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Posted by on Sep 3, 2012 in Blog, Rants and Raves, What's Left | 2 comments

Breaking News: Deranged Fuck Dies

Deranged Religious Leader

 

In case you missed the news, a sick fuck named Sun Myung Moon died today.

Moon was best known not only as the creator of the Unification Church, but for claiming to the entire world that he is/was the messiah.

People, I am not making this up.

That’s right — some crazy fuck living over in South Korea actually woke up one day when he was in his 20s and thought he was on par with Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, and Donald Trump.  Seems this Korean guy was pretty powerful, or at least was persuasive as hell, since he ended up with so many adoring followers.  Estimates are that Moon had about seven million believers in his line of bullshit.

Moon’s millions of fantatics became better known as “Moonies,” an appropriate sticker since just about all of them might as well have been living on the moon.  The accounts of what this beast did to his devotees are well-publicized, so I won’t launch into a lengthy tirade here — as appetizing at that propsect might be.  However, all one must do to measure the degree of brainwashing that this deranged man had on disciples is to recall the horrific mass marriages that he and his church arranged.

That’s right — arranged.

In a ritual right out of the Middle Ages, the Unification Church held mass “weddings” with stadiums full of followers, joined in matrimony by a sick fuck standing at the podium.  Many of the young people who came to the ritual to be married at the instruction of this wacko church had never met the person they were about to marry.  You can imagine the pain and misery of such a medieval practice.  Again, this is all documented.

A few years ago, this man wed 360,000 couples in one mass ceremony.  That’s not a typo.  360,000!  Imagine getting stuck with that fucking bill.  What did they do for a wedding cake — invade fucking China?

How’d you like to be the guy who owns the tux rental shop down the street from the stadium?  That guy must have made a killing!

So, might there be any possibility that this self-described “messiah” really was who he says?  You know — the Korean commoner born when his nation was under Japanese rule, the man burned through two wives, the man who evaded his taxes, the man who served time in prison, the man with a child out of wedlock, and the man who is alleged to have built his vast empire by getting his followers to fork over all their money to the church?  Out of six billion people on the planet, this was God’s “chosen one?”

If Moon is who he claims to be, then I’m in some serious trouble.  Or, at least my soul is in serious trouble.  It’s going to end up looking like a charred sirloin at the Outback Steakhouse.  But hey, I’ll take my chances.  Make mine medium-rare, Rev. Moon.

If all this sounds mean spirted, I do not mean it to be so.  But when some joker claims to be “God” and then wrecks the lives of millions of susceptible people with his preposterous teachings about the world and who he is, such a death does not desere respect nor sanctity.  Instead, this deranged fuck’s life and mass charade should be exposed for what it is.

An abomination.

Rev. Sun Myung Moon, may you not rest in peace.  May all the lies you have propagated upon millions be buried forever.

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Posted by on Aug 17, 2012 in Blog, Music and Concert Reviews, Rants and Raves | 4 comments

Nolan Dalla Rants: DJ’S Earning Millions — Madness Spinning Out of Control

overpaid-dj

 

I swear — I’m not making this up.

A few days ago, a story appeared in the Las Vegas Review-Journal about a so-called “superstar DJ.”

I know.  I had to do a doubletake on that one, too.  “SUPERSTAR DJ.”

He reportedly earned $2 million last year.

Just in case you don’t get it — a “superstar DJ” is a personality (I cringe at the notion of celebrity) who is invited to a special event — usually a hot nightclub opening or swim party — to come in and (hold your breath) spin records.

That’s right — spin records. As in pop a few LPs on a turntable and pump up the volume.

Which begs the first question — wouldn’t it be a helluva’ lot easier to just load up a few CDs, hit the “play” button, and watch the dancing begin?  In the ecstasy-laced fantasyland of velvet ropes, VIP lines, and $22 cocktails, you think anyone in these high-priced insane asylums would know the fucking difference?

So, like I said — the “superstar DJ” shows up on a busy Friday or Saturday night and plays club music.  You know what I’m talking about — that inpenatrable thunder of batshit with the bass turned up so fucking loud your eardrums explode.  You know, that techno-jizz created by pre-programmed software. You know, that mindless industrial gunk played so goddamned loud you can’t even hear the person next to you  screaming in your ear.  Then again, maybe that’s the appeal.

I’m told these clubs are little more than meat markets.  How anyone actually picks up someone in one of these places is a complete mystery.  I mean, what’s a the typical opening line, “What a nice girl like you doing in a shithole like this?”

Stick with me.  There’s a punch line coming.

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Posted by on Aug 10, 2012 in Blog, Rants and Raves, Restaurant Reviews | 15 comments

Nolan Dalla Rant: A Guide to Restaurant Tipping

 

nolan-dalla-photo

Bon Appetiti!

 

NOLAN’S GUIDE TO RESTAURANT TIPPING

1.     Food Service

Start with 20 percent of full bill (tax included) and work way either up or down, based on the following events.

If server approaches my table within the first two minutes, maintain 20 percent tip.  Then, deduct one percent for every minute the server is tardy.  If server shows up 2 to 3 minutes late and then profusely apologizes, reset meter to 20 percent.  Moreover, if server stops by and asks for more time, allow one reset.  But no more than one reset permitted.

If no waiter shows up within five minutes, bolt for the door.  No questions asked.

If I am alone or dining with Marieta, we ALWAYS order everything IMMEDIATELY.  I do not want to fuck around and have multiple visits from some college kid asking what I want on each course — drinks, appetizers, and main course.  Let’s get to the point, I am here to E-A-T.  Not listen to someone’s life story.

Furthermore, I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW THE WAITER’S NAME!  I am ordering a meal from you, not buying a fucking house.

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Posted by on Aug 3, 2012 in General Poker, Personal, Rants and Raves | 6 comments

Trip Report — I Hate Philadelphia (Part 3)

I Hate Philadelphia

 

IX:  PHILADELPHIA

 

I hate Philadelphia.  It’s Detroit — with one major difference.  There are actually people LIVING in Philadelphia.

Which begs a serious question, why the fuck would anyone want to LIVE in Philadelphia?

The first part of this blog will be an attempt to fill in that elusive blank with some kind of explanation.  Call it a Hail Mary of logic.

I always feel compelled to give some background to these rants.  I lived in the Northeast for ten years.  I visited Philadelphia at least 100 times, so I’m no stranger to the scene.  Ninety or so of those visits were passing through on the way to Atlantic City, but many occasions turned into what I can only describe as an anti-vacation vacation.

So, let’s play a little game, shall we?

Question: If I say a word, what word immediately comes into your mind?  What image immediately comes up when confronted with the word “Philadelphia?”  For instance, when one thinks of Denver, the rocky mountains come to mind.  When one thinks of St. Louis, maybe it’s the famous Gateway Arch.  With New Orleans, it’s probably the French Quarter.

My mental flash drive of Philadelphia pretty much is an crash dump of rusted out ship hulls, decaying half-empty warehouses, lead smelters, oil refineries, welfare cheats, and dark, dirty, cold impersonal streets littered with filth.

I know.  Stereotyping is wrong, except for when it just so happens to be dead on accurate.

And so, I arrive in this hellhole on a Tuesday night.  It’s 35 degrees, drizzling and getting dark, which seems like the ideal metaphoric mood for this miserable place.

From the outside, the so-called PHILADELPHIA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT looks EXACTLY like the new Aria (Las Vegas) — only if it were laying on it’s side.  The airport is a giant gray steel and glass structure — kind of a cross between some Orwellianesque stage set and what one imagines the headquarters to the Social Security Administration to look like.

I remind myself that this will be one of three times I will actually fly into Philadelphia within a six-month period — which is three times too many as far as I’m concerned.  I was here for two weeks back in December (nothing spoils the holiday spirit more than spending the Christmas preamble in weary action-starved Atlantic City).

What’s most astonishing is that some people actually take PRIDE in being from Philadelphia — which is sort of like admitting you were birthed out of the ass of a pit bull.  I know people can’t help WHERE they were born.  But show some fucking humility.  Listen.  No one is fucking impressed that you grew up where they filmed “Rocky” — correction.  Make that Rocky 1, Rocky 2, Rocky 3, Rocky 4, and Rocky 5 — or that you flunked out of Penn.  I mean this is a place where everyone in the city looks like Burt Young — and I’m talking about the females here.  You’ve got nothing to be fucking proud of.

When I meet someone from Philadelphia, here’s what I EXPECT to hear.  Takes notes:

“Hi! My name is Sal.  Even though I have lived most of my life in a filthy hellhole with scumbags, it hasn’t rubbed off on me (too much) and I’m actually a pretty decent guy….if you give me the chance.”

I’m reasonable.  I don’t judge.

That’s an introduction I can accept.  Someone who speaks truth, from the heart.

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Posted by on Jul 31, 2012 in Blog, Rants and Raves | 6 comments

When Masterbation Becomes an Olympic Sport

 

volleyball-team-olympics

 

Passing through a crowded casino this weekend, I couldn’t help but notice hundreds of people – primarily men – crowded around several television screens at one of the bars.

So, what were they watching?  It’s not football season yet, and no one gives a shit about baseball, at least until the playoffs begin.

Answer — the 2012 Olympic Games.

More specifically, the men were watching women’s beach volleyball.

Right.  You’re thinking exactly what I’m thinking.  I’m sure most of those guys with their eyeballs glued to the television screens really gave a flying rat’s ass that the United States was playing Australia in a preliminary medal round.  Hell, it wasn’t even the finals.  But for many of those men, no doubt, the match concluded with one hell of a climax.

Beach volleyball?  Don’t call this charade a sport.  It’s the world’s largest masturbation festival — plain and simple.  It’s a cum-dumpster parade.  Women in panties prancing around in the sand.  They might as well be having  a pillow fight or wrestling in jello.

Confirming my suspicion that most of the viewers had no real rooting interest in the Olympic match other than the tits and ass tally, sometime later when I passed through the same area after dinner and this time men’s volleyball was being shown, virtually no one was watching.  MENS VOLLEYBALL.  Poof!  Everyone was gone!  I don’t know — perhaps someone yelled “fire” inside the casino and I missed it.

The bottom line is, most of these gold medal events aren’t really “sports” at all.  They are excuses for getting as many athletes from as many nations as possible into a televised viewing frame so that as many products as possible can be plunged down our throats in the form of a non-stop parade of commercials.  That’s it basically.  The Olympics are nothing more a delivery device for rampant consumerism — be it cell phones, sports cars, or soft drinks.  It’s the globe’s biggest assembly line for product placement — on every wall, on every uniform, on every sign, on every conceivable frame of real estate that might possibly be viewed by someone, somewhere.

Which brings me to what should be the Olympic Games’ most expensive product platform — the ASSES of the volleyball girls.  Hell, that real estate is more prime than a penthouse on Central Park West.

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