F all of you – right.

With the arrival of each Friday, I like to reflect back on the week as a whole, so I can fully grasp the fact that my life is becoming a giant brown rapidly expanding shithole. For example, yesterday I accidentally smeared on about 1 lb of potent asshole-man-scented moisturizer – 36 hours and 2 showers later, I still smell like the inside of a white stretch hummer on a Saturday night in Astoria, Queens.

Anyway, I basically hate everyone and every thing right now and here’s a big F YOU, happy weekend a-holes. I hope you need therapy.

sing-a-longs – wrong.

I hate musicals.  Musicals are a disgrace. A DISGRACE. When 47 adults spontaneously break into a perfectly coordinated, nineteen minute song and dance number, I fully expect at least ONE of them to come to his senses midway through, scream out in a panic, “What the FUCK are we doing/singing/wearing/ON”, pull a North Korean-built machine gun from the crotch of his spandex tights, lose his shit completely and go Columbine on the whole place.  I mean are we serious? Talk about unrealistic.  When I was 13, three of my friends and I made up a 2.5 minute dance to the La Bouche classic “Be My Lover”. We performed this amazing routine at every single Bar Mitzvah we went to during the 1994-1995 school year, and being raging Jews, that number was somewhere between 87 and 1,093. And guess what?- WE MESSED IT UP EVERY TIME. If four New Jersey Jews with sparkley dresses and brand new boobs can’t get their La Bouche together after a whole year, then I don’t think a group of pasty, midwestern-born, sexually confused, muppet-brained jizzclouds pretending to be homeless skanks or homeless orphans or homeless Disney characters could do it either. But no one ever stops the mess, and the horror show rolls on, flames and sparkles and American Idol rejects and all. When intermission finally rolls around, I generally find myself to be the only one in a full sprint out of there like a you-know-what running from the you-know-who. Am I the only one who took the training wheels off my brain when my boobs came in?

However, there is one thing worse than a musical, and that is a sing-a-long.  Nothing makes me angrier than a bunch of tone deaf adults clapping and swaying and singing along to the Star Spangled Banner or Bon Jovi or Happy Birthday To You. NEWSFLASH – Most people suck a singing, and the last thing I ever want to hear when I’m trying not to kill YOU for sucking so bad is for you to tell me to “Join in!” Uh…nooo…NO…NO-FING-NOOO.  I don’t care if I’m at a birthday party for blind babies or a karaoke night or a harp concert in Seattle (true story, happened to my friend last week). I’m not opening my mouth unless it’s to ream you out for the damage you’re causing my sensitive eardrums. When I see people participating in a sing-a-long and enjoying it – smiling, laughing, not killing themselves in shame- I am really disturbed. I’d rather watch two cousins become one on an Appalachian hilltop in West Virginia than have anything to do with an F-ing sing-a-long. I have no desire to act like I’m mentally challenged or 3. 

To further illustrate my point, I’d like to horrify you with video footage from my new favorite show, Little Miss Perfect on the oozing vagina Lifetime wannabe network, also known to many as WEtv. This show is a real piece of work, and all I can really say is that it involves beauty pageants, moms with cankles and the one and only Miss Michael Galanes.  Miss Galanes is a “pageant director, mentor, advisor and friend” somewhere in the swampland of central Florida.  If he weren’t totally covered in sparkles, eyeliner and Joan Rivers’ face circa 1997, I’d be worried about where he sticks his dick when the show ends and all the little girls go back to their hotel room. Anyway, this guy is totally ridiculous and at the end of every pageant he sings some variation of a song involving citrus colored rainbows and magic carpet rides. Despite the fact that he’s obviously writing his lyrics while he’s dropping his morning semen-soaked chocolate miscarriage, these pageant bitches always know the words and sing along like stupid dancing oompa loopa tools.  Take a look.

If this isn’t enough to make you want to stone anyone involved in a sing-a-long, then you have real problems.

FRIDAY RANT – suburban cops who think they are headlining a national comedy tour – wrong.

I decided to spend the long weekend in my hometown/Jew-town in New Jersey, because it’s been a depressing week/year/life and it usually makes me feel better to surround myself with people who are 6 or 7 hundred times dumber than me.  So on Monday afternoon, I went to the local WaWa to get myself a sandwich and some donuts, and obviously I ran into a few local cops, who were just you know, hanging out. I hate stereotypes (HAHAHAJGFBTHRGN HAHAHA WRONG., I LOVE THEM),  but I’m pretty sure they were there for the donuts. These are the guys who can’t stop talking about the piece of shit tool shed they built in their backyard, run up $1,450 electric bills from October-March because of excessive Christmas decorations like light-up nativity scenes and wicker reindeer mannequins, and have wives with 12 inch acrylic french manicures that work in hair salons called “Style You Sexy” and “Hair Barn”. When you’re a cop in a town like mine, you’re pretty much off duty save for the 1 or 2 times a week when you have to respond to a noise complaint at Temple B’Nai L’Chaim because Aunt Roz tapped the red wine a little too hard at little Leonard’s bar mitzvah, and now she’s passed out in the bushes with the bottle lodged up her chocolate starfish. Every time I see a cop car put the sirens on, I’m just like calm down Officer White Trash, I’m sure Grandpa Herb and Cousin Gail can keep their eye on Roz until you get there.

But the thing I hate most about these suburban “cops” is that they think they’re F-ing hilarious comedians, when in fact I’ve taken shits that were funnier than their jokes.  For example, at WaWa, I ordered my chicken sandwich and brought the receipt up to the register, which was being manned by “Assistant Manager Jay”. AMJ was about 37 years old and a recent graduate of New Horizon’s 3rd grade special education class (after having repeated it thrice, because he couldn’t read the word “squirrel”.) I stood at the register for about 45 seconds, while AMJ perfected his enviable talent for simultaneously keeping one eye open and one eye shut while drooling and staring into space.  I stared at him for a little while, but I’m assuming the one eye he was keeping open was non-functional, or maybe the fact that he was cleaning his ear canal out with a watermelon Twizzler was contributing to some sort of rapid onset brain damage.  I don’t know. Anyway, I finally said “Hi, uh…can I pay?” And then all of sudden, I heard a cheesy Budweiser-coated Jersey voice boom “I don’t know, can you?…BWAHAHAHAAHA!” I turn around and of course, some fat-ass trashcan cop is standing there, lips crusted in powdered donut, laughing so hysterically you’d think he was watching Aretha Franklin try to climb a staircase.  I rolled my eyes and hoped he’d go away, but I should have known better. This bitch moved closer to my face and said “Actually, you know what?  Don’t pay! It’ll give me something to do!!!!!! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.” And then he gave AMJ a knowing glance as though they were two lovers with a dirty secret.  I waited 14 1/2 minutes for him to stop laughing at himself, and I said “WHAT a comedian. ” Anyone with 1/7th of a brain would have picked up on my sarcasm, but he didn’t!  He said “Yo I know! My buddies at the station tell me I should be a comedian!”, all serious and sincere.  Then he was like “I’ll give you front row tickets to my first show, honey.” Well this sent me over the edge. Luckily, I’ve gotten speeding tickets in almost every state on the East Coast, and at one point or another I decided to read up on the legal do’s and don’ts for dealing with a dumbass cop (i.e. can you punch them in the mouth, can you bribe them with bjs, can you tell them to suck it).  I consequently knew that there was no law against verbally expressing disagreement, so after staring at him blankly for a couple of seconds I said, “Sir, your buddies are setting you up for failure, and I would rather have front row seats to a live porno that involves a donkey, a taser and Barbara Walters.” Obviously he didn’t get it and as I was walking to my car, he yelled “Look for me on the stage, baby!” I yelled back, “Look for me throwing up in my mouth and not laughing!” I mean what is wrong with these people? Get real.

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p.s. I went to high school in this same town with a dude who was really actually hilarious and went on to be a cop – I’d like to officially exclude him from this assault – sorry Jay Hoover….you are really f*cking funny.