Tag Archives: Mr. Blog’s Tepid Ride

Pathetic Paper Airplanes AKA The Jeopardy Blog

13 Nov

from January 17, 2008

I had one of those brilliant moments of clarity yesterday. You know the ones I mean, the kind that usually come too late to be of any use. For example, George Costanza two hours later coming up with “the jerk store called and they’re out of you.” (Somehow, just the words “jerk store” have become an insult. I can’t explain it.)

GUY IN CAR YOU JUST HIT: “Hey asshole! Didn’t you see the red light? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

YOU: “Jerk store!”

But I had the moment of clarity at the exact right time. What’s more, it lasted nearly an hour.

I was at the Laundromat last night doing, don’t be shocked now, my laundry. While my laundry was spinning around in the dryers I sat and watched TV. Normally I’d listen to my iPod (iPods rock, but the new Touch makes my video ipod look like betamax.) but I came straight from work and didn’t have it. Jeopardy came on. Jeopardy is maybe the best game show on TV aimed at 70-year olds. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not ragging on Jeopardy, I’m a fan, but since Bob Barker left TV Alex Trebek has had to pick up the workload of being the pin-up favorite of nursing homes across the country. Drew Carey, um, not so much.

I tend to do fairly well on Jeopardy but it is hit or miss. Sometimes the categories fall right and I can answer everything. Sometimes I can answer nothing, but usually I do OK. Last night, wow, last night was great. I answered about 90% of the questions and only missed three. I knew “who was Archduke Franz Ferdinand?” I knew “what is sashimi?” I knew “who was Voltaire?” The final Jeopardy question was “what was Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon?” and I said it before the words had passed out of Alex Trebek’s formerly mustachioed lips.

Cool right? It gets better. There was a guy there also watching the show. Guy was middle aged, about 50, as opposed to the not-quite-yet middle aged 37 but with the soul of a young weird child that I am. He was standing at the other end of the washers. He was dressed in a way that I can’t stand: Red baseball cap. (Yankees, ugh.) Red t-shirt. Red zippered sweat shirt. Red sneakers. The guy looked like one of the Star Trek security guys who get killed before the credits roll. NOTE TO EVERYONE: Dressing all in one color makes you look like a jerk store. Don’t do it.

 Now he was intently watching the show, while I was slouched down in chair reading the paper while I watched. He looked serious, I looked, um, like I usually look, suavely distracted with an aura of mystery. But I was saying the answers out loud. Not loud enough to draw attention to myself, but loudly enough to be heard. I didn’t begin doing it on purpose, but I soon continued on purpose. I was answering almost as an afterthought, barely glancing up from the paper long enough to say “what is cesium?” But the red dude didn’t get as single answer. (If he did he didn’t say anything.) Problem was, Mr. Serious Player started shooting glances my way, slightly angry glances.

I didn’t care. How often do I get a chance to be a Laundromat Jeopardy bully? Come to think of it, how often does anybody get to be a Laundromat Jeopardy bully? I couldn’t stop.

The more I knew the more it bothered the guy. “What is the atomic weight of gold?”  “Who is King Kamehameha?” Clearly, he hated me. At sometime before Double Jeopardy I put my wash in the dryer’ so that when Final Jeopardy came up I was standing only about three feet from the guy. As soon as I had the answer I said it aloud, almost right in the guy’s ear. Being the sensitive type I said it low. (I knew it would piss him off.) To the guys credit, he didn’t say a word, but turned almost as red as his stupid hat.

Before Wheel of Fortune (a show that makes average brains turn to compost) channel 7 did the lottery numbers. The guy said, loudly, to someone near him “I bet that guy hit the numbers too!” He was pissed. And it got worse when I solved all of the Wheel of Fortune puzzles before he did too. (Not a hard thing. That show is crap. But did you ever read Pat Sajak’s blog? Seriously, the guy may be the sanest and most level-headed guy in show business. Who would have guessed?)

Eventually my wash was done, dried, folded, and it was time to leave. On my way out I glanced at another TV, one that was showing The Beverly Hillbillies. Just to annoy the guy, I turned to some random woman near the set and said “they’re showing the one with the kangaroo again?” just to twist the knife in the guy and show him that I know everything.

Don’t feel sorry for the guy, he got what he deserved for dressing so badly.

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Mr. Know-It-All on:

13 Nov

from January 1, 2008

Mr. Know-It-All on bloggers:

Is there a lower type of writing than a blog? Shit if I know. A blogger is the worst king of egotistical trash. Some guy decided that “Hey, I am the King of King Shit and I want EVERYBODY to read what I write because it is so damn cool!” Who the fuck cares? So the guy goes out and goes on eBlogger or MySpace or god forbid starts his own website and writes stuff. What kind of stuff? Crap. Jeez, look at your average BS blog. A movie review where the jokes are funny, even freakin’ hysterical….. to the writer. And maybe his one friend who knows all the Monty Python gags and jerks off to internet porn in his basement. Or maybe he’ll write up some dung about his day, like how he got invited to a Christmas party and didn’t go. Like we give a rat’s maggot infested ass about that. The usual blogger doesn’t get invited to any parties at all, ’cause he’s a toad, so when he does and blows one off he should be shot. Bloggers have no lives, they don’t even drink or pick up whores like he would if he were a Certified Advice Columnist like I am. Or maybe the blogger will make up like a fake interview where he wins an award. Who the fuck does he think he’s fooling? What the fuck? Then there’s the blog where he pretends to be someone else. Tough guy, right? Why don’t you just say it and use your own name? You’re not fooling anybody, bilgehole. This is why your friendly pal Mr. Know-It-All  does crystal meth anally and orally too, ’cause of pussy bloggers. I have a headache that reaches all the way down to my shriveled balls right now. I wish bloggers would go back to pulling their puds over their coworkers who they are never going to screw and get the frig off the internet so I can go back to my Chris (Dateline) Hansen tribute site.

Mr. Know-It-All on naked people:

Everybody with a working central nervous system has seen somebody and wanted to see him or her without any clothes (and since Mr. Know-It-All is no homo I’ll stick to “her” from now on. So don’t get any funny ideas. That guy in the bus station just wanted change of a five, OK? Nothing happened in that bathroom stall.) Everybody thinks about it. Natural, right? Especially when you see somebody hot. But Mr. Know-It-All wants to see everybody naked. Just out of curiosity. Yes, curiosity. Keep your pervert ideas to yourself. But not the skags and skanks. They are repulsive and trust your buddy, the world is full of unappealing people. But who doesn’t ever just walk into a bar, order bourbon, vodka, and banana daiquiri all at once and just picture like the woman in the next booth naked? Or the bus driver? Or the average looking woman in the frumpy skirt who may or may not need a shave? And even the tall woman with the big mole but has a great rack and if you just put a bag over her head you think you can get it up? Mr. Know-It-All used to work in an office where the secretary was sleeping with her boss and never even looked at Mr. Know-It-All unless it was to tell him to cleanup his mess and zip his pants. Shit,  I thought about her wearing nothing but a sombrero and a whipped-cream serape for two weeks straight. But the point, if there is a point, is that even the below average women have a chance with Mr. Know-It-All. I am usually so wasted they all look like Carmen Electra anyway, minus the STDs.

Mr. Know-It-All on giving advice:

We all know that Mr. Know-It-All is a nationally syndicated advice columnist with a radio show on Sirius satellite and a twice weekly newspaper column, but what we may not know is why he does it. I feel that a sacred trust exists between the advice seeker and the advice giver. It should never be taken lightly. Often the one seeking advice is a troubled teenage girl, looking to find her identity or orientation. Often a really stacked teenage girl on the verge of exploring her sexuality. Occasionally it is a hot MILF,  or a divorced mother looking to start dating. Sometimes it is a woman who needs simple comfort in the arms or bed or even the backseat of the car of a caring, advice-giving man with a column. Sometimes it is just a prostitute looking to score some blow. But Mr. Know-It-All, without exception, takes all of these with a personal touch, and the mantra, “no letters from men.”

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