He is angry. He is German. He has foam weaponry. And he is completely fed up with American live-action role-players (Larpers) not taking this thing seriously. I often display the same level of frustration whenever Jesse describes how adorable his girlfriend is in the morning or when Neil stretches and yawns in an exaggerated manner.-Zack Hull, Olive Gardener
And now, a word form our sponsor...
I’ve often been accused of selfishness, egotism, hypocrisy, stealing change, encouraging prostitution, unreliability, inappropriate displays of wit, sleeplessness, liking hockey, yelling at imprudent times and targets, shoplifting fantasy novels, cheapness, locking myself out of my own bathroom, lateness, anti-Semitism, loquaciousness, prolix, verbosity, wordiness, pretention and drunkenness.
To deflect, I would like to enumerate several sins against humanity of which I, personally, am not guilty:
I Have Never…
Perpetuated an urban legend about an autistic kid stealing a penguin from the aquarium and then idly watched as you ran about town spreading the details of this tale, convinced that it was the best story you’ve ever heard. NPR Dispels Penguin Urban Legend
Devised a three-tiered system of responsibility in which you and I will first take care of a plant together, then a cat, and then have a child. Nor have I, after the plant died and the cat ran away, went ahead and had the kid anyway.
Offered my services to you as a dog walker, ignored your directions to your apartment, called you from the kitchen of your neighbor’s apartment wondering where the dog is, come into your bar later and offered a pile of unsolicited stories about your personal life, jammed a bunch of nonsense into Ennis’ ear while he was trying to draw quietly in his notebook and have dinner, then asked you to borrow money a few days later. And I never will.
Exploited the natives. Not directly.
Written this email to Here Be Dragons:
Listening to How To Build A Coal Furnace From Scratch on my plane ride and I have to tell you that even the low voice narrator was wrong about Gaudi and Jessie(sic) was just utterly retarded about him. The architect that designs everything to look like bones and "other human innards" is Antonio Calatrava...Gaudi made shit that looked like sand castles. Do some fuckin research.
Due to the holiday I will be dedicating most of my time to binge-eating, holiday shopping and napping (in no particular order and often simultaneously). So, following the lead of Mr. Ackles, I won't be posting anything of my own creation. After all, Jesse said it best this week when he told me, "while I didn't generate what I posted, I stand by it as a unique document worthy of our readership." It's a plausible bit of reasoning that I will now further exploit.
What follows is a piece from Drew Magary of deadspin in which Chad Ocho Cinco recounts to us the true story of Thanksgiving. Jesus, dinosaurs, machine-gun muskets and Plymouth Dusters – how can you go wrong? I hope to one day be able to read this to my children and grandchildren as a holiday tradition. Enjoy. -Z
Ocho: Right. So now, we all know that, when he was a kid, Jesus had to spend most of his time fighting the dinosaurs. Now, the dinosaurs were real savages and shit. They ate airplanes and everything. But there was this one little girl dinosaur Jesus met one day that wasn’t like the other dinosaurs. She was very kind and gentle. And she was sexy as all hell. So Jesus went to the head dinosaur and asked for a truce. He said, “Mr. Head Dinosaur, I cannot tell a lie. I love your little baby dinosaur daughter. I would like to marry her, so that we have little DinoJesus babies one day, and raise them to be cage fighters.”
It’s been a long road for Joel Ropesman. A long, excruciating, improbable road. Joel’s is a journey beset by hardship. By confusion. By disfigurement. And by huge swarms of monstrous insects. Join us for the conclusion of Joel’s exciting journey into pain and misery.
This is an old favorite of mine. From the Coldwater Daily Reporter in Michigan, an op-ed piece I came across while working for Balthazar last year. -JRA
To the Editor:
Some of Bush’s oil friends want to rent the Grand Canyon because they are running out of places to store the oil profits.
George W. and wife were going out and the wife asked, “George are you ready?” George replied, “as soon as I find my crown.”
Why don’t they have seat belts on school buses? We get a ticket if we don’t have them on. I watched a story on TV about polar bears in Canada for National Geographic. I get tired of hearing how dangerous this is filming sharks, bears and alligators. When the animal does respond it's terrible and either shot or carted off to some remote region.
They are doing what is natural to them. The one we should worry about is the two-legged ones — and I'm sure they don't work for free. So when you guys are in some place where God has never been chasing snakes, don't tell me how dangerous it is, please.
When you hear some of these motorcycles go by, why do we have to have mufflers on our cars?
Why don’t they have seat belts on school buses? If we don’t use them we get a ticket.
Due to the economy, people are getting rid of their pets. Why don’t they sell the sea-doo, snowmobile, float boat and one SUV?That would buy a lot of food and care for the animal.
What happened to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan? I guess we’re getting used to the body bags coming back.
Robbers are using women’s thong underwear for masks. I think I’d rather use the Lone Ranger’s.
The candidates have promised us the moon. Don’t expect much from our hard-working Congress.
-Jesse Ackles, Archivist
If there has ever been a position in all of professional sports where egocentric, outlandish and sometimes insubordinate behavior has become not only emblematic but the determining factor of your popularity it is that of the NFL wide receiver. A passive fan of the league (i.e.- your girlfriend, mom, girlfriend's mom, 4-year-old nephew) would have a hard time identifying the likes of Andre Johnson, Steve Smith or Larry Fitzgerald, all of whom have put up fantastic career numbers and consistently produce at a higher level than most in their position. However, they're relatively quiet, opting rather to let their play on the field do their talking for them as opposed to openly taunting defensive backs in pre-game interviews and slandering teammates in post-game press conferences. Now, ask those same aloof fans who Terrell Owens, Chad Ochocinco (formerly Chad Johnson) or Randy Moss are and you would get a resounding "Oh, I like him! He's funny!" response. Why? Because they're assholes.
People like assholes, despite what most say. For instance, I happen to be one myself. I'm crotchety, judgmental, selfish, mask most of my insecurities by pointing out the flaws of others (often my own friends) and have great difficulty finding a woman who can stand my presence for more than a few weeks, tops. Yet, somehow I find myself surrounded with people who enjoy my company. It's fucking ridiculous. People just find assholes more interesting, I guess. Look at about 3/4 the people on your TV. Asshole, asshole, asshole, Anthony Bourdain, asshole, asshole, asshole, Tina Fey, asshole, asshole, asshole, the guy from Dirty Jobs. Done. And with all this, Grey's Anatomy and NCIS continually top their nights in Neilsen ratings. We're talking that skinny fuck from Loverboy and Mark Harmon, people.
In professional football, the star wide receiver commonly displays his eagerness to be the top contributor to his team's success. After all, a receiver NEEDS the quarterback to give them the ball so it only makes sense that they would express this in an abrasive manner whenever a camera or tape recorder is present. It's quite ironic that the only player he cannot battle for face-time with is the starting quarterback, due to the fact that he's always the de facto face of the team and inherently looked at as a "good guy" (unless you're Jay Cutler, but that's mainly because his mouth looks like a dickhole). With the possible exception of the running back (or in Cleveland's case, kicker Phil Dawson), the rest of the team members are looked at as minor contributors and are commonly overlooked by roving reporters in search of juicy quotes. Who wants to hear an offensive lineman talk? He's paid to be fat. Here's a bacon-wrapped chili-cheese dog deep fried in Dr. Pepper, fatty. Now, shut your fat fucking face!
Things just aren’t getting any better for Joel Ropesman. If you thought eyeball-gouging dairy cows were bad, imagine what a bunch of ducks and geese can do. Episode 2 in the saga of the Man from Anglo.
H. B. D. Three consonants of such variety of articulation as to be nearly unrecognizable as family, like distant cousins dissimilar in every aspect but their handedness or preference for bolo ties. The first with its airy, ephemeral expression in the glottis, followed by the bilabial imprecision of /b/, only to be outmaneuvered by an impudent tap of the tongue at the back of the teeth.
What mysteries are contained within these 3 ancient glyphs? For the answers, we turn to the field of numeroscatology.
OK today's real inspiration is this: yesterday Robyn and I were hard at work painting and scrubbing my apartment when we took a necessary internet break on the fluttering, borrowed signal that sometimes graces my environs. I noticed that she was navigating some website called the “Boone County Memorial.” It turns out that some miscreants in Kentucky have had the whatall to secure the site www.hbd.typepad.com for the purposes of honoring their “war dead”.
From what I can tell, this site is mainly used for the dubious purpose of remembering the brave citizens of Boone County who senselessly gave their lives for causes beyond their understanding or control. While I am as much a fan of heedless sacrifice as anyone else, I think a little propriety is in order.
First of all, who “forgets” to honor their dead soldiers but a bunch of moonshine-addled crackers and most important, what are they doing with such a close approximation of a web address to that of the esteemed Here Be Dragons? And no, I would NOT like to buy a “paver”, but thanks for asking, I already bought a memorial fightin’ stick at the gift shop.
Once the rage of this revelation wore down to a dull and persistent sting, this episode got me wondering about other entities on the ol’ omniweb that may be coasting in the wake of Here Be Dragons. So, here you have it, a comprehensive rundown of startling importance:
(No, this has nothing to do with Bill
Clinton’s autobiography, though it has turned out to be nearly as long. Oh, and
those actors Zack mentioned in his last post? Don’t know a one.)
Jesse calls, we exchange pleasantries and he asks what I’m up to. I often give him a literal answer instead of a
blanket “chillin’” or the like. If I’m
home at the time, the response is naturally quite mundane. Of course it is. There aren’t many exciting things one usually
does as home, but no matter if my answer is making something to eat, watching Jeopardy!, doing dishes, working,
internetting, preparing to take a nap, enjoying a burrito from the taqueria
down the street, or if I’d just gotten out of the shower, Jesse reacts as if
none of this is boring or normal or, in many cases, even defensible. Without fail, Jesse finds any detail of my
life to be completely absurd. He consumes
my life as side-splitting fodder for his enjoyment and fuel for his feelings of
towering superiority. And that’s great. He’s in school and often has dinner with his
girlfriend, after all.
Saturday Jesse came over to have a couple bloody marys and to “be funny”. He
was undeterred by my protests; I was watching my beloved Michigan football team
and didn’t want to day-drink, and I told him this. No matter.
He was here, and he made his presence known constantly in no uncertain
terms. During one commercial, to satisfy
his cries for attention, I gave him some details about how the little things in
my life had changed since my then-girlfriend moved out three months ago. He predictably howled with (dis)approval at
every tidbit of misfortune, and urged me to expand this exercise and put to
record a typical day in the life.
This is a rough outline of a typical weekday and is subject to numerous outside factors. It is not drawn to scale. I am not including times because many of these noteworthy events overlap one another. Personal interpretation is encouraged.
I hope you all enjoy it as much as Jesse will.
Have you ever played the sympathy card to get a woman into bed? Does it still weigh on your conscience? Well, you’re about to feel way better about yourself.
Brothers Brian and Joe Hackett (Steven Weber and 'Tim Daly' ) and friend Helen (Crystal Bernard) attempt to run a Cape Cod-based airline while surrounded by their various wacky friends and employees.
This is the IMDB synopsis for one of the most delightful and influential sitcoms of the early nineties, Wings. What these words fail to tell you is that the show was singularly responsible for injecting a certain Lebanese-American actor into our hearts and minds for years to come. That actor is Tony Shalhoub.
You may be thinking that Mr. Shalhoub’s rise to fame came with his casting in the title role of the current niche series Monk, in which he plays an adorably self-deprecating widower who attempts to solve cases as a freelance detective while battling his severe obsessive-compulsive disorder. Well, I say “nay”! This great actor’s mantle would not be adorned with a variety of Emmys, Golden Globes and SAG Awards if it were not for his heart-warming portrayal of Antonio Scarpacci, the adorably self-deprecating Italian cabdriver who’s desperately searching for love while always lending a supporting ear and encouraging word to his friends at fictional Tom Nevers Field.
Not since George Clooney’s star-making turn as an overbearing boss on Roseanne had I been so convinced that a future leading man was emerging right before our very eyes. When show scalawag Roy Biggins rhetorically asks “You know what I do when I have problems with a woman?”, Antonio casually quips “Deflate her?” and an uproarious wave of laughter erupts from the audience. Brilliant! The steely charisma. The flawless accent. The almost effortless sarcasm. All contributed to one of the greatest displays of television acting I have ever seen.
18 years and 2 Satellite Award nominations later, Mr. Shalhoub is on the verge of superstardom as he’s in current negotiations for the role of Mario in the upcoming Scorsese-directed reboot of Super Mario Bros. The role would reunite him with long-time friend and fellow thespian Stanley Tucci, who has already been cast as brother Luigi. This will be a drastic departure from previous roles for both actors and it is almost certain they would be subjected to rigorous make-up effects and dialect coaching in order to make them appear and sound more Italian. I applaud their courage and ambition. I applaud it.
Now, I understand you might be taken aback at my infallible eye for talent. I must admit, it is a gift. The following actors are who I firmly believe to be the next crop of Hollywood heavyweights. Clearly having paid their dues, they are on the brink of an Edward Furlong-esque rise to A-list status over the next few years.
Here Be Dragons and The Learning Channel have collaborated to produce a reality show unrivaled in its exploitation of a pathetic subject. Meet Joel Ropesman, a man so stung by misfortune and cross-eyed genetics, listeners will be tempted to turn a deaf ear again and again as each punishing detail is recounted. Horrified or not, it is impossible to stop listening as Joel recounts his catastrophic experience with an unsympathetic car, Mother Nature’s worst, and a woeful intellect, somehow presented with a warm naïveté that only endears the poor bastard to us all.
Someone who works in a Chicago high school told me that the kids collect the tabs from Monster Energy drinks (which are sold in a vending machine in the school) and make necklaces out of them. They compete to see who can collect the most. This confirms several of my hypotheses:
* There is a very large handbasket being woven somewhere, probably in Indiana, for which we will all be distributed boarding passes very soon.
* When kids aren’t shooting each other, they’re doing something stupid.
* I made the right decision when I chose to never, ever teach high school.
I also just heard that police superintendant Jody Weiss has hired a “firm” of some kind to analyze the content and frequency of the department’s 911 calls. This is so they can decide where to distribute their officers, because they have run out of money to hire any more. While I won’t question the logic of using the money they apparently don’t have to hire consultants, I would like to suggest that we skip this step altogether and redeploy cops to the following areas of the city:
*Any corner without a flashing blue police camera
*Dave & Buster’s
*Each other’s houses
*In front of Monster Energy vending machines
As per Neil’s last post, I would like to point out that it was Tony Shalhoub that Zack was defending (along with Stanley Tucci), against my correct assertion that both of these men are terrible actors. My authority in this matter derives from personal experience: I am a first-class terrible actor as well, so I recognize other members of my set when they ply their pitiful craft.
But I could be wrong. Let’s let this trailer speak for itself (in full disclosure, I’ve seen this film, but I’m sure I didn’t like it as much as Zack will):
Jesse Ackles, Observationist
Zack’s post was pretty accurate…disregardless of everything he wrote, but most especial-like when he got to the part of me dismissing pop cultural nonsense because it’s too new. Truth be told, I love many things quite deeply. You see, I just have really good taste, whereas Zack will defend, to the death, any words or names he has come across in his whole fucking life. Really. Last night, he was sticking up for Stanley Tucci and Chris O’Donnell like they were Marlon Brando and Orson Welles. Our friendship once again shaken, I decided to quietly leave.
Chris O’Donnell does have one immaculately groomed pubic area, and Stanley Tucci is certainly a lobotomist, so it is easy to get behind them. But really, Orson Welles would like a word.
– Neil, Jerk
Do you know of this website called facebook? It’s supposedly the cat’s pajamas and is all the rave with the kids. What it’s mainly used for, aside from keeping you linked to people you met at that party last week or high school classmates you haven’t been in touch with (for good reason), is posting HILARIOUS videos to share with your personal online rabble of easily amused acquaintances. To my friend and colleague Neil Potter, this is facebook’s lone valuable trait. The rest of the website’s features are poppycock and his account lasted a mere 45 minutes before he was completely fed up with the whole damn lot of it.
You see, Neil would like you to think that he cancelled his account the same day he activated it due to his almost perverse disdain for anything popular. He even has a knack for intentionally not listening to an album or watching a film until at least three years after the release date to ensure he has nothing pop-topical to discuss at the next party he attends. Yet, his dissatisfaction with America’s latest craze was born from more than just pop-culture rebuke. He had grown weary of the continual reminder that every one of his friends led more interesting lives than he. That’s about as shocking a revelation as finding out the emotionally unstable girl I went home with the other night has seven cats.
Since he discontinued his account, Neil has been pining for an outlet that will enable him to share with the world the almost limitless stock of internet videos he finds both amusing and enraging. Which leads me to the subject of this week’s PC (Producer’s Corner – see what I did there?): half-assery.
You might have noticed Neil didn’t post anything in his usual Friday blog slot. I say “usual” because that’s what the three of us agreed upon in discussing this latest HBD format. While sitting around a table one night at Easy Bar, we decided to add blog postings to the site. Why the hell not. TypePad IS a blog service, after all, and I figured it wouldn’t be too hard for each of us to pound out a few hundred words each week to contribute to the vast internet wasteland of pounded-out words. When discussing the order of postings, Neil elected to blog on Friday. I assume this move was strategic in order to ensure he would have a few extra days to conjure up a posting once we began the re-launch, which was at that point 2 months away.
Let’s cut to last Friday. While gchatting with Neil during his daily routine of armchair everything, I asked how his posting was coming along, to which he replied, “it’s been up for 14 hours.” Hot-damn, I thought. Not only were my worries of Neil not posting at all (let alone on time) put to rest, but he actually happened to have his contribution up early. Excitedly, I pulled up the site expecting to read the type of sarcasm-laden diatribe I’ve become accustomed to that details how both Jesse and I are unbearable pricks. Low, and behold, I’m unsatisfactorily met with two sentences of cryptic humor followed by this:
What follows is a transcript of our ensuing conversation:
Fret not, little ones. A brand new Producer's Corner is on its way. But first, there are more pressing issues to address, like game 6 of the World Series. In the meantime, enjoy Mr. Brett's pre-game banter.
While visiting Florida, Jesse bicycles 54 miles to a marina in search of strong drink. Once satisfied, he is perplexed by the native’s lack of originality in naming their boats. Seems like a perfectly good reason to leave a voice mail.
I moved to Logan Square from Humboldt Park this weekend. One advantage to the timing of this was that it was Halloween, and as anyone in Chicago knows, holidays last an average of about a week here. Think St Patrick’s, MLK or Casimir Pulaski Day.
I am not fond of driving. In spite of jamming my neurons full of psychotropic medication, I have an adverse reaction to people who, in any situation, lack consideration of their surroundings. I’m the guy who mutters under his breath when people exit through the front doors on the bus and cause everyone else to wait. I find those who stand on the left side of escalators intolerable. Even less tolerant am I of hordes of drunken, costumed jackasses crossing the street against traffic. This is an offense I find unbearable when committed by people wearing everyday clothing (most of which I also find unbearable), but the proliferation of confused subhumans donning predictable getups in the interest of using the word “party” as a verb makes me feel as if all the goodwill I’ve worked so hard to cultivate toward others is being violently squeezed out of me.
So I didn’t have an overly joyful time having to navigate an automobile through the one-way swamp that comprises the west side of Chicago Friday night. What I did enjoy was this:
I'm a little slow to post today, so while you're waiting for my next fun installment, I'd like to share with you a clip from a feature I discovered on my Star Trek 3 DVD while unpacking my new apartment last night. This is part 1 of 5; I promise to post the rest as you inevitably clamor for more:
Love and Phaser Rifles,
Boy gets job. Boy goes to South Korea. Boy gets drunk. Boy defends wrong person. Boy has face rebuilt. Boy flees country.
Good morrow, dear listener and reader. As a new dawn approaches at Here Be Dragons, one that will hopefully bear tastier fruit than our previous incarnations, I would like to take a moment to address a few concerns you may have regarding our Internet Radio Show.
You see, it’s come to my attention that many of you may be experiencing a bit of buyer’s (or, more appropriately, subscriber’s) remorse when listening to our most recent audio postings as they have been a bit on the truncated side and, in some cases, not entirely constructed of new material. This, coupled with the reports that we are not getting along, may lead you to believe that Here Be Dragons will once again slip into another indefinite slumber similar to one taken by a morphine-addicted truck driver who’s just inhaled a bushel of BK Chicken Fries while giving his big horn a few tugs.
And by “big horn” I mean penis. He’s masturbating.
Well folks, I can assure you that this ridiculous notion could not be farther from the truth. We neither own nor drive a truck. Plus, Jesse gave up morphine a long time ago and Neil is a vegetarian. See? You got the long end of the stick on that one.
Although it’s quite apparent that our audio postings (or “bits”, as we refer to them in the industry) have been significantly whittled down lengthwise, we are confident this will help in your enjoyment and appreciation of the show. No longer will you have to endure the epic postings of yesteryear and be forced to digest them in stages as you find time to listen amid your busy schedule of reality TV shows, online college courses, fantasy poker leagues and staring. We know your time is valuable and we are dedicated to ensuring a more convenient listening experience free from the hassles of such overrated concepts as “concentration” or “focus”. You clearly have better things to do on your commute and we wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of your precious enjoyment of burgeoning hip-hop artists, crying babies and Jenny, the blonde chick who emphatically describes to her phone the day’s attire of that “icky” guy in IT as she carelessly wallops you with her Whole Foods bag on the way to standing directly in front of the train/bus doors. She’s a gem.
Meet at Zack’s house, finish off a bottle of El Jimador, get in an argument about science fiction movies, encourage the women to participate, then bring in Sean Shipley several days later to save the conversation. Got it? Any questions on this process should be directed to this woman.
While I was writing this, my demented grandmother, who lives in Ann Arbor, took a bus here to Chicago. My mom called me around midnight to tell me that someone called her from the bus station to tell her that they were in possession of a really confused old woman. This really happened. Grandma got a ride to the bar where my sister was celebrating her birthday. This morning they discovered that Grandma’s wallet is missing, which isn’t a surprise, but the bonus is that she tried to escape from my sister’s apartment in the middle of the night and apparently lost my sister’s wallet as well. Exciting times we live in. Grandma D once hitchhiked to New Mexico from Michigan and slept in a stable while writing novels about horse thieves. Sorry Zack, wish I had a better excuse… JRA
Recently I joined the burgeoning ranks of dissatisfied young Americans looking to make a fast buck in the field of Languostics. Deep within the ruins of the University of Illinois Chicago I am free to roam as one of the elite members of an institution whose prowess is cleverly masked by a penchant for Brutalist, riot-proof architecture. The Behavioral Science Building, wherein the department houses its “learning cells” is a tour-de-force of archipsychological torture (which was legal and even subsidized by the government during the free-wheeling 50s and 60s), with each student or unlucky visitor being subjected to an ongoing experiment in confusion and “derationalization”.
In the interest of improving the literacy of our audience, I want to share the fruits of my education with the less fortunate among you…I shall endeavor to set forth a curriculum that speaks to the needs of not only the cretins, but the plebes and vassals as well.
Greetings there, shitbirds –
This here blog entry may not be cohesive with respect to the preceding posts. You see, I didn’t even get through Jesse’s demonstration, er, experimentation, ummm, provocation from the other day. We’re trying to make things enjoyable for people, Jesse. What a jerk. That kinda ruined me for Zack’s contribution, but knowing Zack it just would’ve lent more anger anyway. Maybe it’s for the best. So I beg for your pardon if there seems to be no cohesion here. If you want something cohesive, try super gluing a penis to your stomach. Wait. What? Oh, that’s adhesive. Well, then…try super gluing two penises to your stomach. There. Solved.
I’ve had my reservations about returning to this Here Be Dragons nonsense. You see, I’m lazy. And one could very fairly characterize me as indecisive as well. Those two elements combine for a great dose of the apathy, but that doesn’t really tell the whole story. The truth: it’s tough to commit yourself to spending time advancing a project when you’re working with these two tit willows. They’re both impossible in their own unique ways, and really, I don’t find either of them particularly funny.
So you know how sometimes, you’re sitting around the house on a rainy day, trying to decide which household items to use to asphyxiate yourself before the Thai food arrives? Well Here Be Dragons does, and for just such occasions we’ve assembled a series of archived bits from shows past. We feel that the proper blend of nostalgia and hilarity offered by these bits present the casual listener with everything you need to hack away at the time.
Today’s archived piece is the story of a man who makes the most of his adverse circumstances. We give you the tale of Balthazar, a guy who routinely shits himself.
Hello, listener. Welcome (back?) to Hear Be Dragons. My name’s Zack. If this were a legitimate podcast with even a smidgen of merit or credibility, my position would be what is commonly referred to as “producer”, but enough with the high-level industry terms. Since this sweeping internet fad has most of you befuddled and intimidated, I’m here to shepherd you through this period of uncertainty by offering a few guidelines on how to listen to our marginally mediocre IRS (Internet Radio Show).
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “But, Zack, can’t I just casually recline while sipping from my $38,000 dollar bottle of Macallan Scotch as my uproarious laughter echoes through the chamber halls of my palatial estate?” No. No you can’t. Mainly because I find your bragging to be a bit inappropriate, but also because your laugh is downright horrible. Seriously. No one should be subjected to that. It sounds like Chewbacca getting railed by a dildo made of mangled straight razors.
You see, it takes a special set of circumstance to fully enjoy the Here Be Dragons Podcast. Otherwise, the effect is somewhat lessened by an overpowering wave of depression. If you adhere to the following seven guidelines, I can almost promise you the type of ethereal bliss that has only been experienced by the likes of NASCAR drivers, Widespread Panic fans and Tom Sizemore:
Here at Here Be Dragons we like to pride ourselves on being ahead of the curve, which has been apparent from our timely updates and trend-setting internet radio show concepts. However, there seldom comes a time when we are presented with material that is so astonishingly substantial that we are forced to bury it for fear that, should this material become public, it would mean certain retaliation from the parties in question. Retaliation that would, most likely, come in the form of bodily harm to ourselves, our families, our friends and (heaven forbid) you, our dear listener.
Fear not. Now is not that time, partly because we have an overt desire to express our unwarranted bravado, but mainly because we don't give a shit about you or ourselves.
With no further ado, we now give the open-minded, inquisitive, scrutinizing citizens of the free world exclusive audio that sheds light on the real reason behind Chicago Mayor Richard M. Daley's failure to secure the bid for the 2016 Summer Olympics. It will be tough for some to hear but the truth usually hurts, especially when it's being shouted at you by an angry ex-con who wants to trick-out a baggage cart and ride it through your kid's maul ball game while playing Naked Battleship.
This episode was composed using sound effects from the good folks at the freesound project.
As Season 3 bears down upon us in ragged, airborne darkness, I take solace in a single, ineluctable truth: that we will fail; that this endeavor, like the endeavors of so many crazed and talentless men of our epoch, will slide down the rocky face of our union with the dizziness of an intoxicated garden slug. The confidence bestowed on me in this judgment abides not only in the sure-footed fact of my own documented failures, which are beyond mortal count, but in that of my cohorts, whose own lack of prowess in such elementary and rude pursuits as mating are legendary to the minds of that wispy herd of scorned, bedraggled acquaintances who purport to care.
From its first incipient gurgle, this project was destined for obscurity. The formula: 3 man-children, secure in their unjustifiable confidence in themselves, record their own flaccid and inane observations over several days, all the while crashing into one another’s sentences with the alacrity and reeling of a Conestoga wagon commandeered by a band of liquor-ruined plainsmen. A series of menopausal arguments ensue, resulting in a string of episodic embarrassments that take on such contemporary targets as the late proprietors of convenience-restaurant chains, athletic celebrity, and dwarfism. Most, if all, of the narrative content is occluded by an almost unanimous disrespect for tact or the sound of one another’s voices.
And this all in just one season! The following year, these motley gentlemen set out to once again regale the deaf ears of a public attuned to the sour chimes of their underfunded voices. To capture the spark and charge of their brackish wit, they set pen to paper and produce a series of written scripts, no line of which are any of them qualified to act for posterity—yet there it sits, Season 2, in all of its mono-episodic glory. Ask not whence the rest of Season 2 has gone to; wonder you not, for it is not.
The present recycling of this haphazard picaresque comes in the form of old backwash from those golden years in which the gentlemen found fit to actually record their ideas, rather than victimize them or force them into long hibernation, to be extracted and dangled as a hanged rebel from a wash-line. One can only expect that, given the known history of these men and their talents, the effect will be as indelible as that of a turtle peeing in the water somewhere off the Galapagos. May our pale cone of cadmium-assisted light limn the corners of your troubled and smog-filled day, my friends, and remember, after the rainstorm there will always be a fledgling or two splayed out on the sidewalk as a chthonian reminder of our own foetal origins.
J Ackles, Academic
We’ve been away for awhile. We’ve neglected you. Our usual incompetence isn’t solely to blame this time, however. You see, we were busy throwing an uncle party, and you know how uncle parties go. You tell a couple friends to bring their uncles, and then they tell their friends to bring their uncles. Soon there were many uncles.
Godammit. We were overrun with fucking uncles. How the fuck could such a great idea turn on us so mercilessly? All the molester uncles were off chatting in a closed-off circle -- closed-off unless you were one of their toddler-aged nephews.
So, Neil's always-correct and ever-creepy Uncle Barry advised us to release our comedy bits one at a time, with blog pieces tossed in for good measure. We were thrown. But after the uncle party ended (with incident), we sat and discussed Uncle Barry’s suggestion, as any good threesome of nephews would do. After much deliberation, we agreed he was right.
Starting Monday, we will be releasing one Here Be Dragons bit at a time, sparing you the Ropesman-esque density of our last release (you'll meet Ropesman; he's exceedingly dense). Interspersed will be our musings and infightings in the form of poetry, prose or ASCII. After all this, we sit, eagles spread, before you.
With love, and open to your hate,
-Jesse, Zack & Neil
We own up to the failures of our friends. We explore the nuances of post-urban vernacular. We rewrite ourselves in our own images. We recruit a ringer. Really, we promise, this time it’s good.
Featuring music from:
Episode cover art courtesy of the lovely Denise Dietz.
This episode was composed using sound effects from the good folks at the freesound project.
We know it’s been a long time. We know we’ve made a lot of promises about improving the quality of this show we’ve been bullying you with over the last year or so.
Well, the time for promises is past.
Behold: Here Be Dragons: Season 2, featuring scripted material, input from you, and, best of all: sound effects!
We would also like you to welcome the presence of our new announcer, Sean Shipley. No more indeterminate English colonial accents, less drunken palaver (though still enough to keep the ship moving), and roughly the same amount of music as before.
So welcome to a new epoch in internet radio shows. We look forward to your forthcoming praises—almost as much as we look forward to your forthcoming abuses.
Neil, Jesse, Zack
So, yeah. We know. We suck.
Our previous voicemail number was hosted by the inept stoner-jerks at drop.io. Apparently, they were too busy playing World of Warcraft and voicing their dismay with the changes made to the Watchmen film on various message boards to inform us that our drop was going to expire and that, if we did not renew our account, all files would be deleted. Therefore, any messages left in the last month are just gone, disappearing into the internet graveyard.
We at Here Be Dragons didn't take too kindly to this "policy" and have decided to go with a new service provider. Please make all future calls using our brand new toll free number! Call us anytime for any reason. Messages can be up to 3 minutes in length.
See? Simple. No ridiculously long number. No extension. Toll free. We're here for you. Looking out for you. Like a housewife looks out for her 4-year-old son by purchasing him a Sega Game Gear to play while she watches her stories.
Alas, we would like to implore anyone who has recently left a message within the last month to please call again and leave a new one. An inconvenience, we know, but we love you all and have a strong desire to masturbate to each and every one of your sexy voices.
Jesse, Neil and Zack
A message to the Here Be Dragons Nation:
Thank you for supporting the non-legendary internet radio show Here Be Dragons. We can only hope that you've actually taken time to listen to it as well. If not, here is your best chance:
We have decided to reboot the podcast; in order to do this, we want to condense the best bits from the first 8 episodes (we'll call them a "season") into 1 show and archive the rest.
Always prudent, we have decided to place our one giant egg in the populist basket and ask YOU to let us know which segments from these episodes you think we should use. If there's something that strikes you as particularly funny or informative, you're probably listening to one of the other D&D or jam-band based podcasts with a similar title. But in the event that you've got the right show on your iTunes, we're asking you to vote on your favorite bits so we can assemble a 1980s sitcom-inspired clip show which will create the illusion that we are actually good at this.
Once you've done this, please email us at email@example.com or leave a comment below and tell us which parts of which episodes you think should be preserved. Feel free to trash the rest as well—we do it all the time.
Those of you who put the most time and thought into this will be rewarded with a story by us about your person, to be aired during Season 2 of the show, if you so desire. Now that's a stimulus check you can cash.
That said, we also would like to announce the forthcoming debut of our newly conceptualized Here Be Dragons 2.0, a "metacast" in which we discuss, intimately, the process of creating an internet radio program. Enjoy the introduction of new characters, more listener participation, and even some scripted material. We actually put some effort into this one.
Also, we would love for you to leave a voicemail on our drop site so we can feature your comments, stories, last wishes or ethereal musings on the show. It's not about us, it's about you (and us).
The number: 1-888-608-8170 (your message may be as long or short as you like).
The first 8 episodes can be found below or on iTunes in the podcast section.
So in the next few weeks look for an announcement heralding the upload of Here Be Dragons, Episode 0, and in the meantime try to enjoy the old ones.
Love and Lincolns,
Jesse, Neil and Zack
We get basic German lessons from a white supremacist. We're held at gunpoint by the least-threatening of firearms. We suffer a massive headwound while drunkenly traversing the elevated train system. We're physically fit and someone's down to be fuckin' this.
We lament the end of the kickball season. We discuss the hazardous effects of 14-hour Monopoly games. We plot to supplant the mayor with a cage fighter. Six-foot chicken, we knew you'd come for us eventually.
Download Episode 4: Establishing Dominance
Here is the deal for the upcoming KC Memorial Show at Quenchers....
Wednesday, August 6 at 8pm
2401 N. Western Ave (at Fullerton)
$10 cover...Everyone pays. All proceeds go to K.C. 's Family. There are four bands officially on the bill and one secret guest to close the show.
Here are the set times and band listings...
8:30 - Ghostrunner Assembly
9:30 - The Streeters
10:30 - The Living Blue
11:30 - Sybris
12:30 - Secret Guest Band
Two local artists have designed posters for the show. These will both be for sale and the proceeds will likewise go to K.C.'s family. The poster designed by Gina Black is being printed by Screwball Press and is a four color silk screen. This may be sold for $10's...but have to see what final printing cost total. The poster designed by local Tattoo artist Kevin Starai--due to the great number of colors--will be laser printed onto glossy poster paper. This will be sold for $5. Both posters can be viewed by clicking on the images below.
So, come on out and celebrate the life of a great man. We love you, KC!
We use our political stature to pursue paranormal investigations. We repeatedly punch ourselves in the face. We ridicule a karaoke cult and its heathen followers. KC would've wanted it this way.
Featuring music from these Chicago artists:
The Streeters (formerly Christopher Andrew Stelloh)
Bible of the Devil
Download Episode 3: For The Better Good
In lieu of recent events, we've taken some needed down-time from bringing the nonsense that all you 23-36 subscribers (depending on the day) have learned to so passably anticipate. We vow to be back even more incompetent than ever with more celebrity* appearances and rumblings of a slightly altered lineup. Just think of us as the 90210 of podcasts – an ever-changing lineup of people not acting their age.
Look for Episode 3: For The Better Good to go online sometime in the next few days.
*by "celebrity" we mean "friend", unless you count Jill Hopkins who is the grandest of celebrities and in no way our friend
As some of you may know, our good friend KC Haywood was involved in a fall late Saturday night, June 14th resulting in two broken ankles and a skull fracture. He is being treated at Northwestern Memorial hospital in Chicago in the Neurology ICU and is in critical condition. Although he is still unconscious, the doctors are optimistic and he has a number of family and friends giving him as much support as one could possibly imagine.
This is a special session we held on Monday in KC's honor, in a feeble attempt to capture the humor and brilliance of our friend as he recovers. Those of you who aren't fortunate enough to know the man are strongly encouraged to listen anyway. Featuring music from the bluegrass album KC just recorded.
Download KC Haywood: Fixin' To Get Fixed
We are planning to post our new podcast about our friendship with KC on Wednesday night, June 25. He will not approve of this. Not because he's going to be uncomfortable with the attention -- on the contrary -- but because he finds the medium to be silly and self-indulgent. Once again, KC impresses and humbles us with how spot-on he is.
We speak in poorly rendered accents. We have our faces rebuilt to represent the East-West divide. We use our impending doom to get laid and ruin others. Tim Russert, "Daily Dalliances" won't be the same without you.
Featuring music from these Chicago artists:
Bible of the Devil
The Streeters (formerly Christopher Andrew Stelloh)
Download Episode 2: Pringles IS Dead
Our good friend KC Haywood is currently in stable condition, but unconscious, following a fall Saturday night. KC is a wonderful guy and we were all shocked to hear of it. He and his darling Sarah are dear to our hearts and we wish them both the best. If you would like to see a picture of KC at his finest, and possibly donate to his recovery fund, please visit www.kchaywood.com.
Understandably, this has slowed the process of bringing Episode 2 to all 28 of our beloved subscribers. It should be mentioned that all of it was recorded before the accident; it is doubtful that any of us would have been able to bring the nonsense in the days following this news.
UPDATE: A blog has been setup by KC's stepfather Tucker that will serve to update everyone on his status. It can be found at www.kchaywood.blogspot.com.