Pants

In honor of today’s post, I have decided not to wear pants.

But… just while I write this.

Thought you’d like to know.

Honestly, I don’t think it will surprise anyone who knows me that I’m not a big fan of pants. Sure, I wear them when the weather turns sour or on the clock at the bookstore, but other than that, I avoid them at all costs.

Yes, I am one of those guys that takes his pants off all the time at parties and would rather just hang out in boxers than get all gussied up for a night on the town.

Why?

I just don’t like pants.

It’s that simple.

Pants are constricting. Yes, they are designed to cover all the juicy naughty bits that we have, which is good in most situations. I’m sure a table full of guys wouldn’t want to see most of a hot waitress’s ass sticking out the back of her shorts, would they?

Pardon? Hooters?

Oh, right… bad example.

Still, pants do hold some functionality (like covering your bits and keeping them warm), but I’m still not a fan.

I like the days off that allow me to drop trou, grab a RedPop (don’t get all excited, Juggalos) and watch trashy horror movies on my Netflix instant queue. I’ll be damned if I let pants interfere with those precious (and increasingly infrequent) days.

Frankly, we used to drop our parts a lot more than we do now.

I can remember being at summer camp and hanging of in our boxers all of the time.  We had a motto: No Pants, No Fear.

We even had no-pants jams. We’d find a nook of the campus, set up a drum set and start playing. I carried my guitar everywhere with me back in those days, so I was always ready for no-pants jam.

On one such occasion, we found a small stage and a few girls interested in hearing us play.

I’ll spare you the details of what they had that we were interested in. Suffice to say… it involves pants.

Regardless, we were playing, pantless of course. I was on a small chair on the stage, and the girls were in the audience. This meant that they were roughly eye level with my crotch.

I don’t cross my legs to play guitar, so things sometimes sneak out the side of the boxers. They warned me to close my legs more because… well, the eggs and sausage were starting to slide out of the frying pan.

Instead, I spread my legs farther.

To say they caught an eyeful would be an understatement. Everything flopped out the side of my boxers and was left dangling for the girls to see.

They were pretty young, but so was I.

You don’t need to call Chris Hansen.

I can’t help but thinking that that may have been the first time they had seen male genitals.

If so, you are welcome, and you know who you are.

ghjr

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This is not included in the 500 word limit.

Thanks to Sam Jones for providing me with an outlet to tell a slightly embarrassing story from my past.

I remember the looks in those girls’ eyes.

I can’t help but think that that experience led to a couple more that I had had with them, but alas… that is a very different 500 words.

Also, I had to cut out a vagina joke, mainly for shape issues. It was pretty unimportant to the final piece, so it was the first thing to go.

Truly ghjr

Huey Lewis (and, by proxy, The News)

So… Huey Lewis turned 61 years old this past July.

Which means he was born in 1950.

Which means he didn’t release an album until he was 30.

Which means I still have 7 years to do something good with my life.

I like that kind of reaffirmation.

Huey Lewis and the News was never on my musically radar much. I knew of a few of their songs, mainly “Hip to Be Square” (thanks to Sesame Street), and I’ve seen the album Sports lying in the moldy record bin of every antique store I have ever been.

It’s usually sandwiched between Whipped Cream and Other Delights by Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass and Frampton Comes Alive!

I’ve never really given it much more thought than that. In fact, I haven’t really given Huey Lewis himself much more mind space.

Huey Lewis doesn’t really have a seedy underbelly.

As far as I know, Huey is a only person to attain fame in the 1980’s that didn’t blow all his money on coke and whores. If he did, he sure as hell didn’t get caught.

The only real controversies surrounding him were a copyright lawsuit and disagreement about his music being used in a movie.

In 1985, Huey decided that “Ghostbusters” sounded a little too much like “I Want A New Drug,” and he sued Ray Parker, Jr. Now, I can hear the similarities between the two, but it was the 80’s.

There were only so many sounds that cheap synths and cheesy rhythms could create.

I can’t help but see it as I did the whole ordeal surrounding “Dani California” and people pressuring Tom Petty to sue for it sounding “too similar” to “Mary Jane’s Last Dance.” Which is to say… the whole thing is/was ridiculous, and people should just shut the hell up.

End story.

Anyway, Lewis and Parker, Jr. settled outside of court, vowing to keep the lawsuit a secret.

Well, Huey opened his mouth a little too much on an episode of VH1’s “Behind the Music,” and Parker, Jr. thought he should return the favor and sue for violation of the nondisclosure agreement.

That ends Huey’s seedy past.

Ta-da.

That’s it.

No whores. No drugs.

In fact, when the people behind the film “American Psycho” wanted to use “Hip to Be Square” in the film, Huey wasn’t too keen on the idea. Huey Lewis and the News is one of Patrick Bateman’s favorite bands, and author Bret Easton Ellis even dedicated an entire chapter to them in the original book.

So, Huey let it slide.

Then… they wanted to license the song for the soundtrack. Huey said no, stating that the violent nature of the film made the band and its management redact all licensing for the soundtrack.

Whitney Houston did the same thing with her song “The Greatest Love of All.”

Ellis talked them up in the book, and they pulled licensing for their songs from the film.

Some people, you know?

 

ghjr

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This is not included in the 500 word limit.

Thanks to Sam Jones for the challenge. It’s a welcome break from last post’s hatred toward film and tonight’s impending hatred toward everyone else at Black Friday Walmart.

Well, by the time you read this, that time will have passed.

But… it’s looming over me right now.

Godspeed.

Truly ghjr

Crank 2: High Voltage

I hate Crank 2.

I hate Crank 2 so much that I contemplated copying and pasting the above sentence 125 times and signing my name at the bottom just so I didn’t have to relive the experience.

For a time, I considered Crank 2: High Voltage to be the worst movie that I have ever seen.

I can’t claim that anymore. Why?

Sucker Punch.

Regardless, thoughts of Crank 2 are enough to bring a fiery-hot font of hate-vomit from my intestines.

Seriously. I am having chest pains while writing this.

Now… I probably shouldn’t have gone to the midnight premiere. I really didn’t want to. Why did I go?

Miranda is very persuasive. She always been good at twisting my arm…

especially when she offers to pay for my ticket AND bribes me with some of my favorite treats: those delicious little peanut butter filled pretzel nuggets.

I love those things, and she knew it.

So, she bought my a tremendous tub of them and handed me a movie ticket.

Keep in mind that I have never seen the first Crank movie, and after the second one, there is almost no way that I would watch the first one. Ever.

So, she tricked me, and I raged throughout the entire movie.

I was angry for all 96 minutes.

And I don’t know which came first: my hatred for Crank 2, or my hatred for Jason Statham. I’m going to assume that whichever it was that lodged itself into the hate centers of my brain first had a pretty huge sway on my hatred of the other.

This is one of many cases in which my hatreds are not mutually exclusive.

What happened after the movie, you ask?

I’ll tell you, dear reader.

I was angry that I couldn’t speak.

I know it seems like a cliched thing to say, but I’m not at a loss for words much in my life.

Actually, ever.

I can always talk about something.

For those of you that know me personally (and almost all of you do), you know this to be true.

Unfortunately, my hatred caused me to lash out against those around me.

Months after the viewing, we were gathered outside the theatre after another movie. A friend hadn’t finished his popcorn and had smashed the bag into a dense ball and left it in the middle our circle of friends.

I heard him say something like “watch this.”

“Hey, Greg! Crank 2.”

I balled my fist angrily at him and kicked the tight bag of popcorn from the ground. My sandaled foot caught the balled-up bag in such a way that it sailed quickly across the parking lot, lodging itself hastily in the crotch of another friend.

He dropped straight to the ground.

After checking to see if he was alright, I extended a hand to help him up.

I apologized, not expecting anything like that to happen.

He accepted my apology (in a slightly higher voice).

We shared some popcorn.

ghjr

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This is not included in the 500 word limit.

Typically, I thank the person who proposed this challenge.

This time, it was the evil Brian Ornduff.

He receives no thanks from me.

Take a look back and count how many times I used some form of the word “hate.”

Did you count 10? I did.

2% of all words. That’s an understatement.

Truly ghjr