I Totally Cleaned the Fuck Out of My Bathroom Last Night
I don’t know if this has already been reported on NY1 or maybe CNN.com or something, but just in case it hasn’t I should probably put the word out there: I cleaned the fuck out of my bathroom last night and holy shit was that shit incredible. It had been a long time coming too since I’ve been living at my current residence for about a year and a half now and had yet to really set sponge to tile (as they say in the trade) the entire time. There was quite an ecosystem going on in there too, but last night I decided to finally take back the night on that fucker once and for all. The neighbors are still talking about it.
I got it all started by scrubbing the tub. I sprinkled some Comet all over the fucking place and then just sort of stared at the porcelain (or whatever the hell that tub is made out of) for a few minutes before really digging in. I even got into the tub itself to do it. I took off my socks and everything. This shit was serious.
After I got done scrubbing the tub itself, I worked my way up to the tiles surrounding the tub. And since no one knows better than me exactly what’s on those tiles, it was a daunting and humbling task. Still, I dug in like an ex-con let loose in Times Square in 1978. It was awesome. The shower tiles were all like “What the fuck?” and I was all like “How you like me now?” I really got those tiles pretty clean. And thank God you can’t really catch anything from your own germs.
After I finished bitchslapping the general tub area, I decided to make my way down to the floor. I sprayed that shit with some floor cleaner shit and within minutes the entire floor (including behind the toilet) could consider itself totally scrubbed the fuck out of. You would have thought that floor was getting ready to go make its First Communion or something it was looking so motherfucking clean and angelic. Damn.
After I got done fucking up the floors, I started to attack the cabinets. As a man who stays in hotels often, I have roughly ten years-worth of hotel soaps, shampoos, conditioners, mouthwash, toothpaste, and various lotions to contend with when I open up that shit. I thought about emptying all the bottles and whatnot into one giant bottle that I could use for all-purpose body washing/moisturizing/breath freshening and/or looking incredibleness, but then I was all like “Fuck it” and started organizing the various products in order of classiness. Four Seasons (Who cares if I was only there for an hour? That shit was paid for!) to the left, Days Inn to the right. Barring any exceptional hygiene issues, I should be set until well into 2019 provided I ignore all that lather, rinse, repeat bullshit (according to something I read once, some guy at a shampoo company–Prell or something–just came up with that so they could sell more shampoo. And it totally worked! Motherfucker got a plaque and everything.).
Once I was through whipping the cabinets into shape, I started fucking up the general sink and mirror area. I cleaned that shit so good that if I could serve lunch on a vertical plane, I would totally have motherfuckers over for lunch on my bathroom mirror right fucking now. Windex, 409, Fantastic–if it comes in a bottle, chances are I sprayed that shit all over my mirror last night. Fuck it.
After I got done with all that shit, I moved on to the toilet. Man, was that a wild scene. I thought about setting it on fire to really kill all the butt and wiener germs once and for all, but then I just sprayed some pine-scented bullshit all over the place, covered my nose and mouth, held back the tears, and got down to business. It was pretty incredible. I got that motherfucker so clean I’ve been holding it in ever since.
By this point, everything was all pretty much cleaned the fuck out of, so I focused my efforts on organizing my various store-bought lotions, creams, and fragrances that I leave out in the open for up-to-the-minute clarifyin’ and beautifyin’, which took up pretty much the rest of the night. I cursed under my breath most of the time, but then I caught a glimpse of my radiant skin in the mirror and remembered how crucial all 46 products really were to making this (I am pointing to myself as I type this) happen.
Anyway, now I’m all like “What the fuck am I gonna do now?” I feel like today is the first day of the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll see what’s going on in the kitchen.
As usual, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to helping people lately, like, on a global scale. Originally I was thinking about assembling an all-star heavy metal band comprised of some of the biggest heavy metal stars of the ’80’s to record a heavy metal song for charity. And I was pretty excited about it too. That was, of course, until I remembered that somebody already did that with Hear ‘n Aid, an all-star heavy metal band comprised of some of the biggest heavy metal stars of the ’80’s. Hear ‘n Aid was formed as a reaction to that “We Are the World” song and also that “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” song that Bono and a bunch of other European people sang on. Rainbow and Dio bass player Jimmy Bain thought the heavy metal community could probably make a pretty sweet song for really hungry people too and next thing you know Jimmy, Ronnie James Dio, Ted Nugent, Yngwie J. Malmsteen, and a bunch of guys from Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, Dokken, Quiet Riot, Rough Cutt, Queensryche, Blue Oyster Cult, Y&T, Motley Crue, Twisted Sister, W.A.S.P., Night Ranger, Giuffria, Journey, and even Spinal Tap were all hanging out in the studio recording a song called “We’re Stars.” I can’t even imagine what the catering must have been like. Can you imagine helping yourself to a big plate of macaroni salad while the Nuge is right there next to you making a ham sandwich or something? Man, that would be awesome.
Above is the video for the “We’re Stars” song mentioned in the last paragraph. Personally, I think they could have just gone from the beginning part where Dio sings “Who cries for the children? I-I Doooooo” straight to all the guitar solos. And then they should have just let Yngwie and George Lynch trade off the whole time. But hey, that’s just me. I’m a purist when it comes to shredding. And all these years later, still no one has addressed the elephant in the room: Where in the hell was Ratt? My guess is that they were banging groupies in Tokyo that day or something. Otherwise I just can’t understand why Carlos Cavazo couldn’t have just swung by Warren DeMartini’s house on the way to the studio or something. You know it was on the way. It’s just weird any way you slice it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this song and video on some level or another (and there are many, so if you can’t find at least three or four levels to enjoy it on, well, I just don’t know what to say to you anymore).
The Great Molasses Flood
I was speaking with fellow show business professional Dan Allen today on the topic of Postum, the elusive coffee substitute invented by cereal magnate C.W. Post and made available to the public from 1895 to 2007 (the year its production was controversially halted due to what insiders are calling “a shrinking demand”). As is often the case when one finds himself in the midst of a Postum discussion, the talk eventually turned to molasses, one of Postum’s primary and no-longer-secret ingredients (the others being bran, wheat, and corn dextrin). And it was during this talk of molasses that Dan hipped me to the Boston Molasses Disaster (or “Great Molasses Flood” as it also sometimes awesomely known), arguably one of the top nine or ten molasses-related disasters the New England area has ever seen. The year was 1919 and it was a wild scene to say the least.
As the story goes, the people of the North End neighborhood of “Beantown” (as it is known to “some”) were just going about their business as usual on January 15th of that year, exactly one day before the ratification of the 18th Amendment (which prohibited alcohol production and, ultimately, public groping and fun in general), when shit got seriously crazy all of a sudden. For as long as anyone could remember, the Purity Distilling Company had been maintaining an extremely large molasses tank at 529 Commerce Street. The tank held approximately 2,300,000 gallons (which is to say several shitloads) of the sticky sweet goo and on that fateful day it burst, sending mammoth waves of molasses (reportedly 8 to 15 feet tall, which is generally unheard of in molasses circles) raging throughout the streets at speeds up to 35 miles per hour (again, an extremely impressive molasses-related speed) and with a force of 2 ton/sq. ft (I’m not sure what this means really but it certainly doesn’t sound good).
As you can probably imagine, when a couple million gallons of molasses is sent hurtling through the streets at such girth and speed, well, nobody wins–not even the most die-hard of molasses fans. By all accounts, molasses went everywhere, covered everything and everyone in its path. Horses, dogs, humans–no one was safe and pretty much no one had even guessed that their day would involve such a thing. Author Stephen Puleo, who witnessed the whole grizzly yet delicious debacle, described it like this:
“Molasses, waist deep, covered the street and swirled and bubbled about the wreckage. Here and there struggled a form- whether it was animal or human being was impossible to tell. Only an upheaval, a thrashing about in the sticky mass, showed where any life was…. Horses died like so many flies on sticky fly-paper. The more they struggled, the deeper in the mess they were ensnared. Human beings- men and women- suffered likewise. Anthony di Stasio, walking homeward with his sisters from the Michelangelo School, was picked up by the wave and carried, tumbling on its crest, almost as though he were surfing. Then he grounded and the molasses rolled him like a pebble as the wave diminished. He heard his mother call his name and couldn’t answer, his throat was so clogged with the smothering goo. He passed out, then opened his eyes to find three of his sisters staring at him.”
I find it’s hard to stay mad at a confectionery of any sort for very long, but on that infamous day in 1919 the people of Boston added molasses to their collective shit list for a long time to come and with good reason. By the time the whole thing was over, approximately 150 people were injured and 21 people were killed altogether (easily the largest molasses-related death toll the city of Boston had ever seen). Doctors and surgeons were forced to set up a makeshift hospital specially for the purpose of treating the many victims’ painful yet delicious wounds. And it took over 87,000 man hours to clean up the sticky brown mess. Needless to say, any time anyone in or around Boston so much as mentioned the word molasses after all that they were met with dirty looks, the gnashing of teeth, and the occasional shake of a fist in the air coupled with the fist-shaker in question saying the word molasses out loud with marked disdain.
They say if you walk the streets of the North End neighborhood of Boston on a hot day, you can still catch a whiff of the killer molasses in the air. And naturally, it’s on these days most of all that the locals find themselves once again grappling with the “What the fuck happened?”-ness of it all. Some say the molasses tank burst just from having so much goddamn molasses in it. Others blame faulty rivets. Still others point their finger in the direction of foul play. The one thing they can all agree on, however, is this: molasses sure is tasty and even fun a lot of the time, but just not when there’s so goddamn much of it.
Intervention
Last night on cable, I watched an exciting episode of “Intervention”, the incredible program that shows some drug addict taking a bunch of drugs for almost the whole show until the drug addict’s entire family shows up at his house, bangs on his door, and starts crying and telling him how he is a drug addict and they are not getting off his lawn until he gets into the weird van that’s in the driveway.
The drug addict on last night’s episode was named Jason and his favorite thing in the whole world was to shoot up cocaine while wearing a pair of camouflage shorts and a baseball hat that was turned to the side in a manner that suggested he is the kind of guy who is not exactly opposed to good times. When he wasn’t shooting up cocaine in his fun hat, Jason was drinking from a big red plastic cup just like the kind you get at Pizza Hut, only instead of being filled with Dr. Pepper or something, it was filled with vodka or whatever else that damn drug addict could get his hands on. When he wasn’t drinking from the big Pizza Hut cup, Jason was talking on the phone with his drug addict friends. He called them “dude” and “bro” and told them how things were going to be “really awesome” just as soon as they got their hands on some more drugs, which ended up happening right after the next commercial.
In between shots of Jason taking drugs, drinking from the big Pizza Hut cup, or talking to his druggie friends about drugs, they showed interviews with Jason’s four sisters, most of whom appeared to be addicted to highlights and wanted Jason to not be a total drug addict anymore–except for Jason’s youngest sister Joy, that is, who explained that she was “just not a worrier.” Later in the show, they showed Joy snorting a big pile cocaine off the back of a toilet, and, boy, did that explain a lot. Sometimes they would interview Jason too and he would go on and on about how incredible cocaine is and also how his mother is a lesbian who moved to Florida.
After another commercial break, Jason’s whole family was sitting in a room with some lady named Candy who was all business. Even Jason’s mom was there and she was getting all worked up about things like only a lesbian from Florida can. Then Jason walked into the room in his crazy funtime hat and couldn’t for the life of him figure out what was going on even though all he or anyone else could talk about up until that point in the show was how much he loved cocaine and drinking from the big Pizza Hut cup. Then that Candy lady was all like “Jason, you don’t know me but I think you’re damn drug addict!” Then everyone started to cry and blow their noses. The next thing he knew, Jason was shipped off to rehab where he wrote a bad song on the piano about Jesus and also got his lip pierced. As it turned out, Candy was able to talk Jason’s sister Joy into going to rehab too, which worked out great because when they checked in with her three months later her hair looked incredible.
Whores on Cable
Last night on cable I watched another exciting episode of “Cathouse: The Series”, the incredible show that chronicles the life and times of a bunch of people that work at the Moonlite Bunny Ranch, which is a totally legal whorehouse located somewhere in the awesome state of Nevada. As you can probably imagine, the show pretty much consists of a bunch of whores hanging out and talking about what it’s like to live in the whorehouse and be a whore all the time. I would like to point out that when I say whore, I don’t use the word in a derogatory fashion either. These women are literally people who have sex for money, which is awesome.
Joining the whores at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch is a sort of Hugh Hefner kind of guy who is also fat and bald, which for some reason seems to add to the effect of him being a decadent and fun-loving yet quick-tempered guy who is the boss of whores. They all seem to have a lot of fun together, the whores and their boss, sitting on each others’ laps, getting really drunk, and talking about how fun it is to be together at the whorehouse all the time, just like one big happy family. Sometimes the camera will show the whores in their bedrooms getting ready to bone some guy who has driven all the way out into the middle of the desert to have sex with them, which is great. More often than not, the guy paying to have sex with the whore has a mustache and is wearing a pair of Dockers, the popular casual pant. The whore and the guy with the mustache sit and giggle for a few minutes while discussing exactly what he is going to get for a few hundred bucks and then the next thing you know the camera cuts away and we are left to wonder about all the good times they must be having together. Then the camera will show some other whore splashing around in a swimming pool, playing with a hula hoop, or jumping around on a trampoline, which only serves to further illustrate the fact that it’s good times all the time when you live in a whorehouse.
Also last night on the really good show “Cathouse: The Series”, they showed the whores drinking whiskey from penis-shaped shot glasses and–as you can probably imagine–the whores just laughed and laughed the whole time, as if getting drunk weren’t enough fun already. It was kind of like when you happen upon a roving bachelorette party and all the girls are really wasted and giggly and sipping pina coladas from penis-shaped straws while asking you to use their camera to take a picture of them that is not only hilarious, but one that they will all want copies of and with good reason. They want to remember this night forever even if they dare not speak of it again in front of their loved ones, significant others, or anyone else they don’t want to know how much they think that drinking from penis-shaped straws is a recipe for instant good times.
Sometimes I wonder what all the whores do when the cameras are off and they are faced with a bit of downtime at that whorehouse of theirs. Is it still all fun and games or do they just hang out and smoke menthol cigarettes while dreaming of the day when they’ll get to pack up their fake boobs and tattered lingerie and not live in a whorehouse anymore? And when they do leave, will they promise to call up the fat bald guy who runs the place once in a while just to say hello? I hope so. He seems nice.
Bodies: The Exhibition
Yesterday, I went to see “Bodies: The Exhibition,” the popular exhibition of bodies advertised on most of the phone booths here in New York City. As hinted at in the name, “Bodies: The Exhibition” is an exhibition of bodies only instead of being made up of wax figures like at Madame Tussaud’s popular wax museum or mannequins like in the 1987 box office hit “Mannequin” starring Hollywood’s Andrew McCarthy in the role of Jonathan Switcher, a young artist with a penchant for mischief, the bodies at “Bodies: The Exhibition” are made up of actual human bodies that are all chopped up and preserved for eternity using a futuristic process that none of the guards will talk about. The bodies are then brought into the museum–probably at night, I’m guessing–and propped up into all sorts of exciting and lifelike poses. One body is playing football, another is playing basketball, and another is conducting a world-class orchestra that exists only in our minds, which is difficult. The one thing all the bodies have in common is that pretty much none of them saw it coming.
As is usually the case whenever any public display of the human anatomy takes place, the big question on everyone’s mind at “Bodies: The Exhibition” has to do with whether or not they are going to show the wiener. And fortunately for me and everyone else who paid twenty-five bucks to get in yesterday, “Bodies: The Exhibition” does not disappoint. Since it is a show for the whole family though, no mention is made of the donger the first couple times we see it (like we weren’t gonna notice or something). But then after you get through a couple of rooms full of bodies, the voice on the little handheld earpiece thing they give you on the way in finally gives in and says “And this is the human reproductive system.” Then everyone gets really excited and giggly and the mysterious voice goes on to talk about everyone’s private region for a while. They even show a dead man’s wiener all split right up the middle so you can see what it’s actually made of, thus finally solving one of life’s great mysteries and also cutting my average shower time in half in the process.
It’s hard not to wonder what everyone featured in “Bodies: The Exhibition” did back when they were alive and not propped up in a museum next to the Gap at the South Street Seaport with their dingle dangles all hanging out like that. Were they astronauts or sea captains or were they totally just hanging out until one day some weird blue van pulled up to them on the street and they decided to get in just to break up the day a little bit? I especially wonder about the large lady who is all sliced up from head-to-toe like a giant ham just so everyone in attendance can see what a large person looks like if you cut them up into several pieces. That’s no fun. Oh well, at least she is not conducting an orchestra with her nuts hanging out. That guy is just asking for it.
Osama Bin Laden the Elephant
Yesterday, I read a story on the Internet about an elephant in scenic India who had gained a reputation around town for being a total dick to pretty much everyone in his entire neighborhood. He ran all over the place crushing houses, trampling people to the point where they were dead or seriously close to being dead, and just sort of making a mess of things in general to the point where the people of India were so tired of his elephant bullshit that it was not even fucking funny.
Usually when I think about elephants, I imagine fun-loving animals who just like to hang out and eat peanuts, solve simple math equations, and occasionally get dressed up in a really nice suit and visit Paris, France in hopes that they might one day return home and dazzle their fellow elephants with tales of their wild nights on the town. This particular elephant, however, didn’t seem to be into any of that stuff as best I can tell. Instead, he spent most of his time terrorizing the people of India so much that they decided to name him Osama Bin Laden, which is a reference to the world-famous al-Qaeda leader of the same name who is so often associated with all sorts of crazy, attention-getting antics.
According to the story I read on the Internet, Osama Bin Laden (the elephant, not the well-known billionaire bachelor extremist whom we tend to think of first when we hear the name Osama bin Laden) was ten feet tall, approximately 45-50 years old, and generally kept to himself when not destroying houses and/or trampling people to the point where they were dead or seriously close to being dead. Osama bin Laden the elephant was also reportedly not afraid of fire or firecrackers, which I’m guessing everyone had to find out the hard way.
Being a really big elephant and all, Osama bin Laden could travel very long distances in a single day on account of his long legs and the overall joie de vivre that we so often associate with the elephant lifestyle. He was also really great at hiding in forests and other areas populated with a reasonable amount of large, elephant-hiding plants. Not surprisingly, he was often hard to find whenever people went looking for him, which is just one more thing Osama bin Laden the elephant had in common with the other, arguably more popular Osama bin Laden that we still talk about to this day.
On a sad and not nearly as elephantriffic note, recently the elusive Osama bin Laden the elephant was killed by the people of his town in an effort to put a stop to the full-on elephant-related beatdown he was handing out without even trying. And while killing Osama bin Laden may have seemed like a seriously good idea at the time, now everybody is all like “Oh, great–now what are we gonna do with this big dead elephant. Nice going, A-holes!”
