Grandma got runover by a reindeer....

Before I get on to my humorous musings for the night, I apologize to ALL of my readers for failing to post over the last week or so. At least I didn't go for a whole month like a certain Miami resident who happens to reside 6 doors down the hall from me....who will remain nameless.

Anyhoo, the most important thing that happened this Thanksgiving is that Christmas began. Yes, the saving joy of Christmas doesn't lie in that whole "Jesus" legend. Rather it can be found in the amazing demeanor brought about by Christmas music. Similar to Bob Marley, it is impossible to be sad when listening to X-mas music...even Blue Christmas or 'Do They Know It's Christmas.' Thank you, Bono. Thanks to you, we are able to tap our toes to an uplifting song about AIDS and poverty in Africa.

So, allow me to offer you my Christmas mix for this, the year of our lord 2005:
Silver Bells - Steve Martin (if you can find it on Limewire/myTunes, GET IT)
Santa Claus is Coming to Town - Springsteen
Feliz Navidad - Jose Feliciano
Here Comes Santa Claus - Elvis
Blue Christmas - Elvis
Santa Bring My Baby Back - Elvis
Run Run Rudolph - Chuck Berry
Merry Christmas, Baby - Otis Redding
Jingle Bell Rock - Bobby Helms
Holly Jolly Christmas - Burl Ives
Let it Snow - Sinatra
The Christmas Song - Nat King Cole (although Tony Bennett does a good rendition)
What Christmas Means to Me - Stevie Wonder

Yep. That is my iTunes playlist currently entitled "Max's X-Mas Mix"
You won't be disappointed.
Money back guaran-damn-tee.
It has the Max Davison stamp of approval.

Doctor my eyes have seen the tears...

Octopus's Garden is slowly becoming my favorite Beatles song. Normally, an elitist bastard such as myself would choose a song by George Harrison to admire. And all of the ignorant fans in the world only know Paul and John. For some reason all of my favorites are sung by Mr. Richard Starkey, aka Ringo Starr.
Yellow Submarine.
With a little help from my friends.
People always give him credit for being "the luckiest man alive," but he doesn't get half the respect that he deserves for his singing/songwriting ability.

But seeing as last night I put my heterosexuality in doubt (shut up, Mario), I think that tonight I'll blog about something unmistakable masculine.

Jack Bauer

For those of you who either live under a rock or hate America, Jack Bauer is the single greatest government agent to ever life. No offense to Jack Ryan, but Mr. Bauer has the most intense days of any man alive. You think your days are tough when you have three classes? Imagine if your wife and daughter got kidnapped while you're tracking down a plot to assassinate a presidential candidate on the day of the California presidential primary. Yeah. That's how intense Jack Bauer is.
What makes him even more awesome is that he started out as a LIT MAJOR at UCLA. He gives me hope for the future. After his undergrad work, Jack got his M.A. in criminology from Berkeley. A born leader, Jack then found himself in the elite Delta Force of the US Army. While there, he took part in an operation to take out Balkan war criminal Victor Drazen. Eventually, Mr. Bauer became the head of the Counter Terrorist Unit and is currently dead in the eyes of the US government after faking his death to ensure that the rat bastard Chinese couldn't get any secrets about US policies.
Why do I worship this man? Because the ends justify the means to Jack Bauer. He is willing to do ANYTHING to protect and serve his nation. He chopped off his own partner's right hand in order to diffuse a bomb. He got ADDICTED TO HEROIN so that he could infiltrate some Columbian drug lords. Jack has, in 4 days: stopped a nuclear device from going off in LA, stopped a potential international war, prevented every nuclear plant in the US from going critical, quit his heroin habit in ONE HOUR, tortured god knows how many men, and killed well over a thousand. Let's put it this way: If you were to play a game of "24 shots" when you drink everytime Jack killed a man, you'd have alcohol poisoning in less than half an hour.

I salute you, Jack Bauer. You are a real american hero.


P.S. RED WINGS RULE!

I'd like to be under the sea...

Tonight I'm going to follow up on Mr. Evert's recent blog entry about Ross Kemp getting beat up by his wife. The "I got destroyed by my wife club" is a very exclusive society. More exclusive than the Claremont chapter of "I lost my virginity to a lesbian" (sorry, Aaron).
That is why I'm going to devote this excursion into bloggerdom to the former pitcher for the Anaheim Angels and St. Louis Cardinals, Chuck Finley.


Chuck Finley, over his 17 year career in the majors, put up respectable numbers. Lifetime 200-173 pitcher with an ERA of 3.85, coupled with 15 shut outs. In his prime, this is a solid #2 man in your rotation and a decent fantasy athlete. He also struck out four batters in an inning more than once. Chuck was paired with Mark Langston for a while in Anaheim (then California) and the two were decent teammates and led an perennially disappointing Angels team. Around this time, Tim Salmon broke into the league (1993) and won the AL ROTY award. But that has nothing to do with what later happened to Chuck.

Some of you may be familiar with the band Whitesnake. Well, in a few of their videos (Here I Go Again), a woman named Tawny Kitaen. Basically, she'd act like a slut and dance on the hood of a convertible while David Coverdale would sing about love and hairspray and whatnot. So, in 1997, Chuck and Tawny tied the knot. The marriage lasted for only five years. Why did it break up? Well, in 2001 there was an incident of domestic violence. Did Chuck pull an Ike Turner and beat the crap out of his wife? Not remotely. Tawny beat him down. Rather embarrassing if you ask me.

So, that's the entry for this night.
I've also decided to name my first born son "Huston Swisher Davison." If there are any ladies out there who agree that this is a great name, give me a call.

Stephen Deadalus is my Homeboy

First of all, congratulations to Mr. David Delgado. After two weeks of constantly pestering him, he FINALLY caved in and updated his blog. Was it a good entry? Not necessarily. Was it an update? You bet your sweet bippy it was. Thanks to everyone who joined the "Update or Die" forces. We couldn't have done it without your support and prayers. The battle is over, my friends. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

Secondly, I'd like to give a very important shout out. I use this individual on an everyday basis, but he never gets the appreciation he deserves. He's another Hawkman or Count Chocula. No respect.
I'm talking, of course, about the Ideal Gas Law.
Can you imagine all of the pieces of information that you can derive from this formula? Pressure? Volume? NUMBER OF MOLES??!?! It's astounding. It boggles the mind how much the Ideal Gas Law tells you.
However, what I appreciate the most about it is that it's IDEAL. It's not imperfect. The law, in theory, only works within a vacuum. While this fact doesn't help things very much (unless, of course, you happen to live in a vacuum. In which case, keep up the good work. You're the bane of every Chemistry/Physics student's life) but think about what that implies: This law is a romantic. He wants things to be perfect. While some pessimists would account for wind resistance or gravity. Simliar to Holden or Gatsby, he's an idealist. He'll factor in temperature and pressure, sure. But he'll leave the rest up to chance. The Law lives by a self correcting universe. He doesn't worry about too much. Ideal.
I think that every one of us can learn a thing or two from the Ideal Gas Law.


So, there's not too much going on in my life. Actually, there is. I just don't think that a) it warrants a blog entry or b) it's slightly too personal about which to write. I could go off on some sort of modernist spiel about finding the remarkable in the banal. But I'll spare you.
This sort of relates to tonight's Ath dinner for my Lit10 class. I've noticed that throughout the X number of weeks we've had class, a decent discussion has been lacking. I wasn't sure if it was the subject matter, the professor, the students, or if I was just expecting something more profound from a college Lit course. Well, tonight's dinner was 90 minutes of the same. A little light conversation. People laughing at their own jokes. Ashton being his normally amazing self. And throughout all of this, I hardly said anything. As a matter of fact, I wrote this blog entry in my head during all of the awkward silences. Yep. Silences so thick that you could cut them with a fork. I know that I have something to say. I'm positive of it. So why doesn't it come out whenever I'm surrounded by Professor Jaurretche? Is she some sort of linguistic kryptonite to my verbal Kal-El? It seems like it's hard for people to be themselves in these situations.
MAYBE, she's trying to prove a point about modernism and Joyce. Perhaps our conversations and discussions are purposely boring so that we're forced to find the amazing qualities of everyday life. Could it be that her class isn't an exercise in boredom but a giant trap that she has been setting since day one?


Nope. Odds are it's just boring.



Dublin 1904
Trieste 1914

It was the heat of the moment....

Last night at dinner, a lively discussion arose about the top three presidents of all time. It's one of those debates that probably only happens on the CMC campus, y'know, with all of those Govt. majors who delusionally think that they're going to go into politics. Anyway, after this fine oratorical commentary, I decided to write a little bit about my own list of the TOP 5 PRESIDENTS OF ALL TIME. This may sound eerily close to the "Top 5" lists that John Cusack kept making in High Fidelity. Actually, that's pretty much what it is. I have seen the movie/read the book so often that I consider myself to be akin to that character. My life may end up being a rip-off of that movie/book. Which really, when you think about it, isn't that bad. Your life could be an homage to "St. Elmo's Fire."
#1. Abe Lincoln


Why is Honest Abe number one on this countdown?....or is a countup since I started with #1? Well, a lot of people would reference that whole "emancipation proclamation" thing and that "13th ammendment" whatnot. Sure, that doesn't count against him. But what I love about Abe Lincoln is that he was 100% man. He knew how to box. He was the tallest president (and that's pretty impressive). If you decided to take him on in a fight, you'd lose. You'd have a snowball's chance in hell. You'd have a democrat's chance in Texas.
And Lincoln used that strategy when giving the proverbial "Fuck you" to the South. What's that? You've got a cotton gin? You believe in state's rights? You started the bloody Kansas-Nebraska act which violated the Missouri Compromise? Eli Whitney is your god down there? IT DIDN'T MATTER TO LINCOLN. He had so little respect for the Confederacy that he selected a complete drunkard as his general.
And for that reason, he's #1.

#2. Josiah Barlet
Could any other president walk and banter at the same time like Jed Bartlet? Exactly.


I would continue with this blog entry and talk about Ronald Reagan, Andrew Jackson and Bill Pullman in 'Independence Day.' But in the process of typing, I discovered that former WWE champion Eddie Guerrero has passed away. Yep. That is all.

I don't wanna rock (ROCK) DJ, but you're making me feel so nice

Tonight, I'm going to write about a conundrum that has been haunting me lately. It's a little paradoxical, a little contradictory, but I hope that you'll understand. Now, let's start with the given facts: I, Max G. Davison, am a heat seeking, straight shooting, VERY heterosexual bachelor. I love the ladies like a fat kid loves candy. I love women like a lion loves mammal flesh. I love females like Carl Weathers loves stew (hopefully Arrested fans will pick up on that one). I enjoy slabs of undercooked red meat. John Wayne is a hero of mine. I vote Republican. Basically, anything that's straight is a-okay with me.
So, seeing as I like women and all that...
WHY DO I LISTEN TO ROBBIE WILLIAMS?

Why do I listen to such an effeminate singer?

Even as I sit here, writing this entry and affirmation of my heterosity, I've got 'Angels' playing on my iPod. It's music that is so undeniably feminine....but it's also pretty damn catchy. If you're not familiar with the song, I recommend you download it immediately from MyTunes.

SPEAKING of which...I want to know who these 5 people are who look up everyone's songs on the MyTunes network so that I can't. I can just see 5 idiots up at 12:01, connecting to every playlist that they can find. Beware, you five sons of bitches. I'm on to you. Your fiendish plot will be vanquished soon enough.

Anyhoo, look up Robbie on images.google.com . Yup. He's a very pretty man. I'll admit it. Pretty.
So why do I listen to Robbie Williams? I have no answer. But if you question my taste, I'll pose this question to you: I dare you to download 'Rock DJ' or 'Tripping' and try not singing along.

Hope everything's going well with everyone. Especially David Delgado, who is pushing me to starvation slowly but surely. Of course, today he had a pretty good reason for not updating *wink wink nudge nudge* *fake punches david in the gut and calls him a cad*

Anyhoo, here's a Simpsons quote that Marco and I were laughing at yesterday:

Homer: They're embarrassing me. They're embarrassing America. They turned the Navy into a floating joke. They ruined all our best names like Bruce, and Lance, and Julian. Those were the toughest names we had! Now they're just, uh...
John: Queer?
Homer: Yeah, and that's another thing! I resent you people using that word. That's our word for making fun of you! We need it!!

Nothing lasts forever, even cold November Rain

I'd like to give a huge shout out to two very underutilized and underappreciated individuals of the world. There were many people who crossed my mind when I considered "underappreciated." The butler from The Fresh Prince. John Irving. Joe Randa. Myself. William McKinley. But I finally decided on the two individuals who would most benefit from being mentioned on my blog.
Ladies and gentlemen, I'm talking about none other than Hawkman and Count Chocula.


Hawkman
When people think about the Justice League, Carter Hall, aka "the winged wonder," is oftentimes forgotten. I could ramble on for a while about his history and continuity in DC comics, but I'll spare you. Rather, I'll just say that he has wings, carries a mace and has a hairy chest that just screams "VIRILE." Many children grow up wanting to be Superman or Batman or Wonder Woman or (god forbid) Iron Man. Hawkman never gets any respect. When was the last time you were really afraid of a bat? A hawk, on the other hand, is a predator. Long story short, Hawkman could beat down Bruce Wayne in a fight.

Count Chocula
Yeah, the old Count doesn't get enough street cred. Sure, he's a blood sucking vampire (or as I like to refer to them, Democrats). But he's a blood sucking vampire who cares about the children. The starving children of the world. He cares so much that he's willing to give them a new breakfast cereal full of chocolately goodness...which is still part of your balanced breakfast. Were giant supplies of Count Chocula dropped over poor areas of Africa, the Count would be in charge of Live-Aid instead of Bono. Hell, Count Chocula would be the frontman for U2.

Also, del Taco on tuesday nights is truly the happiest place on earth. Long Live Del Scorcho!

Day 4, and I'm one day closer to my hunger strike. David, to paraphrase Puffy - update or die.

It was labor day weekend, I was 17. I bought a coke and some gasoline.

It's currently day three of my blogging adventure, and David Delgado has still not accepted my challenge to get off of his lazy ass and start writing.
This is why a hunger strike may be necessary.
If Mr. Delgado does not cave in and post a new entry by the end of this week, then on November 14th, I, Max Davison, will officially pull a Ghandi and abstain from eating for as long as it takes. Homer Simpson also utilized this tactic when the Springfield Isotopes were planning on moving to Albuquerque. It worked then, and it will work now if necessary.

Onto the blogging...

I had a rather pleasant dinner at the Ath tonight. It was a class dinner for Prof. Busch's GOVT20 class. The highlights included conversations about the Ivory Coast, strange roommates, and (most importantly) they had some great cheesecake. So great, in fact, that we raided the empty tables to ensure ourselves some extra slices.
Cheesecake. I love it. Occasionally, I'm not sure if I want cake or a dairy product. Thank Zito for cheesecake. Now I can have my calcium and eat it too. It's delicious after a big steak dinner. It mixes well with cranberries or lemons. Good texture. Silky smooth. Kind of like a good woman....well, not the bit about after a steak dinner. Actually, on second thought, it just may... But you get my point.
Sadly, there has been a recent shift in the cheesecake spectrum. Similar to how the Christian Coalition caused every Protestant in the universe to vote Republican, a group has gone out of their way to claim this baked good for themselves. About whom am I speaking?
Women.
It all started in the early 1990s with The Golden Girls. Those four old broads would always get depressed over men, work, each other, Matlock. What was their respite? What was their balm in Gilead? A late night cheesecake and bitch fest. The female domination of cheesecake continued in the middle part of the decade with the institution of the Oprah Winfrey Show. Whereas the Golden Girls opened up cheesecake to older audiences, Oprah introduced it to a younger demographic. Before your grandmother and her knitting buddies would meet over cheesecake. Now militant feminazis and lesbians were using cheesecake as their battle cry in their ongoing war against "the man." Book groups now revolve around the dessert. Martha Stewart has multiple recipes as to how to personalize your own cake. Most recently, the four overweight bats and the one hot one, known as the hosts of "The View," have launced an assault on the daytime TV viewer. Stay at home moms are now claiming cheesecake as their "mid day snack." It's their manner of taking back the day. Women have also claimed CHOCOLATE as their own, comparing it to an orgasm. Some sort of bogus scientific information proves that the repsonse to chocolate is simliar to that of the elusive (and potentially non-existant) female oragasm. The adjective "sinful" no longer pertains to Satan or Jane Fonda. It now means "this brownie is so rich that it's SINFUL."

Men of the world, it is time that we take back our cheesecake. If you think about it, we have already claimed multiple dinner items. Steak. Burgers. Bratwurst. Baked Potatoes. Slabs of meat so big that if you finish it, it's free. Good, imported beer. Straight whiskey. MILK.
But we don't have a manly dessert. Milkshakes are universal, as are cake and pie. Ice cream belongs to both genders. And now we've lost cheesecake to our better half. I would like to start the initiative to find something so high in calories, so bad for you, so amazingly rich that it can be only be for a man. I'll be doing my part to find this dessert, and I hope that if you ever find something worthy, you will let me know.
It's bad enough that thanks to Sex and the City a man can't order a Cosmo without being thought of as gay.

One more thing: If you EVER use the phrase "PLATONIC CONCEPTION" around me and you're not referring to Jay Gatsby, I will hurt you. Badly.

Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for tomorrow's rant. And if Pau Gasol is reading, keep up the good work, buddy. My fantasy team is #1 thanks to you.

Don't Stop Believing

First of all, congratulations to Mr. Huston Street on winning the American League Rookie of the Year award. Too bad that Nick Swisher couldn't have shared the honor with him. But my appreciation of Swisher and his OBP is subject of a future blog entry.

So, I was walking back from Pomona today after a "training session" at KSPC about sports broadcasting. More on that later. But as I'm walking back and enjoying the purposefully pretentious architecture and wondering "Why the hell didn't I go here?" I was awakened from my daydream by the sound of wheels coming from behind me. Before I came to CMC, I would have been incredibly startled and jerked to look at what was approaching. Now, I hear the earthquake resembling rumbling and ask myself "Is that a Razor or a skateboard?"
Anyways, as I normally do when I am being tailgated by some sort of wheeled form of transportation, I moved to my left and allowed him to pass.
Only this gesture of good will wasn't enough for the fiend. As I moved to my left, he shifted his path so to put himself on a direct collision course with me. I hurried my steps even more and found myself entirely off the pavement and I was now standing on the wet grass. As I turned around to stare at the jackass (who wasn't even wearing a helmet, mind you), I saw that he wasn't being an intentional idiot. He was simply crusing down the sidewalk and felt that he owned the road. He wasn't trying to run me off the pavement.
Had he been a skateboard cruising jackass with whom I am ever so familiar, I would not have minded. But this was an everyman. This could have been me. Think Thomas Hardy's "The Man He Killed."
He was not motivated out of hatred, but out of entitlement. He was more entitled than the poor after the New Deal. More entitled than the communists living under LBJ's "Great Society."
THIS HAS TO STOP.
I may have my qualms with the fact that the pedestrian has the right of way, but it's the law. PEDestrian. As in "travels by foot." Pedestrians, not WHEELestrians, if that's even a word. If it isn't, consider it to be coined by yours truly.
Long story short, if I'm walking back to my dorm from Collins and you're riding along on your convenient mode of transportation, I'm not moving. If anything, I'll get in your way and make you crash. And after your skull splits open, maybe you'll learn a lesson about wearing a helmet.

Back to KSPC. I spent a fun hour learning how to use the equipment which will allow me to broadcast football games...to the 5 people who actually listen to KSPC. Oh, how I wish I could relive those 60 amazing minutes with Erica, the woman with the tailor-made NPR voice: deep and boring.
KSPC is housed in the Thacher building for the performing arts. In order to get to my destination, I pass by numerous practice rooms, designed for musical instruments. Every time I walk by, I pull a Marcel Proust and reminisce on things past.

I played the piano until midway through 8th grade. It just became a nuisance and practicing wasn't really my forte (get it. Forte? Piano humor?). My mom tells me that I was good at it and I never should have quit. I used the pro-choicer's argument and insisted that it's my life (it's now or never) and I should be in charge of what happens to it. So I stopped taking lessons.
Every time that I am presented with a piano, I feel as though I should reconnect with my musical roots and play something. But as I sit down, only one entire song comes to mind. Oh sure, I can play the familiar parts of "The Pink Panther" or "Theme to Mission: Impossible" or Bob Seger's "Against the Wind." But those are just glimpses. I can't tell you everything about those pieces. I doubt if my fingering is even correct.
The piece that I know by heart, is none other than Canon in D Major by Pachelbel.

Johann Pachelbel was born in 1653 in Nuremberg and worked as an organist. He composed more than two hundred works for the organ, however his best known (and only known) song is Canon in D Major. If you go to Barnes and Noble and look for a Pachelbel CD, you'll find a "Greatest Hit" compilation with numerous artists performing Canon (such as James Galway and the Chieftans. Great song, if you can find it on Limewire). It's one of those songs that will be played at every wedding recital (along with the Chicken Dance). It's timeless. It's good to play. And it sounds sophisticated.
I suppose I feel such a strong attachment to it since it reminds me of my childhood. Oftentimes I would get bored and just play Canon in D. There was an episode of "The Wonder Years" in which young Kevin Arnold had to learn the same song.

But I'm getting too deep for a blog entry. If you really care enough about my musical appreciation, get me near a piano and I'll talk to you in depth about what this Baroque tune means to me.

So that brings us to the end of Day II. In what has become a sad feature of my blog entires, DAVID DELGADO STILL HASN'T UPDATED HIS. How many times must I bother him about this before the people get what they want????

Anyhoo, tune in tomorrow when I bitch about Oprah.

Nevermind the Bollocks,
Max Power

So I joined the depressed youth of america...

I apologize to everyone who thought that I was better than this, but I caved in and got a blog. My very own place to post the vague coming and goings that occur in my daily life. My own modernist attempt to glorify minute details. Take THAT James Joyce! Pretty soon, Max Davison will be the hero of the working class instead of that advertising agent from Dublin, Leopold Bloom. Sorry, but my inner Lit major broke out of his shell and took over the keyboard. I'm normally not that strange, although I do have a penchant for the Irish.
Now on to the important question: Why did I decide to get a blog? Why did I decide to equate myself with the depressed, Donnie Darko-worshiping, Chuck Palahniuk-reading sector of our generation who hates the Rainbow-wearing, Halo-playing, Abercrombie fanatics who run wild on college campuses? There are two good reasons, and one not so good one. I'll start with the valid reasons.
1) I got very tired of waiting for one, Mr. David Delgado of Miami, Florida, to update his blog. It's been well over a week and it's just frustrating. Other, more responsible bloggers, such as Jack Evert of Woodinville, give bored college students (such as myself) something to read every day. I wanted to give something back to the world...in text form, so I decided to become a responsible member of the online community. The internet gives us great power. And as Uncle Ben taught us, "With great power comes great responsibility."
As for the second good reason...
2) I'm a Lit major who likes to write...but my classes do not give me a lot of ways to express myself via the written word. As a matter of fact, I have way too much free time on my hands (this could be seen as Reason 2.5 to start a blog). I have an ongoing diary, but I figured that I should share some of my random miscellany with the world. There are plenty of interesting/witty/dead sexy facts/comments that I make that would subsequently make the world a better place.
And now for the reason which isn't as admirable as the previous two.
3) The past week has been excellent. Papers have come back well. My bench is increasing. I just found out that there's a RUBIO'S in La Verne. I'm going to take on the 7x7 at In-n-out. UCLA lost. All of these topics will be covered in future blog entries. And then something happened to put a harsh spin on the situtation. Namely, those creatures with XX chromosomes that are more endearingly referred to as "women."
All of my pent up sexual frustration could come out in one of three ways: I could get angry and do a lot of push-ups (which I did). I could also cry myself to sleep while listening to 'Every Rose Has Its Thorn' by Poison (which I may or may not have done. I won't admit to anything). The third way is to write. This blog should give me a good medium to distract myself from my situation.


ANYHOO....time for my first witty remark.

Have you noticed that people have no idea how to spell the word "ludicrous" thanks to the rapper? I, in fact, had to double check the spelling on both Wikipedia.org and Dictionary.com. Ludicrous. Not so difficult. A little tricky when you come to the ending. Words that end with the suffix -ous can occasionally be tough. Phonetically, it shoulds like "us." The "o" should be excluded.
"Ludacris" on the other hand is much more pleasing to spell. Were this a kindergarten class and I were the strange teacher with red hair and questionable taste in floral patterned dresses, I'd ask you to sound the word out. "Lud....a.....cris." It works. It's easier. It makes sense phonetically.
BUT IT'S INCORRECT!
As proven by history, you cannot trust rappers with your syntactical and grammatical logic. Snoop Dogg??? Sorry, your royal stoned-ness. Dog only has one g. "Whom am is?" That makes no sense whatsoever! What happened to the good old days of the Sugar Hill Gang, who could be "bad" and "tight" and "boss" without having to resort to trendy misspellings and contractions? That was when rap was about finding interesting words that rhyme.
The good old days.
But now, Ludacris has bastardized a word that I held dear to my heart. Ludicrous speed was an integral part of Mel Brooks' masterpiece "Spaceballs." I used to be able to say "You're acting ludicrous" or "The assumption that nothing but tax cuts will save the economy is ludicrous" or "$1 fish tacos at Rubio's today? That's ludicrous!" Now, whenever I use the word, the uninformed idiots known as "society" assume that I'm talking about that hip-hop thug who told all the bitches of the world to Move and Get Out the way.
Similar to how Homer Simpson wanted gay people to stop using the name Lance, I want this rapper to relinquish control over this amazing collection of letters. The fact that 5 year olds can't spell "ludicrous" correctly is well......ludacris.

And that is my Dennis Miller-esque rant on why I dislike Ludacris. More fun to come. Same Bat-Time, Same Bat-Channel.

By the way, if David Delgado is reading this, UPDATE YOUR BLOG.

Peace.