I didn’t really care who won the Super Bowl as long as it wasn’t the Patriots.
I’m a Green Bay Packers fan and I figure whoever can go to the frozen wonderland that is Curly Lambeau Field in late January and beat the Packers in their own house is hungry enough to eat whatever the Patriots might be serving.
The day after the Patriots baa-lew the Super Bowl I chatted about the game with my buddy Johnny B. Johnny B. was just as happy about the Giants win as I was, but was a touch apprehensive about the consequences of a New York win.
Johnny B. was worried that the win might give the normally meek and mild New Yorkers some sort of chip on their shoulders.
I told him not to worry. The thing you have got to remember is that the New York Giants home field is in New Jersey. Matter of fact the Jets home field is in New Jersey too. How can you get too cocky when you have to go to New Jersey to have fun?
I also pointed out that the Jets now have ex-Nebraska head coach Bill Callahan running their offense. Other than setting a league record for delay of game penalties I don’t think Jets fans or the city of New York is going to be very happy about what happens with the Jets.
The Mets are another burden the poor people of New York must carry. The Mets suck, the Yankees are pure evil in pinstripes, and the Knicks can only get into a playoff game if they buy a ticket. I don’t really think the New York fans have that much to cheer about when you get right down to the facts.
Speaking of basketball Johnny B. was very excited about seeing Nebraska play Texas Tech. First of all I was a little surprised to hear that the University of Nebraska still had a basketball team.
Actually the big draw for Johnny B. was watching Bobby Knight in action, but Knight quit before the game. Johnny B. was depressed about not getting to see the three-ring-flying-circus that is Bobby Knight. To make my buddy feel better I threw a chair at him and yelled in his face that he was an idiot who needed glass.
I think it helped a little but it wasn’t the same as actually being there.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The Original Dave Chapelle
I am the original David Chapelle. If you’re expecting me to be a tall, bald, and successful stand up comic ... you’re in the wrong place. Sorry. I am a short and fuzzy man who dances like a middle aged white guy. Saddest of all is that I’ve danced like a middle aged white guy since I was ten years old. The pain of being seen dancing like that hasn’t lessened now that I am a middle-aged white guy.
If you happen to be a fan of the other guy and think he’d like a call from you at three o’clock in the morning ... I’m betting you’re wrong. If you’re calling a number outside of the LA area code you’re totally screwed. If you insist on getting baked and calling any Dave Chapelle you can find I’m totally screwed.
The other guy’s name is spelled Chappelle by the way.
My favorite phone call to date was the guy who called up and asked me to say ‘I’m Rick James bitch!’ It was a birthday gift for his thirteen year old son. I did my best to explain I wasn’t the right Dave Chapelle but he insisted it didn’t matter. He said he had promised his kid Dave Chappelle was going to say ‘I’m Rick James bitch!’ and I was close enough to good to suit him. “He won’t know the difference,” was Dad’s rationale.
Even if Dad was okay with this I was having issues with this plan. First there was the issue of impersonating a famous person. Second, there were possible problems arising from impersonating a famous black person. Last but not least I seemed to be having some problems with calling a thirteen year old kid ‘bitch’. I sighed deeply wondering if I was going to get a good seat on the bus to hell. I told Dad if I went to hell for this I was blaming him.
I told him to hand the phone over to the birthday boy.
The kid came on the phone and said, in a hesitant thirteen year old voice, “Dave?”
“No,” I said, doing my best not to sound either disrespectful or like the whitest guy on the planet. “I’m Rick James bitch!”
I could hear the sound of the phone being dropped and the screams of merriment and laughing in the background. “He said it! He said it!” The kid was chanting. “It was him! It was really him!”
Dad picked up the phone again. “Thanks man,” he said, “You rock!”
I’m a Dad too so I can understand wanting to get your child that perfect present. So if any of you happen to have a number for Paris Hilton please share. Not for my daughter ... it’s for me. I have a thing for tall, skinny, rich girls and I do have a birthday coming up.
If you happen to be a Dave Chappelle groupie, the other guy, and want to leave him a message do please call and leave it on our answering machine between the hours of 8:00 a.m. – 4:00 p.m. so you don’t wake anybody up. It’s always so much fun trying to decipher messages from stoners with a cell phone.
If you happen to be a fan of the other guy and think he’d like a call from you at three o’clock in the morning ... I’m betting you’re wrong. If you’re calling a number outside of the LA area code you’re totally screwed. If you insist on getting baked and calling any Dave Chapelle you can find I’m totally screwed.
The other guy’s name is spelled Chappelle by the way.
My favorite phone call to date was the guy who called up and asked me to say ‘I’m Rick James bitch!’ It was a birthday gift for his thirteen year old son. I did my best to explain I wasn’t the right Dave Chapelle but he insisted it didn’t matter. He said he had promised his kid Dave Chappelle was going to say ‘I’m Rick James bitch!’ and I was close enough to good to suit him. “He won’t know the difference,” was Dad’s rationale.
Even if Dad was okay with this I was having issues with this plan. First there was the issue of impersonating a famous person. Second, there were possible problems arising from impersonating a famous black person. Last but not least I seemed to be having some problems with calling a thirteen year old kid ‘bitch’. I sighed deeply wondering if I was going to get a good seat on the bus to hell. I told Dad if I went to hell for this I was blaming him.
I told him to hand the phone over to the birthday boy.
The kid came on the phone and said, in a hesitant thirteen year old voice, “Dave?”
“No,” I said, doing my best not to sound either disrespectful or like the whitest guy on the planet. “I’m Rick James bitch!”
I could hear the sound of the phone being dropped and the screams of merriment and laughing in the background. “He said it! He said it!” The kid was chanting. “It was him! It was really him!”
Dad picked up the phone again. “Thanks man,” he said, “You rock!”
I’m a Dad too so I can understand wanting to get your child that perfect present. So if any of you happen to have a number for Paris Hilton please share. Not for my daughter ... it’s for me. I have a thing for tall, skinny, rich girls and I do have a birthday coming up.
If you happen to be a Dave Chappelle groupie, the other guy, and want to leave him a message do please call and leave it on our answering machine between the hours of 8:00 a.m. – 4:00 p.m. so you don’t wake anybody up. It’s always so much fun trying to decipher messages from stoners with a cell phone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)