The Smokies: A Three-Week Extravaganza
May 9, 2010 in The Smokie Awards
Just sit right back and you’ll read a list, a list of some awesome quips, that started from this WordPress site aboard this mighty . . . uh, blog. Okay, so where the hell have I been, you’re wondering? And not because you’ve missed my half-dead sick ass or you’ve been overworried about the torrential rainstorm that came down inside our family room after having some minor repair work done on the mother-fucking roof. No, no, you want your damn awards and you want them now. I’m getting to it, okay? Quit rushing me. After all the things I do for you kids, this is the thanks I get?
And listen, I saw that you all have been posting stories like mad fucking maniacs over the last couple of weeks and I gotta tell you, you bastards, this is why we can’t have nice things. But what the hell, they don’t call me Mama Penguino for nothing. Leave your dirty socks on the floor, don’t rinse out your sticky cereal bowls and for god’s sake, don’t worry about taking out the trash.
You got it – it’s Mother’s Day and if you think I play this day for all it’s worth, you would be wrong. Never mind I waited until my golden years to even become a mother; never mind that my own sainted mother died suddenly four years and three months ago to the day. I have an 81-year-old mother-in-law who would rather dance naked with Hare Krishnas than concede a single bit of Mother’s Day glory to my sad effing self. With that, an oldie, but goodie – my favorite Mother’s Day video to kick off three weeks of Smokies:
LatterdayLenin/The Smokies: Coming at You From a New Remote Location
Oooo! Juvie for 12 hours! You realize those kids will love me, right? I’ll climb to the top of that little social ladder in about 12 seconds. I’ll walk out of there owning that place, and when those kids get out, I’ll be the first one they call.
(Are you braggin’ or complainin’?)
Ah, to be blessed by Ass Cat, smokied by CB and faced creamed for my impassioned defense of the innocent in response to WW’s very clever satire is a wonderful way to recover from four days in the beastly company of manipulative, ignorant, scheming savages. Or as they are also called, mother and the extended family.
That naivete trails me where ever I go so guess I’m keeping it. Beats turning into a bitter old bitch like the aforementioned.
From Tits McGee to the traditions of the Icelandic stink bombers, I still think Nazi is the new black this season.
(I’m telling mom!)
@Bookish: Really?! That is an eye opener. Good to hear, I’m sick of smug Icelandic superiority attitudinalism.
- I seem to remember in the early 2000’s there were endless glossy magazine articles about how oh so fabulous Iceland was, but tee-hee: you’re too poor to visit, giggle! A magical place where a beer costs $20, every article about Iceland was written by some Underminer. “Off to the midnight rave, then skinny-dipping in a hot spring! Wish you were here, but I know that temp job needs all your attention. Later!”
- Chill mentioned the rate of Icelandic emigration to the US. They all get featured spots at BAM performing concerts on their laptops with “childlike simplicity”, plinking away while the NY critics love ascribing magical qualities – volcanoes and faeries!- and deep meaning to a bunch of slackers who can’t believe their luck. Robert Wilson hires them as “ambience engineers” for the summer at his art cult in Water Mill.
- All this eruption is is methane from Bjork’s unicorn farm, ha ha. No seriously, can we talk about her? Used to love her. Honestly. Find her music immensely pretentious and grating in recent years. The Icelandic Baby Jane, milking that faux-naif persona to death for years.
(Like most Wordsmokers, I always think of Baroness’s comments as the last word on a subject. I imagine myself standing behind her, making faces at “our” opponent while she serves up a hot dish of snap-snap-snap in a “Z” formation.)
“Totes ripped my abs and shredded my quads at the gym tonight. Now I can’t decide how I’m going to fulfill my protein intake requirement. Is it Friday yet? LOL!”
(Comedic genius or too close for comfort? Someone needs to inspect Lenin’s abs to make sure.)
I am so disappointed. I was certain my frequent updates on laundry, toenails, weather, and the like would earn a moment in the limelight here. Even my mediocrity is mediocre.
(We can’t help it, Harriet. We’re from the Midwest. It’s how we roll.)
“Doing the commute and…OMG! Just X’d a biker. I might be a little late. LOL!
(Every time I read this one I laughed loudly – the visuals! Oh, my sides!)
Little Trumpet/Vapid Status
Little Trumpet was feeling uneasy looking at himself in the mirror this morning. Something just felt off… Who was this person? OMG so stupid, accidentally parted hair on the wrong side. Is it 5:00 yet?
(I can kind of imagine this actually happening to someone. Funny or prescient?)
“Just killed my stepmom. Can’t figure out what to do with the body LOL. Who’s up for Georgio’s tonight!!!! lmao”
(Fulfills the true definition of comedic irony. Go to the head of the class!)
BellTolls/”Avatar” and the Death of Film Criticism
@All I don’t mind commies –I mean not to live next door to me–but you know, for film criticism.
(Absolutely – love those people, so long as they’re living elsewhere.)
If I may say so myself, I have some pretty canny ways of sussing out otherness (Jew, you know), so let me hip Mr. Bilbray (R) to how he can spot an “illegal” in the U.S., and it ain’t the shoes, numb nuts:
1) They will come clean your house for you when you are ready to kill your spouse and commit suicide because nobody is fucking helping you and you work around the clock and you are so tired you think your eyes and arms are going to fall out of their sockets. If you offer to tutor their daughters in English, they will thank you by showing up at your house the following day with what is basically a delicious meat-filled, tortilla-based casserole that you can eat for four days and still not get to the bottom of it.
2) They will greet you cordially in the street in front of the local market, take your hands in theirs and call you “senora,” and introduce you to their sisters and sisters-in-law who will offer to clean out and plant your garden, care for your child, launder your clothing, paint your house.
3) They will tell you stories of how they managed to get out of Mexico and all the way to the Northeast that will make you cry, and then more stories of how they cannot go home to see their dying father because they cannot regain entry to this great land of freedom and justice for all if they do so. And how no matter how much money they send for the funeral to their grieving mother, and how much they tell themselves that it’s not their fault, they cannot live with this incredible sadness that overtakes them in the street when they see an older man and think of their dead father who they will never see again.
But “coyote bite marks”? I only thought I adored you, CL. Sigh.
(And it’s classic comments like this that highlight not just your snap, but your big Jersey heart, that make the world love you, sister. This was so good.)
From the shooter’s standpoint, bell towers limit egress. Grassy knolls are better.
(That’s our Why? Servicey to the last detail.)
LatterdayLenin & Blix/HOOKERS – errmmm, I mean Playdates
LL: Aww. This takes me back to the days I would pose as a woman on Everquest and have cybersex with people only to humiliate them and do really gay shit.
Blix: Latterday: Allison?
LL: Blix: Starfyre? Is that you?
Blix: Latter: First boarding school and now this. What are the odds?
(Nominated by our own Rene Sance. My heart swells when I see two loveys like this find one another IRL. What are the chances? Hope you two crazy kids make a lifetime out of this connection.)
Shelwood/Five Leaves Left
Animals: they’re just like people on OKCupid.
(Kind of a shitty thing to say about animals, but we get your drift.)
ChillbearLatrigue/Aldous Sez This World Might Be Another Planet’s Hell
You can keep the magic of the word “babe.” I’ve found something so much better. *crumples a dry leaf*
(This was almost a Pokie. Next time show us, don’t tell us.)
Crawfish, like blue crabs in Maryland, are very tasty, but too much damn work for too little meat. But like eating souls?
You will have your mammal for the oil spill. Once the oil hits the loop current it will whip around Florida with the Gulf Stream and cover the manatees, the ones that live in the water and the ones that wear speedos on the beach.
(I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m damned grateful for the slobs on the beach. What? You wanna share the sun and sand with a taut, tan bunch of supermodels? Give me Mr. Manatee any day of the week.)
I was in second grade, and loved monster movies. I had an accordion file, you know, with alphabet tabs? And I had an old manual typewriter, and I would hunt and peck bio paragraphs for monsters, and put them in there. So, like, Gamera and Godzilla were under G. Or under V there would be a list of things that killed vampires. Like that.
So I started reading Frankenstein. And it wasn’t monster rampagey at all. It was all wordy and stupid. And I did, literally, start throwing it across the room in anger, and then I tore out each page and crumpled them in disgust until that got boring. Fucking bullshit, man.
(This is a cautionary tale on why teens end up taking drugs and disrespecting their parents: Insufficiently interesting literature.)
IrishBreakfast/Beware the Crazy Bird of West Palm Beach
It’s West Palm Beach: I’m sure the bird was responding to multiple visual assualts: plaids and stripes, stretch pants, toupees, hair extensions (hey! nesting material!), nail extensions, orange skin, pasty skin, sunburned skin. I’ve been to WPB and if I could’ve dive-bombed I would’ve.
However, as a youth I had experience with the Peevish Hedgehog of Lower Uddersly and I learned my lesson.
(Are you hinting here that the residents and/or visitors of West Plam Beach are something other than au natural? Seriously, quit hinting!)
Bookish/Peacock/KateKate/Wordsmoker Anthropology: Road Trippin’ Tunes
(Y’all got a Smokie each for your blatant disregard for Marshmueller’s directive that she did not want county music suggestions. I applaud each of you for ignoring her wishes. You’ve got spunk!)
Monkeyrash/Conspiracy Corner: Eyjafjallajökull Edition
Thank goodness it wasn’t my boobs again.
(If anyone’s boobs could cause a natural disaster of epic proportions, it’s Monkey’s. They are LEGENDARY, people.)
Help out teh olds. Can you play WoW or Halo with one hand? If so, Jebus!
(Is there anything more heartwarming than a simple suggestion that assists the elderly in streamlining their masturbatory practices? No, I think not.)
ChillbearLatrigue/Flying to Georgia? It Could Be Terminal
@Perverseus: 34D is a great, um, seat size. Beware of 34E. Back problems.
(All I wanna know is when you hooked up with Miss Peacock to learn the ins and outs of life as a 34E?)
StrawberryShortcake/Five Leaves Left
I think this is far better then the human equivalent….playing Dave Matthews Band while pointing at your erection.
(I think I’m really glad I got married before the Dave Matthews Band got popular. It wasn’t so odd listening to R.E.O. Speedwagon while Mr. Penguino pointed at his erection.)
BookishLookish/Five Leaves Left
Gorillas have the least-impressive genitals in the simian world, I am told. But I am sure lady monkeys are not size queens and it is cute that boy chimps do a leafy striptease to stimulate the ladies. You human gents could step up and do the same. We are not immune to the charms of display, you know.
CL: If the rumors are true about you, it is fitting that you live in Florida, where a set of palm leaves are readily available.
(I like the fact that you always have a good suggestion to pair with your commentary.)
LipstickLibrarian/5-Second Movie Review: Clash of the Titans
I’d like to release Sam Worthington’s kraken from his pants.
(I like your no-nonsense approach!)
Bookish, Irish, Chillbear, Unciv, Rhea, Blix, and Geode/Intentionally Untitled
(A Pokie for each one of your potty mouths who kept the foreskin discussion going long after good taste would dictate it stop.)
There once was a pontiff named Ratzi
who helped pedos and once was a Nazi
now he, fraught with malaise,
prays for happier days
reading fanfic like “Chachi loves Potsie.”
There once was a woman from Dallas
who used dynamite as a phallus.
They found her vagina
in South Carolina
and her asshole in Buckingham Palace.
There was a good doctor named George.
Gay behavior, he strictly abhorred.
Off to Europe he went
with a boy à la rent
and his penis was quickly engorged.
Greece is in a terrible mess
and now it’s affecting the West.
Instead of correcting
their mess they’re electing
to fuck, drink more ouzo, then rest.
Little Trumpet on Lawyergay:
A clever chap named Lawyergay
could tell limericks all freaking day.
His rhymes were quite fine,
and his meter divine,
but word was he was not a great lay.
There once was a trompette petite
whose limericks were ever so sweet.
But she started a fray
with the great Lawyergay,
and now she will get her ass beat.
There was a young lady named Bristol
who’s boyfriend was hot as a pistol.
After bedding him down,
nine months later she frowned,
and sighed, “I shoulda used THIS hole.”
(These were all fantastic – who knew you all could rhyme and keep your meter straight? Especially hilarious is the barrage of retaliatory limericks by our Lawyergay and Little Trumpet. I only added a couple here, but they’re all worth reading. Good show!)
After carefully considering each and every fantastic piece submitted by you wacky bunch of crack writers, one in particular blew my mind in such a way that I found myself shaking my head and occasionally talking to it, as in “No! Don’t call her again!” Shortsshortsshorts’ crazy, trippy piece on the unbelieveable end of his last relationship, aptly named, How Not to End a Relationship, was an uncomfortable mix of sarcasm and anguish.
What was this event? Would it be the death of a loved one? The loss of work? Perhaps it could turn out to be internal? Who knows? I certainly didn’t. For many years things had remained as they were. There was that steady job. There was the woman, the house, the car, and the constant remission to gross excess that is all too common in our modern America.
To be frank, I was J. Edgar Fucking Hoover.
There were so many comparisons. I, like Hoover, had an affinity to mind-altering substances. Also, like Hoover, I greatly appreciated fast women, strong drink, and screwing Myself and My Nation into the ground. Who cares, after all? When the fat hits the fire nobody can be ready for it. It just hits the fire.
You can’t stop it.
So two weeks ago… yes those two short weeks. Walking amongst other living, breathing omnivores had brought arrogance – stirred by a prevalent and yet waning self importance – unmatched by most other omnivores. I suppose that was three weeks ago, because what happened two weeks ago was the fucking bomb on Hiroshima. Japan is nuked. No time to rebuild.
Let’s do this thing.
Just two short weeks ago I was sitting in my home, sipping on gin and tonics, watching days come in and exit again. Total comfort – total control. Granted, complacency is never a good thing, and I would find out why. For one reason or another it would take a jolt of caffeine never before witnessed by the eyes of man to rial me into a bitter frenzy of chaos, panic, despair – with the always-welcome “you are totally and completely fucked” that all humans surely love and admire.
My heart broke for you, Shorts, but your telling of the tale was nothing short of brilliant. (P.S.: I have a spare bedroom.)
And that’s it, folks. Sometime in the next week or two, you’ll be back in the loving arms of our handsome ChillbearLatrigue.