Drink and Draw

October 21, 2013
By

Aldous HuxleyBarack ObamaWayne CoyneRoger WatersI was recently at my local art supply store to purchase some new pens with which to scribble pictures of people much more successful than myself, when the sales clerk mentioned that they were having some sort of “Drink and Draw” event coming up at the nearby sports bar, sponsored by Faber-Castell, the makers of the aforementioned pens that I ruin on a continual basis. Now, few word combinations provoke as unpleasant feeling in my intestines as “sports bar,” except maybe “Christian rock” or “Russell Brand.” I’m not one to frequently be found at a bar these days, as they tend to be loud, overpriced, and full of the types of obnoxious people I normally go to great lengths to avoid. Add sports fans to the equation and I’d pretty much rather eat a hand grenade. On the other hand, drinking and drawing both just happen to be activities that rank highly on my “Things Meathead Likes Doing” list (which I carry with me at all times). Plus, there was the promise of free stuff, the attainment of which you may notice is also on the list. And besides, what else am I going to do on a Sunday evening? Go to church? Watch a terribly overrated zombie soap opera?

My life-partner and I arrived at the… ugh… sports bar at 6:30ish and hurried past the obligatory shouting sports fans into a back room where there were two rows of tables and a great deal of pens and sketch pads. Some people were already started on their own drawings. We got some beer(s) and settled in at one of the tables near the back, and I got to work.

The pens they had were the same brand I normally use (Faber-Castell PITT artist pens), but whereas mine have a fine point, these had a much heavier brush-like tip. It took me a little while to get comfortable with them. But I was just there to relax, have a couple of drinks and do some doodling, so I had no ideas of creating anything that would end up hanging in the Louvre one day. And besides, they were giving the pens for free when they normally go for about three dollars each, so I wasn’t going to be a dick and start complaining.

The first sketch I made was of Aldous Huxley. For some reason I still had the picture saved on my iPod that I used as a reference for my shitty portrait of him a while back, so I figured what the hell, why not. And if it ended up sucking as much as the first one, it’s just Aldous Huxley, who cares. I think it turned out better this time, though, but it’s nothing special. My excuse is that I was sober.

Next I decided to draw our Nazi Socialist Arab Muslim Atheist Fascist Kenyan Antichrist president, B. Hussein Obamacare. By this point the 11% ABV beer I was consuming was starting to work its magic on my brain. One of the guys running the event gave me a blue acrylic paint marker while I was doing this one, so I tested it out by coloring the president’s suit. It’s a pretty cool marker, although I’m not totally sure how much use I’ll have for it. But the important thing is that I didn’t pay for it. This is probably my favorite of the night’s drawings.

Moving on, I selected Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips as my next victim. Despite his propensity for getting the most annoying fucking people to guest on his albums, I do enjoy me some Lips. I don’t know that I’ll ever be good at drawing hair, but it didn’t help that I was using a weird marker in a weird room and that his hair is all over the fucking map. Anyway, I’m not all that thrilled about how this one turned out, but hey, fuck you.

I had a pretty solid buzz so I figured I’d bang out one more before going home and going to bed like a big pussy. Naturally, I went with Pink Floyd bassist/asshole/inflatable pig enthusiast Roger Waters. I guess this one isn’t too bad. Again with the crazy hair, seriously, what is it with you rock stars and your hair. My excuse is that I was drunk.

Possibly the oddest moment of the night was when some dude came over and handed me a drawing he made of me drawing. To be fair, I am pretty weird looking, so I guess I make for an okay subject. Or it could be because my lack of hair makes me easier to draw. I don’t know. It’s pretty cool, regardless.

There are still a lot of blank pages in my free sketchbook, so maybe I’ll use my free pens to do some more speed sketches in my free time. Beer.

Cerebral garage sale

October 18, 2013
By

Sucking on a Jolly Rancher at Andrew Jackson’s funeral, Betty let her itchy thoughts gallop freely along a glassy beach in Scotland. No one has the right, they whispered, to push you into eating a power lunch with your enemies in the courtyard. To clothesline you with a slick double-entendre while you’re picking spinach out of your eye.

Some jerk with an obnoxious straw hat was making up a story about catching toads with Ol’ Hickory at some bullshit fork in the river. A baby two rows back clapped for no discernible reason. Why was there a baby in here, anyway? All those hot, throbbing senators trying to shove their way through the iron gates, and that little fucker had the audacity to act like he runs this joint. Betty swung her head around like a battle axe, getting a good, juicy look at Little Fucker.

(LET IT BE KNOWN that this particular Little Fucker is a direct ancestor of one Ron “Fudgy” Fucker, Tom Petty superfan and, of course, the inventor of PowerPoint. But let’s not dwell on that.)

“I once squeezed Andy so tight, processed cheese spread oozed from his ears,” lied the man in the straw hat as the lectern burned from his acidic crocodile tears. “He had the mustang spirit, we all could feel it!”

Betty glared at Little Fucker. “Where are your parents?” she demanded. “You’re clearly here unsupervised, clapping away like you’re never going to die.”

Little Fucker’s face was a delicate, fleshy mirror ball, reflecting and refracting the faces of its impatient beholders into ragged fractals of chartreuse, burgundy and a previously unimagined, nauseating hue best described as “morange.” His mother had tried to dog-ear her own page in the Great Suede Codex of Memory, but the man of the house, ever the i- and j-dotter, insisted on flattening it out again before turning the iron on himself. Ergo, Little Fucker was unspoken for.

Mr. Straw Hat, with the assistance of the mayor and a sick-looking Great Dane, was now emptying a large cauldron of hot caramel into Andrew Jackson’s coffin. Water, sodium, potassium, all that junk. The inner juices of human beings.

Betty was falling out of it. This horrible reminder of her formative years was some sour milk. Plus, he smoked cigars. Never trust a baby that smokes cigars, she once read stenciled on the side of a boxcar.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but if you’d please face the front. Our guests paid good money to enjoy this experience, so you could at least feign interest.”

Betty snapped her eyes away from Little Fucker and instantly knew she’d never see him again. Her Jolly Rancher turned to lead as three harelipped boys began meandering up the aisle, morosely handing out commemorative fondue forks.

“Thank you, young lady. Nice hat, by the way.”

“I’m not wearing a hat.”

The boxcar, unbeknownst to her, contained Betty’s spirit squid. If she had dared open that door, if that tourist family hadn’t wandered by… But it was too late by now, for sure. That boxcar and many others just like it were sunk deep within a nebulous ocean of diet ginger ale in a Supreme Court justice’s beefy late-afternoon daydream.

There were no forks in the rivers of caramel that day, as they oozed into the hearts and souls of the famished mourners. Mouths like refrigerators. These people paid good money, and they certainly didn’t deserve the caboose, did they? But it was coming. Nobody ever remembers to get the caboose, and this particular one had been in orbit around the holy moment for quite some time. It sparked and skidded in a shrinking spiral around the century, tied to a psychedelic kite string tighter than cat guts.

Some idiot was trying to rap in Latin but kept fucking up the conjugation. Three one-armed lesbian Nazi nuns were fighting over a turkey leg. Nobody noticed the introduction of the aroma of rancid seaweed that had begun to boomerang lethargically about the chapel. Nobody noticed when the east wall shattered and the shrieking ass-end of a train knocked the corpse of the $20 Man into the ozone. No apparent pain when the tidal wave of teeth wiped out the sinners and the buffet carts. No apparent joy when Little Fucker hotwired Betty’s horse and took off for the city.

No apparent reason for even writing this. I wasn’t there. Nobody “invented” PowerPoint; it was grown in a petri dish in Brazil. I want to apologize to everyone who came out here tonight. Especially you, Betty. You deserved better.

A game show

October 15, 2013
By

Behind Curtain #1 is an overeager werewolf with a potato peeler. Behind Curtain #2 is a greasy lever that, when pulled with the appropriate degree of attitude and finesse, will bring the Japanese economy to its knees. Behind Curtain #3 is a large Tupperware container containing two VIP passes to a hypothetical Daft Punk concert and 77 jealous scorpions.

Your hand is on the wheel, but your mind is scraping the bottom of the Everglades. The nondescript studio audience is becoming increasingly peppered with wagging alligator tongues. Your fake Scandinavian relatives were supposed to be here to cheer you on… where are they? Probably getting arrested at IHOP again. Typical.

Game Show Host Garry gently prods you on the shoulder with his skinny microphone as if to say, “Spin that wheel before I spin your wheel.” You turn to look upon him, his press-on hair, spray-on smile, blue lips. His demeanor implies that he wants you to go home with fabulou$ ca$h & prize$, but his eyes clearly betray the reality that he’s been mentally hate-fucking you for the past twenty minutes while Pat Sajak watches.

Shriveled remnants of that awful theme song are wrapping their tails around your hippocampus.

The Wheel of Despair / A lake of hot wax / A cheerleader’s leg / Ping-pong heart attacks

“Spin the fuckin’ wheel already,” hisses the shovel-faced model leaning on the glittered scoreboard. You’re not sure if her antlers are real or a hallucination, but now’s probably not the best time to ask. Oh! Over there, by the emergency exit! It’s Pseudo Uncle Svënk! At least someone showed up to offer support. Using your free arm, you wave. Using your free mouth, you smile. Your false uncle’s jaw falls off. Typical.

A few gentle proddings and a nearly fatal kidney laceration later, your attention returns to the wheel at hand. “Let’s get this boat on the road,” you scream to yourself, “For Toby (?)”

The big wheel spins, at last! The audience moans in collective ecstasy as a torrent of clicks and misperceived numbers rushes overhead, soaking the first eighty rows with Fibonacci’s urine. 100,,, 2000… 50… PAIN… 10000… 50…

GET 0

ERROR

Game Show Host Garry scratches his wrinkled proboscis

ERROR

Contestant #2 is named Cecil, Contestant #1 is named… Cecil…

The wheel abruptly stops on a red diamond, and the audience responds as any audience would. Game Show Host Garry slithers up to the diamond and, after a melodramatic pause, yanks it off the wheel to reveal:

ERROR

Game Show Host Garry spreads his wings. “Paaaack your bags!” he shrieks. “You’ve just won an all-expenses-paid trip to Lansing, Michigan! You’ll spend an entire weekend locked in a warehouse with Saved by the Bell‘s very own Dustin Diamond, snorting incomprehensible amounts of Ritalin and listening to Radiohead! You’ll beg for God’s mercy but He won’t hear you, because you’re in Michigan!

Verbalizes understanding: Y

Translator needed: N

-Insert peripheral line-

Tell them to stop. TELL THEM TO STOP!

Heart rate: 160 beats/min

Pain level (0-10):

FUCK KICK IT DO SOMETHING COME ON

Garry needs a sample. Give Garry a sample.

FUCK YOU

O2 sat (%): 88

Pulse: 14

Skin turgor: Loose

Don’t fight it. You know, you two used to be so close. You sat together in church. You breakdanced to Verdi together. You got drunk and yelled insults at the Aurora Borealis together. You were, as they say on The Food Network, “tight.” What happened? Come on, take a deep breath. Relax. There you go. Now, why don’t you give the wheel one more spin. Go on, it’s okay. We’ll just pretend the first one didn’t happen.

Ha! Ha! Just fuckin’ with ya. Be at the airport in one hour or we’ll murder your family.

Love,
CBS

Grab-N-Go

October 14, 2013
By

This time tomorrow I’ll be smooshed up against myself in the back of a white Range Rover as it flips and rolls silently across the black desert. This time yesterday I was frantically shoving baklava into my face on a heroin dinner date with Scott Bakula. This time today I’m a melancholy off-duty park ranger, staring out my grimy kitchen window at a postal worker who’s about to experience this year’s new and improved strain of rabies.

I’m so busy! Every one of my moments is as sharp as the diamond blades of Odin’s lawnmower. My time is so valuable it would make Jay-Z vomit in the basement. Yo ho ho, it’s the Grab-N-Go life for me, sister. Outta my way, weatherman, you parenthetical Antichrist with the asterisk mouth! I get my forecasts ground into my brain with a Bluetooth laser hamfist full of HD potato wedges. But round off those temps to the nearest ten, I don’t have time for ones. I’ve got golf to cancel and a bloody kilt to leave on the side of the road to ruin. If it doesn’t fit in my cupholder, I’m not fucking interested.

I recently saw my neighbor crying in a cul-de-sac. She was drenched in snot. I didn’t know what else to do so I laid on my car horn for about forty-five minutes and shouted some very un-Catholic epithets through my crispy breaded teeth. It made me late for soccer practice, and I don’t even have kids (no time!!!).

I only eat pre-packaged food if the wording on the packaging is yellow-orange and italicized, and involves some iteration of the word “go.” No “go,” no go. Gotta go. I even go in my sleep. Go. Grab. Go. Grab-N-Go!

O. J. Simpson! Now there’s someone who knew how to Grab-N-Go. He won the Heisman, for crying out loud. I couldn’t quite see into that Bronco, but I like to think he was enjoying a Gogurt in there.

I love handles. They make things easier to grab and pull toward my person as I go to my very urgent appointments at the hairstylist and the nosestylist and the cephalopodiatrist and the Apple store and the apple store and the

I can feel my insides corroding, oxidizing, foaming, burning me up. Even more so when I’m on an airplane, or reading fine print while on an airplane. It’s like I gargled with a lava lamp. My Handi-Pak wife says I should go and see a doctor, but doctors don’t have handles. Do they?

I haven’t exhaled in three months. Oh! A coupon for 27¢ off Totino’s Pizza Rolls!!! Perfect for grabbing and going! If only I had time to cut the coupon from this… this thing…

Lord, baby Jesus, come grab me from this cruel, slow and inconvenient world. Can I bring my iPad with me to paradise? Hello?

This passage sponsored by Beatty’s Poorly Defined Sponge Cakes. “Your Tongue Will Writhe in Agonizing Flames of Deliciousness!™” Now in hyper-convenient wrapperless Grab-N-Go servings, because what kind of loser actually has time for cellophane? And by Hillel Slovak, “I Used to Be In the Red Hot Chili Peppers But Then I Died of Drugs™”

Stranger in a strange demographic

October 10, 2013
By

True, true, I don’t belong in this fine McDonald’s establishment. I came in here with Omar, he said he was going to use the restroom. I was just going to stand over here and idly touch this life-size wooden cutout of Lyle Lovett while I wait. I wasn’t going to bother anyone. Omar. We came in together. He entered first, and I followed him. He was wearing a filthy, powder blue tuxedo and a– no, I don’t want an Arch Deluxe, thank you. Oh, you were being sarcastic.

There’s a baby outside wearing a cashmere diaper and chewing on a length of yellow police tape. Someday he’ll learn how to order a hash brown. Bright reality will hemorrhage from his oversized pores in a C# whine. The grass will curl and warp beneath his breath, and sea-sharp executives in a filthy boardroom will squeal in ecstasy. Move up, go harder, ask for a double. Diet Sprite. Yes, you’ll do just fine.

Tomorrow we will be closed. Filming a commercial. Go away.

Werner Herzog is showing Bronson Pinchot how to choke on a serrano pepper. Quiet on the set. Now, you want it to be believable, but not grotesque. Your eyes should bulge out a little, but not too much. Don’t stick out your tongue. Grasp at your throat but don’t kick anything over.

Where the fuck is Omar? He’s been in there since 1969. He doesn’t even know that the Grateful Dead– no, I don’t want to stick anything in your barbecue sauce. Oh, sarcasm again. Got it.

I’m just going to stand over here and idly touch this life-size wooden cutout of A GERMAN SHEPHERD while I wait. You won’t even know I’m here. No trailing zeros, no leading zeros, just one very lost and confused decimal point suspended in the ochre country haze. I’ll even close my eyes and think small like they taught me in art school.

Dead horses are piling up in the drive-thru, but whose job is it to sort it out?

Werner Herzog has two fingers in Bronson Pinchot’s trachea now. It’s not looking good. There’s no time to recast this thing and the backup dancers have already gone back to Egypt. ILM will just have to fix this wreck in post. Just send over an Edible Arrangements basket and a peppermint-scented manila folder stuffed with 8×10 glossies from Kurt Cobain’s autopsy. Once this shit’s in the can I’ll be as far from a McDonald’s franchise as physically possible, which is a small cemetery in rural Romania. If I roll my eyes back into my head far enough and scream loud enough, I can almost block out the yellow glow from those infernal arches. Plus, there’s WiFi!

Once I’m there, I’ll sip a warm margarita from a boot and learn via TMZ that Omar joined the priesthood back in 1980 and is planning to poison the Pope’s popcorn shrimp. Shh, no spoilers please!

But you’re absolutely right, I don’t belong in this McDonald’s, so I’ll be going. When Omar comes out, tell him I’m sorry, but the golden arches were scorching my soul. I’m going to the moutains. By the way, is that the Hamburglar’s Maserati out there? Oh, no reason. Just curious. Anyway, see you later.

Ha ha, I got pear all over my nose

Grocery list

October 9, 2013
By

1. Deflate your favorite ’80s wrestler and wave him like a sweaty flag from the top of the Gateway Arch. Go on.

2. Using the wormhole in your dog’s tapeworm, travel back in time and force Francis Scott Key at gunpoint to make each stanza of the Star-Spangled Banner begin with “be-otch.” Tickle Stalin’s mustache on your way back.

3. Wearing all denim, and playing Peter Gabriel’s Us on a Sanyo boom box at precisely 109dB, freebase an entire jar of Miracle Whip in the parking lot of the nearest police station. It is of the utmost importance that you maintain a pleasant demeanor while doing this.

4. Open a stand at your local farmer’s market, but sell nothing. Just cry and cry and cry and

I ask myself which Final Fantasy character I’d least like to be stuck on an elevator with. Would the answer change if the elevator were plunging in freefall from 109 stories? What if it were in Portugal? Piers Morgan waits silently as I nervously fumble with my burgundy clip-on necktie. I hope he doesn’t know where I was fifteen minutes earlier…

Adrift in my cold mental sludge, clinging to a Hillary 2008 yard sign. I made a sextant out of fish bones and Red Vines but it smelled/looked weird so I threw it away. Everybody I know was staring at me from behind a crud-covered screen door, hoping they’d find me face down in the street, in Portugal or elsewhere, after a nauseating altercation at a Yu-Gi-Oh convention.

No, Piers, I will not be answering you this evening. Instead I will awkwardly play Fruit Ninja on my ivory telephone.

FIRST CALLER (Pete from Toledo, Ohio)

“My tongue is in your top left desk drawer, Piers”

God damn it, isn’t anyone screening these calls

SECOND CALLER (Pete from St. Petersburg, Florida)

5. Laundry detergent

6. Kidney beans

7.

Aquí un mil, allí un mil

September 27, 2013
By

My silly little art project passed a silly little milestone yesterday- my 1000th drawing (of course, if you only count the good ones, the number is much, much smaller). Beyond the fact that now I’ll have to expend the energy to write an extra digit when noting the number on the back corner of each page, it’s ultimately pretty insignificant. No fireworks went off, there’s no parade, no golden trumpets from the heavens, and I didn’t get a congratulatory phone call from the President. I think some small part of me actually expected to hear the *plink* “Achievement Unlocked” sound when I signed that thousandth portrait, but that didn’t happen either. The whole experience was rather underwhelming, to tell you the truth.

Most importantly, though, it doesn’t mean the project is over, for better or for worse. Not that I hadn’t considered it at one point. Originally it was only going to go on for a year, but when the year was up, it was pretty much the same “that’s it?” feeling, so I replaced it with a “fuck it” feeling and kept going. Same thing after the second year came and went. And now that another perfectly decent excuse to quit has gone by, it’s pretty obvious that there’s no planned end in sight. In fact, I can only think of three possible scenarios that would make me put my pen and sketchbook away:

• I reach a point where I feel the time and energy put into the project has ultimately been worth it in some real, tangible way ($$$$ BIG MONEY $$$$)

• There are no more people left on this earth to draw

• I am killed by death (or left incapacitated and physically unable to draw)

Or, okay, I suppose if the reanimated corpse of Abraham Lincoln claws its way out of the grave, catches the bus to my house, and commands me to quit, I might consider it. It has to be Lincoln, though. If I open the door and it’s fucking Franklin Pierce standing there pointing his bony finger at me, I’ll tell him to get fucked. Seriously. I’m not some pushover who takes orders from just any undead ex-President. Especially not from Franklin Pierce. What a douchebag.

Anyway, if you’re into it, you can still order a print(s) from my World Wide Web Internet E-Cyberstore by clicking the “Prints” link up there at the top of this page. I’ll promptly wash the barbecue sauce and other assorted filth from my fingers and personally sign it just for you, my World Wide Web Internet E-Cyberfriend. I’ll even sign it in whatever color ink you desire (provided it’s black).

Or if you’re poor like me or just simply don’t feel like giving up your precious wall space for anything less than a Picasso, Renoir or Big Mouth Billy Bass, I guess that’s okay too, but if you happen to know anyone with deep pockets and reduced standards, send them over this way.

Bye,
Meathead

A moth dying in Tom Hanks’ closet

September 18, 2013
By

Hi! I’m a moth dying on the floor of Tom Hanks’ closet. Thank you, it’s an honor to be here. The man has exquisite taste in carpeting.

There are loud thuds coming sporadically from the other room. Bet you’d never thought a moth in its final moments would use a ten dollar word like “sporadically,” did you? Oh, that was a really loud one right there.

I’m wiggling my little legs. See? I think my first exposure to Tom Hanks was something like twenty lives ago; I was an angel fish, and I dimly remember watching Turner & Hooch on the TV from my aquarium. My owner never cleaned it, though, so it was a little hard to see through all the… strings…

My old boss had a toilet mouth. It was clogged up and overflowing with brown water. That was when I worked at Silicon Graphics. This is better. Next time I own a house I’m definitely getting carpet like this in it.

What is going on in there?

Tom Hanks! I ate one of his linen shirts. I bet there were more than a few flakes of his skin in there. I probably have part of Tom Hanks in me right now! And my parents said I’d never amount to anything.

Cloud Atlas looks really stupid, sorry. I know that’s not a nice thing to say when he obviously went out of his way to buy the best moth balls on the market. Most moths wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between regular vanilla and French vanilla, but I happen to have rather refined tastes, so it really means something to me. If I had a damn WiFi signal, I’d be giving Tom Hanks’ closet one hell of a Yelp review right now.

Oh Jesus, I think my wing just fell off. Ugh. Now I look like–

uh oh, someone’s coming

wait

no

no no no no no

OH GOD NO I’M SORRY

NOT LIKE THIS

Red’s Real African Safaris

September 17, 2013
By

[PAID ADVERTISEMENT]

Rattle rattle rattle rattle
You’ll never see a rattlesnake on Red’s Real African Safaris
but you’ll have a “whale” of a time!
(no whales either)
A cartoon horse playing a saxophone
a Jesus fish dangled beneath its grotesque, twisted genitals to ease your grotesque, twisted mind
Did it work?

Red will wait in the dusty Jeep, reading an Italian magazine and eating up the last of your Lemonheads, while you shiver on an embankment, staring into the hot amber puddles in the general area where a goat’s eyes might otherwise be.

Maybe you’ll catch a duck with that tomato gun. Maybe it’ll land behind the dumpster and you’ll be too scared to go get it because a Blue Mage is hanging out over there. What is he doing there? Why won’t he just get in his car and go home?

Experience the ice-cold thrill of being chased by hungry ________s across the veldt as a warped cassette of Robert Palmer’s Riptide bleeds into your skull and compromises your lousy renal system! (deluxe package only)

$39.99!!!

Red’s Real African Safaris will latch onto your face and drain the boredom from every cell of your convulsing body. You willl have a circle of red “L” shaped marks around your face and your friends will shun you, GUARANTEED. You will have at least three (5) horrifying realizations in a swamp, and you will lick a hippo, GUARANTEED.

Dissolve your alternate lives like Alka-Seltzers in Schrodinger’s hot tub. Red will find the real you, dry it into jerky and leave it in a Gideon Bible at a Super 8 motel for Elroy Jetson to discover moments before he adds his brains to a painting of a windmill. Red will help you kill, gut and eat your spirit animal under the heavy stare of a jungle half-moon. You will ride a sullen elephant and erase all memory of the death of Heath Ledger, only to be re-learn it while picking corn out of your teeth on the airplane.

Red’s Real African Safaris are so good, you’ll spend two days afterwards repeatedly slamming your head into a glass partition at a Greyhound bus station.

Pack your bags, leave your ego and anyone named Rebecca locked securely in your wine cellar, and wait out at the curb for Red’s windowless Safari Courtesy Shuttle to whisk you away to a land of magic and wonder and viral meningitis! Red loves you. Just wait at the curb. It will all make sense.

MEATHEAD’S WEB HOLE CUSTOMERS: Use discount code “WEBHOLE1″ for a free latex rub from Red’s common-law wife, Wanda!

Fantasy Football

September 11, 2013
By

MY FANTASY FOOTBALL
by: Meathead, age 7 1/2

Hi, welcome to my Fantasy Football Game! At the Super Super Bowl in beautiful America! But first please stand for the national anthem, which will be sung by Weird Al Yankovic (he’s awesome!!!!)

AND THE BOMBS IN THE AIR, AND THE RED ROCKETS IN THE AIR

And now here is a white tiger that will eat Weird Al Yankovic! Please remain standing until he is fully digested

Today’s teams are the Meathead’s Totally Awesome Team VS. the Kentucky Dorkwads. President Reagan will throw out the first football pitch. And now he will sell chemical weapons to Saddam Hussein. Play Ball!

Okay first though we need to fold up America into a big bowl because this is the Super Super Bowl not the Regular Super Bowl. Hulk Hogan is now folding it up, don’t forget to tuck in the corners. Okay now Hulk Hogan is pouring in the milk. Here comes the Cap’n Crunch!!!

Everyone on my team gets a unicorn. I get a flying unicorn because I’m the quarter back. I also get a fire sword and a machine gun. The Kentucky Dorkwads just get pocket calculators and protractors because they’re dweebs.

Now Joe Montana (he’s on my team) kicks the football, and it goes way up in the air! I fly up on my unicorn and intercept it over Ohio. Michael Bolton (other team, shortstop) tries to stop me and I shoot his stupid hair off with my machine gun and also his face. The crowd goes wild!!!!!

AWESOME TEAM 100 – DORKWADS 0

Hey, folks, this is John Madden reporting from a blimp! Meathead’s Totally Awesome Team is beating the crap out of the Kentucky Dorkwads! This is a great day for America! Also buy my new football computer game for the Commodore 64 and drink Pepsi.

Michael Jordan (my team) takes the ball from me and rides his unicorn over to South Dakota, and the Dorkwads can’t keep up because they’re all crammed into a Dodge Dart and the driver, Fred Savage, doesn’t have a drivers license so he got pulled over and he went to jail.

AWESOME TEAM 5000 – DORKWADS 0

Now it’s halftime and Huey Lewis is playing that song from Back to the Future. Hulk Hogan takes a big spoon and scoops up a big bite of cereal and eats it. Then he smiles really big and he has Ohio stuck in his teeth. Huey Lewis smashes his guitar and the crowd goes wild!!!

AWESOME TEAM 1000000 – DORKWADS 0

Uh oh, that blond jerk from The Karate Kid (Dorkwad) has the football now! He’s running down the Mississippi River and he is wearing his underwear on the outside because that is their uniform because they’re stupid. He’s running towards the goalie Wayne Gretzky (Awesome Team) but it’s okay because Wayne Gretzky has a grenade. He throws the grenade and blows up the blond jerk from The Karate Kid and body parts go everywhere and the football flies way up in the air again and I catch it on my unicorn and Huey Lewis plays that other song from Back to the Future and the crowd goes wild!!!!!

Then I have an existentialist crisis and my unicorn has a heart attack and the rainbow turns to sand! Hulk Hogan shrugs and begins to floss as I tumble backwards into a free fall. In desperation I reach out to catch John Madden’s blimp but it’s forever away and besides, it’s slick with sausage grease. John Madden shrugs and Drinks Pepsi.

What are points, anyway? Just numbers, and numbers are just shapes. An eight is just two zeroes stacked upon one another. A seven will cut you if you aren’t careful. The crowd goes wild!!! over what? A distraction from their collective mortality. Sports.

The Super Super Bowl becomes convex, concave, flat, arched, corrugated. Fireworks shoot the wrong way, at the wrong time, and I look up (down?) just in time to spot Hulk Hogan stretching away into the cosmos, scraping a bicep against Jupiter, my face is swollen,

AWESOME TEAM §§§ – DORKWADS 0

I’m spitting out footballs like sunflower seeds in a Japanese game show, a Japanese game show, don’t drink Pepsi, what’s the difference? The 40 yard line is a guillotine and the end zones are closed for fumigation. The blood is sloshing around in my body as I continue to drop like space junk. There are no more colors, just streaks and insinuations.

Then I see the goal posts. A colossal bony H pushes its way out of Hartford, Connecticut. “This way,” it whispers seductively, and I drift this way. An Amish kid keeps throwing corn cobs at me but I pay no mind. I realize that the one true football has been inside of me this whole time!

I land like an S-less Superman somewhere in West Virginia and run toward the goal with renewed purpose. No more teams, those artificial constructs. I slap away bears and bees and robots, and the crowd is congealing. I’m only ten yards from victory when something trips me and I fall flat on my brain, shattering into a vigintillion irridescent shards. Curse you, Fred Savage! He grabs the glowing true football from my wreckage and turns to go the other way and BAM! There’s Joe Montana!!!

“I don’t think so!” yells Joe Montana!

He pushes Fred Savage into the ocean (full of sharks and piranhas) and takes the football back! The great H embraces him and the crowd goes wild!!!!

TOUCHDOWN!!!!

Thank you and I hope you liked my Fantasy Football game. No portion of my Fantasy Football game may be recorded, re-broadcast or talked about without the express written consent of my butt