I’m not asking much, just maybe rake up some leaves or collect a little horsehair. And really, how embarrassed am I that whenever someone comes over we have weeds, or crows. Then who looks like the shithead? Me! They all think it’s my farm, but we’re in on this 50/50, buddy. Who did I buy the cottage for? You! Who got a sweet new push lawnmower? You! Not that you would know how to use it.

And for the love of God, did you even notice that we have a cow in the top of our Dairy Farm? How the fuck did it get up there!? You’re walking around this place all day long. You didn’t stop for a second and think “wait a minute, there’s a 1,500 pound cow peaking his head out of a window that is barely big enough for a rabbit.” Who, by the way, are never in their cages!

So now I gotta come home, get out the fork lift and try to shimmy that fat ass out of the top of the Dairy Barn. Really, what a great way to end my day. And you just stood there looking at me like a retarded dog. Not even offering to help.

Last week when I was out of town and all that corn went bad, tell me why you didn’t harvest it in my absence. You have the harvester parked right there. You have a shed full of tools. You saw it turning brown and you didn’t do a God damned thing. Why? Because you’re an asshole.

Should I even mention the fact that now you’re buying Reindeer? What the fuck am I going to do with Reindeer? I’m not Kris Kringle. I have zero God damned interest in Reindeer, but now I have fifteen of them sitting on my property, eating my food and making piles of glorious Yuletide Reindeer shit that I have to shovel up.

And as if I don’t have enough work to do, anytime I am out on the farm, all your buddies keep sending me messages like “Hey, can you come help me out on my farm?” Are. You. Kidding. ME? These freeloaders can get right in line to kiss my ass — right behind you.

I feed you. I clothe you. I pick out your hair style and skin tone and all you do is sit around here all day long looking into the sky at an exact 45 degree angle? I’m sick of it. Either you start pulling your weight around here or I am shipping you off to Farmtown where the rest of the losers are.

]]> http://thisisjoshua.com/?feed=rss2&p=242 2 http://thisisjoshua.com/?p=240 http://thisisjoshua.com/?p=240#comments Wed, 04 Nov 2009 03:03:00 +0000 joshua http://thisisjoshua.com/?p=240 I’ve really been trying to give Twitter a fair chance here. Do I understand what it does? No. Do I see it’s purpose? Barely. Do I update several times a day? Absolutely. And I have no idea why. I feel an obligation for some reason, but I also enjoy living inside social media. I can get into a whole dissertation here on the mechanics of social media here and why Twitter flourishes, but that’s for another day.

Luckily for me, I follow almost exclusively educated, smart, funny people. They spell things correctly. Write in sentences. Hardly, if ever wander into “text language” (i.e. “Ur” & “L8r”). For this I am thankful. But I do like to wander into the “Trending Topics” from time to time to make sure I am staying hip to any and everything. This is where idiots shine. Tonight, I read this:

yoo do any one noe wats realy gud wit t-mobile why dey not letting no one text

Did that really just happen?

I won’t even tell you his name because I don’t care to add to his 13 followers, but from what I can deduce, there appears to be a problem with T-Mobile’s service. I only got to this conclusion after reading several other tweets in this same trend. But what Captain Grammar poses here is almost a deeper question about T-Mobile. After spending several hours on Urban Dictionary, I was able to figure out that “wats realy gud” becomes “what’s really good [with T-Mobile].” Now, whereas “what’s really good” is also a greeting in some circles, I’m led to believe this person is working on more of a phylisophical level. What’s really good with T-Mobile?

Wow. Well, what’s really good with any of us? You’re asking, on a deeper level, are we innately good people or rather products of a negative environment? But since we create the environment for which we live, how are we truly products of anything other than ourselves? So on that level, if we create and thus can destroy ourselves and our environments, then it would seem to me that you have answered your own question, sir.

T-Mobile (known as “dey”) aren’t the ones stopping you from texting. You are. T-Mobile is your (our) creation, so they exists only on a single, non-physical plane whereas we (known as “any one”) exist on multiple planes — the physical and the spiritual. So “why dey not letting no one text” isn’t about a mobile phone carrier or a piece of technology. It’s about you. You did this. So turn the mirror around, buddy and ask yourself “what’s really good with ME?”

Damn. I need to lay off the Mescaline.

Every year I go, my emotions follow the same course. The day before, I am ignorantly excited. I seem to always forget how much I truly despise going. That morning, I get up all bright eyed and bushy tailed and drive with a grin on my face to the dusty, over priced parking lots. (Sidenote: Why do these parking lot attendants NEVER seem to check for empty spots up front? I left at 2pm adding to another dozen or so second row parking spots, yet the attendants keep sending people to the back!)

This year, we went before the gates opened in an effort to beat the crowds. Today was Kid Rock day, so anyone showing up after 3pm was bound to have on wife beaters, crustaches and very few teeth. Not a stereotype. Fact. Unfortunately for the Great New York State Fair, this clientele seem to be there no matter what day it is. Which is truly astounding, because the fair isn’t CHEAP. A soda is three bucks. Hot dogs are five. Yet, there they wander. Not a pot to piss in, but plenty of Newports to smoke and empty beer cups stacked inside of each other resting gently in the cup holder of their infant’s stroller.

Another concern I had is that the mentally challenged seem to be allowed to just wander the fairgrounds on their own as they choose. I am all for empowering the disabled. If they are capable of enjoying the fair and taking care of themselves, go for it! But when these fine people are given a fair ticket, a bus pass and a fist full of ones, hasn’t someone seriously dropped the ball there? Although, now that I think about it, it was Kid Rock night…

But going back to where I started. The first few hours, I am happy as a clam. Then it starts to get warmer, more crowded, foul smelling, loud, obnoxious and depressing. That’s when Josh Hulk gets mad and I just want to go home. Usually not a problem except this time, I found myself trapped in the Colosseum during a horse show. You’d think I was trying to escape Shawshank! Every exit blocked. Every door closed. And just when I see an opening of light and what appears to be people walking outside, I am greeted by a chain and a parade of horses waiting to enter the doors. Trapped!

It was at that point, I started to envision myself helplessly darting out in front of a group of these horses as I break for freedom and being trampled to death. And at that very moment, it was a risk I was willing to take.

But finally we got to the car, drove home and showered the stink off us. Now comes fair detox: those few days after the fair where you just try to drink water and apologize to your body for what you did to it. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have a gallon of Pepto to drink.

Last night, I went and saw the film “The Hangover.” Much like the rest of the world, I loved it. I sat in front of a group of three teenage stoners. That’s another feature of their unoriginality — they travel in packs. During the film (like, every 6 or 7 minutes) they would say the phrase “Oh dude, let’s do that.”

Really? You want to “do that?” You want to get punched in the face by Mike Tyson after stealing his tiger? It’s fiction, guys. It’s a comedy film. The whole idea of comedy is exaggeration. I could give you guys $10,000 cash and tell you to go to Vegas and nothing that happened in that movie would happen to you. You’d get there, find a dealer, smoke up, order $8,000 worth of room service and fall asleep.

One of them even started cracking up over a sign on a door that said “Please Enter Here.” He began laughing and even repeated what he was reading as if to emphasize it’s hilarity to his cohorts. They didn’t get it and neither did I. Must be over our heads. Well done, Todd Phillips. Way to slide some hidden cerebral stuff in there for the smarter people in the crowd.

The truth is, I’ve never smoked weed. Have no desire too. I watched plenty of my friends in high school burn out on it and go work in a factory assembling lawn chairs at the age of 18. Not my thing. But I do think it should be legal. I like the idea of it and I think if people can handle themselves with it, more power to you. While I have met a lot of burnouts in my day, I have also met some brilliant casual weed smokers. If we can drink, we can smoke weed.

The point of all this is, teenage stoners are generally stupid people. They are going to be stupid with or without the drugs. These three champions sitting behind me in the theater weren’t on a track to RIT before pot de-railed it. They were born stupid and will go through life stupid. Unfortunately, they think smoking weed makes them some how better than what they are. It’s unoriginal. It’s an old drug. Nothing you are doing is impressive, so maybe take all that free time you had — judging by some of the “ideas” who had when you got to Vegas, you’ve got plenty of it — and invent a new drug.

I’m not talking about going all meth-head and mixing a bunch of shit with bleach. No. Go in the woods for three or four weeks, smoke everything you see growing and bring us back what you find. Doing that kills to birds with one stone: you find the new, hip cool drug and you’re lost in the woods for three weeks and I can try to enjoy a movie.

David Carradine, 72 – 6/3/09. Ed McMahon, 86 – 6/23/09.
Farrah Fawcett, 62 – 6/25/09. Michael Jackson, 50 – 6/25/09.
Billy Mays, 50 – 6/28/09.

I think the worst part is that we were on quite a death ladder here. Each death was more news-worthy than the last (until Billy Mays brought that to a screeching halt). But really, who could have topped Michael Jackson? The President? It’s a tough act to follow.

But the fact of the matter is that out of all of these, I am most upset over Billy’s death! I loved his new show “Pitchmen.” He’s got a great family. He was fainlly getting som recognition. I was pumped for him. Because out of all these names, he was the only on on the climb. David, Ed, Farrah and Michael all had their time in the sun and sure, they were still working to some extent, but their candles had flickered out. Billy Mays was a shooting star, baby.

Plus, he wasn’t weird. Carradine died jerking off with a belt around his neck while wearing ladies stockings. Michael Jackson – do I even need to get started on him? Billy Mays, to me, was your everyday kinda guy and while the news is still fresh, sure, reports could come out that he died in some freaky way, but right now, in this moment, he is the moon.

If I can give you any kind of advice this summer, do not get famous. Hold onto that screenplay. Cancel your one-man show. Don’t respond to those MTV voice mails. Keep a low, unfamous profile for a few months and then this Fall, hit the ground running. That is, if anyone even cares about you anymore.

These guys didn’t win the pinewood derby or take part in a pie eating contest at the county fair. They saved you over a quarter of a million dollars. This driver was dumb enough to let that much money fall out of his truck and drive away and all you can do is reward the guys that saved his ass with a cotton tee and a chintzy gold coin!?

And really, how laid back is this driver? I have a chain on my wallet and I never have more than $5 and a BJ’s card on me. If I was toting around that kind of cash, I would triple check every door, sidewalk, alley, everything before I ripped away. Actually, it’s funny that I use the word “ripped” — that could explain his error in judgment.

Now, sure. There’s still $60,000 of that original load missing. I try to look for the good in people and assume these “good Samaritans” didn’t return most of it and keep some for themselves. I mean, who’s gonna notice a missing 60 large? Now, if these fellas roll up to their barber shop and antique shop tomorrow in brand new Land Rovers, maybe we can dig a little deeper. But, in the meantime, try to show a little decency and hook these fellas up with a night on the town at the very least. Maybe some dinner at Ambrosia. A night in the Renaissance? Maybe some hookers? It’s your call, Brinks. But man up on this one.

And while you’re at it, give me one of your old trucks and few grand.
I have some plans for a kick-ass, A-Team style street vehicle. I’m talking BIG plans.

1.) Flip Flops. Knock it off. Right now. Granted, I sometimes fall victim to this one, but I am here to let the men of the world know that no one. I repeat; NO ONE wants to see your hairy, ape-like feet. They are gross. Your yellowish toenails are barely holding onto your size 14 Yeti paws as is. No one needs to be distracted by them while they ride behind you on an escalator. Not to mention, your heels resemble Wilford Brimley’s elbows. Treat yourself to a Ped Egg and put on some sneakers.

2.) Popped Collars. It’s over, guys. Popped collars had a good run, then they went away, and then they came back. Girls, you still have some time. The preppy, popped collar look on girls is still working, so hang on to it. But guys; nothing screams “Please, accept me. I shop at Hollister” more than a pink Polo shirt with a popped collar. And remember a few years ago when Tommy Hilfiger tried to convince us the new look was MULTIPLE popped collars? We laughed at such a crazy look. Well, now we’re laughing at you. Fold it down.

3.) Tight Jeans. This seems to only be a trend with high school boys. No one wants to see your tiny package hugged like a baby bird in those tight jeans. I know you think chicks are into the look, but ask yourself this. Have those chicks kissed you? No. Because you’re daintier than them. The boys are meant to breathe down there and with your size zero girl jeans, they are screaming for help. Someday you might want to start a family and as of right now, that’s not looking so good. For two reasons — eventually girls will want to be into you, but they’ll have all these pictures of you wearing basically leotards on your skateboard and be turned right off. Second, you’ve got one, lonely, suffocated sperm down there and he’s running out of space. But don’t take it to the other extreme.

4.) Sweatpants in Public. For some reason, dudes love wearing sweatpants in public. It’s usually two kinds of dudes – college dudes, or work out dudes. College dudes wear sweatpants (or, the alternative “pajama pants”) because they are just lazy. It’s usually coupled with a scruffy beard, greasy, messed up hair and a look that’s the visual representation of stale breath.

The other dude that loves wearing sweatpants in pubic are meat heads. Usually dudes that love working out and wear those baggy, gray pants because they have led themselves to believe no piece of denim could contain their bulging thigh muscles. From time to time, you’ll even see them roll down the top because, let’s be honest, these guys are usually a little gay. This is also apparent by their tiny, belly shirts. Not full on, John Leguizamo in “To Wong Fu” kind of belly shirt. But enough to show some skin and a touch of happy trail. You know the guy I’m talking about. He was probably in your public speaking class and loved talking about guns.

So there’s four easy tips to remember. Am I a fashion expert? Holy God, no. I am a “hot mess” as the kids say. But I do know what sucks and the things above fall into said “suck” category. But, if for some reason, you’re unable to make your own fashion decisions and you usually follow the crowd, then I advise you to jump onto the new hot trend before it blows up your school – Beekeepers Outfits. Do it.

This might be one of the many reasons other countries hate us. You think children in Africa would be happy to see us make a four-foot high “Finding Nemo” cake, have it berated by judges claiming the “scene doesn’t wrap all the way around” and then drop it to the floor as we stupidly try to move it from one table to the other? It was FINE on that first table. Why move it? I understand that it’s to prove it can be transported, but sometimes sculpture is best left alone. No one is insisting we move the Sphinx three feet to give it “better light.”

And really, how appealing are these cakes anyways? I am a Rice Krispie Treat lover through and through. But after watching a burly man with hairy arms and pit stains man handle a ball of marshmallow and Rice Krispies for three hours; it’s suddenly not so appealing to me anymore. It becomes a wad of sticky, warm cereal that I’d rather just not eat. And have you ever tasted Fondant? It’s awful. No flavor and it has the texture of a plastic shopping bag.

So no matter how beautiful this cake is, you have to fish through dowel rods, styrofoam, saw dust and three-day old Fondant to even eat CAKE. Your plate looks like a construction site before you even taste the cake itself. Which was baked about a week ago since that’s how long these things take to create. Yum. Week old cake.

Personally, I’ll stick to a fresh, wham bam thank ya mamn sheet cake from Wegmans with a “Happy Birthday Josh” across the top.

Over the past several months, my wife and I have been furnishing a baby’s room as some other rooms in the house. In those few months we have purchased a crib that had a hole in the mattress. A book shelf with a crack in the side and an accent table with chips of missing paint. This doesn’t include the $2,500 dining room set we bought last year that needed to be repaired. Disgusting.

Mind you, we don’t buy cheap junk. We go to places like Pottery Barn, Raymour & Flanigan and JC Penny. We spend thousands of dollars with these places and it seems like 8 times out of 10, we get something delivered and it needs to be returned. Why is this happening? Have people completely stopped caring about their products? It’s not like packaging has been cut back; I see more wasteful Styrofoam and packing tape than ever before, yet when UPS or Fed-Ex drops the product at my house, I can usually find a hole punctured in the side or an indented corner.

Yes, I am naming companies. If you don’t maintain quality packaging/shipping with your products, you should be prepared for scrutiny. And yes, they are always fantastic about their return policies, but that’s not the point. When something arrives at my door, I have come to expect several more weeks before I actually OWN it because I know it will need to be returned, repaired, or something else. Rarely do I open a box, look at the item and say “Wow, it’s in 100% working order. Off we go!”

So I am looking to you, big business. You are asking us to spend money with you so your companies can flourish again, yet we’re expected to stand by idly while you continue to deliver sub-par products? Stop cutting corners on manufacturing or packaging or delivery — wherever this weak link is. Because if we’re expected to spend money with you, then you’re expected to meet or exceed or expectations and right now, you fail.

And since I know you come to me for comedy and not angry rants, here’s a video of a cute cat that likes to walk around with a bag on it’s head.

The only time it ever sounds like a good idea to dye your head, goatee and probably nether-regions green is when you’re several gallons into Guinness.

Also, when you start literally tossing your small children into the middle of a parade route to “get you those damn beads,” you must really love booze because you certainly don’t love your children. Sure, they aren’t turning out the way you’d imagined, but take a look in the mirror real quick. What chance does a kid have when their dad is wearing green leprechaun shorts and suspenders. It’s not their fault.

And I am so thankful that there were no tragic fires during this parade, because not only was every fire department within 30 miles in the parade, but they were completely cocked. It should be said that I have the utmost respect for firefighters and the work they do and now I have even more respect for their ability to slam beers before noon and ride on top of fire trucks.

The best part of the parade took place when we were about half a mile off the parade route heading back to the station. Lined up against a building were three gentlemen pissing in unison. As if there were invisible urinals. Very organized. Very classy.

So, for next year’s parade, perhaps I’ll take part in the festivities rather than work it. I can’t drink like I used to, but I can certainly piss on building with the rest of them. Oh, and when it comes to dying body part’s green, you might as well call me Pablo Picasso.