Missy was too far ahead of her time. Missy is an icon. But, even icons can get crazy. WTF was Missy doing challenging this femme-Yakuza crew, and biting their style? That’s some scary MF’ers to deal with! Lookin at her step up, she’s got NO fear in her heart. Missy’s clearly crazy. So were her videos. The only competition in eccentric Hip Hop video production was Busta Rhymes, as shown in a previous TBT post. When you watch this, try to decide what’s better – the costume, or the choreography! This Is Not A Test – it’s some scary $hit!
In cynical celebration of our favorite death celebrating season, we’re going all out on fear based topics this month. Every day, Ben will present one thing that scares him, ranging from the anxious and annoying to the deadly and doomed. This is… Things That Scare Me.
There’s one noise, one piercing sound, that I fear above all the rest. I fear it more than the sickening sound of that neighborly owl tearing into a fresh rodent, a meal that always seems to take place in my backyard. I fear it more than the booming sound of an unexpected explosion, prank fireworks or overloaded transformer boxes. I fear it more than the sound of a child crying, a helpless wail. I fear that sound more than any of that crap combined. That sound? My godforsaken, piece of shit alarm clock.
I understand that the objective function of an alarm clock is to wake someone up. I get it. It’s inherently startling. I COMPREHEND THE CONCEPT, GUYS. But every single time my asshole alarm decides to unleash the fury of a thousand decibels of unfiltered siren into my ear, I FREAK the fuck out. I can’t help it! My alarm, no matter what time I fall asleep, no matter what day of the week, no matter what time it’s set to go off, will always go all *WARNING YOU’RE IN A SINKING SUBMARINE* during my deepest, most peaceful moment of REM sleep. EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.
Well, okay, that used to be true at least. See, my fear of the alarm (or maybe just my fear of waking up in general. Jobs, am I right?) has created an embedded state of anxiety that occurs in the morning hours of bedrest. So now instead of getting blasted awake by a nuclear meltdown warning, I don’t spend a single second of my 4am-6am sleeping hours in my happy dream place. Nope, now I treat myself to the flopping, frantic turning that accompanies vast, insurmountable fear, inevitably leading to my constant checking of time, an every-fifteen-minute occurrence involving squinted, light-blinded eyes and frustrated sighs. IT’S A REALLY HEALTHY HABIT, YOU GUYS. NO PROBLEMS FROM THAT AT ALL. NOPE. MY WIFE DEFINITELY DOESN’T HATE ME.
I’m so scared of alarm clocks, that I’m now not even being woken up by alarm clocks, but rather by the anxiety of the alarm clock itself. THAT’S TRUE FEAR, YO. And before you get all judgmental (way, way too late, huh?), please know that I know that it’s pathetic. It’s not like spiders or getting buried underground, or any other massively felt fear. And it’s certainly not lethal by any stretch of the imagination. BUT IT IS LOUD AND IT SCARES ME. Or, I guess, it’s silent in the inertia of potential sound energy and still scares me? Or, I guess, it’s it all in my head and still scares me? I don’t know. Now I’m frustrated thinking about my frustration! Whatever. Fuck the flow of time and fuck mornings. Maybe I’m just scared of those.
In case you missed it, October’s our cynical celebration of our favorite death season. Every day, Ben will present one thing that scares him, ranging from the anxious and annoying to the deadly and doomed. This
Right Here Is My…SWAG is one of those things that scares me:
On behalf of South Africans everywhere, I’d like to pass my
condolences apologies. Ben claims to be American but, I have my doubts. I’ve known Americans to be a fearless bunch INVENTING phones, MOCKING the itsy bitsy spiders with their kids, and hanging out in public bathrooms during football games to warm up during the winter (good call to my freshman year professor for that recommendation) – not FEARing those things or anyone!
Americans are a proud folk who have somehow coined, trademarked, and completely monopolized the indelible “WE’RE NUMBER 1” sports chant… (patent pending). That holds true until some South Africans beat the snot out of the American “Eagles” in the Rugby World Cup as they did this past weekend with a decisive 64-0 Shutout. 64-0.. SIXTY FOUR. GOOD GAWD… You don’t have to understand the scoring in Rugby to get how terrible that is. America, meet me in the next paragraph, if you would be so kind.
Look, America. You’re good, right? I know your favorite newsman was recently replaced by South African, Trevor Noah – which will get awkward when he comes to talk $hit to Americans, about Americans… I would never do that, America! You know me! Known me more than half my life! I love you, America! I love
BASEBALL… HOCKEY… FOOTBALL… BASKETBALL… LEBRON JAMES, and HE’S American! Right? I love the Hawks! Not the Seattle Seahawks. They’re posers, and need to give that “Go Hawks” patent up to the Iowa Hawks of the heartland of farmin, hard-working, bread-basket, plain accent, this-ain’t-heaven-but-it’s-close IOWA! But I’m scared, America.
My fear is that thanks to this recent ass-handing by my Springboks, losing your beloved Jon Stewart, and Donald Trump’s surge in the polls – I will be issued a challenge in the immortal words of Iowa quarterback, Ricky Stanzi:
I love it. I don’t wanna leave it. So, despite that EMBARRASSMENT OF INTERNATIONAL PROPORTIONS America, WE still cool, right?