April E. Brucker's Blog, page 31

Some Good, Some Bad

This past week has been up and down as far as everything is concerned. In some ways, I feel like my career is in free fall. The week began with me losing a theatre gig because I asked to be paid a certain amount. I wasn't being greedy. I am doing almost an hour. I have friends who would charge a few grand for that and they haven't been on television and don't have the writing credits I have. I am hardly being greedy. They get their asking price, and don't have to argue. On the other hand, I have to beg people. So after finding out the producer was being paid a decent amount and the sound man was making more than anyone, the producer told me he would "pass on this one." He didn't even try to meet me half way.

Me at the start of last week, poised like a star. 

After that, I was passed over for another gig. Yeah, as in not chosen. Don't have the look. I never really book print stuff anyway. On top of that, I met with a VO Agent. He said I needed tweaking, etc and my voice was better for cartoons. I am up and down about the whole VO thing. Some actors are into it, and some only do it as one of the many things they do. And then to get a demo is such a pain in the ass. Most people producing demos have no business doing it. I hear I would be good in that market, but then again, is it a rainbow I want to chase?

 On top of that, there was an issue with my device so I couldn't cover the World Cup like I wanted to. Basically, last week sucked careerwise.

Me at the end of last week. Oh how things change in the life of an egomaniac


So it makes the fact my refrigerator is broken and there is a small pond under my sink because my sink is leaking all the worse. However, the good news is I am a ventriloquist of note. I was featured in a positive light. They have said some God awful things about me on Vent sites in the past. It is usually Christian Ventriloquists. As if a skill from a horror movie couldn't get any scarier it just did kids. But they said kind things about me. It was a surprise to find I am not a pariah in my own community as some have claimed.
http://www.ventriloquist.org/wp/

When we aren't making diva demands according to some we are quite cute. Additionally, we made several cabaret websites that are hard to get onto. People are also telling me how proud they are of my event at Don't Tell Mama. I really did look good that night. I am also amazed that everything turned out so well. However that is when the fatal stomach crap started. No wonder I look so damn skinny in this pic. 
Oh yeahski!!!!


I was sick all weekend, and I couldn't leave the damn toilet. However, I watched every Karate Kid movie there was. I think we should make bracelets that say, What Would Mr. Miyagi Do? (WWMMD?) The man is awesome, especially in the first one when you think he is some humble super. However, he knows karate. And when Daniel-son aka Moron From Jersey gets himself into trouble, it's Miyagi that is like Spider Man and beats the ass of the Cobra-Kai. Mr. Miyagi foreves.
Forever my sensei
Additionally, I watched the World Cup and Germany won!!!! This made me so happy because I thought the Argentinian Team were a bunch of idiots. Oh and the players that I loved looked great. Thomas Muller winked at the camera during the national anthem. And then managed to get more grass stains on his shirt than anyone. Schweinsteiger shined and then got a bloody eye from a dirty Argentinian player. His singing during the national anthem was committed, but however, was off key. Ozil was silent during the anthem, staring off into space with those Lil Bug Eyes of his. On the field he was as strong as ever. Mario Gotze scored the goal. They operated as a unit and additionally are dead sexy. 
FTW-For the win Don't Mess With Bug Eyes Basti is gettin nasti.  You have scored for Germany and scored with me, Hot Stuff

And of course being a woman, these men are the sexifacation of my lonely, overworked, career woman dreams. I don't get out much, and I need things to look forward to. So I am tossing each of these men a teddy bear.
Tossing two at once to see who catches them Who will catch this and make a lonely woman happy? And a bear who looks like he can take care of himself.  And because I watched Karate Kid, I remembered no bear comforts me like Teddy Ruxpin. 
So now I am back to the grind. Maybe this week will be better with the career. I have no other life. In other news, the stomach crap has started and I have been away from the toilet for several hours. The final for my writing class is shaping up. The telegrams have me running around like gang busters which means rent is paying itself. And I will be back on Ranter at the end of this week when my phone is updated.

Also, today is my Grandmother's birthday. She would have been 90. It is also the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille. I miss my Nunni. Somewhere she is making a new friend. They just sold my grandparents house too. Oh well, her spirit is with me. And I know she would love the fact I am about to go to a TV show audition. 
My grandma colorful as ever in the hat
xoxox
Aprilwww.aprilbrucker.com

Moving Stone

I have always been a hard worker. Ever since I was a kid, it was the only script I had in my head. You work hard, you live well, you go to sleep. A lot of German American families are like this apparently. Irish Americans as well. You see, in America, there is this thing called the Protestant Work Ethic. However, there is also The Catholic Will To Succeed. I was raised a Catholic. I am shame and goal oriented to a fault.Kicking the Catholic shame and goal orientation is like kicking a heroin habit. You make plans to stop but you just can’t. Even if you get out, the scars from the track marks you once had stay on your arms. Some consider it a brutal lot. Others claim it makes them who they are. I, however, feel a mixture of feelings from both camps. People say recovering drug addict and recovering Catholic, like you never quite escape. No, you don’t escape.
Growing up, to be called lazy in my home was a worse insult than stupid. Stupid people could not help themselves, but could serve as delightful cautionary tales. Yes, just like my cousin who had been struck by lightning three times and survived. He reminded us that once we heard thunder, it was time to go inside. No, we could not all be Benjamin Franklin. Ben Franklin was also bright and discovered electricity and was done running in the rain. My idiot cousin, he had to do it two more times. He even has fern marks on his arms. You should see it. No, this is not a bit I am trying out on my internet audience.
Lazy people on the other hand were the lowest of the low, worse than the Untouchables in the Indian caste system. Lazy people swam in shit, created messes, and expected other people to clean it up. They expected others to do the work for them. I remember once we met the significant other of a female relative of mine. Allergic to work, this man wore alligator skin shoes and expected women to bank roll him. Ne’er-do-well would have been a compliment to describe this leach who somehow obtained the ability to walk upright and speak. I still remember afterwards my disgusted mother said to my sister Skipper and I, “Never marry a man like that girls. See how tired she is.”
To which my dad piped in, “Never be like that either.”
Growing up in the ivy covered house on Foxtail Lane, you studied. That way, you could get into a an Ivy League, or a college with ivy on the front which meant it had roots that went way back. To us, hard work was everything. My parents were in the older half of a litter of a bunch of kids. To them, college was not an assumed right. Rather, it was something one had to earn with blood, sweat, and tears. There were no college funds for them.
My dad especially. You see, my grandfather, who I never met because he died before I was born, worked as a master machinist in the mills of Pittsburgh. While a skilled tradesman who was especially good with detail, he worked in an environment where many like him got cancer or other health issues of some sort. A Depression kid, he dropped out of high school so he could work to support his family. It’s just the way it was. When my dad was a kid, he worked night turn, sleeping during the day. Because he was a naturally brilliant tradesman, he was up for promotion at the mill. By this time he worked day turn, which was a coveted prize. At night he went to school, working to earn his diploma. He and my dad graduated from high school.
Jeff Foxworthy tells a joke, “You know you’re a redneck when you and your dad walk to school together because you are in the same grade.” For the record, it’s just a joke and my dad laughed when it heard it. Still, there is probably also a little bit of sting in those words for some blue collar families. Nonetheless, my dad went to college and worked his way through with little or no familial support. His old man died his sophomore year, and as an added bonus he became a father figure to his younger siblings. However, he earned his MBA and later went to law school. My father was the first in his family to go to college let alone obtain an advanced degree. His siblings would later follow suite.
So in my house you worked. You didn’t complain about it. You just did it. My brother Wendell labored at football practice. Caked and covered in mud, he would shove some high protein meal in his mouth and get cracking on the Honors/AP course load he took. Often, like one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, he worked into the night. Skipper excelled in soccer and track, but then had a gifted project she had to do. My father was usually never home, because he was working seven days a week himself. And then my mom was helping and assisting as a chauffeur to activities, and as a proofreader/study buddy.
I was no exception. During the week, I was an honors/AP student at my high school. Additionally, I filmed a TV show at the local access station once a month. When I wasn’t doing that, I was penning my monthly column for the local paper. And when that wasn’t happening, I was performing ventriloquism for small children and old people, or rehearsing for a local play. Hours not spent in action were spent in training, community classes in acting and dance at Point Park College on Saturdays and then voice with Jean Beiswenger. My schedule wasn’t free and clear just yet. Aside from having a lead in our spring musical at my school, I also was editor of the literary magazine. Oh, and I was active in National Honor Society. And then when I had free time I worked as a babysitter, bagger at the supermarket, and lifeguard. Rest was for the weary. Did I get tired studying late into the night? You bet. We all did. But we kept going. There was no other choice.
However, both my brother and sister ended up attending Brown, and I ended up at NYU. My book is currently in both of their collections.
I remember arriving in New York, and getting the guts to perform in the comedy clubs. It was scary, but I killed during the first set I ever did and was hooked. I was twenty years old and knew no one. There were nights that were so terrible because I bombed worse than any daily action in Baghdad. And then there were people who spoke down to me because they could. Add in the male headliners and bookers who would try to get me to perform sexual favors for stage time. I never did, but it made me ill that they were coercing me. Everything seemed like a dark maze. I didn’t look like a Playboy model. I wasn’t a man in a profession dominated by them. I wasn’t a whiny woman who constantly spoke about her period. And my family wasn’t in the industry. However, I was going to do what I had always done, and that was to do what was necessary.
I wrote jokes, and had notebooks full. During the day I went to school, and at night I performed. I didn’t complain even though sometimes I felt I was never going to get where I wanted to go. There were those who were kind to me and noticed how hard I was working. Some gave me cab money, and put me in a taxi so I could safely get home. Others bought me food. Then there were those who served as surrogate aunt and uncle figures, giving me moral support when I wanted to throw in the towel and quit. 
I never gave much thought to this until I went on a site where they were saying terrible things about me. I still remember the sting, because I had viewed many of these dissenters as friends once upon a time. Then someone on the thread remarked that they had followed me, and they said they had never seen someone who worked harder. It was a surprise to me. Up to that point, I had given no thought to my work ethic whatsoever. It was amazing how no one on the page dissented that observation of me, and it almost shut them up.
It was also a lesson in why so many don’t get ahead in this world. It is a thing called entitlement. These people thought they were owed the things I was getting although they were doing nothing to get them. It was much easier for them to sit on their asses and call me names rather than focus on their own goals. It was much easier to accuse me of being “succeed at all costs” and being stealthy rather than chase their own dreams. It was a sad and jarring lesson about how entitlement warps people. And then they whine about how they don’t get what they want and it’s everyone else’s fault. And it was a relief to lose them as friends, entitled people are annoying.
I wanted to write a book, I got off my ass and I did it. I wanted to have a career as a ventriloquist, I got off my ass and I did it. I support myself in entertainment, I continue to get off my ass and make that happen. Someone recently told me my work ethic was “legendary.” While I appreciated the compliment, again, I never gave it much thought. If that was the case, both my great-grandfather and my grandfather who slaved in the mills of Pittsburgh had a legendary work ethic as well. As did my Pop Pop, who ran a life insurance business and coached each of his children in swimming. And let’s rank my father who still works seven days a week there too.
No, I just do what I have to do and don’t whine about it.
Last week, I made a highly trafficked ventriloquist site. Apparently I am a “Ventriloquist of Note.” I was featured next to a beauty queen and a young man lighting up Britain’s Got Talent. It was a pleasant surprise. And then my show got featured on a cabaret directory that is hard to get on to. Oh, then there are the folks who never gave me much thought before and now are knocking on my door. I told my mom this, because it was a surprise I considered lucky. To which my mom said, “Yes Sweetie, but you also worked very hard and earned these things.”
As I forge new frontier in my career, there are things I have to do. The tasks seem never ending, and the mountains seem like insurmountable foes. Additionally, the competition is intense in a way it never was before, and lots of people want to see me fail. I will do what I have always done. I will shut the fuck up and do the work. It’s the only answer I know, and it’s the only thing that is constant. No one, dissenter or decision maker, can deny that.

In the words of Winston Churchill, “It is no use to say we are doing our best. We must do what is necessary.”

7 Minutes in Heaven

When I was in junior high, we played a game called seven minutes in heaven. Well I didn't but everyone else did. Basically, it was pretty straight forward. There were seven minutes, and it was usually in a closet or somewhere dark so it wouldn't be awkward. And then you would make out for seven minutes. I remember in sixth grade, a girlfriend of mine played with this eighth grade hottie.

 Of course, we were on our historic cemetery unit. Yes, walking through the Whiskey Rebellion Cemetery. Located at the back of Bethel Presbyterian Church, it has all the old graves in the area. The Whiskey Rebellion was a minor skirmish that occurred in my backyard literally. Basically, the Pennsylvania Farmers refused to pay whiskey tax, and the federal troops were sent in. The year was 1791 or something so America wasn't very old. To make a long story short, the uprising was squashed quickly. We had one fatality. He wasn't shot. Oh no. He was an old man he heard a gun shot, had a heart attack, and died on the spot. Anyway, I remember our teacher giving us this info, and my friend giving me details of the makeout session. While history has always intrigued me, and I was one of the best history students in my class, I found this much more interesting.

Anyway, my friend was telling me this, and my attention was quite divided. Finally, our teacher said, "SHHHHH!!!!!" And made us stands on different sides of the group. Hey, the people in the graveyard were dead. When they were alive they probably did nasty shit in the back of the barn because that is what they had then. And then I realized the church was old, very old. Did anyone ever make out in the choir loft? Or maybe they did more......HMMMMM.....


Fast forward several years later. Here I am now, the career is finally starting to do things. These days I am starting to get followers and fans. Sometimes I brag about them more than I should. Sometimes it still feels strange. I think I brag and it feels strange because I still see myself as a little fattie pre-teen unworthy of any male attention. Yet here I am, with a growing fan base of mostly men. To me what's most ironic is how they write to me and comment on my pics. In real time, if I went on a dream date with any of them, I wouldn't know what to do or say. Actually, I would look like a complete goofus.

Anyway, most of the time, I don't view myself with anyone who has any needs whatsoever. Instead, I just keep working. Even when work sucks, which it can, I just keep going. Yeah, my critics talk about the terrible decisions I have made in my past and crucify me for my lust for the spotlight because they are entitled. However, they always have to credit me for my tremendous work ethic. So last week, as my workload was crushing me, I spent my days screaming at my assistant. Anyway, as things started to wind down, someone walked me home.

This someone is a combination fan boy and friend. Without divulging too much about him, he got me to update my website and this is how my fans know what is going on with me. When shit gets busy I forget sometimes. So anyway, this fan boy/friend gave me a little bit of a back rub which felt good. It made me feel much less tense and homicidal. And then the fan boy/friend offered to walk me home.

So when we got to my door he kissed me on the head. We hugged for a second, the physical chemistry out of this world. And then he kissed me on the lips. I kissed him back. We stood there looking at each other like, "AHHHHH!!!"

I informed him that he kissed me first, and then he said I retaliated by kissing him back. And so then we kissed again. Next thing I know, I am in the door way of my lobby making out with this dude. I never make out in my lobby. We were up against the wall, hiding. It was kind of crazy, strange, and fun at the same time. There were periods during our makeout session where I would just plain start blushing and apologize for being my dorky self. And then he would kiss me again. That is when it hit me that shit, I have groupies. I am a big old dork with groupies. Someone called me a quirky sex symbol. Yeah, she means big dork with groupies. That would be about right.

Finally, he admitted he had to leave. Work. Yes, work. That thing that pays the rent, shortens our life span, and the thing we are damned to do until the day we die. Work, the cock block joy kill of my evening. Fucking work. He kissed me one more time before he left. I checked my watch.

Seven minutes exactly.

I had my seven minutes in heaven.

Haven't heard from my momentary Romeo but that doesn't matter. The educated feminist is off for the summer, and she will bring her rusty vagina with her when the cold comes. For now it is summer and I am having fun.

Somewhere, my sixth grade self is also giving me a high five.

www.aprilbrucker.com

Pele's Nightmare: A Recap

Yes, yesterday Brazil was defeated by the German soccer team. Actually, Brazil was not defeated. No Sir, no M'am. They were flattened. If I didn't know better I would have thought Germany was playing Poland. Yes, it was that bad. I kid you not. I was there.

Historically Poland is Germany's side piece. They never commit, fuck her over, and never return her phone calls. 
But anyway, enough about that and enough World War 2 humor. I couldn't help myself. It was so bad never have I seen the Brazilian people so mightily disrespected since the days of the conquistadors. Yeah, as in the natives are completely wiped out and the people cannot recover from their crushing defeat.

Yes it was that bad.....just like it was centuries ago. 
Brazil is a soccer powerhouse, and I thought they were going to give Germany a fight. Yeah, but they didn't. Germany scored 5 times in 11 minutes. Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? I didn't know whether to laugh or cry watching this display. The German's were beating them like an abused red headed step child. While I was rooting for Germany because they play smart soccer, I felt bad for Brazil. It was like they had either given up on life or sent their pee wee squad. Their soccer team was just like their economy, third world and sucktacular.

Start asking God for help cause you don't got a prayer in hell, Mister.

The Brazilian fans were beside themselves. As a matter of fact, within twenty minutes of the game they were crying pitifully and melting down just like their team was. National Pride. Fuck that shit. Try national shame. Yes, I would be ashamed of these morons too. Where was the fight? Where was the effort? Did they party too hard at Carnival?

These men played so badly they made women and children cry. Shame, shame, shame.

The German's played well, but then again this game was easier than the girl who bangs the entire football team in high school.

My spirit animal Thomas Muller was the stand out of the game as usual. This man gets his head busted open, gets black eyes, and for the most part can't walk. Yet he is scoring most of the goals. Yeah, Brazil's lead scorer was out with injury. But injury doesn't stop Muller. Yes, he is a left over from an old experiment and has been genetically engineered. This is why he is so super human.
He only has one expression with his Wolverine DNA

As for Schweinsteiger, he was amazing as usual. Not to mention a total hottie. His job was easier than ever, and he was probably glad he could go home afterwards too. I never get tired of watching this hot dog weiner worst. He can jump in my bun anytime.

He can hit me with his Schweinsteiger any day. Muh muh muh

Of course my favorite is Ozil. I always love how he runs up and down the field, and his bug eyes just light up. I mean, they get real big. They literally do pop out of his head. Ozil is hysterical to watch. You know he was probably bully meat back in school. Still, Lil Bug Eyes is doing quite well for himself now. The love child of Peter Lorre and a half blood princess is supposedly dating a pop singer.

Father and son......But for serious, Brazil really sucked yesterday. It was so bad Germany let them score a pity goal at the end. Did you see that? And they also didn't gloat, because how could you? It was like running a race against someone on crutches. That's not even the worst part. The Brazilian fans, so beside themselves, started cheering for Germany. It's like Rocky IV when the Russians started cheering for Rocky when Ivan Drago sucked. To the credit of Germany, they were kindly victors. They comforted the team after they were crushed so terribly.

Either way, this was just terrible. I am selling the story as a screenplay to Hollywood. It will be entitled Pele's nightmare. While I have not yet cast the project, the sound track will be the crying of Brazilian fans as their team tanks it on the field.
Sigh Mc Sigh Sigh. Today I will be covering the Argentina v. Netherlands game on Ranter. Follow my completely biased commentary by downloading it on iphone and Android. Toodles.
A silly image after such carnage and tragedy. 

Open Letter To Susan Patton aka Princeton Mom

Dear Ms. Patton,

I have read about you and have followed your commentary. Before you start baking me a pie and telling me how wonderful your entitled offspring are, I am not a fan. Actually, I am just the opposite. My belief is that you are a frightening anti-example to women. Yes, I said it. Anti-example. I know it's a made up word, but you go on national television with made up facts. Let's give me a little leeway, shall we?

First thing is first, you tell women college is the time to find a husband. In college, young people are anywhere from 18-22. What someone wants at 18 versus what they are going to want at 30 are two different things. Advice like yours not only encourages young people to make mistakes, but is the reason the divorce rate in this country is so high. Many college sweethearts say, "We were too young."

Second, you encourage women to get plastic surgery if it means finding the perfect mate. If a man doesn't like a woman based on the way she looks, maybe he is not the one for her. Have you ever thought of that? I mean, then again you look like a cross breed of Shreck and a troll who fornicated under a bridge one drunken night. So perhaps you should take your own advice. Additionally, looks fade. Dumb does not. In your case you had neither looks nor intelligence. How did you get into Princeton? Did your mother give a sexual favor to someone on admissions? Did your father buy a building? Because so far you make no sense, m'am.

You talk about how women who are non-Ivy grads are not at the intellectual level of your sons. Your offspring having your genes were fucked before they were stains on the mattress. Translated, they have your brains and personality. They have no chance in hell of getting any decent looking looking women with her shit together to even look their way let alone jump into bed with them. That is, unless she is a Russian hooker who demands thousands a night for her pain and suffering.

Okay, I get what you are saying. Women respect your husbands. Yeah, women should respect their husbands and men should respect their wives. Congratulations. You say that if someone is in their mid-thirties they missed their chance to find a husband. People in their mid-thirties get married all the time, and people have children, healthy children, into their forties. What cave do you sleep in? Nevermind, your time machine has not left 1950. Also, before you degrade the maiden aunt, perhaps she didn't want to get married or to have children. Perhaps she wanted to live a life alone with her cats instead of consorting with bloody pieces of used tampons like yourself. Perhaps you were such a misrepresentation of what a married woman should be that she said, "Fuck this, I am spending forever alone."

Additionally, marriage is work. I get that. However, people don't get divorced because they want to. They get divorced because they can't make it work. Divorce is costly and expensive. Not to mention emotionally draining as well as financially crippling. Then again, you should know. You couldn't even make your own marriage work you stupid, worthless, piece of shit. As a matter of fact, your husband probably realized he had somehow degraded himself to marry you and have two children. One day, he could no longer live and drove his car into the river. You just told everyone he left.

As an antagonistic feminist, people like myself have fought for you to attend an Ivy League University, because at one time women were to be seen and not heard. As an antagonistic feminist, I fight to protect women against abusive partners, the ones you encourage them to work it out with because they will not do any better. As an antagonistic feminist, I will continue to fight gender traitors like yourself and win with facts and intellect, rather than making things up on the spot.Then again, I seek to build women up and not to tear them down.

I could call you a thousand names, and you would deserve each one of them. However, you are a sad, fat bake off winner wannabe who did nothing with her Ivy League Degree. Instead, you became a baby maker who's husband too left in the end. Like all people with terrible self-worth, you live in the past. I am sorry you have so much gender conflict and self-hate. Thank you for setting us all back.

Love
April

PS. I hope you crash your car somewhere while drunk in someone's rose bushes. Your terrible mug shot would really make my night

The dog killed itself shortly after this photo was taken. It realized it couldn't go on in it's present circumstances. 

Superstar (The Carpenters)

The other night at my show we were talking about some of the telegrammers past and present. Some were women who were shining stars while they were under my boss’s esteemed tutelage, and then decided for whatever reason to make the great exit. Yes, they decided to kill their dreams.
One was an assistant of my boss Bruce who was leaving as I was starting the job. Colette was a gorgeous triple threat and former pageant queen. Aspiring to Broadway, she worked for Bruce and was his resident Marilyn Monroe, naughty nurse, and sexy character gal. Basically me before there was a me at my job. However, she was good on the phones aka selling the product and I sucked during my short stint. Anyway, she was leaving the job because she was having a baby.
Now instead of being a triple threat in musical theatre, she is a triple threat in Westchester. She is a wife, mother, and has a job in real estate. Is she happy? I can’t answer that question because I have only spoken to her a total of three times in my life. But one thing is for sure, if she ever goes for a job interview they won’t ask her, “Headshot, resume, and best 16 bars.”
Another was Shoshanna, a nice Jewish girl from Long Island. A semi-successful Streisand impersonator, she had some high profile gigs in addition to assisting Bruce. Shoshanna was always searching for that nice Jewish husband. I remember her dating several men that I met, all whom I felt were beneath her that could only squawk about themselves and their small time show biz careers. However, she met one that wasn’t in show business. He was a civil servant of some sort. Basically Prince Semi-Charming told Shoshanna that she wasn’t making enough money as an actress, and had to get a more stable career. Not that he was rolling in bank. Shoshanna tried to go to school for Physical Therapy. That didn’t work. She talked about breaking up with him.
I remember telling Shoshanna that a man who wanted her to give up her career wasn’t worth it. Nonetheless she did, and married him. I think she wanted to be married and have a house more than she wanted to be the next Barbra Streisand. Some people are like that. Not everyone is a workaholic like me I suppose. Either way, she is married, has a house, and does some office thing. It’s all business without the show.
I have met a lot of brilliant and talented people who left show business for various reasons. Hell, a lot of the people I went to Tisch with are no longer doing theatre or in show business in any capacity. One girl I went to college with, who has a body I would die for, decided to change course and become a doctor. After spending the better part of a decade as an actress in LA, she’s doing a post bacc program and getting ready for medical school. Others have decided to become school teachers. That way they can use their creativity, change the world, and not worry about living in poverty. Some got an MBA, and others used their oratory gifts in different ways by becoming lawyers. Then there were those who started families, and live the boring 9-5 office life.
I understand why people would want to leave this career. It’s a life that is 99 percent rejection. Sometimes you will lose a role because you don’t have a look, aren’t sleeping with someone, etc. Sometimes you are denied spots because of politics, race, or some shitty booker doesn’t like women. Money is never consistent. If you want a family life, well nine times out of ten you can kiss that wish goodbye. This is a career where opportunity knocks once, and that means dropping everything to run for it. Partners and children don’t always understand it. Plus it is feast or famine. The workload is ridiculous when it is feast, which means no time for a personal life. Nine times out of ten you are the asshole friend or forgetful family member when this happens. I know, I’ve been there.
This past week I found myself tired and contemplating my life. For the better part of my twenties, I treaded the poverty line and fought hard for the career I have now. I showed up for a very long time. Often it was with no result. Often I was denied for being a woman, a ventriloquist, a loud mouth, having bad makeup, you name it.
However, as of late, the showing up has been paying off. The last three months have been nonstop work that I have loved, mannah from heaven in many ways. Additionally, the people I have worked with have all been wonderful, talented, dedicated, and kind. Money has not been an issue, and the rent has paid itself. Basically, I have been getting paid to do what I love. I filmed my DVD after a hellacious winter and everything has gone uphill from there. Also, my skills from my telegrammer past have made me able to handle any audience there is. Life is good.
The only downside is I am tired. I began to feel this way shortly before my big event Thursday. The night went off swimmingly, but then I felt like scrambled eggs afterwards, and thank God for my assistant. Shortly before my event, I was on the phone with my mother. Lately, she has been telling me how proud she is of me, and all the work I have been doing. In meltdown mode, I confessed to my mother that I was tired and started crying. My body hurt, my bones hurt, everything hurt. Not to mention I wanted to vomit that is how tired I was from how hard I had been working. In my little fussy fit, I told my mother all I had ever wanted was this career and now I was too tired to enjoy it.
My mom, being awesome, mentioned her whole life she had wanted a pool. A champion breast stroker, my mom had captained her Division I college squad and coached. My father however is not a swimmer at all. After years of begging and through the pains of empty nesting, my father gave in. After having the pool built and walking through the drama that was construction, she only got to use the pool at the end of last summer. Now this year, she confessed, she spends so much time with the cleaning and up keep that there are days when she is too tired to use it.
Then it hit me. There was another less obvious reason why people, talented people, drop the ball on this career. You spent so much time lusting for the spotlight and applause. You give up everything to get it. It wears you out. Then once you book the gig, your time is spent looking for the next gig and preparing for the next gig. And you barely can be where your feet are. Much energy is expended looking and preparing for what might not happen. And when it does happen, it happens at once and you have no time for yourself or a personal life. Madonna and Prince dedication is rare. Many people want a spouse, family, and friends. The demands and sacrifice become too much and they become drained. They have nothing left to give, and therefore they stop giving.
The day before my show I met a fan of mine in the salon. A young man from Texas, my friend Wyatt called me and said this dude had seen me on TV. I went to the salon, barely able to string together a sentence because my mind was so scattered from all the sleep I wasn’t getting. The man said I was incredibly gifted. I wanted to say, “Yes, but also incredibly tired.”
The day after my show, my boss called me to do a rapping chicken. I was indignant at the request. So tired I was getting migraine headaches and vomit was coming up my throat, I asked myself why I even said yes. It must be the German in me. While I basically failed the language the lone quarter I had it in 6th grade, the genes are in my blood. Sure, I havent gone on a racist rant ever and don’t plan on it. But I am  a hard worker. Even my critics cannot detract from that no matter how many times they slander me. Germans work, and we don’t complain about it. We say yes to work.
I went and was a rapping chicken in Korea Town. Going to the gig, I felt a little better. The dude I did the gig for was a little resistant, and it took every ounce of energy to make him do what I wanted. My hat fell off, and the kindly Korean woman operating the restaurant got it for me. The people were nice enough to tip. I was praying they wouldn’t tell my boss I looked cracked out or that they hated me. But I got a nice applause afterwards. I gave it my best. I showed up despite my condition. I gave it my best. When I get tired, I like to beat myself up. I like to tell myself I am not enough and will never get where I want to go. If they tell my boss I sucked, great. I still did my best. Did I mention the German gives me my Type A personality, and at times I never feel I am enough?
Yesterday I was a complete disaster. I tried to do my Ranter job, and as my brain was shutting down I thought Brazil was playing again. Not to mention I was so sick I forgot I had a gig in Long Island because my body was cramping, vomiting, shitting and all that happy shit. They were nice enough to let me reschedule. My Ranter device was being crazy. It was God telling me to take a nap. In my dizziness I told myself perhaps it was time to throw in the towel. I had done what I needed/wanted to do in a way. Maybe it was time to move to Westchester, find a husband, and have a few babies. Sure, I have success and fans. But most of the time, I have no life.
Then I decided it was time to get some sleep.
I went to church this morning, my spiritual home. Being Catholic is like a crack habit, you never quite get rid of it. Then I remembered how miserable I was when my fiancé made me give up my puppet children, and how self destructive I was during that time. I also realized for as tired as I am, I am the happiest when I am working. Yeah, I was one tired bird in Korea Town, but when the people started laughing and clapping the tired went away. There is no better feeling than making someone laugh and smile, whether it is in a silly costume or behind a mic. In this ever maz’ed world where I feel like an awkward outsider, it’s where I feel most at home.
I also thought of my Nunni and Pop Pop. My Nunni had acted in local theatre, and was very proud of me for going to New York to chase rainbows. Pop Pop passed Thanksgiving Day, but his last big outing was my book signing in Pittsburgh. He was so proud of me for writing that book, and would brag every time I was on television. I also thought of my great-grandfather Brucker, a man I have never met. His whole life he had never been more than a roll turner in the steel mill of Pittsburgh. However, he had been a sports nut who listened to several games at once on different radios in each room of his house. He would be so stoked about my job at Ranter, just as he was proud every time he saw my dad sing a solo in his church choir.
In my mind entered Joe and Chacho, my dearly departed friends. Joe got me to write again, and convinced me I had the talent to make people laugh at a time my spirit was crushed. Chacho always wanted to be someone, and would talk about his “famous friend” whenever I was on TV.
Then I thought of my fans, and how much they mean to me. Yeah, I am only starting to get a following, but it’s pretty sweet I must admit. I also thought of the young people who write to me telling me about how they dream of being like me someday. And then my father’s words echoed through my mind, “It is your job to hoist the next generation on your shoulders and bring them to another level.”
I also thought of how, despite being tired, this was only temporary. I always felt good again when I stepped onstage and heard the laughter. Sleep and some me time could cure tired. Nothing could scratch the itch that the spotlight and applause cures. As I go to the next level, I am bringing those around me with me on my journey, whether they are coworkers, friends, or family. I love what I do, and am blessed to do it in the greatest city in the world. My journey is not only mine but their’s as well, and I have to remember that.
It’s easy to contemplate life in suburbia when I am tired with a husband who will less than sexually satisfy me. However, it is just a passing thought.

Truth: I will run towards my dreams even if my legs fall off in the process. I will run towards my dreams even if it kills me. And if the journey kills me, they will have to pry the stars out of my cold, dead fingers. 

Fourth of July, Day After...

I had my big event last night. It turned out to be a lot of fun. The week and a half leading up to it had been taxing on my psyche. My work schedule had been like gang busters, pouring down on me. I enjoy all the people I work with and all I do. However, I have been so exhausted lately because I have been going nonstop for the last three months.

On the other hand, rent is basically paid, I just have to give it to my landlord. And all the hard work has been worth it. Finally, after all this time I am getting close to where I need to be.

Last night was amazing. My coworkers are wonderfully talented, but most importantly, giving performers as well as people. They were so gracious to help me with my signing event. My boss was especially wonderful to be a part of things as well. And Don't Tell Mama, each member of the staff was GREAT. My turn out was awesome as well. At the end of the night, I only had two books left.

My coworkers lit up the show. Caroline Durham, are burlesque and cabaret vet, rocked it with her three short numbers. And an extra award for her keeping me sane. Lynn McCune was amazing as she did a routine where she started as a pink gorilla, went to a tux, and ended as Cher. Bernard Davis was a better looking blonde than I was, and gave me a stylized singing telegram. Jon Shipley was amazing as my boss giving my friend Ethan a singing telegram lesson. And of course May Wilson.....what a girl.

Before the show I was stressed and crazy, afterwards I was scrambled egg brains. Things are beginning to slow. I am already planning my next big thing. How crazy am I? I am lucky I didn't die these last few months I was so busy. But here I am, getting my ducks in line for the next thing. Here I am, jogging past Carnegie Hall because I know it will be me up there someday. Here I am telling my damn assistant to plan on coming to Australia to the Sydney Opera House with me next year.

But before that, I think I need to chill out and perhaps go to the pool. That is, if I can get my ass out of bed first. Everyone deserves a rest, including myself. That being said, I think I can catch up on homework this weekend or something. And because my dance card is less full, I now have time to dedicate to some of my studies.

Oh the life of a creative person.

Happy 4th, people. 

Why the USA Really Won

Yesterday the USA was eliminated from the World Cup Soccer. Like many Americans, I was glued to the screen. I also suddenly cared about soccer out of the blue. Yes, I will admit most of the time I don't follow it. But the World Cup made me a fan. Suddenly soccer became my crack cocaine. Part of it was I like sports anyway, and would have watched regardless. Plus it was easy, because one of my jobs is I rant about sports for the Ranter app on iphone and Android. The most fascinating part was watching how soccer was played around the world, and how each country had different strategies.

Ghana played rough, and racked up a shit ton of penalties. However, they played with heart and determination that a lot of their pretty boy Euro soccer counterparts did not. Portugal had superb ball handling skills. Amazing, and they worked as a cohesive team with their offense, but their defense was kind of strong but not really. Germany was amazing defensively. So much so that their midfield and offense lacked. However, they resembled more of an army than a soccer team, filling in the gaps, refusing to retreat, and ultimately guarding their goalie. Algeria, like Germany, had a super strong defense. They were also great athletes all around, and had a strength everyone under estimated. And of course Belgium bored me and found me wishing for a team like Ghana, a team with character. But I will say, Orighi impressed me with his speed and ball handling skills. I walked away from those games not only wanting more, but respecting the game as a whole.

Soccer isn't big in America. Yeah, every high school and college has a team. It's not nearly as  big as football though. Good soccer players get respect, but not like football, basketball, and baseball players do. And as we all saw from the World Cup these guys are not softies. Clint Dempsey basically could not walk, he had a black eye, broken nose, and was still on the field playing. Thomas Muller had a black eye, I believe a leg injury, and a cut so deep it required six stitches and was still scoring most if not all the goals for Germany. DeMarcus Beasley had a chronic hamstring injury, but wasn't letting that stop him. And then one Algerian guy had a piece of gauze on his head the size of a sand dollar, probably because he had some cranial injury and his brain may or may not have been leaking. (The British commentators said this, not me). And he was out there fighting his heart out.

Football, basketball, and baseball players don't always have those guts or determination. While football is a brutal game, it is played with pads and gear. Basketball never gets this bloody, if it did the NBA would strike. With those injuries they could never pay child support. As for baseball, please they guys are babies and in my opinion the most borderline of the pro sports.

I remember in my hometown the boy's soccer team won the state championship one year. We were proud of them, and they were a gifted squad. However, no one focused on their accomplishments. The attention went to the football team, and the lackluster season they had. Rather than focus on the silver lining, everyone focused on the darkness our sucktacular football team brought. It was as if the accomplishments of the soccer team ceased to exist. Even in school, the football team were always considered the popular guys who got all the babes.

Soccer on the other hand, well, they got no women. Instead, they lived in near obscurity. Any win they had went largely ignored. To raise money for their team, their parents worked concession at the football games. Additionally, because football raised money for the weight room, they were forced to swallow this pill with a smile. These parents had to grin and bear it, knowing that while their sons were heroes in the fall, they weren't front and center although they were as strong and tough as the young men playing under the Friday night lights. Their sons were tall and lanky or short and spindly, not Alpha Males built like blocks. But this is America. Soccer is not big. I say this not only because this is true, but also because there was clear resentment on the end of the soccer parents.

Nonetheless, the football team was giving. Their presence and winning streak not only paid for the weight room, but they let the other lesser saluted sporting teams use it. They greeted their jock cohorts like brothers and sisters, not the vicious landlords as Hollywood portrays. Still, it must have been a bitch to be a shrub in this sporting musical.

My brother Wendell, my sister Skipper, and I played soccer. Wendell played until eighth grade, when he got too big and stocky and switched to football. He translated his skills as a soccer player into football quite well. Unlike many of his teammates, he had speed and was able to take punishment as well as give it. And while practices in the heat are not easy for any big guy, Wendell got through it more gracefully than many of this teammates. Skipper played soccer until she injured her ACL. However, like many soccer players, she learned pain management and somehow ran cross country while lacking a vital ligament in her leg for years. They were able to so these things because of soccer toughness. I on the other hand just sucked and knew when to get the fuck off the field.

The USA was once the laughing stock. However, we got quite far in this cup. Americans showed respect for this often overshadowed, over looked sport. These gifted athletes shined. They had their day. And we also began to understand that there were sports outside of football, baseball, and basketball that needed our attention. Truth be told, not every young man is going to shine on the grid iron, ball court, or diamond. Some might shine on the big green. And that's okay, because we need people there too. Fun fact, all the Euro players are dating or married to models. So sometimes on the big green, you can do quite well for yourself, too

So when summer comes to an end, and fall approaches, I will see the kids heading to soccer practice.  Some will be tall and thin like reeds, tripping over their own two feet as their body waits to catch up to itself. Others will be tiny, carrying water jugs that are as big and weigh as much as they do. Their parents will strap on the shin guards, and make sure the mouth protectors are fit to size. And then when their kid takes the field, they will cheer and hope that they don't get injured.

Instead of writing them off, my heart will warm a little. They are working and fighting hard. Finally in America, we realize these young men have a place and purpose, too. Like many a pee wee football player is a potential NFLer, they are planting the same seeds in little league soccer.

Perhaps one of these young men will be our next World Cup Superstar.



Come to my book signing
Thursday July 3
7:30
Don't Tell Mama
343 W. 46 st
12 dollars gets you in, and gets you a copy of the book
If you bring your book, get in for free.

Choosing Myself

I remember when I was a kid I was watching Beverly Hills 90210. In a famous scene where I am ashamed to say I got emotionally invested, Kelly had two suitors. One was Brendan Walsh, the self-righteous good guy import from Minnesota. The other was the trust fund tormented on again/off drug addicted bad boy Dylan McKay. As they are jockeying for her, Kelly tells them, “I choose me.”
Yes. I am ashamed I know this and it is etched in my memory. I am a child of the 90s, which means I have watched all the Lifetime Moment of Truth Movies. Yes, Kellie Martin is my oppressed woman spirit animal. However, it makes sense for this next part of the blog so bear with me.
Fast forward many years later. I am crashing the Gay Pride Parade with my boss Bruce and my friend B. I am dressed in an outfit from my costume box. B is dressed like Diana Ross. And Bruce is himself. Of course we had a new adage to our group, a youngster by the name of Juicy with rainbow socks who sometimes spoke in an English accent, and sometimes a Jersey accent. Perhaps he was trying to be Madonna. Bruce was making the most of his Pride trip, and had his Grindr app out and ready to go.
When not running the singing telegram company, Bruce is a meditation expert and yogi. When I freak out over the phone Bruce is always telling me to breathe. He is telling me to come to peace with the crazy. Then again, it’s easy for Bruce. He always has some hot guy in his bed.
The morning had been a crazy one. I had gone to church, and now was getting ready for Pride. While the label of the church I attend is Christian, I consider myself more of a Believer. The reason I use that tag is because I grew up with so called Christians who were hateful people. The only way God was ever going to love you was if you were straight and white. Otherwise you were Shit Outta Luck. My belief is God didn’t make a mistake when he created anyone, and assholes come in all shapes, sizes, and orientations. Same with good people. So yeah, in the words of the Monkeys, “I’m a believer!” Okay, bad joke.
Anyway, on my way to the parade, I was walking past the community center of sorts. This weird fringe church rents it out. In NYC, space is expensive, and when you can make extra money on the space you do it. And when I say these people are bizarre, they scare the living willies out of me. But their money is green like everyone elses, right? Anyway, this unfortunate looking young woman was standing out front, scowling. Apparently, her belief system is once you turn your life and will over to whatever crazy God they worship you have to throw away your comb and say goodbye to MAC cosmetics because they are made by Satan. She had mousy brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in several weeks let alone combed, Ramona Quimby freckles, and a blue shirt with a Bible quote. Yes, we are talking a stable individual. Because all normal people just have those clothing items laying around.
I would have had no problem with God girl except for what she said when she saw me walking down the street in my costume. She said to her friend wearing a red shirt with a Bible verse, “I can’t believe my eyes. Look at that thing. You better get the children inside before it comes any closer.”
I don’t know what was worse, her fashion sense or her shitty personality. No wonder good Christian men look at porn, Jesus! Plus to even indicate I might hurt children is just terrible and asinine on so many levels. But she was bitching because she knew I was headed to the Gay Pride Parade. Why else would I be wearing a flamboyant outfit, and why else would she be seething and scowling? So basically this was a Twat for Jesus. Even in the most liberal city in America, it’s amazing how bigots still are wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing. This is why Upworthy continues to fight. Idiots unfortunately have opinions and homophobia is alive and well.
Nonetheless, I shook off the Twat for Jesus when I got to the parade. Bruce is an expert parade crasher. I did not know this until he told a white lie. We were late and were trying to catch up with our float. As we crashed, we picked up Juicy as I mentioned. Finally, we decided on the Google float because it had the best music. We danced alongside this group of strangers. Officer E, my gay puppet, nicknamed Officer Handsome and Officer Bottom by my gays on various occasions, marched/crashed with us as well. He was frisking gay boys and kissing the ladies. Skipping down the street, I high fived and hugged strangers. It was peaceful and fun. Rumor has it the cops fight over who will work the Pride Parade because there are never any fights. Seriously, they throw sparkles and make the world pretty? How could you hate the gays?
Down the street, a young woman recognized me from television. Actually, she recognized Officer E from his Travel Channel clip. I was just there. She hugged me, kissed me on the lips, and without warning shoved her tongue down my throat. She was quite beautiful so I didn’t mind. Plus in the state of New York I can have both an ex-husband and an ex-wife if I so desire. However, some warning about the tongue would have been nice.
After having a stranger’s tongue shoved down my throat, which made me feel pretty because it had been a long winter, I came across a church supporting the Parade. They held up signs that said, “God created you, knew what he was doing, and Jesus thinks you are FABULOUS!” I wish Twat for Jesus could have seen that. I wish she could have seen me being tongue kissed by a stranger and Bruce on his Grindr app getting lucky. Then her head would explode. That would truly be an act of God. Unfortunately, she was probably getting anal from some closeted kid who was too ashamed to come out because he still needs to graduate from his Christian high school. And plus he can dream she’s a dude and anal doesn’t count, right?
We ended up joining the float of the gay football team for a bit. And basically we danced for forty blocks. As the parade wound down, and Officer E got a shout out from the drag queen emcee, Bruce and I found ourselves in deep conversation.It was about love. It was about distinguishing between love and love/hate. We agreed that love/hate was always bound to end in disaster because it would turn to pure hate. Bruce explained people entered into these relationships because they always wanted to be chosen. They were desperate to be chosen, therefore putting out something that wasn’t real to the world. Bruce explained that is why you must always choose you.
He told me once I figured out who I was completely, it would be easier to choose myself. And that way I could find a relationship that was not only loving but real. It was because I would find a partner that chose himself. And because we chose ourselves we wouldn’t be desperate and wouldn’t put out something to the world that was fake. This was deep, way deep. It was also true.
It made perfect sense on a core level. When it came to love I never chose myself. My disaster of an engagement was me choosing someone else and making him my Higher Power because I believed no one would ever want me. Instead, I found myself isolated from my friends and family because I didn’t want them to know how badly I was really being treated.
Then I chose a number of people who weren’t worthy of my company, and got upset when they didn’t choose me. Most of the time I felt like my brain was being sucked out, and I was wasting my time doing stupid shit with these shitheads. Finally, I found a guy who treated me alright. Everyone around me pressured me to choose him. I did. I figured he was a lawyer and I could have a great life. But he ended up being one of the biggest liars I have ever met. This dude could lie about the weather and do it with a straight face. Why me? I didn’t deserve this. But yes I did kind of. I was being inauthentic and was desperate to be treated well after being used as a punching bag. Everyone was quick to point out he had a job and I was forced into the relationship by those around me. I chose him and I chose what I thought I was. I didn’t choose me.
During various points in my life, I found myself desperate and wanting things, only to have them repelled by the universe. Bruce explained because of my state of desperation I wasn’t giving them the option of accepting me. He explained to envision my day, and choosing what I would want to do during that day and time. Rather than having my time wasted by idiots doing stupid things, etc. Bruce explained when I did this, my world would materialize and everything would open up to possibility.
As we had this discussion, I saw all the young gay kids. These days, they are coming out as teenagers it seems. They were only starting to do that in my time. Seeing them made me realize these kids lived in a world that not only doesn’t want us to choose ourselves, but they were being told on a larger scale not to choose themselves because what they were was wrong. They had the finger pointed at them by mobs of morons like Twat for Jesus. Already, none of us ever feel good enough from time to time for any variety of reasons. But this was making it worse.
Suddenly, there was a part of me that felt super, duper important for crashing the Pride Parade with B and Bruce. I was letting these kids know it was okay to be who you were, no matter who that person was, as long as you lived and loved safely without injury to yourself or others. I was letting these kids know that they counted. Yes, they could choose themselves. That way they didn’t have to choose something else like a partner who treats them like crap or any other time wasting vice.
Or maybe we are just giving ourselves too much credit.

I also thought of Bruce, and how spiritual he is. He is loving and accepting of all beings, even his most difficult of clients. The Twat for Jesus on the other hand is judgmental, bigoted, and a hateful bully. I grew up with shitheads like her. Of course, this made me want to see Bruce fight the Twat for Jesus. He would kick her ass with his mind waves and meditation vibes.
And then I thought of it. Unfortunately, she wasn’t reading the Bible. If she did she would know Jesus was a peace lover, accepted all people, and by all standards would be a socialist today. Instead, she is embracing hate speech that probably aren’t even her own words. If she was asked to explain her beliefs, she probably couldn’t do it. The poor thing is so confused and probably doesn’t have a cohesive thought of her own. Most bigots who hide behind the shield of empty faith and misused Bible quotes don’t. She’s not choosing to have her own thoughts. She isnt choosing to ask questions. She isnt choosing her. Poor thing, no wonder she is so lost.
As I get older, I get better about accepting who I am, liking it, and going with the program. I look like a baby doll that escaped from a toy store. My hair is bright blonde. I talk like a red neck chipmunk on meth. I am exceedingly eccentric but am good under pressure. I am a puppet master, singing telegram deliverer, and verbose writer.
I am also stressed out host/producer. So come to my show/book signing at Don’t Tell Mama 343 W. 46 st.

And when all the forces of nature are pulling me and I feel stressed and like I am not enough, a desperate woman. I will look them in the eye and say, “I choose me!” 

World Cup

These people are the ones who spilled the secret....... Steve Rogers is Clint Dempsey. Read the rest of the blog and I will explain....As many of you know, I follow World Cup Soccer because of my gig with Ranter. I have been covering the US Team extensively. To me, the US Team has two stars.

One star is Clint Dempsey. So far the man has a broken nose. Additionally, he has acquired not one but two black eyes. Not to mention he can't walk, but somehow manages to jump. However, Clint Dempsey is a beast. He still somehow manages to play soccer. Clint Dempsey doesn't complain. He doesn't bellyache and pretend to be injured. It's because Clint Dempsey is in fact Captain America.

No, he is not cryogenically frozen. He is fo realz




The other is DaMarcus Beasley. He has a name that should belong to an American NFL player instead of a Euro style footballer. Nonetheless, Mr. Beasley rocks them all. . Like Clint Dempsey, he will never die. Say, didn't Captain America have a black side kick?

We are doing this. Yes we are!


Our first opponent was Ghana. I had mixed feelings about Ghana. They played a hard game, which I appreciated. We need tough opponents with real issues like how to feed their families on our sometimes over-indulged American doughboys. We need opponents who might get shot by their governments if they lose. So I could appreciate them that way. However, a lot of the tripping and spitting and other elbowing served no purpose. Some dudes were elbowing other dudes just to elbow them, and the ball was no where in site. One dud tripped another for no reason whatsoever! They broke Clint Dempsey's nose, and he might have had a tampon coming out of there but they could not defeat his spirit, and they could not defeat us because he is Captain America.

A celebration after a mob attack and elbow on the field
Our second opponent was Portugal. Overall, I didn't like the Portugese Team. I thought they were a bunch of pretty boys. Or they were over tattooed morons who believed they were playing professional basketball instead of soccer with all those moron tattoos. My least favorite was Christian "The Rapist" Ronaldo. Aside from clubbing women over the head and taking them back to his cave for a night of forced intercourse, he is just a tool with his little lightning zig zag bolts in his head. I was praying he got injured. Anyway, what I liked about the Portugese team was their ball handling skills were SUPERB! They knew how to get that ball, keep that ball, and pass it to their friends who could handle the ball in a like fashion. America could have used a little work in this regard. Their defense, while nothing to write home about, was better than ours. Michael Bradley kept losing the ball like an old woman loses her dentures, all the time. Not to mention Tim Howard was at McDonalds not keeping his eye on goal for the first and last minutes of the game. We should have won not tied. That is the only way the native peoples of Brazil would seek revenge against these bloody tyrants who made them speak their language and adopt their culture. But either way, I was not happy about that tie.
This woman may  or may not have consented. But then again, when Ronaldo's around, who needs to sweat those details?
"We will, we will rape you. Maybe not them, but I will baby. Cause I am the man no one says no to." Christian Ronaldo, direct quote and true fact





Our third opponent was Germany. I knew they were going to be tough. Germany has always been tough. They almost took over the world twice. Even in the days of the Holy Roman Empire, they did not retreat and even sent their women to fight. They scared the shit out of the Roman Legions. Anyway, back to soccer. I knew they were going to be a worthy opponent. And they were. Right away, these Rhinelanders scored a goal. Additionally, while their ball handling skills were not as good as that of the Portugese, they were excellent still. The strength Germany had was the ability to fill in those gaps, those holes. Yes I am talking defense. Additionally, they didn't just guard their goalie, they fortified the man. There was a reason America didn't score. No one would have scored. There was a wall in front of the goalie like an old time war fort, and no one was breaking through. And Germany had to be respected for toughness. Thomas Muller was their strongman, barely being able to walk and playing with six stitches. So what his brains might be leaking out of his head? There was a soccer game to be won. And they won 1-0.
They were not far away from the goal they were guarding when this photo was taken

Or maybe Steve Rogers is really Thomas Muller. I am very confused right now. Where is a sexless comic book nerd when I need one?

What will happen against Belgium? Let's just wait and see.

Want to join me and follow the cup? Download Ranter on your iphone or Android xoxoxo

And come to my special event July 3 @ 7:30 PM Don't Tell Mama 343 W. 46 st (Not soccer related, relax).