So goes the flows down to your toes so’s you knows, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers
Rick Santorum is so conservative, he thinks doggy style is what a pet groomer gives.
Rick Santorum is so conservative, he thinks a rim job is a guide at the Grand Canyon.
Tim Tebow is headed for the New York Jets; to celebrate the hookers in Times Square are offering a Tebow: for an extra $20 they’ll only drop to one knee.
“Jersey Shore” Mike (The Situation) Serrentino is in rehab; apparently you can get addicted to being a douche bag.
A woman engrossed with making an appointment on her phone fell into icy cold Lake Michigan and had to be rescued by her husband. The ironic part? She was scheduling her iPhone addicts meeting.
Two California men on a gay cruise were arrested in the Caribbean for having sex on the deck of the ship. When asked if it happened near the Caymen Islands – where gay cruise ships are banned – one passenger said; “Caymen my ass.” (variation on old Craig Kilborn joke)
Ashton Kucher is set go into outer space on Virgin Galactic; is it just me, or does Virgin Galactic sound like a contradiction? Like Powerfully Impotent.
“Jersey Shore” Mike (The Situation) Serrentino is in rehab; now, I don’t want to imply “The Situation” is a douche bag, but he is being treated for abusing vinegar and water.
Tim Tebow is headed for the New York Jets; hey Tim, in New York, when you think you hear somebody talking in tongues, it is just a thick Long Island accent.
Mitt Romney is so rich he doesn’t play Words with Friends, he plays Words with the Help.
Since you asked:
Have decided to go with two really annoying affectations. The first is stolen from Phil Dunphy from “Modern Family” where I announce the category of the word I use that sounds like hello before I answer the phone:
“What does hospital food taste like? Jello.”
“What does Yo Yo Ma play? Cello.”
The other annoying affectation is I will call anything odd or unusual Beezer. A derivation on Bizarre.
That is all for now.
What makes the Jim Morrison hotel room so fascinating is not just the seediness - it makes my depression- inducing studio apartment in Long Beach look palatial - but that it was Morrison's choice. Yes, he and his wife, Pam, rented a shack literally in back of the Laurel Canyon Country Store, but this hotel room was his crash pad of choice.
Morrison had the ways and the means to live on the beach in Malibu, in an estate in Beverly Hills with a stable of polo ponies, or in a glorious hotel penthouse in downtown L.A.
For most of his rock star life, most accounts had Morrison's possessions listed as a Mustang convertible, an American Express credit card, two pair of blue jeans and one rancid pair of leather pants, a leather jacket and four or five shirts. Granted money and stuff cannot buy happiness, but he seemed to be going after miserableness.
Granted, by this time Morrison was a fat, drunk drug-addict, but he could have been surfing, he could have been flying his own plane, he could have been hosting amazing parties at a cookout in Laurel Canyon. Even Charles Manson was having acid orgies and riding motorcycles and dune buggies in the desert.
Morrison chose to drink himself stupid in a dive bar and pass out in a cockroach infested sweaty little dump. Yes, I love the Doors music, but I think their legacy as a great band is overrated. Turns out the most overrated thing was Morrison's rock star life.
If I woke up in that hotel room I would grab myself a beer too. The future was uncertain and the end really was near.