Your Sufferin' Bastards Monthly Horoscope

Aries- March 21/ April 20-

You are meticulous and organized. A 'Can-Do' attitude this week gets you far. Yeah, I've got your 'can-do' attitude, right here: 'Can' I get a big glass of 'shut the fuck up' for my Aries friend over here?

Taurus-April 21/ May 21-

You are an effete intellectual. You put the 'Man' in 'Manicure'. It's time to take off your shirt and embrace your man-crush on Mark Foley. Oh yes, and financial opportunity arises on Friday.

Gemini- May 22/ June 21-

Special moments with a romantic partner are in store for you this week. The stars point to sizzling love matches and rekindling old flames. It's a damn lucky thing your wife is out of town on business. You go, Dog!

Cancer- June 22/ July 22-

You are ebulient and effervescent. You will go all racial with a friend at work a la Micheal Richards. Later in the week, you will beg the Rev. Jessie Jackson for forgiveness.

Leo- July 23/ August 23-

Suprising good news changes your plans this week. Follow your muse. This week, you will come up with an idea for a James Brown/Howard Dean Duet Album titled 'Yeeeeaahhh!!' Brilliant.

Virgo- August 24/September 22-

A pet will come into your life this week, even if you hadn't been considering buying or adopting one previously. On Saturday, you will drop Acid with Donald Rumsfeld and seriously consider becoming Liberatarian. Beware of cheese over the holidays.

Libra- September 23/ October 23-

Timing is everything this week. Blackmail may be in your future. It's about time to dig out that 'sex video' you made with Brittany Spears when you were both in High School. Money.

Scorpio- October 24/ November 22-

Hey, wasn't there an old Al Pacino movie named Scorpio. I don't know. I could be wrong. I'm kinda running out of jokes here. Uuuuhhh, oh yeah, call an old friend on Thursday. Yea, that's it.

Sagitarius- November 23/ December 21-

You will plan an excellent Holiday party, but at the last minute, Iraqi insurgents will totally ruin it. Damn terrorist bastards!

Capricorn- December 22/ January 20-

Hey, did you know Jesus was also a Capricorn? Pretty sweet, huh? Except no one worships you, you filthy Pagan bastard. Good fortune arrives Friday in the form of free beer.

Aquarius- January 21/February 18-

You will play the Handy-man at home this week. But, watch out. You will pinch you bottom lip in a folding ladder. God-Damn, that hurts!!! And by the way, it's 'Nu-Clear', not 'Nu-Cu-Ler', you dumb bastard.

Pisces- February 19/ March 20-

You will surf the net for Porn this week, but your wife will catch you. Why, oh why, can't you get it through your thick skull how to erase your 'History' button? Your old buddy K-Fed looks you up to see if he can crash at your place for a while. Two words: don't do it! Wait, that's three words. Two words would be 'Vanilla Ice'. Doooow!

Anyways, that's your Horoscope. Don't say we didn't warn you.

Geriatrics Uber Allies

You know, there's not much these days that does not make me feel kind of old, seeing that I'm 'pulling 40', but on some days more than others events present themselves as more profound, or germane, or something, as to how fucking old I've gotten to being these days. Case in point: I'm listenning to my favorite sports radio station out of Boston ( case in point: I'm listenning to Sports-Radio! Dude!!), when I hear that The Who, that's right, The Who is commencing their North American Tour at the TD Banknorth Garden sometime coming up this winter. Okay, for one thing, the building where the Celtics and the Bruins play is NOT the TD Banknorth Garden, nor is it the Fleet Center, or the Olive Garden Arena... it is the fucking Gaaaaaaahdin! for Christ's sake. Hallowed ground for Havlichek, Bird, Russell, Cousey, not to mention Orr, Esposito, Sanderson and Cheevers. Even if it's not the same building it'll always be the Garden to me. But I digress. Frequently. My point is that the Who, or at least the two decrepit surviving members who have not since croaked from overdoses, will be rocking the Garden, O2 tanks, hearing aids and all, this winter on their, 'Loud and Unrepentant' Tour, or something to that effect. Is there no shame? What's next? ..."That's right this years at the Skowhegan State Fair, free with your Midway admission, British Invasion Rockers, The Who, along with Herman and his Surviving Hermits and Gerry and his Pacemakers!! Don't miss it"! Won't get fooled again, my wrinkly ass!

Anyway, later in the day, I'm out at the mall with this teenager, who is showing me around a store called Hot Topic, a seemingly trendy shoppe for wannabe Goths, Dungeon-masters and Baggy-pants wearers who like Marilyn Manson et al. Anyway, bemusedly, I'm looking through all the 'Angst-a-phanalia', mostly all in black, when I spy a CD on the shelf. It is 'Dead Kennedys, Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables 25th Anniversary Edition'. Holy Crap, 25th Anniversary Edition! Man, back in the day I used to rock College Radio in Central Maine with those very Dulcer strains of the Dead Kennedys' wax. They were the all high holiest of Hardcore Punkers. They were the most controversial and most pertinent, we thought, band ever, completely obsene and completely caucophonous. To hear that my landmark album, with such hardcore standards as 'Riot', 'Winnebago Warriors', and California Uber Allies' was approaching a quarter century of existance was just depressing. I showed it to my young apprentice, and he was totally not impressed. He was too busy getting a free listen to Blink 182's newest CD. I felt totally irrelevent.

Anyway, I'm not sure what my point was, except maybe that proves my point. I do that a lot: ramble on, that is. Usually about the old days, when 'real' bands like the DK's or the Who still had something to say. In fact, they probably didn't, but there you have it. In either case, it reminds me of a song I wrote one time when I used to be in this band. It's called 'A Punk Looks at 30'. It made a lot more sense back when I was looking ahead to 30 instead of looking back at 30 as my halcyon days, but it still hits the spot. It goes a lil' somethin' like this:

When I was young, I was angry every day,
A lot of things were on my mind, I had such a lot to say,
Now the years have ground all the Punk out of my brain,
I just try to cruise along, never cut against the grain,
I used to be a punk, but I ain't no more.

When I was back in school, I was quite the Anarchist,
Always trying to break the rules, shaking my tiny fist,
Now I'm holding down a job and I let my hair grow long,
Can't even get mad enough to write a decent protest song, well,
I used to be a punk, but I ain't no more.

Didn't take me long to learn that the world was full of shit,
But I guess that after a while, you kinda get used to it,
I hardly even take the time to slam-dance anymore,
When I really think about it, I guess I was just a great big bore,
I used to be a punk, but I ain't no more.

Gabba Gabba Hey

BFC

Just forwarded to me from my Lovely and talented sister, George Carlin's 'New Rules for 2007'

New Rule: Stop giving me that pop-up ad for classmates.com! There's a reason you don't talk to people for 25 years. Because you don't particularly like them! Besides, I already know what the captain of the football team is doing these days--mowing my lawn.

New Rule: Don't eat anything that's served to you out a window unless you're a seagull. People are acting all shocked that a human finger was found in a bowl of Wendy's chili. Hey, it cost less than a dollar. What did you expect it to contain? Trout?

New Rule: Stop saying that teenage boys who have sex with their hot, blonde teachers are permanently damaged. I have a better description for these kids: lucky bastards.

New Rule: If you need to shave and you still collect baseball cards, you're a dope. If you're a kid, the cards are keepsakes of your idols. If you're a grown man, they're pictures of men.

New Rule: Ladies, leave your eyebrows alone. Here's how much men care about your eyebrows: do you have two of them? Okay, we're done.

New Rule: There's no such thing as flavored water. There's a whole aisle of this crap at the supermarket, water, but without that watery taste. Sorry, but flavored water is called a soft drink. You want flavored water? Pour some scotch over ice and let it melt. That's your flavored water.

New Rule: Stop screwing with old people. Target is introducing a redesigned pill bottle that's square, with a bigger label. And the top is now the bottom. And by the time grandpa figures out how to open it, his ass will be in the morgue. Congratulations, Target, you just solved the Social Security crisis.

New Rule: The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger the asshole. If you walk into a Starbucks and order a "decaf grande half-soy, half-low fat, iced vanilla, double-shot, gingerbread cappuccino, extra dry, light ice, with one sweet-n'-Low, and one NutraSweet," ooh, you're a huge asshole.

New Rule: I'm not the cashier! By the time I look up from sliding my card, entering my PIN number, pressing "Enter," verifying the amount, deciding, no, I don't want cash back, and pressing "Enter" aga in, the kid who is supposed to be ringing me up is standing there eating my Almond Joy.

New Rule: Just because your tattoo has Chinese characters in it doesn't make you spiritual. It's right above the crack of your ass. And it translates to "beef with broccoli." The last time you did anything spiritual, you were praying to God you weren't pregnant. You're not spiritual. You're just high.

New Rule: Competitive eating isn't a sport. It's one of the seven deadly sins. ESPN recently televised the U.S. Open of Competitive Eating, because watching those athletes at the poker table was just too damned exciting. What's next, competitive farting? Oh wait. They're already doing that. It's called "The Howard Stern Show."

New Rule: I don't need a bigger mega M&Ms. If I'm extra hungry for M&Ms, I'll go nuts and eat two.

New Rule: If you're going to insist on making movies based on crappy, old television shows, then you have to give everyone in the Cineplex a remote so we can see what's playing on the other screens. Let's remember the reason something was a television show in the first place is that the idea wasn't good enough to be a movie.

New Rule: No more gift registries. You know, it used to be just for weddings. Now it's for babies and new homes and graduations from rehab. Picking out the stuff you want and having other people buy it for you isn't gift giving, it's the white people version of looting.

New Rule: and this one is long overdue: No more bathroom attendants. After I zip up, some guy is offering me a towel and a mint like I just had sex with George Michael. I can't even tell if he's supposed to be there, or just some freak with a fetish. I don't want to be on your web cam, dude. I just want to wash my hands.

New Rule: When I ask how old your toddler is, I don't need to know in months. "27 Months." "He's two," will do just fine. He's not a cheese. And I didn't really care in the first place.

New Rule: If you ever hope to be a credible adult and want a job that pays better than minimum wage, then for God's sake don't pierce or tattoo every available piece of flesh. If so, then plan your future around saying" Do you want fries with that?"

Salad Days Vol.#14: My 1967 Volkswagon Beetle

Bigfoot's Mint 1967 VW Beetle

And he only drove it to work once a week, on Sundays...

It was the best of times; it was the best of times. The summer of Strange Love, 1983. Fresh off the farm, there I was, in Bethesda Md., with the 'ZVI Construction Rolling Thunder Revue and General Contractors Expo'. Old Uncle Frankme and I were doing our usual Saturday morning thing, which was driving around the Chesapeake Bay looking at Boatyards for hidden treasures and irresistable deals. We had just stopped at a general store somewhere on Kent Island and I was in the process of enjoying my first frosty beverage of the day on old Frank's dime. The scenery was splendid, we weren't at work, I had some coin in my pocket and life was good. Frank was in the the process of explaining his plans and schematics for a human catapult, or a small-engine powered centrifuge, or some damn thing, I wasn't listenning really hard. Anyhow,we turn a bend, and from out of nowhere, there she was: out in front of the local Catholic Church sitting by the road, with a For-Sale sign on her, was a totally mint, cream white 1967 VW Beetle. It had the pipe bumpers like I liked, it had a Sun roof, if I'm not mistaken, and the little window in the back . She was a real gem.

Of course, we went inside post-haste, and was immediately introduced to the soon to be former owner, Sr. Augustine O'Reilly, the Priest of the aforementioned church, 'Notre Dame de Miraculous Bargains', as it turned out. After a short conversation, we 'jewed' him down, so to speak, to a paltry sum of $250 bucks. Sure, there were a few little issues with the car, but jeezo, if'n you can't trust a Priest to give you a fair deal, what the hell, right. So anyhow, we stick on some license plate the Padre had sitting around and, unregistered, we head back to the job-site. Back at the friendly confines of the construction site , my initial infatuation had somewhat faded, and some of the chinks in her armour became more apparent. But, still, for $250, a damn fine deal. She became our after work obsession. Every night, along with a case of beer, me and the rest of the guys, Bildo, Animal, Auggie the Blade, Muddah, Frank and I would lovingly patch her up and bring her up to 'register-ability'. With as little putty, a little paint, we made 'er look like what she ain't. A bucket of roofing pitch and some free metal from the job's Tin-Knockers and she was again a rust free marvel of German engineering, just as she had been in the Summer of Love, and just as ready for action.

She drove like a dream and looked like one too. The first night I took her back to the Hotel room, I raced my cousin Bildo, and rear-ended him at a stop light, promptly spilling my beer. She took it like a champ. I rubbed dome dirt on 'er and kept on a going. Her radio only got AM 1500 WTOP News, but after a while I got used to listenning to news, and actually started to enjoy it. The heater didn't work worth a pinch of dog poop either, but hey, it was August in the Nation's capitol, and hotter than a Monkey in a microwave anyway. I wouldn't need a heater for months to come. I was the envy of every van or truck driving nimrod on the job-site and definitely the only tradesman driving anything resembling a 'punch buggy'. Eventually, when the job ended and I took her back home to Maine, I made it there on not much more than $10 bucks worth of gas. Qu'ell Bargain!!

Now, since that time I've spent more than $250 in one shot on Bar tabs alone, and since then I've made $250 stretch farther than a fat women in a Trailer Park's Polyester Bell-Bottoms, but so far I've never, ever, spent $250 more wisely. I only drove her around for about a year or so, and eventually caught her on fire trying to un-freeze her gas lines, totally frying her electrical system. But hey I did end up selling it to my best buddy , Muddah, for ...ah, I don't know how much... I kind of screwed him, but, hey, that's all in the past...RIGHT?

Anyhow, for a year or so there, I felt like a real friggin' beatnick. I even tried to grow a Goatee. I dated girls who didn't shave their legs. I carried a guitar in my back seat, just in case a Hootenany broke out. It was great. Thanks Frank; without your sage advice I might have unwisely passed on such a finacial opportunity, and bought a pick-up instead. To think...

I could have been working.

As a Public Service to all of our impressionable SBL#178 Readers, we demand you check out this informational video clip.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5VNe9NTOxA

'Twas the Night Befo' Christmizzle', a Holiday Poem by Snoop Dogg

Mr. Dogg is a frequent contributor to SBL#178

I know it's a bit early, but what with all the Humidity...

T'was the night befo' Christmas, and all through the Hood,

T'weren't no Pimpin', no Bangin', no, it was all good,

Now the dead bolts were hung by the front door with care,

With my Glauk by my side in my big easy chair,

Me and my Boo, and a big bag of Chronic,

We had just settled down for a nice Gin and Tonic,

When out in my front yard arose such a Clizzle,

I jumped up from my chair to see what was the Dizzle,

What did I see out in my front do',

But a fat man in red and Eight tiny Ho's,

I could tell right away that the man was a pimp,

By the clothes that he wore and how he walked with a limp,

He had gold in his grill that looked like a retainer,

I thought for a minute he was Cedric the Entertainer,

In his mouth was a crack-pipe just like Dwight Gooden,

And a belly that jiggled just like Jello Puddin',

On his head was a Kango, on his neck a Gold Rope,

I could tell right away the M***r f***r was Dope,

He blew on his Crack-pipe and the Ho's they got busy,

Laying presents on my ass until I just'bout got Dizzy,

Then he shouted out loud so his Ho's they could hear,

And he made a Peace sign and said, 'Bitches we outa here",

"On Keesha, LaTreesha, on LaWanda, on Whitney",

And some little white girl I think he called Brittany,

They got back in his Benz and they rolled out of sight,

Out in the streets of a dark Compton night,

But I heard him exclaim, the night air, it did fill,

"Merry Christmizzle to all, and to all stay well Chilled".

'Celebrity' Haiku Volume #28: "I'm like, all up in yo' Grill, Homey"

Ah, K-Fed, we hardly knew ye. This'll be my last K-Fed post. I can't help it. The stuff writes itself.

Don't get up in my Grill!

Well, now I can grow back my Mullet

Can You Say Vanilla Ice?

-K. Federline-Spears

The Gusters

Took some time off from work last night to enjoy the Gusters up at the UMaine campus in teaming Orono for the final performance of their current tour. The show, for the most part was pretty solid and enjoyable but I noticed something that kind of disturbed me. As you know the MCA features reserved seating as it usually houses ballet performances or dance troupes . . . the occasional standup comedian.. . . Well after the first couple of songs the lead singer of the Gusters sez to the audience sitting up front . . . "Maybe you guys could come up and fill this gap between the front row of seats and the stage. " I believe this is also referred to as the orchestra pit. Naturally hundreds of people came down and filled up this space dancing and having a grand old time. This of course sent "security" into action strong arming folks to sit their asses back down. The lead singer was accosted immediately following the song and told to undo what he had done. This sort of killed any momentum that may have been building. Now, I understand there are fire codes. And I understand how important maintaining order is especially in the wake of "The Station" disaster. I still couldn't help but thinking as I watched the patrons, like sheep head back to their seats and felt the joi de musique being sucked from the room . . . live music has lost something for the sake of safety.


Somewhere in the night . . . Ivan Doroschuk sipped the sweet wine of vindication.

It is now safe to laugh.

I just haven't posted anyhting about Beer in a while.

The Most Annoying Album Title In The World...Ever!

Turner Broadcasting has begun offering an album of relaxing classical compositions entitled “The Most Relaxing Classical Album In The World…Ever!” The album features such relaxing compositions as “Nocturne”, “Adagio For Strings” and that one song with the two ladies singing that they used in the awesome lesbo scene in “The Hunger”.
The album is the latest in the successful series of “The Most…Ever!” albums and promises to break sales records set by “The Most Freaky R&B Album In The World…Ever!” and its successor, “The Most Repetitive Blues Album In The World…Ever!”
Turner has plans to extend the series with new releases each quarter. Titles already slated are “The Most Clichéd 60s Rock That Evokes Vietnam Album In The World…Ever!”, “The Most Songs From Teen Comedy Soundtracks That Are Mostly ‘All-Star’ By Smashmouth Album In The World…Ever!” and “The Most Songs That Hipsters Pretend To Like Album In The World…Ever!”

Courtesy: Rock & Roll Confidential

Al Gore's Got nothing on this Boy...

http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/4.07/scans.html

To read about a real pioneer of the Intronet, go back to this old issue of Wired Magazine, and get a new found respect for our old pal Muddah. Al Gore di'nt invent jack-shiiiit.

It's Gettin' Hot up in Here...uh,.. Dog

Speaking of K-Fed (we were weren't we?),

What with all the unwarrented notoriety given to Kevin Federline, nee Mr. ex-Brittany Spears, nee K-Fed, recently other erstwhile political figures, formerly full of Hubris but now lugubrious, have decided to spice up their images by taking up spiffy new 'Gansta' knick-names, just like K-Fed(since it's done wonders for him).

See if you can match the new Rap Monikers to the disgraced public figures.

A. Donald Rumsfeld

B. Mark Foley

C. Jack Abramov

D. Ted Kennedy& John Kerry

E. Ted Haggard

F. Ken Lay

___ 'Dem-Boys', featuring Pac-I-Fist and Cut n' Run

___ Rummy-D, or Da-Bomb

___ K-Ped (as in '-ophile')

___ Cash Money

___ Meth Man

___ Notorious D.E.A.D.

Say it ain't so, K-Fed

(Associated Press)Dateline: Cootersville, La.

I really thought those crazy kids had a chance at love. But it wasn't to be so.

I opened up the Bangor Daily this morning(all the news that's fit to line your birdcage), and before I could get to all the exiting election news, I was stunned to find on the celebrity section that Brittany Spears, erstwhile Mouskateer, turned pole dancer, was filing for divorce from her 'long time' mate Kevin Federline, AKA K-Fed. I know, I know. I was as shocked as you. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I read the news. In this crazy, jaded, cynical world of American pop culture, one doesn't expect that these 'celebrity marriages' will last. But I for one, and I'm sure I'm not alone, thought that those lovebirds could stand the test.

Was it the stress of raising two small children under the unblinking eye of People Magazine et al? Was Brittany jealous of K-Fed's skyrocketing rap career? Reports had circulated over a bevy of groupies at recent WWE appearances he had made. Rumour also had it there has been friction coming from K-Fed after the "Booster-Seat-Gate" incident last year. One never knows. It has been recently speculated that Brit wanted 'Fed' to start sporting an old-fashioned Mullet, like all her old boyfriends used to do down in the Bayou, which, of course he vehemently refused to do, because it would interfere with his new 'Gangsta' image. Hard to say, but I, for one, would love to get a peek behind the velvet rope to find out what the real deal is. One thing I do know is this: If those two kooky love-birds couldn't make it work, then what does that say about the rest of us? It makes you stop and think, dud'nit?

Moe, Larry, and Curly

Election Day Special! vote Early, vote often!

CAMPAIGN 2006: De-obfuscating the issues for the masses

Look, the Dude said he was against
gay Marriage...

NOT Gay Sex.

Glad we could help clear that up.

"Geez, Damn Democrats"!

Another Trip to the Sparkin' Lot: Hudson's 50th Annual Halloween Party

"I went to a Hudson Party, the other night with some old friends,
to play some songs, maybe have a drink, maybe catch a little twing...
Well, it's alright now, I learned my lesson hard,
You can crash out on the couch, or you can sleep out in the yard..." 1.

2.

3.

4.
5.








6.

The usual line-up of suspects turned out for the 50th annual Hudson Halloween jam last Saturday night. As you can see, you're never too old to Rock and Roll, though you may LOOK too old to rock and Roll. Laissez la bon temps roulez!

Pictured above:

1. Host Tomcat Hudson and Bonvivant Bigfoot Chester

2. Big Scotty and Stix Spaulding

3. Who the Hell does that Chicken think she is, anyhow?

4. Hostess (?) Laura Hudson and Biggus Tommus

5. J-Bo basking in the shine of Bigfoot's mighty chin

6. Ronnie, who brought the Brownies

Your man John Kerry

I have to admit I've always thought he was an idiot but now I can see he has a firm grasp of the obvious.

I don't think he was the first person to think the poor and uneducated young people go to war but he's the 1st politian to say it. Next he may let the cat out of the bag about recruitment efforts in the inner cities. ooops I may have spilled the beans.

Your a music lover- What are some verses to songs that say that same thing? "Rich kid goes to college - poor boy goes to work" - (kinda the same idea).