John Lennon, 1940-1980
Rest in peace. You are missed….
John Lennon, 1940-1980
Rest in peace. You are missed….
With our sincere apology to the Beatles, the following is set to the tune of Paperback Writer
Dear Hollywood: will you read my script
It took me hours to write, my name is Adam Schiff
It’s based on a wet dream of the DNC
and I’ll need a job when they learn that I’m the Pencilneck Liar
It’s a dirty story of an evil man
and his dumb supporters who don’t understand
that they’re too stupid to know their own good
It’s a thankless task, but it’s the job of a Pencilneck Liar
It’s ten-thousand pages, give or take a few
I’ll be writing more in a day or two
It can be more salacious if you feel the need
I can rewrite it all because you know that I’m the Pencilneck Liar
I’ll be super famous, sell Disney the rights
Do the world premiere in my circus tights
When this is over you won’t find me here
I’ll be in Hollywood or in prison, I’m the Pencilneck Liar
Pants are on fire
Pants are on fire
a reflection shared from our resident Botanist, Carlton Milhouse
It’s been a good harvest this year. Throughout the summer months my days were consumed with my herbalogic enterprises, allowing little time for anything else. As with any fruitful venture in life it is only after reaping the reward that we step back to contemplate what we have done. That is if we ponder it at all, which I’ll admit I often don’t.
In high summer (no, not that kind of high) the days are long and filled with labor from dawn to sometimes well after dark. One of the few things that help me to endure these rigors is music. I entered this season with a heightened awareness for the monumental anniversary this year has marked. My playlists have been liberally seasoned with those iconic releases of fifty years ago. Led Zeppelin 1, Abbey Road, In the Court of the Crimson King…. these only scratch the surface. All of these and more have always been in my repertoire, but if only for nostalgic reasons, they have enjoyed a renewed appreciation. Now, as we fast approach 2019 in the rear view mirror, I would like to share some reflections spurred by another of that epochal class of 1969: The Who’s Tommy.
Earlier this year I made a trip to Cleveland’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame with our very own Celeste Wilde. It was actually my first trip there. I have to say that on the whole it was a pretty cool place, but honestly I didn’t come away completely “wowed” by it. Maybe it’s Cleveland, maybe it’s me, but for any who have been to Cleveland lately you’ll have to agree: Cleveland is not the rock and roll town it used to be. Within it’s steel and glass frame on the shores of Lake Erie the Hall of Fame does it’s best to replicate at least some of that. Alright now, I’m not trying to dis the place. If you’ve not been and you like rock music I encourage you to visit, but make it a day trip if you can. There is no place I will recommend staying in Cleveland.
The highlight of this trip was discovered nestled within the bosom of The Who exhibit. Wandering about we stumbled upon a darkened nook where there stood two items. First there was a token dispenser, much like one might see in any arcade. It was equipped with an optic register to read the wristband they issue with admission. A few short steps away there stood a work of beauty: a full sized, humming, flashing pinball machine. Tommy’s Pinball Wizard no less! Celeste and I are the anti-Yogi. We’re a little dumber than the average bear, but even we could figure out how this worked. Out of a four hour visit to the Hall there was easily an hour and a half spent playing Pinball Wizard.
Before that day I was convinced that we had entered an age where the growing majority of our population knew nothing of pinball machines, those having been surpassed long ago by gaming consoles and other digital forms of entertainment. On the ride back from Cleveland the conversation settled about the pinball experience and I was quite heartened to learn that the pinball machine has indeed enjoyed a renaissance of sorts. Our conversation on that ride continued to weave in and out of the pinball experiences of our youth.
My own exposure to this venerated form of entertainment came, as it did for most of my generation, from arcade tents at various fairs and festivals. My first forays with the device were exercises in frustration. I came away from these convinced that these machines had been designed for the sole purpose of eating quarters. As with anything one only becomes proficient with practice, for which I was sorely wanting. Growing up on a farm in that era did not present a multitude of opportunities for this, but this was to change when I began high school.
Although I lived in a rural setting, it was at the time on the periphery of a suburban school district. Most of my classmates lived in the suburban sprawl that came to life through the 1960s and 70s. I was a member of that small contingent known affectionately as the “country fucks”. The school was just off of route 40, known as it is in those parts as Broad Street, and for kids like me this brought an entirely accidental benefit. It meant that for at least a fews days of every week I had access to such adolescent diversions as were not accessible from the farm. These included a steady supply of members of the opposite sex, recreational drugs and yes, even pinball. Blessed with neither an abundance of disposable income nor the requisite social skills to engage successfully with girls, I naturally gravitated to pinball. I know. Sad isn’t it? Well, thats life.
Being involved in a number of after school activities I was left with some period of time between these and dismissal from the day’s classes. Thus developed the ritual of making the trek out to Broad Street, turning right and walking the few blocks east to a local pizza joint called Dino’s Bar and Grill. In those years there were a variety of choices within walking distance for a youth to be misspent. My selection of Dino’s can be attributed to nothing more than the familiarity of it’s name. Some of you may recall a song from the rock band Thin Lizzy, The boys are back in town, in which the “boys” were known to hang down at Dino’s Bar and Grille. I had enough sense to know that my Dino’s was hardly that Dino’s, but as the song was still in current rotation on FM radio I took it as an invitation. I’ve not been back inside of the establishment to see whether or not it’s interior is likewise unchanged, but my suspicion is that it remains what it always was: a dive. Within the boundaries of the same city there is another establishment (also of the dive class) which proclaims itself as the cultural center of the Midwest. I have often mused that this may account for the prevalence of depression and suicide in the region. I could, of course, be wrong.
As our conversation continued I recounted to Celeste how I had developed my pinball skills back in the day, down at Dino’s Bar and Grille. This in turn led to one particular occasion at Dino’s which I had previously filed away into some dark and dusty corner of my memory. When I had first begun these forays out to Broad Street they were mostly solo. Some other ne’er do wells of the same age class would frequent Dino’s in those after school hours. Some of them I knew casually; most were just strangers. One of the first that I became acquainted with at Dino’s (and later on to a greater degree at school) was a young man by the name of Tom Gray. Young Thomas would later earn the moniker Tom Tripper. That is a title that probably bears little need for explanation to most, but I will elaborate further in due time.
We actually made our first connection due to the fact that we smoked the same brand of cigarettes, Viceroy. I don’t recall exactly when I migrated from these to the more conventional Cowboy Killers, but I do remember that in one of our first meetings Tom explained to me that they had become his smoke of choice because the brand was positioned in such a way at the local IGA store as to make them quite easy to boost from the shelf. Tom wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a font of knowledge for practical matters such as boosting cigarettes from retail shelves.
As a relative stranger to the neighborhood it was good for me to have Tom as a companion. Though he was no older than I, he carried a certain street cred due to family connections. Tom was the younger stepbrother to the children of his mother’s second husband. By this time those lads were well off in college, but apparently they had blazed quite a trail before him. For good or ill Tom was a known quantity, whereas I was unmistakably one of the country fucks. It also helped that he was quite handy with a pool cue and this was his recreation of choice. And smoking green. And, later on….
I mentioned that he came to be known as Tom Tripper. In the mid seventies if you were in high school, and you were looking to score your first hits of acid, it was always beneficial to have a collegiate connection. Young Thomas was the embodiment of this maxim. He was very smart in one way especially. Tom recognized early on that he was a consumer, and thus was not suited to act as a distributor. His stepbrothers no doubt aided in this decision. In any case, though Tom never sold acid this did not mean that he would not share. His most famous exploit by far was a live demonstration, in the middle of the cafeteria, of how to drop microdots under your eyelid. To this day I won’t even do that!
Tom and I eventually became a regular pairing on the pool table at Dino’s, when it was available. Whenever there was a wait we had the choice of two pinball machines to pass the time. I don’t recall the theme of either of them, but there was one in the rear near the pool table and the other in front, in what passed for their dining area. Most times we would stick to the machine in the rear because if we were playing pinball that meant we already had a quarter up on the table. Over the course of some months I became pretty confident on that machine.
The key to successful recreational drug use is in understanding one’s limitations. The success is defined by nothing more than avoiding incarceration. Others may disagree, but that is the crux of the biscuit my friends. The youthful tripper is still filled with that euphoria, the blissful elation which engenders the sincere belief that anything is possible. They have not yet been instilled with the requisite paranoia needed to navigate the harsh cruelty of the adult world. It is in that very perilous mental state that I entered Dino’s one afternoon with Tom. I was about to discover one of my limitations.
On this particular occasion Tom had some purple barrel to share. These were like a microdot, but larger. It was rumored that they were a stacked double dose of purple microdot, though I couldn’t say for certain whether or not this was true. This was not my first encounter with the drug, but this was to be the first time I had entered Dino’s in such a condition. My prior experience up until that point had been solo events; sitting up all night in my bedroom with the White Album over my headphones, the textured patterns in the ceiling paint depicting a re-enactment of bloody European history. That was a safe place for me to trip. This was very edgy. If I’d not been along with Tom I am certain I would not have dropped that hit when I did, around 3:00. It had to have been about 3:45 when we arrived at Dino’s. The experienced psychonauts in our audience can do the math and make an educated guess what happens next.
This was a warm day and quite sunny. Waveforms were already merging with heat mirage rising from the pavement. For the inexperienced tripper on their first public outing this was very unsettling. Once we reached their door I was eager to get inside. Without even looking into the back room to confirm it, I was immediately struck with the sensation that the table was already occupied. I felt hostility reaching out for us. The next thing I knew we were at the pinball machine at the front of the shop, facing out to the passing traffic on Broad Street. That was good. A geographic reference, a way to remember where I was.
Somehow I managed to extract a quarter from my pocket and successfully guide it into the slot. It jolted me when I felt the machine hum to life in my hands and then, for some time that seemed like an hour, I was part of the machine. I really felt it! This was a hallucination. I had lost all four balls inside of five minutes and probably did not even register 10,000 points. And that was just O-Kay. Lights were flashing everywhere, all sounds were compressed about my ears, and Tom drops his quarter. Then I got schooled.
I can’t pretend that I’m some kind of pinball aficionado. I don’t scan Craigslist to find machines for sale and you won’t find me stalking the county fair circuit to see what is the latest in a twentieth century technology. They are a vestige of my youth and thus I enjoy them. Having the opportunity to play for an extended time for the first time in decades can revive a lot of memories. I maybe have not logged enough hours at pinball to be qualified for this judgement, but for my money Tom’s performance that afternoon was the most impressive display of pinball skill I have ever witnessed. He had at least twenty minutes in before he lost his first ball. And I was left paralyzed there at his side on a stool, hypnotized by the blur of the ball, the passing traffic and the sounds of the machine which seemed to come from everywhere but the machine. That day I learned one of my limitations: do not trip in public places. Tom could do it and many others can, but I am not one of them. It is a rule I have lived by, lo these many years.
Celeste’s reaction to this tale actually took me by surprise. She smiled and seemed genuinely amused, while at the same time her smile wore an underlying expression of a look which said “are you really that much of a dumbass?” After responding with the obligatory “what?”, she said ” He’s your pinball wizard? Tom, Tommy…. duh?”
Wow! That was like getting hit with a club! See, for me the memory was always about the trip, and the name Tom Tripper. It matched. It just stuck to his memory over the years. Until that instant in the car I had never thought of it as Tom, Tommy the Pinball Wizard. She was right. Tommy was all about breaking free of limitations. Both of them.
Greetings, Stoner Nation! It is I, Carlton Milhouse. Your botanist. This is an abbreviated special 420 eve edition of High Tea. With me. Carlton Milhouse.
Ooooo-Kay…..for starters. There are no doubt those among you who have said to themselves, ” Self, I think Carlton Milhouse has hung it up as a blogger and it concerns me.” Okay, maybe not so much that second part, however I am here to reassure all that I have not. Hung it up as a blogger.
High Tea has been on a hiatus for a variety of reasons. Not the least of these is that as a professional botanist the months of March and April are quite busy. Stated simply in StonerSpeak:
Botanist = Vocation Blogger = Avocation
Another reason for the prolonged absence was that I had to play wheel man for Ford Wenty while he was covering SXSW, which by the way was pretty strange. The man still scares me, but he scares me a lot less when I’m behind the wheel.
Finally, there is the simple fact that as a devoted stoner one is often rather inconsistent in their follow through. Guilty as charged. In any case do look for a resumption of our High Tea feature Sundays at 4:20, though for the season we will only appear bi-weekly.
Well here we are, at 4:20 eve. The night before that most sacred of days. Have you done your duty? Are you all greened up? Are there those near you who are without green this holiday? Do see that you share with those please. The world will surely be a better place for it. If we could just get every person on the planet, all of them get their bake on at the same time, just once! I’m tellin’ ya, if we could make it happen, that would the starting point for everything right there. We could start to really make this shit work right.
Is your house in order? Is your glassware cleaned? Replaced your screens and stocked extra? What about pipe cleaner? And make sure those fireplace lighters are full. You want to have a supply of matches too. If your stoner brother or sister shows with a wood pipe you need matches. All of these things are important. At Thanksgiving you always make sure there are enough plates, cutlery, serving platters, casserole dishes, roasting pans….all of that before you even begin on the menu! Come on! It’s a big day, you make sure you’re prepared. 420 is no different my friends.
In parting, friends, I wish to share a final admonishment. I have been informed of a meme circulating which advises stoners to be sure and “put milk and cookies out for Willie Nelson before bed tonight”. I heard that and I thought “what the fuck?”
Do not insult the man, okay? You leave out beer and Lays chips. He doesn’t care….any fucking Lays chip, okay? Hell you could even put out some shit like Pringles, but NOT milk and cookies. The last time somebody did that I found puke on my front doorstep on the morning of 420. I’m not saying it was actually Willie…..but it seems too much of a coincidence to me.
Make sure your munchie larders are well stocked, have a designated driver if you need one, get your bake on one and all!
HAPPY 420 STONER NATION!!!
we’ll see you back on Sunday 28 April
If it is Sunday (and it is) and the clock on the wall says 4:20 (and it does), then it is time for High Tea, with me, Carlton Milhouse. Your botanist. So prepare your tea and your greenery and….
Let us begin. Back to the Earl Grey and little throwback to some gold shake this week, an unpretentious cut from the eastern slope named Don’t have to be Green to be Mean. How are things for ya out there in Stoner Nation? Ya’ll got yer bake on? I do, so….
Don’t have a theme in mind this week so I’m just gonna spitball here. Somewhere in the process maybe we’ll find a theme. Or we won’t. Some random observations. Go to a city, any city of say at least a million population or more. Drive around town, not on the freeways, but through the city from neighborhood to neighborhood. You notice a certain thing.
When you get down in the inner city, any city now, compared to the neatly lined symmetry and strip malls of the suburbs, the landscape grows ugly. Not ugly, but chaotic, unkempt. These are the communities where the working classes and the dependent classes coexist. It’s not about race, but it is a fact that ethnic minorities constitute a higher percentage of the population in these areas. These are not “black” neighborhoods any more man! All us poor motherfuckers livin’ up in here! These neighborhoods are populated by a socio-economic class, irrespective of race. It is a class that is, whatever the reasons, for the most part not in an upwardly mobile trajectory. If you pull into a gas station in one of these neighborhoods, whether you purchase product or not, they do NOT want you the customer to use their precious restroom. Down here, where everybody already ” in da shit “? Yeah, we don’t want no more. Keep your shit and piss to yourself.
You wanna pull in to the same chain of gas stations, out in suburbia. In suburbia their shit doesn’t stink. At least that’s what they think. They are mostly full of shit, but because it’s their own they are unable to smell it. So come on in to our gas stations with working air pumps, emptied garbage cans and clean white floors. Hell! You don’t even have to buy anything. Come and drop your deuces and piss to your bladder’s content. Our plumbing can take it. No one here actually ever takes a shit at work. Eww!
It’s true. It’s all true. Go and test it yourself. And be smart Stoner! Do your homework. Find out where the asshole jurisdictions are to be sure you’re not holdin’.
Okay….that didn’t get us anywhere, did it? I mean theme wise. Where do ya go from that, right? Let’s see……segue, segue…..umm. Nope. Got nothin’!
So here’s my other weird shit from this week. A lot of us in Stoner Nation keep odd hours, whether because of our habit or our work hours. How many of you have ever listened to Coast to Coast AM? This is an overnight radio program begun by the legendary UFOlogist Art Bell and currently steered in the able hands of George Noori.
The other morning I’m up and out in my car at 4:00 AM. Switch on the radio at the top of the hour to catch any news broadcast and I left it on. Then it rolls into Coast AM….. what a fucking freak show! I guess it was like open phones night and I’m listening to this dude go into some real grade A bull shit. He was “speaking to us” from his humanoid form, a being from the Pleiades star system sent to warn us of our impending insect apocalypse. According to said “being” we were driving all of the insects on this planet to extinction with our permeation of the airwaves with cellular systems. We are literally “frying” all of their “tiny little antennae”. Then it got really weird, followed on by a response call from a self described Klingon born-again christian. Apparently there is some kind of universal Klingon political apparatus which has drafted their rebuttal for any public proclamation. He was prepared to provide us, the shocked and awed listeners, with the official biblical interpretation of what the previous caller had just said.
It’s true. It’s all true. Wish I had a recording. You had to be there. Come on, man! It’s 4:00 in the fucking morning, you’re out for a ride, you got your bake on…..and then you’re hearing this? In another time this could have incited a War of the Worlds type incident. What if other civilizations are listening to any of these broadcasts? Will there be a “holy shit! They’re onto us!” ?
We are truly enjoying an advanced standard of living when there are people like this sitting up at night to call in to these programs. And there are advertisers that pay for the program. And suckers like me, out there listening as I enjoy my 4:20 AM bowl. It’s been on a long time. They probably reached their apex under Art Bell during the X-Files years. It’s mostly harmless and mildly amusing stuff, until you begin to consider this: some of these people may actually be out during the daylight, driving on your roads. What the fuck happens if you’re out there and one of these inter-dimensional dipshits suddenly gets beamed back to the Mother Ship? You think that car is gonna drive itself?
Still no closer to a theme, are we? That’s what a good bake will do for you! Brilliantly random, not randomly brilliant. Or was that the other way around? Well at any rate this has been a truly high tea. Kudos to the Don’t have to be Green to be Mean!
Join us next week when we will live stream an actual human sacrifice. Or we’ll visit a mattress factory. I’m not sure yet. Until next time, stay stoned my friends!
Greetings Stoner Nation! If it is Sunday (and it is) and the clock on the wall says it is 4:20 (and it does), then it is time for High Tea, with me….Carlton Milhouse. Your botanist. Prepare your tea and your greenery, and…..
Okay! It is time. Today it will all be decided. In a few hours it should be determined beyond any remaining doubt whether or not the New England Patriots, under the Belichick/Brady regime, are the greatest team in league history. In any endeavor when one individual or organization dominates the field for as long as the Patriots have there will always be people gunning for you. Like the legendary gunslingers of the Old West, after so many years on top it leaves no place to just quietly fade away. The only way to exit is with guns blazing. It would be a perfect symmetry for the legend to end where it began, against a Rams franchise which appeared previously during their exile in St. Louis. I could not imagine any way possible to top the dramatic conclusion of Super Bowl LI. That would have been the perfect exit point right there. For the ride to end with anything less than another Super Bowl victory is completely anticlimactic.
In a little over a year we will reach the 50th anniversary of the passing of the Super Bowl trophy’s namesake, Vince Lombardi. It is entirely believable to posit the idea that fifty years hence the very same trophy would bear the name of Bill Belichick. I am left to wonder, though: will there be an NFL in 50 years? And, if so, will it resemble anything like the NFL of today? Today’s league looks nothing at all like the league of 50 years ago, 1969, the last year before the AFL-NFL merger. In the past decade the NFL has drifted, not navigated, into the murky waters of popular sociological trends. This is because the league’s leadership has fallen away from the very capable hands of men like Pete Rozelle, a man who understood and revered the game, into the hands of technocratic types Paul Tagliabue and Roger Goodell.
The most pointed of controversies that the NFL has navigated in recent years is the whole stand/sit for the anthem fiasco. Goodell’s helmsmanship has been akin to that of the ill fated Titanic and worse. After failing to miss that iceberg the first time around he actually reversed course to strike it once again! Even with the media’s determination to make this the dominating story a league under the direction of a Pete Rozelle would never have allowed it to become a vehicle for an agenda. All of this began with the pink armbands and socks during the month of October for breast cancer awareness. The minute the NFL signaled that they were willing to be used as a platform for one cause they opened the floodgates to became fair game for any and all. The Washington Redskins. How racist. Where is the outrage for the Kansas City Chiefs? Then there was the domestic violence awareness program because of the ill considered actions of a few of the league’s players. I do not for a second mean to condone any of those acts and it is proper for the league to have well established and uniformly enforced code regarding these behaviors. That does not entail making the league a vehicle for virtue signaling their advocacy on behalf of the victims. Oh, and the concussion protocol. Again, yes it is good to evaluate and monitor, but can we get real here for a minute? It’s FOOTBALL, okay? It’s a fucking game played by grown men for lots of cash because there are lot of people out there willing to watch. And with breast cancer awareness or no, at least 35-40% of that audience is female. Yes, there are actually women who like these rabidly toxic displays of masculinity on the gridiron every Sunday.
The way things are headed it is only a matter of time before the LGBTQ community is up in arms because of the homophobic use of the terms “tight end” and “wide receiver” used to designate certain player positions. I don’t care to dwell on these questions in their broader social context, that’s not my thing, but where it comes to football? The only toxicity I see is of a decidedly effeminate variety. Some might say that is a part of the pussification of society. I might be inclined to agree with some. These social trends will go the way they will, with or without their cheerleaders, but they are no matter for the NFL to concern themselves with. They should stick to football. Bill Belichick and the New England Patriots have done this for the past 19 years with pretty impressive results. Perhaps with a sixth ring at the end of the day we might someday look forward to a Commissioner Belichick?
Okay, that’s my rant for this week. Regardless your partisanship let’s hope this Super Bowl proves to be a great contest and that the most toxically masculine team prevails.
Enjoy the game and until next time… stay stoned my friends!
If it’s Sunday (and it is) and the clock on the wall says 4:20 (and it does), that means it is time for High Tea, with me, Carlton Milhouse. Your botanist.
Hey! How’s everybody doing this week? All blazed up? Ready? Okay, good. As for myself the High Tea mug is loaded this week with some orange pekoe black tea and the fruits of a hybrid strain I experimented with this past summer. This plant was derived from a very hearty but relatively low yield sativa and a more delicate, yet highly potent, purple kush. I had no expectation that this should evolve into a viable strain on it’s own, rather it was for the purpose of developing a strain of the sativa which would thrive in a higher ph soil. I did save and cure some of the lot because of it’s intriguing appearance alone. I call it Kermit’s Bane: like the legendary frog this weed also finds that “it ain’t easy being green”. The rich evergreen hue of sativa 00166 is overwhelmed with crawling, fuzzy tendrils of fuschia, wrapping subtly around every bud. It takes on the appearance of farmland awakening from winter’s blanket, when the fields are fully abloom with purple vetch. On this grey winter day it seemed a fitting choice, and…. I must say I have no regrets!
Just gonna jump right into the shit this week. First, sorry we missed you last week. Like much of the rest of the country we experienced some inclement weather. I’m not going to lie to you: there was no weather related power outage, no snow emergency that in any way prevented our publication. We got totally baked and went out and played in the snow! Okay, so there’s that…
Umm…next up: Was Carlton Milhouse a child model? There are some vague rumors circulating that I, Carlton Milhouse, was some kind of child celebrity. Before this gets out of hand I will make full disclosure. Yes, as a juvenile, I did do some modeling for advertisements. I was in no way a “child star” or “celebrity” and my portfolio was very, very brief. Here is a sample of my proudest achievement in the field:
Okay, maybe I’m not so proud of it, but hell! I was only 17! It does account for how I’ve turned out, doesn’t it?
Alright, on to other matters. This week we mark the one year anniversary of the passing of the great Mark E. Smith of The Fall. A whole fucking year already!? Wow! Where did that go? As he sang in Stephen Song he remains “our hero still deeply loved”.
The government shutdown, in case anyone actually gave a major fuck, was ended this week. I guess. Until the next round in three weeks, or whenever. ZFG
Next week will be our Super Bowl edition with High Tea completed a full two hours before kickoff, leaving you plenty of time to get your bake, drink and munchies on with us before the game starts. At the risk of alienating some of our audience I will come out as a supporter of the Pat’s in this contest. You can love ’em or hate ’em, but there is no arguing with success and experience. I’d like to see Tom get his final ring and retire to what I am certain will be a lucrative broadcasting job. Or who knows? He may go the route of other NFL quarterback greats like Norm Van Brocklin or Bart Starr, or a more recent case, Jim Harbaugh. I wouldn’t want that aggravation, you know? I mean what the hell does this guy have to prove? He can just go and bang his supermodel wife on a private beach somewhere for the rest of their days. Hell, that’s what I’d be doing!
Oh! There I’ve done it! I have stumbled into the dumb shit of the week category: I have exhibited my toxic masculinity. I’ve got a few words for you Gillette! They begin with:
fuck you with a flexible, 36″, two-headed dildo
Those are my first thoughts. There’s more, I’m sure, but that’s good for now. Toxic masculinity? What the fuck is that? They not selling enough razors to women? What the hell is the motive to run this piece of stupidity? Wait…what’s that? The Patriots play at Gillette Stadium. Oh yeah…..that’s right. Shit! Now I’ve got more to think about!
Alright. We’ll have all this sorted by next week. Until then, stay stoned my friends.