Just thought I should mention I have left the blog. If you are looking for stuff by me you'll find me at byejustin.wordpress.com

You will be missed.

News from a Tierney

Rep. John Tierney (D. Mass.) is now the questioner, and he began by getting McNamee to acknowledge that he was not truthful to police about the 2001 incident, and that he was not truthful to investigators about the number and frequency of injections.
Tierney is now pressing Clemens about an apparent contradiction in his deposition, in which he said he never spoke to McNamee about HGH, but later in his deposition said he had two conversations with McNamee about his wife's HGH use. Clemens at one point consulted with his attorney, Rusty Hardin, but stumbled through his answers.


When I was in high school I tried to get one of his campaign banners to hang in my room, but I was denied. I didn't forgive him until today. But I did admittedly modify several of his bumper stickers so that they said J. Tierney and put them everywhere.

Hate Filled Rant No. 1

I’m sure most of you have been on the L train. Or as I like to call after the witching hour: Clusterfuck.

Well the other night Clusterfuck played its favorite gag on me: running on one track. There’s nothing quite as appealing as spending all night on your feet and loading your dragging ass onto an overcrowded platform to listen to a hipster asian teenager sing Kurt Cobain tunes he can’t quite pronounce.

Once you get on the train there is the smattering of well patched backpacks. Now it has been my life long commuter policy when I’m wearing either a backpack or saddlebag in a crowded traincar. I’ll put it at my feet. You know why: Cause I’m not a braindead asshole. Now sure, I’m willing to steal a seat from an octagenerian but I can always just claim back spasms. If you’re wearing a backpack, you are an asshole.

So this past weekend, I’m in the car, holding on to the ceiling. Sorry if anyone under 5’7 can’t relate. Without a step stool. And my bag is by my feet, but Trenchcoat, there in front of me, has decided it was alright to displace the amount of room that could be filled by four 80 pound burnt out rave girls. Naturally I’m thrilled.

On top of that, I hear the call from within the cattle crush of a man in low broken english.

“Excuse me. Excuse me. Pardon. Excuse me.”

I look up just above the pages of my book and I can see his presence coming thought the crowd. It was like when you see something coming through a field of corn. You don’t see the actual thing, just the rustling from above.

Who the fuck is this retard?

Now I don’t just throw retard out there. I once called a football player “retarded” on TV, far away from physical harm, and my brother’s ex girlfriend looked at me without a hint of irony and said, with a straight face, not kidding, “We don’t say retarded.”

Well I do. I mean who the fuck is we. I know my brother says it. It’s staple in the Massachusetts lexicon. Matt Damon in his day has surely said more then his share of re-tah-ded. I don’t like denigrated a whole sect of the population who can be very inspiring Olympians. But its offensive, THAT’S THE POINT. Anyway she’s an ex girlfriend for a reason.

So here comes this retard. He gets closer and closer and then the smell hits. Great he’s homeless and I’m reading Mole People. Last thing I want is for him to think is that I understand his plight and have him start chatting me up something. So I start reading from the beginning. So it looks like I haven’t gotten to empathy yet.

I think he was Mexican. Not that I have any proof that he was Mexican it’s just how I like to gerneralize the Latin community. It’s fun for me. Like when I call all people from Eastern Europe Commies. Sure they’re grand parents may have been tortured in the gulags, but it makes me laugh. Cause I’m an asshole.

So I really hear him coming. I hear excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Then to the shorter. Scuse me. Scuse. Well when he got to me. I was annoyed cause I could no longer completely ignore him.

So he starts off by bumping by trenchcoat. Pushing right past his backpack. He’s about 5’4 200 flowing grey hair and trashed out of his mind. How do I know? Because no one could smell as bad as he does and have such have a huge fucking grin on their face. Then there was the other clue which was really hit home by the girl in the multi colored eyeliner behind me.

“Oh my God, he peed.”

Sure enough puddles. Not a trail. Not a stream but little puddles squeezed out of the 20 year old Reeboks he was sporting like porous urinal cakes.

Now while I had the where with all not to touch him. Backpack shit head in front me just had the hugest look of morose on his face as he began smelling his back pack. Pee.

It’s the littlest things that make you happy.

Just so you know....


Looking like Jon Lovitz is not a compliment.

Know what I hate....

That the hip Polish mo fo's can be all "down with the people" and have cookie dough, but be too good sell shredded cheese.


Know what I love....

Tyler Perry = roid head. Awesome.

From the Bar Stool with Chris Neher

as told to Justin Tierney’s voicemail.

Hey buddy. It’s Chris. I just had a …a conversation last night with one of my buddies and (it) the conversation led into what might be a funny skit if you ever wanted to shoot it.

(cough)

Ahhhh…this…this is… almost, pretty much a true story:

This guy was getting knob from some girl and she jammed her finger in his ass and umm he was OK with that, which was weird to me but that’s beside the point. And then later ahhhhhh…. he was doing the favor to her and he jams his finger in her ass. Ummm and then I guess later he said, it was… pretty funny because he imagined that both of them were trying that dirty shit finger like (laugh) out of each other’s hair and face and I imagine off the pillow and it just reminded me of like a really, kind of it might be like a really bizarre like Seinfeld type thing. Like “God, what do I do with this shitfinger.”

I don’t know

I don’t even know how you could approach that, but I thought it was a funny story

Oh boy, I’m exhausted.

Ok goodbye.