Archive for February, 2013


You ever have what, at first, appears to be a huge negative event take place, and in the process of gathering others to help deal with it, shit just gets way fucking worse?  And afterwards you’re just thinking “I should have just kept my mouth shut and dealt with it myself.”  That’s because people fucking suck.  Except for me.  And that has been time-tested and proven. If you start with a fucked up situation, the worst thing you can do is add more people to the fuckery.

It was a Saturday night back in the May of 2000 (I know, you read the title).  A time before everyone on the planet had a cell phone (that’s foreshadowing).  It was nearly 3am and one of my roommates, Bill, and I were walking home from the bar nicely toasted, singing “Oh Sherry” by Steve Perry at the top of our lungs  because THAT’S WHAT YOU FUCKING DO, don’t ask.

Don't act like you don't know.

Don’t act like you don’t know.

We rounded the block and were approaching our city townhouse apartment when I noticed the front door was wide open.  I had four roommates, so I expected someone to be home, but the front door being wide open was odd.  As we walked up to the porch, one of my other roommates, Brian, appeared in the door with a phone to his ear.

“Dude.  What the fuck?” he asked.

Asked me, apparently.

“What the fuck what?  What’s going on?” I responded.

“I just got home before you…”  as he points to our front window.  Or, where our front window used to be.  It was now fucking shattered and open, the curtains strewn halfway out onto the porch.

“The fuck?!  Did someone break in?”

“Were you just singing Steve Perry?” he asked.

“Brian! The fuck!?”

Brian takes the phone from his ear again, “Just…dude, just come in and look.”

We walked into the house and turned into the living room.  Next to the smashed window sat Steve, our fourth roommate, in a chair.  He was passed out drunk, shirtless except for a coconut bra, his pants and the chair soaked with piss, and a stream of vomit/spittle mixture leaking down his arm.  He was snoring like a Loony Tunes cartoon and sneaking in some Neil Diamond lyrics as well.  Talent.  It was fucking hilarious, even with the broken window…until we saw the blood.

There was a ring of it around the chair…ALOT of it.  It started at the broken window and surround him like we had interrupted some kind of cult sacrifice.

“Jesus Fuck!  He’s bleeding!” Bill and I rushed to him, Brian still deep in conversation on the phone.

I checked his body, careful to avoid the piss-soaked pants.  I was continually slapping him the whole time, but he was fucking out.  And he was also not bleeding.  I even checked under the coconut bra (truly a dream come true), but nothing.

It wasn’t his blood.

“That’s good, right?”

We followed the dripping trail across the living room and out the open front door. I looked to Brian, “When are the cops getting here?”

He looked at me blankly.  “Cops?”

“You’re on the phone with them!  When are they getting here?”

“I’m talking to my girlfriend.”

I paused.  “You didn’t call the cops?”


“You came home to find our window smashed, or door wide open, our roommate passed out in his own piss, wearing a coconut bra on a chair surrounded by pools of blood….and you decided this was a good time to call your girlfriend?”

“Hey she called me!  Priorities, man.”  He put the phone back to his ear and went upstairs.

Bill then began screaming that the faceless intruder had bled all over his Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds collection by the window, but calmed down when he realized this is probably exactly what Nick Cave would have wanted.  Bill then wanted to play one, to see if it somehow gave the sound more character.

Bleed for us.  Or we will take it from you.

Bleed for us. Or we will take it from you.

I slapped him across the back of the head and told him to call the fucking cops.

“Can’t! Brian is still on the phone with is his girl.  He’s a dick about that shit.”

I shook my head.  “Then go to the fucking neighbors and call…LOOK AT ALL THE BLOOD!  HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, PLEASE!!”

“Fuck that.  They hate us.  They threatened to kill us if we ever knocked on their door again.”

“That’s because you shit on their porch last week.”

“And I took a shit on their porch because they puked in our mailbox the week before that.  Tit for tat, motherfuckers!”

“No, YOU puked in THEIR mailbox the week before that.”

“Hey, hey…we can go round and round about who started what…”

“You started it.  Done.”

“Point being, I ain’t going over there.”

I took another look at our drunken roommate quietly singing “Sweet Caroline” to himself as he shifted in his piss soaked khakis. “Then just clean up this blood while I go get Brian off the phone.”

“The blood is evidence man.  Can’t touch it.  Plus…you know…AIDS.”

“AIDS? Seriously?  Fuckin’ christ…..then fix his bra.  It’s falling off.  Let him have some dignity.”

“Dignity?  Rick, he just pissed his pants AGAIN while we were standing here. That ship has sailed, my friend.”

I turned and ran upstairs.  Brian was on his bed arguing with his girlfriend about whether to go to Olive Garden or Macaroni Grill for dinner on Saturday.  Truly a passionate couple.

“Brian, get off the phone so we can call the cops!”

“Hold on, honey…Rick, Olive Garden has way better chicken parm, right?  Come on…”

“Brian, I’m going to beat you with that phone if you don’t hang up.”

“You touch me and I’ll call the cops.”

I punched him in the liver.  Two birds, one stone.

“…ehhh….honey….call you back….”

“Just get the cops over here, tell them someone broke in.”  Suddenly, I heard Nick Cave blaring on the stereo downstairs.

“Bill, turn that shit off!”

“Dude, Rick…it does have more character! You hear that?!”

I could already hear the neighbors pounding on the wall.  I ran downstairs, slipped on the blood and collided with Bill against the stereo.  “Turn it off, fuckhead!”

“Dude, you got AIDS on me!”

I hit the stereo off in time to hear Steve fall off the chair and land face first into our mystery guest’s blood.  I turned to Bill. “Seriously, one more AIDS joke….”

“Chill, Rick……he got the HIV on him now, nothin’ we can do…”

A pounding at the front door.  “Better be the cops,” I say as I make my way to the front door and open it.

“Can you guys keep your fucking music down?!”

The neighbors, all three of them.  20-somethings like us.  Unbuttoned Polo shirts, moused hair, and oversized belt buckles. Looked like they just got home from the bars too.

“Glad you’re here, douches….I need to use your phone,” I say.

“Our phone?  Fuck you…you shit on our porch!”

“You puked in our mailbox!” Bill yelled from living room.

“NO! YOU puked on OUR mailbox!”

There was a pause from Bill then, “Fucking semantics!  Let’s be adults!”

“All of you shut the fuck up!  We need to use your phone.  We had a break in…”

One of the neighbors chimed in, “Hey your window is broke.”

“Yeah, no shit….we-”

“Should get that fixed.  Someone could break in.”

I turned to the alpha male in the brightest Polo shirt.  “Your phone?”

“Eat a dick.  And keep the music down or we’ll call the cops!”

I slammed the door.  “Bill, I suddenly want to hear Nick Cave really fucking loud.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!”

The music was cranked.  Cops would be here momentarily.  Steve continued to sleep in another man’s blood…yeah, probably getting AIDS.  A few minutes later, I saw  a cop car pull up with its lights shining and I opened the door as he walked up to the porch.

I yelled over the music, “Ok.  Not sure who called you or why but I’m glad you’re here-” and then I saw the pile of human shit right in front of the door that our neighbors must have left for us after I slammed the door in their face.

“Oh shit, officer don’t step in that-”

But he did and slid forward, caught himself on the door frame, over-compensated and fell forward onto his face into the hall.  He turned his head and looked into the living room and saw my half-naked roommate in a coconut bra lying face-first in a pool of blood and glass, Bill leaning against the stereo…

“Hey cop, you like Nick Cave, right?”

And then Brian comes running down the stairs pointing at me, “Officer!  This man punched me!  I want him arrested!”

The cop looked around at all of us, “Oh yeah, someone is sure as fuck getting arrested tonight.”

Well wasn’t the first time.  Wouldn’t be the last.

“And they puked in our mailbox too!” I heard our neighbors yell from outside.

Follow The Rant Machine on Twitter: @Rickranter

Oh yeah, Epilogue:  What we eventually found out happened was our roommate Steve went to a Hawaiian themed party across the street with some friends.  He got so fucked up he couldn’t even walk home on his own so two friends walked him back to our house.  Steve had lost his keys but apparently told them it was cool to just smash the window and crawl in.  ‘Cause, yeah, you should always listen to a drunken man in a coconut bra. Which his friend did with his bare hand and slit his arm up bad.  He crawled through, dripping blood everywhere, unlocked the door, and they put Steve in the chair (which he promptly pissed in) and then they ran out and drove to Emergency. I heard he got like 15 stitches.  I think Nick Cave would be proud for some reason.


1. Cruise ships are all death traps.  Fucking Death traps.

Make no mistake: Given the chance, it would kill you and everyone you love

Make no mistake: Given the chance, it would kill you and everyone you love.  And no fresh towels.

2. Justin Beiber is totally original and is in NO WAY ripping off Vanilla Ice.


Word to both our mothers….


Seriously? No one is talking about this?

3. Let’s all pay thousands for a piece of rock that fell from the sky. Onward! To EBAY….

4. The hottest trend in South Africa right now is murdering people.  It’s the thing to do…

Make no mistake: Given the chance, South Africa would murder you and everyone you care about.

Make no mistake: Given the chance, South Africa would murder you and everyone you care about.

5.  It doesn’t matter if Daniel Day Lewis sits in a chair and reads a fucking phone book for two hours…we HAVE to give him an Oscar.

Haha, yes.  It was truly a challenge "becoming" the book. I made nothing by prank phone calls for 2 months.

Haha, yes. It was truly a challenge “becoming” the book. I made nothing but prank phone calls for 2 months.

The Rant is on Twitter: @Rickranter

RantLogoLemmings.  No, not the small rodents, the human lemmings.  You know them, you might BE one of them.  They are the people who take great primitive pleasure in following whatever herd they are closest too, be it about politics, religion, fashion, movies, whatever the fuck.  They love to follow.  A cliff ahead?  Not their problem, they are too busy following the guy ahead of them to worry about that. They care not for the destination, just the sprint.

But as always, people…I am here to help.  Okay, not help.  I am here to amuse myself by sneering at the current direction many of the lemmings are on.  It’s so much fucking fun. Seriously.

So collected here is the first of my Weekly Lemming Lists that highlight the latest lemming sprees.  Feel free to pass it on and add your own:

1. The Pope totally still matters.

I am God on earth and I....I...I'm tired.  I want to go home now....

I am God on earth and I….I…I’m tired. I want to go home now….

2. Popular “indie music” doesn’t just rip off B-sides of 80’s groups.

Hey.  Depeche Mode...Construction Time Again...track 4.  That's totaly our sound now.

Hey. Depeche Mode…Construction Time Again…track 4. That’s totally our sound now.   Let’s go put a single out…

3. There is an armed drone circling your house RIGHT NOW…just waiting. Just waiting

Do you see it?  Right there! Wait...I know it's there..

Do you see it? Right there…wait…no…right there! Wait…I know it’s there..

4. Something new and interesting will happen on a procedural crime drama…any day now.

5. We NEED more paranormal “reality” ghost hunting shows.  20 is not enough. They matter.

What about ghosts that haunt pet clothing boutiques?!!  The world has to know!

What about ghosts that haunt pet clothing boutiques?!! The world has to know!

6. Hollywood needs more “reboot” franchises.  35 is not enough.  We are always hungry for something very similar but not quite the same and with better CGI.

7. Celebrities that show lots of cleavage at award shows are “brave, sexy and daring”.  Chicks at the mall who do that are sluts.  It’s totally different.

Classy. Pushing women forward one breast at a time.

Classy. Pushing women forward one breast at a time.

8. Blizzards are the worst thing to ever happen to human beings ever…at any point in history.  Need more cable news coverage on this matter.

9. If everyone was armed, there would be a lot less violence.  Because peace is usually what happens when you put guns in a lot of people’s hands.  It’s probably in the Bible, look it up.



Follow the Rant on Twitter: @Rickranter


Back in college, one night at the tail-end of a party and after a vodka-fueled streaking session across the parking lots, I impulsively jumped on top of my friend’s car’s roof and screamed “Home, Jeeves!”  I was still naked ‘cept for the pair of boxers dangling from my ankle, had just barely a grasp on the edge of the windshield, and was probably working with the reflexes of a three-toed sloth by that point in the evening.  But of course, my friend happily obliged (as he, too had partaken in the consumption of spirits in large quantities…also, he was fucking psychotic.) and he floored the son-of-a-bitch.
It was goddamn awesome. The sudden force of acceleration, the wind blowing in my face, the feeling of being so close to the road, like I was flying above it.  I was so fucking alive.  I was screaming in pure joy.  I could feel it! I could feel life flowing through me!  Or perhaps I was urinating on myself…doesn’t matter.

Then my friend remembered he forgot his wallet back at the party and slammed on the brakes, forgetting about his defenseless passenger on the roof who was trying to become one with the wind.  I was instantly sailing in the air, my nude body tumbling down the front hood and sliding across asphalt, leaving skin, blood, and copious amounts of pubic hair behind me.  My boxers gently wafting into the breeze and settling down on the antenna. I remember laying there, twitching, crying softly.  Afraid to see if I was still technically a male based on genital structure.  My friend, after laughing like a mental patient on acid for five minutes and then vomiting next to my head, helped me up and handed me my boxers.  From the height of human excitement to the unyielding reality of scrotum-meeting-gravel in a blink of a bare, brown eye (that’s poetry, people).

Incredibly stupid, heh?  Yes.  And if you ride a motorcycle…you pretty much risk this every fucking day.  Me, I was 20 and drunk.  What’s your excuse?  Now I’m not about to rant that motorcycles should be illegal or banned or anything like that.  Shit, you wanna ride?  Fucking ride.  I just want to sit here and call you stupid for doing it. Deal? Great.

See, we all need transportation in our daily lives, whether we walk, bike, take a bus, drive a car, or ride a motorcycle.  All have their inherent dangers and drawbacks, but none more than the motorcycle.  I don’t think I really have to explain why they are more dangerous at this point…but I will anyway.  It’s pretty simple physics: you sit on top of a small, slender projectile without any surrounding protection for your body, nor anything to keep you attached to that projectile….and if suddenly that projectile stops moving for any reason (shit, I dunno, it hits something) then SCIENCE MAGIC!  YOU have now become that projectile!

"Well, shit...whoda thought?"

“Well, shit…whoda thought?”

Hurdling through space at the same speed with the same G-force until you hit something that stops YOU (like a wall or car, or the road…stuff like that) and your body instantly sheds things it no longer needs, like skin and flesh and bones and brain matter. It no longer needs those things because you are probably now dead or severely injured beyond the chance of a full recovery.  That’s what happens when you wreck a motorcycle, you become a fucking human missile.  You can google up any number of horrific photos of motorcycle fatalities (and please do, they’re a gas!) but you, cycle rider, are not ignorant to the dangers…you welcome them.  You are a caution-to-wind douchebag and you have made the list.

"I felt so alive!  Until my spine snapped, then I didn't feel anything."

“I felt so alive! Until my spine snapped, then I didn’t feel anything.”

I’m also not going to ask why.  We all know why.  I’m sure it feels amazing  to have the elements raging around you while you cruise over the road at high speeds, so close to it, feeling everything.  Such freedom, such…oh bullshit. We KNOW why you ride.

Yes, folks, these are your Road Warrior wanna-be’s.  The ones who laugh at speed laws, swerve in and out of traffic like the rest of us are a bunch of fucking orange cones, willingly put their bodies and lives in grave danger, all while making as much teeth-chattering noise as they can. Wrapping themselves in coordinated leather outfits with matching helmets and fluorescent logos.  They are essentially running across a tight rope held over a tank of rabid crocodiles while yelling obscenities at everyone around them and doing fucking cartwheels…just cause they want to.  And we know why.

Whenever someone, particularly us men, tries to act in way that is overly macho, uncivil, and aggressive to the point of causing extreme danger to themselves and others, the “why” tends to be….right between their legs.  It’s called “over-compensating” and it’s something douchebags do A LOT.

"Now WHAT could I possibley be compensating for?!"

“Now WHAT could I possibly be compensating for?!”

As complex as the human psyche can be (or seem), our actions are usually explained by very simple, primitive reactions.  We are basically still hairless fucking chimps, after all.   As I mentioned in an earlier Rant about the current generation of daredevils…history shows that the less you have between your legs, you more you feel the need to compensate.

Now this doesn’t necessarily mean you physically have less down there (but we don’t doubt that for a second), it can mean you just metaphorically don’t have much.  You lack a good sack of nuts.  You’re afraid and timid, you feel inadequate.  A lifetime of feeling like second best. Being brushed to the shadows.  Not enough hugs from daddy.  Uncle Johnny touched you in the “bad place” (it explains the leather better than “crash protection”).  And you compensate…by over-compensating.  From zero to “FUCK YOU” in 3.3 seconds.

"Eh fuck a shirt!  Fuck skin, too.  I don't need none of that shit."

“I failed out of WEMOCO, but look at me now!.”

You can’t impress women with your genitals or charisma…but you can show them how you face danger everyday with your big, bad motorbike!  You never felt like you could do much of anything right but LOOK AT THIS FUCKING HELMET I’M CARRYING!  YEAH MY BIKE IS RIGHT OUTSIDE, BITCH!  You can’t get people to notice you so how ABOUT YOU NOTICE ME NOW WITH MY SUPER LOUD FUCKING HARLEY DAVIDSON RATTLING THE FILLINGS OUT OF YOUR GODDAMN HEAD! HAHAHAAHAH RESPECT ME!…love me.

We know what your motorcycle is.  It’s your purchased confidence.  It’s viagra, steroids, a strong chin, and a full head of hair on two wheels.
So go ahead and ride, motorhead.  Ride.  But just know…that WE know why you do it.  And take that roll of socks out of your pants…it’s not fooling anyone.

And remember, SAFETY FIRST!

And remember, SAFETY FIRST!

As always…follow The Rant on Twitter: @Rickranter