The other day, some friends and I were lunching in the best steakhouse/strip club Portland has to offer, the Acropolis. It may not be the best steak you’ll ever have, but it’s the best steak you’ll have for six bucks- and that’s no lie. Now, this being a Thursday afternoon, the place was only about half-full with two or three dancers strutting what God and their plastic surgeon gave them (and I was, and continue to be, eternally grateful). It was, more or less, a perfect lunch- steak, beer, friends, and most importantly, naked women.
Then one of the dancers picked the next song. What could have been an inspired choice in stripper music instead sent any possible erection I could have had down into the seventh sub-basement of music hell.
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Today I was putzing around the house waiting for Coed Vixens 8 to come on the pay-per-view and making a Totino’s pizza, when I heard my goddamn dog whining to be let outside. Knowing full well that all she wanted to do was run around the backyard and bark at absolutely nothing, I capitulated and let her out anyway. I then started to wonder about what to write next, and it hit me- I’d write about the asshole dog! There’s a SHITLOAD of funny junk there, I thought. I could talk about how she needs to be outside barking at absolutely fucking nothing at all, day or night. Or how she LOVES to wolf down an entire bowlful of dog food, gulp some water out of her dish, and then immediately barf it all back up on the ONE area in the house that is covered by carpet and not hardwood floor. Oh, I could write about how she’s like a drunken hobo, who tracks mud every fucking place, shits wherever, and drags her ass across the couch.
I then realized two things simultaneously:
- I was basically re-creating a bit that the awesome Brian Posehn had done, and
- A burnt Totino’s pizza smells worse than Hitler’s pussy.
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I realize that this is a bit of an obvious choice, seeing as how these guys are actually inviting people’s hatred… but come on. I’d be remiss in not devoting at least one post to these shitbags. And as loathe as I am to give these fucks the attention they so obviously crave, I can think of no one at the moment more deserving of hi-octane hatred than the Reverend Fred Phelps and his twisted “flock” of First Amendment-abusing ass pustules.
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Hey, faithful readers! I’m currently writing this update on my phone while tarrying at the Mayo Clinic, being treated for a virulent strain of space herpes. Or I could just be hiding in bed, sucking on a lemon cough drop and waiting for my morning shot of Nyquil to kick in. Either way, I just wanted to let you all know that I’m not dead (yet), and that the Hate will resume as soon as I’m back up and around and trying to drunk-dial Bigfoot. If any of you know of a way to get in touch with him, I’d be VERY eager to discuss it over a glass of Robitussin.
In the meanwhile, even though my body is being ravaged by a hellacious version of what I can only assume is the Ebola virus, I just wanted to say thanks to everyone still reading the feverish (in this case, LITERALLY) invectives of a bitter misanthrope such as myself. It really does mean a lot to me that everyone seems to enjoy what I’m doing. The response so far has been outstanding, and I look forward to being back at 100% hilarity so we can all talk about how much I fucking hate Cirque du Soleil.
Seriously, clowns AND French-Canadians? WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE?!
Hey there, sports fans! I apologize for the gap in between updates- I took a short (and I do mean short) sabbatical at a writers’ retreat out in the woods, where I stayed in a cabin with no internet, cell phone, or TV, and worked on my novel while mute Trappist monks silently left small cruelty-free meals outside my cabin twice a day.
Okay, fine. I was busy drinking whiskey mixed with peyote and hallucinating that I was Nick Nolte’s shaman, and we kept going through the drive-up window at Arby’s because Nick was absolutely for sure convinced that they had started serving roast ostrich. Happy, dicks?
Anyway. Glad to be back.
If there were such a concept as having an evil twin, I’m fairly certain that I’m him. Somewhere in a parallel universe (or maybe Cleveland), there is a thin, beardless Randy who right now is working on a doctoral thesis about curing cancer before his shift at the local soup kitchen. Meanwhile, back in reality, I’ve just finished my third scotch of the morning while searching the Internet for clown snuff films. I’m just glad that Good Randy and I will never meet, because everyone knows that such a happenstance would result in an explosion that would tear the planet- and possibly the universe- in twain.
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I know I said I didn’t want to get into religion here, and I still don’t- but my sweaty, sausage-fingered hands have been forced here, brothers and sisters. So yeah, we’re gonna get into it. Why now? I’m glad you asked.
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Believe me, children, this is NOT a post I would have thought I’d be writing. Normally I think Oprah is a ridiculous human being, albeit a filthy fucking rich one. But still, ridiculous woman. And it’s not that I hate Oprah; she doesn’t really have any impact on MY life (except when Mrs. Randy has the remote, and then I never hear the fucking end of why we should paint the bathroom in pastels). In other words, she’s in that gray no-man’s-land I call “Shit I Don’t Really Give a Fuck About”.
Or at least, she was until a couple hours ago. Let me give you the details.
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This one’s going to be relatively short, people. I just found out that some fuckwit on Tumblr is egregiously ripping off my shit and passing it off as his own. And no, I’m not talking about “reblogging”. I’m talking about him copying my posts word for word and changing all the places where it says “Randy” to his own name. I’m not going to link to him, because he doesn’t deserve the traffic. I’m also betting he’s not going to be copying this post, unless he actually IS that fucking stupid.
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Okay, if you’re a regular reader of this site, you’re probably thinking, “Hey Uncle Daddy, what the fart? Didn’t you just talk shit about the Black Eyed Peas the other day while I was wearing my skinny jeans, eyeliner and sticking a rolled-up 30 Seconds to Mars poster up my Jared Leto-hole?” Yes, my androgynous young friend, you are correct. What I want to talk to you about TODAY, however, goes beyond crass commercialism masquerading as “music”. No, Junior, this is about your taste in music. Your mother and I are very worried about you.
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