I understand some of the people who visit this site don’t necessarily listen to  the live show, download the podcast, follow us on twitter or know us personally. So, I’m taking the time to get those people caught up on my latest antagonist act. While using stumbleupon the other day, I came across this obnoxious piece of P.O.O.P – People Offended by Offensive People. Naturally, I tweated to my many many followers. Someone happened across said tweat and we were off to the races:

Here’s a clip from the most recent show (4/16/09) explaining my problems with Toronto, issuing some serious threats, making some observations about the city and  telling jokes specific only to the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey club being fed to me by Uncle Pete.

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Hello internet world, its me, your American Hero with another movie review. This time I’m soder and ready to rip the shizzle out of one of the worst movies of all-time. So hold onto your keyboards as I go off on this terrible movie.

So I get to the theatre a little outside San Jose to see The Knowing. I knew very little about the movie except that it was about the end of the world and one of my favorite actors, Nicolas Cage, was in it. So I was pretty amped up for this movie and ready for Nicky boi to put an end to the end of the world. So after buying my ticket at the great price of 4.50!…unheard of in San Jose…I got some popcorn and a little so-derrr pop and headed into the theatre.

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Who is Barry Popkin? You mean you don’t know! He’s the director of the obesity center at the University of Carolina (which means he probably looks like the offspring of Roseanne Barr and a skyscraper). Papa Popkin recently preformed a study (no, not breakfast) that yielded startling results. Hold onto your hats kids, because the Chach-nooka and he who loves it when you call him big Popkin are about to rock your world.

I’m not convinced. Here’s a picture of my breakfast. – DJ

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I like to have a good time! If you can’t stomach that fact, then it’s high time you got on out of here, because that, my friend, is an unquestionable truth. I like to have a good time. DJ likes to have a good time. Peter Paul Marsh III (American Hero) loves to have a good time. Of course, Chachi likes having a good time. Frank can have a good time. Even Patty, that old, puritanical, straight-laced lesbo, likes to have a good time sometimes. Everyone here at SmartassRadio likes to have a good time. Essentially, having a good time is what we’re all about.

When you’re having a good time you don’t want to be making decisions. And if you do need to make a decision, you want to make it fast. Still, sometimes making a decision can be difficult. Especially, when that decision involves the good time you are about to have.

Imagine the scenario: You’re standing in your kitchen getting ready to party. You are just on the brink of it, and you can smell the good times ahead. Then two of your best buddies walk in. One says: “Yo man, you ready to go bananas?” and the next says, “Hey bro, you want to go hog wild?”  What are you going to choose?

Filbert doesn’t do either.

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I just made my first transaction on Live Nation, which is trying to merge with ticket sales overlord TicketMaster (CEO: Money grubbing Guns N’ Roses, Van Halen, Steely Dan and NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK manager Irving Azoff). Remember like a year or so ago when you would go to buy a ticket it would sometimes bring you to the old school order and if it was a pre-sale you would go to LiveNation? Fucking stupid, now they’ll be the same company. Anyway, I just bought a pair of tickets to see Protest the Hero (rawk!) in May. I have to say the Live Nation site was pretty intuitive. When I searched for the tickets I was able to easily find them and, much to my surprise, they were only sixteen bucks! That fuckin’ rules – I would have shelled out 25 if I was asked to do so. What follows is a harrowing tale of trivial amounts of money, deciet and a broken (and just fucking broke) young man.

Bag of shit.

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I was reading some Bill Faulkner today and was thinking about how terrible it would be to be someone else’s slave. I already have trouble doing things for myself. If my job was to fulfill the demands of someone else as well, I would have to file for unemployment. Except, too bad, I can’t because I’m a slave.

Now the idea that being a slave is not the best has been said again and again. It’s an idea that has been pounded into the social-consciousness since, I would say, at least 1989. As I continued to read this Faulkner novel (I should note that the people in Faulkner’s book were servants, not slaves, but I would still not be jumping at the opportunity to be a servant), I tried to think of things that could make being a slave even worse. Why I decided to think this, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I saw Saw IV last night and my mind has just been turning everything more tortuous. I came up with a couple options. One: you get impregnated by someone who is not a slave, but is a total dick, preferably the town sheriff. That would make matters much worse, but I can’t get pregnant, at least not with the technology available in slave-times. (Side-note: A really terrible themed restaurant would be one that follows the basic format of Medieval Times but is called Slave Times). Two: If I were a slave, but I also had a very developed case of alcoholism.

Someone is dying for a Margarita.

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Beyond basic knowledge about your operating system, web browser and location (yea… where you live within a pretty reasonable distance), I don’t know too much about you guys – our readers. What I can surmise though, is there are about 100 people reading every day. I think it’s safe to assume some of you are the same people, which means posts like this, this and this really don’t bother you. If you do take offense to posts like that, read no further. – DJ

So, yesterday I slammed the Wall Street Journal’s dumb website for not poviding me with any good news. Then I actually went there. This is what I got. Now, I’ve made my views on organized religion pretty public – really I hate all religion, but those which are “organized” give me a very big, fat, bloated target to take aim at. Now, Pope Benedict has put his foot so far into his Nazi mouth, he’s likely to shit shoe leather later today.

Good golly, I sure wish I could take credit for this one.

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