Stuff to Shout When You’re Watching Sports With Dudes

Thanksgiving weekend is upon us here in the United States, and that means SPORTS are right up on us, too. Yes, if you know a dude, are a dude, or just choose to emulate dude patterns, you will surely have no choice but to watch some sports this weekend. Which means you’ll have no choice but to shout things at the screen, supposedly to communicate something to an athlete, a coach, or a ref, but really — anthropologists believe — more for the benefit of the (other) dudes in the room. So GET IT RIGHT this year! Read through this useful guide and ensure that you are prepared to dole out the sauciest, most biting, most BADASS color commentary — no matter which sport is raging up there on the 72-inch plasma.


    Football

Ref needs an eye check! Glasses! Saw it bad!

Piled of spires… desperate to, to…


    NASCAR

I look at these reminds me of my old race sets…

Teachin’ table French.


    Swimming

This has to be some kinda new joke, this style of, am I ahead, am I behind, what’s the next… It’s what’s the next MEANING for these guys, in reality.


    Beads

Goddamn god in HEAVEN but they shimmer…

This guy’ll put his needle’n’thread through everything catches the light, grandma bless him. He’s Alexander the Great out there.


    Soft-Core Pornography

Even if his tongue ISN’T touching her pussy right now, he can definitely taste something. I mean he’s tasting SOMETHING in that bufferzone of air, and he knows exactly what it is.


    Werner Herzog’s “Cave of Dreams”

No, you leave this ON. I’ve heard inCREDIBLE things about this film. You wanna go watch some goddamn Michael-Bay-Avatar-3D-paint-by-numbers BULLSHIT… [tears flooding the eyes]… you go ahead… [breathing heavy]… Me I don’t mind getting some CULTURE on my pizza… [hands covering face]… Pass me some peetz–… [sobs twice]… pass me a BEER [extends hand, cheeks wet].

Keith reviews the Katy Perry (feat. Max Hart) Show

So, people, Chris and I went to see the Katy Perry extravaganza last night at Madison Square Garden. Our old friend, former Scientist Max Hart, is now her touring keyboardist, you see, and so our attendance at the show was just a demonstration of friendly solidarity.  That’s all.  We love Max.  We went to cheer for him, not to leer at Katy Perry.  Definitely not to leer, no.

“You guys aren’t just going to come and leer, are you? Dudes . . .”

The whole thing was a bit last-minute and entirely up in the air: guest list spots for the Katy Perry Show are, understandably, at a premium, especially in New York City, a town positively brimming with high-visibilty Perry fans like Edward Burns and Anna Wintour and Mike Bloomberg, who are apt to use their celebrity and political muscle to snap up all available tickets.

“Baby, I’m a firework.”

So, at 8:15 pm Chris and I were at Huckleberry Bar in Williamsburg, expecting to be shut out, crying into our high-end cocktails.  We were ready to call the night – hell, to call our very lives – a total wash.  That’s when the text came.   We were in!  Cut to the desperate pounding of our precious beverages (mine, a rye/absinthe concoction, and Chris’, a weird-sounding but well-received chai/whisky thing) in the interest of making haste to MSG. One feels very safe assuming that we were the only of the 14,000 Perry fans in attendance last night to preface the show with a pair of superior tipples.

“Me? I just slugged a handle of Gordon’s gin in the lavatory at Penn Station”

By the time we arrived at the venue, it was several minutes after show-time, and the lobby was peppered with a few stragglers.  By and large, these were desperate ticketless bastards, who impeded our progress at the will call window with their blubbering and fuming over the attendants’ unwillingness to hand over tickets that, clearly, their contacts had failed to arrange for pickup.  Having secured our iron-clad tickets through the ever-reliable Max, we had little empathy for these wretches, especially since their endemic unwillingness to accept defeat caused us to miss at least a few of the opening numbers.  I relished imagining the fees they’d have to pay the thuggish touts outside, or, failing scalping, the degenerate sexual exchanges they must have negotiated.

“My daddy forgot to procure tickets in advance and ended up having to give Edward Burns a handjob right out on 8th avenue.”

Golden tickets in hand, Cain and I scrambled to our seats, which we we were surprised to find occupied by a gaggle of girls in their early teens.   We let them keep our seats and took a couple of empty spots next to them, which seemed like a good, generous move until the gang of nasty hags started metastasizing and flooding our row and shrewishly bitching every time Chris or I had to wriggle in front of them to go get more beers, which, admittedly, we needed to do very frequently.

Don’t you judge us.

But, people, the show was great.  It was simply great.  It had everything: tremendous set design, extravagant costumes, boobs, phenomenal dancers, boobs, a couple of acrobats, and Katy Perry’s boobs.  It also featured, as a framing device for the evening, a video backstory, which was admittedly pretty inscrutable, since we’d missed the beginning of the show.  It centered around Perry’s search for her cartoon cat (?) through an Oz-like candyland, and it was batshit crazy.  At one point, the floating, disembodied-but-still-very-much-alive head of some bald pederast appeared and seemed to be threatening her, while pharmaceuticals orbited around it.   When video-Perry finally found the cat, she learned that it had intentionally led her [spoiler alert] to a blue wig, which was on display in the middle of fucking nowhere. This development seemed to delight Perry, but I’ll tell you what: if I had chased a cat around some nightmarish candy-riddled hellhole for hours and battled antagonistic severed heads and other shit I’m currently forgetting, only to find out that the cat just wanted me to experiment with some new hairstyles, I would positively thrash that damned animal, forfeiture of future “PETA’s Sexiest Vegetarian” competitions be damned.

“It’s good enough for Billy Zane”

Another unexpected thing about the show was that it demonstrated a fairly heartrending rift between Perry’s personal sensibilities and her audience’s collective maturity level.  The whole production was ribald as hell, which is fine for a couple of salty old dogs like Chris and I, but, no shit, people – a good 70% of the audience seemed to be pre-pubescent girls, with a large portion of the remaining crowd composed of their fathers.  Most of the dads, let’s be honest, didn’t exactly appear to be complaining.

“I like exactly two things about Katy Perry”

The father sitting in front of me demonstrated far more enthusiasm for the show than did his five-year-old daughter, but I’m guessing that’s because she didn’t catch the connotations when Perry, while singing a song dressed as a Peacock (Lyrics: “I wanna see your peacock, cock, cock”, which, I’ll tell you what, if a woman ever referred to my dick as a “pea cock,” I can pretty goddamn well guarantee that I would not respond by showing it to her), but, so, anyway, while she sang these lyrics, she held her microphone perpendicular to her mouth and she bobbed her head back and forth, ostensibly maybe mimicking the nod of a peacock’s head as it walks, but, really, it just looked like she and her dancers were orgiastically fellating the hell out of some microphones.

“I’d fuck me.”

Or maybe the seven-year-old girl to my right didn’t catch it when Perry kissed a guy from the audience on the cheek and then salaciously reported to the crowd that one thing she likes about American guys is “that they give back.”  Or maybe the kid just thought that Perry’s spandex leotard was itchy when she (Perry, not the little girl, you asshole) rubbed her crotch as she sang, “We kiss, we make out” during “Hot and Cold.”  Or maybe the children just weren’t semiotically savvy enough to digest the symbolism in video projections of cartoon bottles of champagne blowing their loads in the final, climactic number.  Or maybe they just thought it was cool to be doused in the foam that spurted from a decidedly phallic candy-cane squirt-gun as Perry stroked it, suggestively.  Maybe these nine-year-olds misunderstood Perry’s question when they squealed (in a disturbingly high pitch) in response to her wondering aloud, “Who’s feeling sexy, tonight?”  Referring to the two almost impossibly cherubic kids who danced in the row behind us during one particularly lurid number, Chris worried, “I sure hope they didn’t see the lascivious tonguing of that dancer’s asshole.”

“We admit it – we enjoy watching a little tastefully-simulated eroticism every now and then.”

But, you know what?  The kids loved it, even if they were too stupid to catch all of the great sex junk.  At one point, as I was looking down at my phone, writing a gloating text to an absent friend, a section of the crowd let out a huge cheer.  “Why’d they scream?  What’d she do?” I asked Chris.

“She pointed herself in their direction,” he said.

So, yeah:  Perry’s got panache to spare, and she’s got a handful of totally badass songs, and her band is fantastic, and Max Hart gets a couple of really top-notch keyboard solos, and the whole thing is just generally very joyous and over-the-top and must cost a goddamned arm and a leg to produce, but it’s worth every penny of the expense. Look, if you see only one show this year (and it won’t be a We Are Scientists show, since we’re gonna be writing the next record for the next couple of months), make it Katy Perry’s Porno Fuckfest, or whatever it’s called.

“Bring the fuckin’ kids!”

 

Of Cartage & K80 Perry

Yeah, so yesterday, we went to the band storage space in Manhattan with the intention of cleaning that sucker out and closing it down, and we darn near almost succeeded. Allow us to set the scene: Manhattan Mini Storage; rainy but not so very chilly; yesterday. And the first thing you need to know is that, man, that place sucks. Something about going to Manhattan Mini Storage brings the whole day’s mood down. You can be driving around, stuck in Manhattan traffic, inching along, listening to some hip indie tunes on the Fordham University radio station (ninety-something point something), dipping the van’s big doughnut-looking tires into that shitty coffee Starbucks pours into the city’s potholes every morning before the sun comes up – basically, you’re driving along having a great time, and then you drive up to Manhattan Mini Storage and the mood just nose-dives. It plummets. Because the place sucks so hard. Which – long story short – is why we had decided to clean the sucker out and close the sucker down. But here’s the goddamn rub of this entire lifestyle article: we didn’t succeed. We filled our trusty, slowly disintegrating van (El Lobo Argentino) to its rusty brim, and still, hunkering menacingly in the storage space, were the following items: a bass cabinet, a bass head in a flight case, four guitar amps in flight cases, a 2,070 lb case full of drum hardware, and assorted green drums. A(whole)nother van load, in short, guys. A great example of “an unbearable prospect” when you’ve already spent 90 minutes at Manhattan Mini Storage is: returning to Manhattan Mini Storage. So we pulled out the white flag, the flag of surrender, hoisted it up El Lobo Argentino’s antenna, and headed to Brooklyn, to Keith’s office, to unload that first vanful of junk. And here’s the second rub of this erratic, paragraphless lifestyle article, reprinted from Vanity Fair magazine: there was some great stuff in that first van-load (“vanful”). Lots of random, great old merch, and even some not-very-great early CDs, stuff we issued back when we sucked. We’re going to take pictures of it and make it available to you – FOR A PRICE. Money. The price will be money. So look forward to that! Or, hell, yawn with indifference. 

Paragraph 2: Last night, after the whole cartage episode, we went to K80 Perry’s show at Madison Square Garden and got blown the hell away. Max Hart was there, up on the stage, behind a keyboard, is why we were there. At least, that’s why we *initially thought* we were there. It quickly became apparent that we were actually there to witness an incredible spectacle. Keith is presently gestating a full review of the K80 Perry MSG show; as soon as its ready, we’ll change the font color to black and publish it right here at wearescientists.com. Sorry, that last sentence has gotta be confusing as hell if you’re reading this in Vanity Fair magazine right now. The thing is, the only reason Vanity Fair printed this article in the first place is because it deals heavily with vans – with a van – and they thought it reinforced their brand (VAN-ity Fair magazine, you see). But so, although we offered it to them, they decided to pass on Keith’s K80 Perry review. The review would only serve to diminish their brand, they said, with all its frank talk about sex, music, and culture. The readers of Vanity Fair magazine, its editors told us, are more interested in things like “vans and articles about state fairs,” which is of course Vanity Fair’s slogan. So, if you’re reading this in the glossy pages of Vanity Fair magazine right now, just know that you’ll have to plug in your computer and scream the words “wearescientists.com” at it if you want to read a full review of the K80 Perry thing. 

And for Vanity Fair readers only: turn to page 118 now for a tasteful photo spread of Nicole Kidman’s bush. It’s one of the most beautiful things we’ve ever seen. One of the photos we actually cut out and taped to the wall next to our bathroom mirror, so we could study it while we brush our teeth each morning and evening. Nicole Kidman’s success is no mystery once you’ve seen her bush, just how goddamn perfect it is. Anyone who maintains such a fabulous specimin obviously possesses dedication and persistence and grit in spades. Yes, we strongly suggest you skip right to page 118 and get a good look at these great photos of Nicole Kidman’s prize-winning rose bush, shot right there in her back yard. Finally, a tasteful photo spread from Vanity Fair instead of the usual close-up celebrity pussy photography.