Category: Wyatt’s Words

I don’t know about you guys, but I’m pretty fucking STOKED Amanda Bynes is back in LA.

The worst thing she did here was just drive around aimlessly and get tickets (the official LA pastime).

In New York there was the broken bong vase, the arrest, the Drake tweets, her vagina getting slapped (not in that order), and a cancer charity’s worth of ratchet-ass wigs.

So we’re happy to have her back…and not a moment too soon:

According to the cab driver … Amanda was trying to get into an old folks home in Thousand Oaks — outside L.A. — when management at the place turned her away because they felt she was drunk and accused her of trespassing.
However, the retirement community was nice enough to call a taxi for Amanda — but when she got into the cab she said … “Get me the f**k out of here … I don’t have any money.” Naturally, the driver kicked her out at that point.

Honestly, how can you tell the difference between an old folks home and a home that belongs to old folks in Thousand Oaks?  She was probably just trying to visit her parents.

Then shit got real when the MAN had to get his nightstick all up in that moistness:

Law enforcement sources tell us, the fire department responded to the home in Thousand Oaks, CA around 9pm — near where Amanda was just accused of trespassing — after someone noticed the small blaze in the driveway. The sheriff’s department was subsequently called when Amanda was found standing near the campfire.

This must have confused the hell out of the geezers.  They probably thought she was a witch.

When sheriff’s deputies arrived, they questioned Amanda about what she was doing, and why she was doing it — and based on her answers, they determined she needed to be hospitalized on a 5150 hold. Translation: her answers were really wacky.

How many more ex-child stars are we going to lock away?

In all honesty…it’s a real tragedy.  We lost another hot piece of ass to the crazies.

You know what?  I’m a charitable guy.

I dropped a dime once and didn’t pick it up.

I told my friend’s ex she was “not ugly”.

I’m going to start a “Save the Still-Barely-Bangable 90s Stars” charity.

Lindsay Lohan will be there.  As will Britney Spears.

Miley Cyrus will not.  (Not arrested yet, not in the 90s, not worth saving)

Because we can’t keep letting this shit happen:

then…

now…

 

“Old Arab” Helen Thomas is dead at the spry age of 92, likely under suspicious circumstances. Between this and the Glee kid, who’ll be the third celebrity to drop? *crosses fingers for a member of Menudo*

She was the first female member of the White House Press Corps, mostly because they just couldn’t get her to go away. Serving in every administration since Polk Kennedy, Thomas was known for her hard-hitting and often-rambling seven-part questions.

Bringing to the press corps all the casual racism of your senile great aunt along with the sex appeal of your senile great aunt, Thomas was finally let go from her seat just feet away from the President after telling Jews to “get the hell out of Palestine” and go back to Poland.  So clearly, “the Jews” had no choice but to take her out.

In all seriousness, it’s sad to see her go. She’s one of those things you expect to last forever, like dirt or a Big Mac. She always reminded me of my grandmother of the same age (hardworking, shriveled, loud, unhinged, they may be the same exact person) who continues to keep on truckin.

We can all learn one thing from Helen’s life—you need to live long enough for Presidents to personally bring you a cake every birthday—no matter how crazy you get.

RIP, Helen.

I used to hate running. Hatehatehate it.

They always made us run the mile. Fuck that shit. When in life are you ever going to have to run a mile? If you’re being chased by a robber, you think he’s gonna stop and keel over after just a mile?

Well, if you rob a Waffle House, maybe.

Otherwise, it’s a useless life skill.

They would use it to test “fitness”, which is one of those vague and ambiguous terms like “gifted” and “Tex-Mex” and “not tonight”.

I knew kids who were awesome sprinters in Track & Field—some of the fastest people in the state. They tried running a mile and made it like, 5 yards.

It’s a bizarre one-size-fits-all measurement of how “fit” you are.

Cross Country was the first school-official “team” sport I was on. And I sucked. It must be awful for a parent to have to see your kid run in a circle to win a trophy, especially when your kid wins at “almost dead last” barely outpacing the kids with polio.

In the years since I was frequently the last-place arm-shuffler puffing on an inhaler and being outrun by the fat kids walking, I haven’t had an opportunity nor a desire to run.

Then one day I was feeling like crap.

Literally, miserable and crappy.

My insides had liquefied into shit.

A friend told me I should go for a run to calm down and clear my head.

I scoffed.

“SCOFF”, I said. “How will me making myself feel worse make myself feel better?!”

Eventually I relented, and put on the weightless feels-like-you’re-wearing-newspaper-on-your-toes-or-some-shit-running-shoes I had bought a year ago and started running around my block.

For some reason, I started feeling pretty okay. I wasn’t wheezing and cramping.

I pushed myself a little further, and a little further, and afterward, I felt amazing. High. Sweaty as all hell but loving it.

I was immediately suspicious.

This had to be some sort of a trap.

I tried it again, and got the same results.

Eventually I built myself up to run almost every day for about 15-30 minutes.

I learned that, apparently, running makes you feel the same endorphins as crying, and can actually boost your mood instead of allowing you to wallow in it.

Which is why this lady must be the happiest woman on earth:

On Sunday, [41-year-old Annette Fredskov of Næstved] completed a full year in which she ran a marathon every single day. That’s 42.195 kilometres every single day, regardless of weather or exhausted legs. And on the final day, she upped the ante and ran two.

It puts my 15 minutes or so a day to shame and lots of people’s “sit at home and watch Duck Dynasty with hand in crotch” really to shame.

Kudos to Annette.

And it just goes to show—if my coughing, hacking, side-stitching, bone-idle ass can start to enjoy running—so can yours.

I used to hate running. Hatehatehate it.

They always made us run the mile. Fuck that shit. When in life are you ever going to have to run a mile? If you’re being chased by a robber, you think he’s gonna stop and keel over after just a mile?

Well, if you rob a Waffle House, maybe.

Otherwise, it’s a useless life skill.

They would use it to test “fitness”, which is one of those vague and ambiguous terms like “gifted” and “Tex-Mex” and “not tonight”.

I knew kids who were awesome sprinters in Track & Field—some of the fastest people in the state. They tried running a mile and made it like, 5 yards.

It’s a bizarre one-size-fits-all measurement of how “fit” you are.

Cross Country was the first school-official “team” sport I was on. And I sucked. It must be awful for a parent to have to see your kid run in a circle to win a trophy, especially when your kid wins at “almost dead last” barely outpacing the kids with polio.

In the years since I was frequently the last-place arm-shuffler puffing on an inhaler and being outrun by the fat kids walking, I haven’t had an opportunity nor a desire to run.

Then one day I was feeling like crap.

Literally, miserable and crappy.

My insides had liquefied into shit.

A friend told me I should go for a run to calm down and clear my head.

I scoffed.

“SCOFF”, I said. “How will me making myself feel worse make myself feel better?!”

Eventually I relented, and put on the weightless feels-like-you’re-wearing-newspaper-on-your-toes-or-some-shit-running-shoes I had bought a year ago and started running around my block.

For some reason, I started feeling pretty okay. I wasn’t wheezing and cramping.

I pushed myself a little further, and a little further, and afterward, I felt amazing. High. Sweaty as all hell but loving it.

I was immediately suspicious.

This had to be some sort of a trap.

I tried it again, and got the same results.

Eventually I built myself up to run almost every day for about 15-30 minutes.

I learned that, apparently, running makes you feel the same endorphins as crying, and can actually boost your mood instead of allowing you to wallow in it.

Which is why this lady must be the happiest woman on earth:

On Sunday, [41-year-old Annette Fredskov of Næstved] completed a full year in which she ran a marathon every single day. That’s 42.195 kilometres every single day, regardless of weather or exhausted legs. And on the final day, she upped the ante and ran two.

It puts my 15 minutes or so a day to shame and lots of people’s “sit at home and watch Duck Dynasty with hand in crotch” really to shame.

Kudos to Annette.

And it just goes to show—if my coughing, hacking, side-stitching, bone-idle ass can start to enjoy running—so can yours.

Growing up *rocking chair creaks back and forth* I remember when Gatorade used to be a sports drink.

You played football in 100-degree weather, and then drank Gatorade for your electrolytes.

After 9 holes of golf, Gatorade was a treat to get you through the other 9.

Gatorade kept the sauna-dryness of the tennis court from zapping you of your will to live.

But now, Gatorade is just a drink for fat kids who can’t drink soda because they took it out of their school’s vending machines.

I sure as hell can’t drink Gatorade just by itself on a day I’ve spend unexerted, indoors, and in my concerningly-sexy-PJs.

That’s why Propel is infinitely better, because it’s just water with a hint of sweetness, instead of Gatorade’s simple syrup with a hint of cloying diabetes.

Is there a protocol for addressing an old hookup in public?

Do you smile?

Divert your gaze?

Throw your hands up and flail while staring them directly in the eyes?

It depends on the regret you feel now.

For girls, there’s a 99% chance she regrets hooking up with you (even if she initiated it and was totally into it.)

That’s because girls *pulls down projection screen* have a *keeps yanking on projection screen* unique to them *rips projection screen from wall* Guilt Gland™ which makes them regret everything: that last pint of Ben and Jerry’s, every ex-boyfriend, making out with you in the Kmart bathroom, the pint of Ben and Jerry’s before that one, and calling Teresa a bitch (even though she, like, totally deserved it).

Guys are generally guilt-free unless she was a complete bowser, or if she was with your best friend.

So when I sat down at late night Starbucks to get some work done, imagine my surprise when I looked across the table and saw this crazy Indian girl I hooked up with.

I immediately had flashbacks of when she threw me against the hood of an Oldsmobile to make out, and later that evening tackled then straddled my best friend, breaking a futon in some stranger’s apartment.

Back to the Starbucks table: I chatted up her friend and she joined in, progressively staring at me more and more.

I ignored her and continued with my work, so she chatted up a dude next to me—a fellow ginger no less—and continued to look over and stare, occasionally readjusting her position at the table to push up her admittedly-ample cleavage.

And then the crazy started to leak out.

She kept acting more and more interested in the other ginger, who was trying to slowly exit the conversation. She kept saying how amazing it was that they had friends in common.  She kept asking him about his hometown.  The word “such a coincidence!” dripped from her lips as she leaned more and more in his direction, causing him to consistently retreat from the table.

I smelled two things: fear to my left, and desperation from across the table.

Also some BO, but it wasn’t me and it was probably the shirtless homeless guy who kept wandering in and talking about a train.

I went to get a tea refill, and just 3 minutes later he was gone. With a final stare, she left just moments later with her friend, loudly announcing how she was going to go meet some drunk friends and “catch up” to them while looking towards me once more.

To see her squirm was worth far more than the admission price of a tall Tazo tea.

Ahh, college. I REGRET NOTHING

 

Starbucks in LA is basically the caffeinated modern marketplace.

Rich, poor, young, old, black, white, straight, gay, every kind of person you can imagine goes to Starbucks.

You see it all: the homeless guy still asleep on the outdoor patio furniture, the old lady tutor puffing the e-cigarette, students working on last-minute projects, Kimora Lee Simmons, the senior citizen who ferociously occupies the same table, office workers happy to be away from their Mussolinian boss, everyone.

I happened to be there on a Sunday morning early (the heathen hour) and it was wonderful. I had a cup of coffee in hand, a disappearing hangover, and a table to myself.

When all of a sudden, I hear this gravelly voice speaking Spanish.

It didn’t sound like a human voice.

It sounded like an alien impersonating a human voice.

I looked around, concerned at this development (Zeta Reticulans had landed and chose THIS Starbucks to land at, why couldn’t they have chosen the shitty one on Montana without the deluxe Clover brewing system) and noticed that it was a dwarf.

whatever you do KEEP IT AWAY FROM THE CHILDRENS

She wasn’t a midget. At least I don’t think so. Midgets are cool. I put a midget on a Segway once and it was the greatest moment of my life (but that’s another story for another day.  Now fetch me my pipe & slippers, knave!)

No, she was a dwarf. In stretched-to-the-limit leggings. Which makes me wonder if she bought children’s leggings and hoped they’d stretch or adult leggings and cut them down to size.

Anyway, I got back to my work but I kept hearing that haunting voice. It sounded like some sort of crypt keeper or when people talk in tongues at an Alabama revival. It sounded sinister.

She was drinking a Venti coffee (the really big one) and it was fascinating, I guess ordering a “Tall” was debasing or something.

Then…she stared at me.

Never has my soul felt more…threatened.

Those beady eyes, and that gravelly voice screeching out Spanish were too much to bear. I was convinced this was the Anti-Rapture or sumth.

save yourself

I had to leave.

Now normally, I don’t judge people.

But she just kept staring at me. Snatching away years of my life with a single glance. The burden became too much to bear.

I really hope she does parties, because I know a few people who really should have their s**t scared on their birthdays.

Starbucks in LA is basically the caffeinated modern marketplace.

Rich, poor, young, old, black, white, straight, gay, every kind of person you can imagine goes to Starbucks.

You see it all: the homeless guy still asleep on the outdoor patio furniture, the old lady tutor puffing the e-cigarette, students working on last-minute projects, Kimora Lee Simmons, the senior citizen who ferociously occupies the same table, office workers happy to be away from their Mussolinian boss, everyone.

I happened to be there on a Sunday morning early (the heathen hour) and it was wonderful. I had a cup of coffee in hand, a disappearing hangover, and a table to myself.

When all of a sudden, I hear this gravelly voice speaking Spanish.

It didn’t sound like a human voice.

It sounded like an alien impersonating a human voice.

I looked around, concerned at this development (Zeta Reticulans had landed and chose THIS Starbucks to land at, why couldn’t they have chosen the shitty one on Montana without the deluxe Clover brewing system) and noticed that it was a dwarf.

whatever you do KEEP IT AWAY FROM THE CHILDRENS

She wasn’t a midget. At least I don’t think so. Midgets are cool. I put a midget on a Segway once and it was the greatest moment of my life (but that’s another story for another day.  Now fetch me my pipe & slippers, knave!)

No, she was a dwarf. In stretched-to-the-limit leggings. Which makes me wonder if she bought children’s leggings and hoped they’d stretch or adult leggings and cut them down to size.

Anyway, I got back to my work but I kept hearing that haunting voice. It sounded like some sort of crypt keeper or when people talk in tongues at an Alabama revival. It sounded sinister.

She was drinking a Venti coffee (the really big one) and it was fascinating, I guess ordering a “Tall” was debasing or something.

Then…she stared at me.

Never has my soul felt more…threatened.

Those beady eyes, and that gravelly voice screeching out Spanish were too much to bear. I was convinced this was the Anti-Rapture or sumth.

save yourself

I had to leave.

Now normally, I don’t judge people.

But she just kept staring at me. Snatching away years of my life with a single glance. The burden became too much to bear.

I really hope she does parties, because I know a few people who really should have their s**t scared on their birthdays.

I don’t really understand the idea of the Paleo diet—known as eating how the cavemen ate.

None of them are around to tell us how to eat, so I’m not so sure we should be listening to them.

Nonetheless, I support the idea of eating meat and fresh foods and always have, long before it got a label and a cult following.

I say ‘cult’ following because things have gotten so out of control that you’ve now got people refusing to even be photographed with “processed food” because it’s against their beliefs, like all of a sudden they’re going to grow another chin just because there’s a snapshot of some peanut butter crackers in their vicinity.

Watch what happens when I question a woman who went completely overboard with this idea—and was actually supported by equally-unbalanced followers.

Enjoy!

UPDATE: Check out the Facebook message I immediately received from Claire Rebecca, who sent it then blocked me to be anonymous (sneaky!)

 

I don’t really understand the idea of the Paleo diet—known as eating how the cavemen ate.

None of them are around to tell us how to eat, so I’m not so sure we should be listening to them.

Nonetheless, I support the idea of eating meat and fresh foods and always have, long before it got a label and a cult following.

I say ‘cult’ following because things have gotten so out of control that you’ve now got people refusing to even be photographed with “processed food” because it’s against their beliefs, like all of a sudden they’re going to grow another chin just because there’s a snapshot of some peanut butter crackers in their vicinity.

Watch what happens when I question a woman who went completely overboard with this idea—and was actually supported by equally-unbalanced followers.

Enjoy!

UPDATE: Check out the Facebook message I immediately received from Claire Rebecca, who sent it then blocked me to be anonymous (sneaky!)