This shit is going to be positively off the goddamned chain! I don’t know about you, but I have been looking forward to this all day! I mean thank God it’s Tuesday, am I right? Because that is how we get down around this here office, you limp-dicked cocksuckers!
Fuck Friday happy hour—we get down when it’s time to get the fuck down, business obligations and social proprieties be damned because it’s 10:30 in the morning and this beer isn’t going to drink itself!
Now I know that a few of you are still trying to recover from our breakfast meeting yesterday, which had the unfortunate consequence of bleeding into both our lunch and dinner meetings, but I don’t think I have to explain to you all that it’s sort of imperative that you demonstrate the sort of faculties commensurate with being a team player in this organization, and so if you don’t get in at least one keg stand before lunch, we’re going to have to have a formal sit-down this afternoon.
BannedCast contributor Derek Brezette is now a panelist on Godfrey’s Pub Crawl! Listen now at FCC Free Radio, just don’t linger there too long. We’re like a wife letting you fuck the chick who works the counter at Macy’s for your birthday, but you have to come right back afterward. And no kissing on the mouth.
When you said “bless you” to me earlier today in the break room after I sneezed into the microwave, I felt that this did not convey a sufficiently genuine concern for my health. Your delivery was devoid of affect and reflective of a dissociative reflex rather than a true imploration unto my future wellbeing, and in light of this lackluster blessing, I feel that your cock-faced, dickhead sentiments would have been better left unsaid.
If you really want to bear witness to how one should say “bless you,” you should pay closer attention to my delivery because I deliver my “bless you’s” with emphatic sincerity.
For instance just yesterday when Julie sneezed during our staff meeting, I was immediately on hand with an enthusiastic and heartfelt “bless you” that nearly brought tears to the eyes of our regional director. You see, that is just the kind of delivery that is going to get me noticed and help me to ascend the corporate ladder in spite of my flagrant disregard for this company’s strict “no defecating in the commons” policy and their apparent willingness to scrutinize my online dating habits during work hours.
Today’s topics: the weather, jay-walking and trash disposal. As per usual, some of our topics were suggested by questions sent in by listeners to either Twitter handle @BannedCast, or email: firstname.lastname@example.org. Visit bannedcast.com and read more about Tanner’s exploits and those of the band Lucky Boys Confusion in the book Medicine and Gasoline: On the Road in America with Lucky Boys Confusion.
I’m pretty sure that if I shaved off my eyebrows and wore a black leather trench coat, people would think that I’m from the future.
I base this assertion on the fact that the last time I shaved my eyebrows and walked around downtown in a leopard-print leotard, people assumed that I was a newcomer to their town. Furthermore everyone made damn sure to get out of my way. This was especially true when shopping for groceries, and it didn’t go unnoticed on the subway, either, where I didn’t have to explain to anyone why I refuse to stop screaming whenever the train passes underground between aboveground stations.
But even though people made sure to avoid me and were apt to regard me with a certain degree of fear and discomfort, I didn’t yet feel that they regarded me with the sort of awe and reverence more commensurate with a time traveler from the future with no eyebrows, a black leather trench coat and a sawed-off shotgun.
Because I’d also be carrying a sawed-off shotgun. I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but I feel that its importance is secondary to the trench coat and paucity of facial hair.
2012 marked the first year that more women than men were tattooed in this country.
That’s right: 23% of women compared with 19% of men are now tattooed in the U.S.
You’re welcome, founding fathers.
And really, what better way to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the modern feminist movement and the 50th anniversary of the publication of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique than with the rampant proliferation of tramp stamps on the lower backs of aging cocktail waitresses? Because apparently plenty of women other than diabetic Slipknot fans are now flocking to tattoo parlors in order to tell the world that they had an abusive stepfather and aren’t too particular about whom they’ll go to bed with.
I am presently in hour 3 of my 5 Hour Energy, which means that I am presently hard at work on a new method of reading people’s minds by staring intently into their left ear canal. This is a tricky business that requires much concentration and a proximity to your subject that has made many people sitting next to me on the bus very uncomfortable.
Because when I drop a dose of 5 Hour Energy, it is game-fucking-on, my friend.
This shit is positively wicked, and it often allows me to see into the future with alarming clarity, which is why I began shouting at the people on the bus to protect themselves and their families from the imminent alien invasion that will begin late next year and end only after sufficient numbers of human specimens of childbearing age have been harvested for use in unregulated intra-galactic space bordellos frequented by sexually rapacious life forms with a penchant for violent, unprotected anal intercourse.