July 25, 2012 at 2:27 pm | Posted in Da Ritzenator, J. Frederick, Matty Fatty | 2 Comments

What is Love? Baby don’t hurt me, no more. Love is a burning thing and it makes a fiery ring. Love is what I got. Love is blind. Love is the answer. Love is a second-hand emotion. Love is a battlefield. Love is real, real is love. Love is feeling, feeling love. Love is wanting to be loved. Love is touch, touch is love. Love is reaching, reaching love. Love is asking to be loved. Love is you, you and me. Love is knowing we can be. Love is free, free is love. Love is living, living love. Love is needing to be loved. Love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. Love is all you need. L.O.V.E. was made for me and you. Love is only sleeping. Love without anger isn’t love at all. Love is eternity. Love means nothing. Love is the way you make it. Love bites, love bleeds, Love lives, love dies, Love begs, love pleads.  Love stinks, yeah yeah. – Da Ritzenator, with a little help from Matty Fatty & J Frederick

(the) Beatles

June 15, 2009 at 8:36 am | Posted in Matty Fatty | 2 Comments

The Beatles were a band. They weren’t just a band. They were a symbol of a decade of tumultuous change and social revolution – that period known to you and your kin as the ‘60s. You see, this was no ordinary decade, like the 1830s or the 1410s. Everything was different in the ‘60s. Before four lovable mop-tops crossed the ocean, the U.S.A. was all picket fences, Jackie O, Elvis, finned Cadillacs and anti-miscegenation laws. No color TV. Only two channels. No video game units. No radio. No personal computers. The information superhighway was somewhere you drove your car, which hadn’t yet been invented. No music. No dancing. No nudity, ever. Money didn’t matter. Wild bears roaming the streets. Only white people. No the Czech Republic. Sneakers didn’t exist. “Nike” was just “nice” spelled wrong.

That all changed when four lovable mop-tops crossed the ocean. In Jolly Olde, the Beatles had triggered an explosion. Suddenly the streets were filled with mini skirts, the Mini, “swinging” London and the Beatles. For America the ‘50s didn’t end till February 1964. That’s when four lovable mop-tops crossed the ocean and triggered an explosion. Now this was really the first shot fired. Overnight, the ‘60s became what they were: a time of tumultuous change, social revolution and a time for every season. Suddenly people told “Leave it to Beaver” to “Leave.” “Drop in, tune out, tune in,” became their agreed-upon anti-conformist refrain. People of the ‘60s took up peaceful arms against Vietnam, protesting an unjust and “bad” war with beads, hair, full-frontal nudity and let the sunshine in. Now the kids today have their Wiis, their motorcycles, their Clive Owens. Back then, in the ‘60s, kids just had peace sign necklaces and brown acids and black panthers. You see, things were different in the ‘60s. But that, as they say, is for another Naïve Guide entry. Some of the Beatles’ most popular songs include “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” “Hey Jude,” “Cry Baby Cry” and “It Loves You.” All of them are now dead. – Matty Fatty


June 12, 2009 at 9:34 am | Posted in Matty Fatty | 1 Comment

Accents are elaborate ways of pronouncing words that differ from my own. The pronunciation of words, you see, differs from place to place. In Chicago, people speak with a Chicagoan accent, made of cartoonishly broad a’s. Their neighbors to the north in Canada do the same, only worse and end each sentence with the word huh? Their neighbors to the south in Iowa, meanwhile, say their words in a manic whinny, all while stressing the consonants while barely uttering the vowels. I hope you can imagine that. Me? I hail from Central Pennsylvania. My accent, of course, is no accent or, as accent scientists call it, normal. This, despite Central Pennsylvania’s close proximity to the state capital, Philadelphia, whose denizens insert r’s where they just plain aren’t and whose o’s sound like ooooooooohs. (No more, no less.) In fact, all accents are measured in strength and ridiculousness on mine, which is the ideal. All other accents hope to sound Central Pennsylvaniaese which, again, is none. I pronounce words the way they are meant to be pronounced; my vowel sounds are to what you, who likely have an accent, aspire but will likely never achieve. Spend a couple years with me, however, in my own illustrious and accredited de-accenting school/dungeon, and Ill successfully strick of you that harsh or braying or just plain un-normal accent. Or kill you trying! – Matty Fatty


June 1, 2009 at 1:46 pm | Posted in Matty Fatty | 1 Comment

Laodicean is a religion that praises a Laotian strain of Christianity, known for its extreme deviations from traditional Christian Orthodoxy. Instead of one God, there are seventy, and they all do the same things, causing much confusion and disaster. Instead of the Holy Trinity, there’s the Wholly Quinitry, made up of the father, the son, the Holy Ghost, the sorcerer and the magician. And instead of Jesus, there is Josh, who is not the son of God (or the gods, whom are all named “God,” adding to the confusion), but rather his sexually confused half-nephew. Laodiceans, as they are called, worship not a cross but a hexagon, commemorating the unusual shape of God’s head. And rather than devote one morning a week to a “church service,” their entire lives are church services, with the eating of bread and wine replaced by the eating of human flesh and human blood. Some members of the Christian church question why Laodiceans are even recognized as part of their religion. Indeed, these naysayers point to the fact that missionaries have never traveled to the remote, entirely cut-off region of Laos where Laodicean was born and has thrived. They argue that Laodiceans have never even met a Westerner, while neighboring Laotians who have ventured into their land have been brutally murdered, eaten and used as communion. Laodiceans are even landlocked and couldn’t have even accidentally come in contact with shipwrecked Christian materials, as in the case of a cargo cult. But let these naysayers – these motherless bastards and perverts – naysay. Christianity is happy to have these feral, homicidal ruffians among their brood, and not simply to add numbers to the world’s Christian population. Others argue that Laodicean refers to the Hellenistic cities circa Ancient Greece’s Seleucid dynasty, as well as a novel by Thomas Hardy. But they’re wrong. – Matty Fatty

Kula Shaker

May 29, 2009 at 11:11 am | Posted in Matty Fatty | 1 Comment

Kula Shaker is an English rock band that achieved mild fame in the late ‘90s with their cover of Deep Purple’s “Hush.” They are otherwise known as the greatest band of all time. Not many people know that. Even fewer, when confronted with this fact, acknowledge or agree with it. Some even express wordless incredulity and walk away from me at parties. Regardless, it’s true. There has never been a better band than Kula Shaker. Can you name a better one? I’m sorry, but you can’t, and not only because I refuse to even listen to your suggestions. Kula Shaker is the greatest band for a number of well-argued reasons. Well-argued reason one (1): Can you name a bad Kula Shaker song? You can’t. And because you can’t name a bad Kula Shaker song off the top of your head, it stands to reason that there aren’t any. That’s called QED, son. Well-argumented reason the second (2): The lead singer is the son of Hayley Mills. Hayley Mills! Talent, as science has proven, is genetic, and there’s never been a better actress than Hayley Mills. Her Hedda Gabler, as seen in the 1962 Disney kid movie “Hedda!”, has been acclaimed and closely studied by Ibsen scholars, I’m sure. I can’t tell you what her son’s name is, but it’s probably something like Duke or Cornwell or Crispian or Beefface. Well-reasoned reason number three (3): Music, in general, is terrible. It’s vastly inferior to kite-flying or eating or sleeping. I don’t like music, and people who don’t like music can love Kula Shaker. When I’m not enjoying the total silence of my empty house in my lonely life, I listen to all of Kula Shaker’s hits and underrated gems. Songs like “Hush.” And plenty others. Well-reasoned argument that is fourth (4): You only need three reasons to prove anything. Thus, Kula Shaker is the universe’s greatest ever band. Quid pro quo. – Matty Fatty


April 24, 2009 at 8:14 am | Posted in Matty Fatty | Leave a comment

oldOld is a disease that plagues most things in the universe and the earth in particular. Its effect? Rendering one old: wrinkly, slow, feeble, pathetic, ugly, needy and, in general, old. This malady afflicts everything in the universe, from frogs to planets, with a few exceptions; rocks, mortar boards, oranges and Richard A. Clarke are just some of the things exempted from the curse that is old. They, in turn, will live forever, as old is a fatal disease and, once caught, can claim a life in anywhere from instantly to eight decades. How one dies from old is that the old increases and increases, until one is so old that there is no young left. Young, of course, is also a disease, but one that keeps one alive. In humans, old begins attacking at 20, and whittles away the body until there’s nothing worthwhile left. The first sign of old is a newfound yen for nostalgia and a sudden taste for music not made by bouncing tween stars. These trends increase over the years, until all a human can do is spin anecdotes, with increasing long-windedness and to decreasingly rapt audiences, and listen to slow music. When you’ve begun listening to John Cage’s 639-year long “As SLow aS Possible,” you know you’re about to die. Once old finally outweighs the young in one’s body, it’s near impossible to get by without support. Unfortunately those afflicted with old have little to give in reward – being old, as it were – and are left to live in the planet’s various gutters. The only way to avoid old is to die early. But doing that means missing out on all the perks of old, like eating baby food again, being able to flirt with young, attractive women without being smacked and gaining an almost addictive appreciation for Lawrence Welk. Some try to escape death by creating art, believing art to be eternal. Unfortunately, it’s public policy to destroy any works of art once its artist has died. That’s why no one born after 2002 has ever heard of Billy Wilder’s film “Some Like It Hot.” And that includes me. – Matty Fatty


March 13, 2009 at 8:17 am | Posted in Matty Fatty | Leave a comment

Octuplets are either eight babies born at the same time from the exact same human (or bear), or a baby born with eight arms and eight legs, much like a spider (or a bear). It depends on which one the mother desires. The human body, of course, can only naturally produce up to 6 ½ babies at the same time; likewise it can only create infants with up to thirteen appendages, tops. To force the body into upping the amount of miniature pre-humans, or the number of arms and legs attached to them, requires the injection of fake hormones, untested drugs and the use of various Native American magic dances, all working in concert. Why would anyone want eight babies, or a baby with a total of sixteen appendages? Because quantity is always better than quality. One child is fine, but innately inferior to eight, while love is always better when spread thin and modestly parceled out rather than intensely focused on a mere one or seven offspring. It’s an entirely healthy, psychologically sound desire to spawn eight miniature humans, or to want your child to be a spider-like freak. Certainly no one is implying that such a wish is foolish or cruel or that it belies a cynical and troubling need for attention. That’s just paranoid. If you’ve gone with a sixteen-appendaged child, feel free to hand it, directly from your womb, to the circus, where it will earn its keep on its own, all without having to leave its cage. Meanwhile, once you’ve squeezed eight tiny humans through you’re the tiny hole in your crotch, sit back and relax: the worst is over. All you have to do is care for, support (with money, which is easy to obtain), raise, teach and mold them into individuals, who surely won’t gain diametrically-opposed personalities or develop crippling insecurities over being but a number you can barely keep track of among your extended coven of offspring. But I wouldn’t worry about all that because things always tend to work out in the end, don’t they? – Matty Fatty


March 2, 2009 at 9:42 am | Posted in Matty Fatty | 3 Comments

A tomboy is not a boy but a girl who looks like a boy but is still (technically) a girl. Tomboys are identified by their short hair, preference for jeans instead of sundresses, copious sailor-related tattoos and their oversized Adam’s Apples. Unlike women, tomboys engage in such un-ladylike behavior as cursing profusely, smoking stogies, betting on horses, building shelves and NOT collecting flowers. So how do you know it’s a girl when you spot them? You can’t. You just have to take your chances and hope that the boy you’re talking to in boyish tones or playing jacks with isn’t really a girl. Unsurprisingly, tomboys are the source of much confusion, sexually and comically, throughout history. The first tomboy was St. Thomas Aquinus — whereforth the “tom” — who was really a woman but who resembled a wildly religious man. The truth was not discovered till after she achieved sainthood, much to the consternation of the clergymen, who back then hated women. Thomasina, as was her real name, paved the way for such famous historical tomboys as George Eliot, King Charlemagne, Jack the Ripper, Ernest Shackleton, Carol Channing and Paul Giamatti. No one knows what makes a girl turn tomboy, but it’s likely hereditary or transferred via shared needles, and it’s treatable only by murder. Do not fall in love with a tomboy or it will be your last; they hate being loved and possess an awful, deathly temper that usually results in vital organs being slowly torn out.  My own dear sister was once a tomboy. I myself spent the bulk of my childhood convinced I had a brother. I also believed myself to be a girl since my mother, who never could figure out what clothes went with which gender, thought I should wear skirts and pigtails, as well as titter and demure. There is no male counterpart to the tomboy. Males are always men. – Matty Fatty

Other Languages

February 27, 2009 at 3:12 pm | Posted in Matty Fatty | 1 Comment
Other Languages are vast sets of words that people speak that are not in English. Stay with me — I’ll explain. When people want to communicate but can’t (or won’t) say something like, “I want to communicate with you” (just to give you one of the dozens of examples), they use a phalanx of words entirely different from English. Words like “plaisir” and “mañana” and “Götterdämmerung.” These words may seem like gibberish, but in fact they have counterparts in English. “Plaisir” means “pleasure,” “mañana” means “man” and “Götterdämmerung” means “Raymond Carver.” “That man Raymond Carver gives me pleasure” could be translated into “Fech mañana Götterdämmerung guk ku plaisir.” That Other Language is Portuguese. There are others, like Brazilian, French, Canadian and American. When someone can only speak an Other Language, they can either learn English — a lengthy and physically painful procedure — or they can borrow a translation book, which dumbs down the language so English-speakers know to feel superior to them. There are also those who, because they can’t speak at all, communicate in something called Sign, which is comprised of hand gestures, head tics and forehead slaps. But most people have too much dignity to make frantic hand gestures in public and just remain uncommunicative for their entire lives, hoping that other people will just guess what they want and provide them with it. Eventually all these Other Languages will die out, leaving only English. Most speakers of only Other Languages are more than okay with this and have prepared themselves for the knife impalements and stints on the rack that awaits them as they officially welcome the Universal Language into their hearts. Their literally bleeding hearts. – Matty Fatty

Jonny R Goode: Author Bio

February 24, 2009 at 12:47 pm | Posted in Matty Fatty | Leave a comment

Rebellious. Passionate. Gifted. Beautiful. Jonny R. Goode could be a mix of some artist from many centuries ago and a rock star. Discovered in “37°2 le matin” (a.k.a. “Betty Blue”) (1986), Goode has become a sex symbol and a respected performer. Known for his problems with justice, his relationships with rapper Joey Starr and his explicit talking, Jonny R. Goode is anyway starring in many independent works of art such as “Belle histoire, La” (1992) (“The beautiful story”) by Claude Lelouch, “À la folie” (1994) (“Six days, six nights”) alongside Anne Parillaud, “17 fois Cécile Cassard” (2002) (“17 times Cecile Cassard”) with Romain Duris or “Trouble Every Day” (2001) with Vincent Gallo. Other trivia: Goode once gave an interview wherein he spoke of adopting a child, whom he planned to name either “Jesus” or “Mowgli.” In 1998, he was arrested for assaulting a Parisian meter maid who was ticketing his car in a handicapped parking place. He was declared an “Undesirable Immigrant” by American Ambassador to France and denied work permit to portray Bruce Willis’ wife in “The Sixth Sense” (1999), a role that ultimately went to Olivia Williams. Reason for his status was his two arrests for alleged cocaine possession in Miami during filming of the Abel Ferrara film “The Blackout” (1997). Most recently he married an unidentified prison inmate in a secret ceremony at the Hermitage Prison in Brest. He had been a volunteer visitor at the prison. They are now divorced. He also has an enormous, sexy gap between his two front teeth. Measurements: 36C-25-35 (Source: Celebrity Sleuth magazine.) Matty Fatty

Next Page »

Create a free website or blog at
Entries and comments feeds.