January 15, 2024

Welp, it’s Monday, and to be totally honest with you, dear reader, I haven’t been less excited about a Monday in a very long time.  The days are have begun their annual increase, the sky is the color of a tainted meringue, and somehow this day even smells funky.  Not sure what’s up, but we’re simply going to crack on, to hell with this new year’s stank.  First, perhaps some fine haiku:

No resolutions.
Just great writing and revenge.
Pens, swords, and shotguns.

Fuck yes…that felt great.  I need to do that more often.  It reminded me that I do write a mean haiku (usually while imbibing sake bombs at Beni Hana), and that I’ve amassed an admirable collection over the years.  I’ve been thinking about adding a haiku section to the site.  Different from “Doggerel,” though still just as terrible, even more so, since it’s just hacking away at what should be a beautiful, refined Japanese artform.

Anyway, how about some bad jokes?  I got you.  My favorite childhood memory was building sandcastles with my grandpa.  Until my mother took his ashes away.
What do you call a horny cow?  Beef jerky.  (I told you they’d be bad.)  What are the lion and the witch doing in my wardrobe?  It’s Narnia business.

I hate my job.  All I do is crush cans.  It’s soda-pressing.

Think that was bad?  I can do worse.

I saw a hot non-binary person the other day…I said, “Let me she/them titties!”

Get it?  Fine, I’ll stop.

Okay, one more.  I recently hired two Vietnamese sisters to help me with my production.  It was a Nguyen-Nguyen situation.

N.P.: “Ghost” – Slash, Ian Astbury

Word of the Day: surfeit

Greetings, my fellow linguistic tricksters. Grab your spiked coffee, Texas tea, or, what the hell, a tall shot of breakfast whiskey.. It’s time for our Word of the Day, and today’s lucky contestant is “surfeit.”
If you’re like 95% of your semiliterate cohorts, you’ve likely never heard of it.  Well, buckle up, buttercup, because Uncle Jayson’s about to give you an education.
Surfeit, my dear reader, is a noun that means an excessive amount of something. Like when you go to Costco and buy a 75lb case of parmesan cheese because it’s on sale, only to realize when you get home that you live alone and only use parmesan cheese twice a month when you make yourself pasta. That, my friend, is a surfeit of parmesan cheese.
But let’s not stop there.  A surfeit isn’t just an excess; it’s an excessive excess. It’s like taking gluttony, cranking it up to eleven, and then adding 50lbs of cherries on top. It’s the kind of excess that makes people look at you and say, “Damn, Caligula, that’s excessive.”
Imagine going to a buffet and not just filling your plate, but stacking it high until it resembles the Leaning Tower of Pisa. And then going back for seconds. And thirds. And maybe even fourths. That’s a surfeit of food. And also probably a one-way ticket to a very uncomfortable evening.
Now, I can see you sitting there, thinking to yourself, “Why on God’s abandoned earth would I ever need to use this word?” Well, the next time you’re at a party, and someone asks why you’re ferociously hoarding all the guacamole, you can just look them in the eye and say, “I have a surfeit of love for avocados.” Not only will you sound incredibly sophisticated, but you’ll also have a great excuse for your guacamole greed.
So there it is: Surfeit. A word that’s as fun to say as it is to experience. Unless we’re talking about 75lbs of parmesan cheese. In which case, in the spirit of charity and good will, leave it on the steps of a local soup kitchen: somebody will eat it.
Now let’s use this bastard in a story:
Our hero, dear friends, is none other than yrs. truly. And our setting? The hallowed halls of the ‘Drunken Donkey’, the finest (and only) pub in my little corner of nowhere. It was a Friday night, or maybe a Tuesday—it’s hard to remember when every day feels like a weekend.
I was sitting at the bar, nursing my third—or was it fourth?—pint of the Donkey’s famous ‘Kick-Ass Ale’. Across from me, Old Man Jenkins was snoring into his whiskey, a regular tableau at the ‘Donkey’.
Enter our villain: the infamous ‘Gut-Puncher’, a drink so potent, it could knock out a horse—or an overly confident fool who thought he could handle his liquor. Spoiler alert: that fool was me.
“Oh, come on,” slurred my buddy Pete, as he slammed the Gut-Puncher down in front of me. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I shot back. “I’m terrified. There’s a difference.”
But under the weight of peer pressure and the haze of alcohol, my common sense took a backseat. I grabbed the Gut-Puncher, raised it high, and declared, “To a surfeit of bad decisions!”
The crowd cheered. I chugged. The world spun.
When I woke up the next morning, sprawled on my bathroom floor with a throbbing headache and a mouth that tasted like a rabid raccoon’s ass, I had two thoughts. The first was, “Why is there a garden gnome in my tub?” The second was, “I have experienced a surfeit of alcohol, and I will never drink again.”
Of course, that was a lie. Because the next Friday (or was it Tuesday?), there I was again, back at the ‘Drunken Donkey’, ready for another round.
And that, my friends, is the story of how I learned the true meaning of ‘surfeit’. It’s also why I now have a garden gnome named Fred in my bathroom. But that’s a story for another day.
Until then, remember: drink responsibly, don’t challenge Pete to a drinking contest, and if you ever find yourself with a surfeit of gnomes… well, let me know. Fred could use some company.

N.P.: “Come Together” – The Brothers Johnson

January 1, 2024

Happy New Years, vigorous reader.  Know that I am drinking whiskey toasts to you and yours.  Unless you’re one of the Three On The List, in which case I am, as always, wishing you ill and encourage you, for the sake of all concerned, to run far and fast if you haven’t already.  But fuck them…this is about you, dear reader…I do hope you have a happy new year.  My advice for 2024: Pay off any and all debts, procure more long guns and ammo, have cash on hand, invest in body armor, do not travel, and be ready to move fast.

But I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.

N.P.: “Nemesis” – Shriekback

December 31, 2023

JG:  ….mmmhello?

Mgmt: Good morning!  And happy New Year’s Eve!

JG:  Shit…is it?

Mgmt:  Yes, it is New Year’s Eve, and we’re still waiting for your end-of-the-year message.  Have you even started it yet.

JG: Yes, of course…I started that weeks ago.

Mgmt: When will it be done?

JG: It’s ready to go…but no one’s going to want to read it.

Mgmt: What do you mean?

JG: It will drive people crazy.  Literally make people insane.

Mgmt: And why is that?

JG: It’s way too dark for the American snowflakes to handle.

Mgmt: You’re always dark.

JG: No…not like this.  This shit is absolutely apocalyptic.  It will drive people mad.  And I don’t want to do that.  I just want to make people laugh.  How about I just tell some jokes?

Mgmt: Because your jokes are bad and usually completely offensive.

JG: Oh shut up.  You wouldn’t know a good joke if it fell out of the sky, landed on your face, and started to wiggle.

Mgmt: We focused group your last set of jokes, and…

JG: Fuck your focus group.

Mgmt: …several members quit, and one reported suicidal ideation and wanted “trauma compensation” by the time the group was done.

JG: Because they’ve been brainswashed by you woke fuckers, and when they find themselves laughing at something they’ve been indoctrinated not to laugh at, they fall apart.

Mgmt: What’s the general gyst of your New Years message…can you at least tell us that?

JG: I didn’t know what to wear to my Premature Ejaculation Society meeting.

Mgmt: Huh?

JG: So I just came in my pants.

Mgmt: Jesus.

JG: Sometimes I have sex with my uncle in an elevator.

Mgmt: For the love of God.

JG: And it’s wrong on so many levels.

Mgmt: Okay, that’s what we’re talking about…that’s not funny.

JG: My girlfriend dumped me, so I stole her wheelchair.

Mgmt: You are the worst client we’ve ever had.

JG: Guess who came crawling back.

Mgmt: ….

JG: Today I saw a midget climbing down a prison wall.

Mgmt: I personally hate you.

JG: And I thought to myself, “That’s a little con-descending.”

Mgmt: Just send us the new year’s thing.

JG: What do you call a hippie’s wife?

Mgmt: ….

JG: Mrs. Hippie.  Mississippi.  Get it?

Mgmt: So, New Years message…what’s it going to be?  Just give us a hint.

JG: Well, there’s a bunch of categorical bitching about this year and the several prior to it, which bitching goes on for quite a number of pages.

Mgmt: Maybe you could trim down the page count and send those to us.

JG: I could, and I will, but that will have to be in the new year…no way I can do that today.

Mgmt: Okay.  What comes after the bitching?

JG: A litany of truly dire predictions for the coming year.  Dire!  They’re all bad.

Mgmt: It can’t be all bad.  Surely there must be at least one positive thing, one glimmer of hope.  That’s what people need right now…some kind of optimism or hope.

JG: There’s not a lot of sunshine and puppy dogs from where I’m sitting.  Hey, why is it called PMS?

Mgmt: We really need one positive thing from you for New Years.

JG: Cuz Mad Cow Disease was taken.

Mgmt: Please, for the love of God, focus.  What is one hope you have for the new year?  And please, no more jokes.

JG: Okay, fine.  The only hope I have for the coming year is that…hello?  Hello?  Shit…phone died.  Maybe they’ll call back.

N.P.: “It’s Coming It’s Real” – Swans

Review: hangovers

hangovers

Reviewed by Jayson Gallaway on 30 December 2023 .

2 out of 5

Hello, intemperate reader. Welcome back to my sleazy, trash-filled corner of the internet, where we tackle life’s most profound questions, like “Why is pizza round?” and “Who the fuck still thinks Daylight Saving Time is in any way a good idea?” Today, however, we’re diving headfirst into a topic that’s as old as time itself: hangovers. Or as I like to call it, “Nature’s way of saying ‘fuck you’ for thinking that whiskey shots after midnight are ever a good idea.”

I decided to pre-emotively ring in the new year last night, get my end-of-the-year drinking in a couple of days before everybody else does…while I could still get a seat at the bar.  Which was a great idea…I’d do it again if I had the choice.  But now, here we are…waking up sticky, broke, and confused on a sickly Saturday morning, celebrating Hangover.

Saturday mornings (and for the last couple decades, afternoons as well) have been the time my friend and family traditionally celebrate Hangover.  Hangover, dear reader, is perhaps the longest standing (actually laying down) tradition of my people: the Irish invented Hangover, and have been celebrating it regularly for millennia.  While celebrating Hangover is appropriate any (or all) days of the week, most typically observe Hangover on Saturdays.  Hangovers sneak up on you like a ninja in fluffy slippers, striking just when you thought you’d escaped unscathed from the previous  night’s debauchery. One moment, you’re sleeping like a baby with fetal alcohol syndrome; the next, you’re grappling with a headache that feels like Thor’s hammer doing the Macarena in your skull.

But let’s start from the beginning. The first stage of a hangover is denial. You wake up, sunshine streaming through the window, birds chirping merrily outside. Everything’s fine, right? Wrong. Then you sit up, and it hits you: a wave of nausea so potent it could knock out a sumo wrestler.
Next comes bargaining. You promise the universe—or anyone listening—that you’ll never drink again if only this torment would end. Your bathroom floor becomes your best friend. Your stomach, your worst enemy. You start to question your life choices, like why you thought mixing beer, wine, and that neon green cocktail was a good idea.

Then there’s the ‘I’m never drinking again’ phase, which lasts until your buddy calls you up and says, “Pub tonight?” Suddenly, your conviction disappears faster than cookies at a weight loss meeting.
So, how do I rate hangovers, you ask? On a scale of one to ‘I wish I could rip out my throbbing brain’, I’d give them a solid ‘Why do I do this to myself?’. They’re like that terrible movie you can’t stop watching, or that annoying song you can’t get out of your head. You know it’s bad for you, but you can’t help yourself.

My most recent hangovers have been defined by waking up with an acute sense of desiccation.  Did you see the movie Underworld?  When the elder vampires go into a centuries-long slumber, they are drained of blood.  They spend hundreds of years as veritable prunes, hanging upside down like dead leaves hanging on a late fall tree.  When it’s time to wake them up, blood is transfused into their veins, and they come back to life.  That’s how I feel these days whilst hungover, and that’s how I felt this morning when I woke up: all organs shut down, put into a state of suspended stasis until pure water is returned to my system.  In those horrible moments, I can down a six-pack of LaCroix inside of 10 minutes.  Even then, I’ll need at least two more hours of bedrest, and then, a greasy lunch, preferably consisting of fried foods.  And then, only then, can I seriously consider climbing out of bed.  That used to be the end of it.  But now, at this age, the residual effects of hangovers can be felt two, maybe three days after whatever debauchery caused it.  There is nothing pleasant about it, but it does serve as a reminder that you are still alive and subject to the same rules of mortality as everyone else.  Which is something I need to be reminded of from time to time.

In conclusion, hangovers are the universe’s way of keeping us humble. They remind us that for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction—usually involving a toilet bowl and a regrettable text to your ex. So, here’s to hangovers, the Saturday morning tradition none of us asked for but all of us have experienced. Until next time, drink water, take aspirin, and remember: cheap tequila is never your friend.  Cheers, or better yet, bottoms up!

N.P.: “Party Train” – The Gap Band

Word of the Day: guttersnipe

Happy Friday, dear reader.  Let’s get to it!  Grab a pint of your favorite libation, because it’s time for our Word of the Day!  I’ve been reading a lot of Dickens recently (’tis the season, ’tisn’t it?), so today’s linguistic gem that we’re about to mercilessly dissect is  “guttersnipe.”
So, what in the name of God’s Balls is a guttersnipe? It sounds like something you’d find lurking in the bowels of your antiquated plumbing system, right? Well, not quite, but close.  A guttersnipe, dear readers, is a term used to describe a street urchin or a child of the streets.
Originally, this delightful word comes from the good ol’ 19th century England, where words were as colorful as Queen Victoria’s royal panties (pure conjecture, dear reader, don’t quote me on that). The term combines “gutter” (a street’s drainage system) and “snipe” (a slender-billed bird known for its elusive nature), painting a vivid picture of scrappy kids dodging in and out of London’s grimy alleyways.
Now, let’s imagine a scenario, shall we? Picture this: You’re strolling through a modern city, and suddenly, a blur of motion catches your eye. It’s a kid, no older than ten, darting between the bustling crowd, his nimble fingers swiping wallets with the grace of a seasoned ballet dancer. He’s not just any pickpocket; he’s the Guttersnipe.
The Guttersnipe, with his artfully smudged face and twinkling eyes, rules the proverbial concrete jungle. He’s got the agility of a cat, the cunning of a fox, and the audacity of a peacock on bath salts. He’s a regular Robin Hood, if Robin Hood traded his forest for skyscrapers and his merry men for a gang of equally nimble-fingered miscreants.
One day, the Guttersnipe spots a new target: a man so engrossed in his jumbo hot dog that he doesn’t notice the wallet slipping out from his pocket. The Guttersnipe swoops in, snatches the wallet, and vanishes into the crowd faster than you can say “extra mustard.”
But when he opens the wallet, what does he find? Not cash, not credit cards, but a mountain of coupons for free hot dogs. The Guttersnipe can’t help but laugh. He may be a street urchin, but even he knows there’s such a thing as too many hot dogs.
And so, our little guttersnipe learns a valuable lesson: not all wallets are created equal. And some, it seems, are full of nothing but processed meat dreams.
So there you have it, folks. From the grimy streets of 19th century England to the hot dog stands of modern cities, the guttersnipe endures, a testament to the enduring power of language and the universal appeal of free food.

N.P.: “My Way” – Sid Vicious

December 24, 2023

Merry Christmas, dear reader!  I love Christmas as much as the next blackguard, but I don’t feel the need to decorate the outside of the house every Christmas.  It, quite simply, seems like a huge pain in the ass.  And for what?  The neighbors’ and other weirdos amusement?  I don’t particularly care for either weirdos or neighbors, so I don’t see the point.  Apparently, many of my neighbors feel differently.  This year, in particular, many of them have gone absolutely apeshit with their outdoor Christmas décor and lights.  When I say “apeshit,” I mean unironically using Clark Griswold as their inspiration and mentor.  Most of these projects have actual budgets…serious money is being spent on this garishness. My issues with this seasonal silliness are myriad, but I’ll just give you the top three:

  1.  These are the lowlands of California, which is to say there is no such thing as a white Christmas.  It doesn’t snow here.  I’m old enough to remember the last time it did “snow” in this valley, and that was in 1976.  Since then, not a flake.  Because our governor is an incompetent ass who doesn’t understand even the most basic concepts of deforestation or successfully managing water resources, California is in a state of perpetual drought, regardless of how much rain falls in a given year, most people’s front yards look like the Arizona desert during Christmastime:
    dead lawn and patches of dirt.  Which makes oversized inflatable snowmen look absurdly out of place.  Traditional “winter” Christmas décor where there is no snow comes off as desperate and rather pathetic.
  2. These overdecorated and hyperlit houses draw all manner of bridge and tunnel trash into the neighborhood.  There are, of course, no bridges or tunnels here, but you know what I mean: other desert-dwellers in desperate attempts to have something like a white Christmas but don’t have a budget set aside for a professionally designed lightshow drive around looking for other people’s ostentatious displays, which leads a lot of them to my street.  And they don’t do quick drive-bys… no, they drive slower than a parade and oftentimes completely stop and just park it in front of their favorite festooned houses.  This causes actual traffic at inordinate times on an otherwise quiet street.  This, in turn, causes dark states of piss off and anger amongst the various UPS, Amazon, and DoorDash drivers trying to make their way to my door.  “Fuck it, bro…you’re on your own…I’m 750 feet from your house and I haven’t moved for 20 minutes…you’re going to need to pick this shit up yourself,” is a common theme of messages sent to me from delivery drivers these past two weeks.  Then when I do leave the house after dark, I end up ruining multiple Christmases and possibly causing psychological trauma to scores of children who, wide-eyed and gaped-mouthed are enjoying staring at the millions of Christmas lights and various animated inflatable displays when their fragile little yuletide minds are suddenly forced to cope with some crazed and likely drunk writer yelling about traffic and calling their parents pig-fuckers and all sorts of bad and profane noise.  Nobody wants that.  So do us all a favor and stay home.
  3. As glorious as many of these displays may be in the dark of night, in the morning light, they’re absolutely ghastly.  The only experience I can liken it to is stumbling out of a San Francisco rave at dawn, just as the drugs are wearing off, and you’re forced to go from sexy darkness that’s illuminated only by sexy lasers making even the most drug-addled revelers look good out into the brutal and excruciating dawn, where all your fellow partiers looks like hammered shit and the gorgeous girl you’ve been following around all night now looks like an animated corpse trying to find a ride home.  These yards that only hours before were cutting edge holiday light shows now look dead.  The lights are off, and the owners have turned off the air pumps that keep the inflatable displays inflated, and now they’re just flaccid, lifeless flaps of plastic laying across lawns and roofs like spent condoms tossed on the pavement in the high school parking lot the morning after prom.  It’s gross and depressing.  Which I believe are the exact sorts of feelings Christmas is meant to avoid.

I’m quite dubious about whether or not next Christmas will be in any way “normal,” but whatever’s going on, at least please consider toning down the outside lights and displays next year.  They vex me deeply and make the baby Jesus cry.

N.P.: “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” – Gary Hoey

Word of the Day – bumfuzzle

Damn right the word of the day is bumfuzzle.  Because why the hell not.

Despite my dirtiest hopes, bumfuzzle is not something you’ll find on the menu of one of those horrible quasi-brothels in downtown London with the dead-eyed Slavic chicks (though the next time I’m in one of those wretched places, I might order a bumfuzzle and just see what happens.
Anyway, bumfuzzle is indeed a real word and not some gibberish I scrawled in my journal when I woke from this afternoon’s Ny-Quil-influenced fever dream.  It’s an olden goldie from the deep South, dating back to the mid-19th century. And no,  it doesn’t mean your bum’s gotten into a fight with a puzzle.  It’s a verb that means to confuse, perplex, or fluster.

Enrique found himself unexpectantly bumfuzzled before the day had even really started when, upon picking up his usual venti mocha with whip, the heavily bearded yet totally bald, six-foot-four baristo suddenly began bellowing angrily about being misgendered. 

“…the fuck you talking about?” Enrique asked, annoyed to have to turn around in the midst of his hurried exit.

“You called me ‘sir.'”

Enrique had uttered an unusually polite “thank you, sir,” when he was handed his coffee.  That was maybe two seconds ago, and already Enrique regretted trying to be polite today. 

“Yes, I called you ‘sir.’  What’s the problem?”

“It’s ‘ma’am…I identify as female,” the baristo yelled deeply. 

Enrique took a few steps closer to read the nametag: Stanya.  Enrique noticed for the first time Stanya’s clothing, which, rather than a dress or assless chaps or anything at all that would have indicated that this idiot was pretending to be a woman, consisted of men’s jeans and a Motorhead t-shirt. 

“…The fuck outta here.  You’ve got more beard than ZZ Top.  You wanna pretend to be a women, first thing you need to do is fuckin’ shave.”

This caused Stanya to plunge into instant and deep conniption and apoplexy.  He lunged at Enrique, who deftly dodged the charging Stanya in exactly the same way a matador would dodge a freight train.  Stanya’s own massive motion sent him through the front window of the coffee shop, where he came to rest as a cut-up mess several feet outside of the coffee shop.  Enrique passed gracefully through the remnants of the front door to find himself standing over Stanya’s prone adiposity. 

“You are whatever I say you are, cupcake,” said Enrique.  “I rescind my ‘thank you,’ and replace it with an enthusiastic ‘go fuck yourself.’ 
Back in his car, Enrique, who had been in the United States illegally for several months now and deeply regretted spending so much money to get to this absurd and unserious country, decided he’d had enough and began to make plans to get back to Mexico as soon as possible. 

N.P.: “I’m a Man” – Black Strobe

December 4, 2023

Season’s greetings, dear readers!  Apologies for not having time for a proper post today, but I’m busy preparing for Krampus Nacht.
For those of you uncultured heathens who are blissfully unaware, Krampus is a horned, anthropomorphic figure from Central European folklore who shows up every December 5th to scare the living shit out of rotten kids (and their shitty parents).  He’s like Santa Claus’ evil twin brother, if that twin brother had a goat’s head and carried a bundle of birch branches chains for whipping purposes. Festive, right?  Hell yes.
For me, this means procuring sufficient liquor in case Krampus happens to stop by for a break from thrashing recalcitrant children.  Like those little shits across the street.  They’re doomed, and their parents know it.  Over the weekend, they hit me up for tips on Krampus-proofing their house.  Fools.  The righteous vengeance of Krampus is unstoppable, inescapable.  But I felt obligated to tell them something, so I made some shit up.
First, there’s the traditional garlic on the windowsills – because everyone knows that Krampus hates garlic. Or is that vampires? Ah well, better safe than sorry. Next, there’s the strategic placement of fluffy pillows around the house. You know, to cushion the blow in case Krampus gets in and starts swinging those birch branches around.
Then there’s the all-important task of stocking up on comfort food. Because if you’re going to spend the night cowering in fear, you might as well do it with a tub of ice cream and a family-sized bag of chips.
And let’s not forget the most important part of Krampus-proofing: crafting the perfect ‘I’ve been a good boy/girl’ sign to hang on the front door. Because nothing says ‘please don’t whip me, Mr. Krampus’ quite like a brightly colored sign made with glitter glue and desperation.
Anyway, brave reader, so much for them.  Brace yourself: Krampus Nacht is tomorrow!

N.P.: “Till the Day I Die” – Halford