THAT GUY – THE SLOPPY SHOVELER

Well, alright then. I’ve been doing this bit on WZLX for over 4 years now, and I’ve got plenty of them, but considering I’ve been seeing more ripoffs of it, I thought I might as well stake my claim.

 

Listen to it here: WZLX Karlson & McKenzie’s Podcast Page. Originally aired DECEMBER 21st, 2009 on 100.7 WZLX Boston’s Classic Rock : The “Karlson & McKenzie” Morning Show.

There are many more here.

 

 

That Guy – The Sloppy Shoveler

Well hey there, crapbaskets. So after that nor’easter made my street look like Joe Perry’s kitchen table in the 70’s, I bundled up after the Pats game, threw on my boots and gloves, and prepared to go throw out my back by shoveling my sidewalk, and if I didn’t end up in traction, my car as well. It took me just under an hour to clear my doorstep when I decided to run over to the corner store for some Gatorade, but they were all out of the Tiger Woods philandering flavor, so I head back up my street for Round 2 of Big Head vs. God’s dandruff.

I was all set to go, but all it took was one look at the chumpwad dumping a shovel full of snow on my Civic’s hood and all over the sidewalk I’d just dug out that I realized 1) I was going to need someone to bail me out after the murder spree and2) I had my that guy for this Christmas. Trust me, Kevin taking a dump in a box of tickets for Alvin and the Chipmunks the Squeakquel would have been a better present than this. Yup, I was frostbitten face to frostbitten face with that guy. That Guy the sloppy shoveler.

 Now, you muckmelons who live out in the suburbs what with your nice driveways yards and resale value don’t get to experience this, just like you miss out on the pickpockets, the unique aromas of the T, and the sheer awe-inspiring perseverance and cat like reflexes of the car-dodging panhandlers on nearly every onramp. But within the city, there are unwritten shoveling rules to abide by if you don’t want to end up as a blood lump in a dumpster next to the homeless crazy guy dressed as Santa. Such as: if you come across a freshly shoveled parking spot with a traffic cone, air conditioner, trash can or old baby crib in it, don’t move it, especially if the baby’s still in it, unless you want a hammer or a baby thrown thru your windshield, everybody shovel off your own sidewalk, and you don’t for the love of all that is holy, dump your shoveled snow on somebody else’s car.  

Throwing snow around all willy-nilly is more pointless than Kevin installing a mirror over his bed so he can watch himself not have sex. And if you’re just piling snow on an already shoveled sidewalk, you’re tap-dancing on my last nerve. Throw it in the street, throw it in the already pronounced Pete’s portion of mashed potatoes sized piles on the corner, in Kate Gosselin’s cavernous haunted baby cannon, anywhere but where somebody else just shoveled, or I’ll drive an ice scraper into your forehead.

 This dumpcake should be more terrified than Tiger Woods if his mistresses decide to get their shit together and unionize. Shoveling snow sucks, we all know that, you think the old folks flee to Florida in February for the exciting metropolitan flair Fort Lauderdale provides?, but there’s no reason to toss around snow like Kevin tossed off popcorn farts on his way out of Avatar.

 Nobody’s ever prepared to shovel anything, even the gravediggers in Abe Vigoda’s neighborhood,  but we’ve all got to do it whenever something comes up, just ask the gravediggers in Brittany Murphy’s neighborhood. Not to beat a dead Sarah Jessica parker here, but if we all shovel responsibly, you won’t end up with a steel tipped scoop-shaft stuffed up your ice hole. So stop shoveling snow all slapdash like Kevin’s handlers shovel his s*** with the fleet of backhoes, or else I’ll take my shovel, bag of salt and snow boots and cram them up your cramhole. Do me a favor, don’t be that guy.

THAT GUY – WHO SETS THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT BAR TOO HIGH

Well, alright then. I’ve been doing this bit on WZLX for over 4 years now, and I’ve got plenty of them, but considering I’ve been seeing more ripoffs of it, I thought I might as well stake my claim.|

Listen to it here: WZLX Karlson & McKenzie’s Podcast Page. Originally aired DECEMBER 7th, 2009 on 100.7 WZLX Boston’s Classic Rock : The “Karlson & McKenzie” Morning Show. download it here:

There are many more here.

THAT GUY – WHO SETS THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT BAR TOO HIGH

Well hey there, pussbuckets. So the girlfriend came back from her vacation on Saturday night, so my last night of freedom and pseudo-single life had its last hurrah on Friday, and I was going out with a couple of college buddies she doesn’t like, instead of doing the responsible thing like cleaning the Kevin’s ass-sized mountain of dirty dishes I’d accumulated in the sink, or going out and buying her a Christmas gift, or at least attempt to look for one, because as of right now, I’m more clueless than Pete looking at a sushi menu. But let’s face it, stupid and ill-advised is how I roll, and I might as well be consistent, just like Karlson’s risk to suffer major coronary failure.

Well, while I was out with my buddies, who are all saddled, *cough cough* I mean blessed, with live-in girlfriends as well, the struggle of buying Christmas gifts came up, as we all had no idea what the hell we were going to get them. Well, except one guy. He’d already spent 4 figures on a tiffany bracelet for his girl, and after we each did our spit take with our Sams, we realized we were sitting next to That Guy. That Guy who sets the bar too high when buying his lady a Christmas gift.
What the hell do you think you’re doing, Daddy Warbucks? You realize you just condemned the rest of us to relationship hell with your careless and reckless actions, don’t you? When you’re gift-shopping for the little lady, you have to remember: Like Pete’s digestive system, there’s a delicate equilibrium that must not be upset, or else things are going to start to stink an awful lot like baked farts.

First off, you can’t go blowing the rest of us out of the water by buying your ball and chain a freaking ball and chain from tiffany’s, because we’re whether we like it or not, we gentlemen are all in competition with each other, and 1.3 seconds after your girl unwraps that crime against your gender you got her, she’s going to be on the phone with my girlfriend, his girlfriend, every girlfriend on facebook. They’re worse gossipers than Kevin’s sewing circle. Yeah, they can crochet one hell of a doily, but they’re major export is the girl version of smack talk.

Once they get done comparing notes, the rest of us look like cheap jerks, because you had to go and give Zales and Jared reason to keep making terrible commercials. We need to stick together tighter than Kevin’s t-shirts to his man-boobs after he sweats thru it rummaging thru his fridge for the last Ring Ding.

If we all keep the gift giving expenditures underneath the gross national product of Guam, none of us get in trouble, and none of us have to explain why Janie’s boyfriend is so much more attentive than us. “Did you hear what Janie got for Christmas, her boyfriend is such a good guy, he really cares about her….” Translation: I’m a selfish tightwad d***stain who ain’t getting laid until you make with the overpriced jewelry or a Lexus with a bow on it.

Thanks a lot, pal. Why don’t you go ahead and work my jiggleybits through a nutcracker, it would be slightly less painful and holi-dangerous, jack-ass. You do understand that you’re going to have to top this next year, right? Oh yeah, the gifts have to keep ramping up, year after year, just like Kevin’s anti-cholesterol medications.

The key is to keep expectations low, just like we do here with this whirling f***show we call a radio program. And now you plan on throwing the whole system out of whack like Pete’s hip if he attempted to run the hurdles in a Panda bear suit.

So how bout you run that little box with the wrist wrapper mortgage payment inside it back to where it came, and not blow up the rest of our spots, otherwise I’ll take it, it’s little bow, and the receipt and cram it up your cramhole.    

THAT GUY: WHO WANTS TO BANG A STRIPPER

Well, alright then. I’ve been doing this bit on WZLX for over 4 years now, and I’ve got plenty of them, but considering I’ve been seeing more ripoffs of it, I thought I might as well stake my claim.

Listen to it here: WZLX Karlson & McKenzie’s Podcast Page. Originally aired DECEMBER 7th, 2009 on 100.7 WZLX Boston’s Classic Rock : The “Karlson & McKenzie” Morning Show. download it here: There are many more here.  

That Guy – Who wants to date a stripper

Well hey there, poop-pies. So the girlfriend is on vacation with her family, which means little ol Big Head is all by his lonesome for a whole week, and in my first 36 hours alone, I’ve managed to wreck my car, cut myself washing dishes, and break my dryer. When you include all of that with the fact that I’m subsisting on meals consisting of nothing but cheese-its and leftover chili, you can pretty much gather that I’m not exactly cut out for living la vida solo. I’m all out of sorts, I’m even making hacky Ricky Martin references. But the cherry on my bad-luck weekend was the bright idea to head out to the strip club with a couple of my buddies on Saturday night, to celebrate my somewhat singledom in stupendously stupid fashion.

Well, we had barely been there 10 minutes and I was still waiting on my nine dollar beer, when one of my buddies comes back from a lap dance with a grin on his face and a story to tell. Apparently, he thought he’d made a connection, and had invited the girl back to our place after she got off work. That’s when I started laughing, and realized I was hanging out with that guy. That guy who wants to bang (and possibly date) a stripper.

Man, and I thought Kevin was gullible for falling for the bacon and milkshake diet. Every moron in the midst of a “Sahara in the summer”-like dry spell can talk themselves into shooting for the STD stars like this, but what they forget is that strippers are only looking to help you drain your wallet, dumpcake. They’ll tell you anything to wring a couple more singles from you to help pay to remove that tattoo of their deadbeat baby’s daddy name on their left butt cheek. You might think you’ve got a shot at bagging Apashia or Samora or Tiffani with a lazy “I”, but they’re leading you on like Tiger did to mistress #34 thru #45.

…And dude, SHE’S A STRIPPER! Why you’d like to tap that is more mind-boggling than Kevin’s cholesterol level. You want to bring home a dancer with daddy issues, a drug habit that would kill a mule, and more little bastards running around than a frat house during pledge week. Oh, and there’s that tasty little morsel of a fact that she spends four hours a day spread-eagled so far I can see her soul from here just so she can catch up on back child support?  

Plus, Strippers are like one tall long-island iced tea of venereal disease, you might as well go and hump a rusty chain link fence. The only thing worse than dating a stripper is dating anyone from the cast of that awful Jersey Shore show on MTV. But here you are, convinced you are going to get this little lady with the caked on body glitter covering her cesearean scars to hang with your sorry suckered ass. She’s taking advantage of you like the Norfolk Girl Scout troop does to Kevin every year around cookie time.

 I’ve got a better shot at winning the marathon, or Pete of winning the US Open, or Kevin beating Heather at arm-wrestling or losing to her in a cleavage contest. you have no chance of ever seeing this girl naked anywhere but upside down on a pole surrounded by other skeevy mouth-breathing morons just like you. This is a whopper of a bad decision, like Belichick going for it on 4^th down again or riding a saucer sled down a quarry in Quincy.

Let it go, Romeo, you’re better off without getting your hopes up or your white-blood cell count down. Otherwise, I’ll take that obviously fake number written with purple lipstick on a stripclub napkin and cram it up your cramhole. Do me a favor, don’t be that guy.

BRADEN VS. THE BIRD: A BATTLE FOR THE AGES!

Ok, so a couple of nights ago, my girlfriend Amanda heard something rustling and flapping in the crawlspace above my furnace room in our apartment in Southie. We thought it was a bat at first, but no matter whether it was a bird, bat or a herpes-riddled pterodactyl, we had no idea how to get it out.

After I went to work the next day, I came back to the condo armed with a slew of weapons, makeshift armor, and Slipknot (our assistant producer on the show), who brought his video camera so we could film our attempt to try to get the bird out. A mighty battle ensued, and we learned a few things: Birds are stupid, I’m a wuss, and I swear a lot when I’m scared. Here’s how it went down:

THAT GUY – WHO THINKS I’M A PEDOPHILE

Well, alright then. I’ve been doing this bit on WZLX for over 4 years now, and I’ve got plenty of them, but considering I’ve been seeing more ripoffs of it, I thought I might as well stake my claim.

 

 

Listen to it here: WZLX Karlson & McKenzie’s Podcast Page. Originally aired NOVEMBER 30th, 2009 on 100.7 WZLX Boston’s Classic Rock : The “Karlson & McKenzie” Morning Show. download it here:

There are many more here.

That guy – who thinks everybody is a pedophile

Well hey there, twinkletoots. I hope everybody had a good turkey day, and filled themselves with so much stuffing and pie that you’re busting at the seams just like Kevin’s 10 dollar tapered Ocean State Job Lot reinforced mompants. I’m glad to hear that nobody here on the show went for that Black Friday nonsense, I mean, crap: Kevin’s so fat he probably would have managed to trample a few customers at amazon.com. All in all, a great holiday break, I even managed to outdrive Tiger Woods!

But it wasn’t all foliage colored rainbows and big ass turkey drumsticks for me, as the traffic was atrocious on the drive back home to Holyoke (it took me 4 times longer than it usually does, or about as long as it takes Pete to get out of the tub unassisted) and when I stopped to refuel with some more Mountain Dew and Snow-Caps, I had to drain the lizard so I made my way to the gas station restroom. I had opened the door, and stared into a disgustingly filthy and unholy hell the likes of which only Hitler, Dahmer, and Kevin’s Proctologist have seen, when I heard a small family heading down the hallway, obviously rushing home for the holiday.Well, the little boy had to go potty, or at least what he was telling his dad over and over, and when they popped into sight, I was holding the door to the men’s room, and I waved him in, and told the mom he could go first. Well, The mother couldn’t horsetackle her son quick enough and drag him into the ladies room while the dad shot me a dirtier look than Kevin gives a door to door treadmill salesman, and I realized that I was dealing with that guy. That Guy who thinks I’m a pedophile.

 

 Lighten up, Francis, you don’t have to worry, I was just trying to be nice. It’s not like I’m a toothless carney trying to lure your child away with promises of a basement full of popsicles somewehere. I wasn’t going to follow the kid into the bathroom, jeez. I was going to let him fend for himself in there and just wait in the hall. Relax. Not everybody’s looking to diddle your kid. (he’s not that cute, anyway.)

Ok fine, Pedophilia isn’t a laughing matter, unless the tiles all land the right way in your annual holiday scrabble game with your Great Aunt Gertrude, then it’s hilarious. And yeah, I don’t know what it’s like to be a parent, but I can imagine you’d want to keep them as safe as possible all the time, but give me a break. There’s no need to stare me down and make me feel like a schmuck for trying to be a nice guy. I can understand having your guard up all the time and dreading a call like Kevin’s plumber the day after thanksgiving, but you have to ease up on the overprotective throttle a wee bit.

Assuming everybody is a pedophile is like assuming everybody 30 and under likes nickelback, it’s unfair and kinda hurtful. Look, I love little kids, I mean, I love children of all ages, wait; I mean, let’s forget I started this sentence. The point is, I’m not driving a windowless van with the phrase Free Candy spray painted down the side, I’m not attending children’s beauty pageants, and I’m not a Clown named Grabby or Handsy, and while most sex offenders aren’t that easy to spot, you can’t walk around presuming everyone is out to get your kid.

Child molesters are the worst kind of scum imaginable, and while I can completely understand why you’re scared of them, it’s kind of a dick move to just assume I’m one of them without knowing anything about me. While I agree the country is going to hell in the world’s most aerodynamic handbasket, there are still plenty of decent people out there, and if you stopped giving me the stinkeye for a second, I might be able to help point one out. Trust me, that’s the only thing in here I’m interested in fingering.

Calm down, Cap; I’m not a pederast, a child molester, or going to make a joke about a priest here, so let’s settle down, slappy, before I yank your rape whistle from your lips and cram it up your cramhole. Do me a favor, don’t be that guy.

 

Bonus: Play “Spot the Pedophile!”