Boxing Day Fashion Faux Pas

I passed by some dumbass teenager in the mall today wearing a pink fluffy ski hat with dangley pink tassles. Worse yet, on closer inspection, this walking winter nightmare was a dude!

What kind of retard actively decides to put on a flaming-neon pink fluffy hat to the public mall - with bobbles hanging off it no less! On what planet would this ever be considered as cool, or even acceptable?

Someone do entire male gender a service and take this guy out back in the alley and beat the living shit out of him. At the very least, make sure to permanently revoke this pussy’s “Man License”. Let's show this guy the true meaning of "Boxing Day", and literally box the stupid out of him.

I understand you're what, seventeen? I understand that you feel this strong desire to seek out the attention from everyone around you within one single city block. But do you have to dress like such a sissybitch to do it?

I was instantly driven to kick this guy in the Charlie Brown’s and holler:

“Somebody get Showcase on the phone, I found the next fag for your Queer Eye squad. I hope Santa brings you some balls this year, bitch.”

Super Dead

In tragic holiday news, the “Godfather of Soul”, “The Hardest Working Man in Show Business”, and the one and only “Mr. Dynamite”, James Brown, died in the early morning hours of Christmas Day at the age of 73. Brown suffered from a heart attack as the result of a “severe pneumonia”.

And Santa brings me one step closer this year to winning my office ‘Dead Pool’.

KA-CHING!

You don’t have to be a Sam Rothstein to figure out that this guy’s number was almost up. Plagued for the past two decades with drug and alcohol abuse as well as numerous counts of domestic violence and arms possession, I think Mr. Dynamite done gone and ignited himself once and for all.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I own and enjoy many James Brown albums and concert recordings. I even followed the progression of Soul music into its future incarnations of rap, disco, and funk. I respect James Brown as a musician, an entertainer, and an innovator, but as a human being…the man was a ticking timebomb.

He loved his over-the-top screeching, his hair, his nicknames, his guns, and bitch-slapping his honeys back to the Stone Age should they ever dare forget the gravy to go with his breakfast biscuits. And lets not forget his 1987 PCP-fueled rampage when he burst into an insurance seminar adjoining his own office in Augusta, then led police on a car chase across the South Carolina border. Clearly, here is a man a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

This morning, CNN broadcast the official coroner’s report straight from Emory Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta. For those of you who may have missed it, here is a portion of the press release announcement (translated into soul for all my grieving Soul Brothers):

“We regret to inform you that, Mr. James Brown, has died tragically at the age of 73 at 1:45AM this morning.”

(“Hurtsa! Dead at One Forty-Five-ah...gottagetdownnow….HEEEEEY!”)

“His untimely death was the result of a minor heart attack brought on by complications from a severe pneumonia.”

(“Brutha died – YEEEEEEOOOOOWWWW! He had a cold-ah. AH-CHOO!! HEEEEEEY!”)

Personally, I think it would have been more fitting and appropriate had the original Sex Machine met his ultimate demise as the result of a royal Ike Tuner-style ass-kicking by his ex-wives.

James was accompanied at the time of his death by his agent Frank Copsidas, and long time friend Charles Bobbit. His agent I might be able to understand, and correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this Charlie Bobbit the same guy who had his wee-wee cut off by his estranged wife some years ago? What’s his connection (no pun intended) with the Godfather of Soul exactly?