Saturday, January 7, 2012
SHINY, HAPPY NO ONE
It’s been a while since I’ve written one of these columns. Truth be told, I’ve been busy with other writing related projects. That, and Showtime keeps playing Air Bud whenever I sit down to work. What can I say, I’m a sucker for any movie in which the lead poops on the floor in real life. (I’m looking at you, Clooney) Anyway, I’d like to say that I’m coming back swinging, firing on all comedic cylinders, but I’m not gonna do that. Not right now at least.
I recently attended a film screening, a rough cut of a yet-to-be-titled movie about Boyscout leaders. It was a comedy. As such, its desired result was that I laughed. I did. Good job, movie. You win. Or do you? See, after the screening there was a Q & A session. Everyone in attendance was able to voice their opinion on the aforementioned viewing. Being that I lack the ability to shut up, I went first. I had some well-constructed feedback, all of which pointed out the positives of what I just watched. The producers seemed genuinely psyched to hear that the fruits of their labor went well received. Then, well, the next viewer spoke. That’s when the dam of negativity broke. Everyone in that screening room, EVERYONE, had something bad to say. These were people who just minutes earlier I heard laughing their asses off, and now I was hearing them rip the source of that laughter apart. That’s when a sad fact dawned on me: everybody hates everything.
Read your Facebook news feed. Go on Twitter. Listen to strangers in subways or in elevators. Hell, sadly, listen to some of your own friends. Our culture has become one which breeds negativity. I can’t help but to notice this lately. Everyone seems to WANT to hate things. I’ve realized that far too many people enter new situations, be it a new movie, book, bar, band, hell, sometimes even meeting a new human being, with a guilty until proven innocent mentality. That, plain and simple, sucks.
Now some of you may be thinking, “Hey, bozo, the basis for 90% of your Antenna columns is you ripping something apart!” True. You got me. The pot calling the kettle hypocritical? Not really. See, I write these columns, in my own weird, roundabout way, for the soul purpose of positivity. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve appreciated laughter. Making people laugh is, as cheesy as it may sound, an intoxicating feeling. I absolutely love it. I mean, think about it. It’s literally impossible to laugh without smiling. And smiling is, by definition, the body’s representation of happiness. Laughter and sex are the two most enjoyable activities I can think of in life. And while, sadly, I can't rock all your worlds (Full disclosure: I've probably never rocked anyones anything), I can try and put a string of words together to make you laugh. So do I genuinely get angry that Snooki released a perfume or that Kim Kardashian is all over the news? No. truth be told, I give not one shit about either of those things. But if I feel like writing about those situations in the way that I do might make a person or two laugh, then that’s what I’ll do.
So if you’re making a negative joke, I’ll give you a mulligan. That’s where the roots of some of the best comedy lay. But if you’re actively looking for ways to put things down, searching for reasons why you won’t like something new, going out of your way to knock something that you don’t actually know anything about, I implore you to rethink your ways. Now I’m not saying I ride to work on a fucking unicorn and eat dinner on a rainbow. I don’t live life with R.E.M’s “Shiny Happy People” looping internally. That’s not what I’m trying to say. My life is far from perfect, trust me. What I am trying to say is that living life with a glass is half empty attitude is like a fighter going into a boxing match thinking to himself, “I’m not gonna win. Why even try?” So if life is a boxing match, and make no mistake about it, in so many ways it is, I want to win. To me, if you’re smiling, you’re winning. And if you allow yourself to shake the negativity, you’ll give yourself a chance to win a whole hell of a lot more of life’s little battles, some of the big ones too. In the immortal words of Joe Dirt: Life's a garden. Dig it.
You think you hate something? Give yourself the opportunity to be proven wrong. It feels good.
Think about this. When we’re old and gray, something that, God willing, we’ll all be one day, it’s the times in which you were smiling and laughing that you’ll sit back and look fondly upon, not the times when you were saying that something sucked.
Happy Holidays
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
I recently attended a film screening, a rough cut of a yet-to-be-titled movie about Boyscout leaders. It was a comedy. As such, its desired result was that I laughed. I did. Good job, movie. You win. Or do you? See, after the screening there was a Q & A session. Everyone in attendance was able to voice their opinion on the aforementioned viewing. Being that I lack the ability to shut up, I went first. I had some well-constructed feedback, all of which pointed out the positives of what I just watched. The producers seemed genuinely psyched to hear that the fruits of their labor went well received. Then, well, the next viewer spoke. That’s when the dam of negativity broke. Everyone in that screening room, EVERYONE, had something bad to say. These were people who just minutes earlier I heard laughing their asses off, and now I was hearing them rip the source of that laughter apart. That’s when a sad fact dawned on me: everybody hates everything.
Read your Facebook news feed. Go on Twitter. Listen to strangers in subways or in elevators. Hell, sadly, listen to some of your own friends. Our culture has become one which breeds negativity. I can’t help but to notice this lately. Everyone seems to WANT to hate things. I’ve realized that far too many people enter new situations, be it a new movie, book, bar, band, hell, sometimes even meeting a new human being, with a guilty until proven innocent mentality. That, plain and simple, sucks.
Now some of you may be thinking, “Hey, bozo, the basis for 90% of your Antenna columns is you ripping something apart!” True. You got me. The pot calling the kettle hypocritical? Not really. See, I write these columns, in my own weird, roundabout way, for the soul purpose of positivity. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve appreciated laughter. Making people laugh is, as cheesy as it may sound, an intoxicating feeling. I absolutely love it. I mean, think about it. It’s literally impossible to laugh without smiling. And smiling is, by definition, the body’s representation of happiness. Laughter and sex are the two most enjoyable activities I can think of in life. And while, sadly, I can't rock all your worlds (Full disclosure: I've probably never rocked anyones anything), I can try and put a string of words together to make you laugh. So do I genuinely get angry that Snooki released a perfume or that Kim Kardashian is all over the news? No. truth be told, I give not one shit about either of those things. But if I feel like writing about those situations in the way that I do might make a person or two laugh, then that’s what I’ll do.
So if you’re making a negative joke, I’ll give you a mulligan. That’s where the roots of some of the best comedy lay. But if you’re actively looking for ways to put things down, searching for reasons why you won’t like something new, going out of your way to knock something that you don’t actually know anything about, I implore you to rethink your ways. Now I’m not saying I ride to work on a fucking unicorn and eat dinner on a rainbow. I don’t live life with R.E.M’s “Shiny Happy People” looping internally. That’s not what I’m trying to say. My life is far from perfect, trust me. What I am trying to say is that living life with a glass is half empty attitude is like a fighter going into a boxing match thinking to himself, “I’m not gonna win. Why even try?” So if life is a boxing match, and make no mistake about it, in so many ways it is, I want to win. To me, if you’re smiling, you’re winning. And if you allow yourself to shake the negativity, you’ll give yourself a chance to win a whole hell of a lot more of life’s little battles, some of the big ones too. In the immortal words of Joe Dirt: Life's a garden. Dig it.
You think you hate something? Give yourself the opportunity to be proven wrong. It feels good.
Think about this. When we’re old and gray, something that, God willing, we’ll all be one day, it’s the times in which you were smiling and laughing that you’ll sit back and look fondly upon, not the times when you were saying that something sucked.
Happy Holidays
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
EAT A COW
I don’t consciously try and piss people off with these columns. I really don’t. However I know full well that I’m not going to endear myself to many of you with this one. So, to save you some time, let me make one thing clear. You should probably stop reading right now if you're one of the following:
*A Vegetarian
*A Vegan
*Someone with little to no sense of humor
*A cow
*A cat
If you fail to fit into one of the aforementioned categories, by all means, allow yourself to continue reading.
As I sit here, lounging atop the palatial rooftop of Hoare Manor, I’m anxiously awaiting this weekend more so than most. Why? Because it’s Memorial Day. Summertime is here. You know what that means, don't you? Yes, it does mean that it's time to break out my WNBA jerseys (pluralization intended), but it also means that it's barbeque season. A few weekends ago I found myself at a barbeque, my first of the year, and guess what happened? Someone offered me a hotdog. Of course I responded with a resounding “Fuck to the yes!”. However, just a few moments later, a culinary crime was committed. You know what this asshole had the audacity to hand me instead of a hotdog? A NOTdog! The nerve! I should have unsheathed this insulting meat substitute from it's bun, used it like a mighty sword, and challenged this son of a bitch to a gentleman's duel! You don't offer a man a hotdog and then give him a fucking notdog! That's like when Eddie Murphy got a hooker and found out she was actually a dude (look it up). That's like someone offering me a trip to Bermuda and then handing me a bus ticket to the sandy beaches of Bayonne, New Jersey. Unacceptable!
You know what my favorite ingredient to any meal is? A soul. I like eating food that used to have cousins. And does that make me some kind of monster? No. It makes me an American. I didn't get tattoos of a bald eagle simultaneously playing baseball while eating an apple pie on both my chest and back for nothing. I’m a patriot, damnit! I respect the barbeque traditions set forth by our forefathers! Would George Washington have eaten a notdog? Not likely. Did Christopher Columbus stock either The Nina, The Pinta, or The Santa María with fucking tofurkey? Hell no! I have the utmost respect for the food chain. And besides that, meat tastes awesome! It does! You show me someone who says they don’t like the taste of a hamburger and I’ll show you a liar. We're all going to die in the October 21st rapture anyway, so why deprive ourselves? Life is short, eat a cow's ass. I spend far more time than I should sitting on my computer watching hilarious videos of cats on Youtube, however if someone were to tell me that one of those cats tasted delicious I would gladly devour that cat's face. Now I'm not saying that I'd actually bite it's living face. That actually would make me a monster. But a nice seasoned, marinated, bbqed cat face? Oh yeah. I’m in. I’m in no way being facetious here. I would eat a cat’s face.
And don't get me wrong. I'm not damning turkey burgers, chicken sausage, and the like. Those are still meat related products, thus gaining a measure of my respect. Although some of that stuff can't hold a candle to the original. Anyone who tells you that turkey bacon tastes just as good regular bacon is a bold faced liar and should be treated as such. Turkey bacon isn't terrible, but it sure as shit ain't the real thing. If bacon is The Hangover, then turkey bacon is The Hangover 2. Good, but not completely awesome. Actually, wait, that's not a fair comparison. I'm yet to see the second Hangover film. Let me try again. If bacon is Looks Who's Talking, then turkey bacon is Looks Who's Talking Too. Nailed it!
And although I’m sure it clearly sounds like it, I’m not judging anyone who happens to be a vegetarian or vegan here. I’m truly not. As the kids on the streets say, do you. Eat nothing but a steady diet of baby carrots and grass for all I care. Truth be told, I don’t give a shit what you eat. However I do give many shits about what I eat. So if you’re at a barbeque with me at some point this summer, and you very well may be, don’t insult me by offering me anything less than real meat. Please. Be a pal.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
*A Vegetarian
*A Vegan
*Someone with little to no sense of humor
*A cow
*A cat
If you fail to fit into one of the aforementioned categories, by all means, allow yourself to continue reading.
As I sit here, lounging atop the palatial rooftop of Hoare Manor, I’m anxiously awaiting this weekend more so than most. Why? Because it’s Memorial Day. Summertime is here. You know what that means, don't you? Yes, it does mean that it's time to break out my WNBA jerseys (pluralization intended), but it also means that it's barbeque season. A few weekends ago I found myself at a barbeque, my first of the year, and guess what happened? Someone offered me a hotdog. Of course I responded with a resounding “Fuck to the yes!”. However, just a few moments later, a culinary crime was committed. You know what this asshole had the audacity to hand me instead of a hotdog? A NOTdog! The nerve! I should have unsheathed this insulting meat substitute from it's bun, used it like a mighty sword, and challenged this son of a bitch to a gentleman's duel! You don't offer a man a hotdog and then give him a fucking notdog! That's like when Eddie Murphy got a hooker and found out she was actually a dude (look it up). That's like someone offering me a trip to Bermuda and then handing me a bus ticket to the sandy beaches of Bayonne, New Jersey. Unacceptable!
You know what my favorite ingredient to any meal is? A soul. I like eating food that used to have cousins. And does that make me some kind of monster? No. It makes me an American. I didn't get tattoos of a bald eagle simultaneously playing baseball while eating an apple pie on both my chest and back for nothing. I’m a patriot, damnit! I respect the barbeque traditions set forth by our forefathers! Would George Washington have eaten a notdog? Not likely. Did Christopher Columbus stock either The Nina, The Pinta, or The Santa María with fucking tofurkey? Hell no! I have the utmost respect for the food chain. And besides that, meat tastes awesome! It does! You show me someone who says they don’t like the taste of a hamburger and I’ll show you a liar. We're all going to die in the October 21st rapture anyway, so why deprive ourselves? Life is short, eat a cow's ass. I spend far more time than I should sitting on my computer watching hilarious videos of cats on Youtube, however if someone were to tell me that one of those cats tasted delicious I would gladly devour that cat's face. Now I'm not saying that I'd actually bite it's living face. That actually would make me a monster. But a nice seasoned, marinated, bbqed cat face? Oh yeah. I’m in. I’m in no way being facetious here. I would eat a cat’s face.
And don't get me wrong. I'm not damning turkey burgers, chicken sausage, and the like. Those are still meat related products, thus gaining a measure of my respect. Although some of that stuff can't hold a candle to the original. Anyone who tells you that turkey bacon tastes just as good regular bacon is a bold faced liar and should be treated as such. Turkey bacon isn't terrible, but it sure as shit ain't the real thing. If bacon is The Hangover, then turkey bacon is The Hangover 2. Good, but not completely awesome. Actually, wait, that's not a fair comparison. I'm yet to see the second Hangover film. Let me try again. If bacon is Looks Who's Talking, then turkey bacon is Looks Who's Talking Too. Nailed it!
And although I’m sure it clearly sounds like it, I’m not judging anyone who happens to be a vegetarian or vegan here. I’m truly not. As the kids on the streets say, do you. Eat nothing but a steady diet of baby carrots and grass for all I care. Truth be told, I don’t give a shit what you eat. However I do give many shits about what I eat. So if you’re at a barbeque with me at some point this summer, and you very well may be, don’t insult me by offering me anything less than real meat. Please. Be a pal.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
CREEPY, CREEPY CRAIGSLIST
Craigslist. To the best of my knowledge the only website where one could conceivably get a new apartment, a new car, and also gonorrhea all in the same sitting. In case your internet connection has been out for the past 15 years and you’re not aware of Craigslist, it’s this bizarre virtual catch-all of sorts where one can sell, purchase, or even trade a myriad of different goods and/or services. To the untrained eye, Craigslist is a rudimentary tool for e-commerce. No adds. No pop-ups. Easy shopping. Yet if you delve a little deeper, Craigslist is just about as creepy and strange as a website gets. But what about porn, you ask? Can't be weirder than porn, could it? You see porn doesn’t disguise what it is. Porn pulls no punches. Porn is porn, a blatant masturbatory tool for the lonely and horny. It identifies itself immediately, and for that, porn, you’ve earned my respect. However with Craigslist, much like with the Transformers, there’s more than meets the eye.
MISSED CONNECTIONS
There are very few things on the internet that I enjoy more than the “missed connections” section of Craigslist. This is a section which was apparently designed specifically for people who live in a fantasy world, most of which I assume are women who own multiple sweatsuits and even more cats. A missed connection is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a chance for someone to virtually send out a love letter to a stranger they saw somewhere, someone they fell in love with at first sight but never actually spoke to. Here’s an example of what a missed connections post might look like:
“I saw you in Long John Silver’s. You were wearing a Papa Roach shirt and eating popcorn shrimp. I was wearing a B.U.M Equipment sweatshirt and noshing on some baja fish tacos. We briefly made eye contact. I was about to introduce myself, but then, on account of the aforementioned fish tacos, I had to use the restroom. When I came out you were nowhere to be found. Are you out there?”
Missed connections posts are the epitome of sad and pathetic. Life is NOT a romantic comedy. Gerard Butler is not going to magically read this, seek you out, and then come sweep you off of your feet. No chance. Zero. Nil. None. The only possible outcome is for one of the Long John Silver’s employees to stumble across this, email you and pretend to be this guy, and then send you a picture of his own fish stick. Sorry, lady, but Katherine Heigl you are not. Go feed Fluffy.
THE BARTER SYSTEM?
Yes, unbeknownst to most, in 2011 the barter system is alive and well. It exists on Craigslist. Under the “for sale” section, low and behold, there’s a subsection for bartering. Bartering? Really? How archaic is that? What is this, the 1600's? Ye olde internet? Are you looking to trade your cobbling mallet for someone else’s smelting iron? Last time I checked my name wasn’t Bill, nor was it Ted, and I had no excellent adventure back in time. Who thinks to themselves, "Hmm, you know, I'd really like a new bicycle. Let me hop online. Maybe I can trade my waffle iron for one.” In this day and age the only acceptable bartering is done in the grade school cafeteria, for example, "I'll give you my gushers for your dunk-a-roo's". Don't barter goods online. Get a goddamn job and go to the mall like everyone else. You're not a fucking pirate.
CASUAL ENCOUNTERS
What’s in a name? Everything. A “casual encounter” is Craigslist for an anonymous one-night stand. Yes, even after a psychotic, convicted killer was actually given the murdering handle of “The Craigslist Killer”, this section continues to exist. The justification for this section is that it’s meant for people to “hook up”, but in all actuality 90% of the posts are advertisements for prostitutes. And the remaining ten percent are probably, well, huge fans of The Craigslist Killer. Check it out for yourself. It’s like a fucking brothel! How this section hasn’t been yanked is beyond me. And let’s be honest folks, these have to be bottom of the barrel prostitutes. While I don’t know from experience (I promise!), I’d venture to guess these aren’t your top of the line women of the night. I’m willing to bet these gals are less Julia Roberts in Pretty Women and more Charleze Theron in Monster. I wouldn’t nail one of these chicks with Craigs dick and Tom from Myspace pushing. You partake in this particular section of Craigslist and it’s a pretty safe bet that sooner rather than later you’ll be casually encountering some genital warts.
Sure, Craigslist isn’t entirely freaky. Last summer I did sell my Nintendo Wii on there. Now did the buyer go home and use the remote to bludgeon to death a casual encounters prostitute? Who knows. Maybe he went and traded it to another Craigslister for some magic beans. Far be it for me to say. All I know is that ol’ Craig is, to say the least, a pretty weird dude.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
MISSED CONNECTIONS
There are very few things on the internet that I enjoy more than the “missed connections” section of Craigslist. This is a section which was apparently designed specifically for people who live in a fantasy world, most of which I assume are women who own multiple sweatsuits and even more cats. A missed connection is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a chance for someone to virtually send out a love letter to a stranger they saw somewhere, someone they fell in love with at first sight but never actually spoke to. Here’s an example of what a missed connections post might look like:
“I saw you in Long John Silver’s. You were wearing a Papa Roach shirt and eating popcorn shrimp. I was wearing a B.U.M Equipment sweatshirt and noshing on some baja fish tacos. We briefly made eye contact. I was about to introduce myself, but then, on account of the aforementioned fish tacos, I had to use the restroom. When I came out you were nowhere to be found. Are you out there?”
Missed connections posts are the epitome of sad and pathetic. Life is NOT a romantic comedy. Gerard Butler is not going to magically read this, seek you out, and then come sweep you off of your feet. No chance. Zero. Nil. None. The only possible outcome is for one of the Long John Silver’s employees to stumble across this, email you and pretend to be this guy, and then send you a picture of his own fish stick. Sorry, lady, but Katherine Heigl you are not. Go feed Fluffy.
THE BARTER SYSTEM?
Yes, unbeknownst to most, in 2011 the barter system is alive and well. It exists on Craigslist. Under the “for sale” section, low and behold, there’s a subsection for bartering. Bartering? Really? How archaic is that? What is this, the 1600's? Ye olde internet? Are you looking to trade your cobbling mallet for someone else’s smelting iron? Last time I checked my name wasn’t Bill, nor was it Ted, and I had no excellent adventure back in time. Who thinks to themselves, "Hmm, you know, I'd really like a new bicycle. Let me hop online. Maybe I can trade my waffle iron for one.” In this day and age the only acceptable bartering is done in the grade school cafeteria, for example, "I'll give you my gushers for your dunk-a-roo's". Don't barter goods online. Get a goddamn job and go to the mall like everyone else. You're not a fucking pirate.
CASUAL ENCOUNTERS
What’s in a name? Everything. A “casual encounter” is Craigslist for an anonymous one-night stand. Yes, even after a psychotic, convicted killer was actually given the murdering handle of “The Craigslist Killer”, this section continues to exist. The justification for this section is that it’s meant for people to “hook up”, but in all actuality 90% of the posts are advertisements for prostitutes. And the remaining ten percent are probably, well, huge fans of The Craigslist Killer. Check it out for yourself. It’s like a fucking brothel! How this section hasn’t been yanked is beyond me. And let’s be honest folks, these have to be bottom of the barrel prostitutes. While I don’t know from experience (I promise!), I’d venture to guess these aren’t your top of the line women of the night. I’m willing to bet these gals are less Julia Roberts in Pretty Women and more Charleze Theron in Monster. I wouldn’t nail one of these chicks with Craigs dick and Tom from Myspace pushing. You partake in this particular section of Craigslist and it’s a pretty safe bet that sooner rather than later you’ll be casually encountering some genital warts.
Sure, Craigslist isn’t entirely freaky. Last summer I did sell my Nintendo Wii on there. Now did the buyer go home and use the remote to bludgeon to death a casual encounters prostitute? Who knows. Maybe he went and traded it to another Craigslister for some magic beans. Far be it for me to say. All I know is that ol’ Craig is, to say the least, a pretty weird dude.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
CELEBRITY REHAB: CLASS OF 2015
I love VH1’s Celebrity Rehab. This show IS the quintessential car crash on the side of the road that you can’t help but to slow down and watch. Each season my boy Dr. Drew rounds up a new group celebritards whose level of notoriety ranges from household name to “who the fuck is that crackhead?” This season’s cast is a star-studded lineup. Evidently Dwight “Doc” Gooden hasn’t found a way to kick his coke habit since the 86 world series. If someone were to tell me that Bai Ling had no brain and was actually a large, battery-powered, Japanese action figure, I’d be hard pressed not to believe it. I‘ve seen higher levels of intelligence in packages of Smarties. Then there’s the ol’ Long Island one two punch of Amy Fisher and Michael Lohan. The former is best known for shooting someone in the face and introducing the word Buttufuoco into the American pop culture lexicon, the latter’s demon sperm was responsible for putting the loaded in Herby: Fully Loaded.
As stellar a cast as the class of 2011 is, allow me to predict who I think may be checking into the Pasadena Recovery Center in, oh, I don’t know, let’s say four years. So without further adieu, here’s who I think may round out the 2015 cast.
SNOOKI
Ah, Snooki. With both the posture and talent of a McNugget, this little dope is a surefire bet to meet Dr. Drew sooner rather than later. Yes, she can buy and sell me 10,000 times over…for now. But if you’re telling me that in 4 years people are still going to be paying this pear-shaped little troll to talk about gorilla’s and juiceheads you’re out of your mind. Personally I wish a real gorilla would fist pump her face. The fame will wane, I know it. And when it does, Snooki doesn’t strike me as someone who’s going to fade gracefully back into whatever Staten Island dumpster she used to get roofied and pass out in. No, she’s gonna hit the bottle….HARD. And then come the heavy drugs. There’s gonna be a situation alright, a midget who smokes crack situation. And then there’s the inevitable fact that she’s also going to miss the spotlight. Poof, no more fans. This one’s a no brainer. Cab to rehab’s here!
JUSTIN BIEBER
Now I know what you’re thinking? No! Surely you jest! Not my little Bieber! Wrong. This little dickwad is gonna fall from grace, mark my words. Why, you ask? I think it stems from the fact that Biebs is less Justin Timberlake and more Jonathan Taylor Thomas. What I mean is that age is not going to be a friend to young Mr. Bieber. Remember Frankie Munez from Malcolm In the Middle? Bet you haven’t seen him much lately. Want to know why? It’s because with every year he tacks onto his life he looks more and more like a little latino Crypt Keeper. He’d be lucky to land a role playing himself in the porn version of his sitcom, Malcum In The Middle. Bieber's already not aging well. He’s already inexplicably starting to look like a lesbian. He’s like itsy bitsy Ellen Denegeres. Bieber peaked. Next up: The slippery slope into drug abuse and alcoholism. If they haven’t already, America is slowly but surely gonna realize that symptoms of Bieber Fever include blood in your stool and painful urination. But he had a movie! Yeah, guess what? So did Vanilla Ice, dummy. Last time I saw him he was doing verses of The Ninja Turtle Rap for rolls of nickels behind a White Castle. Bieber, meet Dr. Drew. Dr. Drew, meet Bieber.
TIA & TAMERA
Remember these broads? The twins from that old show Sister, Sister? Can’t you just see them on Celebrity Rehab? I mean, I have literally nothing to go by here. This is just a completely blind assumption. For all I know they can be working for Obama right now. A lot of 90’s child stars turned out great. Winnie Cooper from The Wonder Years writes books about math. Blossom went on to become an actual scientist for a little while. But since I have no facts to prove otherwise, and because I’m too lazy to do so much as a simple Google search, I’m going to assume that Tia & Tamera are holed up in grimy, little South Jersey motel making inscestual, low budget porn to support their crippling oxycontin habit. Just you watch. Tia & Tamera, class of 2015. I have a good feeling about this one.
Of course there are tons of other choices I could go with. Charlie Sheen. Steve-O. Britney Spear’s sister. Lindsay Lohan’s sister. Arnold Shwarzenegger’s maid. Amy Winehouse’s turtle. All great picks. We just need to sit back, relax, invent The Celebrity Rehab drinking game, and then watch and enjoy.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
As stellar a cast as the class of 2011 is, allow me to predict who I think may be checking into the Pasadena Recovery Center in, oh, I don’t know, let’s say four years. So without further adieu, here’s who I think may round out the 2015 cast.
SNOOKI
Ah, Snooki. With both the posture and talent of a McNugget, this little dope is a surefire bet to meet Dr. Drew sooner rather than later. Yes, she can buy and sell me 10,000 times over…for now. But if you’re telling me that in 4 years people are still going to be paying this pear-shaped little troll to talk about gorilla’s and juiceheads you’re out of your mind. Personally I wish a real gorilla would fist pump her face. The fame will wane, I know it. And when it does, Snooki doesn’t strike me as someone who’s going to fade gracefully back into whatever Staten Island dumpster she used to get roofied and pass out in. No, she’s gonna hit the bottle….HARD. And then come the heavy drugs. There’s gonna be a situation alright, a midget who smokes crack situation. And then there’s the inevitable fact that she’s also going to miss the spotlight. Poof, no more fans. This one’s a no brainer. Cab to rehab’s here!
JUSTIN BIEBER
Now I know what you’re thinking? No! Surely you jest! Not my little Bieber! Wrong. This little dickwad is gonna fall from grace, mark my words. Why, you ask? I think it stems from the fact that Biebs is less Justin Timberlake and more Jonathan Taylor Thomas. What I mean is that age is not going to be a friend to young Mr. Bieber. Remember Frankie Munez from Malcolm In the Middle? Bet you haven’t seen him much lately. Want to know why? It’s because with every year he tacks onto his life he looks more and more like a little latino Crypt Keeper. He’d be lucky to land a role playing himself in the porn version of his sitcom, Malcum In The Middle. Bieber's already not aging well. He’s already inexplicably starting to look like a lesbian. He’s like itsy bitsy Ellen Denegeres. Bieber peaked. Next up: The slippery slope into drug abuse and alcoholism. If they haven’t already, America is slowly but surely gonna realize that symptoms of Bieber Fever include blood in your stool and painful urination. But he had a movie! Yeah, guess what? So did Vanilla Ice, dummy. Last time I saw him he was doing verses of The Ninja Turtle Rap for rolls of nickels behind a White Castle. Bieber, meet Dr. Drew. Dr. Drew, meet Bieber.
TIA & TAMERA
Remember these broads? The twins from that old show Sister, Sister? Can’t you just see them on Celebrity Rehab? I mean, I have literally nothing to go by here. This is just a completely blind assumption. For all I know they can be working for Obama right now. A lot of 90’s child stars turned out great. Winnie Cooper from The Wonder Years writes books about math. Blossom went on to become an actual scientist for a little while. But since I have no facts to prove otherwise, and because I’m too lazy to do so much as a simple Google search, I’m going to assume that Tia & Tamera are holed up in grimy, little South Jersey motel making inscestual, low budget porn to support their crippling oxycontin habit. Just you watch. Tia & Tamera, class of 2015. I have a good feeling about this one.
Of course there are tons of other choices I could go with. Charlie Sheen. Steve-O. Britney Spear’s sister. Lindsay Lohan’s sister. Arnold Shwarzenegger’s maid. Amy Winehouse’s turtle. All great picks. We just need to sit back, relax, invent The Celebrity Rehab drinking game, and then watch and enjoy.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
IN DEFENSE OF...TEEN MOM!?
My iPod broke. This particularly sucks, because I commute into the city from Long Island each morning, and there’s a handful of new music (Ryan Adams, Wilco, We Were Promised Jetpacks) that I’d like to listen to. Anyway, as my iPod has iShitTheBed, I was reading a book on this morning’s train ride. And while I read (Encyclopedia Britannica, J-M), I couldn’t help but to overhear the conversation going on in the row directly in front of me. It was two bitchy, old women discussing MTV’s Teen Mom, and blasting the show for its glorification of underage pregnancy.
Yes, I work for MTV. I have for the better part of the last six years. Be that as it may, I am by no means someone who champions all things Music Television, and I use the word “music” as loose as humanly possible. I don’t have it in me to be a smiling, blind soldier for a multi billion dollar conglomerate, regardless of if they pay my bills or not. In past Antenna columns, I’ve called Jersey Shore’s Deena a less sexy Jon Lovitz. I’ve equated her to a mentally challenged velociraptor, which in truth, just isn’t fair to mentally challenged velociraptors. Not speaking facetiously in the least, Paris Hilton’s My New BFF and Brody Jenner’s Bromance may honestly have been two of the biggest piles of shit to have EVER aired on national television. I’d sooner DVR a cable access reality show about an actual pile of shit. Having said that, I, a 30 year old man, feel the need to actually defend the Teen Mom franchise, as well as its sister show, 16 & Pregnant.
My point here isn’t to prove the entertainment value of these shows. That’s up to you to decide for yourselves. However, these shows are NOT the televised glorification of underage sex and teenage pregnancy, quite the contrary. These shows, plain and simple, are birth control, and are intended to be taken as such. If I were in high school and watching one of these shows, which are far more documentary than reality show, I would beg my parents to let me be the first 14 year old with a vasectomy. I’d wear a condom to earth science just in case I tripped and fell into the girl next to me, dick first. Sure, these issues wouldn't have affected a young Peter Hoare per say. Back in high school I couldn't get laid if it were well known that directly after consummating the girl would be granted three wishes by a magical sex genie. But that's a whole other story unto itself. Watching Teen Mom and deciding that it’s cool to have a baby is like watching Titanic and immediately booking a trip on a cruise ship. It’s like watching the third act of Marley & Me and running out to buy a puppy. It’s like watching Saw and…buying a saw? Is that what those movies are about? Malfunctioning table saws? I don’t know. Never watched one. Not into carpentry. But I digress. Back to Teen Mom. This show’s intention is so kids can see how utterly fucking hard it is to raise a child when you’re still, by and large, a child yourself. Because the show is on MTV and titled Teen Mom doesn’t mean that it’s out to make teenage pregnancy cool. The show actually, without directly saying so, promotes abstinence. It's more or less a weekly half hour dedicated to one of high school's worst case scenarios. My point, if you’re going to complain about something, which is a hobby of mine, know the facts. Annoyingly loud old ladies on my train, consider yourself schooled. Now eat your hard candies, stare out the window, pipe the fuck down and let me read my book.
Now sure, is there some hillbilly sitting in a Chatanooga Waffle House saying to his buddy, “Hey, Skeeter, you ever see that Teen Mom on the TV? If you sperm in Betty Lou maybe you could be a millionaire! Uk yuck! (Spits tabacky into his grits)”. Probably. But Betty Lou is also probably Skeeter’s cousin, and Skeeter’s uncle Jeb probably told him that God hates birth control. I’m not trying to defend the inept and inbred. I’m just pointing out that, while a TON of reality shows are sickening, Toddlers & Tiaras for one, the Teen Mom/16 & Pregnant franchise doesn’t actually have bad intentions.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
Yes, I work for MTV. I have for the better part of the last six years. Be that as it may, I am by no means someone who champions all things Music Television, and I use the word “music” as loose as humanly possible. I don’t have it in me to be a smiling, blind soldier for a multi billion dollar conglomerate, regardless of if they pay my bills or not. In past Antenna columns, I’ve called Jersey Shore’s Deena a less sexy Jon Lovitz. I’ve equated her to a mentally challenged velociraptor, which in truth, just isn’t fair to mentally challenged velociraptors. Not speaking facetiously in the least, Paris Hilton’s My New BFF and Brody Jenner’s Bromance may honestly have been two of the biggest piles of shit to have EVER aired on national television. I’d sooner DVR a cable access reality show about an actual pile of shit. Having said that, I, a 30 year old man, feel the need to actually defend the Teen Mom franchise, as well as its sister show, 16 & Pregnant.
My point here isn’t to prove the entertainment value of these shows. That’s up to you to decide for yourselves. However, these shows are NOT the televised glorification of underage sex and teenage pregnancy, quite the contrary. These shows, plain and simple, are birth control, and are intended to be taken as such. If I were in high school and watching one of these shows, which are far more documentary than reality show, I would beg my parents to let me be the first 14 year old with a vasectomy. I’d wear a condom to earth science just in case I tripped and fell into the girl next to me, dick first. Sure, these issues wouldn't have affected a young Peter Hoare per say. Back in high school I couldn't get laid if it were well known that directly after consummating the girl would be granted three wishes by a magical sex genie. But that's a whole other story unto itself. Watching Teen Mom and deciding that it’s cool to have a baby is like watching Titanic and immediately booking a trip on a cruise ship. It’s like watching the third act of Marley & Me and running out to buy a puppy. It’s like watching Saw and…buying a saw? Is that what those movies are about? Malfunctioning table saws? I don’t know. Never watched one. Not into carpentry. But I digress. Back to Teen Mom. This show’s intention is so kids can see how utterly fucking hard it is to raise a child when you’re still, by and large, a child yourself. Because the show is on MTV and titled Teen Mom doesn’t mean that it’s out to make teenage pregnancy cool. The show actually, without directly saying so, promotes abstinence. It's more or less a weekly half hour dedicated to one of high school's worst case scenarios. My point, if you’re going to complain about something, which is a hobby of mine, know the facts. Annoyingly loud old ladies on my train, consider yourself schooled. Now eat your hard candies, stare out the window, pipe the fuck down and let me read my book.
Now sure, is there some hillbilly sitting in a Chatanooga Waffle House saying to his buddy, “Hey, Skeeter, you ever see that Teen Mom on the TV? If you sperm in Betty Lou maybe you could be a millionaire! Uk yuck! (Spits tabacky into his grits)”. Probably. But Betty Lou is also probably Skeeter’s cousin, and Skeeter’s uncle Jeb probably told him that God hates birth control. I’m not trying to defend the inept and inbred. I’m just pointing out that, while a TON of reality shows are sickening, Toddlers & Tiaras for one, the Teen Mom/16 & Pregnant franchise doesn’t actually have bad intentions.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
FUCK MY LIFE
I returned home from a camping trip yesterday, and minutes after I stepped in the door at my palatial estate, Hoare Manor, I, like most of us probably would, decided to check my Facebook. When I did so, I noticed something disturbing. Roughly 50% of what I was reading were people's horribly depressing status updates.
You all know who I'm talking about here. We all have these Facebook friends. I'm not talking about people complaining that the Mets suck or that they're too hungover. Those are normal, albeit problematic, topics of conversation. No, I'm talking about the people who write on Facebook what other people would tell their therapist. That, to me, is simply bizarre. If your life is in shambles, I feel for you, I honestly do. But do you really think fucking Facebook is the place to get it all off of your chest? And some of these complaints are far from standard. Some of these are dark, cryptic, and downright weird.
"I don't even know why I get up every morning anymore. I just can't win."
"With friends like these, who needs enemies. I hate you all!!!"
"I'm over it. I don't need anyone. I hate this shit!"
These people, for lack of a better term, suck. Mark Zuckerberg isn't your goddamn shrink. A wizard of some sort? Perhaps. But a shrink, absolutely not. You really don't think there's a better outlet to vent about the cesspool that has apparently become of your life? How about you visit another website if you're so perpetually troubled. May I suggest dontkillyourself.com. You could always Ask Jeeves what the meaning of life is. He's gotta be kinda lonely and bummed these days himself. At the very least you should poke Dr. Phil. And think about this. If you're a consistent source of virtual depression, you're most likely writing to an audience of one at this point...your super cheery self. Newsflash Dr. Happypants, the majority of your friends have probably hidden you in their news feed by now. It's like that old saying goes, if a tree bitches and complains in the woods every day and no one's around to hear it...
Then there's that three letter combo that pisses me off even more so than the loathsome LOL, FML. Fuck My Life. These are the nitwits who in the winter write "I'm so cold! FML!", and then in the summer write "It's too damn humid! FML!" Sometimes it's like I exclusively accept the friend requests of elderly Jewish women. "Best Buy doesn't have season 3 of Designing Women on DVD! FML!" People, seriously, enough. Life is great. Learn to appreciate every damn day of it. Don't believe me? Head down to the hospital and talk to a terminal patient or two. Go ahead and swap FML stories. I'd say "My T cell count is plummeting! FML!" trumps "It's too cold for flip flops! FML!" any day of the week. If you die tomorrow, I bet you'll be irritating all your Heavenbook friends with posts saying "Ugh, haunting is so hard! Fuck my afterlife!".
Want some situations in which an FML IS warranted?
"My dick just exploded. FML!"
"Shit! Klansmen lit a gigantic wooden cross on my front lawn. FML!"
"I can't remember which color wire diffuses the bomb attached to grandma! FML!"
"My girlfriend accidentally got her tits tied in a knot! FML!"
"Got drunk and woke up naked next to Magic Johnson. FML!"
My life is far from perfect, however my Facebook posts consist of jokes about movies which star monkeys, music I feel people should hear, and then the occasional picture of a puppy dressed like a unicorn (Unipuppy. Patent pending). Now is me taking the time to complain about complainers kind of like the pot calling the kettle annoying? No, sir, it is not. Why? Because I'm funny, so fuck off. You bitch and moan about your boyfriend telling you that your services are no longer needed in an entertaining manner, then I'll eat every last one of my hilarious yet scathing words. Until then, if you truly feel that your life is so awful, have an actual conversation with an actual friend. Buy a self help book. Visit a goddamn monk. Do something. Just don't post constant sob stories on Facebook. No one wants to fuck your life, it sounds awful.
I'd write more, but I'm watching Wheel Of Fortune. I can't get this puzzle! FML!"
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
You all know who I'm talking about here. We all have these Facebook friends. I'm not talking about people complaining that the Mets suck or that they're too hungover. Those are normal, albeit problematic, topics of conversation. No, I'm talking about the people who write on Facebook what other people would tell their therapist. That, to me, is simply bizarre. If your life is in shambles, I feel for you, I honestly do. But do you really think fucking Facebook is the place to get it all off of your chest? And some of these complaints are far from standard. Some of these are dark, cryptic, and downright weird.
"I don't even know why I get up every morning anymore. I just can't win."
"With friends like these, who needs enemies. I hate you all!!!"
"I'm over it. I don't need anyone. I hate this shit!"
These people, for lack of a better term, suck. Mark Zuckerberg isn't your goddamn shrink. A wizard of some sort? Perhaps. But a shrink, absolutely not. You really don't think there's a better outlet to vent about the cesspool that has apparently become of your life? How about you visit another website if you're so perpetually troubled. May I suggest dontkillyourself.com. You could always Ask Jeeves what the meaning of life is. He's gotta be kinda lonely and bummed these days himself. At the very least you should poke Dr. Phil. And think about this. If you're a consistent source of virtual depression, you're most likely writing to an audience of one at this point...your super cheery self. Newsflash Dr. Happypants, the majority of your friends have probably hidden you in their news feed by now. It's like that old saying goes, if a tree bitches and complains in the woods every day and no one's around to hear it...
Then there's that three letter combo that pisses me off even more so than the loathsome LOL, FML. Fuck My Life. These are the nitwits who in the winter write "I'm so cold! FML!", and then in the summer write "It's too damn humid! FML!" Sometimes it's like I exclusively accept the friend requests of elderly Jewish women. "Best Buy doesn't have season 3 of Designing Women on DVD! FML!" People, seriously, enough. Life is great. Learn to appreciate every damn day of it. Don't believe me? Head down to the hospital and talk to a terminal patient or two. Go ahead and swap FML stories. I'd say "My T cell count is plummeting! FML!" trumps "It's too cold for flip flops! FML!" any day of the week. If you die tomorrow, I bet you'll be irritating all your Heavenbook friends with posts saying "Ugh, haunting is so hard! Fuck my afterlife!".
Want some situations in which an FML IS warranted?
"My dick just exploded. FML!"
"Shit! Klansmen lit a gigantic wooden cross on my front lawn. FML!"
"I can't remember which color wire diffuses the bomb attached to grandma! FML!"
"My girlfriend accidentally got her tits tied in a knot! FML!"
"Got drunk and woke up naked next to Magic Johnson. FML!"
My life is far from perfect, however my Facebook posts consist of jokes about movies which star monkeys, music I feel people should hear, and then the occasional picture of a puppy dressed like a unicorn (Unipuppy. Patent pending). Now is me taking the time to complain about complainers kind of like the pot calling the kettle annoying? No, sir, it is not. Why? Because I'm funny, so fuck off. You bitch and moan about your boyfriend telling you that your services are no longer needed in an entertaining manner, then I'll eat every last one of my hilarious yet scathing words. Until then, if you truly feel that your life is so awful, have an actual conversation with an actual friend. Buy a self help book. Visit a goddamn monk. Do something. Just don't post constant sob stories on Facebook. No one wants to fuck your life, it sounds awful.
I'd write more, but I'm watching Wheel Of Fortune. I can't get this puzzle! FML!"
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
THROWING UP ON THE KARDASHIANS
This morning, before I left for work, I happened to catch Star Jones on The Today Show. Star, who I still maintain may actually be Al Roker in a wig, was talking about Kim Kardashian’s failed marriage. Jones said that it’s a shame the marriage was as ridiculously brief as it was, because Kim Kardashian is a role model to little girls all over the country.
Say what?
I don’t care if Kim Kardashian had a 37 minute three way lesbian marriage with the Olsen twins. Her wedding is NOT why she shouldn’t be seen as a role model!
Lest America not forget, the only reason that Kim Kardashian became famous in the first place is because she had a sex tape! Yes, before she was endorsing shitty fragrances for tweens, Kim Kardashian was known as “that chick in the sex tape with Brandy’s brother.” This retard went and gave Ray J a high def blow j, sold the tape for 5 mil, then somehow, to her credit, parlayed that knob job into a multimedia empire. Was she smart enough to make the absolute most out of her opportunity? Undoubtedly. But anyone who endorses this dope as a role model for the children of America either is nuts, or is advising their daughter to play with nuts. An amateur pornographer with a huge ass, a role model does not you make.
And now, since this country has a gross fascination with all things celebrity, Kim and the rest of her awful family have somehow oozed their way into the American pop culture lexicon. They’re everywhere. I’ve never seen one episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians. In fact, I’d like to Throw Up On The Kardashians. However, even having never seen one episode, I sadly know the entire clan. Brody Jenner, her brother-in-law (I think?), has all the charisma and talent of a broken dust buster. Her mom, the one who may be responsible for the pimping out of her offspring, looks like the combination of Justin Bieber and Magda from There’s Something About Mary. Her sisters, Kourtney and Khloe, are pretty much the real life version of Timon & Pumbaa. Hell, I’ve even seen her little sisters on TV. One of them, who had to be no older than 15, was on the news (I swear, the news) talking about how she wants to grow up to be just like Kim. Well, Christmas is coming. Better ask Santa for some kneepads and a flip cam, Sally.
The only one in the family with any actual discernable talent is the father-in-law, Bruce Jenner. Ol’ Bruce is a bona fide Olympic gold medalist. He was on a goddamn Wheaties box! He set a world record for the decathlon in Montreal. Bruce, how the fuck did you get wrapped up with these celebritards? I’d give you a mulligan if you were married to Kim. She’s stupid hot. But your wife? Bieber/Magda, remember? So, Bruce, here’s my advice. Save yourself. You’re an Olympic athlete. Swim, Bruce. Swim until you can’t see land! Get the hell out of there! Don’t let your legacy be tarnished by shitty reality shows and the semen of B list R& B singers.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
Say what?
I don’t care if Kim Kardashian had a 37 minute three way lesbian marriage with the Olsen twins. Her wedding is NOT why she shouldn’t be seen as a role model!
Lest America not forget, the only reason that Kim Kardashian became famous in the first place is because she had a sex tape! Yes, before she was endorsing shitty fragrances for tweens, Kim Kardashian was known as “that chick in the sex tape with Brandy’s brother.” This retard went and gave Ray J a high def blow j, sold the tape for 5 mil, then somehow, to her credit, parlayed that knob job into a multimedia empire. Was she smart enough to make the absolute most out of her opportunity? Undoubtedly. But anyone who endorses this dope as a role model for the children of America either is nuts, or is advising their daughter to play with nuts. An amateur pornographer with a huge ass, a role model does not you make.
And now, since this country has a gross fascination with all things celebrity, Kim and the rest of her awful family have somehow oozed their way into the American pop culture lexicon. They’re everywhere. I’ve never seen one episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians. In fact, I’d like to Throw Up On The Kardashians. However, even having never seen one episode, I sadly know the entire clan. Brody Jenner, her brother-in-law (I think?), has all the charisma and talent of a broken dust buster. Her mom, the one who may be responsible for the pimping out of her offspring, looks like the combination of Justin Bieber and Magda from There’s Something About Mary. Her sisters, Kourtney and Khloe, are pretty much the real life version of Timon & Pumbaa. Hell, I’ve even seen her little sisters on TV. One of them, who had to be no older than 15, was on the news (I swear, the news) talking about how she wants to grow up to be just like Kim. Well, Christmas is coming. Better ask Santa for some kneepads and a flip cam, Sally.
The only one in the family with any actual discernable talent is the father-in-law, Bruce Jenner. Ol’ Bruce is a bona fide Olympic gold medalist. He was on a goddamn Wheaties box! He set a world record for the decathlon in Montreal. Bruce, how the fuck did you get wrapped up with these celebritards? I’d give you a mulligan if you were married to Kim. She’s stupid hot. But your wife? Bieber/Magda, remember? So, Bruce, here’s my advice. Save yourself. You’re an Olympic athlete. Swim, Bruce. Swim until you can’t see land! Get the hell out of there! Don’t let your legacy be tarnished by shitty reality shows and the semen of B list R& B singers.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
PETE vs FOOD
This morning I signed online and read my friend Drew’s Facebook status. In the status, he wondered if today was National Bacon Day. I, without so much as a Google search, was able to let him know that National Bacon Day is actually closer to Labor Day.
Who the fuck knows off the top off their head when National Bacon Day is!?!?!
Peter Hoare does.
My eating habits, and excuse me if I’m using the term incorrectly, suck a dick. My diet rivals that of a diabetic latchkey kid. My breakfasts look like most men’s desserts. I ordered my first salad at age 30, and hated it. If it’d make my breath minty fresh, I’d brush my teeth with fluff. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth. I innately love things that are god-awful for me, and if I don’t change that, I genuinely feel like my heart may explode at 35. In fact, if all of a sudden this article turns into “ruwhrgiutghiu4vg tiu4wgtiugiu43ug4”, that’s just the result of my dumb, dead head thumping down onto the keyboard. My apologies in advance.
Now if you’ve met me, or seen any of the many erotic calendars I’ve released over the years, you know that I’m kind of a slender dude. Not skinny per say, but thin. The kind of weird skinny where you’re also simultaneously kind of fat. Unfortunately for me, sexy as that may be, being thin a healthy guy does not you make. I’ve come to realize lately that there’s simply no way that I could technically be determined as being healthy. I’d imagine at this point my blood must resemble the peanut butter sauce at Friendly’s. Is it delicious? Yes. Will it keep me alive long enough to see my grandson ride his hoverboard to the inauguration of our first black lesbian president? Presumably not.
I used to joke about this kind of stuff…until I turned 30. People ask if you feel different after turning 30. By and large, in my opinion, the answer is no. Grey hairs be damned, I'm still a large child. Always will be. And the changes that have come about, I’ve been able to embrace. But one thing that I can't wrap my head around is the fact that I absolutely HAVE to learn to eat better. I’ve had a rough time coming to terms with the fact that grown men probably don’t need their daily rocky road milkshake. I loathe the fact that baby carrots are simply not as good as Nutter Butters. Some people like doing yoga and pilates, I like doing Mallomars. But I also like living. So, if any of you out there are anything like me, may I suggest you do what I’m doing and actually stick to a New Year’s resolution for once. I, after 30 years, am vowing to change my diet. In fact, a big reason I’m writing this is to ask for your help. If you ever hear me ordering extra bacon on something, you have full permission to immediately kick me in the junk. That kind of stuff can only help.
Actually, what am I saying? This article is all for naught. I forgot, I’m a Mayan. I just need to make it 12 more months. To Burger King I go! Chicken fries, Dr. Pepper, Reece's Pie.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoarejhuahefa803r8 2yr2838gheeoamnavcieewa26y391y4c2 y71r1e3c1e74c124168c4687ayuvanhalen91716161nja9a81n181n1nd98110101msaya0
Who the fuck knows off the top off their head when National Bacon Day is!?!?!
Peter Hoare does.
My eating habits, and excuse me if I’m using the term incorrectly, suck a dick. My diet rivals that of a diabetic latchkey kid. My breakfasts look like most men’s desserts. I ordered my first salad at age 30, and hated it. If it’d make my breath minty fresh, I’d brush my teeth with fluff. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth. I innately love things that are god-awful for me, and if I don’t change that, I genuinely feel like my heart may explode at 35. In fact, if all of a sudden this article turns into “ruwhrgiutghiu4vg tiu4wgtiugiu43ug4”, that’s just the result of my dumb, dead head thumping down onto the keyboard. My apologies in advance.
Now if you’ve met me, or seen any of the many erotic calendars I’ve released over the years, you know that I’m kind of a slender dude. Not skinny per say, but thin. The kind of weird skinny where you’re also simultaneously kind of fat. Unfortunately for me, sexy as that may be, being thin a healthy guy does not you make. I’ve come to realize lately that there’s simply no way that I could technically be determined as being healthy. I’d imagine at this point my blood must resemble the peanut butter sauce at Friendly’s. Is it delicious? Yes. Will it keep me alive long enough to see my grandson ride his hoverboard to the inauguration of our first black lesbian president? Presumably not.
I used to joke about this kind of stuff…until I turned 30. People ask if you feel different after turning 30. By and large, in my opinion, the answer is no. Grey hairs be damned, I'm still a large child. Always will be. And the changes that have come about, I’ve been able to embrace. But one thing that I can't wrap my head around is the fact that I absolutely HAVE to learn to eat better. I’ve had a rough time coming to terms with the fact that grown men probably don’t need their daily rocky road milkshake. I loathe the fact that baby carrots are simply not as good as Nutter Butters. Some people like doing yoga and pilates, I like doing Mallomars. But I also like living. So, if any of you out there are anything like me, may I suggest you do what I’m doing and actually stick to a New Year’s resolution for once. I, after 30 years, am vowing to change my diet. In fact, a big reason I’m writing this is to ask for your help. If you ever hear me ordering extra bacon on something, you have full permission to immediately kick me in the junk. That kind of stuff can only help.
Actually, what am I saying? This article is all for naught. I forgot, I’m a Mayan. I just need to make it 12 more months. To Burger King I go! Chicken fries, Dr. Pepper, Reece's Pie.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoarejhuahefa803r8 2yr2838gheeoamnavcieewa26y391y4c2 y71r1e3c1e74c124168c4687ayuvanhalen91716161nja9a81n181n1nd98110101msaya0
LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO LISTEN TO BAD MUSIC
I know in one of my recent columns I was preaching about the power of positive thinking, but in the context of these columns, I’ve come to realize that, in the words of one of my favorite bands, Cursive, ‘I’m at my best when I’m at my worst’. So, without further adieu…
Remember when you were young and first discovered rap music? It’s probably not a sucker’s bet to say that your parents were like mine and simply threw their hands up in the air, rolled their eyes, and said “I don’t get it”. It wasn’t for them. Chalk it up to a generational gap. Well, for me at least, that generational gap has once again reared its ugly yet logical head.
LMFAO. Really, guys? Really?
Being that I own a television, I’ve unfortunately heard the mind-numbingly bad music of the band LMFAO (Party rockers in the house toniiiight). Whoever licenses out these guys music deserves not only a hefty raise, but also an all expenses paid trip to Blowjob Island, because they’re on just about every commercial I see now a days…and I don’t get it! I really don’t. Put as succinctly and maturely as possible, they stink. Watching an LMFAO video is like watching a circus clown having a seizure at a foam party. Listening to an LMFAO song is like jacking off with a sandpaper glove. Painful. I’m sure I’m not endearing myself to many here. I’m no dummy. Music, much like comedy, is subjective. They’re wildly popular. I’m sure many of you reading this are actually card carrying LMFAO fans. And yes, I’m sure it’s good music to dance to, fine. I don’t dance, and if I did it’d probably resemble that poor, epileptic circus clown. But unless you’re mentally challenged or are, oh, I don’t know, 3 years old, you don’t dance to a commercial. My internal jury has reached its verdict. In Peter Hoare’s court, LMFAO = Guilty…of sucking.
And speaking of music that makes me want to eat bullets, at last month’s American Music Awards, Hot Chelle Rae took home the trophy for Best New Artist. Yet to hear the sonic abortion that is Hot Chelle Rae? Lucky you. Music is subjective. One man’s opinion. Yada yada yada. Yes. I get it. But AMAs, you mean to tell me that absolutely no recording artist emerged in 2011 that was better than the highly esteemed Hot Chelle Rae!? Bullshit! I call bullshit! This is what’s become of pop punk? In my day (Yep, I’m old enough to say that) we had Blink 182, NOFX and The Ataris. Now this? If you’ve illegally downloaded their album you should call the cops on yourself. All their songs sound like they should be the theme to a Teen Nick show. They sound like they should be playing in the background of the pool party where the chubby kid from Modern Family feels his first tit. But, in a nutshell, therein where the problem lies. Sadly, I am not the fat, Latin, 12 year old from Modern Family. I’m the 30 year old bearded guy from Long Beach.
Yes, I’ve recently reconciled to the fact that I’m by no means the target demographic for televised music. I’m simply too old. Record labels and advertisers aren’t trying to get ME to like this stuff. And that’s fine. It’s for folks a decade or so younger than I. And I’m not knockin’ the kids. Trust me, I listened to my fair share of crap when I was their age. At a party I went to in the 6th grade, I was in charge of bringing the new Kris Kross CD. In the 8th grade I was actually arrested for stealing M.C Hammer’s “2 Legit 2 Quit” from a local Kmart. (Regrets? None!) 12 year old Peter Hoare’s C&C Music Factory cassette tape is these kid’s LMFAO mp3, and that’s fine. This morning my Ipod chose to shuffle between The Pixies, De La Soul, and Lou Reed…and I was psyched. Now I’m not some old man who’s not finding new music, quite the contrary. But I have reached a point where I simply just don’t get some stuff. Dubstep? What the fuck is dubstep? I keep hearing it referenced, but I honestly have no idea what it is. If dubstep were arrested for murder and I were asked to pick it out of a lineup, there would be no justice serviced. The murder spree would continue.
Now I’d like to write more, but I just ate a big lunch. Time to go take a Hot Chelle Rae.
Cheers,
Peter Hoare
Twitter.com/PeterHoare
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