The Dorsey Brothers - St. Louis Blues

Pat & Adam Show You How to Take a Walk

Wanna take a walk with your friend but don't know all the insider tricks? Let Pat and Adam be your guides. Play the song, click on the slideshow, and we guarantee you you'll be hoofin' it in no time!

Screeching Weasel - Gotta Girlfriend

A Leaked Internal Memo From Blockbuster’s CEO

CEO of Blockbuster Jim Keyes

To:         Blockbuster Staff

From:     Jim Keyes, CEO

Date:      1/9/2011

Re:         Our Existence as a Company

*Confidential

Over the last few years, the platforms available for the distribution and usage of home video have increased dramatically, with Blockbuster slowly falling behind to competitors such as Netflix, Redbox, iTunes, and OnDemand. Last September, we filed for Chapter 11 Bankruptcy.  I know some of you have heard talk of sweeping branch closings.

Let me reassure you, however, that Blockbuster can put its name back on the map.  We just gotta do something nuts.

I’m talking crazy fucking nuts.

Picture this.  You’re walking down the street, strutting your stuff.  You look good.  White pants.  Maybe a sweater.  All of a sudden, BAM!  You’re surrounded by Blockbuster employees.  You don’t know how they got there, you just know you’re down to party.  The Blockbuster crew starts throwing DVD’s at you, rocking out to Pantera.  DVD’s are hitting you the in the face, you’re catching them in your teeth, it’s pandemonium.  And do you wanna know what happens next?

Those Blockbuster representatives start groping you.  That’s right.  “But Jim, what if I don’t want to get groped?” Well you get groped harder.  All up in your sloppies and floppies. All to some gnarly Pantera tuneage.

And you’re reaching that moment.  You know what moment I’m talking about.  The moment of release.  Your eyes are closed, face contorted with pleasure.  And right when you’re ready to explode, you open your eyes and they disappear.  On to the next soul in need.

Now, I can hear some of you already.  “Jim, are you suggesting that our employees go out in the street, ambush strangers, throw DVD’s at their faces, and then grope them against their will? Beyond being insane, isn’t that illegal?  Who was dumb enough to elevate you to a position of power in this company?”

My answer to those questions is the same answer I gave my wife, Sherpa, when she asked me if she needed breast augmentation surgery: Abso-goddamn-lutely.

I’ll admit, I’m still working out the details of how exactly to implement a plan for a nation-wide street team of Blockbuster employees, fully equipped with DVD’s, ready to ambush anyone at any time.  I’m open to ideas.

I do know we’ll need a shitload of DVD’s.  DVD’s we’re willing to essentially throw away.  I propose we take them right out of the stores.  If a movie hasn’t been rented by anyone in over three years, it goes to the street team.  I’m talking about movies like Coming to America, Son of the Mask, Dragonheart, Dr T and the Women, and, of course, Timecop.

With the competition we’re up against, Blockbuster can only survive if it becomes the “wild card” of home video rental.  We’re building a new reputation from scratch, and it’s going to take some time.  Ultimately, what’s going to keep consumers coming back is the mystery.  You never know what you’re going to get at a Blockbuster.  Pantera?  Sure.  DVD’s?  Naturally.  Gropeage?  Who knows.

This is gonna be the year, guys. We're really gonna do it. I look forward to what the future holds.

Best,

Jim Keyes

CEO, Blockbuster Inc.

P.S. I regret to inform you that you're all fired. Perhaps you should have aligned yourself with a more sustainable business.

P.P.S. Here's a funny video to take your mind off your recent termination!

Chairmen of the Board - Give Me Just a Little More Time

WHAT I'M THANKFUL FOR THIS THANKSGIVING

By: Jeremy Hassett

Me (DUH)

Okay, so Mrs. Anderson wants us to write letters to our parents saying what we we're thankful for this Thanksgiving.  Well if she thinks I'm lame enough to write some stupid letter to my mom and her dumbass boyfriend Craig, she can GET FUCKED.  She'd probably like that though.  Haha.

The truth is, I am thankful for some stuff.  I'm thankful that my gay ass mom finally got off her gay ass and bought me an Xbox 360.  I'm thankful that the girls in my year are finally starting to grow boobs.  They've got a long way to go before they look like those internet ladies, though, haha.  I'm thankful that my dog's so stupid he'll eat anything me and Travis give him, and that my mom still hasn't found the YouTube clips we posted of him eating butter wrapped in foil.  I'm thankful for Will Ferrell for being the fucking man and cracking me and my friends up.  Lol.

I'm also thankful for the time I walked in on Travis's mom going to the bathroom.  Her boobs are seriously so big.

As far as things I'm NOT thankful for, well, first on that list would be Craig.  He bought me a baseball glove last week and was like, "Maybe we can play catch sometime."  Uh, maybe you can go fuck yourself, Craig.

Second on the list is Craig's weird ass son Todd.  Seriously, how old is Craig?  'Cause Todd's like 30.  Todd's in some band that plays this super gay music with trumpets and shit.  I'm always like, "Todd, why don't you play cool dark shit like My Chemical Romance?"  And he just starts fucking laughing at me.  He has a super gay laugh, you guys.

The last thing I'm not thankful for is school uniforms.  Seriously, how am I supposed to score slutty public school chicks when I look like a retard?  If I saw myself walking down the street I swear I'd be like, "That kid's hella gay."  At least my mom let me grow out my hair so I don't look like a total douche.  Tracy Rodriguez said I looked hot yesterday.  No joke.

That about wraps it up.  Maybe next year I'll be thankful for more stuff.  Like banging Travis's mom.  Ahahaha I wish.

The Scruffs - Revenge

IDIOCY, DELUSION, AND POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER

The year was 1971. I had just returned from the war. Most nights I went without sleep, tortured by echoes of my comrades' screams ("Don't let them wear my skin, Jackson! Whatever happens, don't you dare let them wear my skin.").

The only thing that got me through those first few months was Jeannie.

Darling Jeannie. Six foot seven. A hundred and twelve pounds. Hands like a union boss. Blood red eyes that always knew when you wanted a hug. I loved her.

I loved the way she smelled. I loved the way she tossed her head to the side when she laughed. I loved that she waited all those years for me to come back home. I loved that when I finally did return, she obliged me with daily acts of fellatio.

That's why it hurt so badly when I came home that afternoon and found her dead.

An envelope sat on the entrance table. "To my mother," it read. I opened it and found a note written in what appeared to be peanut butter.

"Dear Mama,
I can't do this any longer. I can't take care of him. The demands of his PTSD are too much for me. Forgive me.
Love, J."

I dropped the note and let out a primal, confused moan.

“I can’t take care of him?” Who was this deviant she alluded to? Who was this hellbeast who preyed on the sympathies of a poor veteran's girl, who drove her to suicide?

And what was "PTSD?" Clearly an acronym of some sort. But what did it stand for? Public-Toilet-Single-Dormitory? Jeannie had lived in a single dorm with a public toilet at school. Perhaps he was her neighbor.

I had a thousand questions and ten thousand theories about this Mystery Man, each crazier than the last. I was certain of one thing, however. I wanted blood.

Revenge. "The Big Payback." "The Pope's Fist." "Caesar's Breakfast."

Call it what you will, I wanted it. This bastard was going to pay for the pain he caused my Jeannie.

I saw an ad on television for McDonald’s and took that as a sign of where to start my search. I kissed my lucky hair doll, grabbed my M16, and made my way out the door.

I arrived at McDonald’s and questioned the staff at gunpoint, though the joke was on them since I had forgotten to bring bullets. They swore to me that not only had they never heard of Jeannie, but also that they didn’t serve milk (point of clarification: I had asked for milk).

I later found out they were lying to me. McDonald’s does serve milk.

As I walked back to the parking lot, a transient caught my eye. He sat furled in a corner near the drive-thru window, staring vacantly ahead, holding what looked like a bowl of ketchup in his lap. Suddenly, as if being woken by a gunshot, he turned to me and spoke.

“Hey, partner, you lookin’ for somebody?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “Let’s talk outside.”

“We are outside.”

The gypsy wizard looked around to confirm it. “Good.”

I waited for him to say something else, but he only stared at me.

“How did you know I was looking for someone?” I asked. No answer.

I was about to walk away when he opened his mouth to speak.

“What’s that?”

He held up his index finger and cleared his throat disgustingly. I imagined brown saliva dancing around his lungs, the result of years of swallowing dip.

Before long the throat-clearing gave way to intense, death rattle-like coughing. Strings of spit shot out his mouth and tears streamed down his face, but he never once broke eye contact with me.

Finally, his cough subsided. I saw his throat give a quick lurch and steeled myself for the worst. He slowly, almost seductively opened his mouth, and, for lack of a better word, “vomited” out eight ounces of saliva.

Eight ounces would be a conservative estimate.

The saliva landed with a splat in his bowl of ketchup. He pondered it for a moment, and then spoke abruptly.

“You were askin’ about someone named Jeannie?”

My ears perked up. “Maybe. Do you know her?”

“What’s it to you?”

“She was the love of my life.”

“Was?”

“She died.”

“Of throat cancer?”

“No, she killed herself. She was driven to it by some bastard with ‘PTSD,’ whatever that is.”

He nodded. “Public-Toilet-Single-Dormitory.”

“I thought that’s what it was.” Something was fishy about this guy. How did he know Jeannie?

The bum scratched his head and lamented, “That’s a shame. Jeannie and I go all the way back to college.”

“So that would make you her –“

“-- Neighbor. That’s right.”

“So when she said in her suicide letter ‘I can’t take care of him,’ was she talking about you?“

“Unfortunately, yes. She couldn’t support me financially. I had been pestering her to pay for a place to live for me, a –“

“—PTSD…”

Of course! It all made sense now. My journey was over just as it had begun.

Before me sat the man responsible for Jeannie’s death. I gripped my M16 and contemplated my next move.

Meanwhile, the vagrant reached down the front of his shirt and pulled out a spoon attached to a silver chain around his neck. He looked tranquil as he scooped a spoonful of ketchup from his bowl and took a bite.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he moaned. “That’s good ketchup.” He continued eating his bum-concoction.

Whack! I swatted the ketchup bowl out of his filthy hands and pressed my rifle to his forehead.

“Are you crazy?” he screamed.

“Listen here, you son of a bitch. You and I both know Jeannie killed herself because of you.”

“Don’t shoot me! Please!”

I was tempted to dispose of him then and there. “Give me one good reason not to.”

“Jeannie wouldn’t want you to use violence. She was a pacifist.”

What was he talking about? “Jeannie Perkins wasn’t a pacifist,” I contended.

“Jeannie who?” he asked.

“Perkins.”

“You mean Jeannie Stippers.”

“No, Jeannie Perkins.” I relaxed my grip on the M16. Unless… “We could be talking about two different people. Was your Jeannie extremely tall and skinny?”

“The Jeannie I knew was wonderfully voluptuous and had severe scoliosis.”

That didn’t sound right. I pressed him further. “Did she love baseball?”

“Hated it.”

“Huh.” I chuckled and lowered my gun. “So everything I said about my Jeannie made sense to you in the context of your relationship with a different woman named Jeannie?”

The bum paused. “Can I be honest with you? I don’t even know anyone named Jeannie. It’s just so rare that someone stops and talks to me. I was so excited I went along with everything you said.”

“That’s wild. That’s some wild stuff.”

“You weren’t actually going to shoot me, were you?” he wondered.

“I was. I still might. After all, I’d get away with it. It’s not like anyone would come looking for you.”

We both laughed.

“Hey, sorry I spilled your ketchup.”

“That’s alright. It’s mostly spit, anyway.”

I shook my head and smiled. “I’ll see you around, compadre.”

“Maybe you can spare some change next time.”

Ten minutes and one minor flashback later I was cruising down the freeway with the wind in my hair. I had made up my mind. From that moment on, I was going to devote my life to finding the mystery man from Jeannie’s letter. Twenty-four years later, I still haven’t given up hope. I know he’s out there somewhere, ordering a Big Mac and laughing his way back to his single dormitory.

Bukka White - Po' Boy

Obviously, this song takes me back to high school.

That's me on the far right

Let me set the scene for you.

My diminutive brown friend David and I are in my bedroom playing K’NEX and listening to Robert Johnson (as you do). Now that might SEEM kind of pathetic, but bear in mind that we had decided to take a night off from boning fine ladies so we could just relax.

Robert Johnson

Next door, my sister and her hot friend Taylor are doing shots and talking about boys or whatever. At one point Taylor comes into our room, quickly takes stock of the situation, and asks us in her best Mean Girls voice...

"Uhhh, what are you guys doing?"

My gut reaction was, "Fuck you, we're snapping plastic rods together to form structures and listening to a dead black guy enunciate poorly.  What are you doing that's so cool and great?"

Then it hit me.

She's out there touching dudes' dicks.

We're in here playing with toys, and guys are out there getting their dicks touched.**

Guys that we think we're cooler than.

Taylor was right.

What the fuck were we doing?

She left us hanging with that question and went off to some party with my sister. Meanwhile, David and I picked our vaginas up off the floor and put the finishing touches on our ferris wheel.

As to how any of this relates to the song I posted, well both Bukka White and Robert Johnson were Delta bluesman. Happy? Maybe from now on I'll just force insane connections between songs and blog topics.

THEORETICAL EXAMPLE:

This song has a guitar in it.

You know that reminds me of the time this girl reversed her decision to go with me to prom because she didn’t want to have a “shitty time” (true story)!

Get it?

BECAUSE A LOT OF PEOPLE WRITE SONGS ON GUITAR, AND MANY OF THOSE SONGS COVER THE TOPIC OF HEARTBREAK!

**Stray movie title suggesetion: High School Dick Party

Neil Young - Walk On

THE DEFINITIVE TOP 10 LIST OF TWEEN HEARTTHROBS

10. The Jonas Brothers

9. Robert Pattinson

8. Justin Bieber

7. Former Chairman of the Federal Reserve Alan Greenspan

6. Steve Buscemi

5. Seal

4. Representative Henry Waxman (D - CA)

3. Toothless Butterfly Shane MacGowan

2. Nobel Prize-Winning Economist Paul Krugman

"Suck it, Greenspan!"


AND FINALLY.........

1. The Godfather of Canada Himself, Neil Young

Eat your hearts out, young ladies.

The Replacements - Androgynous

Does anything really need to be said about this one? There's a reason why it's cool to say the 'Mats are your favorite band.**

By the way, here, presented without comment, is what I did with the last 30 minutes of my life:



Proudly Written and Directed by Pat Regan

** 20 Scene Points for calling them "the 'Mats." An extra 10 if you say their best album is Hootenanny.