Shut Up And Make Me Some Tacos

Here's the set up. I decide to get lunch at Taco Bell today, and had my usual battery of four spicy chicken burritos, four classic hard shell tacos, two Mexican Pizzas and a Nacho Bell Grande. Plus, a large Mountain Dew. I grab a seat with my back to the wall -- you know, in case anyone's trying to get the drop on me -- and dig in.

That's when I noticed the constant stream of chatter coming from two tables over. It was the store manager, some 20-year-old punk, giving a performance review to one of the Bell's employees. Which is fine, but this idiot peppered everything he said with money cult codewords like "sensitivities," "challenges," "goals," "opportunities," "going forward," and the like.

But not a single goddamn word about tacos.

Next thing that kid knows, my monstrously fat hand is slapping the Taco Bell hat right off his head. Then I pulled him up by his collar and growled:

"Listen, meathead. You work at Taco Bell. Got it? Taco. Bell. There are neither challenges, nor opportunites, at this level. Now shut the hell up and go make some tacos."

Mission accomplished, I hightailed it out of there before the pigs showed. But not before grabbing a to-go bag for the remainder of my meal. Hey, a man's gotta eat. Especially one as fat as me.

You're Looking At Jeopardy!'s Next Big Winner

Bank on it. 'Cause in less than 15 minutes, I'll be taking Jeopardy!'s "Online Contestant Test."

I just hope I make it to the "Showcase Showdown" once I qualify. I wouldn't mind getting an up-close look at those knockers on Barker's Beauties, if you know what I mean. If you don't, I mean I want to ogle their tits. A-oo-gah.

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UPDATE: Looks like I had my game shows mixed up. Apparently they just ask you a lot of hard questions on Jeapordy!, without any boobies in sight. Much less any exciting prize packages. They can go to hell.

Speaking Of Big Pussy

Say, when is Redd Foxx going to do another season of Sanford & Son? I just started catching the reruns on cable, and that shit is out of sight! Hopefully Redd will stop being crazy and work things out with Comedy Central so we can all get back to the funny.

I'll tell you what's not funny on Comedy Central, though: that new Daily Show reporter, Dan "The Hack" Bakkedahl. His jokes are stale, he's physically repulsive, and his complete and utter baldness makes me look like Fabio by comparison. Bakkedahl, feh. He's no Redd Foxx, that's for sure. Or is that Cedric the Entertainer I'm thinking of?

Sweet Success

The rumors are true; I tracked down a copy of '74 Jailbreak earlier today. I had to go into the city to get it, and as always the urban record store hipsters did not let me down.

"Have it?" scoffed the burly counter boy. "We got loads. And by the way, March is Mustache Madness Month."

"What the hell does that mean?" I asked.

"Means if you had a 'stache, you'd get a dollar off every fifteen dollar purchase you make. But you ain't got no 'stache, so you're out of luck." He then stroked his own mustache condescendingly.

Whatever. At least I got the album, and I've listened to "Jailbreak" so many times in a row I'm ready to go punch a cop. Wish me luck.

Damn You Sony, Damn You To Hell

Here's the word: I have a fever, and the only prescription is AC/DC's "Jailbreak." Not a live version, not a cover, and not the Thin Lizzy tune. I'm talking about the studio version off of '74 Jailbreak, and I'm not accepting any substitutes.

No luck finding it at any local record stores, or even Best Buy or Circuit City. And I'm not wasting my time going to Wal-Mart or Target. No. Being a man of the 21st century I said to myself, "Self, let's buy it online."

So to iTunes I went; no go. Then I got desperate, scanning through hundreds of pages of Google listings. I found a weird German techno version and picked up three pieces of easily dispatched spyware, but still not the real thing. Unless I'm willing to trust my credit information to an obvious pirate outfit that uses hundreds of fake "redirect" sites. Seeing as I'm not a retard, I'll pass.

All of which indicates that Sony's music division is still stuck in the neoplantationary record company mindset of the mid-to-late 20th Century, for which they deserve the finger. And if any of this blog's readers wants to slip me a copy of "Jailbreak" on the sly, the RCAA certainly won't hear about it from me. Or will they?!?

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UPDATE: You can't even buy it from Sony's "Connect" store -- the only AC/DC they offer for download is something called "Maximum AC/DC," and it's a spoken word unauthorized biography. Screw you, Sony. Screw you.