Ever wonder what I think about owls and Tootsie Pops? Well, wonder no more.
Author: kenwheaton
You Gonna Have Yourself a Case, I’ma Break Your Face
A little Monday morning jam for you. My cousin Nasen posted something about Rockin’ Sydney’s “Don’t Mess With My Toot Toot” on Facebook this morning and I had to find the song and give it a listen. It’s early yet, but I imagine that entire side of the family plus over half of Ville Platte will comment on his status.
Nasen was probably too young to remember this part, but I have a memory of a bunch of little coonasses walking the grounds of Chicot State Park in Louisiana. Chad, the oldest of the boys, had a huge 1980s jambox perched on his shoulder and we walked around, sweating Deep Woods Off, listening to this Zydeco song like we were the baddest things in the park. Because we were.
Whale vs. Boat: Boat Loses
I guess this Right Whale didn’t like the cut of Intrepid’s jib. So he jumped out of the water and crushed the boat.
Self-Discipline and Your Dead Relationship
I’m a big fan of self-discipline. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m any good at it. Anyone who’s seen my behavior with a bottle of whiskey — or even a tin of Altoid mints — realizes I have control issues. Still, I’m a fan. Give me a goal — a half marathon or a deadline for a novel — and I can be pretty good about self-discipline, especially if there’s a reward at the end.
One other time in life when I seem to have developed pretty decent self-discipline is when standing in the smoking crater of a destroyed relationship. And if I may be allowed to say so, more people should be like me. The world would be a better place.
Case in point. Some time ago, a friend of mine dumped her boyfriend after years of dating. As one would expect, he didn’t react well. None of us ever do when we’re rejected on a personal level after a years-long relationship. (And I think guys are often caught off guard in these situations, because if the woman isn’t nagging or screaming at us, well, the relationship must be perfect, right?) He was angry. And he made this anger known. Initial outbursts are okay, sure. But then you have to bottle up your rage and go home. You’re not going to win her back.
Easier said than done.
Recently my friend told me she’d gone camping. Oh, and that the ex had texted her a couple of times. They were camping-related texts that weren’t so nice. “I hope you get raped by an angry bear.” That sort of thing. (Okay, he didn’t text that. But my example is funnier than his.)
As a friend, my initial reaction was what you’d expect. “This will not stand! We shall march to his house and unleash rabid ferrets into his boxer-briefs!”
Continue reading “Self-Discipline and Your Dead Relationship”
Prediction: Gibson Phone Tapes Are Heavily Edited
Mel Gibson is a raving loon, a jerk, someone who needs serious help, possibly some medication and maybe some time alone in a padded cell. The stuff he says throughout these tapes … well, I don’t know. Height of passion and all, threatening to murder someone and hoping they get raped by a pack of … never mind. (Perhaps in the fourth installment of Mel Gibson tapes, he will insult Inuits and Pacific Islanders.)
That said, listening to the tapes, you can’t help but notice something odd about the sound quality. I’m not talking about Oksana Grigorieva’s stone-cold delivery. She was obviously setting him up after previous threats. Nothing wrong with that. I would have done the same thing.
I’m talking about the hissing on his end of the line compared to the complete silence on her end. There are numerous technical reasons why this might happen, of course. But that, combined with some of his responses that seem not to fit with her prompts — I smell something a little fishy. As in she (or someone) may have done a cut-and-paste job for maximum effect.
And while his career might be over, I’m pretty sure none of these tapes will be allowed in a court of law as Grigorieva likely violated California law by taping them in the first place.
Montauk and the Hunt for Martian Jesus
Lately, I’ve noticed quite a few people in my Twitter stream or on Facebook or in fleshworld mouthing off about going to Montauk. I guess after City Locusts have finished destroying the Hamptons they’ve moved farther east to finish off the rest of the East End. But I can’t blame them. Montauk is a great place.
I should know. I was traipsing around Montauk back before Montauk was cool. Let me tell you something, ya little Johnny-come-latelies: My friends and I were climbing the Danger Bluffs of Montauk before you even knew the word existed.
Two Words Proving Society Has Run Its Course
UPDATE: No. Really. Chicken Diapers.
E-mail of the Day
From my friend Drew, regarding my Paul Rudd piece below.
“This would be an amazing epiphany . . . if I hadn’t suggested Paul Rudd to you, like, four months ago.”
I kind of figured that would happen. I’m going to say I was drunk at the time. Because chances are if I was talking to Drew, I was drunk at the time.
Her Life in Oil
My friend Carolina Miranda offers up a pretty good post featuring photos by her old man, who worked in the oil industry for about 50 years. She writes:
I’m one of those bleeding-heart crunchies who likes to think I can maintain a low carbon footprint. I ride a bike, keep clothes until they’re worn out and recycle my batteries. . . . Looking at the pictures, however, made me realize that my life, in a direct way, has been made possible by the extraction and processing of oil (and nickel and copper). Oil is what put food on our table.
Check out the post. And check out the photos.
And keep in mind that 60 years from now, we may see something similar from someone who’s parents worked in the lithium mining industry.
How Do I Get Paul Rudd?
One thing writers like to do is cast the movie version of their own books. It’s especially fun when you have absolutely no sign of a movie deal on the horizon. At any rate, people have asked me before who I’d see playing various people in The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival. And I’ve typically been stumped with the part of Father Steve.
Vicky, I always sort of saw as Jennifer Aniston. Don’t judge me.
But Father Steve? George Clooney’s too old and John Krasinski was too tall (and goofy) for my liking. Then, yesterday, while walking up Third Avenue, I saw a movie poster and Paul Rudd’s face was on it.
It’s totally him. I think. Someone make that happen.
Anyone else who read the book, who’d you cast in the various parts?
Miss Rita’s tough as well. Only person I can kinda come up with is Alfree Woodard. Someone who can play older and pull of comedy as well as gravitas. Problem is I picture Miss Rita as pretty skinny. (One Facebook, someone suggested Wanda Sykes, which I kind of dig. You know how comedians like that crossover dramatic roles)
Brother Paul. Hmmm. Robert Duvall. But he’s getting up in age. Maybe John Goodman?
KEN WHEATON 