Streaming Friday

It’s Stream of Consciousness Friiiiiiday so slip me into a yellow raincoat and call me Noah, ‘cause we are gonna be getting buckets o’ rain today.

I am off today and have the car in order to run a couple of errands so I’ll be hydroplaning all over Bagwine today.

It sucks having the car on my days off because it means that I have to pick Schmoop up from work which in turn means I have to stay somewhat sober. God I hate that. Sobriety so harshes my reality.

If God was my co-pilot would he frown upon me copping a feel from a big titted flight attendant? I say no. I think he likes tits too.

If I was God, every chick would have ginormous boobs and I would have two dozen hands and a mouth that was not constricted by a jaw with a limited hinge. I’d have a mouth that could open up like a snake’s.

Speaking of snakes, there are some damn snakes in my life. Jay, Dana, Mrs. D, Mrs. JCC, Doc, Evil Twin’s Wife and others. I hate ‘em. Hate ‘em all. Those fuckers got me hooked on Twitter. I’m addicted to Twitter. I’m Twitterdicted!!

Bastards. Gonna keep on, keep on, keep on, keep on dancing’ all through the night. I’m gonna keep on, keep on, keep on doing it riiiight. Those Brady kids were musical geniuses. Or would that be genii? I think technically the plural is genii but no one uses it.

Oh well…Jeebus Christ. If I have to sit through that damn Staples commercial where the guy screams, “Wow…That’s a low price!!!” again, I’m going to shove hot knitting needles into my ears until the drums burst. Oh the humanity!!

Speaking of ears…I can’t hear very well. Schmoop gives me shit about it all the time. I think maybe I don’t hear her because I willfully listen to only half of what the hell she says. But there are times when I think my hearing is going kaput.

Right after the volcano in Iceland blew its wad of liquid hot magma, I had the TV on and heard a reporter say, “Planes throughout Europe are being grounded due to a huge volcanic Ass Clown over the continent.”

I thinking…an ass clown over Europe? What the fuck? It wasn’t until I turned the sound up that I realized the reporter was saying, “ash cloud.” I was so bummed. Ouch. I just sneezed and think I may have pulled my groin. Damn.

Tim Tebow was drafted by the Denver Broncos. I wonder if he will cry as much in that high altitude. Maybe the high and dry altitude will dry up his tears. One can hope.

I’m craving a big thick hamburger.

I may have to hit Rally’s this weekend. A couple of Mushroom and Swiss burgers sound really good. Then again, well, oh hell I don’t know. What?

La la…When it’s time to change you’ve got to rearrange…who you are into what you wanna be. Man, I always wanted hose Jan Brady when I was a kid. Mike Brady of course, wanted to hose Peter. Go lay down Corky.

Anyhoo…I am out of here. If I’m not around it’s a-cause Ima doing my shit, or…because I’m wasting time on that damn Twitter. Fuckers.

Cheers!!

Here's The Story, Of A Man Named Brady...

I was flipping through the channels Wednesday night and I just kept coming across old shows.

Not re-runs of newer shows…I’m talking old shows like, The Brady Bunch, and others.

As I am now older, I have kind of a different perspective on some of the TV shows that I watched while growing up and now air on TV Land and elsewhere.

For instance, take the aforementioned, The Brady Bunch.

I would watch it on Friday nights while eating Mikesell’s Sour Cream and Onion potato chips and sipping on some Faygo Red Pop when I was eight years old or so.

I thought it was mildly amusing, and I was somewhat envious of the Bradys.

I thought the Brady house was way cool. I was envious that they had a maid who cooked dinners of spaghetti AND steak.

They went on great vacations to the Grand Canyon, Hawaii, Kings Island, and Mr. Phillips’ big boat.

As our family was at best, middle class, I was soooo digging the opulent Brady lifestyle.

I would watch in order to see what type of hilarity would ensue when those wacky, well-to-do Bradys got together. Good times…good times.

The other night when I caught an episode of the show while puffing on a Basic Full Flavor and sipping on some Wild Irish Rose at the age of 44...I discovered something that never struck me when I watched it at the age of eight.

Mike Brady was a major league asshole…and most of all, a fucking cheapskate.

Mike Brady was allegedly some architectural guru living in the L.A. area who was always in demand for his keen designs. If that was the case, I’m sure he had money out the ass.

So, how come his six kids had to squeeze themselves to sleep within two tiny bedrooms while he and Carol slept in a huge ass boudoir that they never used…’cause, well, he was gay and all?

Hell, Mr. Brady treated his maid, Alice, better than his kids…at least she had her own bedroom. Why?

Because Alice cooked and cleaned for Mr. Twinkle Toes…and I’m guessin’ that Sam the Butcher slid Mike some free meat once in awhile as well.

Even with his huge ass family and all of his cash, the tight assed jerk would only spring for one car. For awhile, the miserly prick had a pay phone installed in his house and made the kids use that.

“But Matt-Man,” you ask. “What about all of those great vacations that he took them on? That had to set him back more than a few dollars.”

If I remember correctly…The boat, King’s Island, and the trip to Hawaii were on his boss’ dime. He didn’t spend any of his own cash, the rotten bastard.

Oh sure, there’s the trip to the Grand Canyon for which he footed the bill, and what happened on that trip?

The kids got stuffed into tents rather than a lodge, and Bobby and Cindy were left alone to wander away and nearly die in the stifling Arizona heat.

Some dad Mike Brady was...

He was probably stashing all his cash away so he could go to Sweden, have a sex change, and come back home to have hot sex with Mr. Phillips on that swanky boat.

Mike Brady was a cheap, selfish bastard, a lousy father, and I hate him.

As for me? I am taking my son fishing this morning, and guess what? I'm going to spring for the nightcrawlers.

Cheers!!