The silly string graffiti on the wall is when the ditty transcended the overly-narrow constraints of the genre for me.

Additionally, “prostitute,” in this theater, is a simile for Thatcher and her domestic policies.

Essentially, my man is calling for the reclamation of governmental stewardship by the Tories and the re-establishment of a loosely-governed federated model like the Balkans, but with independent fiscal policies for member states.

Insert joke about Wales here.

I am titillated just typing all of that.

At some point in this melodious romp through the hazy fog of inebriation-inspired poor judgment, the lead Rap dude, Tash, or the “Rap-singer Tash” as the New York Times used to call them, says the following:

“The freshest, yes it’s, the rhymer with the bottle
Kickin it with my homie like Lamont do with Rollo
Live at the Apollo, they still couldn’t do it
Cause even in New York the crew be buzzin off the fluid”

Now, Sanford and Son debuted in 1972, lasting five years and 164 episodes until 1977, though it is still a staple of some ethnically-themed networks that will go unnamed.

This, my friends, is a picture of one Rollo Larson

,

Eddie Haskell to Lamont’s younger Cleaver in the Watts update of Leave it to Beaver (please send royalties to my Isle of Man account if *that* ever gets made.)

Yet, when executing a search for “Lamont and Rollo,” this is the first thing that popped up

.

Yes, that’s right, a Lamont design Rollo Ribbed Vase.

What?

It is has been built with “Textures have been carved into reclaimed teak, then covered with leaf and natural lacquer. To create Gilded Cinnabar, a beautiful finish exclusive to LAMONT, the vessels are covered with cinnabar lacquer, gilded with silver leaf and rubbed back by hand before a final lacquer. Available in Velvet Black, Negoro Red and Gilded Cinnabar.”

If this doesn’t represent the chickens of marketing synergy coming home to roost, my friends, then someone in this world didn’t name their son Beaver.

Group hug, OB over and out.

All dialogue verbatim.

Really?

I arrived at the city, and found it dysfunctional, as there was a weird heat-wave of 88°, which, by the way, neverfuckinghappensinaprilinsanfrancisco, and everybody fell out like they were extras in 28 Days Much Later or some shit.

San Francisco has no air conditioning.

So I meet the youngest “team member” as I learned to say when I worked in the Valley, and he’s all: “you are here on 4-20.”

“Yes, (sotto voce) motherfucker, so what?”

“You said 4-20.”

“So what.”

Sitting up straight now, clearer: “That is code for pot.”

My dumb ass didn’t get that at all.

So then he sent this picture:

4:20 PM, University of Colorado at Boulder Quad [PIC].

And I gleaned what the four-two-oh was all about, as San Francisco turned into my mom’s freshman apartment when she was going to Cal-Berkeley.

I was two years old at the time (1970), but I remember the sweet smell of that Humboldt outodoor herb as I woke up to get a drink of water and she and her friends were listening to that bomb 15-minute Marvin Gaye song whose title I can’t remember right now because I had a secondary high from my pot-smoking mother.

Late to the party, as always, T-bone.

Look at this fucking hipster.

Excuse me, I have to rollerblade over to my uncured wild venison collective distribution.

Don’t tell the man.

Uh, this shit is wack, and unironically so.

Maybe it’s the hair, or maybe it’s the endlessly entertaining Pat Summitt-baiting, but I am a fan of this guy. And the 47 seconds of last night’s NCAA Womens’ Final I was subconsciously lulled into watching did suggest hours and hours of fundamentally sound scoop-layup drills. You can almost sense David Stern stroking his chin mulling over a Bobby Riggs-style UConn/Sacramento Kings exhibition.

A “friend” of mine sent this to me and intimated that it would be even funnier if we had had a couple of, oh, say, “beers” while watching it.

It is funny just straight, IMHO.

(Facebook peeps click here to see it.)

Sony Releases New Stupid Piece Of Shit That Doesn’t Fucking Work

But as I was watching Synecdoche, N.Y. with my wife last night, I came to the conclusion that the reality of the situation is not as funny.

(The film is as enjoyable as a visit to Michael Vicks’ compound in 2007, by the way, and NYU Film School wants Andy Inbred’s Senior Thesis returned to library, pleasemrkaufman.)

Why? Because we watch our BluRay’s on my freaking hard as hell to turn-on PS3. (Who put the power switch ON THE BACK OF THE UNIT!)

And as a result, we have to use this:

PS3 Remote

Easily the most retarded remote ever made, and I designed remotes for a big-ass cable company.

Where to begin?

1. Like most people, we watch movies IN THE DARK. So a goddamn all-black remote is as useful as a bikini on the Gaza Strip. You can’t see a thing!
2. The pause button is below the stop button which is below the play button, ohandbytheway, they all have the same shape. Which means, that this sequence happened three times in this movie: I wanted to pause the movie. I accidentally stopped the movie because I couldn’t see the button. WE HAD TO RESTART THE MOVIE AND GO THROUGH ALL OF THE ANTI-THEFT NONSENSE THREE TIMES. And, joy of joys, the movie doesn’t pick up where you left off, but you get to scan again back through the movie, just so you can make the same mistake again (actually happened.) It took two hours to watch the first hour of the film, which, as I mentioned, doesn’t make sense on pretty much any level unless you are a victim of devolution and you were experimented upon by aliens (who replaced key body parts with their janky-ass technology, thus forcing you to live in cities.)
3. How do you see the remaining time in the movie? Anyone? Oh yes, that would be the “Display” button, which is as intuitive as soccer not allowing you to touch the ball with your hands unless you are the goalie. Really? Really.
4. The red circle button has no label and serves no purpose. The entire remote should just be the red circle button.

</rant>