First off I should note that the last two words in this post are the same last two words in my very first post. I guess you could say that the more things change the more they stay the same. Except I hate that phrase, and it makes no sense. It's mad herbish when people say things that are contradictions because they think they sound wise or Asian, as if being wise or Asian is all that. Let me tell you, it's not. Second off, I should note that the title of this post is true. Back in August I rolled to a Dylan show in Prospect Park and he brought the fire with like nineteen t's. The entire affair was aided by the fact that I sat next to Geraldo Rivera's mustache, which was attached to Geraldo Rivera himself. Look, this is how we do. We're BadmintonStamps. Now for the rest of my life, whenever I think about Geraldo Rivera I'm going to think about that moment I had getting high with his mustache and listening to Dylan catch a groove and rock the city. Thankfully whenever I think of Dylan I won't necessarily think about Geraldo. It doesn't work both ways. But I digress. Now that SkinnySlim is dead I wonder what will I think about when I look back on my time with BadmintonStamps. I bet it'll be the memories of writing a song, asking famous people ridiculous questions, rewriting history, putting on some shows, and blowing all of our ad money on Radiohead and Jay-Z concerts and drugs and booze and Jim's cheesesteaks. And of course I'm going to think about my partner in crime, the unimpeachable Philabuster, now riding solo. I gotta say we brought the fire with like ninety nine nineteen t's. I realize some of you may still be a lil' bit slack jawed over that whole "SkinnySlim is dead" thing. It may even be appropriate to say, "SkinnySlim is dead, long live SkinnySlim", except, you know, the whole Asian/wise contradiction bullshit we previously discussed. But yes, this will be my last post for BadmintonStamps. The time has come, what with the abhorrent lack of writing over the last several months and the whole me gaining so much weight that people I meet now think the name SkinnySlim is sarcastic. Plus, in this simple paragraph I have been racist, wrong, mind blindingly funny, boughetto, cooler than you, cooler than your grandfather who is cooler than you, cooler than my grandfather who is cooler than your grandfather no doubt, long winded, self indulgent, used the "blank with blank number of t's" phrase and dropped too many commas. This basically covers everything I have ever done for BadmintonStamps. So, what else is there to say except keep it real and keep fucking. I leave you with seven songs that I love more than titties, or at least seven songs that could rival titties. Really, these are some of my favorites, and I love sharing them with all of you. I thank you guys for wasting your time reading my musings. It's meant the world to me, or at least it's meant that I could get dope seats to see Radiohead and Jay-Z. And so, this is it. No joke.

Look, They Gotta Go

I got a Scientologist's back. I don't have Scientology's back, cause that shit is crazy, but if you're some herb that's into Scientology, I'm not hating on you. What I'm saying is, lay off Tom Cruise and Beck. I always hear people going around hating on Tom Cruise and Beck because they are Scientologists. Admittedly Tom Cruise deserves some hate. But not because he's a Scientologist. Hating people for their religious beliefs is so last World War. And the last World War is, frankly, played out. We've all seen a lifetime's worth of the holocaust and "we're the most wondrous gang of ragtag yet brave young men that have ever walked the earth" soldier flicks. But even beyond the passe aspects, I'm just sick of this religious persecution, even for something as wackadoodle and arguably sinister as Scientology. People act like they're the religion it's okay to hate. Not the Jews. Who blow people up. Or the Muslims. Who blow people up, sometimes even just for drawing pictures of their God. Or the Catholics. Their religious leaders raped communities full of little boys. And they also blow people up, too, by the way. But that doesn't mean I'm going to ostracize a Catholic individual because he's Catholic. No sir, I got too much love in my heart. And that love in my heart stems from my religion, Keeping It Realogy. I think all of those Scientologist haters should take heed of the basic tenant of my heavenly religion: don't hate the player, hate the game.

Bjorn, Sven. Bjorn, and Sven
and a hot keebler elf chick
rock the whole damn spot

Earlier this month, Lil Wayne faced the hype machine and dropped the ridiculously anticipated Carter III into your local Virgin Megastore or iTunes outlet. It is a triumph, and if it isn't a masterpiece, it's pretty damn close. Coming on like a combination of Usher, Sly Stone, Prince, Jay-Z, Weird Al Yankovich, Radiohead and 50 Cent, Weezy is in full control and as focused as he will ever be. First off, you know we're in luck when Kayne drops three beats and doesn't utter a single word. Then there's the album version of #1 hit "Lollipop". I'm stunned in a Tim Russert death way at how good the album version of "Lollipop" is. I called the radio version "Pink Floyd pop music". It was hyperbole. Calling the album version Pink Floyd pop music is just unnecessary flattery of Roger Waters. There's also a Diddy imitiation. There's five legit pop hits. There's talk of Mr. Clean with hair. And Orville Redenbacher. It's a rap album, so it's not all perfect. "Tie My Hands", the Katrina song, features a strong Weezy performance but is mauled by the trite singing of Alan Thicke's son, who claims to work in the corner store and have problems, problems. Instead of making me contemplate the tragedy of the hurricane, it instead makes me contemplate physically hurting Alan Thicke's son. This track, along with the overwrought, oversung, and over pussy filled "Playing With Fire" are the only missteps. Unless you classify the 9 minute "song" where Wayne goes off spoken rambling word style on Al Sharpton as a misstep. I sure don't. But the imperfections are in part why Carter III is such a success, especially in the current stale, safe hip hop environment. Weezy goes for it so hard, in so many different directions, that there's bound to be at least one song you don't like. For me it's the Thicke song, for you it might be the "I'm fucking a female police officer" song or the "I'm a Martian" banger. But it's that ambition in sound, lyrics, and concept that make great musical art and even better rock stars. Right now, at this moment, there are very few artistic statements as strong and satisfying as The Carter III and there is no bigger rock star than Lil Wayne.

Comin' atcha first thing every Monday morning, it's The Pony Track, a super-fantastic short distance dedication to BadmintonStamps Collective founding member and internationally renown symbol for musical excellence Aaron "Pony" Child. No fancy links, no clever write-ups, 'cause these awesome songs don't need no splainin'. So c'mon, ride the pony!

You know when you say, "Hey", and people respond, "Hey is for horses"? These people are assholes. They're also factually incorrect. Hey is an interjection used to attract attention or to express surprise, appreciation, wonder, or pleasure. Hay is that crap horses eat. So hey isn't for horses, it's for exclaiming. And furthermore, hey is much more commonly used than hay. So really it makes more sense that when people say, "I'm so hungry I could eat a pile of hay" to respond, "Hey is for attracting attention or expressing surprise, appreciation, wonder, or pleasure." Although that would be a pretty dick thing to do too.

When I graduated High School, I...wait, that's right, I never graduated high school. That shit is for sellouts. As everybody from Hillary Clinton to the corner bum (soon to be one in the same) will tell you, getting an education is lame and means you are not a real American. Also, apparently, being black means you're not a real American and don't work hard. Which means that even though I never graduated high school, I still can't be a real American. Which is fine, because like High School and working hard, America is for sellouts. Now, if I had graduated High School, it would have been quite the spectacle. First of all, I would be the only person getting a diploma. Because no one can share the stage with SkinnySlim. Well, no one except Philabuster, and his parents made him sell out and get a high school diploma back when he was in high school. There would also be a bunch of prestigious special guests to honor me. I'm talking big time names, like the governor of my state. No one in history would ever have a graduation like that. Then I find out this dude from Montana was the only kid to graduate from his high school, and the governor had nothing better to do than show up and give a commencement speech? Damn, what a bunch of sellouts.

Comin' atcha first thing every Monday morning, it's The Pony Track, a super-fantastic short distance dedication to BadmintonStamps Collective founding member and internationally renown symbol for musical excellence Aaron "Pony" Child. No fancy links, no clever write-ups, 'cause these awesome songs don't need no splainin'. So c'mon, ride the pony!

Here's a quick look at the mp3s spinning on SkinnySlim's record player this month.

Breeders - Mountain Battles
Mountain Battles sounds like a bruise. It's an effect achieved by the Breeders unorthodox recording method, which consists of stealing ZZ Top's instruments, using a subterranean desert cave as a studio, and covering your speakers with Vaseline.

The Raconteurs - Consolers of the Lonely
How the fuck hell did this band get so good? Oh right, Jack White is in them. I wasn't a big fan of the first record, but oh my sweetness. It's beer and sweat juicy modern rock that may not reinvent the wheel, but it sure as hellfire puts a hot shiny new rim on that wheel. "Carolina Drama" may be White's finest moment, but you'll have to cop the record to hear that one. Instead enjoy a typical strong cut below, plus one that Tenacious D would slay nineteen dragons to have written.

Various Artists - Funky Nassau: The Compass Point Story 1980-1986
This is a superfantasticfunkalicious comp of songs recorded at Chris Blackwell's Compass Point Studio. Features such ridiculous 80s jams that even if you don't do cocaine, you'll think this shit is on point.

Lil Wayne - "Lollipop" (Remix)
Pink Floyd pop music. I've never heard the autotune used like us indeed.

Born Ruffians - Red, Yellow And Blue
This is a good new band. Thank you for being a good new band, Born Ruffians. I hope your future releases will be even better than this album, your charming and lovely debut.

I believe it was Churchill who said that when it comes to war, you gotta have good weapons, better soldiers, and the best propaganda. Either it was Churchill or I just made it up. But no matter, it's true nonetheless. There is no better example of Churchill's point than the famed Fried Egg Civil War of 1993. The fierce conflict pitted Over Easy against its ideological nemesis, Over Hard. Propaganda was in full effect. Over Easy fired the first salvo, releasing their wildly popular slogan, "Life's Hard: Take It Easy." Over Hard hit back the only way they could. Hard. They countered with the slogan, "Over Hard. These Eggs Don't Run." Not to be outdone, Over Easy shot back with, "Life's Hard: Why you want your eggs to be hard too? It's seems excessive, to be frank." Needless to say, this slogan bombed harder than the egg bombs Over Hard was pummeling the Over Easy home base with. The combination of their stunning loss in the propaganda battle and the constant barrage of hard eggs being thrown at them by other hard eggs seemed damning. But Over Easy insisted it would not be over that easy. They released one of the most stunning advertisements in wartime history. Some called it slander. Others cited the old Churchill idiom, "All is fair in love and war." The ad stated, "Over Hard...Not as hard as you think they are." While still wordy, it was the image that shook up the world. The ads showed a photograph of a limp Over Hard fried egg gorging itself on Viagra and Cialis. Hard insisted the photo was doctored. Easy claimed the only thing that was doctored was Hard's hardness. Over Medium, which had sat out the war as a consciousness objector, knew it was the only hope for bringing peace to the fried egg world. In a passionate speech before the United Egg Council, Over Medium pleaded with the two rivals to come together, lest they all be done in by the new alliance of Scrambled and Poached that was threatening the entire U.E.C. community. Thankfully both Over Easy and Over Hard listened to reason and settled their differences, although the scars of their infamous propaganda campaign will never truly heal.

It's been forty years since the social revolutions of 1968. Anniversaries and commemorations are in full effect, celebrating the free sex, free drugs, and free police beatings. One thing that wasn't free in 1968 was the protest paraphanalia. Whether it be a black wristband, a tie dyed American flag, or guns that shoot flowers, 1968 was the heyday of the protest industry. But today ain't like the good ol' days when there were riots in the streets every day. Protest is a perfect profit opportunity, but the industry went into decline in the 70s and hit a full-fledged recession ever since do-it-yourself effigies came into fashion in 1980s Iran. Mom and pop protest shops have been on death's door with no reprieve on the horizon. Enter that ingenious little manufacturing machine known as China (editor's note: badmintonstamps is banned in China). The Chinese know that when you don't have a market, you create one. So they decided they needed to drum up some protest. Now, protesting is illegal in China, so they had to drum up protest outside of the country. And what better way to create an international protest phenomenon than by killing Tibetan monks. It's a simple plan. Murder monks, let international protesters get riled up, make "free Tibet" flags in your factories, watch the money pile up. That's right, kiddos, the Chinese Government made your "Free Tibet" flag. Looks like the joke's on you, hippie. That should teach you to stop caring about dead monks, and teach all of us an important economic lesson.

Comin' atcha first thing every Monday morning, it's The Pony Track, a super-fantastic short distance dedication to BadmintonStamps Collective founding member and internationally renown symbol for musical excellence Aaron "Pony" Child. No fancy links, no clever write-ups, 'cause these awesome songs don't need no splainin'. So c'mon, ride the pony!

The Girlfriend Track is song that SkinnySlim deems sexy for a lady to feel. We're talking about songs where, if my girl said "Yo, turn this up", I would be turned on.

I never mess with another man's woman, except of course if he's a Red Sox fan. But that doesn't mean I can't fantasize. This moral law (the not messing with another man's woman) is a Sam Malone creed. Sam believes you can do whatever you want, to whomever and with whoever you want, as long as it's consensual and it's not with another man's woman. Ironically, on Cheers, Sam Malone was an ex-Red Sox, which means I would mess with his women. Plus they were stupidly hot. Oh, did I mention I'll mess with another man's woman if she's stupidly hot? But that's fair. Trust me from experience that, if you date a stupidly hot woman, you have to know that every man will try to make a move on her, even if they're related to her. This is the cross to bear when you're with a stupidly hot woman, and stupidly hot women will judge you by how cool and nonchalant you react to this onslaught of sleazy pass making. But back to the taken women. There is something so delectably nasty sexy about a woman in a committed relationship, wheeling around her baby stroller or carrying groceries home for that evening's supper, who gives me that longing, even pleading, smile as she passes by on the street. I would never, but I want to always. Big Joe Turner feels what I'm saying, and let's be honest, all those ladies with rings 'round their fingers feel what Big Joe Turner and I are bringing.

To The City!

As our regular readers know, SkinnySlim is only in it for the money. And nowadays, there's one word that's synonymous with money: prequels. "Prequels," you ask, "what are those?" Yeah, I didn't know either. Apparently a prequel is when there's a successful movie or book and then someone writes a new, lamer story about what happened before the movie or book began. "Oh, like a sequel!" Well, sort of. Except my understanding is that a sequel tells the lamer story of what happens after the movie or book ended, not what happened before it began. Thusly, the story that happens after the movie or book begins or before it ends is simply called the quel. But the beauty of prequels is that you can just take an existing success and exploit it for your own pocketbook/agenda. Some guy named George Lucas did this to those kickass Star Wars movies, and he ended up making millions even though he clearly had none of the talent of the guys who created the originals. Now the truth is, the same thing applies with a sequel. See the Beverly Hills Cop/Lethal Weapon films for evidence. But here's the rub. They already made a sequel to the most successful story of all time. It's called the New Testament. But they ain't ever made a prequel. That's where SkinnySlim comes in. That's right, I'm prequelling the Bible. What was this God character up to before the whole Earth thing? Crazy shit, that's what. Dude was on a whole different tip. Lots of dragons, lots of flying giraffes, lots of erkimats. What are erkimats? Crazy shit, that's what. Crazy prequel shit, in fact. See, with a prequel you can make up whatever nonsense you want, as long as it ends at the beginning of the hit story you're capitalizing on. I bet you didn't know God was into macrame before Earth. He made a whole planet out macrame. He even made an erkimat out of macrame. But in the end everything went dark. Very dark. And God was confused and lost, mostly because it was so dark that he couldn't find his way around. And then God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. The end

Comin' atcha first thing every Monday morning, it's The Pony Track, a super-fantastic short distance dedication to BadmintonStamps Collective founding member and internationally renown symbol for musical excellence Aaron "Pony" Child. No fancy links, no clever write-ups, 'cause these awesome songs don't need no splainin'. So c'mon, ride the pony!

There's this website that's become very popular. It features observations on what white people like. I believe that is in fact what it's called. Little did I know that the guy who writes it is white. Which is bullshit. It takes no balls to make observations about your own race. However, it takes three balls to make observations about another race. Which is what I've got. Three balls. So what do black people like? Entry number one: Tyler Perry. Entry number two: Red Lobster. Look, I got a million of these. This is my fucking hobby. They trick out their railings. "What?" Yes, they trick out their railings. Here's a photo my boy took in Bed Stuy. That's right, I have a staff working on this. They also like bad rock music. I've read countless interviews with rappers where they're all like, "I bet you didn't know I like rock music." Then they play either Linkin Park, Panic At The Disco, or John Mayer. Black people, especially black rappers, are really into John Mayer. How about R. Kelly? There are millions of people who love R. Kelly. Me and the dude at the end of the Ignition Remix video are the only white guys who love R. Kelly. There's also Pepsi, Barack Obama, Nextels. You know, those "adult" walkie talkies. If I'm sitting next to you on the bus, I'd much rather hear both ends of the conversation than just your side. It's considerate. In the end, like my balls, the points here are three. One is that white dudes should give it up already. Two is I spend way too much time thinking about black people. And three, even with the Red Lobster and John Mayer, these black people are on point and should be pretty damn proud.

Take It Outside Boys

Regular reader and Chronikill co-rapper Zerox One is always complaining to me about how, unlike rappers, rockers don't ever identify themselves in their songs. He's like, "I really need these bands to be like, 'It's Stone Temple Pilots' somewhere in the song so I know it's not Pearl Jam or whatever." Thankfully there are some rock bands that have heeded your words. Well, they've mostly heeded your words before you uttered them, but the point is that words were heeded and band names dropped. Here's a select list of tunes where the artists had the thoughtfulness to tell you who the hell they are.

Comin' atcha first thing every Monday morning, it's The Pony Track, a super-fantastic short distance dedication to BadmintonStamps Collective founding member and internationally renown symbol for musical excellence Aaron "Pony" Child. No fancy links, no clever write-ups, 'cause these awesome songs don't need no splainin'. So c'mon, ride the pony!

Rose Is Gangsta

The Girlfriend Track is song that SkinnySlim deems sexy for a lady to feel. We're talking about songs where, if my girl said "Yo, turn this up", I would be turned on.

If you want to get down with SkinnySlim, there are certain tests you must pass. These tests can be physical. I require someone skinny and slim who is also strong enough to be my woman. These tests can be intellectual. I require someone who is smart enough to know at least the basics of history, science, and maths. These tests can be demeaning. I will tightly cover your naked body in saran wrap and, using a sharpie, circle any excess fat. Not that I mind excess fat, it's just important for me to have a woman who will let me do something that awful to them. Look, I'm a sick bastard. And I'm worth it. But of all of my tests, my favorite has got to be the one of the cinematic variety. See, there are five films that my girlfriend must appreciate. If she doesn't like them, it's a complete deal breaker. The films are: Tootsie, Lola, Trouble In Paradise, Days of Heaven, and Spinal Tap. Of all of these glorious movies, the one that is the most important for my lady to appreciate is the Tap. If you can't enjoy Spinal Tap, then no matter how amazing you look or how smart you may be, you ain't tapping this ass. Because the girl who can't appreciate a song about big bottoms is the girl who's never going to get the chance to appreciate me pointing out her big bottom while it's covered in sharpie-marked saran wrap.

Due to the chaos and clusterfuckishness of the Democratic primary race, Michigan and Florida have been all over the news the last several weeks. Of course, this is not the first time the two States have been linked. The following BadmintonStamps post, which originally appeared in June of 2006, chronicles the contentious relationship between these two peninsulas:

Whoever said, "Sticks and stones can break my bones but words won't hurt me", never read about the Great Michigan/Florida War of 1835. The brouhaha began when Governor Stevens T. Mason changed Michigan's state motto to "If You Seek a Pleasant Peninsula, Look Around." This prompted Florida, brimming with peninsula pride, to change their motto from "The Fountain of Youth" to "Fuck Michigan". The State Legislature of Michigan then proposed the new motto, "Michigan: An Erect Penis, As Opposed to the Flaccid Penis Florida Has On." The resolution was narrowly defeated after the Michigan Grammar Police convinced voters that State mottoes cannot end in a preposition. But the dye was cast and War was declared. The States' armies met in the neutral ground of Tennessee. Not pleased at hosting the battle, Tennessee changed their motto to "Peninsulas Are For Gays". This led the (then) nation-state of Fire Island to declare war on Tennessee, deploying an army of flamboyantly clad soldiers to the South. Instead of fighting, these warriors sauntered around the State, snapping their fingers dramatically while whispering, "Fire", as if they were in a Bob Fosse musical (which, in fact, many were). The surprising tactic caught all parties off guard, a truce was declared, and peace between the North and South has remained ever since.

Don't Mess With My Ducktail

I got a tattoo. Years in the contemplating, I finally went out and did it. And as you all know, when SkinnySlim does something, he doesn't fuck around. He goes full throttle. That's why I got an inner lip tattoo. Actually, I got two inner lip tattoos. One has an arrow pointing towards my throat, with the word "Food" below it. The other has an arrow pointing away from my mouth with the word "Brilliance" below it. Cause, you see, food goes in and brilliance comes out. Problem is, the tattoo artist didn't share my skills with the brilliance, and he reversed the order. So now I have "Brilliance" pointing towards my mouth and "Food" pointing away from it. Which would mean food would go out and brilliance would come in. Since I don't want to spend the rest of my days eating my words and vomiting, I am in a bit of a jam. At first I tried biting my lip like this dude, but I've since resigned myself to the fact that I'm going to have to save up for laser lip tatt removal. Until then, I think I've found another temporary solution. All I can say, is thank god for these.

Comin' atcha first thing every Monday morning, it's The Pony Track, a super-fantastic short distance dedication to BadmintonStamps Collective founding member and internationally renown symbol for musical excellence Aaron "Pony" Child. No fancy links, no clever write-ups, 'cause these awesome songs don't need no splainin'. So c'mon, ride the pony!

Cool House

I do many things very well, and I do other things not at all. Example of the former: dancing. Example of the latter: driving. Then there are those things I do, but not particularly well. An example here would be wrapping presents. A final category in the Things SkinnySlim Does/Doesn't Do list would be things I do well, but not particularly sexy. An example here would be cooking. I'm not a sexy cook. Sexy with the lovemaking, sexy with the music selections, not sexy with the food. Oh, I'll cook for you. I'll make you a little pasta with pesto or a nice pork chop with rosemary. It's going to be clean, cooked thoroughly, not poisonous, and, well, fine. But I don't give food life. I don't infuse it with any, as they say in France, "jennooze say kwa." Which is fine. Because you can't be sexy at everything. George Clooney? He's not sexy at everything. Probably most things, but not everything. And those damncrazy hot ladies he rolls with want him even more because of this. See, those one or two non-sexy attributes give him, and me, a little bit of something I like to call "adorability". Sexy all the time is intimidating, inhuman. But a combination of sexy and adorable, well, it's damn near unstoppable.

Last week, I put forth a well thought out and fundamentally sound argument for why Jewish people should dress like Hitler with a day-glo moustache. The piece ended with the sentance "So see you tomorrow Hitlers, and remember, the salute is still offensive." Well, it seems that somewhere along the path of me writing this sentiment on my Brother P-Touch and it being sent through the interlocking messenger tubes known as the Internet, the meaning got lost in translation. Because tomorrow (read: "the following day") you (read: "The Jews") were not dressed as Hitler (read: "Hitler"). Which was a bit of a fucking problem, Jews. Cause I was dressed like Hitler, day-glo moustache and all. Which led to a bit of an embarrasing situation, being that I was the only person walking around New York dressed like Hitler in a day-glo moustache. Look Jews, you guys are all lawyers. Do you see a disclaimer on this site saying, "For entertainment purposes only"? No, you don't. The only claim this site makes is that we are "The Blog That Makes You Cool." Which is true. But only if you do what we say. And trust me, dressing like Hitler with a day-glo moustache is cool. Or it can be, if more than one of us does it. So shape up heebs; this is your, or should I say our, last chance. Tomorrow. Hitler. Day-glo. Be there.

Robots Are The Best

It's truly amazing how young African Americans were able to co-opt the N word, the most vile term used against them, and turn it into a term of affection that only they can use. Talk about turning lemons into lemonade and flipping the switch pretty damn hard. "Hey racist white bastards, remember how you used to call us nigger? Well now you can't. Only we can. And we'll do it when we're hanging out and having fun." I really do believe it is one of the greatest things ever. That's why half-jew SkinnySlim (hey, half-blacks can say the n word) is going to do for looking like Hitler what blacks did for saying the N word. From this day forth, only Jews can dress like Hitler. And Jews, you really should dress like Hitler. I mean, screw that dude for real. Talk about this guy's nightmare. I'm like, "Hey Hitler in 1939, not only will you lose this war and commit suicide like a little bitch, but in the future the very much alive Jewish race run around, cocky as hell, and dress up like you. But no one else can do it. Germans, they can't dress up like you. Only Jews." But Jews have to put a twist on the Hitler look just like Blacks transformed nigger to nigga. That's why the moustache is always gotta be a bright day-glo color. Why? Cause we can, and no one can do anything about it. So see you tomorrow Hitlers, and remember, the salute is still offensive.

Comin' atcha first thing every Monday morning, it's The Pony Track, a super-fantastic short distance dedication to BadmintonStamps Collective founding member and internationally renown symbol for musical excellence Aaron "Pony" Child. No fancy links, no clever write-ups, 'cause these awesome songs don't need no splainin'. So c'mon, ride the pony!

We all needed to take a couple years off, but it's been long enough and SkinnySlim says it's now okay to listen to "Hey Ya!" again.

I was thinking about that guy from Blind Melon who died a whiles back. I believe his name was Shannon Hoon. This guy was doomed from the start. Why? Because of his name. Hoon. It rhymes too perfectly with "soon". As in, "Shannon Hoon, gone too soon." Kid just didn't have a chance. Of course the same "name fate" met Who drummer and Gone Too Soon Club charter member Keith Moon. Sure, you say it was the drugs that got 'em. But how do you explain the long lives of drug addict rock stars "Built to Last" Slash and "Never Gonna Stop" Iggy Pop? You don't, that's how. And if you think it's only the -oon names that'll get you, think again. The Died Far Too Young is another club no one wants to be a part of. Which does not bode well American Idol goofball doofus William Hung. I'm going to pray for you Willie-boy, so hang in there and make sure to unplug the hair dryer before you start badly singing in the shower.

Comin' atcha first thing every Monday morning, it's The Pony Track, a super-fantastic short distance dedication to BadmintonStamps Collective founding member and internationally renown symbol for musical excellence Aaron "Pony" Child. No fancy links, no clever write-ups, 'cause these awesome songs don't need no splainin'. So c'mon, ride the pony!

Wapner

It's difficult for SkinnySlim to treat those around me with respect, because I am so much better than everyone else. This is especially true with anyone who works in the service industry. Take, for example, bathroom attendants. If I'm going to give a guy a buck to watch me piss, I'm going to make him work for it. Last night, as I dined on mutton and more mutton, I had to relieve myself. I went into the bathroom, did my deed, and then insisted the bathroom attendant shake off any excess urine from my penis. What the hell else is he there for, to pump out cheap moisturizer cream? The one exception in the service industry is bartenders. You gotta show these guys and girls some love. That's why I always try to keep the bartender in mind when I pick songs on the jukebox. I know they hear the same goddamn seven songs over and over again, and they are probably in no mood to listen to "Sweet Home Alabama" or "You Shook Me All Night Long" again. So I make sure to go for the album tracks, the non-cliched tunes (like the two great ones below). Because while I normally don't mind pissing off, or on, those who serve me, bartenders are too risky to mess with. Sure, waiters can spit in my food and cab drivers can take me the long way, but bartenders can mix me a weak drink. In the face of such a horror, I must bite my lip and try to give 'em what they want.