Cracka Rappa Lack-a?

“Do these pants make my boner look fat?”

Hey folks! Exciting news! Recent events in my life have inspired me to undertake a fresh and super-interesting life direction. What kind of recent events in a person’s life could cause such a potentially ill conceived great decision? Why nothing less than the White Person Triumvirate of Life Experience Awesomeness: Unaccomplished Life Goals, Divorce, and Self-Pitying Depression! Awesome really doesn’t do it justice, people. We might even be talking super awesome here. So anyhow, the other day I was sitting around my swinging bachelor pad on my shitty futon in my underwear, feeling my ass fall asleep and munching on a Pizza Pop when it occurred to me. What the world needs now is a fresh new take on music! Sure we’ve got Lady Gaga, a true inspiration to drag queens and bulimic pre-pubescent girls everywhere, and bands like Paramore keeping the Twi-Hards busy cutting themselves waiting for JacobWard to show up and sweep them off to the Netherworld, but who’s doing something for those of us that are rapidly approaching *ahem* middle age and yet still yearn for some measure of relevance? Well, how about me? I have always secretly yearned to live the life of the Suburban Cracka Rappa, and what better time than now to follow my dream? Christ knows I’ve got nothing better to do, and I’m getting a little tired of the nipple burns from the hot pizza sauce squirting out of the Pizza Pops. I know what you are thinking. There may be a few minor hurdles to overcome to reach my goals, and I agree. The biggest one obviously is the selection of my new Cracka Rappa name. I’ve decided that my musical approach will be to combine fresh new world music sounds with traditional hip-hop bitch-and-bling lyrics. Can you say numero uno with a bullet, people? I’ve rendered my choices down to three potential candidates and hopefully my three readers will be kind enough to weigh in and help me choose the winner:

Tae-Kwon Joe

This one is a no brainer really. Rappers love barbecue, and Suburban Cracka Rappas love Korean Barbecue (mall restaurant style, not the real thing). I had considered Kim-Jong Illin’ but decided against it due to the possibility of offending my shitty-music-hungry massive new media purchasing neighbours to the south. Shout out! Love ya ‘mericans! The possibility of Dear Leader issuing a copyright infringement assassination order did cross my mind too. The mashup of traditional North Korean Demigod worshipping dirges and ripped off David Guetta riffs combined with videos full of miniskirted Korean girls washing my Prius with their soapy body parts should be a sure fire recipe for success. Speaking of recipes, intercutting images of slow roasting succulent Korean barbecue in between the tits, ass, and mayonnaise product placements should be a hit with my target audience too. First single idea? How about a Korean/Cracka fusion of a Pat Benatar classic: Rove is a Batterfield?

Al-Playeda

There may be few risks associated with attempting to meld traditional Middle Eastern rhythms with shallow, materialistic, and godless western jams. Chief among them are the possibility of inciting a Fatwa and/or intense scrutiny from Homeland Security types. Truth is, that should be good for a few downloads anyway. Let’s face it, these people aren’t doing a great job of getting along, so maybe it’s time for a true leader to emerge and take the bullshit by the horns, so to speak. For obvious reasons that leader should be a Suburban Cracka Rappa. What are my qualifications for uniting these worlds with my musical culture fornication? Seriously? I negotiated the return of a broken Ab Roller once with a counting-the-minutes-until-suicide WalMart customer service rep without a receipt. Case closed, people. First single idea? How about a Bedouin/Cracka mashup of the Frank Sinatra classic All of Me called Allah Me? Just a sec, I’ll be right back there’s a guy knocking at my door with a cell phone in his hand and a strangely thick waistline for such a skinny fella.

Mo-Ko-Rruption

I chose this name based on my interest in merging the musical styles of Post-Soviet Russia with big-chain and sideways Zoo York hat white rap. Mostly I was inspired by the rich variety of post-communist Russian music video fodder. If you had to make a checklist of stuff you need for a rap video, Russia can hook you up, be-i-ee-i-yotch! Slutty scantily clad new-money big haired tramps? Check. Tanks, fighter planes, and Nukes? Check. Scary sunglass-at-night wearing motherfuckers with freaky tats and guns? Check. More potato vodka than you could use in a lifetime of Cracka Rappa videos (a lifetime of Cracka Rappa videos=three)? Checkaroo. Getting a Russian manager would be a great idea too. It should only take about eight or ten A&R guys to show up in the trunks of abandoned stolen cars until a bidding war breaks out for a big music label to have me on their roster and promote the shit out of me. First single idea? Putin’ on the Ritz. I am sure the dude from Taco could use a royalty cheque. Super badly.

Great Moments in Scientific Achievement, Part Deux

Man, it has been a while since I stopped around these parts to drop a healthy dollop of smarmalade on the world, but things have been just a little crazy these last few months. In no particular order: I was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in Blogerature (It’s new), awarded to “Blogerati that strive to push the boundaries of inconsequential meanderings to pathetic Death Valley-like lows.” I appeared on a tear-jerking episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show to tell my heartbreaking story of the childhood sexual abuse I suffered by my own hands. You should have seen the eyes well up when I detailed how bad the abuse got during puberty, particularly during the perilous month following the publication of Sports Illustrated’s annual swimsuit issue. I appeared in a fawning interview segment on The O’Reilly Factor to promote my new unauthorized biography of Barack Obama, “I, Devil.” Bill is so much nicer in person and when you’re on the same page as him! Hmm, what else have I been up to? Oh, yeah. Fuck all. Lately, however, the odd news item has grabbed my attention and forced me to acknowledge the world around me. Since I have a particular interest in all things scientific, I found the following tidbits of momentous scientific achievement too amazing to not share with those of you who haven’t actually literally decomposed waiting for my next post:

Bangladeshi (yes, that’s a real word dickhead) Scientists Have Sequenced the Genome of Jute!

Remember me? You don’t? Well, up yours then.

Aaah, Jute. Back in the ‘70s you were all over the place, popping up in Macrame crafts and all sorts of little woven boxes to hold pot and umm… other pot. You carried the feminist flag high with your formless, unflattering, scratchy fashions that all but guaranteed no disgusting man would even attempt to try and touch anyone wearing you. You really were the belle of the fashion-less ball. Unfortunately, the ‘80s came along, and spandex and PVC arrived to celebrate -nay, glorify- the female form, and you were kicked right the fuck to the curb where you belonged all along, with your unwashed hippie cousin hemp. So what have you been up to all this time? Apparently waiting for advances in genomic sequencing so that you could pounce back into the world spotlight! Somehow you used your trickery and subterfuge to convince Bangladeshi (still a real word) scientists that discovering your genome’s secrets was important enough to ignore other silly little issues troubling the plucky nation of Bangladesh. Issues like child labour, poverty, malnutrition, and death. Good for you, Jute! Child labour, poverty, malnutrition, and death? Sorry, better luck next time.

Danish Scientists Have Developed a Gum For Kenyan Kids Fortified With the Goodness of Vitamin A!

“No, kids, no food today! We have something even better for you! That’s right! It’s gum!”

Leave it up to the Dutch to come up with a truly wonderful solution to the pesky problem of African hunger. Danish scientists from a company in Dutchmark called Gumlink have developed a gum containing Vitamin A to be given to malnourished African children. Gumlink? The company’s name sounds like every pack of gum should come with a wireless router or Bluetooth device of some sort. Christ the Dutch are weird. Anyhoo, these brilliant scientists, working together with the Kenyan Ministry of Health and Bad Corporate Team Up Decisions developed the gum to be marketed to 3 to 5 year old children to help enhance that target demographic’s health status. Oh, and I meant marketed. I misspoke earlier when I said they were going to give it to the children. My bad. Some casual observers (me) questioned the value of spending all that money to design a gum when it could have been spent on say, food, for the starving kids. However a remarkably well-fed representative from Gumstink assured me that the development cost could have, at most, fed all the kids in Africa for only 3 or 4 years, and everyone knows most people want to live a lot longer than that! Glad we cleared that up, Crazy Danes.

Scientists Developing “Female Viagra” Report Test Results Depressingly Flaccid

“But Dear, I didn’t take my Viagra yet!” “Don’t worry, honey-bunch,I’ve got an enormous chemically-induced chick-boner.”

Scientists revealed recently that clinical trials of the so called “female Viagra,” a drug called Flibanserin, failed to show any difference in female arousal when compared with a placebo. Hmm. I wonder why. When pressed to further clarify results from the study, the scientists pointed out that the arousal of a female turns out to be a much more complicated process than the arousal of a male, which consists chiefly of getting a woody and pointing it at something. I am sure the name “Flibanserin” didn’t help either. When you hear the word “Viagra” it conjures up vague images of impressive, waterfall sized boners and orgasmic crescendos. When you hear the word “Flibanserin” you think of a shitty Robin Williams Disney movie and nerve gas. Talk about a female boner-killer. The nerve gas angle is a bit of a buzzkill too. The scientists also admitted that although the drug had promise biochemically, it did nothing to help with women’s resentment about their partner’s ever-increasing spare tires and inability to deliver on any of the promises they had ever made. They also had an awfully hard time fitting the Brad Pitt and Clive Owen bodysuits into the little pill bottles. They conceded that for now, women would have to make do with the tried and true method of female arousal: humping someone who’s better than their partner.

Has Anyone Told Them Yet?

I think we can all agree that it has happened to us a time or two. You know what I’m talking about. Those times when you were blissfully going through life completely unaware that there was some disastrous wardrobe malfunction happening to you or that you had a stain of some kind on your shirt. I think we have all experienced these things, and wondered why the hell no one had taken the opportunity to warn us or bring the problem to our attention so we could correct it.

What’s that? It’s never happened to you? Come on. You mean to tell me that you have never, and I mean never, not even once, given a speech at a Toastmasters meeting with a gigantic booger stuck to the side of your face? Or perhaps put on a seminar on personal motivation or life improvement in front of thousands of people without realizing you had sprung an enormous boner the whole time (fucking Cialis)? Seriously? How about teaching an entire Sunday School class with one testicle wafting in the breeze out the leghole of your Jimmy Connors Special Edition Tennis Shorts? No? Well then turn the page, my friend, this post is not for you.

Now, back to my point, now that the “real world stuff has never happened to me” losers have left the room. There are people out there today who are living the whole life equivalent of the “booger stuck to the side of the face” scenario, and they may not even be aware of it. I feel it is my mission to help point out that nasty ol’ booger on these people’s faces so that they may have some chance of regaining some of their dignity:

Miley Cyrus in human form, taking a break from her true existence as a ginormous pile of money.

Poor Miley. I mean, she is really living the good life on the surface of it. In fact, I heard they might be considering changing the saying “Life of Riley” to “Life of Miley.” Let’s face it, she has more money than God, millions of adoring fans, and two of the two teenage boys living in my house would sell both kidneys to go on a date with her. Unfortunately, no one appears to have ever told her that the Billy Ray Cyrus that claims to be her father (pending conclusion of the orphanage baby-snatching investigation), is also the same Billy Ray Cyrus that stained our psyches and lowered the collective IQ of the world with the super awesome country ditty “Achy Breaky Heart." Does this poor child realize the suffering her so-called father’s past has wreaked upon the world? And the mullet, don’t get me started on the fucking mullet. I swear to God, there was an episode of Dr. Phil the other day in which “survivors” detailed how they had managed to keep from committing suicide after realizing they had been deflowered in the rusty box of an old Ford pickup truck to Billy’s caterwauling of “Achy Breaky Heart.” Somebody help this child.

“Hey, I know you. I’m gonna kiiilll youuu!”

Well Hillary, you’ve done pretty well for yourself. From First Lady to Secretary of State. Not bad. I just feel like right now would be a good time to point out a little booger on the side of your face. Your husband is a philandering dickhead! And a liar! Believe it or not, even in Washington, you don’t have to put up with that bullshit. You could kick his ass to the curb tomorrow and no one would give a shit. Hell, your approval rating would probably even rise from like one, to three or four percent. Just a little suggestion to help you out should you choose to decide to not live the life of the spurned wife. Please tell me you haven’t gotten back at him in kind though. It bothers me to think of some skinny Latino pool boy rocking on a toilet in your ensuite, reciting the Rosary to himself, waiting for you to call him into your boudoir.

“Hey, hoser! Have you seen our careers?”

Finally, we have the plucky little nation of Canada. It’s about time somebody let you know that your balls are hanging out. Long story short, the world does not give a shit what you think. Americans don’t want to hear about your awesome healthcare system and it’s ever shortening list of people who have died waiting for life saving surgeries. Europeans don’t give a flying fart that your ridiculously insulated, money grubbing, overcharging, fat and lazy chartered banks weathered the world recession on the back of increasing ATM usage fees. People in Iran don’t care that you walked out on their Supreme Leader’s speech at the UN. They don’t care because they are making nukes to bomb your smug ass. Oddly enough, the opinions of a nation of thirty some million overprivileged crackers just don’t matter to most of the world with problems a little more important than what to do about that darn Quebec thing. I am afraid, Canada, that your inflated self-importance has become the on-stage boner shame of a nation.