Don’t wake Daddy was the Candy Land of My Generation

There have been worse ideas for board games besides Don’t Wake Daddy, but that game was called Hungry Hungry Hippos, and it made millions, so I won’t go into that.

But besides those hedonistic hippos and their white ball hoarding feasts, DWD was quite possibly the dumbest idea anybody could have ever conceived of, rivaled only by Polio and Andrew Dice Clay’s career.

The premise of the game was simple. You picked up your pieces, went doo di doo di doo, around the board, while some jerkoff would hit the button by daddy’s bed until he woke up and everybody, in unison, mind you, would shout, “Don’t-wake-daddy!” In the mean time, your real daddy, taking a nap after a hard day at the sulfur factory, would wake up and wallop you with a day old Daily News for disturbing his sleep before dinner. (“I told you kids! I told you! Daddy needs sleep!”)

Another great game, and by great, I mean terrible, was Trouble. It seems that every board game back then in the Paleozoic Era I was born in had some kind of stupid thing to shout out as you progress, with this particular utterance being, yep, you guessed it (or maybe you just knew it): “TROUBLE!”

I don’t quite remember the rules of the game, or even if it was actually a game at all (it could have been a piece of propaganda to successfully elect Spiro Agnew, I’m not quite sure). But what I do remember was that it wasn’t fun, and actually caused trouble in my own life when I stepped on it on purpose when my friend’s little sister was having a slumber party. That girl’s mother made me pay for a new game for her with my own money. I never talked to that friend or his sister ever again.

But where was I going with this?

Oh, yeah, DON’T-WAKE-DADDY!

As much as I hate the game, you gotta love that title.

If only they came with souls

Mentos is good for chewing, or getting paint on your pinstripe business suit and rolling around like a beached walrus so your entire suit gets paint on it, but what else is it good for? I’d like to know. If they had souls, I’d say keeping them as pets, or making them into robots (Saves the trouble of inputting the C ++ soul program into them). But what else? As it stands right now, all they’re good for are two things, so I don’t see what the big deal is about them.

Now, crack! THERE’s a booger sugar with a personality. Not that I’ve done it or even recommend people do it, but if there’s one thing that represents the 80’s, besides keytars, it’s crack.

And Mr. Belvidere.

But mostly crack.

Stupid good for nothing Mentos. Freshmaker, my clavicle!

Does NO ONE love the “nappy headed hoes” at Rutgers U?

There are words (muffin, puppy dog, tax refund adjustment) and then there are WORDS (nigger, spic, Sanjaya fan). And depending on what you say and how you say it, words can either be your best friend, or your worst prison inmate, it all really depends on who’s saying it, and who you’re saying it to.

Case in point: Don Imus. Let’s be honest, the shock jock radio personality, donning a cowboy hat and a face reminiscent of Hudson from the show Gargoyles, does NOT seem like the kind of person who should be calling women from the Rutgers’ basketball team “nappy headed hoes.” But, if you’ve taken the time to click out of World of Warcraft for a second, you’ll know that the I-Man did just that. And not only that, but he got fired for it, too.

Now, do I think Imus should have been fired? In all truths, no.

But here’s another, more important question. (I’ll get back to the aforementioned one in a second) Was what Imus said hurtful or funny? Honestly, I think it was the latter and have been calling people “nappy headed hoes” nonstop ever since (“Mom, you’re nothing but…nothing but a NAPPY HEADED HO!”), but I suppose it all really depends on how thick skinned you are, and how easily you can brush off a joke.

But let’s back up for a second, shall we? Should Imus have been fired? In my opinion, no, he shouldn’t have, but then again, most people call me the “whitest black person on the planet,” so maybe I don’t really have a say.

I think I do have a say, though, and in turn, I think Imus had a say, too, even though some might have found what he said to be offensive and just plain wrong.

But, if you think about it, isn’t that what shock jocks get paid for? SHOCKING you. They say things with reckless abandon and hope that the censors don’t pull the plug on them while they’re talking mid-sentence. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, either. Everybody says racial jokes, right? They’re more American than apple pie and Kurt Cobain, and most people laugh when they hear them, too, don’t they?

I mean, come on, be truthful. How many times have you been in a situation where you saw a white guy thrust their hips totally out of rhythm to some Three 6 Mafia song and said, “Look at that white bwoi go!” If you haven’t, then you’re either A) lying to yourself, or B) lying to me, because you have, and when a black person says it, supposedly it’s acceptable.

But when a WHITE person says something (and one who wears a cowboy hat and listens to country music to boot), he’s a bona fide racist, and, and, and, how DARE he talk about the black community like that?! Let me get Al Sharpton on the phone this instant. HE’LL know what to do about this.

It’s so unbalanced, it is, and blacks, through the years of gangster rap and movies like Boyz n The Hood, have been calling women hoes since the 90’s. And you know very well if somebody like Star or Buckwild made a comment like that on the air, they wouldn’t even have gotten a slap on the hairless wrist.

MAYBE some women MIGHT have called up and said, “Look, you have to watch what you say on the radio,” but I’ll tell you this, The New York Post wouldn’t have run a front page story declaring their ousting from the building immediately. The New York Post, trashy toilet paper that it is, wouldn’t have even had it below the fold. In fact, it wouldn’t have even been in the paper at all.

But Imus, well, that white boy can’t say things like that. He MUST be a racist. I mean, I’ve never even listened to the man before (and I’m not saying I haven’t, because I have, that’s why I think I should be able to voice my opinion on him. I’m just giving an example, you see), but just LOOK at him. That weird shaped hobgoblin face, those Ku Klux Klan eyes (Where’s your hood, honkey?!). No white man should be able to talk about MY race like that, I’m (*bursts into tears*) and so on, and so forth. That’s how the black community has acted about this whole thing—first in a fit of rage, and then with a teary eyed whimper, demanding justice from the network that housed him.

And while yes, I’ve ranted on quite a bit and haven’t really reached a real point, does everybody get where I’m going with this? I mean if Bill Clinton had called them “nappy headed hoes,” jokingly, of course, I don’t think he would have received the shit storm Imus has, and he was once President of the United STATES, for Taco Bell’s sake! Most would probably just see it as a joke, (“Oh, how he kids”), because many blacks respect Clinton and would probably just shrug it off and say, “Well, he’s one of us anyway, right? Remember when he was in office? He did so much for the black community.”

But what do you think? I’ve always been one to point out obvious contradictions with race relations, and think the black community goes overboard sometimes at what they cite as racist. (Michael Richards, yes. Imus, no.)

Leave a response after the beep. If you think I’m wrong, then maybe I am. But I have my say, too, don’t I? Words are MY best friend, after all.

A Sermon for Kurt (of the Vonnegut variety)

Alright, alright, everybody sit down, sit down. This is a FUNERAL for crepe’s sake, not a burlesque house…that’s at six.

Hokay, now that everybody’s settled, I think it’s time to take a toast to my dear friend, Kurt, 84 years ancient; his obliterated Paul Maul endorsed lungs no longer breathing in air. As a personal admirer of the man who only knew him through his books, I believe I am the end all, be all authority to talk about his life history, for who else is qualified, his wife and kids?

And while the answer to that rhetorical question might be an obvious, “yes”, they’re not here right now, and supposedly didn’t receive the 389 emails I sent them.

So…so it goes.

Kurt grew up a young boy like most young boys. The only problem being that his father was an oft-unemployed dreamer, and his mother was a pill popper who one day mixed her Flintstone pills with her booze and never woke up again. This, I’m sure you can gather, was a suicide that would rest heavily on Kurt’s soul, and often was the reason why there was always a hint of sadness in his mirth—a punch to the heart for every donkey kick to the funny bone his one word paragraphs would deliver.

Because, in all truths, Kurt really wasn’t a very happy man. In his masterwork, Slaughterhouse 5, he recounted his occupation in World War 2, which was a war that he saw some terrible things in, and also some pretty funny (But not funny, “ha-ha”) things in as well. Like the fire bombing of Dresden, for instance. Believe it or not, Kurt actually LIVED through it by staying stored up in a meat locker with a bunch of Germans at the time. And when reading the book, you really can’t tell which Kurt found funnier, the firebombing, or the fact that he came out of it alive. And to be honest with you, I don’t think he even knew the answer to that himself, which makes him even MORE of a mystery. That crazy moralist always WAS kind of “funny” in that way.

But Kurt had a whole bunch of other books, too, and to think that people usually characterize him based on just that one makes me want vomit in a fit of rage! And Mountain Dew. But mostly rage!

Player Piano, his first novel, is a masterpiece that goes into the whole HAL issue (When will robots start taking over, already?) before HAL was even a twinkle in Arthur C Clarke’s eye. And The Sirens of Titan, a head trip if there ever was one, tackled questions that I can’t quite remember right now, but it was an adventure all the same, as all of his stories were.

Following Sirens was Mother Night, and following that was…Well, I’m not going to read you off the list I have in front of me right now. In the age of wikipedia and iTunes, or whatever you kids use to steal Sir Mix-a-Lot songs these days, I don’t have to read you off the titles, as you can just look them up yourself. But I will tell you this, they’re all wonderful, introspective, brilliant; tickle your belly button, hoo-ha’s, that should be read by all ages, no matter the generation, or whether you’re squeamish to a well-told story fattened up in all the right places with humor.

So, Kurt, hopefully resting on Tralfamadore with your sister, Alice, your brother Bernard, your doppelganger Kilgore, and all the other crazy, hepped up characters you lifted your ass up for and farted out, God bless you, and your Unitarian ways. If there’s anything this Earth ever did get right, is was messing you up in all the wrong ways for you to write your stories and make the rest of us show our toothiest grin to the world. And while that may be a horrible thing to say, somehow, I think it’s what you really thought, too. (*Turns around and ruffles Kurt’s hair*)

And so it goes, forever and ever. Amen.

Come one, come all, to Uncle Ben's Player's Ball

Everybody knows Uncle Ben’s a pimp. With Aunt Jemima on one arm, and Sara Lee on the other (“Cause nobody doesn’t like her, fool!”) Uncle Ben has single-handedly made the rice business his bitch and has ratted out his sole competitor, Senor Goya, to the INS, making him the premier rice distributor in the world.

So, with the crown atop his head, Uncle Ben has decided to throw his first annual Player’s Ball. But not just anybody can come to said ball of player’s. To get into this ritzy joint, which is being held at the White Castle on 7th Ave this year, you have to be the baddest of the bad, and the coolest of the cool. And currently, with such a tight economy, only four possible player’s actually made it in this year. Here are their attributes and shot at winning the crown.

Colonel Sanders:
With a face as iconic as slavery and chicken breasts, Colonel Sanders has a good shot at winning it all. His greasy chicken, choice to wear all white, and Kentucky fried mustache make him one heck of a pimp. It also makes him one snazzy looking colonel. What the hell, US Military? Why don’t soldiers dress like the Sands anymore?

PROS: Owns his own business from beyond the grave, has revolutionized the use of the bucket, KFC biscuits the only product from Heaven to safely make it down to Earth.

CONS: Too much of a thigh man, skin only edible part of his chicken, nasty habit to go to comedy clubs and drop the “N” bomb.

Chances of winning: 10-1.

Mr. Monopoly:
Everybody knows that the Monopoly magnate (also known to his stock broker friends as Rich Uncle Pennybags) is one of the filthiest—in the rich sort of way—player’s out there. Not only can he make or break you with as little as a dice roll, but he can also make a top hat, a cane, and a red bow tie look as natural as professional wrestling and the cell membrane of a plant. Oh, and he can put on his own diaper, too. Ladies, look out!

PROS: Literally has a card that gets him out of jail, has four railroads, all of them, amazing, has his own currency.

CONS: Drives a one inch silver car, talks like he’s still living in the thirties, spits when he eats fish and mustard sandwiches (It’s true, watch him eat sometime).

Chances of winning: 40-1.




The Quaker Oats Guy:
The Quaker Oats Guy, though you didn’t know this, is one of the most notorious, rapacious arms dealers out there. Using a special blend of oatmeal that he mixes with gun powder and old Chinese newspapers, he has single handedly supplied the middle east and North Korea (Not to mention Vatican City) with more weaponry than Hunter S. Thompson’s stockpile. And yes, while he is a pimp, you’ll find that he’s also a very dirty, lecherous, not very nice pimp, which is unlike most pimps you’ll find in your slums and ghettos.

PROS: Rocks white Prince Valiant hair and smiles about it, product can make you lose weight by induced vomiting, can recite Rapper’s Delight perfectly without missing a single word

CONS: Gay, which is not a con, but at a Player’s Ball where you’re supposed to bring hot females, it hurts when you bring Mr. Goodbar and Clark Bar by your side, Did I mention his product makes you vomit?

Chances of winning: 30-1

Orville Redenbacher:
The obvious looker of the bunch, Orville made his career with salty popcorn that frankly, really isn’t all that good. Still, with his Steve Urkel get-up and lack of any real history of being a pedophile or anything like that, you could do a lot worse than Orwell. Like the guy on the Crackerjacks box, for instance. Let’s not get into his back-story…

PROS: A nice guy who just wants to shove popcorn down your throat, wears glasses so thick they can see through time

CONS: Eats with his elbows on the table, has tendency to pop his corn when you’re making love just so he can walk in and say, “Oops, sorry, didn’t see you there.”

Chances of winning: 20-1

And the winner is...Dark horse candidate Count Chocula, who has amassed a fortune in his 3000 years on this planet. Sorry fellows, better luck next year. Your delicious treats and whimsical board games that teach us the facts of life will not be forgotten. And you can take that to the bank (You get it? Like Rich UnclePenny Bags? And, oh, forget it, these kind of jokes are lost on you…)

I beat leprosy!

Many of you may not have known this (including myself), but I actually had leprosy. And if my idea for why I got it in the first place serves me correctly, which it probably doesn’t, the reason I acquired it is because I “accidentally” ate meat on Friday, which, as all Catholics know, is a big no-no, or, as Bruno from The Ali G Show would put it, a big “nish-nish.”

So, the only logical explanation for my sudden bout with leprosy, which I beat by scaling the highest mountain and singing “I’m a maniac, maaaaaniac, that’s for sure, and I’m dancing like I never danced before,” all to Marky Mark’s “Good Vibrations” (And let me tell you, singing and dancing to a song with another song playing in the background is much harder than you think), is because God was spiting me.

Leave it to me to forget that Good Friday just so happens to land on a Friday, which is the same day I enjoyed a foot long meat sub from the house that Jared built (or at least made popular).

I knew by the first bite, after realizing that it was Friday, that I should stop while I was in mid-mastication, but did I? Noooooooo. I reasoned that God wouldn’t be too upset with me since I’ve done a pretty good job of not eating snacks or deserts for the entirety of Lent so far, which is my sacrifice for the season. But jeepers, He was just as mad as ever.

Out of the clouds, God (yes, THEE God) pointed a long, austere finger at me, his voice booming in between bouts of thunder, and scolded me with the severity of a father catching his only son borrowing his brand new Camaro: “RICHARD BRANDON KNIGHT!” He said, “I SAAAAW YOU EAT THAT SUB, AND NOT JUST HALF OF IT, EITHER, BUT ALLLLL OF IT, AND YOU CHEWED IT WITH GREAT RELISH AND GLEE. AND WHEN I SAY GREAT RELISH, I MEAN OF THE PICKLE VARIETY! YES, I SAW YOU, DON’T THINK I DIDN’T SEE YOU PUT RELISH ON A MEATBALL SUB. YOU SICKEN ME!”

And with that, leprosy spread all across my body. I wandered the land for a whole day speaking inaudible things to passerby’s who spat on me, and called me Leprosy McLep Leper, which, now that I’m cured, doesn’t really make much sense. But you know how cruel people can be when you have leprosy. And if you don’t, I never liked you anyway.

So, back to my story.

Well…actually, that was it.

But if you’re looking for a moral to this story, here it is: Good Vibrations, even today, is a totally radical song.

Oh, and try not to eat meat on Friday. At least not a whole meatball sub, anyway.

Thank Jehovah’s Witness that Black History Month is Finally Over

February, besides being the shortest month of the year, is also the most annoying, since it harbors both abysmally, balls shriveling cold weather, and black history month. And anybody who’s anybody knows that BHM is the biggest farce since Scorsese won the Academy Award for The Departed (Just because he didn’t win for Taxi Driver or Raging Bull doesn’t mean he deserves it now).

“But, wait,” you say, scratching the rash on your belly you’ve had since Monday but are afraid to get checked out (You’ve even smeared Peanut Butter on it, thinking it would work), “Aren’t you black, Richard B. Knight?”

And while this is a good assumption (and an accurate one), judging by my skin color, it doesn’t mean squat. Back in, ummmm, I’m going to say fourth grade, I was actually reprimanded for saying black history month was stupid (I wasn’t referring to things as “gay,” back then, but if the phrase was part of the English vernacular like it is now, I probably would have) when we had to study it for a whole month in a section of the book that was SOLELY designated for the month of February. Showcasing that black history is obviously not comparable to the rest of the history in the text book, as black history is a whole ‘nother monster, probably with a big black dong. Black History, like most blacks, probably has a big black dong.

But the whole concept of it is sofa king retar Ed. A month dedicated to black history is segregation, plain and simple. Black history, Heaven and Georgia forbid, in this light, is not to be taught the rest of the year, since it deserves a whole month, which is just a way of saying, “Here’s your damn month, take it and like it.” And while Martin Luther King Jr. is nifty and all, why do I have to celebrate what he did every single stinking year (in cold booty weather, no less) as if he parted the Red Sea with his bear hands?

Yes, I KNOW he did more for blacks than the average Notorious B.I.G., and yes, I KNOW black people now have rights they never had as little as five decades ago, but with that, we’ve also got rappers talking about why their “leather’s so soft,” and “this is why I’m hot.” Come ON, man, don’t you have anything BETTER to talk about than your newly acquired opulence? Sheeh!

And why do I have to see stupid Coke commercials reminding me that I better be celebrating (and drinking sugar from a bottle) while I still can? I know this kind of treatment only happens once a year, but garsh, you’re kinda beating me over the head with it and disappointing me when you tell me that the last great black achievement was in 1963 (See: MLK, again).

It’s all so…cloying! Take something good, and then bastardize it. Good job, fellas. You guys did for black history month what Hallmark did for love: Made a stupid, commercial day out of it, and then tell people it’s all in the spirit of the holidays. You’re AA sponsors would be proud.

Oh, and Kwanzaa’s dumb, too. People dressing up in Afrika Bambaataa garb and lighting candles? Why don’t they just play Planet Rock and call it Afrika Bambaata day then? Black History Month and Kwanzaa=unneeded.

Thank God the month is short, at least.