Get 2 Choppin

Most recently I wrote a post regarding changing the linguistic laws through various accessible loopholes that could allow for us to languish in peaceful bliss while erasing all racial tensions (I know you can send us the Nobel Peace Prize now if you must). This brought one of our valuable comment contributors out from the greasy underbelly of civilization and he followed with this reponse to the changing of the term “Jumped the Shark” to “Clubbed the Baby Seal”:

Jump the Shark originated when Evil Kneviel jumped an aquarium filled with sharks. The term gained more popularity thanks to the Fonz, a character portrayed in happy days.

The episode you refer to is the one where the Fonz has doubts about jumping a shark while on waterskis. Still this is impossible and makes no sense because sharks do not like fresh water and it is currently illegal to waterski in saltwater aka oceans or the Dead sea due to the Oceans without commotion legislation that has just recently passed in the United Nations. We also know that Happy Days took place in Wisconsin which is quite far from any salt water. Anyway this is not the point that I wanted to make.

The point that I wanted to make is that the Fonz is dead. Jump the Shark is dead. Jesus H. Christ was dead, was alive, is dead, and will be coming back. Tupac despite being shot six times is not dead. He is slanging some dope rhymes up in his hizzouse in the dirty South pole. Biggie Smalls is dead. He was shot, yes, but he really died when his escalade hit a speed bump in the parking lot of the hospital and he choked on a piece of fried chicken. Rumor has it that the word “nigger” just got buried, but I have a sneaky feeling it will be coming back before Jesus H. Christ does. Bellows is not dead, but it wouldn’t be a big lose if he was (wink, wink, nod, nod). How funny would it be if Bellows had a stroke (and not the kind that he has been accustomed to the last year if you know what I mean) and died right before he was about to break his slump. John Candy and Chris Farley are dead but they are both turning in their grave laughing about that one.  

Elvis is Dead nuts on when he says, “Don’t step on my Blue Suede shoes”, seriously those things are probably expensive. Lindsay Lohan, Brittany Spears, and Amy Winehouse aren’t dead but they will be soon if they keep it up. Cross your fingers. Heath Ledger is dead. or is he? jokes on us. John Travolta’s career was dead until Pulp Fiction and now he is so fucking rich he parks a 747 in his backyard. Arsenic, man that shit is deadly, but sometimes people like to add it to their significant other’s food. Weird huh?

In a recent poll, One out of three are seriously looking for a way to expand the linguistic license that we as writers have in American society. The other two are ignorantly blissful to the nightmare that is the politically correct culture that we live in. Shame on you two.

What I am trying to get across to the highly sensitive American public is that words are just words. It is bombs from terrorist cells that will break your bones, but that is another story. Anyway the question is, why can’t we change the meaning of words to make them less abrasive or harmful? I believe we just to need to change our perspective, a reversal you might say, or a 180 backside ollie if you are part of the X-games generation.

For instance, the term “jump the shark” is often used to describe something that has lost its strong hold in pop culture like the American Pie series has jumped the shark with its latest straight to video production about Stifler’s cousin’s fraternity or something like that. If you think about it that is pure nonsense, you can’t jump a shark. What I propose is that we say, “man, Dog the Bounty Hunter clubbed the baby seal when he went off on that racial tirade.” “It clubbed the baby seal” connotates that whatever is being referenced crossed an imaginary line in society that is unacceptable. I think it fits better kinda like my new baby seal leather shoes, so soft.

The next way we can alter meanings is by affixing them to products and changing their names. For instance the word “spic” refers to a dirty mexican, but when you put the word spic and span together you have a product that helps clean up our world and in essence is symbolic of cleaning up society’s bigotry. So why can’t we create a product called “Jew Glue” that is cheap and affordable and has a very strong level of adhesiveness and resilience.

The next thing we need to correct is the meaning behind certain words. For instance the N word tends to be a socially incorrect word to use, unless you say “nigga”. What I propose is changing the meaning of nigga to hammock. So now anyone can come in and say, “Where’s my nigga?” and a response can be, ”hanging out on the porch or stretched between two trees in the backyard.” Then the person who asked can be like, “Good cuz, I need a nap.” See how much better the word nigga becomes.

Speaking of napping, why are there so many misinterpretation of people’s sayings. Take Don Imus, he said something about “nappy ass ho’s” in regards to the Rutger’s girls basketball team. Maybe he had some bad information that they took a lot of naps and he in fact, due to his jealously or lack of sleep, meant “nappy ass holes”. He shortened the word asshole just as the N word is shortened. It was a term of disgruntled endearment. Like the seven dwarfs, I have to think in a fit of jealously Grumpy might have said, “That sleepy ass ho’, he ain’t never do no work. That good fer nothing lazy sum ofa beetch. I oughta spin him up tight in that nigga (hammock now) and get him all dizzy. That der will teach him a lesson.” 

Let the healing process begin.   

I find it very interesting that with the recent increase in foreign investment into the city of Clawson there has also been an increase in city issued parking tickets. Coincidence I think not.

The first step of this melting pot plan has already begun. The move to on street parking in Clawson was phase one of the conspiracy. Phase two is taking place as we speak, the city council is allowing in large amounts of “foreigner” investors.

The Royal Kubo is a heavily Filipino backed establishment with possible Communist ties, like the one I saw the staff wearing that had Mao Tse Tung’s picture on it. The Black Lotus bistro is obviously un-American because it doesn’t even sell Budweiser products. I am thinking it is Eastern-European with some Russian mafia backing. The Hooka hut is obviously middle-eastern and we can obviously infer that there is a possible link to a terrorist cell from Sri Lanka or someplace like that. We would not be doing are duty as patriots if we didn’t assume the worse. Then there is the tavern, I understand it is not new and it is a very friendly venue but there is something funny about someone that doesn’t lose there accent after a certain period of time. Hmmm. I would also like to point out and listen up because I am whispering in a low, scary voice while I type, “I see black people.” Enough said.

Anyway the scourge on society’s integrity is that the city of Clawson is one of the only local cities that issues tickets for on street parking from 2 am to 6 am. It is obvious that it is not for safety reasons or cleaning issues because they sweep their streets during the day. This scam is obviously a front to increase city revenue to allow these foreign owned companies to get tax-breaks.  It is unconstitutional in a sense because we as Americans have the right to assemble, but apparently in Clawson you just can’t do it from 2-6 am. That is boococky on the face of every American citizen.

Clawson is spitting on its residents and saying, “Yes your friends should drive home drunk from a party you throw because they can’t park on the street.” Thanks Clawson, it must feel nice knowing you probably just killed some family of four with a little dog named spot on their way to early mass so they can get a good parking  space and make everyone hot chocolate. Shame on you Clawson City Council and Clawson Cops.

They say the proof is in the pudding, whatever that means. What I do know is that one of my inside sources has told me that the City of Clawson once turned down a minor league baseball team that would have renovated the park and the football stadium, but they turned it down. Baseball is America’s pasttime and you turn it down. Very fishy if you ask me. Now just wait til they add parking meters to those on street parking spots. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had to put Euros in to pay.  

Dick Wiley sat by the telephone day after day waiting for that call from Sir Tuggis Paddiwacker, to no avail. Every telemarketer got the quick abrupt brush off. The work number that kept on coming up on the caller ID just got ignored, in fact every number got ignored that he didn’t recognize. He was obsessing. The booze in his liquor cabinet was disappearing at an alarming rate, just as the astroglide and the hand lotion were also. He practiced what he had learned in that dark, dank motel that smelled of human urine and dog sperm, or was it dog urine and human sperm. Either way. Either way.

He hadn’t obsessed like this since he was younger and he thought he had broke himself of the habit. He was wrong. It was a bad addiction you can say, but it was an addiction none the less. A young Dick was a purveyor of purloined panties. He loved the panties. The silks, the satins, the cotton blend, and even the leather ones. 

It all started as a child, he was having trouble sleeping. His parents worked odd hours to make ends meet and he was often left in the house alone at night while they toiled away. The only thing that comforted him was his “security blanket” which was his mother’s granny-like panties. The musk that arose from them caressed his olfactory sensors like Liberace on the piano keys and it was lights out.

The obsession didn’t stop there. Dick was a creative kid being that he was an only kid. He was always playing games when the parents were away. They lived across the street from a laundrymat, and it was a plethora of panty pleasure for the young Dick.

He loved to play the Panty Pirate. He would stand on the couch with a thong covering one eye and say, “Argh, ye matey. Hand over them scivies or I will make you walk the plank with a cannonball necklace.” 

Then there was the old western panty posse. He would say, “I am the sheriff in these here parts.” He enforced his own brand of justice. He would pretend to chase down the outlaw panties; those down right dirty panties didn’t have a chance. He would stand on the couch and say, “I reckon pardner, you have two choices. You can hand over dem der outlaw panties you got holed up in those pants with either a bullet in your chest or without, either way I am getting those rotten panties.”

His triumph was the Undies Armor that he would wear as he played superhero. His costume was a bra tied behind his head with two holes cut out so as to see. He would wear a bra filled with pebbles that he would sling at people from his thong-converted sling shot. When the Thong Gong was struck and the image of the women’s panties was silhouetted in the sky, in his imagination he would race to the scene of the crime and thwart the bad guys with his bravada.

He was caught in this surreal vision of his past when the ringing of the phone shattered this ethereal experience and brought him back to the reality at hand.  

It is an interesting phenomenon what can come out of a thirsty Thursday experience in the choppin’ nation. When that first sip of your beer tastes like the sweet nectar that flows from heaven’s unending beer keg, you know you are in for a good night. When the first words out of your mouth after ingesting that golden inoculation against giving a shit are, “We are in trouble tonight, boys” then you better tighten the straps on your Velcro drinking shoes. 

 As is often the case this jokingly phrased question often arises amongst guys when a person of the female sex walks in (and sometimes of the male sex, we do like to keep an open door to the closet here at get2choppin.com), “Would you?” The answer returned in mutual jest is most often, “I would”. This philosophical question related to choppinism can be asked in regards to anything like, “If you were starving on a deserted island, would you eat the corn out of your lover’s poop?” Of course the answer is, “I would.”

From this “Would you?” philosophical conundrum has recently arisen another important tenant. The “Hmm, yeah…why not.” The shrug of the shoulders, the slight pause to ponder the question, and the air of indifference that surrounds the final answer weigh heavily on the mind of the one asked the question. For instance, the question arises “Would you like another beer and shot even though you are obviously wasted beyond your own ability to say no and will probably end up in a fight or in jail tonight.” Of course your unwavering dedication to the choppin’ nation only allows for one answer, “Hmm, yeah…why not.” This exclamation of enduring optimism in the face of adversity is what will drive this country forward out of the gloom and despair that has come to represent the American spirit into an age of enlightenment and age of unadulterated Choppiness.  

The cup will not only runneth over when you are pouring your beer and watching Keno at the same time but it will also runneth over with every move you shake, every breath you take, every phone call you fake, every drink you make. We will be watching out for you.