Wednesday, May 31, 2006


So get off my case if I don't post nuttin.

I'm celebrating the big #4 with my lovely wife in a secluded location that will go unnamed.

Have a fine weekend and we'll see you on the other side.

Late evening thunderstorms rollin' in as we speak. Much needed. Will go lay in the hammock and watch the storm approach. Laters.


"Yo, yo, yo, y'all can't stand right here
In his right hand was your man's worst nightmare
Loud enough to burst his right eardrum close-range
The game is not only dangerous, but it's most strange
I sell rhymes like dimes
The one who mostly keep cash but brag about the broker times
Joker rhymes, like the "Is you just happy to see me?" trick
Classical slap-stick rappers need Chapstick
A lot of 'em sound like they in a talent show
So I give 'em something to remember, like the Alamo
Tally-ho! A high Joker like Spades game
Came back from five year layin' and stayed the same."

"Surrender now or suffer serious setbacks
Got get-back, connects wet-back, get stacks
Even if you gots to get jet-black, head to toe
To get the dough, battle for bottles of Mo' or 'dro
This rhyme flow take practice like Tae Bo
With Billy Blanks
"Oh, you're too kind!" "Really? Thanks."
To the gone and lost forever like "O My Darling Clementine"
He hold his heart when he tellin' rhymes
When it's his time, I hope his soul go to Heaven
He's nasty like the old time Old Number Seven
You still taste it when you chase it with the Coca-Cola
Make you wish they coulda erased out the Motorola."

"Excuse Me mister do she got a sister
Who he not to kiss her True she do got a blister
Not a movie plot twist like a twistler
If I needed my meat burned I'd go to Sizzler
getting paid like a biker with the best crank
Sprayed like a high ranked sniper in the West Bank
Type to just blank and don't show much pitty
When I'm in the city I always keep a dutch with me."

"It's the beat
He hear it in his sleep sometime
Blare it in your jeep so your peoples can stare at them rhymes
Real rhymes not your everyday hologram
Even when ribs were touchin never swallowed the Ham
He'd rather eat a sand sandwich salad
It might need salt like your mans bland ballad
A lot of stuff happens that the news won't tell yous
Loose all L juice
Snooze all hell loose
Rake it
Take it like the good, the bad, the ugly
Break it rollin through ya hood in the cadi buggy
Butter softy, leather flossy, fatty juggy
Always threw me off when she told me daddy funk me
I'm like anywho's
Seeds walkin all out in street with out any shoes
I guess it's better than some funky socks
You need to get her some skips before she catch the monkey pocks
Instead she wants to hear the beatbox
Take pills and make fake krills as sheetrock
Sing it
Bring it back to your laboratory
While he's in his oratory
Glorious like a horror story
The mask is like Jason
They told the place not to let the basket type case in
He could be some kind of wacko
Waiting for the chance to heat the pipes like a crack hoe."

"Not a lot of bling
When he do the thing, bada boom, bada bing
From the womb to the tomb
Get that ricotta, bada bing, bada boom
Doom, your reputation precedes you
Wail 'til you crack and see what "weed" do, you dweeb you
No pun intended, takes one to know one, will know - it's unscented
Yo son, demented when them sent it from the other time
Before everybody and they mother rhyme
What a crime - beats is the same way
Make 'em wanna hit the streets with the heat for a lame's pay
Game day, flag on the play, improper helmet
Drag on the suede from the gem drop of well spit
He didn't listen, titty kissin the city glistened
Depending on what from what position you're sittin
In the pissy wind, is this thing whistlin?
Who let the spinnin whisperin djinn in?
The Villain again? Without a doubt
That's his name, don't play it out
Or spray it, when you say it out your mouth
Then gave him a cold shoulder for a hour
And told him take a gold shower, for fakin funk, soul power
... stocky, short and cocky
Looked like Apollo Creed after he fought with Rocky
Rhymed in a broken english slang, not cockney
Thirteen, his first queen wore hot knock knees
Had to tell her pops, yo stop cockblockin B
Hold somethin for your daily yay habit
Then go, bada-bing-bing-bing like ricochet rabbit
How 'bout the sicko say stab it?
There's liquor in the cabinet and a slicker for the crafted
And Heineken, I told him much obliged friend
What I gotta spend, if I only touch her thighs then?
... why his eyes widened
He didn't know your man had a nice surprise hidin
Took pride in ridin in a sly wiseguy grin
... real recognize real
On the microphone, the wheels are mechanized steel
Please, at least respect your ideals
How you got her walkin along the stroll in high heels?
He said her mamma was gettin old
God bless her poor soul, now no more drama is your role
Straight to the head
He know a lot of haters can't wait 'til he dead
Lead to go, like a ho, to a strange whack housewife
Only thing he know will change his back do', how trife
Rules is rules, don't go there
Stay on sale like a old coat made of mohair
Keep a snotty chicken on E, the Lone Ranger
Why everybody always pickin on Danger?
... and Doom, maybe it's him
Called up my lady, told her baby it's slim
Make me up a margarita I need to take a swim
Tell them kids remember school - if they let 'em out, cool
But get the hell from out the pool."

"Maybe giver her curves a feel
And the same way she feel it when she flow with nerves of steel
They call him super when they need their back or plumbing fixed
Powers only one left the pack comes in six
Whatever happened to two and three
A hood tried to slide with four and five and got caught
Like what you doing G
Don't make 'em have to get cutting like truancy
Matter fact not for nothing right now you and me
Looser than a pair of adidas
I hope you bought your spare tweeters
MC's sound like cheerleaders
Rapping and dancing like Red Head Kingpin
Dude can't do his thing again no matter how be blinging
You do it for the smelly hubbies
Seeds know what time it is like it's time for tellie tubbies
Few can do it even fewer can sell it
Take it from the dude who wears mask like a tarded helmet
He plots shows like robberies
In and out
One, two, three, no bodies please
Run the cash and you won't get a wet sweatshirt
The mic is the shootie nobody move nobody get hurt
Bring heat like the boy I'm going to war
Came in the door, and everybody on the floor
A whole string of jobs like we are on tour
Everynight on the score coming to your corner store."

"A modern day marvel but terrible, better horrible
When he grab the mic, son he crushed up all his metacarpals
He said he ain't mean it, totally by accident
After the show, he didn't follow where y'all taxi went
Will this be available on wax? Ask Max Mill
They on the opposition to his ass wack tax bill."

"It's how they say "semi-risque"
All day everyday, give out Emmy's the quick way
Have the average mc say, "Gimme a sick day!"
They really ain't got shit to say like Timmy McVeigh
Get a hunch, a real rag tag bunch
In school, he kept a doo rag in his bag lunch
Just to eat heads on some breakdance shit and spit
He ripped this skit in sanscript
If the pants fit, sport 'em but rock 'em low
Your man like Rollo on the slow, can't knock it though
It's like the same hustle bro, two knuckles glow
Tucked in Le Tigre, just let the name buckle show
Good googly moogly, see that loogie?
Yeah, but keep it on the D.L. Hughley
You don't watch her, he might Houser like Doogie
Just to cut her loosie like *swoosh* Mitsurugi
Gooey gum drops, who he got his style from?
His pops, you gotta give the bum some props
Ask ya sister, her beat box is more thicker
Doom, that nigga detox with malt liquor
Villain for hire, admire the sound
Make sure The Price Is Right before he come on down!
Rappers be on some, "You you you!"
Forgot who they talking too, too much pork stew
They need to not come out with nothing new
Blew the whole shit up on some, "What this button do?"
Doom cheat the game like walk-thru
Run 'em, son 'em like Mr. Rourke do Tattoo
The way alotta clowns get down is unnatural
This flow flip like oranges, apples
Rhymes like limes to a Lemonade Snapple
Leave her at the chapel, don't eat Scrapple
First thing they notice when they come to is they bling is gone
Then they start remembering the Klingon with the rings on
In came the Villain with their own gear like, "Hi, there"
Y'all play the rear, this whole year MY year
Metal face beard like Brillo pad
Y'all know his steelo so don't feel so bad
Seed call him, "Ol' dad," the one the ol' hoe had
Knew he was a winner since a swimmer in the gonads
Okay pal, pay him like Paypal
So we could be A-OK not OK Corral
I think today I'll make the ladies say, "Ow"
And maybe eff around take a bow, now
Who made his first mill and still carry razor blades
Used to be straight A's and still made the grade
Retarded ass, how he get cash so fast
Year after last, left back in the retarded class
Shoulda went to Boces
Watch him all closely, who he think he supposed to be
Villain who always win, at least he stay consistent
Find out where that bitch went, get a room pitch a tent."

MOCKINGBIRD UPDATE: Walked the bird route four times consecutively with no incidents. Appears to be clear, but Mother Nature can bust a flip on you at any point. Will keep my eyes open.

BUY MORE DOOM. If you need suggestions, you know who to contact.

Monday, May 29, 2006



When Cannibal Ox's debut record hit shelves in 2001, its spectacularly sonic soundscape and no-frills, glamourless narrative of the streets of NYC pumped new life in the underground and catapaulted El-P, the album's producer, once again to the forefront of hip hop's leftfield. The grim, ghostly production of El-P was the spine and Vast Aire and Vordul's almost gutter poetics are the soul. Vast Aire, in particular, is like a lunchroom philosopher with his scathing, deliberate delivery and his cryptic diction. Vordul Mega plays the perfect opposite with his direct battle-ready chestpuffin'. Just two kids growing up in the city. And the result is easily the most poignant debut by a duo since Mobb Deep's The Infamous some six years earlier.

Cold Vein also perfectly rolls together the formulaic Def Jux sound and is certainly the most pertinent offering from the post-millennial independent hip hop movement.

Rumors have been bouncing around about a possible follow-up, but most would agree that, as sweet as it sounds, the outcome could not come close to matching Cold Vein's brilliance.

"Iron Galaxy"
"A B-Boy Alpha"
"Raspberry Fields"

Thursday, May 25, 2006




Souls of Mischief along with the entire Hieroglyphics camp had the Bay Area on lock back in the early 90s. Ask any head from back then and they'll agree. They'll likewise agree that 93 'Til Infinity was and still is a greatly influential work. What was started by Del with I Wish My Brother George Was Here just years before gave Souls the perfect setup for their masterpiece and it's nothing short of one. It's a funk-filled, bass-heavy, party-rockin' juggerknot that's just as fresh now as it was some 13 years ago.

Like Cypress Hill with Black Sunday, everything that would come after 93 for Souls would simply not match up critically. Jive dropped them after their follow-up No Man's Land failed to do anything close to 93, when essentially it would be impossible. Just another victim of the early 90's label frenzy when everyone was looking for platinum and nothing short. Critical acclaim meant nothing. It was all about the green.

Souls of Mischief: pick it up. Pick up two copies. And then get it on vinyl. Share it with a friend, your little brother, your moms.

"That's When Ya Lost"
"A Name I Call Myself"
"What a Way to Go Out"
"93 'Til Infinity"
"Anything Can Happen"
"Batting Practice"


Jeff "Mayhem" Mahan is wanted for neglectful baserunning--an offense that occurred at the Southeast Softball Complex in Amarillo. There were multiple witnesses. Despite a complete asinine (emphasis on "ass") move, the famed Chuckheads won Thursday night bringing their season to an end at a perfect 10-0. The win did not come without controversy however when two of the opposing team's ten players were kicked out for mouthing off to the ump leaving them with eight players which, technically, is not enough players to continue playing. Game over. Season over.

So, while we were leading by some seven runs when we won, we also won on character. Chuck doesn't win on some snake ish. No, he's a sport. His respect for martial arts is unmatched and should never be questioned. If you got roundhoused, you had the opportunity to win. You just couldn't block it. But it's not like he's about to kick you in the back of the head. We play clean, we win clean.

Act like you know. Chuckheads finish undefeated. Drinks on me.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006


So, yesterday I swore I was being divebombed by some of the neighborhood birds on my walk home from work. At one point, with my head down, I thought I saw a shadow of a bird just above my head. Then I thought I was hallucinating. No big deal. Hallucinations come and go all the time with enough caffiene.

I'm walking to work this morning, as I always do, Forrest Gump style. Except he's a wuss because he took the bus occasionally. I don't. Either way, I'm treking along and I come across the same place in the road that I had my hallucination the day before. I'm keeping an eye out just in case. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a bird (a mockingbird no less) making a swift beeline directly for my head. Startled, I begin to duck away and...

Dude pops me right on the side of the head. I try and casually walk it off, but now I'm really on edge. I kept thinking, what if someone is watching me right now. I must look like a total moron. I just got taken by a mockingbird. I try and get some gut up, but I sincerely hate birds. I'm terrified of them. Just act cool, j3. Walk it off. No one saw it. I keep a watchful eye out for any more attacks. Perhaps like this:

As I look over a shoulder (all good pimps keep an eye over the shoulder), I see about twenty yards back a bird with wings fully extended and eyes locked in on me is heading in for the kill like a skilled warplane. That snake! He wasn't gonna be a man and come face to face, no he was going to bust me from behind. Actually, I suppose technically it was a female probably protecting a nest, but at this point, male or female, I'm thinking it better be dead. Quick. Aggravated, but still horrified, I start jogging. Not a sprint. Nothing too drastic that's going to attract even more attention to my awkward battle, but something to get me out of there quick. I felt like Gregory Peck in North By Northwest. That'd be second Hitchcock reference in this post alone. Monumental.

I know this punk's getting close so I brace for impact and this time it stung a little. If not my head, than certainly my pride. I feel the wind from the splitting wind first and then...


Sure enough. This time I think I caught a little beak. I grimmace and take off in full sprint around the corner. Who in the world does this bird think he/she is? I'm going to petition that, just for this crap, we finally revoke the mockingbird's title as official state bird. Bird's lucking I'm not revoking her life. It takes a lot to embarrass me, honestly. I mean A LOT, but when you look like this because you just got your ass handed to you by a bird that's no bigger than the palm of you hand...we'll put it this way...your day is just going spiral downward from there.

Sawx lost to the Spanks tonight despite a horrible pitching performance by the Lanky Yankee and two home runs from Manny. Sucks. Oh well, we're hanging onto first place by a half game. That and I don't look like this guy this evening.

You know, I know it's Hitchcock and all, but, really, for birds to chew a human's eyes out like that, he'd have to be drunk, sleeping or already dead. One thing's for sure, I know where it happened and who the culprit is.

I'm gonna take a different route to work, methinks. It's like I'm in junior high and I gotta bully. And then, on the weekends, I'm gonna park at the end of that street and film walkers braving that line of trees.

Chuckheads shoot for 10-0 tomorrow night. Maybe I'll fair better against our opponents (nemesis) Scott's Flowers. I know, only in this league can our biggest competition be a florist. I would think that the very suggestion of the florist team beating Chuck is not only laughable, it's punishable.

Check yo self.



While it just came out last year in 2005, Edan's Beauty and the Beat is truly a masterwork. Edan's cut-paste-decoupage production style lures listeners with its messy, Romper-Room sound construction. It's a swaggering yet charming, boastful yet playful record. It's those complexities that make this record such a compelling piece of hip hop. It's as much an ol' dusty psychedelic record as it is a hip hop record. In fact, to better enjoy this record, just say it came out back in 1990. If that doesn't do it for you, tell yourself it's a Prince Paul project.

But while most throwback projects act as a lesson in biting styles, Beauty acts with more reverence and honor. It's almost a coffee table book on pre-1990 hip hop all in itself. All this from some kid from Boston.

Oh wait, I failed to mention that Edan mans the mic as well. And while, he's not going to make any heads spin, the kid has an incredible sense of context and his style stunts like Rakim, G Rap and Masta Ace.

Beauty demolishes any walls that hip hop has built around itself. It finally escapes the rut of convention that hip hop has been caught in for years now. It redefines and recreates true hip hop in an era where it's seemingly absent. And while Edan might not ever fully achieve any success on a popular level, this album alone cements his place in the history of hip hop.

"I See Colours"
"Torture Chamber"
"Fumbling Over Words That Rhyme"
"Rock and Roll"

Tuesday, May 23, 2006


I'm throwing in my vote for Taylor Hicks to win it all. I'm much more a fan of the goofy wedding singer than the Dion-esque female powerhouse. I mean, c'mon, what's not to like about pepperheaded Taylor? He's like your Everyday Joe. He's oafy, laughs at stupid crap and couldn't dance to save himself. I know, he's playing a role and he's probably a complete jerk in real life, but I'm a sucka and Taylor's my man.

We'll forgive him, though, for completely biting Joe Cocker's style. Lucky that young American Idol audience has no earthly idea who Joe Cocker is or he'd be called an imposter and beheaded in the town square.

For those who need a photo reference. This is Joe Cocker. He rules.

Poor Danny. His sweet Jewish boy, Elliott Yamin, got the proverbial boot last week. Danny swore the dude was gonna take it. Dude was just too creepy when he sang. I mean, I wouldn't be able to carry a tune if it fit in my front pocket, but at least I look good when I'm doing it. Ol' Elliott looked like a doof up there. Maybe that was Danny's attraction. Kiddin' bro.

Watch Taylor. He's takin' this muddah.


Next year's softball season(s) are quickly approaching. Okay, maybe not, but it's not too early to think about next year's jerseys. We know the success we've had with Chuck (and how can you go wrong on the fashion tip, as well), but we've discussed maybe switching out images each year. Two names have remained consistant (if you subtract Kathleen Turner) and those two are Sly Stallone and Chuck Bronson. So, I stepped to it and created the following images. You can vote by simply leaving a comment below. I've disabled the blocker so not only can you comment, but I can get solicited by a number of morons wanting me to buy their state-of-the-art dog house and decorative paper weights. Holla atcha boy.

Not sure how the league feels about using guns in our images, but there was a team called the Pipelayers one year.

Exercise your right to vote. Non-players also welcome to chime in.


That means, I need my good friend Sarah and/or Duke to send a few pics of Danny (Newox, City Fence) actually graduating, maybe some party pics. I would appreciate it. I was in charge of the videotaping.

Oh yeah, about the videotaping. So Saturday morning, we all crawl out of bed and head to the Spirit Arena in good ol' Lubbock to go see Danny walk. Danny had asked me to videotape it for his brother David who is serving over in Germany. Of course, I was happy to oblige. We get there just in time for the opening procession so we plant it where we're standing and start shooting photos and videoing. At this point, I panic to find Danny walking into the floor of the arena. I spot his huge beard from across the floor and start rolling the tape. He takes his seat and we proceed to the upper deck to find ours.

Once we arrive at our seats up top, the ceremony and the (ugh) speech begins. Tired, hungry and a little agitated by the superuncomfortable seats, I lean over to Duke and Sarah and tell them, "We could totally go get breakfast if we leave right now." They laugh. I'm serious. I mean, these things get pretty long-winded. I've sat through my share and, despite my responsibilities, by my approximation, we could leave, eat breakfast, come back and no one would have ever known that we left except for the fact that we couldn't recall a single word of the keynoter's speech. But then again, most people who sat through it couldn't recall a single word either. We bolt in hopes we could make it back in time to see Danny walk across the stage. Not only because I wanted to see him walk, but if I didn't get it on tape, it'd be my ass.

We go to Picante's for a breakfast burrito ("taco" as our folks in Austin call them). We're not rushing, but we're not loafing either. We just do our thing knowing we needed to get back soon. We arrive back at the Spirit Arena and make our way back through the parking lot, up the steps to the entrance and through the concourse and, at that point, I start panicking. I get the nervous sweats. It's like being two hours late for a test. I started getting rattled. I thought, "What if we missed this? How would I explain that?" We make our way up to the upper deck where we were before, I look down at the floor. I'm having a hard time hearing the speaker because we were up so high, but as I peer down to the floor, I see Danny's row is gone.



Where is he?

Did he already go up?

I follow a line of people all the way up to the front and there's our boy, five from the front. He was five people from going up and walking across. I freak out, plant my butt in the closest seat, grab the camera and start rolling. The rest is history and it's all documented on the video like we were there the whole time. The truth is we came really close to screwing up BIG time. After Danny sat back down, I looked at Sarah and Dale and just chuckled lightly in relief.

I told the story a couple of times that afternoon because, well, since it all worked out, I thought it would serve as a rather humorous story. It seemed everytime I told that story, I was met with a blank stare and a look like their eyes were saying, "Whatta jerk." Yeah, not that a breakfast burrito was worth missing my boy walk, but we caught it. I just call it another insanely clutch performance.

I've been up since 3:45 this morning. I'm not sure why. Just couldn't sleep. So you gotta pretty nice update this morning. Scroll down for more. More from this weekend as pics become available.



Dark, gloomy, infinitely headnoddin'. When Cypress Hill returned for their second record with Columbia, they abandoned about half of their hard-headed gangbangin' persona and replaced it with a more baffooning drug-drenched playfulness. The end result is an album that still get a rise out of any audience at any show with only a few bars. In fact, Cypress set the bar so high with this record that they'd never enjoy quite the critical or popular acclaim as they did with this record--their paramount release. And this thing continues to scan like it's only a few years old and, here it is, just upon it's 15-year anniversary which serves as proof that if you make a record about weed, you can sell forever. This album has completely obliterated boomin' systems from coast to coast for almost 15 years now. The recipe for the success of Cypress Hill was really pretty simple, I mean, you only really had three elements at work: drugs, violence and gloom. The drugs were delivered through B-Real's sometimes almost cryptic lyrics. The violence through Sen Dog's rugged and rough caloussed toughness and the gloom through DJ Muggs' incredibly dark and menacing production style--this album pioneering that signature Soul Assassins' sound. Also pioneered by Black Sunday was the entire Latin Hip Hop movement because without this album demolishing walls at popular radio for Latino rap artists, there's no telling how long it would've taken today's Latin Hip Hop movement to take hold. Even white kids who profess to hating hip hop have Black Sunday which speaks heavily to the crossover appeal, yet in most hip hop circles, you'll still hear it mentioned with reverence. Where they are now is really no concern, it's what they left us back in 1993 that really matters.

"I Ain't Goin' Out Like That"
"Insane in the Brain"
"Lick a Shot"
"Cock the Hammer"
"Hits from the Bong"
"A to the K"


As promised sometime ago (I'm just loaded with unfulfilled promises), I was going to post about my brother being on the Price is Right. This is actually the first of two times he visited Barkerville and apparently this is also the visit where he enjoyed the least amount of air time. Broham never made it up to contestant's row, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Apparently they interview everyone in the studio audience for consideration of being a contestant and being frozen in daytime television history like Han Solo. This "interview" is three questions: your name, where you're from and what is your hobby. Apparently these samurais are so good at what they do, they can tell whether or not you'll make an interesting contestant based on what you answer and how you answer. Pimp. Well, unfortunately, Burbank wasn't ready for my brother. But despite that, my brother did manage to snag a fraction of a second of camera time when the camera swung frantically to the left side of the studio to film one of the kid's my brother went with. And when it reached as far left as it could go, if you freeze the screen, you can see my brother, standing tall with his hands above his head and mouth open in exhaultation.

This is the raddest thing I've ever seen in my life, but I've yet to see the taping of the second show which I will have access to this weekend when bro bro comes to Lubbock.

White t-shirt tucked into jeans with hands above his head. Top left corner.

Tell me that ain't gangsta. Time to fix my morning pot of coffee.


I always knew Dirk was a wookie. But I couldn't seem to find out which human he was mixed with until last night when it finally dawned on me that he's wookie mixed with William Zabka (of Karate "Finish Him!" Kid fame). Peep the realness.

I can't make a more convincing argument of Nowitzki's wookieness. You're just going to have to believe me. Happy Tuesday.

Friday, May 19, 2006


Thursday, May 18, 2006
Associated Press

THE YELLOW- The Chuckheads made easy work of the Amarillo Flash Thursday night in an absolutely horrific slaying, 22-6. This brings the Chuckheads' record to an astounding 9-0 and secures 1st place for the platoon in their inaugural year.

"These guys are amazing. The way they come in here and completely dismantle opponents, I've never seen anything like it," one league official commented. "They're good for the league, though. They've put new energy back into the league and any time a team goes undefeated, everyone's gunning for them."

The official requested his name be withheld for fear of backlash from the team, even though his comments were seemingly all complimentary. "You never know, man. One time a guy was coming off the field after a 2-run double and one of his teammates said, 'Nice hit, man,' and the dude swung around and landed his cleat right in the dude's chest. They're crazy. Unpredictable." This move is apparently known as the "roundhouse."

Many fans of the league say it is that very unpredictability that has made them such a draw in the stands. Three weeks ago, they mounted the greatest comeback in the history of the league scoring 11 runs in the bottom of the final inning to beat Scott's Flowers.

"Pimps don't say much, we talk with our hands," commented a Chuckhead who insists on being called "j3," playing catcher, first base, designated hitter and occassionally holding the bench down. "I like to think of Chuck as a ninja pimp."

The bizarre monologue continues.

"I bet you didn't know, that, one time, Chuck Norris was filming on location for Walker: Texas Ranger and Chuck Norris brought a stillborn baby lamb back to live by giving it a prolonged beard rub. Shortly after the farm animal sprang back to life and crowd had gathered, Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked the animal, breaking its neck, to remind the crew once more that the good Chuck giveth, and the good Chuck, he taketh away," j3 said. "And plus, the ladies like Chuck. I see those married women checking us out. I like tacos and Twizzlers."

j3's teammates declined to comment as they were too busy kickin' ass.

The Chuckheads will square off, once again, against Scott's Flowers next Thursday in the last game of their season--shooting for an unprecedented 10-0.

Monday, May 15, 2006


This is all I have to show for it, thanks to Rory. He said they rocked hard. I have no doubt. One day I'll see them live and it'll be the most righteous air guitar you've ever seen.

I believe in Austin they call it getting "guitarded".

Happy Tuesday.


An elderly Florida woman was watering her garden on May 10th when a 5 foot alligator dashed at her and bit her on the ankle. The woman, thinking quickly, beat the bastard with her water hose, saying, "I'm a farmer's daughter from way back, so when I start a chore, I finish it."

Now, she's a local heroine who pimp slapped an alligator with the metal end of a garden hose and that gator is the shame of the entire Florida amphibian population. Here is he trying another, less popular avenue for attack--just going in through the kitchen door. Unfortunately for him, not having the required opposable thumbs makes operating a doorknob a little difficult.


But what's ever stopped me from attempting the impossible. So long as it it's not death-defying. Well, Saturday was my second time out on the "links," I believe they call it. This time we went to the freaking smallest course I've ever set foot on. It was situated on maybe a half square mile of land. Now THIS is a course I can play, I'm thinking to myself. My first attempt at golf was a "real" course in 50 MPH wind gusts. Today however, the holes were about 75 yards long and the breeze was S/SW at about 10 MPH. In other words, ideal conditions for me to rip it up and build up some confidence before the company's annual golf tournament.

I still suck, however. Mainly because I rely on my gift of imitation to get me through the sport. I do the same with bowling. I do what they do on television because, well, I don't have time to take up the sport seriously. I play sports that I played when I'm young. I don't play any of them at an excelled level, but I do enough to get by. With bowling and golfing, I just do my best to emulate what golfers do with no science or study involved.

It was a Par 3 course (meaning your score should end up around 54) and I shot an 88. Now, had this been a regular course, that might be a pretty good score for an amateur. But since this is Putt Putt, I'd be better served just hanging out in the clubhouse trying to set the high score on Galaga and eating Rocky Road.

I took my grandfather's old Arnold Palmer bag out for a spin. It was the first time this thing has seen daylight in at least 20 years, I'd imagine. I'm damned lucky it didn't turn to dust. Think I heard baby birds chirping in the bottom. Tell you what, you wanna catch eyes at even the $12 course, bust those things out. Someone once said, "It's not how good you play, it's how good you look." I prefer "It's not how good you look or how good you play, it's how you throw a wrench in the entire golfing universe by using 35 year-old gear." Actually, I'm attached to these clubs (or rather them to me) and, yes, I'll be playing with them at the annual golf tournament.

Real pimps strut with AP. That'd be Arnold Palmer. Not Associated Press.

Happy Monday. Vinnie Paul from Pantera (easily one of the nicest guys I've met in a long time) took a moment to come by the Yellow to promote his latest projects and managed to sneak in this killer picture. Thanks to Phil, Ken and the Fontana staff for making this happen.

Thursday, May 11, 2006



Yes, that's our very own Angry Tim modeling the most righteous new rag. And, in case you're having a hard time making out the handsome face on the t-shirt. That'd be the great Texas Ranger himself, Chuck Norris (at least he plays one on TV).

Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.

There are many who have doubted the greatness of Chuck Norris. There are even more who cannot name one Chuck Norris movie. There are those who think Charles is a cheeseball and the turd from Hollywood's anus (shut yo mouth!). But the citizens of Amarillo and, moreover, those who play softball on Thursday nights, are learning otherwise. They have learned by the very presence of his face on your t-shirt, you too can play like a champ. You too can emulate the very greatness that is Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris does not hunt because the word hunting infers the probability of failure. Chuck Norris goes killing.

It began when we started kicking around a new jersey for the office team. Since the office wasn't paying for any of it, we thought, "Why pay loyalty if we're the ones paying?" Makes sense. Alright, so what's it gonna be? The names started flooding in. Even the name Kathleen Turner Overdrive was considered. But Angry Tim and I thought, we need something iconic. Something that needed very little explanation. Something that struck fear in the hearts of opponents. What we needed was the badass of all badasses. We needed a little Chuck.

Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.

We thought, at first, that it'd be nice to have a name that captured the very essence of Chuck. And we thought, with his spectacular kicking abilities, that The Roundhouse made perfect sense. I suggested the amplifier "crippling" be added as in The Crippling Roundhouse, but it didn't snag. Some suggested it be plural, but it was kept singular (as in the Heat, the Jazz or the Picture Hanging on my Wall). We then thought, "Let's just drop the 'the' and make it Roundhouse." Now we were onto something. We had an identity. Still, many weren't really sure what to make of the new identity. Some giggled like it was still just a passing joke. Others warmed up to it. While others were still confused as hell. We were dead serious. Chuck serious.

According to Einstein's theory of relativity, Chuck Norris can actually roundhouse kick you yesterday.

So, one day, when my last computer was still up and running, I brought a photo of Chuck (Mr. Norris to the rest of you) into Photoshop, flattened it and made it two colors and sent it back to work. Upon my arrival back at work, I sent it out to the team and waited for the replies to come back. Again, even though I provided the actual artwork for the jerseys, some still thought, "Certainly, this is a joke." Nope. Some asked, "Are we really gonna have Chuck Norris on our jerseys?" One commented, "People are gonna think we're gay."

Chuck Norris appeared in the "Street Fighter II" video game, but was removed by Beta Testers because every button caused him to do a roundhouse kick. When asked bout this "glitch," Norris replied, "That's no glitch."

We put our foot down and said, essentially, if you don't want a jersey, then don't pay for one, but we're getting new jerseys because these old jerseys fit like freaking socks and I didn't really like hitting the field looking like a tube of sausage. Plus, these jerseys meant something. It meant we weren't gonna get toyed with. And even if we did get our tails whooped every night, it represented the fact that we were really just having fun with it and enjoyed getting out there playing ball. Sure we don't like losing, but we're not gonna lose sleep if we don't win. At last second, we made the decision to drop the name altogether and just go with the image of Chuck Norris and, boy, am I glad we did. Angry Tim collected the dough from each player (actually, I'm not sure if that's true--Angry Tim can, and will, clarify). He took the image to the printer and we waited.

If you ask Chuck Norris what time it is, he always says, "Two seconds till." After you ask, "Two seconds to what?" he roundhouse kicks you in the face.

About a week and a half later, the shirts returned. Angry Tim delivered them like freakin Santa Claus. I draped mine over my chair at my desk like Ol' Glory. The rest of that day, no one spoke to me. And I got only one phone call who nervously said, "I'm sorry. Wrong number," and abruptly hung up. I thought to myself, if we can get the same reaction from our competition, then we might be onto something. That night, they made their debut.

Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.

It was obvious that some guys on the team had some anxiety about putting the shirt on. Some showed up with it in hand. Others walked up just putting it on because they didn't want to be spotted wearing it on the way. One guy pulled it out of his bag like it was a bloody rag or something. Not I. I showed up with Chuck's head like the Superman symbol across my chest. Smile from ear to ear. Even busting out in a good belly laugh when I saw the look of confusion on some people's faces. It was awesome. Dare I say rawsome. It was game time. And Chuck, like always, was ready for action.

There is no chin behind Chuck Norris' beard. There is only another fist.

Six games later, we're 8-0 with the most dramatic of wins coming last week when we were down by ten runs going into the final fifteen minutes. As home team, we got last at bat either way. What happened when we took the field was downright magical. Not only did we eat up all fifteen minutes in the bottom half of that inning, but we came back from ten down to win by one--scoring eleven run in route to our sixth win of the season. Undefeated. Not sure where we got the energy to win that game. We one our first game that night, sat around for an hour, went down by eight runs right out of the gate. We were cold (cold front), tired and emotionally flat. But then, down ten runs, we caught it. The rhythm. The flow. The Chuck. The other team didn't know what hit them.

In an average living room there are 1,242 objects Chuck Norris could use to kill you, including the room itself.

Tonight, another double-header and another two teams left bloodied and bruised as we continue marching forward. Doubt if you want, but I would contend that we haven't been off to this kinda start since I started playing with these guys. The swagger's there. The plays are getting made. We can only draw a crowd of a few loving wives, but damn it, they're there. And we got Chuck on our side. Some thought he was the Marlboro man or Kris Kristofferson. Someone apparently thought it was Hasselhoff (which sparked an amazing idea for next year).

After tonight's game, I'm heading out to the car after everyone had left and, whaddya know, flat tire. I swear God does that to me just to make sure I still know how to change a tire. With it slipping off the jack only once, I got it fixed and headed home with a low gas light just in time to see the Sox finish off the Spanks, 4-3, taking 3 out of the first 4 of 19 this season with the Spanks. Good thing is that we took the series in the Bronx. Better thing is that Johnny "Paycheck" Damon is 2-16 against the Sox. Pressure's a bitch, Damon. But I'm sure he's still happy. I'm sure. Oh yeah, my wife thought it was distasteful, but I cheered at the fact that Matsui went out with a fracture in his hand after diving for a ball causing him to miss his first game in nearly 550 games. See you in August, Matsui.

So, what did we learn tonight? Chuck Norris is a badass. The 2006 Chuckheads are legit. And even if your world is falling down around you, if your team wins, it's all gonna be alright somehow. Tomorrow's Friday. Sunday's Mothers' Day. Love your mom.

When Chuck Norris goes to donate blood, he declines the syringe, and instead requests a hand gun and a bucket.


"When I come to town, I gotta do a shakeface."

"When are we gonna do my shakeface?"

"I gotta make sure I do my shakeface before I leave town."

"When are you gonna put my shakeface up on your blog?"

"I can't wait until you get your computer back up. Maybe then you can get my shakeface up there."

Monday, May 08, 2006


It's not like I really have it out for Katie Couric, but with the recent news of her leaving the Today Show, it quickly dawned on me that I won't miss her at all. In fact, I'm going to love waking up and not having to hear her squeeky, mousey voice and chuckles. Matt Lauer I like. Al's no Willard Scott, but I suppose he'll do. Ann Curry is wonderful at the news desk, but Katie has always been tough to get used to. Even harder at 7AM and, for this reason, I say, "Katie, don't let the proverbial door hit you on the tush on the way out."

Something just rides me about how she always plays this little "friendly neighbor" act up. I don't buy it because you sit her in front of a politician or public figure in an interview and BAM! she completely blindsides you with a furious tyrannic barage of jabs and cheapshots and then, on the other side of the commerical break, she's back to her cute, giggly cheerleader routine.

Also, Katie is not funny. Matt's not really that funny either. In fact, it's always the weatherman (notice how I don't say meterologist) who always cracks the jokes and goes for the big laugh. Katie's that person who always likes to get the last crack at a punchline. Like, for instance, Al tells a joke from setup to punchline then Matt kinda makes a remark about the joke and gets another smaller laugh, but a geniuine laugh nonetheless. Then out of nowhere, Katie interjects with a piggyback joke and it always falls flat. Girl wouldn't be able to make a four year old laugh.

Here she is again--doing something dumb.

It would be like Al throwing a bullet pass to Matt under the basket and Matt then with an easy lay-up. Then, out of nowhere they're teammate Katie dashes from the bench to the basket, snags the ball out of the ref's hands and then attempts to slam it home and misses horribly.

Simply put, she annoys me. She's leaving right before it hits the haunting stage where she creeps into my dreams and annoys me there. It's bad enough having to start my day with her each morning (obvious guy asks, "Why don't you watch another channel?" to which I have no answer). If she makes it into my sleep, I'm screwed. I'll never go to sleep for fear she'll walk up to me in a dream and try and tell a joke. Or worse, she'll drill me about the gas crisis or when I ran out on my wedding the day before and fled to Albuquerque and later lied to law enforcement with a fabricate story of kidnapping. Wait, that wasn't me. Neither was the gas crisis. I walk to work.

So, Katie, farewell. I'm now going to start a petition to rescue Jane Pauley from her trapping and bring her back.

Right back atcha, Katie.

Sunday, May 07, 2006


So, I hear my phone ringing in the kitchen at about 11:15PM. I miss the call and it goes to voicemail. I check the voicemail and it's a call from Duke down in Austin. Sounds like a concert (Dale, of all the things I know about you, I didn't know you were one of those guys who dial up a buddy at a concert and hold your phone up in the air--I'll let it slide this time because it's Wolfmother. 2Mex would also be acceptable) and then it dawns on me, what I'm listening to is a lengthy introduction to "Mind's Eye" off Wolfmother's incredible debut album. Tuesday, we'll have the first week numbers on their debut record's first week. I'm hoping they'll crack 30,000, but it's a stretch. A long stretch. But even if it's only 15,000, that's 15,000 people who are better off from owning this record and that's 15,000 people I don't have to worry about running into someday. They killed it on Conan Thursday night. A performance I enjoyed behind a nice cold beer.

So, because Dale brought it up with his voicemail, here's one of a few benefits and side effects I've noticed after my exposure to Wolfmother.

Playing "Tales From the Forest of Gnomes" loudly stimulates plant growth. Unfortunately for me, those plants were weeds in the backyard, but they grew at an unprecedented rate.

"Dimension", now the lead track off the US release of their self-titled debut album has proved to cause animals and insects to fornicate wildly. Don't ask me why or how, I just noticed.

Playing Wolfmother at just a volume level just louder than the hum of a standard air conditioner, but lower than the drip of a coffee maker can increase office productivity up to 75%. Problem is finding a way to play an album that damn good that softly.

Listeners have been known to go into insane air guitar solos even hours after the music has stopped. I have noticed a footstomp that does not stop until I go to bed at night. Even then, I've kicked my dog off the bed and across the room.

To more aggressive subjects, Wolfmother brings out swift and frightening violent outbursts. I saw a man heave a motor scooter almost fifteen feet with one arm flat-footed.

Another side effect I've noticed (one that is quite alarming) is the desire to cut the sleeves off of every shirt I own--even the nice dress shirts--and trade my Civic in for a '86 Camaro.

Chest hair seems to grow rapidly under prolonged exposure to Wolfmother. Perhaps it's the "Wolf" in the name. Females beware. I've also been growing hair uncomfortably close to the middle of my palm and near my fingernails. Downright bizarre.

You've been warned. Now go buy the album and proceed with caution.



It's Sunday night. Had a helluva a weekend. And at the end of this big weekend, I wanted to kick back with my lovely wife and enjoy a nice frozen delicacy. Ice cream, perhaps.

So, my lovely wife and I decided to go to my former employer (not last summer, but about thirteen years ago) Dairy Queen. No trip to DQ is complete without my interjecting with little tidbits about how to make one of the many taste treats that await you at any DQ. Among these little secrets is how to make the DQ queue on top of every ice cream treat. Yeah, there's a technique to it and I was the best. Or how that butter gets onto the bun of every sandwich made at DQ. Yeah, I'm full of entertaining knowledge.

So we show up at DQ, ready to endulge in a tasty Blizzard. My personal favorite is the chocolate covered cherry Blizzard with extra chocolate, of course. My lovely wife prefers the Butterfinger. We walk in and it's like a freaking circus (or a circus of freaks) behind the counter. Ah, I remember the days. But, oddly, there was almost no one in the restaurant (man, that's almost an overstatement to call this place a restaurant). We walk up place our order and then proceed to sit down. A few minutes pass and the girl who took our dessert order approaches us with one cup in her hand and a confused expression across her face. She hands my lovely wife the cup and says, "We're making so many Blizzards tonight that the ice cream is kinda runny. We'll have yours out in a minute, sir."

My lovely wife says as she's walking away, "I wish they told us that when we ordered," to which I replied with, "I just can't make you happy, honey." She continues to kinda pick at her runny Blizzard while I wait. A few minutes later and with no Blizzard in hand, my lovely wife remarks, "We should just ask for our money back." Okay, so this pleasurable trip to the DQ for yummies is now turning into a confrontation. I'm really too tired to do so, but we walk up to the counter and I motion over the girl who helped us originally.

"Can we just get our money back for these Blizzards?"

"Let me get my manager." I suppose no one feels empowered at the fast food level. You always have to speak to a manager. That or they're too simple to be able to process a refund. Can't compute. Syntax error. The manager walks out of the back room (my past experience would suggest that she was sitting on her tail barking out orders). I repeat my request to the manager. It's at this point I notice this woman has no teeth. Not that it matters, but it's just worth mentioning. At this point, the girl who took our order walks up with my Blizzard (inner voice in italics) and says, "This is what your Blizzard would've looked like," holding out a cup of what looked to be chocolate milk.

Try and sell me on it, for crying out loud! "This is what your Blizzard would've looked like," geez, you might as well ask me "Would you eat this crap?" Here's an idea Suzy, do the little Blizzard test where you turn upside down like they do in the commercials. Yeah, do that on the floor that Shane just mopped over there.

What the crap?! "This is what your Blizzard would've looked like." Yeah, dummy, that's why I want a refund. The manager then started cranking her brain up for the challenge of opening up the cash drawer and giving my money back. She then looks at the Blizzard that we already had and says, "She already ate some of that." Actually, Marge, she drank it with a straw. Oh wait, that wasn't a shake? I said, "Yeah, she took a bite and then decided it wasn't what we wanted. Can we please just have our money back?"

"Oh, okay." Why the reluctancy, you wonder? Well, I do to.

Yeah, it's actually a scam I pull where I go around from restaurant to restaurant paying full price for a meal, eating a couple of bites and then getting a full refund. It takes me about five hours to eat an entire meal. When lunch ends, I'm scouting out dinner. Freaks, give me my cash and let me roll.

We bolt. Onward to Marble Slab. This is already becoming too troublesome for just a nice couple outing. I'm getting aggravated. Sure, I should be chill. We didn't really lose anything but time at DQ, but I just proceeded to get really put out. Specifically at the accusation of "She already ate some of that." I mean, you have to taste it before knowing if it tastes like crap, right?

So we arrive at Marble Slab. It's the Sunday night church crowd. Always is. And, like everytime I go into Marble Slab, everyone's grinning from ear to ear. Not sure why. There must be some kinda gas emitting through the air ducts or something (speaking of gas, yowsers).

My wife orders basically the same thing she did at DQ except it costs about 15% more here because, I don't know, the marble slab maybe? Maybe the fact that it's hand mixed as opposed to mixed with a machine. Anyhow, I order a big dipper chocolate swiss with Oreo. That'd be a large cup of chocolate with Oreo. Apparently he didn't hear me on the "big dipper" part. He takes his small lump of ice cream over to the famed slab and he asks, "What was it again?" I repeat my order, but then realize that either he was ignorning the "big dipper" part or he was new and didn't know what the hell I was talking about. He mixes it right here, puts it in the big dipper cup and sets it on the counter. The damned cup was only about half way full.

I look at it (you know how people do when they're not satisfied--like you just stare at it like it's magic ice cream that expands or something). I was just in disbelief. I was tired, ready to go home. Ready for some ice cream. I was almost too frustrated for words. I look at my wife with the same look and she says, "Ask for some more ice cream." So I did. Dude looks at me like, "Oh no you didn't." I nearly leaned over the counter and slapped his eyebrows into the next area code. "Dude, can you put more ice cream in that?" Yeah, I'm not paying five bucks for half a cup of ice cream, dunny. Now top it off, ese.

Once again, another reluctant food employee who acts like I'm asking him to punch himself in the face. Dude, I'm just asking for a full portion of food. He takes his little scoopy thing and puts the other half into the cup and looks at me sarcastically like, "Is that good enough for you, sir?"

I left as quickly as I could before I got arrested.

So, herein begins my week. Man! This is gonna be an awesome week! I can't wait until it begins tomorrow morning.

Well, I have a lot to be thankful. I lovely wife, dog, a family that I love, a new computer, a new office space that's air conditioned and free of squirrels and birds. But all I wanted was a good ice cream experience. Eh, not tonight. But at least it serves as my triumphant return to the j3 Spectacular. Sorry it has been so long. More to come. Including a fitting farewell to the wonderful (sarcasm) Katie Couric and more Wolfmother love.

Check back laters. More fun to come.

While I was out searching for a nice pic of Lou as the Incredible Hulk, I came across the following disturbing image.

Ladies, tell me this: if this was your date to a Halloween party, would you play sick before you even made it to the party? I mean, I know it's Halloween, but are there certain costumes that just look too freaking goofy to leave the house with?

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and suggest this guy's blog is a lot better than mine. Maybe it has hourly updates. But I bet I got a better tan. And a social life.

Man, I'm being a meanie tonight. See you after my stellar Monday.

Sox swept the O's. Varitek hit a grand salami. Happy day.

Friday, May 05, 2006


That's right. I'm back like cooked crack. New computer. New office space.

Plenty more for you kiddies once I figure out this new rig. Let me tell you, it's incredible. Still working at getting email up and everything. First things first, you know.

More soon...very soon.

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