Don't Hate On My Exhaustion

Tonight, I'm working on all things Kenny Powers, so in the meantime, enjoy this:

I want a tattoo of that.  Thanks, interwebs!

Look How Cute He Is...I Fuckin’ Hate Him.

Okay, so Chapter 16 of Eastbound and Down should be renamed to “Shit Texas Says, and Why Ashlee Wants to Bone Him:  A Lifetime Original” Seriously, Matthew McConaughey’s Roy character was on fire this episode.  I don’t care if he’s gay; I’ve got the urge to send him Olivia Munn-esque instructional picture sexts that say things like, “Nibble on these,” or “My asshole is right where that arrow is pointing, and it’s saved just for you.”  Mmm, damn.

Anyways, there was an element of tragedy in this week’s episode.  Just when I was warming up to Shane-Dog, and even predicted he was going to make some serious power plays, he had to go fuck it up.  This post is obviously not spoiler-proof, but for those who haven’t seen Chapter 16 yet, I’ll let your imaginations run wild as to what brought on Shane’s untimely end.  With him out, I guess I still have Stevie to count on for mixing up the scoreboard.  Someone else who might make a dent in the upcoming episodes is our newbie, Ivan, the young Russian pitcher that can plant 103 mph fast balls down the line.  Kenny understandably hates him, but I don’t mind the young one.  He’s got wild teeth, and unlike virtually all Russian men I’ve met at bars, he openly admitted that he likes America.  Fuck yeah, buddy! 

So, with all this shit going on, I’m going to need you to hit the ground running, okay?  We’re gonna have to unfortunately convert the dojo into Toby’s room.  I’m gonna need you to baby-proof this bitch up.  Stash all the weapons, make it kid-friendly.  You will use my computer research lab as your sleeping chambers.  There is a bed for each of you.  Once upon a time, I believed in destiny, but now I say ‘F’ that ‘B’.  Let’s get to the numbers.

I Think His Body’s Rejecting the Pepsi.

Dawg, you gotta stay with me.  I’m moving very fast today, come ON.  I do not have time to play Inspector Gadget with your emotions, but I will say I’m sah-wry for posting this Eastbound and Down Chapter 15 recap mere hours before the airing of “next week’s” episode.  I made a promise last week to be more prompt with my recaps, but apparently, my fuckery knows no bounds.  Without divulging too much, I’ll just say the excuse for my post’s tardiness is that this last week, I decided to be a big baby about some personal things.  Stupid fuckin’ baby.  But oh well, let’s get past this!  Spring is on the horizon, and I’ve got a very important Who’s Fucking In, Who’s Fucking Out count to tally! 

So, Chapter 15 was really weird, right?  This episode really skirted the line…as to who this show is really for.  Is it rednecks or smart people?  Or, is the show trying to play smashy smashy to both crowds?  Whatever the writers were smoking, I’d say it didn’t pan out as well as they’d hoped.  The episode started strong for the first half, and then right after Kenny walked into Ashley Shaeffer’s Kia dealership, the show turned into a Will Farrell movie.  And not one of those funny ha-ha Farrell movies like Roxbury, Elf, and select parts of Drowning Mona, Old School and Zoolander, but rather one of those god-awful self-aggrandizing productions like Talladega, Stepbrothers, Semi-Pro, and select parts of Anchorman.  Like many other good drug appreciators, I know that sometimes it’s best to appreciate drugs from afar.  Sure, it’s fun as hell to get wasted with buddies and film one of them dressed up as an Asian concubine, but your trip passes the point of no return when the loudest friend in the room decides to air the footage.

Relax.  The episode wasn’t depraved or so downright imbecilic to the point of it not being watchable. I still had a lot of fun with it, and that’s an uplifting realization when I consider that this show has raised the bar so high on entertainment in general, that even its shittiest episode is well done.  Alright, now without further ado…

This Gorgeous Sunset Is Rockin’ My Nuts Off.

So, I know it’s like, mere days before Chapter 15 (episode 2 of season 3) of Eastbound & Down, but after much deliberation, I decided I must recap the episodes of what is expected to be the last season of my favorite show on television.  I need to tell you two things before we get under way. 

1.  So as not to be too much of a spoiler to those who haven’t seen the following episode yet, I’ve limited these recaps to a “Who’s Fucking In, Who’s Fucking Out” power points system.  The setup is very simple:  If a character on the show does something that’s fucking righteous, then he or she gets points for being “Fucking In”.  If the vice versa happens, and a character displays uncool or pussy-ish behavior, he or she gets points docked, and perilously becomes closer to being “Fucking Out”.  Points will be tallied all the way to the end of the season, and both the ultimate victor and ultimate loser will be revealed.  Fun, right? 

2.  Some of you out there may not watch Eastbound and Down for moral reasons, or for the singular fact that you don’t have cable right now.  For those in the latter category, I feel your pain.  Cable’s fucking expensive, I know!  Like I mentioned before, these recaps aren’t meant to be total spoilers, so feel free to peak and participate via the comments section if you want.  Let me be your steward in this journey through Kenny Powers’ psyche.  For those of you that actually refuse to watch this show for ethical reasons…we’re kind of running out of shit to say to each other.  Gettin’ a little awkward.  Let’s call it a wash, and just enjoy the rest of the blog.

Now, let’s get to it.  You know what I think you need?  I think I should call a fuckin’ sitter.  And then you and I should go out for a bomb-ass evening in fucking Myrtle Beach, proper, fuckin’ awesome-style.  I think it would do you and I both some good to get out and have some fun without the baby pulling us down for once.  I think I’m getting tongue-tied here.  Basically, I think it’s high time you set that pussy free. Set it free.  Set that pussy free.

I Think You Mean...Piñacoladaburg.

Since I've been in a bad way for the last couple of weeks, I figured it'd be a good time to throw a PAXTON BOMB all over my front page to cheer myself up:

That's better.  I thought I might mash it up, and turn this into a Paxton-Tommy Wiseau match, but that man deserves another post entirely.  So, what else have you got, Bill?

Nice.  I think I'm starting to crack a smile.  But what I really need to see is lots of teeth and tongue.

Damn.  You have no idea how many times my sister and I attempted that trick at family outings when we were kids (to the point that my mom would have to pack extra plastic cutlery everywhere we went).  Now, gimme something I can snap my fingers to.

Love how you handed it to that bitch that dared compare you to Jimmy Buffet.  Loved you as a punk in Terminator with the tire tread marks painted all over your face!  And I especially love the fact that Big Love has been canceled (for your sake, not for Chloë Sevigny's) because now you can shed that boring, one-note, polygamous husk they kept you in all that time, and resume starring in every James Cameron film known to man.

Thanks, Bill. :)

Love.

No! I'm Too Young!

I almost spilt my beer when my mom called me out over the phone last week for not inviting her or dad to my wedding that happened nearly six years ago.  “That was so…mean,” she choked.  Seated cross-legged, I puffed on my cigarette twice before answering.  My eyes impulsively fixed on my own reflection in the standing mirror placed clumsily near the corner of the smoking lounge (read:  freezing cold ‘sun room’ of my apartment).  Only a minute ago, we were having such a great conversation about the Clutter family murders of 1959, one of those “we never talk, but Now. We. Are. TALKING!” type of tête-à-têtes only nearly estranged mothers and daughters can share.  Now my heart was racing, and a black hole was forming around the outline of my face in the mirror.  “Keep it honest,” I thought quietly.  “You’re never honest with her.”  Suddenly, for no good reason at all, I went into hyper-revelation mode that resembled something disturbingly like this:

The Hick From The Crypt

About a month ago, I went to a bar called the Spot to celebrate three of my friends’ birthdays that were all within the same week.  For whatever nostalgic purposes, they pick the Spot every year, and even though I give my computer screen a Katherine Heigl-esque Fart Face every time I open the birthday invitation, I always go because of my friends’ unparalleled magnificence, and the fact that I rarely get to see them since they’re spread all over the valley now.