The Tao of Berry

Let's get down to brass tacks reloaded

2006-02-06T13:18:00.000-08:00

I get the feeling that this blog thing is ready for me to open the floor up for a little Q and A once again. I know how important my opinion is to everyone out there. I think we're all on the same page so let's hop right in without a lot of fanfare or explanation. No, there's no need to stand on ceremony in this blog, gang. It's tit for tat, just like you've come to expect from old Berry and by God, that's always what you're gonna get from him. Straight shooting. Plain talk express. Did the Bullet Boys wait around three or four seconds before belting out "smooth up in ya" as loud as your 6x9's could push? Hell no. Instant screaming on that track and it was a massive hit, so that's how I'm gonna play it here on the interweb.

Dateline: right now. You're probably sitting there thinking to yourself "Berry, how do you feel about ghosts and the supernatural?" First off that's a damn fine question and I'd like to thank you for asking. Real good work.

To answer I'd have to say I think ghosts are pretty much pussies. I've been trying to get one to pop up around my place and scare me for years, yet they refuse. Why, are they afraid I'll bust their ghostly lip open if I catch them creeping around my house? Fine I can understand that (I know Taebo.) Then I took my show on the road.

I snuck into an abandoned hotel that was supposed to be crawling with ghosts and spirits and whatnot. It was dark and creepy as Hell and I figured "alright this is it. There's bound to be something about to jump up and freak me out." So there I was in the middle of the night walking around an abandoned old building all alone. Armed only with a crappy little flashlight I walked up down the halls and up the stairs and into the rooms and all over the place. I heard some weird noises a couple of times, but mostly I just had to take a dump really bad. As I walked around waiting for the super spooky that just had to be around the next corner I was continually leaving little pockets of pungent gas all over the place. About a half hour or so of just being bored and having to crap and absolutely nothing. Spook factor zero.

So basically I went into the ghosts' house and farted up the place and they didn't even try to retort. I started thinking about planning a trip to another location but then I thought why bother? How powerful could these things be if they let me walk around in their own dojo, farting at will and fearing no reprisal? You think they'd at least go for the Glade. With the peeping turtle I was sportin' that night I'm sure I reeked that place out something fierce and what did they do about it? Nothing, they just sat there and took it. No wonder they're dead.

Berry 1, ghosts 0.

Everyone who pretended to like me is gone

2006-02-06T08:30:00.000-08:00

I experienced a groin pull this weekend. That's bad enough but unfortunately I was at the top of the stairs when it happened.

NOTE: A funny thing happens when you get the sensation that your balls have detached and are falling to the ground- you forget whatever it is you're doing and clutch those precious cashews with all your might. I did that and the next thing I knew I was hurtling through time and space, stopping only after my melon had busted a massive hole in the wall at the bottom of the stairs. I tell you this people, it's a good thing that wall wasn't load-bearing or that whole complex would have come down around me, leaving me lying under a pile of rubble clutching my balls and moaning in agony.

Now let me describe to you the groin pull. It felt kind of like Kerry von Erich had appeared and applied the infamous "Iron Claw" to my taint, and Skandor Akbar was nowhere in sight. I was in the Piper's Pit of pain and not even Terry "Bam-bam" Gordy could help me now.

While I still have some discomfort in my taintal region, I think Kerry has finally relented. My weekend sucked.

Oprah caught me telling lies on my blog

2006-02-01T08:28:00.000-08:00

Everyone's been talking about Oprah hammering James Frey for lying about most of the stuff in his "memoirs." I hope Oprah learned her lesson and does a little more research before slobbering all over somebody's garbage. I think it would rule if she did some digging around and found out that the kid in the wheelchair that wrote all the crap poetry was faking his terminal illness. Although he's probably really dead, as anyone who coined the term "heartsongs" should be, it would still be funny to find out he got hit by a car while playing extreme frisbee.

The big question remains; how long until Oprah figures out Dr. Phil is full of shit? Hell we don't even need the smoking gun for that one, anyone twice as fat as me making millions selling weight loss books has got to be chock full of the classic brown. He even had his own show where he sat around dispensing common sense in that gooey twang of his to a bunch of Springer rejects who sadly didn't know any better than to listen to a pantload like him. I guess he has a gift, he must have to make telling someone to stop screwing their sister sound like a genuine revelation in psychiatry.

It irks me that turds like that are millionaires based solely on the fact that Oprah liked them. Clearly my goal in life should be to write a book that Oprah will pump in her book club. Given the examples above it shouldn't be that hard, just remake myself as balding fatass in a wheelchair that lies about doing drugs. My book of poetry inspired by the horrific years I spent smoking crack and eating cream cheese danish will be flying off the shelves. Hell I'll even go smoke some crack just to give it that hint of authenticity in a truckload of bullshit feel that Winfrey seems to loves so much.

Sam Alito: about a shifty looking MF'er

2006-01-31T14:23:00.000-08:00

I'm not going to say much else about it because frankly I think the picture speaks for itself. That's not a handpicked image either; one that caught him in a particularly sinister looking light. The bastard always looks like that.

He may be an alright guy and all, Hell I don't anything about the man. Just look at that picture for a couple of seconds and ask yourself if you'd let that man have the spare key to you house. Just asking.

The trouble with cars

2006-01-31T08:28:00.000-08:00

The big problem I can see with cars is that they have people in them. Not just people, but other people, the worst kind. Sitting in the drivers seat has an almost magical ability to turn everyone into a raging a-hole, while simultaneously making them the biggest wuss in the universe. They'll cut you off in traffic, flip you off as they speed by and lay on the horn for an inappropriate amount of time, so long as they traffic is moving. But for some reason when the traffic slows they are suddenly as ferocious as a hamster. Do they fear you will leap across the road and break them down with a flurry of Taebo moves you picked up from Billy Blanks tapes? They should, my Taebo is strong.

But the biggest question I have is this: why won't people pull up to the car in front of them? Why do they insist on having at least ten car links between them and the car in front of them? Why will they sometimes pull up but only to the point where they aren't next to you, so you can"t look at them and see if they are a hot chick or studly young man, depending on your preference?
I guess it boils down to this- if you're pressing on the gas pedal you are an unstoppable killing machine that fears neither man nor God. If you're pressing on the brake you're Steve Urkel. Cruising through traffic? Monster. Sitting at red light? Urkel.

If you are a highway badass you derive your power from the turning of the wheels. Red lights are like kryptonite to you and sitting at one instantly drains you of your Godlike ability to flip people off and give them menacing looks that cause them to soil themselves and run off the road just to avoid looking at you.

I bet Bin Laden was an interstate badass before he traded his Toyota in for a 1999 camel. Hitler? Huge butthole on his commute back and forth to the bunker. Can you picture Stalin flipping people off and laying on the horn for no reason? Of course you can.

Don't be that guy. Get drunk before you get behind the wheel, it'll make you happier and happy drivers are better drivers.

Note: None of the above applies if you have a DE3 sticker on your ride. In fact any Earnhardt reference on your vehicle grants immunity to red lights and makes you a permanent badass, even when you get out of the car. I mean truck. The same goes for a little guy pissing on FORD or CHEVY.

Bizarre love triangle

2006-01-27T11:09:00.000-08:00

Dear Ms. Keilber,

I would like to extend to you my utmost gratitude at your generous offer that I marry you and make like ten thousand babies. Really, I am speechless. However I should be forthright about this situation as I know I hold your tender heart in my hands and it would hurt me to know that I damaged you any more than was necessary. I would eat at Arby's for you Stacy, you know that, but my heart belongs to another. I'm in love with Ms. Chan Marshall and there's nothing I can do to change that. Be strong Stacy, I know there's someone out there for you so keep your head up. You're a good kid.

Yours truly, Berry

PS - If this thing with me and Chan doesn't work out we can still do it right?

Chan,

How's it going baby? You are not going to believe this but I just turned down a very steamy offer from one Stacy Keibler. No shit. So look, you know how much I wanted to get with her. Remember that night we were laying there talking about people we would totally do and I said "Stacy Keibler. I would fight the Kiss army for a piece of that?" Well I turned that down for you, that's how much I love you. We were obviously meant to be together. I mean, how many Irish Jews are there in the world, like 5? Tops.
So anyway let's make this thing work. If however you feel like this thing ain't gonna work out I need to know quick before Stacy changes her number and I miss the boat with that. Anyhow, Love you.

PS- Get back to me on that ASAFP. Not trying to rush you or anything but I'm on the clock.

Shouts out to the insides

2006-01-26T11:35:00.000-08:00

Some times I feel sorry for my inner self. I think of him as kind of a slave, captive to and being abused by a world-class dickhead. He's suffered one injustice after another with no say in the matter at all, practically a spectator watching his own life play out without him.

So let me say it here:

Self- I'm sorry, man.

In fact, this goes out to all the inner selves out there taking a lickin' and keeping on tickin'. To all those children father to the men, cramped up in there watching us screw them out of their birthright. Sitting on the other side of the looking glass while we get drunk and make out with large, strange women. Through all the car wrecks, through all the breakups, through the hair metal 80's right through to today; you've always been there. Inner self, I salute you! You've always been the best part of all of us. In the words of Kipling,

Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din

Broke Dick Mountain

2006-01-24T14:33:00.000-08:00

Broke Dick Mountain: a screenplay by Berry Goldstein

Attention Hollywood, Steve Spielberg and that guy who played Opie on television

[Movie starts]

Panoramic shot of picturesque Montana (or somewhere with mountains.)
Roll opening credits here.

{Music: that "I want to bathe with you in the ocean" song.}

The camera can just sort of float around the mountains for a few minutes until the credits are pretty much over. Make sure and say pretty early on "written by: Berry Goldstein" because I did.

A man sits before a dying campfire in the brisk morning air. He stares intently at the dying embers as if he has just spent the previous night sweatily doing something he may or may not regret for the rest of his life. Finally he slowly rises to his feet as he tosses the rest of his hot cocoa into the fire, making it hiss menacingly.

The camera pulls back revealing a contented looking horse standing just behind the man, eying him lovingly. The man looks briefly at the horse before looking back at the ground shyly. Slowly a smile creeps onto his face and he looks tenderly back into the horses eyes. The horse whinnies and rares back ecstatically.

Letters erupt on the screen as the "stand with you on a mountain" part of the song crescendos gayly. The letters start off really small but appear to be growing, like you are driving in your car and are about to run over them. The letters spell out the title, "Broke Dick Mountain." When they get big enough to read they kind of just stay that size and sit there for a few minutes, so everyone in the audience has plenty of time to read it, even if they are mildly retarded or are children.

Cut to man riding around the mountains on the horse. The man is sort of laying on his side with his head resting on the horse. The man's name is Ted:

TED: You know, Wynn Dixie (that's the horses name BTW) I had my doubts about what happened last night. [ Here he strokes the horses mane tenderly]

Wynn Dixie: [Whinnies quietly.]

TED: I know, Wynn. But I don't know how I'm going to go back to my wife and family now that I know what true love is.

...to be continued

Kobe Bryant: as unstoppable on the court as he is in the hotel room

2006-01-24T11:17:00.000-08:00

The kid went and dropped 81 on the Raptors over the weekend. That's impressive, even for a man known for his unstoppable drives against well-guarded holes. The boy just won't take no for an answer. Maybe they should try him for raping the raptors defense.

What's the point though, he'd beat the case easily. The video evidence I saw showed conclusively that the Raptors were willing participants, going so far as to bend over and spread 'em for young master Bryant. Most of the Raptors seemed to be more intent on getting off the next Kobe poster than actually stopping him from scoring. The basketball equivalent of pulling up with a phantom hamstring injury when you just got burned badly down field.

On a personal note several things are really starting to bug me lately. I continue to find spectacularly idiotic ways to make myself broke. Those idiotic ways all have names, they're my friends. I don't want to come out and say my friends are retarded and cause me to get in trouble. I believe in personal responsibility and the buck stops here and all that bollocks. Having said that, my friends are all retards and they get me into trouble. Screw you friends, I hope you smoke turds in Hell for the trouble you've all caused me.

Some days my phone rings nonstop, signalling and endless string of "help me do this" and "C'mon man" requests. It's not that my friends have it easy from me but I swear to God I have my shit together enough that I don't have to make two or three desperate pleas for help every week.

Get a job, buy a truck and leave me the Hell alone for five minutes. I can't get through an episode of Zoey 101 without having to lurch for the phone, pants around my ankles, because someone keeps ringing it up over and over and I've finally convinced myself that nobody would call that many times back to back unless some very real emergency was taking place that only I could prevent from destroying the planet. No one understands or seems to care that if I look on the caller ID and decide not to answer or don't call you back immediatly then I'm probably screening. Don't take it personally but I don't want an urgent request to come pick you up from somebody's trailer in the middle of my personal time every day.

Also I think my toilet seat is bugged with some sort of weight sensing device. Every time I sit on it my phone immediatly rings. I never attempt to answer but the caller seems to turn up ANONYMOUS more often than not. A little fishy if you ask me. I just hope it's also bugged with some type of listening apperatus as well, because whoever was monitoring that bastard last night got their friggin' eardrums shattered by an outrageous clarion blast around 11:30 PM. It serves them right, but the pain of creating that blast was for me akin to a woman giving birth, and that was a little bit excessive for my tastes.

Maybe Bin Laden has the right idea. I wouldn't mind waking up in a cave every morning if it meant I didn't have to go help people move couches in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. There's definitely times when a shell exploding outside my cave door would sound less alarming than the seesaw action of my cell phone ringing, home phone ringing, cell phone ringing, etc, etc, etc.

It's getting to the point where the simple sound of a phone ringing sends me flying into an involuntary rage. I've been conditioned to do that. Remember Pavlov's dog, the one that would start slobbering everytime it heard the dinner bell? Well I'm Pavlov's asshole, cursing and screaming everytime I hear the telephone. It's only a matter of time before I rip the phone off the wall and hang myself with the cord.

Why is everybody always pickin' on Bin Laden?

2006-01-20T07:02:00.000-08:00

Doesn't Bin Laden seem like a pussy to you? Like the kind of guy who sits around wondering why everybody's all up in his Kool-Aid? What did he ever do to anybody kind of shit.

Osama, it's just that you're so 2001. Just because cable news channels love to pump your latest mix tape doesn't mean real people give a damn about you anymore. We don't. There's a thousand assholes I have to deal with everyday that fill me with way more dread than your grizzled puss. Hell that old guy in my office that keeps breaking the printer is practically Stalin compared to you. So piss off, put down the mike, and quit sending Al Jazeera your greatest hits every six months.

Btw, just because new stuff keeps out from Bin Laden doesn't mean he's still alive. Remember Tupac?

Besides we have the playoffs to worry about. I like the Panthers and the Steelers to win this weekend, so go out and put your money on the Hawks and Broncos. I'm laying eggs this post-season and I'm not going to quit until this dead horse is pulverized.

And what about the heavily anticipated rematch between my boy Erik "El Terrible" Morales and MannyPacquiao? I correctly picked El Terrible in the first fight and I'm going with him again but it's a tough call. Manny is supposedly in some helluva shape and ultra-motivated, but I just can't go against my boy Erik. He's too damn good when he decides to box, and like my grandad said the man just can't stand to get hit. When he takes fire he returns it. Seems like the guys that give Erik Hell are slick boxers and hardcore tacticians, two things Manny ain't.

So in summary, go out and bet the farm on Pacquiao, the Broncos and the Hawks.

To all the girls I've loved before

2006-01-19T07:32:00.000-08:00

If I had a son, my greatest wish for him would be that he could grow up and be gay. I would hope that his dealings with women would be limited to brief encounters with drive-thru workers and bank tellers. I would hope he never falls in love with a bitch, because that's the worst thing any man could ever do.

Not that I'm bitter about it all or anything, but to all the girls I've loved before:

One day when you're spilling out of your tank top. One day when the glasses are all turning over in the kitchen. When the beer, children's formula and diet Sam's choice all run together into one long, thick stream of desperation and hate at the way things have turned out for you; for everyone you know. I hope I'm not there.

I know I'm going to laugh about it all when I'm dead. This too, it will all be funny then. Especially those fat titties pouring out of your tank top and the way your trailer is going to smell, sitting there in the sun.

And so it goes, life will screw you like a Puerto Rican delivery boy on a cigarette break. Quick and dirty, just like it's screwed me and everyone else. Is it justice? I don't know. But it's fun to think about while you're still so smart, all smiles and without a trace of conscience.

The dead people we cried about will all be watching as we get ours. They'll be laughing while we take it. I'm coming Elizabeth, this is the big one.

You favorite band sucks

2006-01-18T07:15:00.000-08:00

Something that I think people often overlook when they form a rock band with their stoner friends is an appropriate and meaningful band name. Most people seem to just pick something generic and then add a number to the end of it to make it "unique." That my friends is pretty stale.

I'm putting you on notice, all the Sum 41's, the Eve 6's and all you other name-dash-number bands. The gauntlet is being thrown down.

I'm forming a band. Not because I have any musical ability or anything meaningful to say; that never stopped you assholes. I'm doing it for the sole purpose of having a better band name than you. You might sell a million albums and all that crap but late at night when you're through banging ten groupies or whatever you'll still have to sit there and stew over this fact: your band name sucks. The awesomeness of my band name will serve only to highlight the shittiness of yours and I hope it eats you up inside. If you had one shred of artistic integrity you'd preemptively commit suicide shortly after reading this.

My band will be called the Violent, Violent Rapists.

The repetition of the word violent will serve to highlight the extraordinarily brutal nature of our rapes, usually of your girlfriends and sometimes your own butthole. I think our first album cover will be a picture of our band kicking your band very hard in the ass and laughing about it, possibly while high-fiving each other. Inside will be a CD filled with noise or just 45 minutes of silence because nobody I know can sing or play in instrument.

Temporary scars

2006-01-10T20:42:00.000-08:00

This world can be so cold sometimes. Friends betray you, women break your heart, your own mother tells you to your face that Soul Plane is a greater film than How Stella Got Her Groove Back when she knows full well that well that will make you cry in front of your friends. It's enough to make me rethink living, at least the way I've been doing it.

But I'm stronger than that. I know I might appear outwardly to be flabby and weak but inside I'm hard, like a diamond wrapped up in fresh cotton panties. I know no one will ever break me down again, not like those older boys did on the last night of Boy Scout camp. No, from here on out I'll be a testament to man's ability to survive and overcome. You took a lot from that night Webelos, but you'll never take my pride.

The way I see it other people are just props in my plane of reality. It's simple really. When I throw a rock off an overpass and cave in some old lady's face, I haven't really hurt anybody. No that would be stupid. I just tore up a prop. There's probably a fake me in her plane of reality anyway and she was probably acting like a real bitch to me all the time over there. I bet her heart is full of greed and she has do-do in her soul. So what's the big deal if I get mad about the Longhorn's winning the championship? So what if that sent me flying into a rage that resulted in me throwing a couple of cinder blocks off a couple of overpasses during peak traffic hours? Big hairy one.

When scientists are able to pull their heads out of their asses and prove once and for all that I am the center of the universe then we can all get down to the business of making me happy. Until then boycott the Boy Scouts of America. Really.

Friday? No-can-do, I got an 8:30 res at Dorsia

2006-01-06T10:48:00.000-08:00

The older I get the more I appreciate a top-notch dining experience. Also I keep getting fatter and fatter, although I don't really like to think of myself as fat. I like to think of myself as rich. Like a buttery treat that all the fine ladies can enjoy- in moderation.

I'm concerned that I will soon be too fat to ride my mountain bike any longer. Not because of any physical impairment, but because of a growing fear of tipping over and puncturing my stomach, thereby allowing my precious goo to escape. My precious, precious goo.

Where I once was content to wheel through Rally's I now find myself craving the sit-down dining experience and all that it entails. Namely sitting and eating. Also I find that most drive thru restaurants don't have a very good sea urchin ceviche combo. That's just a damn turn off. Really a deal breaker.

But as we all become more rotund and nerf-like with age let us reflect on ourselves when we were younger. Truly we were hungry young lions out prowling the plains. It seems like only yesterday we were making our first kills.

Now more often than not when we push up on an estrus female a younger, sleeker version of ourselves pops up out of nowhere and has us hightailing it out of there and straight home to cry ourselves to sleep. Sometimes the young male goes so far as to admonish us by say, I don't know, kicking us really hard in the assbone when we turn to break. Maybe you hear a whimper escape your lips as your eyesight goes sparkly. Through the pain and the tears and the shame we run, and really when you think about it, isn't that how we got here after all?

The endless circle of life indeed.

I am a Kool-Aid man filled with cherry flavored hate

2006-01-05T06:26:00.000-08:00

One time. One time in my pitiful Notre Dame loving life I root for the condoms of USC and they screw me. Screwed me just as hard as when Reggie shoved Leinart into the endzone to beat my beloved Irish. Screwed me angrily, like that kid in American Me. Don't look at me! Don't look at me!

I thought at least the condoms could be counted on to knock off that overhyped Texas turd parade and its grand marshall Vince. Apparently USC failed to watch any game tape at all, so baffled were they when Texas came out and ran the same goddamn three plays they've ran all year. Outstanding coaching. Damn fine defense, boys. The tackling was top notch as well. The old voyeur defense. Good call.

Will I come out and admit that Texas and Vince Young are good? Hell no. I refuse to give them any credit, instead I choose to blame USC. My hate for them burns like a supernova in a gasoline thunderstorm.

Here's my note to everyone involved in the Rose bowl: Die slow and catch on fire.

The perfect ending to a season that consistently filled my mouth with vomit. Now I have to listen to Corso and company piss their pants telling me how awesome, how perfect, how handsome... etc, etc, etc. I can picture Corso now, holding his crotch and doing the little pee-pee dance behind the College Gameday built by Home Depot table.

Screw you NCAA, this had to be a conspiracy and so help me God I'll get to the bottom of this. When I do there's going to be Hell to pay. My findings will shake the BCS to it's foundations.

Either that or I'm just gonna start watching hockey.

Best. Dream. Ever.

2005-12-28T11:21:00.000-08:00

I had a dream that I was sitting next to Seinfeld supervising producer Larry Charles at the airport while we were waiting on our flights. Apparently I said some really funny shit, on the strength of which Larry helped to launch my Hollywood career. I got my start in writing, though I quickly became a successful and accomplished actor based on my zero years of experience living and working behind the scenes of the Hollywood film industry. Man I really worked my way to the top.

A few minutes later we were busy chilling at a table enjoying some snappy banter with a couple of hot young starlets. I of course was being witty as fuck and the girls were talking about what movies I had recently been in, all of which was news to me. Apparently at one point I was way hotter in Hollywood circles than that Skeet Ulrich guy, for example. I admit I was little perplexed at first, but this dream wasn’t about getting bogged down with the details.

During our discourse one of the starlets asked me what I was doing in town at the moment, to which I replied “Actually I’m out here to make Passion of the Christ 2: Electric Bugaloo.” Which they thought was funny as Hell and kind of actually is, even when you aren’t sleeping.

Then the whole dream messed around and got derailed with a bunch of animatronics and elevator shenanigans that I can’t really remember. I guess after that I wasn’t famous anymore, or even employable. I had gone from airport dweller to Sitcom writer to red-hot actor and back to nobody in about three minutes, which sort of adds a bit of realism to the dream.

So while I don’t think I ever made that Passion sequel, or even scored with those starlets, I had my moment in the sun. My fifteen minutes of fame was the best three minutes of my life.

Champaign wishes and caviar dreams, ya’ll.

Let's get on topic for a second

2005-12-28T08:42:00.000-08:00

Time for some Q&A:

Q: Who's winning the superbowl and the college football national championship?

A: That's a two part question with a one part answer: ME. I'm winning them both.

But how's that possible you might be asking yourself. Easy, I bet on the Pats at 10-1 to win the Superbowl and took USC minus seven. This isn't Enrico Ferme shit here people, this is applied logic. Look at the last three years in football, who's been winning championships? Pros? College?

The prosecution rests.

USC will roll Texas up just like Oklahoma used to do every year before they started cramming ass into their mouths as fast as possible.

Remember all those preseason championships magazines were giving away to Texas the last three years? Well USC was winning them. Not in the fairytale land of preseason speculation, but at the end of the year when it counted.

Texas is just a B-league champ; this year's big 12 roster is about as intimidating as the SWAC's. You know that Colorado team that got rolled by Clemson the other night? That was the BIG 12 runner up. Outstanding.

Announcers are on Vince Young's nuts like his last name was Manning or something but Texas runs one fucking play over and over, that little annoying little QB choice bullshit. It works like a charm when you're playing stellar squads like Rice and Baylor, but didn't work so well against the Ohio State Buckeyes, and let me tell you something Buckeyes. I know the Trojans. I got beat by the Trojans. And you sirs are no Trojans.

USC will get them down early and force Texas to pass. Vince Young will throw a couple of picks before crying realistic tears on the sideline. Warm up the bus, call me Nostradamus and wave goodbye to another overhyped squad of Longhorn losers for one more year.

But don't let it get you down too bad Texas, you can always add another pre-season championship to your trophy case next year. In fact, I'm positive you will. And remember that no matter how bad you get blown out the rest of the BIG 12 will still be gazing up at you in wide-eyed admiration.

I am an errand boy sent by grocery clerks to collect a bill

2005-12-27T07:05:00.000-08:00

Get up and shower. Go to work. Pay your bills. Save your friends. Hate your enemies. Find your place in line, in life, in love, in everything. There is no handbook, but you will find a way. You are beautiful and unique, just like everyone else.

Don't turn the corner, only trust that what you believe lies just beneath the surface. Never ask yourself the one question that could make this all make sense. The one question that matters, the hardest question of all: why?

Everyone who has made it this far has become a master of ignoring the why. It’s the dark shadow in the corner of our cheery little bedrooms. Why waits to consume you if you let it out; a genie that won’t go back in the bottle.

Stick with the who’s and what’s. The when’s and where’s. Leave why the Hell alone. Let life be what it is: one long boring grocery list. Bullshit written down and checked off until it’s over and we can go home.

Or is it already too late for that?

My blog is personified badass

2005-12-21T12:52:00.000-08:00

My blog will totally kick your blog's ass. Hard. Way worse than Chong Li kicked Ogre's ass in Bloodsport. Don't believe me, well then just step up.

My blog is actively seeking a beef with another blog. It's not me man, Berry ain't that kind of guy. It's all the blog. An angry, violent blog that would love nothing more than to name-check your obviously weaker blog and talk incessantly about how lame it is and that if it ever sees it on the wrong side of the blogosphere it is going to hand out a devastating virtual beatdown. One that might well result in a total digital breakdown. Picture those guys from Poser Mobile running into a hundreds strong crowd of Mike Tyson clones in a back alley somewhere. My blog will F your blog till your blog loves mine.

So bring it on Posers. My blog awaits you, though it fully expects no challenge and ultimately fears no reprisal.

In the house with Burke and Hare

2005-12-20T10:45:00.000-08:00

What is In the house with Burke and Hare???

A nightly radio show, ala the Quiet Storm? A new sitcom on UPN? A children's poem about a couple of serial killers from back in the day?

If you answered all of the above you win a fabulous prize! Come over to my apartment alone around midnight any night this week to receive your anointing. Stipulations are as follows:
*Make sure to not tell anyone where you are headed before you leave and bring all the cash you have at hand.
*If you are an ugly female or any type of dude then this prize offer is hereby null and void and I have a full team of lawyers like Peter Miller and Gary Greene that will kick your ass in court if you try to come at me with any legal shenanigans.
*I reserve the right to open hand slap anyone who shows up for prize reception, possibly resulting in their heads being cut back to and including the white meat. I hereby also reserve the right to rare back and bolo punch any prize winner right in the grill with the full intentions knocking out all your fronts.

Again I would like to state that my legal team is airtight, as seen on television, and will swarm you like pirhanna should you try to approach them on their turf, aka the United States legal system.

Really that is all just fine print though so come through and pick up that prize ladies! I got a TIVO full up with 106th and Park and some vanilla scented candles on my dresser to cover up the dead fart smells that pop up when my mattress feels any weight on it. I think it's probably haunted or something.

Fat like hambone and tight like gnat booty

2005-12-19T07:37:00.000-08:00

The Colts lost and my heart soared. Yet still I am conflicted because I know that somewhere in some smoke-filled back room those old crusty haters of the '74 Dolphins are rejoicing and popping corks. Gentlemen I hope that Champaign gives you outlandish gas. I pray you then, after being intoxicated to the point of frenzy, turn on one another and rend each other to pieces. If it were any other team than the Colts nearing your record setting season I would have hopped onto the field myself and ran unfettered into the end zone for the game winning score; surgically repaired knee be damned!

But then again, no tears taste as delicious as those of one Peyton Manning. So yummy and sweet are the tears of his unfathomable sadness that I am beside myself at this very moment with glee. I cannot wait until their much heralded team is jettisoned unceremoniously from the playoffs, hopefully by the New England Patriots and Tommy Brady; a man who does nothing but win Super bowls and screw models. A real American hero.

You may be asking, "but Berry, why do you hate so much?" It isn't that the Colts are such bad people. Dungy, Harrison, Edge; they all seem like pretty cool guys. But why are the announcers swinging so joyously from Manning's nuts on each and every play? I Bet Deirdorf rifles through the locker room after every game hoping to find Manning's jock so he can take it home and huff it, inhaling deeply like a Scotch Guard junky the heady aroma produced by Peyton's cashew-sized pouch. The Colt's could be down by 400 points with Manning throwing pick after pick and the announcers would be crapping their pants trying to sing the praises of the Indy and their awesome God-like leader. Let's look at the facts: Manning can't win the bowl and he couldn't beat Florida when he played for the Vols. He's the second coming of Dan Marino, something exactly as momentous as a Menudo reunion.

In short here's a memo to all the NFL announcers out there. Quit being a bunch of nuthuggers and just call the damn games. It's really screwing up the broadcasts listening to Jim Nantz or Phil Simms wet themselves each time Manning comes to the line and audibles 30 times, gesticulating so wildly that he looks like a crackhead watching a copy of Darrin's Dance Grooves.

Jeeze.

Tears in heaven (Eric Clapton sucks)

2005-12-13T21:02:00.000-08:00

I had some knee surgery the other day. No really. They even gave me a dvd of the surgery. The inside of my knee looks about like I thought it would; Like a cotton candy machine.

I wish I could stick cameras up in other parts of my body and see what's going on in there. It would really be cool if there was something funny in my chest like an army man (not that lame one with the radio) or something but I bet it's all pretty boring. Just pink and juicy.

I was kind of hoping when I went under that I would see a bright light and some dead relatives waving me to come to them, but alas it wasn't to be. I just got really high and giggled and then passed smooth out into a deep, deep sleepytime.

Thinking about it later I imagined that I could picture a bright white aura and some dead friends and relatives standing there in the haze. I would look at them as they stood around having a nice conversation while wearing some really comfortable looking robes. Then they catch a glimpse of me and start whispering to each other for a second and all start waving me off like the little league third base coach, all the while mouthing "no, no, go back. Not time! Not time!" and pointing at where a watch would be on there wrist. I'd be all "what?" walking towards them and they'd start freaking out and frantically going "no, no! It's not time!" I would clearly hear them but keep walking forward anyway screaming "what? Come to you now? Okay!" You know just to mess with them. I bet that would really piss them off.

Then I'd try and figure out if they knew what had been going on down here while they were up there being dead. If it sounded like they didn't know, I'd make up a bunch of crap that I did and try and make myself sound all cool and that I died saving a buttload of orphans from a raging inferno.

But if it turned out that they did know what was going on down here lately and they called bullshit on me, I'd try and play it off like I was just joking. I'd then start introducing myself to everybody and being really cool. Then out of nowhere I'd dropkick somebody.

One day we will die and our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea

2005-12-07T08:57:00.000-08:00

Once we all moved inside ovaries, connected with tubes. There in the darkness we grew fingers and arms. Eyes and organs. Silent except for the sound of the blood pumped into us from our mothers, bringing us oxygen and nutrients for the day we were ready to emerge into the world as our own being. Buried alive before we were ever born. Never knowing that one day it would all end. Never dreaming that one day there would be a world without us, that the world without us could be a beautiful one. That the seasons come in their own time.

The blind person can
never know the beauty of
the autumn sunset

Let's roll...

2005-12-06T07:57:00.000-08:00

Don’t get somebody all hyped up then just drop out on them. World, don’t play me like that. Don’t let a man think everything is gonna be alright then just crap on them for an inappropriate amount of time. Life, don’t do that to a brother.

You know I think I see where this is all going. It’s starting to make sense in a senseless kind of way. If this life didn’t drag on and on in a relentless pursuit of total crappiness then death would be the saddest thing ever. But the way it’s all laid out you’re ready to pass on about 25 years before you actually do. That’s the sad part; that you get drug around far too long like crap on somebody’s shoe.

It’s all a vicious cycle of stupid and one of these days I swear I’m going to go flying over the handle bars somewhere into the next millennium. I hope they have flying cars there in the future, and robot helpers that look like the 2002 version of Britney Spears. And would it be too much to ask to get a transporter up in here?

Airplanes used to be awesome, now with all the security crap it takes roughly the same amount of time to walk somewhere as fly. All because some ragheads flew a plane into a couple of buildings. You know, I hate to break it to the FBI but that elaborate plan didn't take a genius to plot out. Have you ever seen the pictures of those guys? They were just a bunch of brown retards with a copy of Microsoft Flight Simulator.

The fact that the cockpit door in pre-911 airplanes was made out of old Christmas wrapping paper was a pretty dumb idea in retrospect. One of the hijackers should have donned a Kool-Aid man suit and went busting through that door with a mighty “Oh yeah!” I bet they would have gotten a couple of extra virgins for that one in the afterlife, because I don’t care what religion you are that’s just damn funny.

The snipers are passed out in the bushes… again.

2005-12-02T08:09:00.000-08:00

Mike Jordan ruined the NBA.

All that be like Mike crap had one glaring, fatal flaw: namely the fact that your punk ass can’t be like Mike. You can’t jump like Mike. You can’t shoot like Mike. You can’t pick up rings like Mike. You have no game. In all probability you suck.

So what happens when someone with no game tries to emulate the greatest player in the history of the sport? You end up looking like a major doofus, that’s what.

Imagine a whole dance floor full of white guys. Now imagine the album Thriller coming out. Two seemingly unrelated occurrences. But dig a little deeper and you find that all those white guys were trying to dance to Billie Jean and looked like total tards while amazingly never grasping the fact that they look like tards. Go Lance! Go Lance!

So I say be like Dennis. Dennis Rodman. Why not, anybody can be like Dennis? The man couldn’t jump, and he sure as Hell couldn’t shoot; two traits that we all share. What he could do was hustle. Scrap. Play a little Defense.

So on the court, forget Mike; be like Dennis. Off the court you're on your own. I recommend Axl Rose.

Did you ever let a cowboy sit on your lap?

2005-11-30T10:39:00.000-08:00

Sinus pressure can drive you insane.

Is there anything out there that can drive a person sane? I don't know of it. It seems like that whole sane to insane transfer is a one way journey. Speaking of Journey, when I was a little kid I was chopping a piece of wood with my hatchet when a splinter shot up into my eye and scratched my cornea. I went inside to lay down and the radio was playing journey, who's crying now. Even at that tender age the irony didn't escape me. Anyway, to this day whenever I hear that song I associate with that cornea damaging adventure. Also Edgar Allan Poe is in there for some reason, I think because my mom had me really heavy into Poe around that same time.

How weird is it that our brain cross references our memories like that? For a long time I associated a certain perfume with this girl I went out with in the 9th grade. It was probably Electric Youth, which to my knowledge was and still is manufactured by hand in small batches by Mrs. Debbie Gibson. Smells like electric youth. Somebody should write a song about that.

Memories so sad and sweet, just like Electric Youth. Thanks Journey. Thanks Mom.

Nuke Branson

2005-11-23T10:13:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I fear the world will seize upon me and overcome me with it's faggotry.

Branson, MO is a nightmarish vision of Orwellian proportions. A Hell on Earth that should be nuked from the face of the planet and turned into a massive landfill of some kind. Perhaps for anything that could be described as "antiquey" or "quaint." It's not even Thanksgiving and those bastards have lights and decorations in full bowel-shaking effect. There's nothing more endearing than staring at a life-sized Rudolph while wearing shorts and sweating in 80 degree weather.

Eventually Christmas will be celebrated all year long in one thick line of never-ending marketing and commercialization, and Branson is currently spearheading that movement. After all, the town's economy seems to be based on the manufacture and selling of what can only be described as "crap." And when it comes to a little "crap" selling, Christmas is king.

So what's the big agenda, what does it all mean? Thanksgiving is already being marginalized, possibly for it's relative inability to make "crap" fly off the shelves. Christmas has for quite some time had the religious significance ranking somewhere between the Superbowl and a Friday night kegger. But the kids get their toys, the merchants get their money, God is in his heaven and all is right with the world. They should just pluck the baby Jesus out of the manger and toss in an XBOX 360 ad. Let's face it, if Jesus had a major weakness it would be in merchandising. He just doesn't move product the way Santa does. With his strong emphasis on heavenly matters I think Jesus was seen as hurting the bottom line, and in the twinkling of an eye a fat marketing genius in a red suit was moved in to restore sales to the stronger pre-Jesus numbers.

Is it right? Hell no. It's a sin epitomized in a little crap-town called Branson. I'd compare it with Sodom and Gomorrah but frankly that sounded like a far more happening place in it's heyday. Branson will flash a baby Jesus at you now and then but it seems only to do so half-heartedly, as if throwing him back into the mix will somehow ward off it's destruction. I hope they're wrong.

If I can stop one person from going to Branson...

Here I am. Rock you like a hurricane.

2005-11-16T13:16:00.000-08:00

This post may set in to motion a sequence of events that could end all life on this planet. Did you notice how I qualified that statement? May. Could. So nothing at all is going to happen because of this post and I will still be right.

You could debate all that stuff till you’re blue in the face. There is however one fact about this post that not even a lunatic would dispute, and that is this: if you read the title of this post three times in a row your brain will insert “c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon” at the end.

That’s right folks, you’re getting your face rocked off. By these gentlemen:

Don't tell me you aren't loving it either because then I'll know you're full of shit.

Give credit where credit is due

2005-11-15T09:00:00.000-08:00

Q: Who invented movable type?

A: Steve Guttenburg.

But what's the big deal about movable type anyway? I mean honestly, isn't it one of those things that seems like it should have been thought up a long time before it was? It's probably the only major invention that I could have come up with. I'm sure Steve was a smart guy and all but I'd bet you he was no genius or anything. He didn't have to be. They already had the alphabet, all he did was put it on some blocks. Really he just made a bunch of alphabet blocks and slapped some ink on it. Wow.

And did you ever notice they always say "movable type?" That means they must have already had regular type, making his "invention" all the more unimpressive. They had an alphabet. They had blocks. They had ink. Hell, they even had regular type. All he did was move them around. That's about as hard as creating a new kind of sandwich. Yet for some reason his name echoes through almighty time.

Meanwhile that black guy from the Police Academy movies did way more impressive stuff than block building. He made sounds that no human has the right to be making. With his mouth! He once convinced a man to stop the car and check the tires by mimicking the sound a flat makes while driving. He made the guy get out like three or four times to look at the tires. Man that dude was pissed by the second time he had to stop! It takes cunning to pull that off.

That black guy was always getting people to do stuff using only his mouth. That's not sandwich building, that's genius. You only get kickass talent like that directly from God, or else it's passed down through your family like freckles. Perhaps his great-great grandfather was endowed with same awe-inspiring noise talent as he was. Only that far back there were no known robots and let's face it, that was half of that black guy's repertoire. I bet there was still some funny animal sounds and stuff he could use. You work with what you got.

So here's to you black guy from the Police Academy movies. We may not remember your name, but we'll never forget the sounds you made to trick people into doing stuff.

Let's get down to brass tacks

2005-11-14T09:57:00.000-08:00

At this point in the blog thing I thought I'd open the floor up for a little Q and A. Knowing how many of you base your most important life choices on what is written in this virtual space, I feel like it’s the least I can do. I feel like we're all on the same page here so let's hop right in without a lot of fanfare or explanation. No, there's no need to stand on ceremony in this blog gang. It's tit for tat, just like you've come to expect from old Berry and by God, that's always what you're gonna get from him. Straight shooting. Plain talk express.

So at this point you might be asking "but where does all that pain come from, Berry?" First off let me state that that was a damn good question and I want to commend you for asking it. As for where the pain comes from, the answer varies from person to person. Some people are embroiled in shitty marriages that bring on the hate. Some people have horrible jobs that suck away at their souls like a mosquito on a dogs sack. You'll get some hate from that shit, believe me. Some people wage a lifelong battle with some crippling form of chronic diarrhea, ever afraid to stray too far from their porcelain master. Stridently these souls soldier through each day, often seen racing toward your local restroom for yet another in a long line of photo finishes. Some won, some lost, yet each one more terrifying than the last. Verily I say that it is with heavy heart that these wretched beings rise from the bed each morning.
The causes are many. Of such is the hate.

There does however seem to be a few constant sources of hate that cut across all strata of society. Hate streams that know no race or denomination and honor no creed. These sources are as oppressive as the sun and twice as angry, ever spewing forth their hate on an unsuspecting world. Perma-hate. One such source needs no introduction at all so I'm just going to throw it out there: Radio.

Oh, vilest of inventions! Why was your Pandora's box of hate cast open upon the earth to forever torment mankind? When Einstein or whoever the Hell invented that evil box did so, I pray he had no idea the terror he was unleashing forever upon this planet. Most likely he was filled with instant remorse, like the physicist Robert Oppenheimer upon detonation of the first nuclear device. I bet the inventor of the radio knew what he had done when he completed the very first one. Ten minutes later some Backstreet Boys started blasting out of it and he muttered under his breath "my God, what have I done?" He probably took the coward's way out and committed suicide in a desperate wager that Hell hadn't caught wind of his invention and would somehow seem like a cooler place at the time. I think he lost that wager because you just know Satan was all over the radio from the moment he heard about it. He was piping that shit into the nine levels ASAFP, causing a mighty groan to issue forth from the souls of the damned.

There's one thing they won't be selling in Hell boys and girls and that's earplugs. So read your Bible and say your prayers, because if you slip up you might be looking at an eternity of torment. There's 900 channels in Hell, and every one of them has Phil Collins in heavy rotation, and trust me on this one, you'll never know what that Sussudio song is talking about.

Sometimes I wish the sun would just explode

2005-11-11T07:35:00.000-08:00

The human experience is filled with irony. Not just filled with it, it is irony. It's like rain.

We reach some kind of fantastic pinnacle when we are at our dumbest, and nowhere is that point more beautifully illustrated than in the story of Lawnchair Larry.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawnchair_Larry

When I think about mankind advancing I go back to one of Newton's laws. Something about an equal and opposite reaction. We push forward and something pushes back, usually other people. The people pushing forward are the brilliant minds, the exceptional few, the preternaturally gifted. The people doing the pushing back are the masses. I'm pushing back. Hard.

I'm not exceptional. Because of that I thought I would never win in this world. I was looking at things all wrong. My teammates are the retarded and we are growing in numbers everyday.

Some genius invented the television, or the internet, or the DVD and it was good. But in doing so he unwittingly created a multitude of enemies. The unexecptional began cloning themselves the instant the TV came into this world. We're billions strong and pushing back. Harder every day. More retarder with every new mind-numbing invention. Eventually the stupid will overwhelm the establishment. We'll storm the goddamn palace. We'll have a township rebellion all up in this planet.

I am just a shock troop in the coming wave of de-evolution

The Velocity of Me

2005-11-08T08:55:00.000-08:00

I was thinking about Newton and those laws he was always talking about. That got me to thinking. A lot of the things that we accept as laws of physics affect other things besides apples. A body in motion. A body at rest. An apple bouncing off somebody's melon.

We can fall out of the tree in the same way. But to me we seem to fall much slower. Think about somebody who drifts away from the spaceship in a cheesy science fiction movie. He reaches out for the other guys hand but comes up just short. Then he sort of floats off into the abyss, usually waiving his arms around pointlessly. Then there's probably a closeup of his face inside his bulbous little space helmet. His mouth will be wide open and we are treated to a muffled "nooooooooooo...." while he drifts further and further away, probably wondering to himself what the Hell he was doing messing around in space to begin with.

It's the little things that make us fall though and I'm tired. I'm tired of ironing my clothes. I'm tired of sitting there running this hot iron around on some wrinkly pants and thinking to myself "what's the purpose of this?" I don't give a damn if my clothes are wrinkled, but if I stopped ironing them something bad would happen. I would have crossed some kind of line and the world would have no choice but to punish me for it. Not directly though. No the world is set up too cleverly for that.

People would look at my wrinkliness day in and day out and it would eat at them. Instead of shrugging it off and minding their own goddamn business they'd start thinking about it. Eventually a couple of them would get together and talk about it. Then before you know it there would be some giant tribunal in some secret location. Without me ever knowing, my fate would be sealed.

You have to iron your clothes even though you don't give a damn about wrinkles. Even though you hate doing it. Even though it's the stupidest thing you could possibly be doing with your time on this planet.

At least you aren't in space somewhere.

One finger left and it's pointed at the door

2005-11-04T11:03:00.000-08:00

Last night I saw a grown man hunched over in a chair with his eyes barely open. There was a long string of drool hanging from his bottom lip and I'll be damed if it wasn't on it's way to reaching his lap. His damn lap! That is one helluva drool.

I guess I should have helped or something before he fell out of his chair, but maybe when something like that is about to happen all you can do is laugh. This tragic human comedy of ours. People drooling. People falling out of chairs.

The only thing that could have made it all funnier would have been a loud, wet fart hurtling backwards through time from some place in the future and melting both our faces off. Raiders of the lost ark Nazi style.

A storm is coming, a storm that will swallow the children. And I will deliver them from the kingdom of pain, I will deliver the children back the their doorsteps and send the monsters back to the underground. I'll send them back to a place where no-one else can see them except for me. Because I am Donnie Darko.

If they fall off, they fall off, but it's bad if you say anything to them

2005-11-02T08:17:00.000-08:00

I think Walt was right with his theory. The religious life, and all the agony that goes with it, is just something God sics on people who have the gall to accuse Him of having created an ugly world.

Thinking about that a little bit last night. Then off the wagon I fell.

It's easy to fall. Hell, anybody can do it. It's hard to get back up. Am I the guy in the PG-13 movie that everybody hopes *really* makes it happen, or the guy in the rated R movie? The guy you're not sure whether or not you like yet. You're not sure where he's coming from.

I'm a bad man, Mikey. I'm a bad man.

I've got me some thinkin' to do.

I don't know what I did last summer

2005-11-01T10:51:00.000-08:00

This summer was a really blurry one. In my relentless pursuit of perfection I once again enlisted the aid of pharmaceuticals, illicit powders and strong drink. A hard working bunch they are, and they were getting the job done like you wouldn't believe. But then a strange thing happened. They turned on me. Ungrateful lot. They took advantage of my friendship, patronage really, and turned on me like a pack of starving wolves intent on tearing me apart.

What was next? Could I just turn my back on them now after all these years and grab the reigns myself for the first time in my life? A scary proposition, but I couldn't see any other way. Too many strange days and weird nights had all started to run together. It's like a retarded kid was fingerpainting my life in wide, meaningless strokes. I could barely get out of bed sometimes. Sometimes I couldn't go to sleep. I felt wrecked and depressed because of the very things I turned to when I had felt wrecked and depressed in the past. What did it all mean?

Screw it. It stops here.

That sounded too ambitious. It starts stopping here.

It's gonna take encouragement and it's gonna take inspiration. I'm looking for both.

For instance, did you know that Whitney Houston's debut LP, called simply Whitney Houston had 4 number one singles on it? It's hard to choose a favorite among so many great tracks, but "The Greatest Love of All" is one of the best, most powerful songs ever written about self-preservation and dignity. Its universal message crosses all boundaries and instills one with the hope that it's not too late to better ourselves. Since it's impossible in this world we live in to empathize with others, we can always empathize with ourselves. It's an important message; crucial really. And it's beautifully stated on the album.

Gentlemen... Stop your intellects

2005-10-31T17:10:00.000-08:00

Pearl has inspired me. Like a Mexican in a portable toilet I will launch myself into this blogging endeavor. And let me tell you, it's about time. All these blogs out there are nice and all but I've noticed a disturbing lack of me in each and every one of them. Frankly that just ain't gonna cut the spicy brown.

For this thing to be candid, it's going to have to have an NC-17 rating for past drug usage and graphic stupidity. I can't stress that aspect enough: graphic, full-frontal stupidity.

Start the insanity.