Monday, February 23, 2009

I'd Like To Thank The Academy...

For nothing.

How dare those pompous assholes not even nominate Bruce Springsteen's brilliant title song from The Wrestler? (Have they no ears?) While also robbing Mickey Rourke of a Best Actor statuette... (Have they no eyes?) He wore a locket with a photo of his deceased chihuahua, for chrissake! (Have they no dogs?) A locket! His chihuahua! Have you no heart, Oscar?

The least you can do, Academy Member, is watch Bruce's official video below and realize how insignificant you truly are:


Friday, February 20, 2009

What I'm Currently Beating Off To

The woman across the street

A mannequin torso I found in the trash near Macy's

An oddly sexy stuffed bunny plush toy

The woman on the Q-Tips package in my medicine chest

An autographed headshot of BJ McKay and his best friend, Bear

A women's sock I found at the gym

Page 26 of Garnet Hill's spring catalog

You, dear reader (that's right, I'm watching you right now—Johnny's always watching you)

The memory of the waitress who served me last weekend at Outback Steakhouse

The memory of the porterhouse steak I ate last weekend at Outback Steakhouse

The Bible
(an out-of-print bisexually-themed erotic magazine)

The buxom cartoon brunette on the can of La Bella San Marzano Italian Plum Peeled Tomatoes

Reruns of Who's The Boss?

The February 1986 issue of McCall's magazine, featuring "Special Wedding & Valentine Crochet Patterns"

A PVC pipe lined with grease (oops, wrong list—that's what I'm currently beating off into)

The not-even-remotely attractive spokeswoman in the commercials for my Tri-State Lexus dealer

A sweaty towel Alec Baldwin left behind at yesterday's spinning class

Your mom

The trailer to the new Wonder Woman feature-length cartoon

The redheaded girl I followed home from the subway (if you're reading this...I can still smell your hair)

My reflection in the computer screen

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

"Fuck You And Your Faggy Dog" Or How To Insult A Man Walking A Poodle

Johnny's said some bad things in his lifetime. One need only look back at my last post. Sometimes what's said is justified, sometimes it's not.

Then there's the other night.

Johnny's out for a leisurely stroll on Riverside Drive with his perrito. We're minding our own business, sniffing here and pissing there. A nerdly-looking man approaches, walking an enormous white poodle.

The fluffy poodle is wearing red leggings, nay knee-highs, on each of her long, spindly legs.

As they pass us, mi perrito, Spanish Doggy, pulls—not at all aggressively—toward the poodle. I gently tug him back. The poodle's owner, in an absolute panic, retreats with his poodle up onto the steps of the nearby brownstone.

"Sorry..." I casually say, thinking, "God, you're a pussy."

Still cowering, he says, "Control your fucking dog!"

Whoa. Hold on a minute, sir. "Excuse me? Does he look like he was going to attack you?" Cut to my chocolate lab's dopey smile, tongue hanging down to the sidewalk, tail wagging like a hummingbird's wings. "Take it easy."

He shakes his head and walks past us, muttering at the last second, "Fuckhead..."

My head explodes.

I turn and chase after them. "Did you just call me fuckhead!?!"

He ignores me, quickening his pace.

I follow suit. "Keep walking, dick!" I yell, channeling my inner 7th-grader, immediately wishing I had come up with something better.

He crosses the street, hurling one last comment my way: "Douche..."


Witnesses may claim to have seen steam coming out of my ears, but it most likely was coming from the nearby manhole cover. Still, I officially lose it. "FUCK YOU AND YOUR FAGGY DOG!" I scream.

Now, there's an insult.

Four Latino men, hurriedly loading a large covered object into a parked van, stare at me, eyes wide. Though I can't be sure, I think one of them whispered, "Es el diablo..." while motioning the sign of the cross.

Not my proudest moment. But, surely this asshole deserved it. Up until that moment, I always made a point to avoid confrontation in the neighborhood because I knew I'd see those same people again and again. (I treat parking similarly. Never fight over a parking space because if you "win," the loser knows exactly where you parked and will no doubt come back later and key your car.) But, this guy set me off with the potent one-two combination of 'fuckhead' and 'douche.'

Predictably, I did see him again a couple days later—with his male partner! They live in the building next door! (Which happens to be the same building where Tina Fey's character in 30 Rock resides.) Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I've really done it now. What might've once been simply labeled sociopathic behavior was now a bona fide hate crime. Goddamn those queens and their fluffy show poodle!

Oh, no... Did I just do it again?

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Johnny’s Guide To Valentine’s Day: 20 Things Not To Give Your Wife Or Girlfriend

A stapler
Mr. Belvedere: Seasons 1 & 2 on DVD
A black eye
A black guy
A 5 lb. bag of all-purpose flour
A weekend trip to Gary, Indiana
A porcelain rendering of your cock and balls by artist Jeff Koons
Mustard packets
A subscription to Wirtschaftswoche, a Lutheran-affiliated German business weekly
An envelope filled with your fingernail clippings
An 8 ft. x 6 ft. poplar storage shed
A Little Tikes Easy Score Basketball Hoop
A bag of frozen peas
Lo-res video of you blowing another dude
Hi-res video of you blowing another dude
An old pill bottle filled with pennies
A hive of killer Africanized bees
A beautiful blue Tiffany box with nothing in it

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

2009 Grammys: Coldplay Wins For Best Costumes

It was a big night for effete rockers Coldplay at Sunday's Grammy Awards. In addition to Best Costumes, they also picked up awards for Biggest Assholes, Most Authentically British Teeth and Best U2 Cover Band.

A common misperception: The award for Biggest Assholes doesn't necessarily go to the biggest douchebags, dickwads or dillweeds of the prior year—it goes to the artist or band who literally have the biggest assholes, circumference-wise. Since the measure is also aggregate (i.e., the total sum of the anal perimeter of each band member's individual asshole), you'd think a larger band like the Vienna Boys' Choir would win every year, right? But, remember: They're just boys, so their assholes are very small in diameter and circumference. Unlike the sizable assholes of Coldplay, who coincidentally also happen to be assholes in the more traditional sense.

Did you happen to catch frontman Chris Martin's kids, Apple and Moses, off to the side of the stage with mom Gwyneth during their performance? Like any responsible parent, mom had them wearing ear plugs to protect their ears—not because their father's music was too loud, but rather because it was so bad.

Speaking of misperceptions, let me also state that the Grammys need to change their name. It is grossly misleading. Was I the only one expecting a show featuring the hottest and most talented Grandmas of the past year? I was? Really?

I suppose next you'll tell me the Latin Grammys have nothing to do with Latino abuelas...

Friday, February 6, 2009

There's No Porn Like Found Porn

Believe it or not, there once was a time when accessing pornography was not as easy as typing in You used to have to go to the store to buy it. The store! Sounds crazy, right? "Buy" is not entirely accurate, as more often than not, we'd steal it. I know what you're thinking: Yes, I was awesome.

I rationalized my thievery then and I'll rationalize it now:
(A) We were just kids—thus we had no money
(B) Even if we did, we were too young to buy porn
(C) Have you ever bought porn at a store? It's embarrassing!

Especially if the person behind the counter is female. And gave birth to you. And is featured in the magazine you're buying. (Mom Snatch?) Once, before a flight to L.A., I decided to buy some air-porn, i.e., airport porn. I waited until no one was in line and shamefully handed the Middle-Eastern woman behind the counter my selection. (Penthouse Forum—the choices were very limited. Good luck finding quality porn like Over 40 and its rarely published sister, Over 50, at an airport.) Sure enough, the credit card machine stopped working halfway through the transaction, as a mom (over 30) and her two kids lined up behind me. I smiled feebly at them for the next three minutes—her eyes burning a hole in my head, mine imagining her sans clothes.

Back to my original point: Stealing wasn't the only way to get porn back in those pre-Internet days. There was another way. A magical way. I'm not kidding, either. Every few weeks, we'd walk down the path that led into the woods near our North Jersey (like you're surprised) neighborhood, fingers crossed. Goddamn, if there wasn't a new porn magazine hidden under some rocks off to the side every time. Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, as well as some of the less common stuff like High Society or Juggs. Always a little wrinkled from the rain, pages stuck together (also from the rain, my twelve-year old self thought).

It was like there was some awesome perverted teenager leaving it there for us. Or more likely, some sick middle-aged middle manager. Our Patron Saint of Cock. Granted, he was probably hiding in the woods, beating off to us looking at his "donations." Who cares? We had free porn! God bless him. The world needs more angels like him. Because let me tell ya, there aren't many things better than finding porn when you're a kid on the cusp of puberty.

* * *

Or a 37-year old male on the cusp of forty.

You can imagine my surprise—and delight—a few nights back when I stumbled upon a couple pornographic magazines while walking my dog in Riverside Park. We both cocked our heads to the side, thinking, "Really...?" I looked more closely: Oui magazine (they still publish that?) and one of those bundled supplements consisting of 20 pages of ads for 900 #'s (featuring way too many with the headline, "Live She-Male Waiting For Your Call!")

They were off to the side of the path, on the edge of the grass, as wrinkled and damp as the ones from my childhood. (I'm talking about the magazines, sicko!)

Naturally, I picked them up. And brought them home.

As soon as I walked through the door, I thought, Oh Shit. What if there was a hidden camera? Or people hiding behind the trees filming to see which pervert walking through the park will pick up the porn. Fuck, I was that pervert! I would be on YouTube and the 5 o'clock news the next day. The press would be merciless. ("Park Porn Pervert," they'd label me.) My mom would feel shame the likes of which she hasn't felt since she was featured in the March 1982 issue of Mom Snatch.

Fortunately, none of this has happened. Yet. Perhaps the porn was left by the same wonderful pervert who left all that wonderful porn all those years ago. If so, thank you, kind sir. You once again gave me the gift of porn. And I, once I got back to my apartment, felt the thrill of holding an actual pornographic magazine in my hand for two glorious, unseemly minutes.

There's low and then there's being 37-years-old-and-sitting-in-an-empty-bathtub-holding-a-damp-and-wrinkled-found-porn-magazine-after-pleasuring-yourself low.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. You filthy fucking animal. I wiped away the tears and smudged eyeliner and threw the magazines in the trash, carefully tearing out one of the ads for the she-males.

Even Johnny gets lonely sometimes.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Items On The Olympic Flame Diner (60th & Amsterdam) Menu That Sound Like Sex Acts

Mexican Omellette
Double Egg Sandwich
Salami & Eggs, Pancake Style
Melon With Cottage Cheese
Warm Taco Salad
Tossed Salad (ineligible—already is a sex act)
Oriental Tuna Salad
Authentic Greek Souvlaki Sandwich
The Clamwich
Beef Gyro On Pita
Penne With Sausage In Creamy White Wine Sauce
Norwegian Salmon
Banana Cream Pie