Cultural Zeitgeist

There's a lot going on in the world, but I think this pretty much sums it up.

Schreck 5

Julius Schreck - Dead Nazi

Today, the NY Times reported that for the last four years, the Justice Department has been trying to conceal the fact that the US government provided safe-haven to Nazis after World War II. The 600+ page document goes into great detail about how hundreds of former Nazis were allowed to immigrate to the United States, and in some instances, were given assistance in concealing their identities. I cannot easily express how angry this makes me.

The fact that our government would hide this from us for so many years sickens me, not as an American, not as a Jew, not even as a moral person, but as an amateaur Nazi-Hunter. Hell, according to the report, an SS officer named Tscherim Soobzokov was allowed to live in Paterson, NJ until Mossad killed him with a letter bomb in 1985. PATERSON, NEW JERSEY! That's only 10 miles from where I grew up! That's like finding out that your neighbor had the last known unicorn living in his backyard - a week after it died.

Nazis are becoming increasingly rare, and therefore more and more precious. That the government hid the fact that there were so many Nazis living amongst us is an outrage. Barry and I have both dreamt that one day, we'd be able to abduct a former Nazi from their home (or place of business) and bring them to justice in Israel, sadly, due to our government's lies, that dream is unlikely to be realized.

Each day that our leaders continue this deceit, we lose more Nazis to natural causes. Hasn't this gone on for long enough? I believe that the poet John Greenleaf Whittier put it best, "For all sad words of tongue and pen, The saddest are these, 'It might have been' ".

Lotto time

It has come to my attention that the current lotto jackpot is $140 million. With a payout that high I feel justified in fantasizing about all the evil things I will make my friends do for money when I win. Sadly though, my dreams of making people eat poop have been trumped by Jake's plan for me if he wins. As of two days ago, if Jake wins his plan is to make me get a full back tattoo of famous ventriloquist dummies banging my mom.

The best part is I don't think he plans to pay me to get the tattoo. I think he is going to use his new financial resources to make me get it.

Thankfully I am going to win so I have nothing to worry about.

Breaking the law old school

I will be the first to admit I text while driving. It is like a sickness. I rather use my fat Mickey Mouse hands to type idiotic messages when I should be looking at the road than actually have to hear another human's voice. It's just one more way for me to really feel connected with my iPhone. Don't judge me. Anyway, I was driving while texting the other day when I looked up right before crashing to see a guy in another car reading a magazine while driving. I really have to commend this guy. He had the magazine in one hand and the wheel in the other. I could see his eyes darting from the byline to the traffic (me) in front of him. It was like he almost crashed into me from the past. He is the last hold out to text while driving, sort of like I am the last hold out to join facebook. He is my hero of the day.

Who you trying to get crazy with, don't you know I'm loko?

6 cans of beer + 5 cups of coffee = Awesome

James Bond had the martini, Hemingway supposedly enjoyed mojitos. This sophisticated gentleman seems to prefer a cool can of Four Loko.

I just read that police in Washington state busted up a college party where several kids had to be hospitalized. Initially, the cops thought that the kids had been given roofies, but it turns out they were just drinking Four Loko. Apparently, college kids call this stuff "Blackout in a Can" because it offers all the alcohol of a six-pack plus all the caffeine of 5 cups of coffee.

Personally, I've never tasted the stuff, but fortunately I live in a marginal neighborhood where I'm sure it's available in one of the local bodegas that sell expired milk and generic cat food. Now the only question is whether to go with Grape or Watermelon.

Welcome to another edition of Thunderdome...

A friend of mine had a colonoscopy today and told me that after the procedure he was put in "the fart room". Apparently, in order to get the camera up your ass and get a clear picture, they have to fill your colon with air. Then, when everything's done they stick you in a dedicated fart room so you can purge all the air out of your intestines. The way my friend described it sounded surreal, since they sedate you beforehand, you find yourself waking up alone in a half stupor listening to your own prolonged farts with your pants around your knees.

The funny thing is, today I went to a new Korean fried-chicken place in my neighborhood and had the same experience.

Posting Sucks

I have lost total interest in posting. I am waiting for the next great thing to arrive. Facebook, Twitter, it all has been done. I am thinking maybe something like I poop into a old style rotary phone and the phone translates the poop texture into words that get sent over the interweb. Man, that is some serial killer shit. In any event today you must pay tribute to me because thirty five years ago at this exact moment I was born.

Feel free to send gifts via paypal.

Am I the only one that paid attention to The Terminator?

Today, the New York Times reported that students at Carnegie Mellon have built a computer that goes out on the internet and teaches itself how to learn. Are you fucking kidding me? Didn't anyone pay any attention to the plot of the Terminator, because if I remember correctly, this is exactly how it fucking happened!

Also, maybe I'm a little old fashioned, but if we're gonna just hand the keys over to our future overlords, maybe we want them to be educated by something other than the internet? After all, wasn't it the internet that gave us "2 Girls, 1 Cup" and Chocolate Rain.

(Ok, I might be able to deal with being plugged in Matrix-style in order to support the future works of the Chocolate Rain dude)

Somehow, I fear that this sort of thing, is not going to be the part of the internet that informs the objectives of our new computer masters.

Stupid kid

Sizzlean

It's nice to see that someone out there recognizes how important Sizzlean was in making me the man I am today. I assume this was for me at least.

D Listed recognizes Sizzlean

Might be dying

In the last week or so, I have been getting massive headaches daily. The only logical conclusion I can come up with is that Hervé Villechaize put a ceti eel in my ear at the prodding of Khan. Okay, that might have been too obscure of a reference. I do have a bad headache though. I am thinking the big one could be coming or my head hurts because I can't stop wondering if it is possible for Superman to have a bout of diarrhea. Seriously does he take perfect shits every time? Maybe if he ate some kryptonite or something it would have the same affect on him as Mexican food on me. Just a thought. Man my head hurts.

Googled "Superman taking a dump" to find this image

Child Labor Laws

This morning I saw this sign hanging up in my local Mexican juice bar. I know that sentence makes no sense. Mexican juice? The sign is awesome because I would like to believe one of the following is true:
A. There is five year old that owns his own business
B. A mother made it who is using her child in a sweat shop
C. Taylor Negron is the kid's name
D. I find racist jokes to be the funniest of all jokes

The names and faces have been changed to protect the totally awesome

This last week I went down the shore to LBI in search of Snooki and JWOWW, instead I came across this old scum-bag and his "niece". Not sure what their scene was all about, but the entire night she alternated between dancing for him and grinding his thigh like it was a rocking horse while everyone in the bar watched. I like to imagine that he's the Brad Wesley of LBI, shaking down business owners (and generally ruling the small town) with equal parts ruthlessness/style.


Sadly though, he probably wasn't anywhere near that cool, and sadder still, nobody ended up getting their throat torn out that night. Bottom line, it's like Dalton says, "If you're gonna have a pet, keep it on a leash."

Actual words that left my mouth today

"I hate Priuses with handicap plates. Why do these old fucks care about saving the environment?"

The best part of the statement is my assumption that all old people are handicap, that and I have no idea what the plural of Prius is.

True Story

Sometimes, they turn into aliens.

Sorry that's not mine, I just figured none of you would recognize the joke since there are only thirty of you. Anyway so last Saturday I was driving around, minding my business and cruising through a green light at 40 miles an hour, when I was suddenly interrupted by an F-150 that was also passing through the intersection but from a strange angle.

Don't crash me bro!

As the left rear of my truck was lifted into the air during that brief moment, I thought to myself, that's curious, surely this guy has a good excuse for such buggery. As it turns out, he had a great excuse; he was shit-ass drunk.

Shitty. Shittier than Charles Krauthammer's pajama legs. Shittier than Repo Men even.

I took charge of the situation and pulled over so we could exchange information and wait for the police to arrest him. He thusly hauled ass and got away.

Embarrassed by my own naiveté, and also by the forehead-slapping laughing drivers passing me, I decided to take the law into my own hands. I mumbled something about liberals while I slipped on my Rorschach mask (mentally) and drove off into the night (the day) to locate and bring my assailant to justice (find him and immediately call 911).

Police composite sketch of my
attacker, enhanced and tattooed
on my leg for effect

My aptitude for detective work paid off when I finally found him, parked in the driveway of his house about 200 yards down the same street. Heart racing, I watched as he jumped out of his truck, leaving the door open to spill beer cans onto the pavement while he ran inside.

Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I ducked under the dash and called the police.

Two squad cars arrived within minutes, sparing me from having to battle my adversary alone. I let them take the lead, and took a sip of my Diet Mountain Dew as they drew their pistols and stalked up to the front door. I figured I'd let them handle it from this point as I'd done quite enough already.

Gunshots rang out, followed by the screams of a woman, as the bullet-riddled body of a police officer flew through the front window and landed in the grass with a lifeless thud. Without hesitating I reached for my Mack-11 and switched it to full-auto, jumping out of my truck and rolling over the hood in one smooth motion before bounding across the lawn and into the house. Obviously this paragraph is bullshit and for that I'm sorry.

What actually happened was far less dramatic. The cops walked out with the suspect, spoke to him for a few minutes, then put the cuffs on. One cop drove him away while the other one took down my information. As far as the other guy's information, some choice bits include 1. no insurance, 2. no license, and 3. no papers. So yeah, he's probably getting deported.

I felt a pang of guilt thinking about that last part as I drove home. Not because I was responsible for it, but because I was drinking a beer.

Lost 17 pounds and I don't have cancer or AIDs.. yet

So I was at the doctor today when she (Yes, I said she. I know, crazy right? Like a woman could actually go to med school. That is just silly.) tells me that I have lost seventeen pounds in the last year. I am pretty sure my fitness level has now made me invincible. As the female doctor handed me my presidential fitness award I got a bit teary. When I was nine doing those flexed arm hangs in gym class I dreamed of this day. I am just a bit sad that President Regan wasn't with us to give me the award himself.


I have been working out more than usual but I can't take all the credit, a lot of it has to do with Jenny Craig, throwing up and snorting creatine. Without it I would still be fat.

Shame for the Barry Rides

Today a friend told me she was setting up a blog to keep track of life lessons for her daughter. Something about don't swallow on the first date, never let him see your prescription for Herpicin, and if he is asleep his wallet is fair game. I helped her navigate her way through blogger since I am kinda a big deal at Blogger headquarters and guess how does she repay me. She tells me that under no circumstances will her wholesome life lesson blog be linked to The Barry Rides. It was like she removed her glove and slapped me across the face with it. I haven't been this hurt since I got my anus bleached. I don't understand what could be wrong with linking The Barry Rides to a blog about life lessons for little girls. I mean seriously my feelings are hurt. If I wasn't drunk I would cry.

I need justice for Omar

I take one sixty hour break over three months only to find out that Jake decided to use his blogging privileges to write about how bad he smells and his career ambition to be a gypsy cab driver. I say no more!!! It is time for me to write about what is important, like what I did with my hiatus. During my brief time away I had my asshole bleached and I watched all sixty episodes of The Wire. It could possibly be the best TV show ever made and has helped me narrow down what I want to be when I grow up or I get fired from my current job; murder police or bandit that specializes in robbing drug dealers. Really those should be the only two choices for all people. It is a tough call. On the one hand I get a gun. Wait a minute. . . This is tougher than I thought. While I decide, run out to your local RKO Video and get The Wire on VHS. It will be the best sixty hours of your useless life.


This post is dedicated to Colleen. She has loved The Wire since before it was cool to like black people.

Taking the Plunger

” I have less patience with someone who doesn’t wear a watch than with anyone else, for this type isn’t time conscious”
- Alex Haley quoting Malcolm X in the epilogue of 'The Autobiography of Malcolm X'

Sometimes I'm amazed by the things that some people can make due without. I'm not talking about the ascetic that renounces material possessions and sets off to live in a cave, nor do I mean those smug bastards that love to tell people "I don't own a television". No, I'm referring to those people that seem to go throughout their daily lives without the things we normally take for granted as necessities for living in modern society. I have a friend that lived on his own for 5+ years without owning plates or cutlery, he just ate takeout and drank bottled water all the time (he may have had a coffee mug that also served as a cereal bowl, but I can't say for sure). I used to know a guy that lived in a corrugated steel shed up in the mountains of Arizona and didn't own a toothbrush or soap. Of course there are a ton of reasons why someone might find themselves living like this: poverty, mental illness, raised by wolves, etc.. but sometimes you come across someone that's just clueless.

Years ago I had a neighbor that I didn't especially like. She wasn't a terrible person or anything, just not the type of person that you want to live next door to in an 100+ year old building that has thin walls. For the first few months she lived next to me I thought she must have been a single mother with a retarded infant, turns out she just had a cat that she liked to speak to. Anyhow, one night I was awakened by some loud banging on my apartment door at 1am. I opened the door to find my neighbor looking embarrassed, "Do you have a plunger I can borrow?" she asked, now I'm not a germophobe or anything, but this was a pretty intimate request from a relative stranger and it kind of caught me off guard. Not only did I not know her well enough to share that sort of bond with her, but honestly, she was built like a mack truck and I wasn't so sure I wanted the residue of anything that came out of her, sitting on the plunger that I kept in my bathroom. It being However, 1am and me being still half asleep I foolishly agreed to allow her to take one of my possessions, smear her feces all over it and then return it so that I could store it in my home. I'm a sucker, but I digress....

The thing I'm struck by is how can anyone in their right mind own a toilet but not a plunger? The sheer hubris it must take to think that one doesn't need a plunger is staggering. It's like driving around with out a spare tire, or performing a high-wire act without a net. Getting this glimpse into the inner workings of her mind terrified me. How could I feel safe living next to such an irresponsible person? In the months after this horrible exchange I would often return to my building expecting to see a fire crew cleaning up after some horrible gas explosion that she caused by leaving her stove on, or something equally horrifying.

Although she moved out of the building before she could do any real damage, her plunger request has left an indelible mark on my brain. While Malcolm may not be able to suffer fools who waste other's time, I cannot abide living near animals that foolishly tempt fecal fate by not owning a plunger. It's as if they have a naive sense of entitlement that leads them to believe that their toilets will always accept whatever they try to put down them. It's wrong and dangerous, and in my book, that shit don't flush.

Be responsible.

This Wheel's on Fire

Back when I was young, and cared about my appearance, Barry and I used to work out at a gym in Westwood, NJ that was frequented by a bunch of juice-head meatballs in stupidpants (Snookie, if you're reading this, it's the Westwood Raquet Club, I'm sure there are still plenty of jacked up goons there that are looking to woo an Italian princess like yourself). Anyway, back in my salad days, I wasn't so good with the whole deoderant thing and Barry used to frequently ask me if I left the meter on - that is, he thought I smelled like a cab driver. Well, as it turns out, what he was smelling wasn't my armpits, he was smelling my dreams... Yes, that's right, I'm thinking about getting a hack license and becoming a NYC cab driver.

You see, my salad days are over and now I'm primarily interested in the sort of food that has either been deep-fried, or involves copious amounts of Rolaids (AKA: jewish mints) to digest. So I was recently trolling through the various food blogs that I regularly read and came across a blog written by a woman that regularly jumps into cabs and instructs the drivers to take her to their favorite cheap food places. It dawned on me that this is a genius idea because cab drivers, as an ethnically diverse group, would probably know all sorts of cool, out-of-the-way spots that serve weird stinky food (I say stinky because have you ever smelled a cab driver? - see Barry's comment if you haven't). Then, after I thought about it a bit more, it occurred to me that being a cab driver would be awesome in its own right. So, assuming I actually go through with this stupidity, if in the future you climb into a cab and it's being driven by a white guy, it'll be be, maybe I'll take you to Katz's deli.

(by the way, the pic at the top is clearly taken from the spot across Houston Street near Katz's where cab drivers regularly park to take time off - also, if you've never smelled a cab driver, imagine what that guy smells like. Also, also, he's got fingers like sausage links (not breakfast sausages, I'm talking feast of San Gennaro sausage sandwich links))

Lucas' latest Star Wars edit

Cookbook Idea

So I love this new form of blogging, so much easier than writing...

Bucking the Vampire trend

As I've said in the past, I'm sick of vampire movies. Hollywood needs to start churning out more zombie pictures. While sitting on the subway I came up with a pretty sweet idea for a zombie film where the main character is a zombie neurologist. Sort of like 28 Days Later meets Doc Hollywood. I story-boarded it below, pretty sure it'll be a hit...(click to enlarge)



Next up: Zombie Rap Artist...

More people that are cooler than I am

In addition to the smoking baby, this sixteen year old girl is cooler than I am because she tried to sail around the earth solo. When I was sixteen I had a jew-fro and was afraid to ask girls out on dates.

I'm going long on Philip Morris

When I was in elementary school the nurse's office had this poster hanging on the wall in order to discourage us from smoking. While it didn't work for all of us (I nearly got killed after ratting on some sixth graders who were smoking on the tire playground during recess), I took its warning to heart, and put off starting until I was 17 years old. You see back then, images like this, and others of old ladies smoking through tracheostomies, were powerful enough to convince us that cigarettes made you uncool, and that only ugly losers took up smoking as a habit.

Then came this little guy...



How fucking gangsta is that? Not only do I think this baby is fucking cool, I'm pretty sure he could kick my ass!! He looks like he's either a crime boss, or a pimp that runs an underground casino in his spare time.

And did you see that shot of him with the guitar? He's so fucking baller that I hear Snoop Dogg asked him to join on his next tour.

Even as an adult I can't compete with that. Never should have quit....

Will Smith wants to fuck my dead grandfather's corpse.

How do I know this? Simple, because he's digging up shit that I used to love, and fucking it in the ass.



Seriously, what is this?



Clearly my grandfather's corpse is next.

There can only be one...

Betty White felt a surge of power course through her veins last night. Her body lifted off the ground as she absorbed all the knowledge and power of Blanche. The quickening is complete.

***UPDATE***

Betty White leaving her house right before Rue was reported dead. Story developing . . .

Paging Steven Keaton

Clearly Joran van der Sloot needs a TV dad to help him sort through his troubles. How many girls do you have to kill before it is considered an issue? I am saying four.

Jordan checking out of his hotel room in Peru

I need a sitcom dad

The passing of Emmanuel Lewis this past week got me thinking how I really want a sitcom dad. Not some guy to play my dad on TV but a guy who plays a dad on TV to act all fatherly to me. I am not sure if I am making sense so let me explain. Take Dick Van Patten for example. He was the patriarch of the Eight is Enough clan. Sure he played a dad on the show but the thing that really impressed me was that he was always bailing Nicholas and Tommy out of trouble in real life. When one of them got busted for drugs, rape or for being a Somalian Pirate, you would always see Dick Van Patten coming to their rescue. The same goes for Conrad Bain. When Willis or Kimberly were caught up in drugs, he was always trying to help them out. I guess the drugs thing I am not into but I really want some guy who plays a dad on TV to bail me out of trouble if trouble arises. I bet Higgins would make a good dad.

Holding open auditions this weekend at my house.

I really miss you

I still can't believe Gary died last week. It seems like only yesterday I was watching the episode where Arnold figures out that 'Papa' Papadapolis can't read. I always loved sitcoms with a heart.

Diff'rent Strokes Indeed....

"They'll have theirs, and you'll have yours, and I'll have mine.
And together we'll be fine...."

Well, Bret had his, and now Gary's had his. I can't say that everyone will be fine, but they were indeed Diff'rent Strokes.

Looks like Sam's gonna end up being the sole heir to Mr. Drummond's fortune.

This is Red Rocks, this is The Edge.

I really have no problem with the fact that Trevor Smith wants people to call him Busta Rhymes, or that O'Shea Jackson goes by his nom de scène: Ice Cube. But can anyone really explain why we're still calling this douche Bono? Or even better yet, why his band mate is called The Edge?

Really, does this guy introduce himself that way?

"Hi, I'm Bono, and this is The Edge, can I have a double scoop of rocky road in a sugar cone with sprinkles?"

As pretentious as the name The Edge is, Bono is far worse. Did you know it's actually a shortened version of his original stage name Bono Vox (good voice), I guess it's classy because it's in Latin, but as far as I'm concerned there exist only four people in the history of the world that are entitled to be called by either a single name, or something that includes the article "the". They are Hitler, Cher, and The Wild Samoans (I happen to have the only existent photograph of all four of them together).



So let's move past this shit, the guy's name is Paul. Can we just agree to call him Paul?

Need this outfit to appear in my closet right now!

If the '70s were wrong I don't want to be right. This is a picture of me circa 1977. My very first in a long line of power suits. My pose says, you will listen to me, even if there's a load of shit in my pants. I wish I commanded that type of respect now.

There is another

I have a confession, I've been secretly writing a second blog under the pen name Theodore Calvin for the last twelve years. It mostly deals with me discussing how if I had Carl Weather's mustache the world would be my oyster. What you disagree? Are you saying I wouldn't be the most powerful man in Hollywood if I had a black man's mustache?

When I am not working on my Carl Weather's mustache blog, you will find me writing posts for the barry rides part douche. It's a little something I through together to bore people with my narcissistic obsessive materialism. I think it will provide you with minutes of entertainment. Give it a try if you aren't too busy thinking of Carl Weathers.

Gonna Be Your Man In Motion, All I Need Is A Pair Of Wheels...

Actually, two pairs of wheels, or possibly 3 wheels depending on how much money I'm willing to invest in this thing....



Two stories from my youth:

1) When I was in elementary school, we were forced to sing in the chorus. Our music teacher thought it would make it more interesting to have us sing contemporary songs like "St. Elmo's Fire (Man in Motion)" by John Parr (it was 1985). Aside from being a sweet jam, did you know it was about a Canadian that rolled around the world in a wheelchair? Choke on that Terry Fox. Anyways, despite cementing my hatred for singing in groups (I would never attend the actual chorus performances) the song stuck with me over the years because; aside from playing Murderball, wheeling around the world is probably the coolest thing a person in a wheelchair can do.

2) A couple years ago I was crushed under a vending machine while trying to shake out a Snickers bar (I know what you're thinking; "how did a vending machine fall on him while he was on the toilet?", sadly though, I'm not speaking figuratively, I was literally shaking the machine for candy and it fell on me). Anyhow, the injuries I sustained from my attempt to cheat the vending machine earned me the pleasure of being wheelchair-bound in a physical rehab hospital for several weeks while I recovered (never got the fucking candy bar). Being in a rehab place with a bunch of quads I learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the type of wheelchair they're in, for instance: if a person is in a standard issue upright wheelchair (think Born On The Fourth Of July) you don't need to feel sorry for them, they're probably only temporarily injured and they'll walk again. If a guy's in a sleek fiberglass one with no armrests and tiny little wheels up front, he's a cripple and probably craps in a bag. But it's not the end of the world, someday, he may be able to be an IT guy or something. Finally if you see a guy in one of those motorized chairs with the blow-tube, he's fucked. Might as well wheel him out by the dumpsters and let the rats eat him, he's not going to contribute anything to society (again, I know what you're thinking, "what about Stephen Hawking" - well fuck Stephen Hawking, I have a theory that he's actually retarded and it was his fancy talking wheelchair that wrote all those books...). But I digress..

Spending several weeks in a chair got me thinking, could I apply for the wheelchair division of the NYC Marathon? I've gone to the website and haven't found anything that requires you to be crippled. Even if it did, I still walk with a limp from my candy-caper, so I'm golden either way.

Bottom line, just like John Parr's lyrics inspired me as a child, I want to pay it forward and be an inspiration for every lazy, out-of-shape, able bodied person by entering the NYC Marathon's wheelchair division and coming in second, then while the winner is celebrating his victory, I want to get out of my chair and moonwalk around him to show him that I can still walk. That's what a real champion would do...

Take me where my future's lying, St. Elmo's Fire.

17 again no longer enrages me

About a year ago I wrote a post about how the movie 17 Again enraged me even though I didn't see it. Something about how going back in time would do nothing for me but probably get me arrested for standing on a cardboard box in time square while spouting nonsense about the future of the interweb and 9/11. Hopefully I would also talk about how black people came from outer space and they're awaiting the mothership's return. Wow tangent, anyway I finally got to see 17 Again and damn it, I liked it. I was all wrong about this movie. It doesn't have Mathew Perry traveling through time and ending up in his younger self in the 80's, it has him stay in the present day but suddenly be turned into Zac Efron. Sort of like a fountain of youth tale that includes him becoming a Disney heartthrob. This is much more believable and watchable. I too want to find my fairy godmother who can transform me back into the hot teenager I once was so my youth is not wasted twice. Yeah that's right I was definitely super hot and not a giant q-tip with ears. I have now watched this movie at least four times. I won't get that time back but some how am okay with it.