< a href = "mailto:theecoolerking@yahoo.com">Zach "My Cousin Jesus" Kuhn
My boss is a Catholic Carpenter.
I love saying that. My boss is indeed a Catholic Carpenter: my dad. He does siding (aluminum and cedar but god no vinyl) and has been called an artist. He'd probably say that's madness, but I have to say he's pretty good with that shit.
Joan Rivers is on Politically Incorrect. I wish I could long distance beeeatch slap her. She just recommended that a young girl get a nose job. She has no room to talk. But she does. And does and does and does and so it goes.
Boston Public is getting lamer and lamer, and I keep on watching it. If my life in ten years entails making out with a student, shooting a gun, getting caught up in a gang murder, talking shit about parents to their faces, teaching kids about suicide, and never actually doing any real teaching, kill me. I want the quiet life of the teacher: making kids learn how to love learning (you do have to make them, I wouldn't do a god damn thing if I didn't have to), being able to talk about and learn from texts, summers off. I don't want to buck the system on such cheesy subjects as letting cheerleaders touch themselves, I certainly would never shoot a gun, I would never ever ever kiss a student (I think touching a student is wrong and completely unnecessary, unless you're a coach, and even then...), and parents would have your ass fired if you talked shit to them. They are always right, like customers. Two cents.
Dismemberment Plan on Thursday. Let's make a call to all of you heading to the show: Dance. Please. If you aren't dancing, I will be the only one, and I can't dance worth a shit. Give everyone there something else to look at aside from my two left knees, bending and bending but never freaking it. I heartily recommend: clapping your hands, shouting out "Fuck Yeah" or "Awesome", getting all up on that girl/guy you've been staring at and killing it 8th grade sock hop style, and/or calling out "Back and Forth" which is by far the best song they play live. Except for "Onward, Fat Girl", which I think they've phased out.
Tomorrow: The BLARGars. (Hint: Russell Crowe's stinky ass isn't within a thousand miles. He's in California, dry humping Christina Aguilera).
The next five songs on your radio in a perfect world would be: "At Dawn" by my morning jacket; "keg" by Annie Hayden; "As bad as they seem" by Hayden; "three sisters" by burning airlines; and "we laugh indoors" by death cab for cutie.
IN the stereo: The late late show with Craig Kilborn.
My boss is a Catholic Carpenter.
I love saying that. My boss is indeed a Catholic Carpenter: my dad. He does siding (aluminum and cedar but god no vinyl) and has been called an artist. He'd probably say that's madness, but I have to say he's pretty good with that shit.
Joan Rivers is on Politically Incorrect. I wish I could long distance beeeatch slap her. She just recommended that a young girl get a nose job. She has no room to talk. But she does. And does and does and does and so it goes.
Boston Public is getting lamer and lamer, and I keep on watching it. If my life in ten years entails making out with a student, shooting a gun, getting caught up in a gang murder, talking shit about parents to their faces, teaching kids about suicide, and never actually doing any real teaching, kill me. I want the quiet life of the teacher: making kids learn how to love learning (you do have to make them, I wouldn't do a god damn thing if I didn't have to), being able to talk about and learn from texts, summers off. I don't want to buck the system on such cheesy subjects as letting cheerleaders touch themselves, I certainly would never shoot a gun, I would never ever ever kiss a student (I think touching a student is wrong and completely unnecessary, unless you're a coach, and even then...), and parents would have your ass fired if you talked shit to them. They are always right, like customers. Two cents.
Dismemberment Plan on Thursday. Let's make a call to all of you heading to the show: Dance. Please. If you aren't dancing, I will be the only one, and I can't dance worth a shit. Give everyone there something else to look at aside from my two left knees, bending and bending but never freaking it. I heartily recommend: clapping your hands, shouting out "Fuck Yeah" or "Awesome", getting all up on that girl/guy you've been staring at and killing it 8th grade sock hop style, and/or calling out "Back and Forth" which is by far the best song they play live. Except for "Onward, Fat Girl", which I think they've phased out.
Tomorrow: The BLARGars. (Hint: Russell Crowe's stinky ass isn't within a thousand miles. He's in California, dry humping Christina Aguilera).
The next five songs on your radio in a perfect world would be: "At Dawn" by my morning jacket; "keg" by Annie Hayden; "As bad as they seem" by Hayden; "three sisters" by burning airlines; and "we laugh indoors" by death cab for cutie.
IN the stereo: The late late show with Craig Kilborn.
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