Some people just can’t catch a break… and then there is Lindsay Lohan. The former Disney starlet and current star of not a damn thing has been fucking up so long that some of you may know her best from her series of mug shots. Fans of those wonderful portraits may soon rejoice again as Lindsay might find herself “booked for another modeling gig” at the L.A. County Jail soon.
Fortunately, this time she didn’t hit anything with her car or steal jewelry from anyone, though her current troubles are related. In 2012, Lindsay was ordered to complete 240 hours of community service, which she was supposed to finish by November 2014. That didn’t happen, and she’s since been granted several extensions by the court for reasons that remain unclear to anyone with a sense of logic. May 28 is her new deadline and Lindsay reportedly still has about 115 hours of community service left.
Lindsay thought she had less hours left, but she doesn’t seem to understand how community service works. Lindsay tried to claim community service hours for starring in a play and attending a fan meet-and-greet, but in a shocking turn of events, the court ruled that those hours wouldn’t count. While Lindsay surely knows that those hours won’t count now, I’m still not sure she understands this whole “community service” thing.
Lindsay is running out of time and clearly needs my help. She cannot afford to make any more mistakes, so I want to go over a few other things that she may think will count as community service that actually won’t. After all, no one wants to see Lindsay go to jail; her hijinks in the outside world are just too great to lose!
Lindsay, you are clearly a menace on the road. You even did a Super Bowl commercial making fun of yourself. I think it’s safe to say that we are all better off without you behind the wheel of a car. Fortunately for you, you are rich or bad enough with money that you are willing to pay for a car service. That’s great! You should keep doing that, but it won’t count as community service.
We all have our vices. Some of us drink too much or do too much coke, or just party too much in general. You happened to do all of those things, Lindsay, which can be fun to watch. That’s what makes you, you! And while those things also make you the danger to the public that you are, sadly, stopping the drinking, drugs and partying will not count as community service, though it probably should in your case.
Those are two big ones that come to mind, though we should probably make a few more clear as well. In similarity to plays and fan meet-and-greets, doing low-budget movies, theater in the park, commercials, radio interviews, photo shoots, club and restaurant appearances or attending red carpet events all will not count as community service. Wearing clothes and jewelry given or loaned to you by designers will not count as community service. Giving your personal assistant the weekend off doesn’t count either. Basically, if you want to claim something is community service, it has to at least be done in service to the community. It’s right there in the name!
I hate to say it, Lindsay, but I think you might just have to bite the bullet and clean up garbage on the side of the highway with the rest of the criminals. I’m sure they can find the perfect job for you. I saw a video of you wielding a pair of hedge clippers and it looked crazy dangerous, so maybe you can sweep or something.
It won’t be so bad. Just think of it as research for your next big role. It’s about a former star that got so washed up that even Herbie the Love Bug wouldn’t fuck with her anymore. After her career tanks, she gets busted by the cops for a bunch of dumb shit and ends up on the side of the road in a prison cleanup detail sifting through garbage, searching for the meaning of life.
-Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com
There comes a point in every person’s life when they just have to go. Be it college, a job change or that your parents booted you the day after your 18th birthday, we’ve all got to move sometime. Moving to a new place is a big change that requires big adjustments, but change can be good. Of course, before you can enjoy the change of scenery you’ve got to get there first.
Finding a new place is a nightmare. I don’t own a home, so my experience is restricted to renting, but I doubt buying a house is any easier. Craigslist makes house hunting better than it used to be, but even they are at the mercy of those posting the ads. Whether it’s old or poor quality pictures, unclear terms, funky restrictions or lack of price, many posters try their hardest not to rent you their house.
It may not seem like it at first, but eventually you will find a place, and that’s when the real “fun” begins. The first leg of your new journey is called packing, and the name of the game is boxes. Now, you can buy boxes, but that shit is crazy expensive for something you won’t need in a week. No need to do that when every store, restaurant and office you see receives and discards boxes on a daily basis. You’ve just got to go out there and get you some of that brown gold! You might even find yourself dumpster diving shoulder-to-shoulder with professional hobos hoping to find something decent before the box crusher renders them useless.
By the time you finish packing, you will be a box master. Unfortunately, when it comes time to actually move, your boxing know-how will be of no help when you find yourself staring at an overstuffed couch stuck in your front doorway. It probably won’t be the last time you are left wondering how in the hell you got a piece of furniture into your house in the first place.
In all the hubbub of the move, you will likely break your favorite things, lose important things and find things you never knew you had and have no use for in the present (hello, fifth grade report card!). You will hurt your back, smash your fingers and leave yourself covered in bruises and tiny cuts. You will hit your head on the trunk of your car at least twice. The further you move, the worse shape you and your belongings will be in when you get there.
Just when you get all of your stuff in the new place and you are ready to collapse, you will have to go back and clean your old house. You need to do a good job, because cash is on the line. By the time you finish, you will swear to yourself that you will clean the oven and fridge more often at your new place, but hopefully your old digs look as good as possible.
A good return on your deposit may provide a much needed monetary cushion, but the utility companies will soon do their best to help lighten your load. If you move within the same town it might not be so bad, but switching cities is a nightmare. Prepare yourself for $50 install fees for such difficult tasks as pushing a button, flipping a switch or screwing in a cable.
If they don’t drain your wallet, they will drain your patience. Good luck getting your Internet set up if your choices are AT&T and Comcast. The two companies almost have a third of a brain between them. AT&T is willing to spend a week installing boxes and running cables only to tell you that the wiring in your house (which had presumably worked for the person living there two months ago) needs to be replaced at your expense. Comcast will get you all set up only to accidentally cancel your account the next day.
Moving won’t be dry hands, band aids, prescription meds, Internet deprivation and Top Ramen forever. Eventually, everything will work out, and you will get settled in. You don’t always get to choose why or where you move, but you do get to choose what happens once you get there. Moving is a chance to reinvent yourself…to escape those ruts you’ve been stuck in for years. You’ve just done something that was exciting, depressing, exhilarating, exhausting, well planned and chaotic, all at the same time. If that doesn’t shake you out of your haze, then more (or less) medication may be the answer.
By Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com
I told the doctor I’ve been feeling different for the past week or so. He checked my pulse, dilated my pupils, lit up my ears and began asking about my symptoms. “An increasing desire to work out, strong national pride, an eye for fashion and a sudden interest in sports,” I said. After asking where I’m from and checking my hormone levels for any irregularities, Doc came to the conclusion that I, in fact, had acquired Olympic fever.
It made total sense. The 2012 Summer Olympic Games hooked me from day one with its bizarro opening ceremony. The English are brilliant! The dancing sick children were a nice touch, but I was more enthralled with the overall message. Who knew the solution to our healthcare problems was to set loose a swarm of Harry Potters’ Mary Poppins’ own Valdemort and his minions? Thank you for showing us the way, Danny Boyle.
Once the games began, I started my search for the weird events. Fans and haters of Mitt Romney are probably aware that his wife’s horse is competing in dressage or “horse dancing.” I also saw a track event called steeplechase, where runners jump a few hurdles and hop over a wall into a moat, leaving them to run the rest of the next lap with soggy feet. I didn’t know adults still played field hockey, but after seeing the beautiful Dutch women’s team in their sexy school girl uniforms, I’d encourage all adult women to pick up the game.
The uniforms are part of the reason people watch the Olympics. There are perfect bodies in tight and/or skimpy clothing. The gawking potential is equally divided amongst the sexes, so for every hot field hockey girl, ladies get one spandex wearing, canoeing gold medalist with a boner.
Looking past short skirts and spandex dicks, these athletes need to be recognized for what they are: inspiring. Many of these Olympians spend their entire youths training for just one event. The odds of success are infinitesimal, but they push on because they believe in that remote chance.
Oscar Pistorius of South Africa believed in that chance, despite being a double amputee. Pistorius ran in the Men’s 400 Meter using prosthetic “blades” that were strapped to what remained of his legs. While he didn’t move past the semifinals, he did receive both a warm welcome and a fond farewell from the crowd and his fellow racers, one of whom even traded nametags with him at the end of the race. It was nice enough to warm even my jaded heart.
I noticed other changes in myself. I was proud of Team U.S.A.’s accomplishments, and I even began rooting for our country instead of just staring at the train wreck that we usually see when the Stars and Stripes are involved. I had almost forgotten what it was like to feel that way.
Of course, it’s easy to be proud when we are actually kicking ass. We beat ourselves in women’s beach volleyball to take silver and gold, killed it in women’s gymnastics and have managed to sweep up 20-plus track medals. Our greatest success thus far has been swimming, in which, at last count, we had won 30 medals.
Many of those swimming wins were sucked down the bowl of one Michael Phelps. Phelps plans to retire after these games as the world record-holder for the most Olympic Medals won. When asked why he wouldn’t return in 2016, Phelps told his NBC poolside interviewer that he had traveled the world, but had only seen black lines at the bottom of swimming pools. If that was my life, I would probably take bong loads in the off-season too.
Some people can’t wait until the off-season, though. Seventh place U.S. judo participant, Nicholas Delpopolo, just had to “accidentally” eat that bud brownie at his homey’s house before he left for the Olympics. He was expelled for testing positive for THC after he had already lost.
The Olympics can be a cold-hearted bitch like that, but there are things that can make it more fun. Serena Williams showed the world that gold medal winners should C Walk after they win. We could give out medals for that too!
If dancing ain’t your thing, maybe we could take the original Greek idea and throw in a little Roman Coliseum action. We could add snake pits for the gymnasts, sharks in the pools, lions on the track and humans vs. humans on the gun and archery ranges. Or if that’s too nuts, we could just have regular people doing the events next to the pros so people at home can see what being an Olympian truly means.
-Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com
Life is a fragile thing. There was a point last week when I didn’t think these words would ever make it down on paper. Hell, two days ago, I wasn’t even sure if I would make it from my bed to the toilet, let alone put together a coherent thought. A particularly virulent strain of the flu took hold of me last week and appeared ready to ride my pale horse carcass to usher in the apocalypse. The following is an account of the six days it took me to reenter the land of the living.
Day One
Something wasn’t right. It was cold and raining, yet here I sat sweating through my clothes. Work was inescapable that day, which meant that I had to repeatedly explain to clients why I couldn’t shake hands with them, as I thought I was coming down with something. Some demanded it anyway; pity those poor fools. The day went by without too much discomfort. I was aided by the delicious Romanian mulligatawny from Muntean’s on J Street (don’t sleep on this place!). I was sure this would pass within a couple days.
Day Two
Day two welcomed me with a sweat outline of myself imprinted on my sheets. Every muscle in my body ached. Work was again unavoidable and this time in the far-off land of Modesto. Repeats of the no-handshake conversations transpired and soup was again on the menu (this time minestrone), which I had to pay for by check since my now flu-addled brain caused me to forget my wallet in the car. I made it home just before all semblance of stability left me. The ensuing fever was harsh and so, lacking any control of my internal thermostat, I was forced to set up a hot bed and a cold bed to make sleep possible. I slept 11 hours that night.
Day Three
Finally, a day to recover–or so I thought. My lack of preparedness was beginning to get the best of me. The only soup in my house was three packs of Top Ramen that said “best by 2007.” Too weak to leave home, I ate one of them anyway. It was all I could stomach for the day and it was pretty foul, so I guess Ramen can go bad after all. At some point I was lulled into a Game of Thrones marathon on HBO, which did not lend itself well to my already fragile mental state. In my half-conscious daydreams, I began to believe that it was up to me to save Ned Stark from those Lannister pricks. Needless to say, I failed miserably. Sorry, Ned.
Day Four
I woke to find myself naked, disoriented, sore and shivering in the cold bed believing my fever had finally broke, but as I would discover through a series of hot and cold flashes to come later in the day, it was all just a cruel jape. To add insult to injury, my sinuses were now plugged and my throat was on fire. Making matters worse, I also began to drool uncontrollably, requiring the assistance of a spit cup for my waking hours and a spit towel for my sleeping ones. Today’s soup was an awful pile of shit that Raley’s calls vegetable soup, but is actually closer to plant mulch with tomato juice.
Day Five
This fucking flu had the nerve to wake me up to a clear head and no fever only to transform me into a coughing, slobbering, wheezing, dripping mess 30 minutes later. My only savior was the icy hot patch on my lower back that allowed me to attain the fetal position that I needed oh so badly by that point. By 2 p.m., I had already sent out a preemptive, “Not coming in to work tomorrow,” email. This fucker still had legs and jumped up and down on my face for the rest of the day.
Day Six
When I woke up, the drooling, fever and body aches had gone, but the rest remained. The idea of eating another bowl of soup was about as appealing as eating my three-day-old spit towel, so instead, today’s soup was a roast beef sandwich. On Demand was malfunctioning and apparently 25 movie channels can only manage to play 10 different movies each day. Kinky Boots just doesn’t speak to me and one can only watch the Back to the Future trilogy so many times before you want to jolt your brain with 1.21 jiggawatts of electric chair goodness.
And yet I had to smile. The worst was apparently over. My swine bird turducken flu had tried its hardest to take me down, but I’m a goddamn marvel of modern science. Oh, and you best believe I’ll be getting the shot next year!
Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com
I’ve been commuting semi-regularly for the past few weeks. All that freeway time hasn’t exactly made me appreciative of my fellow man. I might have gone on a rampage if I had remembered to bring my gat; but alas, Bam-Bam was resting snuggly under my pillow at home. Stuck in gridlock with little to do but sit and steam, I couldn’t help but reflect on the other things that annoy me. In the interest of avoiding another round of Zoloft, I figure it’s best to channel the funk to you via the pages of one of the few things I don’t hate, Submerge .annoying
Let’s begin with the bad boy that unleashed the hater in me: freeway traffic. I’ll actually be a little more specific and say evening freeway traffic between Modesto and Sacramento on Highway 99. What the fuck are you people doing out there? It is very simple: The fast lane is the one on the left and the slow lane is the one on the right. I know that the fast lane looks real tempting: after all, there is a whole line of cars over there. The slow lane is all open and boring. Why not join the party and cram yourself in? You might as well throw that brake on; get this thing slowed down to 55 mph. Here, let me just slap you upside the head real quick. LISTEN: If you don’t plan on going fast (i.e. faster than the speed limit, or at least at the speed limit) move to the right.
Speaking of the right, this next hate goes out to Fox News Glenn Beck. I know he’s an easy target and that he’s getting clowned on The Daily Show regularly, but I got to throw in my two cents. The other night I actually tried to watch Glenn Beck”¦ Wow! Dude is seriously on one. The captured news reporters were finally released from North Korea (word Billy!), so, of course the topic of discussion was how Obama really fucked this one up. It was so bad that my television literally froze for a minute or so.
If you consider yourself a Glenn Beck fan, then this next hate might just be for you. I’m talking to the dumb people. I’m talking to the dumb people. I repeated that last sentence on purpose, just to get their attention. Idiots love having you explain things in 12 different ways before opting for the Pictionary version. Eventually they just nod their heads in agreement while staring at you with glazed eyes and open mouths. If you are really that dumb (and you know if you are), then you need to find an interpreter to help you. Oh sorry”¦ I mean, you need an explainer that will learn you the words I’m saying. Try to stay with me, it’s about to get more complicated.
Big downs to all my smart-dumb cats! Yeah, you think you’re hot shit, don’t you? Well I’m about to take a dump in your house in the middle of summer. You got a college degree, so naturally, you know everything about everything. Too bad you are as big a pain in the ass to explain something to as the idiot that got lost at the beginning of the last paragraph. The only difference is that you want to draw the pictures for me, for some reason. You have a million bullshit hypotheticals to pitch and apparently, a seemingly endless supply of time to have them answered. What if I beat you with my keyboard, sir? Would that satisfy your curiosity?
So much hate and so little space: the following hate-outs come in no particular order. What up to all you slow ass motherfuckers in the drive-thru lines! Stop ordering the entire menu and don’t pay in change that you haven’t counted yet! Hey Bluetooth man in the elevator: stop shouting that you are losing the signal. They can’t hear you, but we sure as hell can (and could before too, loud-ass). Sacramento traffic lights, can we get a timing correction? I’m sitting at empty intersections for way too long and missing green lights when I’m two cars back. Get on your game, bitches! Finally, a big “fuck you” to all the haters out there. Y’all are a bunch of real dicks!
Admit it. Everyone has done it in some form or another at some point in their lives”¦ usually in their teens. It might begin when the boredom becomes unbearable, or it may need no impetus at all. No, I’m not talking about sex or drugs, or even stealing. I am referring to that certain form of mischief that only a teenager knows. So, grab your eggs and toilet paper and remember: It’s not about revenge. It’s more about the hilariousness of the idea that someone is going to wake up, see the mess you’ve made and wonder what the hell happened.
I’ve done my share. I didn’t grow up in the most exciting town, but we made it work. In my neighborhood, pedestrian paths tied several cul-de-sacs together; so it was almost too easy to make a quick getaway. Having that sort of freedom led to frequent, precision attacks on random neighbors I didn’t know.
For example, a friend and I regularly put bologna on some poor schlub’s car. We heard that bologna would peel off paint, but it only managed to leave greasy polka dots. When bologna was scarce we switched to Spam, which makes a delightful plopping sound upon impact. We also conducted weekly bombing missions on two Volvos around the corner. The reason was simple: anyone with two Volvo station wagons was asking to be egged. To help with the cleaning process, we would follow up with some toilet paper.
There is something about that roll”¦ the way it just glides out of your hand, unraveling as it floats toward the tallest tree branch. At first we chose houses based on difficulty of cleanup, but soon we discovered a couple of favorites. The first house must have contained a wild boar, because the snoring sounds we heard from the front yard could not have come from a human. We didn’t even have to be quiet since there was no way that guy was hearing anything but himself. The second house was perfect; the yard was full of giant trees (the tallest on the block) and their branches were spread just right. Three of us filled our bags with T.P. and went to work. Within 10 minutes the yard was devastated. As we prepared the final two rolls, we heard the door open. While trying to blend into the shadows, we watched a short, fat man step out on the porch wearing only his underwear!
When we weren’t out disrupting the sleep of fat men in tighty-whities, we’d hit up the Goodwill parking lot on the after-hour tip. People would leave the weirdest shit: couches (fuck yo’ couch!), an organ, refrigerators, a giant stuffed flamingo, and a puppet that a friend later named Bocephus Chigger [see above photo]. We would fill up my truck and either scatter the goods in random places around town or smash them somewhere. Soon, we branched out and began “borrowing” other things we found around town. Depending on the season, we could have been hauling traffic cones, pumpkins, political signs or plastic balls from the McDonald’s playground. The idea was this: the weirder, the better.
It wasn’t long before our looting began to pay off.
Sometime around Halloween, we found a pool just over the fence from the pedestrian path. Trash collection went into high gear, as this was to be our pièce de résistance! On a cold October night, we formed a sort of bucket brigade from the bed of the truck to the fence. The goods passed from hand-to-hand, over the fence where they hit the pool with hilarious results. In minutes, the pool was filled with several large pumpkins, a stack of traffic cones, a toilet plunger, a purple velvet robe, a stack of newspapers and the entire contents of a napkin dispenser. It was truly a sight to behold (and one that we would never enjoy again, as the pool was thereafter under police guard).
I miss those times”¦ the world was a different place. People today are so uptight that a kid could get shot for burning a bag of shit on someone’s doorstep. Maybe it’s time we all grab a roll or two and cut loose. Tell the world that you want your fun back! Tell them you are ready to be a kid again! After all, being an adult is hardly all it’s cracked up to be.
By Bocephus Chigger
Life can be monotonous. We travel the same roads day-in and day-out, hoping for something better to come along. We fall into ruts that seem impossible to escape. At some point we all want out, and I am here to tell you that it is possible. There’s a whole other world out there, just waiting for you”¦ all you need to do is start saving (good luck!). While you’re figuring out that hustle, allow me to regale you with my own tales from the Chigger Brothers’ European Vacation.
After months of preparation, it was time to do the damn thing! My brother, Brocephus, and I spent the afternoon burnin’ it down, sipping on screwdrivers and taking inventory of our gear. By 6 p.m. it was time to board the plane for our nine hour flight. Loving air travel as much as I do, I decided to cope by sucking down free booze until I passed out. After swilling beer, wine and gin, I was ready to either yack or crash. Much to the joy of the elderly woman on my left, I chose the latter.
In hindsight, drinking myself to sleep on a germ-laden airplane probably wasn’t the best idea; and the three-week malaise that followed took its toll on the Chiggers. By the time we landed in Heathrow Airport, your boy was sniffling, sneezing and coughing like a Nyquil commercial! Not letting a little phlegm get in the way, we boarded the Piccadilly line of the Underground and headed into the city. We had made it to our first destination: London, England.
Ah, London”¦ where bars stay busy from around 5 p.m. until last call. Brocephus and I ended up at one of London’s many corner pubs with two completely shit-faced Brits. One, who happened to be rockin’ a dead front tooth, was cracking jokes and talking shit while his friend, Holla Man, tried to get up on every girl (including a 37-year-old, unattractive accountant). Eventually, my brother convinced Holla Man to talk his way into the Spearmint Rhino strip club across the street from the bar. Off he went with only his wits and two finger condoms (produced as if by magic!) to protect him. Unfortunately, a security blockade was soon in full effect. My brother tried to reason with the tit guardians, explaining that Holla Man was fully protected, but it was to no avail. We set back to drinking and, as the pint glasses stacked up, the Brits became harder to understand; so, we headed back to our bed-farm for the night.
The next day was supposed to be museums, churches and landmarks galore; however, Brocephus needed help recovering from the previous night. On a tip, we headed to Camden Town to score some of the real good. We began our quest by asking people looking for charitable donations where the Al Green was at. Some felt slighted since they were out there for charity, but they didn’t realize that’s exactly what we were looking for. Soon enough, we met a South African dude with a Henry (the eighth), who was kind enough to smoke us out. After walking about a mile to find a quiet spot, he unrolled his sack only to find that he had just bought a $60 napkin! Feeling pity for our new friend, we hit the streets, asking suspects where we could score. After several false starts, we found a man who had his two kids sell us a dime bag for $40. With nary a head change and much lighter wallets, we spent the next few days seeing the sites, climbing to the tops of copulas, getting rained on and soaking it all in.
After a while, our differences became apparent. Obviously, the Brits drive on the wrong side of the road, but there are other things: bacon=Canadian bacon; condiment packets are tiny and include something called brown sauce; the pigeons are ridiculously fat; you don’t tip at bars; and when the voice on the Underground announces you are riding toward Cockfosters, no one laughs. Fortunately, they make up for their shortcomings by filling their museums with priceless “borrowed” artifacts and flooding the streets with above average tits. That’s right; the gawking had begun and just in time for Prague”¦ stay tuned!
-Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com
