Bad Ideas: Keeping Regret in Business For Over 200,000 Years

Today I will be debuting a new monthly feature called Bad Ideas. The concept is fairly simple. Just a list of ideas that are bad, and will likely lead you down that garden path straight to the intersection of grief and woe. Attempting to enact them is strongly discouraged by both me and the entire staff here at Insane Italian. 

Shuffling Off to Buffalo

This week I'm headed up to a part of NY state I like to call 'Not Really New York.' Buffalo to be exact. The Nickel City; The City of Good Neighbors; even The City of No Illusions for some obscure reason. To be fair, I really like the town. And it's where my wife's family lives and where we're having our wedding reception on Saturday, just about six months after the ceremony. Good times are best enjoyed after a nice, long simmer.

Bath Salt Buffoonery: Dispatches from the Sunshine State

To the delight and perhaps dismay of all my old Facebook friends, my favorite daily hobby used to be gathering, posting and opining on ridiculous headlines from around the world. I must admit, as an ex-Facebooker, I do miss not having that forum to spread the gospel of odd news. And that's why I have this site. Here I can do whatever I want. There aren't any laws on the internet. None. I know that's true because my friend Colt from Lancaster, who I ride the bus with everyday told me that. Don't believe me? I'll prove it. Here's a batch of highly classified, covert intelligence whose mere possession alone would violate multiple federal statutes.  

A Daydream on Elm Street

Like most people who live in the middle of a major city, I suffer through the often exhausting love-hate relationship with it. Philly is a great town, occasionally even a spectacular one. Spring and summer weekends are awash with festivals, farmer's markets, outdoor concerts and movie screenings. Al-fresco dining along tree-lined streets and colorful parks, green enough to be from Oregon, can be found in every neighborhood. It's a truly vibrant place, alive with a life energy in the air strong enough to taste. 

Just when you've snuggled up nice and close to it though, supremely confident that your assured embrace will continue endorsing your peace of mind, Philly will paw swipe at you unexpectedly like a feral cat buried in a pile of goose down pillows. Whether it's an afternoon shooting in front of your favorite bar, an early morning serial strangler who strikes from behind, or a teenage flash mob flooding a commercial street with fists-a-flying, the City of Brotherly Love will routinely remind you she loathes living up to that name.    

Word on the Street: Government Surveillance

In the wake of Eric Snowden's leaks of classified intelligence and the ensuing Falcon & the Snowman-style espionage circus unfolding around the globe, I thought it would be a great time to hit the streets and find out what everyday Americans thought about big brother spying on its own citizens. 

Sitting Down With Jersey Shore Juice Bar Employee, Breeana Norton

CC: Joining me this afternoon for the Sit Down is high school senior, Jersey native and assistant manager of Surf Blendz Juice & Smoothies in Sea Isle City, Breeana Norton. Hey Breeana, how are you doing?

Bree: Pretty good. I spell my name with a Y, two N's and an H by the way. 

CC: Well we're not going to do that today Bree, because that's retarded. What we will do is figure out what happened when I came in to have lunch yesterday.  

Bree: Um okay, I don't think I remember you. Were you the guy who was all like 'RRAHH RHARR! Where's my friggin blueberry boost?!?' all red and sweating and everything? No, wait, that was my boyfriend. Who are you again?

Summer in the City

Sea Isle City that is. It's where I'm headed for the week. For those of you who don't know, Sea Isle City is a tiny little speck of a shore town in Cape May County, New Jersey. It's inhabited mostly by families with young children and shiny guidos with hairless, sculpted muscles. My mission for the week is simple: eat crab, drink rum, pretend to be 20 years younger. My wife's mission is similar, but much more difficult. She'll be eating oysters, drinking sangria and searching deep inside her soul for what it was that initially attracted her to the sunburned albino walrus with a hairy chest who just tore his Achilles tendon trying to dive over a child's sandcastle to catch a frisbee.  

HOT JOB: Philly Sidewalk Activist

Overview

• Inform the public about political efforts, charitable causes and social injustices. Solicit donations, support and volunteers whenever possible. 

Primary Duties

• Stand within inches of illegally blocking the entrance of Whole Foods and attempt to make contact with every human being walking by, regardless of their defensive body language and obvious disdain for your presence. 

• Begin every intercept with a carefully crafted question or phrase designed to stir up a creamy broth of guilt, remorse and self-doubt within the target. Plant the heavy seed of encumbrance inside their soul and let it sprout its shameful pangs of conscience in their brains for the rest of the afternoon.  

          "Do you have a minute to save a baby from being raped?"

          "Do you care about anyone who has cancer?" 

          "If you don't stop, a gay teenager might be beaten with a coal shovel." 

          These are some great opening examples. Of course, adding your own personal touches       
          is always encouraged. 

Procrastination: A Haiku. I'll Finish it Later

I've been very busy lately avoiding responsibility and keeping up with important tasks such as writing ridiculous things here for all of you to enjoy. Please be patient, because I'll be posting a bunch of new stuff very soon. But in the meantime, I feel like I owe you an explanation. 

There are several factors currently slowing down my progress and I've been working feverishly to minimize them. Unfortunately due to my dysfunctional upbringing, I am largely incapable of regulating, managing or moderating anything, and so these distractions will probably just have to run their natural course. 

Five Things a Philly Cab Driver Will NOT Do

Taxi drivers are always high up on the list of things people complain about in their cities. Traffic is another. Even your moron friend from Thermopolis, Wyoming will shamelessly put his bumper-to-bumper 'nightmare' commute to Casper on the Yellowstone Highway just outside of Boysen Reservoir up against your I-95 fuck jam any day. "George Washington Breedge ain't nothin compared to the Route 20 Interchange in Shoshoni on a Fry-dee"

HOT JOB: Philly DMV Clerk

A new thing I'll be doing now (as a favor to all of you who have so little to do that you're actually reading this), is posting active job listings I find from all around the interwebs. 

Mainly these opportunities will center around Philly because I want to help my fellow, underemployed peeps in the Cradle of Liberty realize their full potential. But I'll also scope out a few left coast and midriff region gigs for the rest of my displaced posse across the land. You're welcome. Now read this, and then get back to work at your unsatisfying actual job.

Sitting Down With Liquor Store Thief & Unlicensed Pharmaceutical Salesman, Tay Tay Da'Quande

Joining me this afternoon for the Sit Down is local Philly personality and entrepreneur, Mr.Tay Tay Da'Quande. We only have a few minutes to speak with him since his picture was just broadcast on Good Day Philly this morning in connection with a brazen cognac and flavored rum robbery over Mother's Day weekend at South Street Fine Wine & Spirits. 

Tay Tay: Shit's gettin hot. PPD closing in fast. Whatchu wanna know?

CC: I understand you're in a rush Tay Tay, and I will certainly respect that. I think what most people would like to know is why you don't just pay for the alcohol with your drug sales earnings instead of stealing it every weekend from stores all over the city? 

Sitting Down with Trendy Neophyte Restaurateur & Avant-Garde Chef: Thad Paddington

I met Thad for the first time in a coffee shop below his South Philly loft. I found him draped over an antique velvet sofa wearing giant headphones, sipping home-brewed kombucha from a canteen and leafing through a Vanity Fair that was upside down. His corduroy blazer with elbow patches fit snugly over a faded tee with a necktie print. He saw me as soon as I parted the beaded curtains and walked in, but paused before removing his headphones and saying hello because as I later learned, an unreleased Atoms for Peace demo track was in its final minute.  

Ask Ke$ha!

Every once in a while I just get so excited I want to climb right up on a Mexican's shoulders and scream out the lyrics to La Cucaracha. Now is one of those times. 

I'm proud to announce that the world famous drunken trainwreck of a human being, (and pop sensation) Ke$ha, has agreed to a contribute a regular segment for Insane Italian where she will answer reader questions! She promised that no subject is off limits or taboo, and that she will always be as open and honest as possible. 

Feel free to leave your questions below in the comment section and she'll get around to them whenever she's not having blacked-out simulated sex with a champagne bottle. 

Word on the Street: Tax Refunds

If you're like me, you don't pay any taxes at all because of an obscure administrative loophole you've exploited involving an antiquated diplomatic immunity statute. If not, then you're probably expecting a few consolation dollars back from Uncle Sam after his year of rigorous, biweekly sessions spent sodomizing your paycheck. Could be a few hundred, maybe even a couple grand. The question is, how will you spend it? Let's find out what some folks have in mind. 

*If you happen to owe money this year, you can contact me privately and for a minor fee I'll teach you a simple way to re-route that debt to the accounts of disabled veterans and senior citizens with dementia. Its quick, easy and completely untraceable by anyone except the Devil. So if afterlife planning is not an issue, I highly recommend it. 

Honeymoon Alert

Alert! I am going on my honeymoon. Tomorrow. I realize that no one cares except me, and probably my wife...and perhaps the Korean doctor whose credit card I charged the whole trip to, but I still thought I should let all of you know as well. Especially since we're going to Mexico.

If you've read anything about Mexico in the last decade or so, you know they have a knack for two things: cramming into minivans and lopping off tourist's heads. A rather unusual skill set pairing, but one with rather dynamic advantages in a wide variety of situations. 

So, if you happen to hear about a puffy, furry, pasty-white bald man and his beautiful companion being kidnapped for ransom in the next week or two, please send all donations to: 

Insane Italian Abduction Payoff Fund
PO BOX 115 Kittanning, PA 16201  

Once again, thank you for all your support. And by support I mean visiting my site occasionally by accident. I can't tell you how much it means to me. And if I don't get snatched up by a cartel hunting for soft, sunburned drunkards in silk, maraca-print shirts, I'll be right back here next week with a whole new batch of fresh nonsense for your enjoyment. Adios!

Word on the Street: Marriage

So I got married last month, right here in Philadelphia. February 21 to be exact. It was quite a special day. Not only because of the elusive, personal milestone I finally reached along my life's winding path, but also because of the many notable events that took place on that very day throughout history. 

What, Me Worry?

I've been nervous about a lot of things lately. More nervous than usual, which should be impossible since I'm constantly nervous about something. I'm worried that my beautiful new IKEA plant will suddenly turn yellow and die like it always does after four months. I can't stop thinking air conditioning units will fall from the windows of tall city buildings as I stroll beneath them. I lie awake and fret about contracting MRSA from bus and subway handrails. I'm overly concerned with ingesting toxic mold from organic peanuts, hydroplaning off exit ramps and breathing in micro-organisms thriving in the mist of my humidifier. I'm not totally sure if I'm allergic to any anesthetics but whenever the dentist asks me, I always say no. Inevitably for the rest of the appointment, my mind cycles through numerous death scenarios, most of which involve my throat swelling shut as I writhe and gasp for breath under the spotlights, helplessly reclined in that awful chair while bubbly cute, ill-prepared technicians scramble around searching for life-saving equipment that doesn't exist.    

Fact + Bonus Fact: Gambling

Casinos have never been kind to me. I probably should thank the gambling god, (no, not Ko Chun from the 1989 Chinese action-comedy, God of Gamblers), but the actual entity in charge of bestowing fortune upon all of our risk-taking, tobacco-stained, buffet-feasting souls. I believe her name is Lady Luck. She hates me, and one day I shall thank her personally for not tempting my wickedly addictive personality. 

Every time I gamble, I lose. And I don't mean at the end of the day, or the vacation - but every single time. Recently I saddled up to the roulette wheel at the shiny new Revel hotel in everyone's favorite dilapidated seaside kingdom of broken dreams and unfulfilled promises: Atlantic City. I carefully placed ten, one-dollar chips on ten separate numbers. The wheel spun and of course the little silver ball of lies landed on none of them. I placed another ten on the same exact numbers and forcibly sipped my Moscow Mule through the skinny cocktail straw like an anxious pervert while I stared hard at the spinning wheel and attempted to project some kind of vaguely spiritual energy toward it through my eyeballs. (Something I learned from reading The Secret while in prison.)

Juicebox Hero

That was one of my many nicknames in college. Though its origin had little to do with portable beverage containers or bravery, it remained an accurate descriptor of mine throughout most of my sixteen semesters. Some say it was even the perfect name. Which I believe is the case with my new favorite infomercial product: Forever Lazy. I'm guessing this beast has probably been around for a while, and as usual I'm late to the party. Listen folks, I'm an old man now. I don't have the stamina or the gumption to stay on the cutting edge. I'm still using British words from the 17th century like gumption for crying out loud. Cut me some slack. 

So this thing, in case you haven't seen it, is basically a onesie for adults. Let me put that another way: its a billowing, one-piece sweatsuit for fat, American layabouts. It also comes with hindquarter zipper flaps so when chunkster aunt Barb has to shit out a loaf of casserole she doesn't have to negotiate the enormous hassle of retracting the front zipper and sliding the obesity shield down over her cankles.