regularguysarchive

HUNTER THOMPSON IS NOT DEAD

(from 2/22/05)

I swear I didn't dream this because my family says they saw it too. Just a block away from home, coming from the ice cream joint, a woman is practically standing in the middle of the street. She seems stunned. She screams at our car. I stop. My wife recognizes her.

"I'm a dog, slow down," she screams at us.

But I was not going fast, she was merely struggling across the road. My wife says hello. The woman offers us a sticky apple from a tray of them she is holding. She is wearing pajamas and slippers. Upon closer inspection, her eyes reveal a "woman with a tray of sticky apples caught in the headlights" look. This is beyond drunk.

My wife asks her what she's doing with a tray full of sticky apples in the middle of the road at 9pm.

"I'm a dog, I'm a dog, I'm wearing black," she screams. Thanks for the apples, but no.

We zoom off toward the house. Phone calls to neighbors yield no clues. I swear I didn't dream this.

A great way to get a cheap, nutritious, and filling snack at the supermarket is to purchase a fresh-baked loaf of whole grain, sliced bread. Then you must proceed to the deli counter and order a pound of 3 or 4 different meats and cheeses. Usually a sample is offered so the customer can inspect for the correct thickness. If not, demand one with an intellectual seriousness on your face that proves you are a discerning customer and will purchase no deli that doesn't meet rigid taste and slicing standards. Take resulting sample and slap it on a slice of aforementioned bread. Repeat for each meat or cheese. That oughta hold ya until dinner.

Then the lady at the supermarket checkout asks me if I'm horny. I look around to see if anyone else has caught this. She is overweight and unattractive. Her most prominent feature being a hair-sprouting mole on her cheek, if you like that sort of thing. I start to react negatively, partly out of surprise and partly out of disappointment that it wasn't the sexy cashier one aisle over who'd be a complete knockout if it weren't for her Arsenio-like gums and tiny teeth. But she's pointing at my half-eaten loaf of bread and repeats in her Spanglish, "Arrre yu hoongree?" Only if you have some sticky apples.

MOUNTAIN CHURCH

(from 2/19/05)

While I was away, a reader who goes by the name of Jeff emailed me this:

Larry, this may be the funniest headline I've ever read. You should be able to take this and run with it.

Navy to commission attack sub Jimmy Carter

What's it going to do, sneak up on an enemy destroyer and build it a home? Ahh...forget it. Best to leave it up to the professionals...

Jeff

I don't know, Jeff. That's a funny line. The only difference between "professionals" and non, is that the professionals are just people who, like yourself, have a good sense of humor, but don't really give a shit about what others think. So, you're halfway there. When you stop caring, you'd be surprised where your mind will take you. Look at the people who named the sub. They know Jimmy Carter is a coward and a joke of a president, but they name a fighter sub after him anyway. Why? Because they care waaaaay too much how it may look to fans of that wrinkled shit peanut and his whole Tom Joad trashneck family. Do you think any of the soldiers aboard the Sub Named Carter will perform their missions with any degree of confidence now that the bureaucracy has put a "torpedo me, please" sign on their backs? Nuh-nuh.  But they'll say nothing because they are professional soldiers not entertainers. Find the guy who gets dishonorably discharged for insubordination after decorating the inside of the sub with photoshopped snaps of Amy Carter getting sodomized by Uncle Billy in a barn, and sign him to a sitcom development deal. There's your man.

I was also pleased to read last week that the maker of my computer fired their she-CEO. I was happy for her husband and children who can now enjoy a nutritious, hot home-cooked meal for a change. And what a company she ran! Now when I run out of ink on my printer, I buy a new printer. They're the exact same price. Either the ink is over-priced or the printers suck. I think it's both. She had to go.

I'm still a skeptic when it comes to women in business. It's slightly awkward at best, much like when my mom defended my cock size a few years ago. Yeah, my brother and I were insulting each other as brothers do, and he made a remark suggesting that my genitals were smaller than the norm. In my defense, my mother said she always thought mine was rather big. Her heart was in the right place, but it was weird. 

I was at a business meeting for some radio advertising a couple of years ago and there were two other men and a woman in the room. I had met all previously. The men shook my hand and the woman insisted on a hug. A hug! A grasp of another person in an intimate embrace where the bosoms and crotches get dangerously close? Yes, a hug! What possible legitimate business purpose could this have? For the really big mergers, why not a deep soul kiss with lots of tongue and petting for 5 minutes in a closet? I hugged her back, but she really lost any trace of business credibility she may have had as a female executive. The faces of every male in the room everytime she spoke said, "Go home and bake, ya hormone." And my mind drifted to thoughts of the welfare of her motherless children, and her hapless husband and how they were coping with this woman's inability to face reality.

The reality on the slopes of the Soviet Socialist Republic of Vail, CO, is that their on-going bogus campaign about safe skiing is a lawyer's wet dream.

In liberal sissyland, Vail, CO, the buses run on natural gas, and the ride is free, because, as we all know, if the people of the sprawling 4 square miles of Vail, CO, year-round population of about 5, didn't watch themselves, the impact on the environment would be catastrophic! A bobcat might move to another state or die! So a human is inconvenienced or gets killed. Whatever. As a great female leader once said, "We're going to take things away from you on behalf of the common good."

And due to that sort of thinking, the reality is that in Berkeley of the Mountains, Vail, Cee-Oh, if they actually cared about humans getting killed on the mountain rather than trees and bunnies, they'd have armed patrolmen on the slopes ready to wisk away these asshole snowboarders and the guy who skiied right over the back of my skis at about 40 MPH while I was standing still. But they don't. They have the "Ski Patrol" which has all the muscle of retired UN delegates. Imagine how much more you'd drink at a bar knowing that the only DUI enforcement between your car and home was a 64-year old guy with a fanny pack and a walkie talkie. So an aggrieved skiier has to chase the culprit all the way down the mountain himself, risking more life and limb, and shocking families by yelling at the top of his lungs, "Ski on me? I'll kill you, motherfucker."

It was the wrong guy. He calmly said, "Oooh nuuu, It was not me, friend," in his swedish hooshygurdyburdy accent. I wasn't sure now. I did lose him for a second during the chase because of his 100 yard head start. And who calmly calls a screaming lunatic "friend" when said loon is right in his face? Plus, this guy was struggling to stay up on his rentals.

"Really? Uh..well. Sorry for threatening your life. But make sure you don't ski on top of people."

I should have pulled his jacket over his head and smashed him in the mouth till the snow reddened anyway, just to send a message to all the skiers, and especially those faggot snowboarders who I'd like to kill just for being born: DON'T BE AN ALPINE DOUCHEBAG!

I was so disappointed that I couldn't rightfully beat him to a crimson pulp, so jacked up on the adrenaline of the chase, that I went back up the lift to look for fresh outrages. I finally spotted a 16 year-old girl who fell down after trying a jump she saw on TV. I laughed and threw her poles deep into the woods. Best ski day ever.

Here's an item from a Vail grocery store. For only 4 bucks, you too can have a sample of the good healthy lifestyle of a woman who died at age 56. And then there was the 40-something bimbo on the lift who told me that she doesn't eat anything that has a mother. We have a lot in common, because, as I told her, I don't eat anything that is a mother.

I love skiing, and Vail has the best in the country, but let's be honest. That place is not a ski resort. It's a giant outdoor church. Our Lady of Granola, serving it's flock of Environmental Methodists for 40 years.

BREAKING UP IS EASY TO DO

(from 1/13/05)

Gay porn actor Brad Pitt, and his lovely publicity partner Jennifer Anniston have called it quits. This is news? Two self-absorbed, wealthy, pampered liberals, who partied away their fertilizers years ago breaking up? Send a reporter when any of these marriages stay together for more than 7 years.

Well, if it's news, it's good news. They didn't last long enough to name a child after a piece of fruit or a stoner friend.

I shudder now when I see Hollywood celebrities tie the knot, knowing how the government has given two emotional cripples license to team up for twice the havoc.  Then when they show on the E! Channel or People or InTouch how they've reproduced, I cry for those children. They're doomed. Apple, Rumer, Scout, Blanket, the whole bunch of 'em.  DOOMED! And these are just the white kids. The exception could be Blanket. Things are working out swell for him.  No wonder the libs favor abortion. I would too if I knew how poor a parent I was.

It would be a great idea if government child welfare agencies were required by law to keep 10 year archives of Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood episodes, and subscriptions to all the major tabloids and gossip magazines. Michael Jackson would have been stopped before he really got started on his 3-nation boy-blowing tour. The only reason he's being caught now is that he snitched on himself in that documentary. Good.

I'd like to see the divorce rate amongst wealthy democrat/liberals. it must be astronomical. These are the same folks who are in favor of gay marriage only because they feel guilty about how lousy they screw up their own.

"Well, hetereosexuals aren't so good at marriage either," and they snarkily quote the 50% statistic for divorce in this country to anyone who dares have a challenging argument against gay marriage. I'm not so sure that 50% divorce rate that is accepted by people as gospel is entirely accurate in regards to the real problems of marriage in the US. It smells like spin. Like when the feminists used to trot out those ridiculous wife-beating statistics 10 years ago about how a woman is beaten every 12 seconds in this country. Isn't it adequate to say, "Don't beat women?" Do you have to make stuff up?

I'll bet if you examined the 50% statistic, you'd find that the divorce rate sinks dramatically when you filter out Coastal Democrats earning millions per year. Maybe they live together so much without bothering to marry that the divorce rate for them seems to be lower, because there is no stat for "packing up and moving out in the middle of the night."

This from Powerline blog may shed some light on what I'm talking about. Twisting statistics to show moral superiority of blue over red states. All corellation and no cause.

One obvious problem with the divorce numbers is that they are calculated not as a percentage of marriages, but as a percentage of the population. Thus states like Massachusetts and New York, which have low rates of marriage, show up with similarly low rates of divorce. [This suggests an obvious analogy: if a country has a low birth rate, it will inevitably, some years thereafter, have a low death rate, as well; but this does not mean that it is a safe place to live.] If we calculate divorces as a percentage of marriages, which seems more reasonable, there is no correlation between blue states and red states at all, let alone a 50% increase in divorces in the Bible belt. So this appears to be yet another liberal canard with no basis in fact.

Enough of the "red-state/blue-state" thing, by the way. That's for people who further want to confuse the point that, except for 6 states in the NE, the whole freakin' country is red. Even NY and Cali are largely RED. More like a red country/blue fingertip that needs to be saved by surgeons or cut off.

They need to look at the voting county by county. The leeches in the cities happen to have more people is all.  Divorce is a product of poor laws on the books, such as no-fault divorce, mixing with scattered districts of irresponsible people, not what state it's in.

What we really need is less of these large national abstracts, and more studies by the CDC and the Census Bureau to tell us what the divorce rate is in Brad and Jen's zip code. That's news!

YOU STAIN MUCH? OH AT LEAST ANOTHER WEEK, I RECKON

(from 12/13/04)

Is it at all possible that when sending me a Hanumas greeting card, you could refrain from eating while preparing the envelope?

This is ridiculous, now. Two different greeting cards that I've received, 50% of the total, have revealed some sort of food stain on the adhesive portion of the envelope. Either don't snack during card time, buy self-stick envelopes, or cleanse yourself before sealing the envelope. But this current situation is untenable. It's the complete opposite to the holiday wishes you intend.

"I wish you the happiest of holidays and a terrific 2005, now please touch my chewed food."

That's what you're saying! Enough. Stop it or I'll cancel Christmas.

Not even a complete lack of chewed food on a bumper sticker I saw today could make me hate the owner of the vehicle less. On a white, expensive SUV it read, "Well-Behaved Women Don't Make History."

The fact of the matter is, honey buns, you might make history as the first well-behaved woman since they started getting out of hand in the 1920s. Might be a refreshing change. Celebrate some women who understand their roles in life without getting a bruising. If the woman who drives this vehicle was as outrageously blunt and radical as she thinks she is, she'd put up a sticker that says, "I Sucked a Lot of Cock to Get This Vehicle and I Don't Intend to Stop."

Barring that, calm down, lady. The only kind of history you're headed for is the Laci Peterson type.

WEDNESDAY AT LARRY'S

(from 11/10/04)

On my deathbed, I will regret today. Sat on my ass all day until I decided to get some things done starting at 5:30pm. It may not mean much now, but just you wait until the day comes when the Lipitor runs out and there I am with my final thoughts wishing I had tried a little harder.

Still in shock from a Fallujah-like assault on my finances at a poker game the night before, I was awoken by the housekeepers at the enterprising, but too early hour of 7am. My wife's Spanish-English dictionary must be in the shop because it seems to be missing the words for "come later." By the time my mid-sleep boner had subsided so I could go downstairs and answer the door without anyone pressing charges or writing a letter to Penthouse, Irma and Maria were knocking at both of my doors but not in the sexy sense, just the annoying sense. "Goodfellas". Both of them. The Scorsese/Pileggi Commentary w/ Marty and Nick bores with the dry technical filmmaking craft discussion. The Henry Hill and The Fed Who Caught Him Commentary is much more compelling as it talks about the life almost exclusively.

I like the fact that Henry Hill and the Fed Who Caught Him are having a lot of laughs reminiscing. The whole thing worked out. Every character on the screen is dead except Henry. Henry is the special mobster with the golden ticket who perservered to win the Federal Chocolate Factory. It's the softer side of the Witness Protection Program that we don't often hear about in the media except when Montel does a show about criminals who marry their jailers.

My wife calls to see if I want lunch in bed, god bless her enabling little heart. I'm too hungry to go to sleep, but too tired to eat. It's a situation that's somewhere in the Catch-20s, but I know it's not 22. Without my wife, I likely would have been found by police later, dehydrated and starved in a pool of my own making.

With 4 hours plus dead and in the can, I try to catch some news updates on the Internet from all the stupid, inbred, red state, moron, redneck, stupid, inbred, fundamentalist, stupid, inbred, lowlife websites I've bookmarked in my "Favorites" folder that IE calls it. So gay. They're not my favorites, they are of interest. Why do websites need a self-esteem boost? "sore losers who think we're idiots and want to move to Canada or kill themselves" stories are getting a little stale. Yay! America won and others are miserable. Double yay! Now let's get some judges in there who like the death penalty and men marrying ladies.

But this Arafat dead/not dead farce gets my interest. Why do we fear people who fight a global war by imitating Abe Vigoda? Do we really have to fear people who flock to France for innovative, emergency, life-saving technology? Come on, people! Game almost over in the Mideast. Four years from now, the whole region, re-named Palestein by the upscale glittery people who thought up Soho, will be the hot vacation spot for all the big rock stars and models and the rock stars who have been with models who taped it on a home video that got stolen somehow. Vegas East. Atlantic City is a dive.

There's only one way for Arafat to go while saving face for the Palestinians. Strap a bomb on him. Let the great leader Arafat, the man who put the PAL in Palestine, be forever remembered as the world's first assisted suicide bombing.

"Yassir, he took one for the team," his fans will say. I can live with that.

Bad news: According to the Palestinian Foreign Minister, "euthanasia has been ruled out," for Arafat. I think what happened here is the reporter misinterpreted the Foreign Minister's comments. He wasn't referring to mercy killing, but the fact that the PLO would not be using "youth in Asia" for their bombing missions. Youth in Palestine will still be strapping on, however.

After lunch in bed, my lovely surprises me with a DVD of "Envy" starring Jack Black during "scraping the bottom of the activity barrel" week here at the Wachs Compound--Alpharetta. I like Jack Black, but not Envy. I think this movie adds to the mounting evidence for my new pet theory, "The Myth of Liberal Superiority in the Arts."

But I'm glad I watched this low alpha wave presentation, because I learned something that made me proud. Just when times are tough and you have to claw and scratch for your place whilst every other piece of shit excuse for entertainment is getting bought and sold like it's on the Pukewagon coming through Flytown, know this. There are just some things you won't do if you have to suck on another man's cock to accomplish them.

Hi! We're liberals. We lose elections and make lousy films. You're too stupid to catch on."

UPDATE! Arafat officially deemed dead. Who knew? Ding dong! At least Ringo is still around if you like that sort of thing.

CRAPPY JOBS

(from 10/25/04)

Congrats to the Atlanta newspaper and their recent article on local bathroom valets called "Bathroom Valets." Is that Pulitzer I smell? Or did the plumbing back up?

These are the upscale squeegee guys who get tipped for doing chores that I can do fine myself. They work in a market of sympathy and embarrassment.

Even I have tipped them in the past, but it was on the assumption that they needed an operation to fix their obviously malfunctioning olfactory organs. Not even the corner homeless advertise "Will smell your farts for food," on their handcrafted signs.

I'm always tempted to ask if one will wipe my ass for me in order to test how far they will go for a buck, but I always resist out of the desire not to take a man's last shred of dignity and the fear that he might consent. Attention club owners! If you really want to do everyone a favor, put a female attendant in the men's room.

The article takes up two pages (What? Slow day for Elton John being beaten up by short Filipino women on an antiquing trip?) and includes this heartwarming anecdote:

What makes a good valet?

"I weigh the merit of each bathroom valet on their individual personalities," said Nathan Abbott, a party promoter. "Some of them tell good jokes. Some simply provide good service for my dollar." His favorite is Phil at Buckhead's sleek Twist restaurant/bar: "He gives me reading recommendations. He told me about Ayn Rand."

Atlas Flushed?

We the Shitting?

The article doesn't say.

I've read some of Ms. Rand's philosophical essays but, clearly, not enough, because I've not yet gotten to the book that inspires a man to take a job as a bathroom attendant in a baller's martini bar.  Must be "The Fountain Head."

ONE SIMPLE RULE FOR DATING LARRY WACHS

I get calls from male friends now and again inquiring about going on a date. Whether it's golf, or drinking, or poker, let's be straight, it's a date. No one calls it that, of course, they call it "male-bonding" or "guys' night out" instead of what it is: non-sexual dating.

The goal of all dating is to get to the point where you can feel comfortable taking a crap in front of somebody while asking for a loan. With guys, you get there by golfing or fishing or going to ball games. With girls, you rub up against and around and all inside 'em.

Anyway, I've noticed that an alarming amount of guys have their caller ID in their wives' names.

To me, that's a little too close to: "My wife has a hyphenated last name,"

or

"I thought it'd be cute to have our littlest do the answering machine greeting."

It sends a bad message to your potential date. You're not half the man you used to be. There's a shadow hanging over thee. And you believe in yesterdee.

"What else is in his wife's name?" your male date may wonder. "Perhaps the ATM PIN I will need to make my getaway from the law? Maybe I oughta crap in front of her sometime."

If you're not a celebrity or something, there is no good reason to have any name but your own on your caller ID, gents. It's the man's house! It's the man's car! It's the man's telephone! The gifts you got from Hunny Bunny Poopsie Woopsie for Christmas? Open the wrapping to see how much new revolving debt you'll be taking on in the coming year! Ho, Ho, Ho! Sucker.

Recognize. When you earn more in the house, then you are the owner of the family, ergo you will name the stadium accordingly and I will want to golf, play poker and drink, and go to ball games with you. I will be your friend with all the prestige and benefits that bestows.

And if your wife earns more than you, then it is she who owns the family, and you will not ever be my friend or get to date me.