Pop Goes Pop

World’s Greatest Pop Star, Child Molester Dead at Age 50

The undisputed "king of pop," Michael Jackson, did not stop before he got enough and died today at the age of 50 from cardiac failure. His nose passed away a mere few minutes later. It was only 17.

An autopsy confirms that Jackson suffered a massive heart attack while performing Beat It one last time in front of a solo audience in the East Wing bathroom. He was found completely naked wearing only a single white glove.

Michael is survived by his three children, two sisters and four talentless hacks who made their livelihood by riding his coattails for a better part of seven years. Both Michael and his nose will be buried together next to his cheek bones this Saturday at the Vic Morrow Celebrity Funeral Home. Weird Al Yankovic will deliver the eulogy.

While this is a very sad day for the entertainment world and enthusiasts of a man who defined an era of music and invented the music video, it is a huge step forward for twitter. Sad as it may be for our country's future, all major news sources – including CNN – are citing twitter as an official reference. Upon hearing news of Jackson and Farrah Fawcett today, Patrick Swayze had this to say: “Whew!”

More on this as the story develops.

The King of Soda Pop,

D Rec.


Still Standing Right Here…


QOTD credits: Linda Gambino – ("Whew")

Busted Dustin

Busted Dustin

So I went to a storytelling show last night where the theme was “Coming of Age.” People told stories about their weddings and proms, and since I never had a wedding or prom, I thought of what story I would tell. I was tempted to tell the story of the time I lost my virginity, but the current person I’m having sex with was there and I didn’t want to make the evening as painful and awkward as the actual night I lost my virginity. So I prepared a slightly less painful and awkward story. And it was good that I did because they called me to go up on stage to tell it. And so I recalled with as much detail as I could the first time I was caught making out with a girl in a public park after dark by the police. And yes, I said first.

Check out the actual footage from the Speakeasy show where I told this story.

Now I was 17 when this happened and I’ve since lived an entire other 17 years, so this story that I’m about to tell you will be a good mixture of actual events, exaggerated details and completely fabricated lies, some I’ve told myself for years and some I’m intentionally telling you now and I’ll let you sort it out in your head.

When you’re in high school and your girlfriend and you both live with your parents, it’s tough to find a place and time to make out. You either need to wait for them to leave, find a friend whose parents aren’t home, won’t notice or don’t care (and that’s a little weird even for me), or go outside. And so we just got in the car without a real plan. But first I needed to get the car.

“Mom, can I borrow the car?”

“Sure honey, where are you going?”

“Um… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What do you mean you don’t know? Why are you taking your blanket?”

“I love you too.”

And off I went to pick her up. Now here’s where my memory gets a little hazy. It was a nice summer night and we ended up at Bridgeport Park, where I had played many a youth baseball game in my day. And I was about to get to second base once again (hehe). I remember that we were in the beginning stages of making out when we saw a car driving along this dirt path that ran across the park. I remember thinking that it was probably in our best interests to lie down to the ground as flat as we possibly could. Like we were one with the grass. I also remember thinking that maybe we should have done a better job of hiding the car instead of parking it completely alone right near the entrance to the park. Thankfully, it looked like the car was going to pass us and we could resume our activities. It was just then that we saw the car turn 90 degrees right toward us. And there were the two normal headlights and then a third one on the driver’s side by the mirror to signify that this was either a cop or a really dedicated particpant in the middle of a game of flashlight tag.

The gig was up. We were caught. It was time to salvage what dignity we could. She had already taken off her shirt and I believe her bra was partially unbuckled, probably by her out of frustration of my ineptitude to do it myself. I was completely naked. Because we of course all know how much more patience boys have when it comes to matters of this nature. So she was already completely clothed by the time the police got to us. I, however, was shirtless and had put my shorts on backwards. If there’s ever an excuse to put your shorts on backwards gentlemen, this is it. I did of course still have my shoes on, because we of course all know how much more patience boys have when it comes to matters of this nature.

So the cop drives up and the first thing he says is “Maam, are you OK.” This is a great first question to ask for obvious reasons, but a question I was nonetheless unprepared for, having already resolved myself to do all the talking.

“Yes, she’s fine” I heard myself say a little before I thought about the implications of that statement.

“Sir, I’m not speaking to you” he said, obviously agitated.

“Fine then, I’m not speaking to you either.”

Now, the humor implicit in that statement became completely irrelevant very quickly. It’s possible my thought process was distracted by the question of whether or not I should bother zipping up the back of my shorts, because I certainly wasn’t going to walk anywhere like this. Thank the Gods of Calmer Heads that my girlfriend decided to speak up and tell the officer that she was OK and there of her own free will. He then asked for her name, to which she said “Penny.” The amazing part is that her name was Veronica. I have no idea how she pulled that off so fluidly. I was so taken aback that when the officer asked for my name, I completely panicked and told him the truth. 8,000 other boy's names in the world and they all escaped me at the moment I needed access to them more than ever.

The officer then informed us that we were not to be in the park after dark and we should “take it somewhere else.” As previously discussed, our options were limited, though I’m happy the officer still condoned our actions on some level, just asking that they not happen in his jurisdiction. Besides the lack of options, I could tell the mood was killed at this point. For her. I, of course was already scouting out other public parks or patches of soft ground not directly alongside a major road in my head. No need to waste a perfectly good blanket. But the night was over. And more than anything else, that was the night I learned that I could not lie to save my life in pressure situations and I could also never trust Veronica or whatever the hell her name is again .

Parking and parking,

Busted Dustin.

Still Standing Right Here… QOTD credits: Mike DeStefano – (For saying “I’m not speaking to you either” in 7th grade to Mr. Sindaco)

Romance By Numbers & The Statistical Probability Model

Romance By Numbers

For those of you who believe in romance and would like to continue to be fooled, please stop reading this now. I have some soberingly tragic news about what relationships actually are. A relationship is an understood contract between two people who are hopefully looking for what they claim to be looking for. There is not someone for everyone, things are not meant to be. These are fairy tales told to children, not unlike Santa Claus and Cinderella. I’ll admit that it’s fun to visit Oz every once in a while, but eventually you’re going to wake up to find the cowardly lion was really just Uncle Zeke. This is not to say happiness is not possible, but please don’t count on fate to steer your life raft. As dry a pill as it can be to swallow sometimes, there is another edge on the sword of free will. It would be so easy not to be responsible for your actions, but you will end up where you end up as a direct result of your choices. Relationships are no exception.

So once you can accept that there is not one person for everyone, what can we say of relationships? Does love actually exist? Actually, love is a separate problem altogether. Love has no meaning. It is a word we throw around in songs and bedspeak to make our relationship partner feel better about the contract. It means something different to everyone and cannot be measured from one person to the next and often times, not even from one instance to the next and can therefore not be described. Coincidentally, much like pain. The same people that tell me there is someone for everyone also like to say that when you are in love, you’ll know it. Well, I’ve known it about 3 or 4 times now. So that theory is bullshit. Same thing with Ouija Boards, by the way. But don’t worry; all hope is not lost yet. (to be continued)

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The Statistical Probability Model

(continued from 8/3/08) That’s where the “Statistical Probability Model” comes into play. There are a finite number of people on earth. Assuming there is not one person for everyone while still living under the unfortunate constraints of monogamy, we are looking for one of these people. For sake of simplicity, I will eliminate one entire gender from the dating pool. There goes half of them. There are also age restrictions and under very conservative, yet legal parameters, that will probably eliminate about 75% of the one gender. Also, for the sake of argument, we’re not trying to break up any marriages, happy or otherwise, or live the life of the sordid affair. That will probably take out at least half of the remainder. We’ve just very conservatively narrowed our focus to 6% of the population.

Now there are certain deal breakers that everyone has. No smokers, no diseases, no fatties, no Republicans, etc. There go about 65-90%, depending on one’s standards. Then there are categories of high importance, such as religious affiliation, children and the willingness to perform certain sexual acts. These are closely followed by categories of less importance, such as hair color, preferred room temperature and the willingness to perform other sexual acts. While none of these are deal-breakers to some people, a companion must earn a certain number of compatibility points in order to qualify for the contract. Each individual can decide on his or her own what the minimum number is and how much weight is given to which categories, but there is a number, whether we write it down on paper or just do it on the abstract abacus of compromise in our heads. This will probably eliminate about 80-95% of whoever the heck is left. This leaves us with approximately 0.156% of the world’s population. Thankfully the world has a lot of people. However, you will not meet all of them. So we apply that percentage to our geographical area, which depending on size, may not be statistically significant enough to apply these numbers without serious revision. Still, you will be compatible enough to have a relationship with one person for every 640 that you meet.

That’s still not too bad. You can certainly meet 640 people in a little over a year’s time. Now the trick is to meet them, get to know them well enough to realize that they’ve fit into your statistical probability model, hope they’re not seeing anybody else, and cross your fingers like hell that you fit into their model and that they realize it too. I don’t have odds prepared to discuss these percentages.

So this is sadly what relationships really are. There is no meant to be, there is not one person for everyone. Romance is dead. Love is a set of formulas carefully calculated on an excel spreadsheet. But there is still a chance for happiness. And on a long enough timeline, even the cynical heartless creator of this formula will find his 1 in 640. And when I do, I am convinced that I will tell myself that this is all bullshit and this girl is the girl that was destined for me from the beginning of time and fate brought us together. Again.

Playing the odds,

Busted Nuts.


Still Standing Right Here…


QOTD credits: Joe Titlow – (The Statistical Probability Model)

The Confused Narcissist

The Confused Narcissist

So last year at Valentines Day, I talked about hope and how I had a chance to finally catch a break in the form of a beautiful young intellectual who seemed to be really into me. Well, some of you may remember how that turned out. That break I thought I was finally catching turned out to be much like the road runner that the coyote always thinks he’s catching. The road runner magically got away and the device which I tried to use to catch it somehow malfunctioned and defying all laws of physics, hurled a 20-ton rock onto my head, leaving me to limp my accordion-shaped body back to the drawing board.

Another year, another trail of heartbreak and despair. And honestly, I can’t even really say that heartbreak has been a part of this past year. I haven’t gotten close enough for heartbreak. But the despair makes up for it. And for those of you who think that I’m a player, a commit-o-phobe or a relationship saboteur, I’d appreciate it if you could somehow manage to kick yourself in the throat right now so that I don’t have to do it myself and so I’ll never really have to know about it. It’s better for all that way.

Really, whether I’ve been the punching bag for an emotionally troubled 19-year-old, the butt end of a joke for some hot 21-year old or falsely impregnating people 500 miles away (yeah, there’s a fun story), this year has beaten me down. Every year does. And every year, I try to figure out why. I just need it to make sense because it doesn’t.

And so I approach the situation rationally. What the hell is wrong? The easy answer is that’s it’s me. After all, I am the only common link in all my failed relationships. And honestly, for years I have assumed that is was. But let’s take a look to be sure.

Am I too picky? I think we all know that’s bullshit. I’ve limited myself to girls that will say yes. As long as they meet the minimum requirements that the league has in place. This only applies to first and second dates. Subsequent dates need to be earned. And yes, I am still limiting myself to girls. It’s not that bad yet.

Am I not good-looking enough? Sure, probably for some bitches. But those are probably the ones that are too good-looking for me anyway, so we’ve reached an agreement.

Do I not make enough money? Probably not for some people. The ones that are destined to live their lives submerged in their superficial bog of money and toys. One day, these people will look back at their lives and realize that they did everything they had to do to lead the lives that they would truly enjoy. Sorry, there’s no moral here.

Am I not funny enough? OK, go kick yourself in the throat again, please. You’d better stretch first though in case you have to do it again.

Am I not romantic or caring enough? OK, that’s bullshit and I think anybody who knew me when I actually had someone to care about knows this anyway. I once covered a girl’s room with 100 balloons and had the sheet music to a song I had written her lying on her bed with a dozen roses for when she came home. Sadly, the most romantic thing I’ve ever done was back in 1993. Even more sad is the fact that I haven’t had a relationship last as long since then.

Do I beat women up too much? No. I couldn’t hurt a fly. At least not a female one.

Do I cheat on them too much? No. Probably not enough in some cases.=

Am I not good enough in bed? 937-396-7974. Ask for Becky. Or Kiesha. They only know me as Extendo though. I was a clown at their daughter’s birthday party. OK, none of that is true. But by the time we’re that far in our relationship for me to fail at that, I feel the job of getting someone to know me has been accomplished. But I do know how to please women in bed anyway. I give them all the covers.

Am I a weirdo? I don’t know. Everybody’s weird. I don’t really come out and talk about Magic the Gathering and Warcraft on the first date anyway. Unless they bring it up. And if that’s a trap I’m falling into, the hell with that. If conversations we’re having are really just impossible tests designed to make me fail like all other men have before me to make you feel better about yourself when the relationship goes sour, you can go sit on the bitter bus with Meghan “The Ultimate Quizmaster” and enjoy your life in Bitchtown.

Am I too cocky? Only when I get to dress up as Capt Jack Sparrow. And that has been pound for pound my best strategy anyway.

Am I not confident enough? Aha! We found one! But why would I be? I’m a confused narcissist. I have every reason to think that I’m the greatest person in the world but absolutely no evidence to back it up. I have been able to fake confidence for a long time though in short enough bursts. I usually either channel the Jack Sparrow character or just actually drink that much rum instead.

OK, I’m getting tired of this charade. Mostly because I honestly don’t think it’s me. I can’t believe that. I’m a catch. As long as you don’t need money. Or a car radio. Or a guy that can match his clothes. But honestly, as easy as it would be to blame me, or at least my characteristics, I won’t sign off on that. Because not only does it not make sense, but that would be admitting defeat anyway. But with your help, I’m going to figure this out, people! We have some work to do if we’re going to fix this so that I have the first ever truly happy Valentines Day QOTD next year. Feel free to help me out by telling me some other things that I’m good at. Or suck at. Or let me know if you have a hot cousin who just got dumped or something. Again, females only.

Making nothing out of nothing at all,

The Confused Narcissist.


Still Standing Right Here…


QOTD credits: Dave Walker – (The Confused Narcissist)

The Stupidbowl 2008

The Stupidbowl 2008

I hate Eli Manning. It’s true. It may be completely unjustified and unreasonable but I can’t help it. Even more than I hate Tom "Condoms Are For Losers" Brady. Since draft day four years ago, I have never wanted anyone to fail at life more than him. This includes people who have done me actual wrong, such as ex-girlfriends, evil credit collection agencies and the ass hole bartender at Steinkellers who cards me every time just to piss me off and then will tell Bill his money is no good there. We come in together all the damn time! I’ve been in there at least 50 times, ass hole.

Anyway, this Superbowl ruins all that. Even on the rare weekend when Eli didn’t suck at life, I could always hang my hat on the success of San Diego and the fact that all his bitching and whining about the wrong team drafting him first overall got him in the world’s most critical market on a team that sucked. And I lost a little respect for Chris Berman that day too. He talked about how classy Eli was by holding up the San Diego jersey even though the world knew that he (nay – his dad) didn’t want to play in San Diego. What the hell else was he going to do!? Throw it down on the ground and take a dump on it? Light it on fire and yell “Fuck you and your silly draft rules, Paul Tabliabue! I’ll play for the team my dad wants me to play for!” No, what he did was far more spineless and cowardly. He was the George Bush of the NFL. He got his dad and big brother to fix it. “Wah! I don’t want to play in San Diego! Wah! The country voted for the wrong guy. I’m telling my dad! Him and my brother can fix it.” And then Eli lied to the UN and started bombing other NFL teams based on improper intel. What a dick.

Apparently the Mannings are the Corleones of the NFL. Archie gave San Diego an offer they couldn’t refuse. And that is the day I grew to hate that damn look on Eli’s face. Like Screech could probably go up and steal his lunch money from him and elbow him in the face and he wouldn’t do anything if his dad wasn’t around. And things looked so good until this year. Eli has more interceptions than anyone in the league and he gets throw around and beat up like a scared little rag doll every night on SportsCenter. But not anymore. Now he has a Superbowl and no matter what happens from now on, he’ll always be able to say that. And there goes my argument. It turns our Archie and the Giants knew what they were doing. And I hate them for it. I’m still going to steal his lunch money. If there’s any left after Tiki Barber sees him.

QOTD credits: Dave Walker - (Tom "Condoms Are For Losers" Brady)