Cut The Shit Bill Murray

I heard a little while back that a new Ghostbusters movie was in the works. It's called Ghostbusters In Hell, and will have Dan Akroyd and Rick Moranis reprising their rolls, and I can only imagine Harold Ramis coming back as Egon Spangler (seeing as how he is involved as producer). The movie is set in a parallel dimension New York where the 'Busters are sucked in to.

Sayonara Gopher!



My one problem with this so far is that they REALLY want Ben Stiller in the movie. I think Ben Stiller has been in, and ruined, enough movies already, and should just leave this one alone. I will probably start a petition tomorrow called "Keep Ben Stiller Away From Ghostbusters!" For one, they already have their neurotic nerd-type...Moranis. And he's damn good. He was cracking folks up on SCTV while Stiller was still stuck on his lame-ass self titled MTV show. And if they plan the make Stiller the hero, then God help us and the Ghostbusters.




You ARE Dr. Peter Venkman

Another depressing start to this flick is the hold-out of Bill Murray. Who "doesn't want to get sucked back into doing strictly comedy bits." Bill. Bill. Bill. 'Lost in Translation' was the first movie in ten years that I just turned off halfway through. I can usually pride myself for enduring shitty movies, but not 'Lost in Translation.' I just couldn't do it, even with Scarlett Johanssen's tits all over the place. That says a lot about your "serious" roles. Let's not kid ourselves Bill, you're a funny guy and everyone loves you for it. You have become a wealthy man because because of it, and you will be remembered for it whether you like it or not. So do us a favor and bring back Pete Venkman. Hell, do it for the fucking kids.

Osmosis Jones-?

...shit...

Ultimate Matchups: Monster Pig vs. Nintendude

10 feet long and over 1000lbs., MonsterPig is a formidable foe for anyone without a gun. Reaching speeds of up to 45 mph he can run down a 1989 cutlass supreme without breaking stride. He can eat an entire Burge without chewing. His skin is as though as iron, only having a few "soft" spots where objects can penetrate. Did I mention he can eat an entire Burge without chewing?

5 foot 6 inches and over 300lbs. the Nintendude cuts his own hair with a bowl on top of his head. Armed with the fabled game glove, and multiple controller medallions, he is truly the favorite in this matchup. He also sports a zapper which he uses to gun down any 8-bit prey that might cross his path, a controller sceptor with the power give hand blisters to anyone who tries to challenge him, and a white cloak/cape which provides him camoflague in snowy areas when in battle, and provides warmth when he no doubt passes out late at night while playing Contra.

Pianos, Hurricanes, and a Finger

I received an urgent phone call from Cook early Friday morning explaining that the river trip for Kurt's bachelor party had been cancelled. I was not surprised, it had been raining all day for a week straight and had killed four local Killeen idiots trying to cross a low water crossing that had posted a "do not cross" sign on it. I was disappointed about not getting to make the trek back to Leakey where, a year before, we had all gotten piss drunk and sang "God Bless America" (Under the direction of Lippy). I was relieved when Cook told me that we were trying to figure something else out to do for Kurt. I was glad because I had been planning on leaving work early and was not about to change my plans as far as that aspect was concerned. After long distance deliberations, we decided on San Antonio. The reasoning had been that Everyone has seen all there is to see in D/FW and Austin, Houston is a piece of shit, and we didn't have enough time to put together anything complex. So, by process of elimination, San Antone was the obvious choice.

I met a caravan group in Lampasas and Edgar hopped on board with me and we proceeded to SA. It took a while to find the hotel, mostly because no one has been to San Antonio since they were 8. But eventually we found the La Tropicana nestled in the bosom of the riverwalk and unloaded.

La Tropicana looked like a transplant straight from Miami's South Beach. It was a completely white building with palm trees and ambient samba music over loudspeakers. I felt the need to have a cigarette and did so. The theme at La Tropicana was enough to raise an eyebrow, however, it was not until witnessing the pool complete with tiki bar and toucan aviary that I knew I could score some coke if I had wanted.

We settled in and began to get ready to go out for the evening. We decided Hooters was the best choice for dinner. In my opinion, it was about par with the Waco Hooters...not very impressive. I did chug a bunch of beers and have a decent sandwich with potato salad to begin what would become an evening of debauchery.

After dinner we headed to Pat O'Brien's. If you will recall the Spring Break posts, you will remember how fucked up I got on Hurricanes on my 22nd at New Orleans' Pat O's, and the subsequent torture I had to endure because of it.

For some reason this thought had not crossed my mind. I believe my subconscious had blocked that horrible memory from my mind in an attempt save me any embarrassment from recalling the story and curling up in the fetal position.

The piano players were pretty shitty, but they knew most of the songs we paid them to play. At one point, I wrote on a napkin that it was Kurt's bachelor party and we were getting him shitfaced. I felt the pianist's needed to know. When he got to the napkin with that written on it he called Kurt up on stage. As Kurt got up on stage, he asked him to call up the most attractive guy he had come with to join him on stage. I, of course, was chosen and had to also endure this public humiliation. Already drunk and up on the stage, Kurt and I had to spell out M-O-T-H-E-R with our bodies. It was less than perfect, but good enough for the time being. We exited the stage and I really began to put away Hurricanes. I get real foggy after I got off the stage, but I do remember talking to and older woman, about what I don't know. I might have asked her if she wanted to spoon.

I don't remember leaving Pat O's or how we got back to the hotel, however I do have a flash of memory when I pissed in the elevator (elevator piss count:2) on the way back to the room. I woke up the next morning fully clothed (boots included) and stepped on Ballas head.

I was still REAL drunk when I woke up. We drove to a burger place and I was getting motion sick driving. We arrived at the restaurant and ordered burgers. I sat down with my food and started feeling real sick. I tried to eat my burger, but only felt worse. Someone suggested I go pull the trigger. I sat there and tried to convince myself I didn't need to puke and that it would all pass in a minute...it didn't. I reluctantly went into the restroom and hit a two-point stance ready to release the evil from inside my stomach. I jammed my finger down my throat and waited for the heaving that would soon commence. And sure enough, it came. At first, it was all the water I had been drinking that morning, then the small portion of burger and three french fries made an appearance, and finally a congealed mass consisting of Hurricanes, beer, and Hooters food. I felt relief pass over my poor body and I washed myself thoroughly before returning to the table.

I finished off my burger with no problem and made a good dent in the fries before we left. The relief was not long lived, however. I began to feel bad again when we got back to the hotel and did so the entire day. I was so sick I needed to cop out on the proceeding night of activities. I felt like a pussy, and some agreed with me, but I just could not muster any strength to hit the town.

I will redeem myself soon...very soon.

Dallas has way too many Metrosexuals and Qdobas

"Well I was going to do my normal sushi and then head over Mercy's house," this was a blue tooth phone conversation overheard at a Dallas Barnes&Noble. I had tagged along with Fretty & Kim on Saturday afternoon while they looked at wedding magazines. I had gone along for a margarita and wanted to look for a geology book I had been wanting to get. Of course they didn't have it, so I wandered around looking for a potential read that didn't involve global warming or ethanol gasoline. Once again, no such luck. Every single earth science book they carried had something to do with an eminent catastrophe, which I think is just bullshit. (refer to Y2K) It's just a way to get people to buy nonsensical crap with no real factual evidence because of some "global disaster" that will end us all. I admit the fossil fuel shortage is an actual problem, but nothing will be done about it until it absolutely necessary. That's just how it is. When the world needs an alternative fuel source, it will become available. And mark my words, ethanol WILL NOT be the cure-all answer everyone thinks it is. Fact: Ethanol cannot be shipped through pipelines because of its corrosive nature. This means it will have to be shipped through trucks meaning it will be MORE expensive at the pumps. Fact: U.S. agriculture can account for less than 1% of the fuel needs of the country. This means that if all the corn grown in the U.S. today were used solely for the purpose of ethanol manufacturing, it would meet less than 1% of the fuel demand. Fact: The corrosive nature of ethanol means shorter engine life for cars. Ethanol ruins engines, so be prepared to buy a new car in 3 to 4 years.



Anyway, I've gotten off subject...



So the evening before the Barnes&Noble trip, we spent the night at the Village country club. They were holding a karaoke contest that night and I was highly excited to say the least. I sang The Band's classic "The Weight" which went over very well with the crowd. However, I was not counting on a smoking hot blond singing a sultry number that had the crowd's tongues hanging out. After all the performers were finished, we were called up to the stage to get voted on by the crowd. I had made the final four along with Stone, who had given a rousing rendition of "Come Sail Away", the hot blond, and some dork who had sung Frank Sinatra. Stone and blondie were shoe-ins, and I thought I was too, but I had not counted on all the metrosexuals voting for the Sinatra nerd. Although I should have known better, because all these metro-asses think they are reincarnations of the Rat-Pack anyway. Needless to say, I lost. I drowned my sorrows in $3.25 beers and bummed-cigarettes, not to mention the biggest jagerbomb ever. I can still taste that thing when I burp. But I decided to pull out the big guns and show the crowd what they had passed on. I got back up to the karaoke stage and performed a spirited Meatloaf. I like to think they were kicking themselves the entire performance.

Saturday we went to Uptown bar and grill, one of my favorite places in Dallas. They were having their weekly karaoke night Saturday and again we sang and drank to our hearts content. Kevin and Jordan had arrived from a wedding in which Jordan had had a few drinks and was having the most fun of anybody. She proclaimed she was my number one fan, which I would have taken more seriously if she hadn't tried to grab my beer I had ordered and tried to drink it. I noticed she was a close talker when intoxicated by the proximity she put her face to mine, once penetrating my ear with her nose. Everyone who came up to talk to me was informed she was my number one fan, per her request. I would try to talk to someone and Jordan would fly in and get in my ear and tell me to tell them who my number one fan was. Bill Floyd came over to say hi, and Jordan leaned over and glared at him and asked, "who is this?" I introduced her to Bill and then she added, "what do you want." Bill asked me a question to which I replied, and then Jordan promptly said, "OK, you can leave now." Bill was highly confused. I don't think my number one fan thought too highly of Bill.