Thursday, April 27, 2006

83. Blunt-rollin' Suck-Sess

I found the most funniestest thing ever. It translates your favorite websites to 'Gangsta.' It is hilarious. I post a sample below. It is a translation of my 49th post where I describe a prom date. Thank you gizoogle. Thank you. Please read the older story to refresh your memory, then read the following:

49: Blunt-rollin' Suck-Sess

A weekend story:

So I was read'n Panini’spost `bout her less-than-izzle date, n I was reminded of every date I ever went on . Boo-Yaa!. (Come ta T-H-to-tha-izzink of it, maybe it was MEwho cause all tha stupidity. I mizzle if EVERY SINGLE DATE I wizzay on was awkward, maybe it’s mizzle

Anyway, now thizzat I realize whizzat a social moron I am, I wiznill recount tha experience of mah junior pizzle:

First of all, mah bizzy fizzle had a girlfriend . Holla!. I had been on numerous dates wit them, n I knew thizzem quite wizzay keep'n it real yo. Also, I had double dated wit thizzem a lot in high school, but I knizzay them a lot poser thizzan I ever knew any of mah dates. Kizzle thiznat in mind throughout this story yo.

My friend, who was driv'n, picked me up at mah house. Let’s cizzall him Jackie Chan fo gettin yo pimp on. His girlfriend—who we will cizzall Shania Twain—was already in tha ride n we wizzay over ta mah date’s house. For convenience n privacy purposes we’ll C-to-tha-izzall her Saxy Phony. (She n I kizzle each otha frizzay blingin' on tha LAST CHAIRS in tha saxophone row in band class.

At her house:

Her parents insisted on cruisin' a million (1,000,000) pictures of us yeah yeah baby. This was especially awkward coz she was hatin' a strapless dress. Her straplessness was only enhanced by her hair, whizzich is usually waist-length, but was styled in a beautiful stacked-on-her-heezee coif . Real playas recognize the realness.. I’m told thizzay in every picture her parents took, I am star'n at her Guinevere-like glorious display of ample, pale bosom. I hizzle not seen tha pictures Saxymom n Saxydad took, but I don’t doubt tha story, even though I had tried ta avoid mak'n eye contact wit bustin' but tha floor . Throw yo guns in the stupid air.

The ride ta tha restaurant was uneventful, unless you playa tha coo-coo'n, hand hold'n n general disgustizzles of Jackie n Shania of wizzle I was very jealous . I started yo and i'll end yo'.

At tha Restaurant:

We gots ta tha restaurant pimp a 20 minute silence-on-the-part-of-Saxy-and-me drive. The restaurant was called The Underground. It was a gangsta-theme restaurant set—get this—underground . Fo'-fo' desert eagle to your stupid dome. The way ta git ta tha door was dizzown a flight of 30-40 stairs into a brick-lined stairwell.

Well, that’s whiznen Saxy tripped on her unfamiliar high-heeled shoes n proceeded ta riznoll all tha way diznown said stairs. She didn’t even pause at tha ho-slappin' in tha middle cuz Im tha Double O G. Like a tizzle gentleman, I jizzy stood there at tha top of tha stairs, grill agape, frontin' at whizzat could only have been tha miznost petrify'n thing I had ever seen. I mean, Saxy kizzy how ta makes th'n special in all flavas. Shania gave me a shizzay elbow in tha ribs n told me ta go hizzy Saxy up, W-H-to-tha-izzich I promptly did cuz its a G thang. Saxy swore up n diznown that she was fizzle n since there were no visible marks, there was nuttin' left ta do but chizzow down . Tru gangstas do gangstas.

Coz of tha gangsta theme, The Underground had a couple of tables thiznat were built into tha bizzle of old, 20’s style sedans. Jackie, Shania n Saxy is all a bit shorta thizzan me, n I don’t kizzle if they wizzle uncomfortable in there, but I was squashed. The salad came in tha dogg pound. Fizzay bite—Saxy dropped a crouton dizzay her dress. I saw it out of tha corna of mah eye, n I thiznink Shania saw it too, but nobody pointed it out, so I didn’t thiznink it was a good idea ta mention it. Besides Saxy n Shania not rhymin' anyth'n,I don’t brotha much else thiznat happened there, whiznich means nuttin' happened. At tha dance:
Saxy n Shania went ta tha bathroom fo` forty-five minutes ta freshen up. know what im sayin?. Translation: they had ta git thiznat crouton out of tha dress, check fo` any spine trauma from tha fizzle n eat at tha playa’s-room buffet ta makes up fo` not eat'n at The Underground .

Thiznat left Jackie n me time ta sit in tha chairs on tha edge of tha dance floor n makes fun of people—especially tha popular gizzy who bought a $500 dress n had ta come wit her cousin coz no one asked her. Also gots a chance ta gape while gangsta G-to-tha-izzirl made out wit her olda, Brad-Pitt-look-alike boyfriend.

Saxy n Shania finally appeared from tha bathroom n were in awfully good spirits, so we went ta git our pictures taken before they smiles could fizzle. The picture mackin' wizzay well, pimpin' no one gots croup or lost any poser. T-H-to-tha-izzen it was back ta tha dance fo` more hilarity. The only time I truly fizzle comfortable was dur'n tha electric slide coz I didn’t hizzle ta worry `bout convers'n wit Saxy n we out. The dance ended wit Garth Brooks’ The Dance even though Bryan Adams’ (Everyth'n I Do) I Do It For You. As a country music hata, I was busy hate-slappin' tha sizzay n wish'n they had played tha prom theme . I started yo fizzy and i'll end yo' night. That’s when I found out Saxy was a big country music fan . Put ya choppers up if ya feel this.. Who knew.

Killa tha dance:

We wizzle out fo` ice cream n tha conversizzle loosened up a bit. Translation . Im a bad boy wit a lotta hos: Jackie n Shania asked mah date tha questions I should hizzle been ask'n her, but was not smiznart enough to. We had a relatively good time at tha ice cream shiznop blunt-rollin' we had J-to-tha-izzust S-P-to-tha-izzent tha mizzost awkward fizzy (4) hours ever n we tizzle tha ladies home fo yo sho.

Jackie dropped himself off at Shania’s hizouse n asked me ta drive his mom’s ride ta takes Saxy home. We had a strained conversizzles n wizzle I pulled into her circular driveway rizzight by her frizzay door, she gots out n ran up tha steps so bow down to the bow wow. I didn’t even git tha ride into ‘park’ n she was gizzle wit da big Bo$$ Dogg. Too bad tizzy coz I think she was ready ta give me mah first kiss that night , better recognize. She was probably just hungry fo yo sho.

Anyway, I drove around fo` a while thiznen wizzay ta Shania’s hizouse n jealously watched her n Jackie makes out fo` `bout fifteen (15) more minutes. Saxy n I had a decent friendship our senior year, but we drug deala rapped `bout pizzy niznight hittin that booty.

Saxy, if by strange chance you is read'n this n recognize tha story, that’s coz it’s `bout you hittin that booty. One day, you’ll look biznack n forgive me fo` being sizzuch a heel. I’ll neva forget thizzat one fateful night whizzen you were mine n I thizzink we connected, but we neva did finish tha even'n. Now it’s too late . Boom bam as I step in the jam. I gots married six years ago…So how is ya?...I haven’t seen you foreva…I’m stizzay doing good…It’s good thiznat we can laugh `bout it pimp wizzle I taught you how ta run on tha triznack team?...

Next time I’ll tizzell `bout a BAD date…

(Please note: trying it for your blog may produce 'R' rated translations.)

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

82. That Which Is Not Funny

I haven't posted in--oh, I don't know--about three thousand (3000) minutes now. I know both of you were aching to read my next installment, but alas, I keep on not writing anything.

Why? You ask? Two reasons:

1) I haven't found anything very funny to write about. And since funny (my opinion of course) is the purpose of stupidramblings, I see no need to post until I have something funny to write about.
2) I have been approached with an opportunity.

About the opportunity, and then I'll share a funny little tidbit:

I was once a performer. I have been known to hit stages all over the west wearing shiny clothing and perform for money. When I stopped performing, I missed it a lot. I missed the fan interaction; I missed the satisfaction of a job well done; I missed the personality feedback only a live performance could provide.

So I started writing. Writing was a way I could still 'perform' and get feedback and satisfaction without spending hours trying to coordinate schedules with other talented and busy people. At that point, I volunteered to write a humor column for my college newspaper--which I did dutifully every week during my senior year. I was not very good at writing humor then, but I worked at it and finally started feeling satisfied.

I also started working with amateur stage performers to help them improve their skills in group-art performance, as well as helping them bypass some of the hurdles that plague inexperienced performers. In the course of helping all those groups over the years, I'd get questions from various people as to what to do in *this* circumstance or *that* instance. Every time I worked with a group I was blessed with a little more insight, a little more knowledge and a little more material to make me better at helping groups improve more rapidly.

I spent hours writing ideas based on various topics and I kept them in a neat little file on my computer. They are still unorganized and unformed, but they are valuable ideas and so I have been passing them out to groups I work with.

Now for the opportunity: A copy of my work has landed in the hands of an important figure in my artistic genre who has asked me to work with other artists to write a series of articles to be published and distributed to others in the industry. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. I’m going to be published. Anyway, I thought I’d share.

The funny tidbit:

I wore a hole in my shoes the other day. Not in the leather, but in the sole. I literally walked through my shoes before they started to look beat up. I haven’t done that since I lived in Spain and walked between three to seven (3-7) miles per day. (Side note: I wore through the soles of some Doc Marten’s shoes in six (6) months.) Anyway, I went to famous footwear to buy the shoes because I always do. Their prices are the best and the comfort/appearance of the shoes is always adequate.

I found a few pairs I liked, and then I set them down on a bench. I walked no more than three steps to another shoe style, grabbed another pair and turned around to see the bench on which I was formerly going to sit occupied by a girl—six (6) years old—and a boy—3 (3) years old. I wanted to be polite so I asked the girl if I could “sit down right there to try on a bunch of shoes” and she said “yes.” But the girl didn’t move over. She just sat there.

I sat on the bench, but not so close as the little girl would have allowed. The floodgates opened and I got to have a great conversation with the little girl. I never strayed from my task—fitting all of the shoes—but I conversed nonetheless trying to be nice but not to look or talk too predatorily. I didn’t want the parents—wherever they were—to get suspicious of me.

Every pair of shoes I tried on brought a comment from the girl:

“What size are your feet?”


“Wow, I don’t think anyone should be allowed to have feet so big.”

“So you’re saying people with big feet should have them reduced”

“No, maybe just their toes.”


“Are you sure you need brown shoes?”

“I don’t like that pair”


“The toes look too flat.”

“That’s how old men are wearing them these days.”

“Well I think it’s dumb.”

“What would you buy if you were me?”

“I don’t know, but these are the ones I am getting.” She proceeded to pull out a pair of shoes that were pink and white with Barbie heads on the side.

“You think I should get some of those?”

“No, these are girl shoes; the boy shoes have dinosaurs.”

“Cool, where can I find the dinosaur shoes?”

“They don’t have them here.”

And it went on and on. Oh, and her parents/guardians never showed up to tell her to stop harassing me. My [future] daughters aren’t going to be allowed within three hundred (300) feet of strangers, let alone stranger men, let even more alone talk to them unsupervised. There are creepy people out there.

Anyway, it was the funniest conversation I ever had with a child—well there was one other funnier conversation with one Kishkumen, son of a friend.

“How old are you Kishkumen, five?”


“Are you in kindergarten yet?”

[confused look]

“What primary class are you in then?” [Primary is a Mormon Sunday school for kids.]

[pausing…looking confused…moment of clarity] “I’m in the Jesus Class…” [pause] “…Do you drink coffee?”