Bottles & Cans: A tribute to inanimate objects

This blog promises to be the poorest excuse for a blog that was ever blogged. It will be the stuff of mediocre wet dreams that feature women that are in some way distantly related to you. It will be a daily train wreck that no one can stop but all will enjoy, except of course the passengers of the daily train. I don't know what all this means, but it will take shape over time. Or not.

Location: North Carolina, United States

I raise killer dogs and bees in a caring and nurturing environment. I like children and old people, but not their smells. I alternate between sitting, moving, and sleeping. My dreams are to be successful at something I love without having to work very hard, marry a wonderful woman, have children, grow old and watch them blossom into morons, retire, and somewhere along the way cultivate a deep interest in some insignificant hobby - let's say model trains.

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Talent Search Espectacularrr!

Today the inspiration dial hit an all time low. The needle is buried below E. Oops, it just dropped down between the seat cushions. Hmm, I’ll dig that out later.

In the mean time I’d like to announce the B&C TALENT SEARCH ESPECTACULARRR (three r’s)!! It’s the talent search with a southwestern zing. So, get to work. Submit some crap. Yes, we are accepting all entrees ranging from pure crap to crappy. At the end of an undisclosed period of time, a winner will be announced.

The winner will receive a grand prize of, hmm, what’s on my desk… A half full bottle of Blenheim Ginger Ale, “The ginger ale with a kick of spice that makes it twice as nice.” That works great. It goes well with our Southwestern Spice Spice Zing thing.

OK, so, don’t just sit there. Get crackin’, Send in some junk, I mean literally anything. Go ahead and send in a grocery list, a dirty sock, the post-it note on your computer screen that says, “I owe snack box 50 cents.” It’s just content. Damn. We already have our first entry from Chad S. Brice. Surprise Surprise! It’s a poem. G Brent.. better get on it, the score is now 4 to 1.

He didn’t give it a title, so I get to christen it:

Rectum? I Nearly Killed ‘Em.
By Chad S. Brice

I open the door
you lie motionless
The stench is excruciating

I shake you
you are stiff and green
I cry out in pain

why did I neglect you
I could have prevented this
you have crossed the brink

The shame and odor are too great
I bring you out slowly
and throw you in the dumpster

I feel longing and remorse
The emptiness in unbearable
how long had I waited?

I must move on
It is no good to dwell
nothing will bring you back

I yearn for sustenance
I find my solice
in hot juicy flesh

I feel guilty
but I am satiated
I will not weep for you

Next time, I will not wait
Leftovers will be consumed in a timely manner
No more casualties

Saturday, November 27, 2004

Your bird is cooked

Hello all...
you jerks. Hope everyone had a delicious "Celebrate The Non-Starving Of The Pilgrims By Showing Just How Much Food We Can Consume In One Day Day." I ate myself stupid. Literally. By 9:30 p.m. I was leaned back in a chair, belt fully unbuckled, saying things like, "No, seriously cousin, I really think Hardee's has a crack P.R. team. That new burger they thought up... pure genius." and "Yeah, I guess I can understand why you voted for him."

Anyway, I gained 8 pounds. I still have tons of leftovers, and the residual ripples of the Thanksgiving fat will undulate until the dawn. How much did you gain? What was the biggest, strangest, or most disgusting thing you ate? Did anyone else have three bowel movements the next day? Let me know, I really care.

Until we meat again,

P.S. I didn't really say that shit. There's not enough turkey in the world. Speaking of turkey, here's mine...
mmm turkey sandwich

P.P.S. OK, I said the Hardee's thing. I mean, it's just good thinking.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Editorial "We": November 12, 2004 - November 24, 2004

******Breaking News******
I'm sorry to report that the editorial "we" is dead.

This is a recent occurrence that occurred only moments ago. In an early evening attempt to present the subject of the statement, "I am by myself," in its royal or inclusive plural form, the editorial "we" colapsed and did not regain consciousness. Although the specifics surrounding the editorial "we's" final fate have not yet been made official, it is being widely circulated that the cause of death was utter confusion.

Preliminary reports state that the ridiculousness of such statements as, "we are a party of one," "you can't take away our plate, we're not finished with our personal pan pizza," and the final words, "we are by myself," caused the editorial "we" to lose its faculties and eventually expire. In memorium of the passing of the editorial "we," Bottles & Cans has vowed to not use the plural when refering to things that should otherwise be singular, whenever possible.

That junk was getting confusing anyway.

I am sorry for our loss.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Soy milk vs. Cow milk: The Lactosening

The great debate raged late into the night. Voices were raised. Names were called. Indian burns were administered. But, in the end, the issue was not settled. So, B&C is asking you for input.

The question: Is soy milk just as good as original milk?

Quantify your answer and show your work. This will be an ongoing debate with possibly no end. Those are always the best kind. Like, which is better, hamsters or guinea pigs? You know... the hard questions.

Feel free to weigh in on the guinea pig thing too.

Parting holiday thought: What's up with the garbanzo beans?

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

G. B. Stoves

OK. At the risk of this becoming some beatnick artsy flowery blog, we have another poetic offering. This one is brought to us by Chad S. Brice's rival in all things iambic, G. B. Stoves. He has really captured some thing with this one. What, I don't know. I guess his love of juice. This makes the overall score in our poet laureate battle of the brains Chad: 3; Stoves: 1. Chad still with the commanding lead. Also, we have it on good authority that the phrase "Everything Sabonis" is not original wording. Plagiarism bodes poorly for Stovest. Obviously we are not judging on quality...

Everthing Sabonis
by: G. B. Stoves

why dont you just sell your soul
drink some dole

kids in trees
harvest juice please

apple my pine
this can is mine

juice all thick
give me my sugar kick

third world farm
can do no harm

love that orange
all fuck nothing ryhmes with orange, just give me my fucking cut up fruits in a can or i will fly down to your broken tropical hell and squeeze the thick juices from your neck, then add sugar.

Chad S. Brice

After long deliberation we have decided to name Chad S. Brice the Bottles and Cans’ poet laureate. His vast body of work captures the spirit and the heart of B&C. He is a treasure to us all. Here is his latest offering.

by Chad Brice

There it sits
that pile of shit
I see it not

I walk the dog
to drop a log
he hunts a spot

Through the grass
to relieve his ass
I've been had

A lump of poo
Under my shoe
in every slot

I wipe through lawn
but it's not gone
I'm feeling mad

I drag on bricks
and scrape with sticks
but still it's bad

now the shoe's outside my door
I cannot wear it any more
Stupid pile of shit

Damn these modern lawns

It’s time to get this blog back on focus. We’ve really let our original theme slide over the past couple weeks. In fact, what was our theme? Oh yeah, there it is at the top of the page. “A tribute to inanimate objects.” What were we thinking? That idea has the sustainability of a Democratic run for the presidency. (We know, we still hurt a little, too) It’s time to fire the intern that thought up this one. I mean, what have inanimate objects done for us lately? If it weren’t for us they would be nothing. Nothiiinnng! But, if that’s what the blog says, that’s what the blog does. Let’s see… Inanimate… Hmm, let’s try a little something that we here in the B&C creative department call free association. Psychologists use this too, but they use it for evil. So, inanimate: Old dogs, shag carpeting, vacuum cleaners, lawnmowers, yards… Yeah YARDS! I’m mad at my yard. I mean, we’re mad at our yard. This could work.

We thought it was over. We thought we had vanquished the foe for yet another year. But, now the rebellion continues, defying all logic: The rebellion that is: the evil beauty that is: the bane of our existence that is: The Lawn. This year was a good one for The Lawn, as it single grassedly defeated its archenemy: The Ralph. The Ralph is the name of the now deceased lawnmower. As the dog days of summer wound to an end The Yard, in a last surge of full-on chlorophyll will, shot up to new heights, heights that murdered the old and exhausted The Ralph. In his last choking strokes The Ralph could be heard to mutter, "The Grass, you have outwitted me. We will meet again on the fields of Hell!" He either said that, or, "I told you I needed oil, you dummy."

Never-the-less, the lawn could not win so easily. This aggression, as well as the grass that had brung it, could not stand, man. So, in a move that drained the shallow pool that is The Rodchester (aka The Checking Account) a new mower was purchased. This new mower, with an entire 1/2 horsepower of increased power de la horse and 2 full inches of expanded blade diameter, was christened The Jorge. The Jorge won the early battles over The Grass. It powered through with the unstoppable fury of grass murderousness. The Jorge slew blade and weed alike, showing no mercy even for small twigs, while at the same time winning the hearts and minds of local shrubs and perennials.

Now, a month later, The Yard is making its last stand. The Yard has found The Jorge’s weak point. Persistence. With its secret weapon, Le Onion (which is French for “never dying yard crop that tastes horrible despite its inviting smell”) The Yard has proven to be an untamable beast. The cold and The Jorge have failed to stop it. Now encouraged by some late season warmth, rain, and the fertilizing power of the dung of neighborhood dogs, The Yard is making its last bid to win the battle for homeland dominance. This is The Yard's The Alamo. "Remeber The Yardimo!" (as it will come to be called) will echo through the fields of unmowed grasses for generations to come. Will The Jorge overcome and kill The Yard? Only time and the one they call The Pusher will tell. Umm, no… Yard wins. The Neighbor can come over and cut it again if it pisses him off so much. Screw that thing.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Bad news for people who like poor judgement

The post that went up late yesterday afternoon has been deleted. It was funny, but it exemplified bad judgement and as much as we like this blog we aren't willing to risk legal complications. So, now B&C has its first missing entry. How clandestine of us!

Thursday, November 18, 2004

Drinks With Strong Women

There is nothing quite like taking drinks with strong women. Especially when you're one to their nine. You tuck your manhood into your pocket, grin silently, and let them speak. Because, clearly, they are the ones in charge.

One is the leader. She drinks martinis with no vermouth and swears to add flavor. One lives in a different state from her husband. She pays the bills and rejoices in liberation. One is cool mom, who lets her husband do the rearing while she drinks late and plays cards with the boys. One talks about fashion as if it were God's Word. She drinks something pink, but stiff. One is the loudest. She exudes volume in speech, personality, and size. One is the belle. The only thing sharper than her dress is her tongue. One is the artist. She dismisses the others. One is newest. She claws for attention. One is yours. She laughs at your jokes.

Order whiskey when taking drinks with strong women.

The Politics of Deer

We would like to apologize for using the personal pronoun “I” in the last couple entries. We here at Bottles and Cans strive to adhere to certain editorial standards. The first and only of which is to refer to ourselves in the plural: “we.” You know, the royal we, the editorial…you get it. Once again, our apologies. I’ll never slip again.

Now we turn to the issue at hand… on hand? No, at hand. Yes, the issue at hand. What is up with all the deer parts strewn across the highways and byways of our great nation? We’re against it! We’ve been doing an informal study and found that high speed deer/vehicular meetings are up, to an alarming degree. 12 points in fact. (To determine “points” divide the number of roadside deer streaks by the number of pick-up trucks with “Flush the Johns” stickers, and multiple that quotient by pi, or your age. They both work.) Anyway, this vehicular deerslaughter has to stop. Who ever said this was cool, and why is it catching on? We feel that this practice should no longer be considered a right of passage. Vote.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004


guy with a lot of money

Check out my man Rammellzee. I saw him first in Stranger than Paradise (1984) as the character "guy with a lot of money." Apparently he's come up from old old school rap and he's still doing his thing today. If you find any of his music, you let me know. Heard.

I did this at work today

......,||| ..................................
........\ \..................................
.........| |................................
......../ .._---..________ ....
(.8(1)......(....o). _____(||...
..........| |...............................
........../ /................................

It's Homer Simpson you idiots. Look at it sideways. OHHHHH, now you see it. I mean, DAMN, why don't YOU try to do something this complex before you start criticizing my work. Notice... four fingers. That's attention to detail.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Sorry.. this blog is really starting to suck

Chad's Lady plus one
Originally uploaded by reefflop.
* Editor's note, for those of you who know Chad Brice, we at B&C would like to apologize for the following mental images. For those who don't, here's a picture of his lady. What's in the oven.. Preggers or keggers? We'll let you decide.

Cold, Wet, Obnoxious Girlfriend
by Chad Brice

She's fresh out the shower
I don't work for hours
Cold, wet, obnoxious girlfriend

Abhorrently bubbly
Meets grumpy and snuggly
Cold, wet, obnoxious girlfriend

She pounces, attacks me
I struggle, she smacks me
Cold, wet, obnoxious girlfriend

I'm awkwardly pinned
Her expression a grin
Cold, wet, obnoxious girlfriend

Across me she drapes
A used towel her cape
Cold, wet, obnoxious girlfriend

Wet hair on my chest
While I'm trying to rest
Cold, wet, obnoxious girlfriend

My rising frustration
Increased her elation
Cold, wet, obnoxious girlfriend

I leave in a rush
To catch the next bus
Cold, wet, obnoxious girlfriend

Damn early stirring
My vision still blurring
Cold, wet, obnoxious girlfriend

In my office asleep
My job, could not keep
Cold, wet, obnoxious girl

Friday, November 12, 2004

Just Good reporting

Just Good reporting
Maybe he still has a chance. I mean if people are like peanuts and corn, he might come out just fine. (click to view larger)

Funny things we know you'll like

All your base are belong to us

Suggestion card odyssey

Stong Bad Emails

Good way to waste time

Doctor Dog

Today we here at Bottles & Cans are going to do something unprecedented. We’re going to break away from our strictly held theme of paying tribute to inanimate objects. On the prompting of Mr. Chopsmackenzy we will focus on something that is indeed animate… cancer sniffing dogs.

chopsmackenzy said...
So supposedly dogs can smell cancer these days. So I say why don't we skip the whole stem cell thing and invest in dogs. Our entire medical profession will fall squarely on the shoulders of dogs. I for one can think of no foreseeable problems that could be brought on by this what so ever. So move over 'babies-that-never-were-juice' and hello cancer smelling dogs. As you are a dog expert I am interested in any thoughts you can bring to light. Thank you for such a forum.
Medical watchdog,

Thank you, Chops. Thanks for raising such a salient point. Dr. dogs. The way we see it, why relegate the scope of modern medical experimentation to either stem cells OR dogs. Let’s move toward a union of the two, stem cells AND dogs. Synergy is what the modern world is all about. Cell phones that are cameras, peanut butter and jelly in the same jar, President that are dictators, one Dakota.. it’s just logical.

So, of course, there are two distinct courses of recourse. Either, we use advances in stem cells to make doctors with the olfactory ability of dogs or we create dogs that have the capabilities of doctors. We favor the latter, it promises to be cheaper and more obedient (dogs can be taught not to go on the carpet). Plus there’s just something about dogs with stethoscopes that kids and ladies find adorable. Shedding could be an issue, but this is easily solved by creating Mexican hairless dog M.D.s. So, there you go, the cure to cancer. The future of medicine looks bright and hopefully flee dipped.

Thursday, November 11, 2004

White Board. Pure as the driven snow…

An ode to le board du blanc.

You’re a vast and endless blankness.
A white wilderness to explore.
There are no boundaries to your size.
You are 3 by 4.

You bare words, pictures, games,
From pens in my embrace.
You offer a world possibility.
The dream of dry erase.

No dust, no chalk, not black or green.
Best board I've ever found.
You’ve got all the competition licked.
Fingernails on you make no sound.

I cover you with symbols and punctuation,
All manner of letter, dot, and dash.
You are stately and noble,
Bought with office petty cash.

Never leave me ol’ true white board.
Don’t betray my abiding trust.
If office supplies, I could love,
You would have my lust.

But I can’t love an office supply, that’s unnatural. Says so in the Bible.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Don't run with scissors...

Dance with them, spin with them, caress them, cherish them. The days of running with scissors are behind us. As it turns out scissors don’t even like to run. They’re not very athletic at all. I know, I know. If they’d just jog their fat ass around the block a couple times they’d get a lot more tail. But that’s not the scissors’ way.

These days scissors play hard to get, they need to be wined and dined. Let your scissors know that you recognize them for what they do, and who they are. Now go. Go to your scissors, and remember my advice.

Mind yourself, dont get cut. That shit's sharp.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

The re-re-birth of cool

This will be my blog page. At this moment it is a formless void. I have no plans for it, no theme, no hopes and no ambitions. This is the stem cell of blog sites. I am hoping for inspired and pure hilarium, but I'll take what I can get. Any suggestions? I probably won't honor them but I will read them... and laugh.
Until we meet again,

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