I can tell the goddamn future

In a pure testament to how much a visionary I truly am, Puerto Rican rump wrangler Ricky Martin came out of the closet yesterday. I wish I could say I was as shocked as the rest of the world considering the incredible amount of masculinity that seems to emanate from his pores. Psyche! See what I did there? I said something but I really meant the opposite. Just to refresh everyone's memory, back on January 25th of this very year I wrote a post saying the then closeted Mr. Martin is actually gay. (Motherfucking Fortune Teller Right Here) Two months later and he finally admits it and reaffirms my conviction that I can tell the future. Did I out him? Naw, anyone with a double digit IQ knew that guy was gay. In my opinion there's a much more sensible explanation for his timely admission; he's follower of SBB.

Slowly taking over the world,
SBB

Murder Your TV

There's no arguing the fact that we live in a world where technology reigns supreme. Every day something it seems that something new is being invented that will revolutionize the way in which we live our lives. I can't even begin to name the various different avenues I can search for, and the ease with which I can watch the types of pornography that most people are afraid tot ell their friends about. Technology sure can be a wonderful thing. I think another one of those particular champions of tech was the DVR; just thinking about how infuriating it would be to miss your favorite show or a televised special makes me laugh. What's even funnier about that is the fact that up until just a few years ago people used to actually tape things. That whole concept seems absolutely fucking ludicrous to me. I just find it hard to believe that people (myself included) used to save these movies and television shows for multiple years, all on book sized hunks of plastic.

Without a doubt the DVR has made our television viewing experience much simpler; not only do I get to watch what I want at a time that I have deemed convenient to my schedule, but I also get the added pleasure of hitting fast forward every time I see the beginning of an Activia commercial so I don't have to watch that leathery bag of ugly that is often referred to as Jamie Lee Curtis blabbing about osteoporosis or some other disease invented by bra-burners. Its life's simple pleasures that get me through my day, 1 point for the nerds. However, having the ability to record anything that is broadcasted on TV brings about an array of other problems that didn't exist before, and these problems only get heightened when you live with a number of roommates. When living with a group of other people who all have varying tastes some shows end up getting recorded for reasons completely unknown to me. I understand that my roommates might get confused when they see that I made the conscious decision to record Pregnancy Pact on a Sunday afternoon, but the fact that American Idol has season pass recording every single episode on both of our cable boxes seems to evade every ounce of logic ever. This show has been going on for almost a decade and the viewing public has yet to realize the fact that everything about this show huffs trucker balls. American Idol epitomizes what I hate about television; a collection of marginally talented people coming together wearing Affliction shirts, stupid haircuts, and an empowered effeminate British man. You would think a man that gets paid $50 million per year would be able to figure out that sweaters were made to be worn with something underneath them besides man tits, but then again I'm not claiming to be on the cusp of fashion within the gay community.

I have sparingly watched some of this year's season of Idol, and by that I mean I watched the half of one episode where my dream girl/tits of the decade candidate Katy Perry served as a guest judge. Even with her there as the saving grace to the episode I still barely made it through with my sanity. When I see that someone recorded Idol on my DVR I try and think to myself, "What would I rather do than watch American Idol right now?". My first inclination is to use an ice cream scoop to pop out my eyeballs so I can light them on fire, then put my flaming eyes in an old cigar box, dig a very deep hole and bury said cigar box so as to never have to bear witness to that buttfuck being passed off as America's most captivating television show. By now you should be able to guess how I feel about Idol. If I needed any more of a reason to hate this show (rest assured that I do not), allow me to point out the two biggest absurdities perpetrated by the creators of the show.

1.) There doesn't seem to be anything overtly American about it. Never once has there been mention of Big Mac's, trucks, fake tits, or freedom. Attaching the name "American" to the title is blasphemous, and ultimately an unpatriotic ruse. 

2.) Danny Gokey. There's few things I detest more than inspirational sob stories, but one that certainly trumps them is a Sconnie sob story, especially one that is relentlessly exploited on television. American Idol gave the people of Wisconsin the ability to almost single-handedly ruin my final semester of college. Shame on you.

 The tribe has spoken. Since American Idol gets more like a jam-packed clown car of shit that I hate with every passing season I have made the executive decision that the show and myself simply cannot coexist. From now on American Idol will be referred to as "show that must not be named". Allow me to move on to another atrocity being pawned off as entertainment and also subsequently being recorded by my DVR; I give you Dancing with the Stars.

Almost 23 million people watched the season premiere of DWTS last week, which is a stat that I find absolutely impossible. Don't get  me wrong, watching B-list celebrities learn to dance sounds like an incredibly entertaining way to spend time on opposite day, but I don't think that justifies a mass continuation of the show.You can't call me close-minded or uncultured because I happen to love the art of dance, with some of my personal favorites dances being pole dances, table dances, and of course lap dances. As it turns out none of that goes on during the show, giving me no concrete reason to watch. Ok, I'm going to venture into uncharted SBB waters for a minute and remove any sarcasm from my diction; why would anyone honestly want to watch celebrities dance if they aren't any fucking good at it? I don't ever want to watch Kate Gosselin dance on TV. If she was on a show in which she gets fed to a pack of wild dogs I'd be a viewer for life, but I'd rather practice catching bullets with my forehead than watch her or any other do-nothing celebrity prance on stage with some Peruvian gay dude in a bedazzled outfit. There's only one celebrity that I want to watch dance, and that is Mark Madsen.


What's the lesson in today's story? Most things on TV aren't DVR worthy, and when you have to be constantly bombarded with commercials telling you how great a show is, then in all likelihood the show sucks more than most. You may be saying to yourself "How does he think he could make TV better?" and in respect of brevity I will give you my short answer; boobs and swear words.

Say Word,
SBB

Iron Mike

So by know you should have been able to pick up on the fact that I love everything about Mike Tyson. If you haven't picked up on that yet then you clearly aren't committing enough of your time to my blog, or you haven't ever directed your eyes approximately 4 inches above this text to the awe inspiring quote from my main man Mike; either way you aren't doing a very good job as a blog follower so I'm going to probably say nasty things about behind your back. There, now its been said.

Tyson. Whether you like him or not you have to admit that there is something intriguing about him. What's kept him in the spotlight even after his professional boxing career fell apart is the fact that he is enigmatic. And by enigmatic I mean nothing he does seems to make any goddamn sense. For example, You're the heavyweight champ, what are you going to do next? If you answered "viciously rape and beat your famous actress wife" then you're probably Mike Tyson. Just a few other pieces of his decision-making highlight reel include 1) biting off the ear of a 6'3'' 240 lb angry sweaty professional face puncher, 2) squandering away hundreds of millions of dollars that could have bought cool things like a bunch of iphones or jetski's,  3) getting a tribal tattoo post 1996, and having said tattoo appear tastefully on your face. I have always thought that there was a finite amount of stupidity that can come out of one human being, but that all changed two days ago.

I saw a picture of Iron Mike in the newspaper and immediately my eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning because I knew I was in for a treat. I continued to read the article and found out that Mr. Tyson is planning on starring in his own reality show on Animal Planet. Initially I thought that might be a network where a reality show about Mike Tyson would be completely acceptable, but then I kept reading... It turns out his show will not be about his own personal animalistic qualities, nor will it be about his rare Siberian tigers. Nope, its going to be about pigeons. Yep, pigeons, fluttering bags of shit. Let me reiterate my previous sentiment; nothing Mike Tyson does makes any sense whatsoever, and the amount of stupidity inside his skull is seemingly limitless. Bravo Mike. Bravo.

Apparently he has had a deep love for pigeons his entire life, as illustrated by his amazing quote serving as the header of my blog where he describes assaulting a garbage man for destroying his dead pet pigeon's cage. I guess that means that through his tempestuous life thus far 2 things have served as a constant; the first being stupidity of epic proportions, and the second being his deep love of pigeons. I guess this is a logical pairing for a reality show chronicling Iron Mike.

I'm torn. I love Tyson and would watch just about anything with him in it, but I absolutely hate pigeons. I think I'm justified in my hatred as well; pigeons started the plague in a little disgusting birdbath in someone's backyard, where they made sex to rats and created a whole new type of AIDS. I know I'll watch the show, and so will lots of other Tyson enthusiasts like myself for the exact same reason I watch shows like Jersey Shore and 16 and Pregnant; I find people with shit for brains to be entertaining, and thus I watch while silently thanking the Good Lord that my mother never had the urge to freebase chemicals that she found under her sink like the parents of the people I'm watching.

If this proves anything, its that Mike Tyson isn't ever going away. I guarantee that after the impending apocalypse highlighted in John Cusack's documentary 2012, when the rest of the world has perished Iron Mike will still be around saying aggressively hateful things, grunting, and rubbing feces in his hair.

Proud Tyson fan,
Proud American,
SBB

The Pitfalls of the CTA

First off, I would like to thank all of you who contributed to the success that was my most recent mailbag Q&A session; I couldn't have done it without you. Psyche! I totally could have, but that's really beside the point at this particular stage in the game because I've already got all of you hanging on every word I say. Let's be honest, if SBB had came equipped with a warm hole you'd probably try to have sex with it. As beautiful as the mental image of people having sex with computer screens is, let's move on...

So if you know me pretty well you have probably come to the understanding that I'm a very proactive person. By proactive I mean that if I'm uncomfortable or upset with a current situation I will sulk and complain about it until my disposition affects my friends to the point where they will do something about it. Like I said, proactive. You can see how this may pose a problem when I'm alone and don't have someone else to annoy, like on Saturday afternoons when I'll text someone 90 miles away and ask them to order a pizza for me because I simply "don't know how". (Marvelous technique if I do say so myself)

There are some great things about this majestic city in which I live, one of those being a very developed and convenient public transportation system. When I say public transportation system I really mean trains because, let's be frank here, buses are for peasants. From my experience, any time you put the word "public" in front of something, like schools, bathrooms, or in this case transportation, it is usually just a coded message meaning "this thing smells like urine". You have already heard my transgressions on all things relating to air travel, but at least when I get on a plane I know I will be sitting next to another human being, which is more than I can say for the Red Line. No matter what time of day, there's always a pretty overwhelming chance that I will be harassed by a creature speaking nonsense that strongly resembles the Toxic Avenger.

I'm not a germophobe by any means, in fact much of my diet consists of things I found on the floor of my living room, but there's just something about being in close quarters and constantly being touched by people I don't know that makes me feel like I need to be sprayed with a fire hose to wash the dirt and Hepatitis C off of me. Anyone who has rode the L by themselves knows that game I play multiple times every day; the "I'd sell my soul as long as nobody tries to sit next to me" game as I like to call it. There's one on every train car; the mutant who walks on and everyone already seated just begins to quiver. Just like I know that I will inevitably be placed in an airplane seat next to Satan's children, I lose all hope whenever I see this guy, because I know he's coming for me. One of the few serious downsides of being thin; everyone looks at you and says to themselves, " that skinny guy over there won't care that my enormous bag of stink I consider my body is about to seriously invade his personal space, why would he?". Now imagine me in this particular situation with absolutely no one to complain to in order to make myself feel better; awful to say the least. My trip home from work on Tuesday was just another L trip forged in the fires of Hell; I'm sure you see where this one is going...

Sitting by myself reading on the train with a seat open next to me, playing my aforementioned mind game trying to predict where and when the Creature from the Black Lagoon is going to come in and fuck my day up. At this point I've trained myself to make nasty faces at people who are trying to decide where to sit, realizing that it truly is my last line of defense. Sitting there, only looking up from my book to give the new passengers my attempt at a death stare when I lock eyes with a man straight from my nightmares. He knows exactly where he wants to sit now, you bet he does. I'm staring at this heap of human flesh trying to think of what I recognize him from, and then it hits me; its Barney Gumble from The Simpsons, Springfield's resident drunkard. Perfect, just fucking grand. The first thing the guy says to me after he jams his giant ass into the seat next to me, and over half of my own is, "Ooooooh man there'sssss jussssst no more rooooooom". I didn't exactly sound the way, actually more like "Arrrrrblahhhhgrrrrrrrrr roooooom!". His voice actually sounded as if there was a NYE party kazoo lodged somewhere in his windpipe. I guess his naturally inaudible voice and overall sorry existence was just another product of a malt liquor drunk and generations of selective breeding within the family. Thank you Sir for pointing out the lack of room we both now have due to your titanic ass cheeks, and so eloquently put might I add. In all seriousness, trying to fit this man into the single seat next to me was like trying to jam a spare tire into a woman's purse.

I think the worst part of the daily public transportation buttfuck is the lack of hope it provides me; the simple fact that 650,000 people ride L trains every day makes it almost inevitable that I will have both my personal space invaded and my sensory organs assaulted. Would it be that wrong of me to say to someone, "Excuse me Sir but I would really prefer if you and Buick sized ass found a different seat"? Its not like I should be their first introduction to the fact that they are overweight. However, something tells me this still might not be the best approach. I think from now on my only defense might have to resort to making myself as undesirable of a seat partner as the next guy, but since I don't piss myself at 5 in the afternoon or smell like spoiled meats I'm not sure what I can do. I think I might just start acting like I have totally lost my mind, speaking gibberish about the apocalypse and wiping blood all over my face. Yeah, that should do it.

Goodbye Forever
SBB