Tonight's Trashy Entertainment Sucked

I was really looking forward to tonight. Or technically last night, I guess. True Blood! Summerslam! Now I'm so annoyed I can't sleep.

Can we start with how completely frickin' disgusting Eric and Sookie are? They're so disgusting I wish she was back with Vampire Bill. Seriously. Can we just hurry up to the inevitable part when Eric gets his memory back but pretends he still doesn't have it so he can keep banging Sook because for some reason she likes him better as a ridiculous manchild? Because that part's going to be brilliant. Remember how awesome he was when he was an evil bastard? Now take that evil bastard and make him try to hide inside of a grown man with the morals and world view of a five-year-old. Skarsgaard's performance is going to be worthy of an EGOT even though there probably won't be any singing.

And then we have Summerslam. First Christian loses his belt to boring ass Randy Orton, then CM Punk beats Cena in a match with an absolutely terrible finish. Every other the-referee-missed-the-foot-on-the-rope-and-counted-three-anyway match in the last five years has been overturned by some sort of authority figure who saw it in the back and came running out to restart the match and save the day. Why didn't that happen with this one? And what is up with this new hit-a-move-get-a-nearfall-lie-around-on-the-ground-for-five-minutes-lather-rinse-repeat crap clogging our Pay-Per-Views nowadays? And then Kevin Nash lays out Punk so Alberto Del Rio can cash in his title shot. Don't get me wrong, it's always good to see Big Sexy, but Del Rio? After the summer Punk has had? I love Del Rio's entrance, what with the personal ring announcer and the smarmy look-at-how-great-I-am mannerisms, but no. Just no. Punk's Jesus faces beat that any day of the week, and he's the only guy other than Cena that gets any sort of reaction from the live crowd. YOU-CAN-TELL-I'M-PISSED-BECAUSE-OF-MY-EGREGIOUS-USE-OF-HYPHENS!

Where's my gold '66 Cadillac Pimp Mobile when I need to take a drive to clear my head? My life is so hard...

Who wants to give me $3500 so I can buy the '66 Cadillac Pimp Mobile for sale up the street?

Its distinctive 60's gold is like a beacon in a sea of marketing-survey approved blues, reds, and silvers. It's got fins. Why the fuck don't more cars have fins? It's a shame that went out of style. It takes up approximately two-and-a-half parking spots and probably gets about 3 miles to the gallon, but I don't care about the planet nearly as much as I care about how frickin' sexy I would look behind the wheel of this baby.

No, I don't have a license. If I had a ride this fly, I'd go get one. Why waste my time taking tests and dealing with the RMV unless there's a pimp mobile at the end of the rainbow?

I can picture it now: I cruise into Davis Square, pop it into neutral, and crank the stereo to THUMPIN'. Hoochies come running from all corners of Somerville to dance around my vehicle. This whip was made for ghost ridin', ladies and gentlemen, and I'm just the man to fulfill its destiny.

What does your $3500 get you?

• Automatic shotgun privileges for life.
• First crack at the ghost ridin' hoochies.
• Free autographed 8 x 12 of me lying across the hood in a matching gold Speedo.
• Title of Associate Vice President of Pimpin'.
• Monthly ride to Target.
• Warm, fuzzy feeling you can only get from helping your fellow man achieve something historic.

Plus it's tax deductible. Probably.

OCHOCINCO COME LIVE WITH ME!!!!!!

(Explanation: http://sports.yahoo.com/nfl/blog/shutdown_corner/post/Seeking-a-roommate-in-New-England-How-about-Cha?urn=nfl-wp4842)(Thanks Dan)

None of my roommates are moving out but that's ok. We can get bunk beds. I'm sure they make a double-decker attachment for my Bob-O-Pedic. If not I'll sleep on the floor. We can tell each other stories and have pillow fights and make fun of Rex Ryan. Did you know he likes feet? Like, a lot? A lot a lot? Like so much that it's wicked funny and it'll never, ever get old?

I've got an awesome porch. We can go to Target and buy another mini rocking chair so you and I have matching seats.

I know my way around Boston, especially the bars. Give me the name of a bar and I will be able to tell you many things about it, including:

• Relative price range.
• Dress code.
• What's likely on tap.
• Whether you want to eat there.
• What kind of hot mamas be frontin' in the specified establishment.
• Whether it's safe to take a dump.

And I've got XBox! And TiVo! We can watch Monday Night Raw and then play Smackdown vs. Raw and it will be a hoot! I made myself in the game. I spent two days perfecting my entrance and figuring out how to load in a Yellowcard song as my music! We can do that for you, too. And then we can be a tag team and beat the hell out of all the other wrestlers. Except Edge. I don't let Video Game Edge lose since Real Life Edge had to retire.

And we can grill! And go to Diesel! A lot of the people in there will remind you of the Cincinnati Bengals. It'll be great! I'll even change my last name to a number so it's like we're in a club. I'll be Scott Soixante-Neuf. It's classy because it's French! Why am I using so many exclamation points? Oh, right, because I'm excited and this is the best idea ever!

Let's Talk Debt

Because my terrible blog is where you come for all of your political analysis.

When I first heard that Moody's S&P had downgraded US debt from a AAA to a AA+, I couldn't help wondering what the fuck took so long. Is there a semi-literate, semi-informed adult on the planet that thinks we'll ever actually pay off what we owe? Put your hand down, you're making my readership look dumber than it actually is.

Then it dawned on me that this was the same ratings agency that put high grades on the ridiculous mortgage-backed securities that tanked our economy a few years ago. That was basically the economic equivalent of pulling into port with a Faneuil Hall tugboat just because you liked her eyeliner. It's no wonder it took them so long to realize what's been clear to the rest of us for the last few years.

If they can't agree on which taxes to raise and which programs to cut (that's right, children, you have to do both, not just one or the other), then I demand they find some new ways to generate revenue. Here are a few suggestions:

• Implement a "I banged an intern/page/campaign staffer" jar. Like a swear jar but better and more likely to make a lot of money given the tendencies of those involved. Twenty five cents per banging.
• Have a monthly bake sale.
• Start a Kickstarter project promising to change the pronunciation of John Boehner's name to more accurately reflect the way everyone reads it. There is no way in hell that's not boner.
• Finally release that "Lovely Ladies of the Senate" calendar we red-blooded American males have been pining for since puberty. OH MAN, PANTSUITS! GIVE ME THOSE PANTSUITS!
• Give Scott Brown all the Social Security money and send him to play poker with A-Rod.

Or maybe they should just declare bankruptcy. It worked for Trump. Twice.

Overanalyzing "Swamp People"

I was out a little late last night. You know, at the library, reading Melville and Bukowski and engaging in pleasant conversation with other learned individuals. We drank milk and ate cookies.

After all that intellectual stimulation, I was in the mood for some trashy television when I finally made it home. Boy, did I find it, in A&E's "Swamp People." This show follows the exploits of several of Louisiana's most upstanding citizens as they hunt gators. Many of these people require subtitles and their fashion sense is off the charts.

How does one hunt gators, you ask? First you lose a few of your teeth so as not to scare the reptiles away. They can smell good dental hygiene coming from a mile away. Next you buy a shit ass boat, grab your grandpappy's ancient rifle, and head to the Piggly Wiggly to get some chicken. Then you hang the chicken from a tree upon a giant hook so its just out of the water. When the gator's hooked, one redneck pulls him up to the surface so the other redneck can blast it in the head. Then you toss it in the bottom of the boat until you can get it to the back of your pickup truck and take it to whoever the fuck buys dead alligators.

I have issues with this.

• Firstly, why the hell are they all packing rifles when the thing they're shooting at is only a few feet away? One asshole had a rifle with a giant scope. I couldn't tell if he was just showing off or if he's such a terrible shot that he would need a telescope to hit his own foot. I kept hoping one of them was somehow going to miss and blow a hole in the boat.
• Why bother with a gun? Seems like a waste of ammo when the thing is right there up against the boat. How about a spear, or a trident, or just a really big rock? Then you don't have to worry about your ammo getting wet, as happened to one particularly eloquent crew.
• My favorite gator hunter, the big guy in the American flag bandana and the overalls and nothing else, was completely convinced that there was a giant gator out there eating all the smaller gators caught on his lines. He even named it The Assassin. His plan for catching The Assassin? Put a hunk of beef on the hook beside the hunk of chicken, then wrap it all in gator meat. Using hot dogs would seem to have been more efficient.
• Another team blew the strategy of all the others away. They ran out of chicken, so they soaked a few rags in chicken juice (freshly squeezed) and Shake N Bake and used those to bait the hooks. And it fucking worked. Which leads me to wonder why any of them bother with wasting money on meat when they can just use old dish towels.

Add gator hunting to the list of things I am an expert on thanks to TV, along with toddler beauty pageants, managing a house full of gold digging hoes, and not being as crazy as Dustin Diamond. I am a legit renaissance man.