Thursday, October 28, 2004

Parties and ... Curses, foiled again!

Last weekend (Oct 24, 2004), we (me) at Portroids celebrated our (my) first anniversary of poppin' 'roids with a huge gala celebration (in my mind) entitled "From Carl Tanner Jr to Morgan Freeman: Portroids Year One Huge Gala Celebration!" We (I) had a retrospective slide show of the highlights from the past year, a museum-quality exhibit of portroid images was displayed in a local gallery (local to my computer screen), special guest speakers (I) spoke about the time their (my) portroids were taken and about their (my) favorites from the gallery, and plans were made for Year Two. All this happened in what seemed like the blink of an eye, and in what was literally my mind's eye. Boy, those were some good times. Good times, boy.

I hope you're all ready for what Year Two has in store, because it promises to be one heck-fire of a year (unless I can't repeat Year One portroid subjects, in which case, it'll be one sparse collection dwindling down to two new pictures by Year Four)!

So ... how 'bout them Red Socks? (I find it demeaning to "socks" to abbreviate their already short name with a substitute "x" where "cks" truly belongs. I think it "sux" almost as bad as "thanx" or "x-presso".) 86 years in the breaking, the Curse of the Bambino has gone the way of other curses that seem to disappear into obscurity after a term of intense popularity (like "fartknocker" or "fiddlesticks" or "horsefeathers" or "sh*t-f*cking-c*nt"). Sorry, George Herman Ruth Jr, but your curse is fiddlesticks now. Quoth the Babe, "ah, horsefeathers!"

I wonder if other curses, like the Curse of the Mummy, have also been lifted and we've been so scared of them all this time for no reason. Like, can we go raid sarcophogii now and bring mummy-bones home to feed to our bone-hungry dogs (or to babies who like bone-gnawing - if you don't have a dog, for example)? What about the pre-teen girl's dreaded "Curse"? Can she wear white dresses willy-nilly now? Only time will tell.

In my continued push to thrust my political agenda upon you (like so many strippers' banana-hammocked groins thrust upon you at the local male strip club (local to my computer screen)), here is my last ditch effort to get people to the polls on November 2: I've switched teams this time, campaigning for George W Bush via telemarketing. I've got thousands of registered Republicans from each State programmed into my computer-dialing network, set to call each person once every ten minutes until Tuesday night with the following message, "Vote for George W Bush, vote for George W Bush, vote for George W Bush ..." ad naseum infinatum (that's Greek for "advertisements that make you barf forever"). I think we'll get lots of votes this way.


Monday, October 18, 2004

The Adventures of Chester the Molester

Inevitably, if you name your child Chester, he will be called "Chester the Molester" thoughout his life. Just as inevitably, if I get a chance to awkwardly interrupt someone's dinner in order to take a portroid, sure as shootin' I'll do it (after lingering uncomfortably nearby for an inordinate amount of time).

I added four portroids yesterday to the gallery. The first is an unofficial picture of Robert Redford. He wouldn't really acknowledge me, so I just took his picture with no hope of an autograph. This goes in the UNAUTHORIZED files. Previously, I took an unauthorized and unsigned portroid of Hugh Jackman, but I gave it away, for it shamed me. These bastard photos have no place in my album, but just like every illegitimate child, they're gonna show up sometime or another on some white trash talk show talkin' bout "who's my daddy" and "where you been at" and "give me money" and "I know you just di'int". Talk to the hand, I tell them, just talk to this old hand.

The second portroid will have you asking (pleasantly flabbergasted), "Are you f***ing kidding me?" No, I'm not, and watch your language. That's right, it's Soleil Moon Frye, TV's Punky Brewster. She made a documentary film about Alzheimer's and I saw it and she was there and she was really nice and friendly and a little hugsy. Her movie made me cry and I'll never forgive her for that. Now everyone will declare me a "pansy" and they'll throw clods of dirt at me as I pass. That too will make me cry.

Here's where I tie into the first paragraph (not the Chester the Molester part, but the other part about being a lingerer and dinner-interrupter - OK, the Chester the Molester part too, since you asked). I stood by Kevin Bacon's table like Chester the Molester stands outside a playground, waiting for my chance to get what I want no matter how uncomfortable it makes the other party ("Uncle Chester, I don't like it when we play games like that." "Yes you do"). I missed plenty of appropriate opportunities (like the few times he walked right by me, or when he was just sitting and staring), but thought it best to move in when Mr. Bacon was engaged in a quiet conversation with his tablemates. "Excuse me, may I take your picture?" I meekly asked. He replied with an "of course" and posed halfheartedly. "Could you sign it also?", I pushed my luck. It was my lucky day though, and he did sign it (see? I ain't no liar!). As I was walking away, I congratulated him on the award he had just won, and he melted. No longer was I taking advantage, now we were chums. He smiled, thanked me, and erased the hatred from his soul. Then he taught me how to dance, and we danced the night away. We cut footloose.

The final portroid of the night was of Kevin's lovely and talented wife, Kyra Sedgwick. She was easily approachable and gracious to the last. She asked me if I intended to sell the picture I took. I promised her I wouldn't (so don't even try to offer me any money for it, cause it just isn't for sale (unless you've got like $10)). She then softly said, as she started to walk away, "not that you'd get much for it anyway." And, that is when I started to cry again. Oh Kyra, don't be down on yourself, you are the greatest!

As I walked away, chunks of earth pelting off my sobbing shuddering frame, I looked through my new assortment of portroids and fondled them softly (like so many children at the hands of Chester the Molester).

Handily Yours,

Sunday, October 10, 2004

Brown Barf and Backfires

I got sick. Totally nauseated. The Kensley Flu struck me down hard. I tried to pretend it wasn't happening, held in "the squirts" for about six hours, but by then I couldn't pretend any longer, I let spill (no holes barred). Both sides fighting to be the first and constant releaser. Backfire, switch, forward guns! I had the worst case of brown barf imaginable. I hadn't really even eaten at all that day (this was Thursday), so Erica suggested that maybe the barf was coming up from my GI tract (in other words, backfiring diarrhea), which made me barf all the more. I bet you're wondering why I'm telling you this, as it is indeed a pretty disgusting story. I lived it, so I know. But, the point is that my sickness continued into Friday, thus forcing me to miss work, thus also allowing me some much needed time to make the promised updates. Four new portroids posted, plus ...

The winner of the "Portroids Proudly Presents ..." election has been posted. Finally posted. Follow this link to read all about it. Hear ye, hear ye!

The winner was interviewed, but as you will tell (and tell to all, I'm sure) after reading, the interview kind of backfired. It backfired like the time my cousin Jim Allen wanted to play a game, a word game (and I love me a word game), where he had me sing the old redneck song 'Old Dan Tucker' (you know the one - it's about this hillbilly who washes his face with a frying pan and combs his hair with a wagon wheel and somehow from this combination of events gets a tooth-ache in his heel) but, while singing, to exchange the first letter of every word with 'F'. If you have any sort of forward-looking instinct, you'll see from the title (Old Dan Tucker) his sinister plot. I, at age 9, had no such foresight. "Fold Fan Fucker fas fa fine fold fan," I sang obliviously. Oh, Jim Allen was in a stir and ran off to tell Grandma that her beloved little Ricky was a cussin' up a storm. If Admiral Ackbar was there, he would have alerted me, "It's a trap". Lucky for me, Grandma was no spring chicken and she knew the source of the game. She also knew her little Ricky was too sweet and innocent to blast off obscenities like so many womp-rats in Beggar's Canyon back home. Old Jim Allen got a thorough soaping of the mouth, his plan backfired. I felt sorry for Jim Allen. Always getting into trouble. "You'll never f***ing learn, will you, you little piece of sh**," I whispered to him, "You'll never f***ing learn."

He never f***ing learned.

Learnin' people lessons for 22 years,

Monday, October 04, 2004

Rock The Vote (like a hurricane)

Today is the last day in Colorado to register to vote, so if you are in Colorado (like, you live here - not just visiting), and you haven't yet registered to vote (because you are a procrastinator), and you are barely 18 (and started your own porn website), and you are going to vote for John Kerry (because you hate Bush, but you still love bush (as evidenced by that porn website you started)), and by some unlikely coincidence you happen to be reading this virtually unread blog, go out and register TODAY! And make sure that you actually vote when it comes time to vote in November. Rock that vote - rock it hard!

I've done my part. I promised Al Franken I would. His portroid will be on the site within the next few days.

Speaking of voting ... we have a winner in the "Portroids Proudly Presents ..." fan favorite contest. It was a close race and was decided by one vote (see, every vote counts). And the winner is .... soon to be announced. The winner's site will be up soon. I'll announce it when it is. Congratulations (to the winner)! Booooooo (to the losers)! Losers deserve no mercy. Mercy is for the weak. Don't be a loser (unless you can't help it because you suck at stuff).

Remember to vote (unless you're planning to vote for "W" - then you can forget to vote if you want).

Rockin' it, rockin' it,