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Posted by on Sep 13, 2012 in Blog, Rants and Raves | 10 comments

My Personal Boycott — 30 Things Not Permitted Inside the Dalla Household

 

sick-of-kardashian

No Kardashians Allowed!

 

ALERT!  Be advised the following items, consumer products, programs, and personalities are NOT permitted at the Dalla residence.  Any guest who shows up with any of these items will be denied entry.  For further explanations, see “footnotes” below:

 

1.  Merlot (wine)

2.  Light beer (of any kind)

3.  Any broadcast, likeness, or product endorsed by ANY one of the following — Britney Spears, Lindsey Lohan, Jennifer Lopez, Jessica Simpson, or any member of the Kardashian family

4.  Margarine

5.  Any product manufactured or branded by Dell Computers

6.  Any item connected in any way (hats, t-shirts, bags, etc.) to either Full Tilt Poker or Ultimate Bet.

7.  Soft drinks of any kind (Coke, Pepsi, etc.)

8.  BMWs

9.  Anything written or published by Washington Post columnist Charles Krauthammer

10.  Infants

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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 | 16 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 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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Posted by on Jul 27, 2012 in Las Vegas, Personal, Rants and Raves | 3 comments

Nolan Dalla Rants: Do Not Tread On Me

Running in The Lakes of Las Vegas

 

This is an all out declaration of war.

If you’re one of the fucking idiots who consistently drives in the RIGHT-HAND LANE….if you are one of the obnoxious jackasses oblivious to those who casually stroll along on sidewalks making our daily walks and runs….if you selfishly barrel through busy intersections like the ass-joker that you are….I’m issuing you a full-fledged warning.

From this moment forward, I will no longer be responsible for my actions or what happens to your vehicle.  Prepare to meet my middle finger.  Prepare to hear the blasting of my horn.  Prepare for my flashing headlights.

It’s WAR.

I am making it a mission to improve traffic flow.  I’m making it a mission to save both time and energy.  I’m making it a mission to reduce needless vehicle emissions.  I hereby declare that the RIGHT-HAND LANE is only for entering/exiting the roadway and for making right turns.  Nothing else.

And now let me explain why this is such an outrage.

I’ve taken up running the last several months.  In virtually every city I’ve visited since I began my training program, I observed a consistent pattern of unmistakable rudeness.  Often when running along a sidewalk, perhaps no more than a few feet from the right-hand traffic lane, these brain-dead jokers completely oblivious to common courtesy roar past me like out-of-control freight trains.  These vehicles race by in a mindless stupor, blinded to any manifestation of humanity.

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