It's not an especially well kept secret that Lucifer, the bright, shining angel of the pit, is responsible for rigging gas prices. This Madison Ave. sign pretty much comes out and says so.
Fourteen Memphis smoke shops were recently declared a public nuisance and shut down. Now this, from the future...
Day 53: I have survived another day. Madison doesn't look the way it used to. There's fewer of us left. I had to eat McDonald's to get my fix. A Happy Meal doesn't cut it. I got my other needs at a different place, but I need these.
Day 62: I found what I was looking for but I can't get in! It's boarded up with yellow tape and SIGNS. SIGNS FROM WHERE?!?!?? WHAT THE HELL??? I NEEEEEEEEEEEEED IT
Day 63: It is still there, still boarded up. I know they are in there. I know. I can smell them. Through the "potpourri" through the "spice" I can smell them. I found something like them, but not THEM.
Day 67: I got lost.
Day 72: I found it again. I clawed the boards until my fingers bled. I NEED THEM. THEY ARE CALLING ME. COME TO ME
DAY 96: IM TIRED OF WRITING THIS JOURNAL DAMMIT. I JUST NEED MY FIX. I JUST WANT TO HOLD THEM FOR A FEW MINUTES. I JUST WANT ONE TO TAKE. OPEN THE DAMN DOORS!!! WHY ME??????????
Day 102: Much calmer now. I got in. I found it. I found the one. I can't leave. I can't sleep. They will take it away again. I don't care about the plastic baggies or the "vitamins" here, I just wanted this one little guy...
Years from now I hope to read an update about them breaking out and robbing gas stations. Then instead of surrendering to zoo authorities, they decided to slowly crawl off a cliff into a the Grand Canyon.
Six New Names for the Paula Deen Cafe That Should Probably Be Avoided
As you may have read, Harrah's Tunica is rebranding the Paula Deen Buffet. Because "Fly on the Wall" is a helpful blog we have created a list of six names that probably shouldn't be considered as a replacement. In fact these names are such no good, terrible, very bad ideas, nobody should read this blog post even. Unless, of course, they really, really want to.
Over the course of human evolution scientists have observed one consistent difference between good people and fuckwits. Good people— perhaps even more notably good musicians— don't naturally assume that every instrumentalist playing in a bar somewhere in the vast expanse between Disneyland and Yankee Stadium, has been sitting up nights, stroking an unrequited boner, just waiting for the special moment when yet another drunk they don't know walks up and says those seven magic words: "Hey... Lemme play harmonica with you guys!"
Friends, I don't want to be a buzzkill. I have no desire to crush anybody's dreams of stardom, or at least getting to second base with a stranger who smells faintly of urine. But unless your name is Little Walter, and you've come back from the grave to rock, I can almost guarantee that the band, and the fans who've come to see that band, really wish you just fucking wouldn't.
It has come to my attention that Memphis is in the throes of a Jambush epidemic. Fully grown adults who are old enough to vote and buy liquor are bringing their own musical instruments to concerts like they were going to some kind of open mic night. Simply put, this shit needs to stop. I mean, you don't go to fucking Rigoletto and beatbox all the way through "La Donne e Mobile," do you? Well?
Just the other night, at a popular Cooper-Young drinking establishment, some guy was so hellbent on playing with the band he literally put his balls on the line.
I kid you not.
"If I suck you can all punch me in the nuts," he said, indicating with his delicate harmonica-player's hands, the exact location of the alleged target. This ploy, while inventive, was unsuccessful due, primarily, to a lack of collateral. It's more effective to propose that any nut- punching happens in advance of the joint performance, as a kind of insurance policy covering time that can't be regained, and any harm that might befall an individual song or music's historical reputation for taming our savage instinct.
If you still want to blow that thing after 5-good sack-shots, buddy come on.
Look, we all have our fantasies. We've all been to a bar where a band is playing, and we're having a good time, and dropping some Jagerbombs, and maybe smelling a little toilet seat cocaine, and, naturally, we start to fantasize a little about what it might be like to be awesome. We think, "damn, those band guys sure look cool." And, "Hey, I know how to band! I mean, I've never been in a band, but it just so happens I'm wearing my John Popper-autographed harmonica vest, and it's totally loaded. And anyway, I'd probably be doing these jerks a favor if I sat in. We could maybe play something with a funky groove. Like "Brown Eyed Girl."
If that's you...
Well, what can I say? You're probably still a dipshit, but at least you're a perfectly normal dipshit. When you act on this douchebag fantasy, that's when you become everybody's problem.
So listen. If you want to act like your mama raised you right and you've got some fucking manners, here's how to let a band know you're interested in playing with them.
1. Wait until after the show is over.
2. Go tell the musicians how much you enjoyed the performance.
3. You might even throw down a nice tip.
4. In fact, do that last thing I mentioned. Yeah.
5. If everybody's getting on well enough, you might mention that you play a little harp and would love to get together and maybe jam sometime.
If you follow these five polite steps chances are someone in the band will say, "Sure thing, cool dude! And if you've got an accordion, bring that with you too!"
This guy is fucking with you. And you still totally deserve it.
Here's a little taste of Heaven as imagined by Ormond & Pirkle.
And if you thought that was special you can go straight to Hell.
Now for the mystery. At least to me. Ormond allegedly shot commercials for a few Memphis-area businesses including White Rose Dry Cleaners. If any of these have survived they don't seem to have made it onto the internet.
I'd be interested to know if these commercials do, or ever did exist. I can't imagine they're not brilliant, and I'd sure love to share them here.
Bandz a make Miley Cyrus twerk. But then again, what doesn't?
It's because I want you to think and open your mind. Why, you may ask...
Get a new lawyer.
Get a new lawyer who?
No, seriously, get a new lawyer.
At the Cordova Farmer's Market International, you can find pretty much any international foodstuffs you might want, from duck embryos to five gallon drums of soy sauce.
You can also find products endorsed by one hit wonder, PSY.
We hope this heralds the way for Carly Ray Jepsen's lucrative "Cauliflower, Baby" endorsement deal and Rebecca Black's new role as a pitch person for TGI Friday's frozen appetizers.
Just read an article saying that 146 babies in the US have been named Khaleesi, which means Queen in the made up Lame of Thrones universe.
Why shouldn't city mayors be allowed to profit from their civic duty by exploiting their famous hair styles?
Has anybody else noticed these scary guys propped up on Hamlin just North of Poplar? By day they keep birds away from what appear to be raised beds of basil and tomatoes. I've got no idea what they do when the moon comes up.
So Paula Deen uses the N-word and thinks it's a cute idea to have an Old South wedding where African-Americans get gussied up like slaves to serve the invited guests? To borrow a line from Gomer Pyle, USMC, "Surprise, surprise, surprise!"
As you marvel at this video (with the worst dubbing anyone has experienced since Godzilla was a tadpole!) it's helpful to remember, these two big lifestyle stars really are talking about the help.
Men's Wearhouse, the fancier cousin of The New York Suit Exchange, today fired founder and chairman George Zimmer.
His termination letter reportedly started as follows:
"You're not going to like the rest of this letter. Guaranteed."
Slim Whitman, the country singer who headlined Elvis Presley's first public performance on July 30, 1954 at the Overton Park (now Levitt) Shell, has died of heart failure. The 89-year-old singer, and subject of brilliant parody, was famous for his yodeling, multi-octave range, and his ability to make alien brains explode.