all good either – unless you have a horse shoe up your ass – but most people aren’t that lucky (unless you consider having a horse shoe up your ass lucky at all).  So today we’re going to discuss a few key signs that indicate if you’re on your way to a successful blind date or something that’s quite the opposite.

THE INITIAL CONVERSATION 

Every blind date begins with a series of simple telephone conversations (or in this day and age, email, instant or text messages).  Whatever the case, these are typical introductory conversations where both parties try to paint beautiful pictures of themselves with washable paint.  Don’t be fooled by the initial blind date pre-face convo.  Whether over the phone or on paper, this potential person may sound like you just want to stick them in your back pocket.  The voice coming from the other end of the receiver or the other side of the computer screen gives you a false sense of hope, expectation, and anticipation for something that would be no less better than wolfing down a liter of flat soda and a stale bag of popcorn.

In a nutshell, this convo is usually a set up for a major let down.  However, the initial conversation will probably be the highlight of the date itself.  Stick around and you’ll find out why.

MEETING FOR THE FIRST TIME 

Meeting that blind date for the first time is the moment of do or die.  There’s a part of you that knows if you don’t go through with ringing the door bell or opening the front door for that “potential could-be,” you’ll kick yourself in the shin for depriving yourself of something that could be a sure thing.  However, you could also be introducing yourself to a big bag of shame.  Always keep in mind that in this very moment, you are either in for a few hours of great fun, conversation and company, or a seemingly endless amount of boredom, acute disgust, and/or ideas for revenge for the idiot who thought you and this non-date-worthy schmuck would be a match made in heaven.

Whether you’re pleased with the view from the outer exterior of the person you’ll be sharing the next few hours with or not, you’ve only come upon the first test.  There’s still a small inspection that must take place that will dictate this person’s character a little more than the fluffy initial conversation(s) you may have shared prior to meeting for the first time.

Below are a few tips that will shed some light on the person’s consideration of self, company or situation.  These tips tell how this person sees him/herself and in some cases, their relationships.

  • If you step on a pile of potato chip crumbs somewhere between the living room and the dining room, chances are this person is a pure slob who doesn’t know how to keep house.  They also can’t keep secrets and surely has something hiding in the closet, just waiting to fall out.
  • If there are piles of bread crumbs on the dining room table, keep an eye out for ants.  Where there are crumbs, there are ants.  Either your date is one trifling mofo (motherf*cker) who simply lets the chips fall where they may (metaphorically and literally) or you’re going to be charged extra for bringing a pig to the restaurant instead of a person who knows how to eat respectably and excuse themselves from the table when it comes time to fart before the after-dinner mints.
  • If there are onion peels on the dining room floor, your date will most likely have a problem with personal hygiene.  It’s a proven fact in a book that hasn’t been written yet that onion peels equate to having a closeted funky underarm problem.  Or worse.  An underarm odor in places other than the underarms!
  • If your date utilizes any time telling you about past surgeries, hospital visits or major or minor ailments, they’re probably crazy and you’d do better to run for the border now.  If you’ve never believed it before, believe now that misery is happiest when it has company!

AFTER DINNER KISS

By the time dinner has concluded, your ears have probably bled from all of the listening to nothing you’ve indulged in over the course of the last couple of hours.  Either that or your eyeballs have fallen out of their sockets because you didn’t want anyone to notice how embarrassed you were to be in the company of someone who is obviously below your standards.  Hell, below anyone’s standards! 

The bottom line is though you’re at the end of the date, believe it or not, the catastrophe has only just begun.  You’ve now come to the point of needing to figure out one good reason to bypass the good night kiss.  This usually happens somewhere around the invitation back inside for a nightcap, cup of coffee, or…you guessed it, crunchy cheese curls.  Now if you were smart, you would’ve been thinking about an excuse the moment all your hopes and dreams were shattered when you saw your date for the very first time.

Never go out on a date — first or otherwise — without having a good reason for skipping over the good night kiss; even if it means stopping by your local novelty shop first, to pick up a pack of ass-breath chewing gum.

You always have three options to get out of the good night kiss; (1) come up with a good lie or excuse for not kissing at all (which we’ve covered in the previous paragraph) before meeting up with the date; (2) rip your lips off completely (which isn’t most likely, otherwise you’d be just as f*cked up as your date); or (3) sew your lips together with needle and thread.  Honestly, you’d kill two birds with one stone by stitching your lips together.  By using such a dramatic force of act, what you’d actually be saying (or implying since your lips would be sealed shut) is, “I don’t want to kiss you and I don’t want to discuss why the hell I don’t want your lips touching mine.”  It’s simple and to the point.  It may not be very nice, but who cares?  You know damn well that you have no intention of seeing this person ever again, so manners aren’t necessary.

Now let’s recap.  How can you tell if your blind date is aiming for a nose-dive straight to hell?  Notice the table crumbs, critter infestations, framed hospital photos, onion peels, table manners, chappage of the lips (yes, I made up a word)  and finally the conversation or lack thereof.

Peeping out a bad blind date isn’t that hard to do.  The signs smack you in the face like a heat wave.  You just have to know what to look for, or at least know how much you’re willing to take before you abandon the date altogether to go play in oncoming traffic.


Quote of the week:   “Some relationships fail because people change and forget to tell each other.”

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Who Ate the Last Chicken Wing?

Guys and gals, it’s time that we sit down and have a little interrogation chat about something that’s even more important than world peace – a little matter of who the hell ate the last chicken wing?! 

Eating a man’s last chicken wing is like asking a woman about her age or weight.  You just don’t frikkin do it unless you’re trying to get your ass kicked!  It ranks up there with carjacking, lying and retail false advertisement.  Sure, a guilty culprit may lick the grease off their finger tips or wipe them clean on the fabric of their shirt or jeans, but the evidence lies in the pores of their skin and the aroma of their breath.  And a true chicken fanatic can sniff out the guilty like dogs sniff each other’s butts.

Evidence is eminent.  There is the trail of chicken crumbs; hot sauce stains; and grease-flavored belches.  There is the tummy rub; the heavy eyelids; and the smile of cured hunger satisfaction.  But the one thing that every last-chicken-wing-eating-thief fails to remember is that the last chicken wing usually has someone else’s name written all over it.  And when chicken lovers come back to the table to find that the last wing has been polished off, all hell breaks loose and no one is safe!  Especially if that last wing belongs to ME!

Women love diamonds.  Men love football.  Children love candy.  Old people love prunes.  Young people love booze.  But what about all those folks who scrape up their last dime for a single fix of a box of wings?  Popeyes, KFC, Golden Skillet, Wings & Things, House of Wings, New York Fried Chicken, Church’s Fried Chicken, and even Bojangles makes a killing off of people who are ashamed to enter a 12-step wing anonymous program, and you mean to tell me that there is someone in the world who thinks it’s okay for a greedy mofo to come along and snatch the last wing like a scavenger?  Even pigeons have more couth.

Now if you really want to piss someone off, don’t call them out of their name; don’t insult their intelligence; don’t even miscalculate their change.  Eat their last piece of chicken.  Just be prepared to run for the border because an ass whooping is on its way like a bill collector coming to collect a debt!

Actually, let me paint a more specific picture.

If you or anyone from your entourage decide to sit down for a meal with Hottywood, you can be sure there will be some deep fried chicken wings on the menu.  You can also be sure that when it comes down to the last piece, your fingers better be bound inside your pockets, ‘cause Hotty don’t play that!  Now I may have posed the question of who ate the last wing from the previous meal I shared with a few compulsive wing eaters, but trust me, that question was asked merely to warn the guilty perpetrator.  Because if there’s one thing that never lies, it’s my nose!  I can sniff out some bullsh*t and I can sniff out some chicken wings.  And I will find you!

“Watch your back ’cause I’m coming for you, sucka!”

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Quote of the week:   “A greedy father has thieves for children.”

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Resolutions Under Construction

My stomach is still full from Thanksgiving and I have yet to buy any Christmas gifts for anyone else (so far I’ve made five gift purchases and they are all TO me FROM me).  Since my timeline is all screwed up, I might as well get a jump on my New Year’s Resolutions.

This go round I’m not going to write the typical stuff like eat only two Big Macs from McDonald’s instead of three, or lose weight in my pinky toe, or speak profane language only after 5pm, or stop doing it to people with whom I have no emotional connection, because I can’t be honest with myself or you and say I’m going to stop doing any of these things.  I will however, say I’m going to try my best to do the following:

  1. Eat more stuff… Oh, I guess I should finish. …that makes me feel good (enter McDonald’s Big Macs).
  2. Poop frequently.
  3. Pick fights with shoes and pillows (because I have nothing better to do with my time).
  4. Smell things that look interesting. I’m sure this will get me into a lot of trouble, but will lead to the most interesting stories.
  5. Be less scared of telephones and strangers.
  6. Run outside and randomly yell more.
  7. Fart without shame.
  8. Worry less about things I can’t eat or play with.
  9. Lose weight. Again.
  10. Don’t get caught. Again.
  11. Spend less than $17485975662536.00 at the Dollar Store.
  12. Make better bad decisions.

Don’t worry. There’s plenty more where that came from.

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Twas the Night Before Christmas in the Hood

By Hottywood Helps

Twas the night before Christmas, all was said and done

Not a creature stirred, not a roach, rat or bum.

The stockings were hung on the radiator with fear

That St. Nicholas would knock it over like he did last year.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

High from the weed that had gone to their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our skins from a long booty clap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a noise,

Someone’s car was being jacked by some random masked boys.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

To make sure it wasn’t my car or I’d have to kick someone’s ass.

The moonlight bounced off the oil stained snow

Which pissed off the property manager and the neighborhood ho.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a pimped out sleigh and mutts dressed as reindeer.

With a little old driver shifting gears on the stick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his curse words came,

He whistled, and slurred, and called the bitches by name!

“Now Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the hood and over that wall!

Don’t piss on the roof or else I’ll slip and fall!

The bare naked trees that stood tall in the sky

Were blocking the vision of my already bad eyes.

To the roof of the projects the pimped ride flew,

With a bag of IOU’s and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

St. Nicholas falling into a pile of dog poop.

He was wiping his butt when I turned around.

St. Nick wasn’t as jolly as you’d expect him to sound.

He was dressed all in leather, from his head to his feet,

He gave me a head nod instead of using words to speak.

He carried with him a bundle of toys

That he’d stolen from other little girls and boys.

His eyes were red from the liquor he drank.

His breath was all stinky.  Santa was tanked!

He was mad from the poop that was smeared on his clothes,

Either that or from when he accidentally rubbed his nose.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

The same as the crackhead’s from down the street.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

I think he had the munchies because he asked for some jelly.

Stoned or drunk, he was a giant old midget

That was stealing, not giving, and couldn’t control his fidget.

A wink of his eye cloaked with Christmas care

Made me think I should probably be scared.

He spoke not a word, he made not a sound,

But as I predicted knocked the radiator to the ground.

When the children woke up, out of the window he flew,

Santa had done what he’d come to do.

He left us with nothing but a note under the tree

That read, “Next year Christmas is on me.”

I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas next year ’cause tonight is my night!”

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[REPOST] Dear Santa: Real Talk

A LETTER TO OLD ST. NICK

Dear Santa,

I’ve been thinking.  For the last couple of days I’ve had the pleasure of going all ‘Terminator’ on those barricuda Christmas shoppers at the mall.  As much as I’d love to say I enjoyed getting toys snatched out of my hands, my feet stepped on and my face scratched by some old lady because my shopping cart was blocking hers, I have to admit that this year’s Christmas shopping experience has been one great big ball of cow poo!  With that in mind, I wonder what you would do if your ass didn’t have those little brown-nosing elves to get all of your Christmas shopping out of the way, and eight reindeer to fly you over traffic jams, bird-flipping drivers and cops who are itching to give you a ticket.


I bet you wouldn’t handle it so well would you?  By the end of your experience, you’d probably be somewhere in a bar getting completely wasted.  Trust me, there are about 30 million, give or take another 30 million people – plus me, who end up in a bar fight after Christmas shopping.  If you think that’s bad, just wait until the post-Christmas sales.   I’d pay to see the look on your face if you had to deal with that.

Goodness gracious, Santa, I see why your hair is white and you’re so fat.  You are under a lot of stress.  You’re probably getting drunk all the time.  Santa, are you an alcoholic?  Is that why you have reindeer chauffeuring you around vs. you driving a big old U-Haul truck? Well, any way, what goes on in your home isn’t my business until it hits prime time news.  So enough of the drunk-Santa jokes.  Actually Santa, I kind of feel for you. While we regular Joes only have to shop for our small families, you have to shop for the entire world.  You have to be mindful of the old, the dirty, the unpleasing, the ungrateful, the arrogant, the evil and the rude.  That has to be a job in itself, attempting to satisfy those who are never satisfied at all.  Who could blame you for getting smashed?

You’re probably in cahoots with drug dealers, bank robbers and psychiatrists, because I couldn’t imagine any sane, sober person attempting to take on the challenge that you’ve committed yourself to.  And that sweet old Mrs. Claus is probably some bitter old skank who can’t count to –5- and only bakes burnt cookies to pay you back for keeping her trapped all the way in the North Pole.  She can’t even get any because you’re out shopping all year for other people.  She’s probably always PMSing because she’s too far away from civilization to have an affair; and no doubt the elves are out of the question. And in your spare time, you probably only have time to practice your aim for when you sh*t bricks down the chimneys of everyone who mocked you all year long, leaving yourself too grumpy to shut Mrs. Claus up and break her off a lil somethin’ somethin’.  Not to mention you’re probably always tired and in a grumpy mood because you’re strapped for cash, having to feed all them damn elves and those hungry ass reindeer.

Geez Santa, I was ready to rip you to shreds.  But now that I understand merely the possibilities of what you have to deal with all year long that we normal folks only have to deal with about 7-14 days out of a year, I’ll let you off the hook.  In fact, I’ll do better than that.  I’ll raise this glass to you in honor of keeping up the tradition of Christmas.  It’s because of your drunk ass that we are guaranteed to get laid on Christmas eve, and if the gift is good enough, on Christmas night too.  Thanks to you, our kids are nicer, our mother-in-laws don’t call, and our employees show up to work on time.

Kudos to you Santa!  Not for being lucky enough not to be the 100th person in the checkout line when the cash registers opens to the 3rd customer; kudos to you for only being fat after having to deal with all of that drama at home.  Just promise me one thing: That you and Mrs. Claus won’t remake any Ike/Tina or Chris/Rihanna Christmas specials.  I don’t think out networks can handle that right now, well not in the midst of our administration shift and all.

Well, that’s about it for now, Santa.  Keep your head up.

~Hottywood


Quote of the Week:    “Get your ass out of the street if you can’t see where you’re going.”

Seven of the Most Perfect Ideas to Give to Someone for Christmas (Clean…sorta, and Cheap)

FotoFlexer_PhotoUnless you were born under a rock or are a descendant of the infamous Ebenezer Scrooge, you know the Christmas season is a time for giving (for those of you that celebrate Christmas). What better time than now to think of some things to give to someone in your life that is so desperately in need? Personally, I can think of a few things to give to some people.

I’ve been writing out a list of perfect gift ideas to give to folk. For example:

Give the gift of:

A clue – Let’s be real. There are some dummies out there who couldn’t find their way out of a cardboard box, though it may be really entertaining to laugh at a nut job that can’t tell the difference between in, out, up and down (I would say left and right but I struggle with left and right myself. And if you tell me to get a clue, I’m going to give you a gift, which ironically is next on my list).

An ass – I can think of more than a few people to give an ass to kiss. Sometimes giving someone a finger (middle finger f**k you sign) isn’t enough. After telling them “f**k you!,” you want to emphasize just how much you really mean it by throwing in one final profane gesture (bending over with your butt exposed, followed by the ever popular demand, “kiss my ass!”).

A nose – All too commonly people lose their noses because they can’t stay out other people’s business. I think every person should have an extra one or simply learn how to keep their noses out of other people’s business. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’re an expert on my life and how I should live it. Please continue while I take notes.”

A job – I’m getting real sick and tired of broke mofos (codename for motherf**ers) asking to borrow money and then not being able to afford to pay it back. Giving someone a gift of a job is a sure way to teach them how to value money, especially when they are being begged to give it away for free with no expectation of getting it back as deceitfully promised.

A life – People with no life of their own spend all their time trying to involve themselves in or control yours. In this process, they lose a nose while being so consumed with minding your business.

An assistant – I’m not going to lie, I am pretty lazy and I don’t always like to say “yes” when asked to do favors for other people. However in order for one to have an assistant, they must first have a job.

A pet goldfish – You can always tell when someone lives alone or has no real friends because all they do is talk while never really saying anything. Please shut up! If you give someone a gift of a goldfish, they can talk to it all they want. Perhaps when the fish dies, that person will attribute their endless and usually unwarranted conversation to the demise of the fish’s life. Suddenly a Run DMC song comes to mind (“You talk too much and you never shut up!”).

There’s no need to thank me for this list. Consider this my gift to you.

-Hottywood

JOY


Quote of the Week:  “I put a lot of thought into asking Siri what to get you for Christmas.”

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Your Luck is About to Change

When the moon crosses paths with Jupiter, you will appear more charming than you actually are. This will be a perfect time to meet a soul mate who has just established a career as a professional parrot feeder.


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Who knew…?

Kats and Kittens,

If I’ve never done anything, I’ve given out some (arguably) good advice while kicking a bit of knowledge here and there. Well, today is no different.

who-knewThe term, “different strokes for different folks,” originated in the bedroom and is now often misconstrued and taken out of its original sexual context. What a bummer.

P.S., you’re welcome.

 


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