To begin, my friend Andy got a new hat.  This story will make more sense if you understand something about urban headwear — the point of it is to look new.  The bill must remain straight, and the stickers should stay firmly adhered.  Andy was reluctant to bring his new hat to Mammoth because he knew how difficult it would be to maintain it on such a drunken excursion.

Andy should have heeded his instincts.

Saturday began incredibly.  All four of us were at the same skill level (awesome), so we flew down every trail, covering the entire mountain by last lift.

To celebrate (and to continue our buzz), we decided to hit the local brewery for a free beer tasting.  Our friend Mike knew the employees, so generous pours flowed handsomely.

At this point, we were solidly tipsy.  Yet, Andy’s hat was still up to the urban standard of brand-newness (real word).  But feeling disaster was imminent, we  decided to quit while we were ahead, go back to Mike’s place and do a power-hour before bed.

What’s a power-hour you ask?  Well, it’s when you  drink a shot of beer each minute for an entire hour.  And who does a power-hour immediately before bed?  No one should.  No one.

The worst part about a power-hour is its uncanny ability to give you a second wind.  And so, we drunkenly jogged to the bus stop at eleven o’clock at night in order to catch the last shuttle into town.

Now, the rest of the night is a bit of a blur.  But what I do know is this: the last I saw Andy, his baseball cap would still be deemed acceptable by any urban headwear aficionado.  In other words, I had nothing to do with it.

Andy showed up at Mike’s place at thee o’clock in the morning with six stitches above his eye.  Apparently, he was mid-altercation with a guy in the taxi when he got sucker-punched by the guy’s girlfriend (yes, GIRLfriend).

And she was wearing rings.

After spending the rest of the night on an unsuccessful mission to find his assaulters, we packed our stuff and then drove silently back to Los Angeles without riding at all on Sunday.  Best/Worst trip ever.

Oh, and Andy now needs a newer hat.  Enjoy the comic.

January 3, 2007

Wrong Number

I’m accused of being a lot of things.  At the top of the list, of course, would have to be a “deadbeat father.”  I resent this because:

a)      The paternity tests were inconclusive.
b)      If the kid never meets me, he can’t miss me.
c)      Good enough for Jesse Jackson, good enough for sawgee.

I’m also accused of being a “liar.”  Okay, let’s get this straight: I’m a storyteller.  Now, I admit that some of my stories are slightly modified.  And a few of them may be grossly exaggerated.  A couple others could be completely fabricated, but all of them are true.

That being said, I told the following true story to two different people, and neither one of them believed me.  Decide for yourself:

For the last month or so, I’ve received several phone calls from mexicans. Understand something: I’m not mexican.  So why were they calling me?  They were looking for Carlos.  Understand something else: I’m not Carlos.

Today, I received no less than seven phone calls over the course of twenty minutes.  The intended recipient?  Carlos.  Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and our conversation began like this:

ME: (no accent) This is Carlos.
HER: Carlos?
ME: Si.
HER: …
ME: Que paso?
HER: …
ME: Mmi casa es su casa.  Y que, veinte-ocho.
HER: (unintelligible spanish.)
ME: (in big, accented voice) Radio Mundo!  Me yamo Carlos.
HER: Carlos?
ME: Si.
HER: (very thick accent) You’re lying.
ME: No, I’m not. This is Carlos.  Carlos the… (terrible accent) Latin Lover.

I swear to god I’m telling the truth.  The only creative liberty I’m taking is that our conversation took place over the course of her hanging up and calling backseveral times.

Now, keep in mind that this woman’s English was terrible.  So, that is why I was able to get away with tossing in phrases like “The Latin Lover.”  But here’s the part I don’t understand: I speaketh not a word of Spanish, so why this little senorita would think I was Carlos is beyond me.  Regardless, she started to get aggressive.

HER: You still with that bitch?
ME: What bitch?
HER: (bitter) Alejandra.
ME: Who do you think you’re talking to?
HER: My ex-boyfriend.

At this point, I’ve pretty much decided that nothing productive will be accomplished today; I’m getting to the bottom of this Carlos mystery.  What does she mean by “Ex-boyfriend?”  Have they already broken up, or is this her way of breaking up with him?

ME:  Are you breaking up with me?
HER: You broke [sic] me.  You trade [sic] me for that bitch.
ME: What bitch?
HER: (still bitter) Alejandra.

Hmm, Carlos sounds like an asshole.  But by “like an asshole,” I mean, “pretty awesome.”  If trading chicks in for other chicks is a standard part of Latino culture, then I definitely need to get to know some more Mexicans.  Speaking of which, let me learn a little more about the Mexican on the other end of the phone.

ME: I broke up with you because you cheated on me.
HER: No.
ME: Yes, you did.  With Manuel—Manuel the dirty phallus.
HER: Who say [sic] that?
ME: Alejandra.

Please keep in mind that my blog does no justice for the mercilessness with which I butchered this poor girl’s given name.  Super sleuth, however, didn’t seem to notice.

HER: You believe her?
ME: Why wouldn’t i believe her?  She fellates me.
HER: Bitch.

Of course, for the senorita’s sake, I assumed she was talking about Alejandra and not me.

ME: Don’t you talk about Alejandra like that.
HER: You love her?
ME: Why do you care; do you still love me?
HER: …
ME: Do you love Carlos the (terrible french accent) Latin Lover?
HER: Yes.

Okay, what the fuck?  She professes her love for some guy, but then can’t ascertain the difference between his voice and some pinche gringo on the phone?  In my humble opinion, this little senorita deserves to get fucked with. But, in the mean time, let me find out a little more about this guy she “loves.”

ME: What do you think I do for a living?
HER: I don’t know.
ME: You love me, but you don’t know what I do for a living?
HER: …
ME: How old do you think I am?
HER: Nineteen.

Nineteen?  Okay, I am officially concerned.  I am checking the mirrors and I am slowing down.

ME: Wait, so how old are you?
HER: Seventeen.

The brakes have locked and the car is skidding out of control.  Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I see myself getting violated in a medium-security prison.  In my mind’s eye, I don’t enjoy it.  Time for damage control. I can’t, however, break character.  I’m a professional for god’s sake.

ME: You’re seventeen and you think you love me?
HER: …
ME:  What do you know about love?  You don’t even know me.
HER:  I’m pregnant.

Houston we have a problem.  My name is sawgee and now I’m never getting into heaven.  At the rate I’m going, I may not be allowed anywhere near hell either.  But then again, perhaps I didn’t hear her correctly.

ME: You’re pregnant?
HER: Yes.
ME: Like bambino pregnant?
HER: Yes.

Alright, joke’s over; I am starting to realize just how despicable I am.  This poor teenager is terrified because, for the first time, a human life will hang in the balance of a decision that only she can make.

She has limited resources and life experiences, but will have to make a choice that will ultimately shape the rest of her existence.  And in this pivotal time of need, the man that she loves has given her the phone number of a cynical wordsmith who is fucking with her for no reason other than the fact that he has writer’s block.  In all seriousness, I feel terrible.  I hope she has family to which she can turn.

ME: Do you have a sister?
HER: No.
ME: What about cousins?
HER: Yeah.
ME: And how old are they?
HER: Eighteen, nineteen and twenty.

Thank goodness.  Obviously, she can’t depend on Carlos, so hopefully her familia can serve as a support network.  In the meantime, I need to apologize.  I’m going to have to do it on Carlos’s behalf, of course, because I still can’t break character.

ME: Are your cousins hot?
HER: What?!
ME: Are your cousins hot?  I wanna trade Alejandra for the eighteen-year-old.

Once the dial tone finished buzzing, albeit faintly, I think I could hear the snap, crackle and pop of hell.  And I knew that my suite was being prepared.  Damn me for being a deadbeat father if you want to; just don’t call me a liar.

HIM: I don’t think I can have sushi for a really long time.

ME: Why not?

HIM: Dokoro flies their fish in from Japan where nuclear stuff hasn’t stopped exploding according to latest reports.  Dammit, I eat there once a week.

ME: It’s hard being you.

HIM:  God, I think I just unwittingly stepped into the mother of whitewhine.com’s – stupid devastation of a country affecting my high-end sushi.

ME: Yeah, you did.

Anyway, my new place is the heatness; I will soon post pictures of it and a backlog of stories:

a) Why I moved.
b) How I almost banged Oliva Munn
c) How a snowboard trip turned into a bar brawl, which turned into my friend getting stitches.

But in the spirit of Oldskool Wednesday, here’s an old post from when Franco’s bitchass moved for the umpteenth time.

WHY FRANCO AND I WON’T BE FRIENDS – MARCH 22, 2007

Franco and I have been friends since I nearly threw him off of a fire escape during our freshman year in high school.  It’s a bit of a long story, but the moral is, even if you’re three stories above the sawgee, you don’t spit on him without severe and uncompromising consequences.

At any rate, we’ve been chummy ever since.  However, despite over a decade of friendship, our “bromance” is about to come to a bitter end this weekend.  The cause: television.  Allow me to explain.

It’s not that I have anything against television.  After all, I make my living writing for it.  It’s just that Franco owns a really fucking big TV.  And it’s not that I have anything against Franco owning a massive, motherfucking piece of home theater entertainment.  It’s just that Franco is moving this weekend.

And I’m not carrying that thing.

Not to play the race card, but my ancestors did more than their fair share of uncompensated manual labor.  And so, I’ve paid my dues in that respect.  Besides, this will mark the third time Franco’s bitchass has moved, and I’m done lugging that idiot box up and down the stairs.

This television is the reason why Franco and I will no longer be friends.

Consider this picture to be fifteen reasons why Franco and I will no longer be friends – the stairs leading to his apartment.

For scale, I included Franco and myself in the photograph.  Notice how awesome my sneakers are.  Also, notice how happy he appears as he anticipates enslaving me for an entire weekend.  Racist.

I included a picture of Franco’s Final Fantasy videogame for scale, and to demonstrate the fact that Franco is a giant tool who plays Final Fantasy videogames.

I grabbed a few of his refrigerator magnets for the same reason.

One more for good measure.

Well, Franco, we’ve had some good times.  But if being your friend entails carrying that goddamn television one more time, then I suppose I’ll be sending out one less Christmas card this year.  I hope your HBO is worth it.  Racist.

]]> http://sawgee.com/2011/02/09/oldskool-wednesday-2/feed/ 5 http://sawgee.com/2011/01/28/sonned-son/ http://sawgee.com/2011/01/28/sonned-son/#comments Sat, 29 Jan 2011 02:34:11 +0000 sawgee http://sawgee.com/?p=131 Two of my coworkers are splitting an episode this week.  They delivered the first act the other day, and it was really good.  But, like the asshole I am, I decided to text one of them, tell him I loved the act, ask which half was his, and then renege my compliment no matter how he answered.  Inarguably, he was sonned.  Act like you know.  

Before I go any further, the rest of this story will only make sense if you know who Brian A. is (I’m not using full names to avoid Google searches).  Go ahead and familiarize yourself.  I’ll wait.

Hilarious, right?  It gets better.

Okay, so last hiatus I was asked to meet with this Stacy person.  She wanted to write sitcoms, and the only thing standing in her way was the fact that no human being has ever, or would ever, think she was funny.

During our coffee, I was trying to give her advice on how to improve the one-act play she had sent me (which was, by the way, Kentucky Fried Catshit), but all she wanted to discuss was how she should be allowed to write a freelance episode of my show.  So after she interrupted me for the umpteenth time, I finally acquiesced and said it would be fine for her to send her resume to my boss.  Naturally, I assumed he would never receive it, and, more importantly, I would never hear from her again.

CUT TO:

INT. MY SHOW’S WRITERS’ ROOM – FIRST DAY THIS SEASON

I hadn’t even sipped my coffee when my boss announced he had come up with a new rule: if he was sent a letter of solicitation, and he could trace it back to one of us, that person would get punished.

Goddammit.

Apparently, Stacy was far more resourceful than I gave her credit.  As for my punishment – that Friday I was to act out two pages of her catshit play in front of the entire staff.  In retrospect, it would’ve been easier to just perform the pages.  But I decided to go with option B: attempt to track down Brian and have him recreate a similar viral video for my boss.

At the risk of tooting my own horn, that was a tremendous undertaking.  Think about it – VH1 voted Brian as one of the top 40 internet stars of all time.  So that meant I had to contact this man via the internet when he was understandably cagey given the fact that the entire internet was mocking him.  And then I had to coerce him into doing a version of the video that caused all of cyberspace to mock him in the first place.

Fortunately, the kid has skills.

So now I know what you’re thinking – what does this have to do with Tosh?  Calm down, asshole.  I’m telling a story.  So anyway, now it’s Wednesday and Brian has agreed to do my bit.  I’m in a good place because I achieved the impossible and I wouldn’t have to perform any of Stacy’s fucktard play.  But then I got an email from Brian declaring he was “too depressed” to do the video.

Quick lesson about Sawgee – don’t ever play the depressed card with him.  That’s not to say I won’t listen to your problems; I’m happy to hear them.  But don’t try to tell me you can’t do something because you’re “depressed.”  I do take an unhealthy degree of pride in having the world’s worst childhood, but whatever, I earned it.  So I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to entertain the woes of some drama queen actor who’s trying to renege on an agreement.

I sent Brian the following email:

Dear Brian,

Hey, I’m sorry to hear things aren’t going so well for you right now.  I know how that is; after all, I’ve been through the following: My father died last year my mom died before that my sister died when I was in high school actually she was paralyzed in a car accident first while in a fight with her abusive girlfriend and then developed cancer and the entire family watched her die a three-month long excruciating death oh and to top it all off my other sister won’t get out of my house and now I have to get the court involved oh did I mention I’ve been beaten to the point of hospitalization multiple times?

But I hope you make it out alive.

Sincerely,
Stop Being a Pussy

Brian miraculously found the strength to persevere.  So I checked his YouTube channel Friday morning to find he had uploaded a video that was ten minutes long. Really, dude?  You’ve had zero success as an actor, but now you think my boss (and the rest of the staff) wants to watch you talk at your webcam for ten minutes?

Incorrect.

Among other obvious talents, I am a master editor.  So I chopped his video down to the original ninety seconds I wrote, and then I uploaded it onto my own YouTube channel.  It didn’t take Brian very long to find it and go batshit crazy.  He demanded I take it down and informed me he was hiring a lawyer.   Below are some screencaps of the comments he left on my video.  Notice he was so angry that he forgot my name and called me “Steve.”

Obviously, I was not afraid of Brian’s attorney, but, as one of my colleagues pointed out, I was terrified of the fact that Brian was a mere two hundred dollar flight away from murdering me in my sleep.  As such, the video is still down.

UPDATE:

Today, Brian gave me authorization to post the video!  Here it is:

Admittedly, it came out a little weird, but my  boss was such a fan of the effort that he agreed to let Brian appear on our show as a prize for doing a Web Redemption on Tosh.0.  That airs tonight; here’s a teaser:

And here’s a picture of Brian and I having reconciled on my show’s set:

And here’s one of us having reconciled at a restaurant:

I’m a giant fan of Tosh, so I’m very proud of the fact that I managed to contribute to his show in some manner.  Also, Brian’s a good dude, so I’m equally proud of the fact that I had a tiny part in him getting a speaking role.  Now the moral to the story is this: the experience may have allowed me to touch America, but you can still go fuck yourself; I’m not reading your script.  You have Stacy to thank for that.

Anyway, in the following video, I proceed to crush the ever-loving dogshit out of the most medium of jumps.  However, watch until the end when my friend Andy is thoroughly sonned in the process of helping me celebrate.  Proppers to Andy’s wife Jen for filming — and even zooming in on her husband getting sonned.  If you listen closely, you can hear her snicker.  Footage after the jump.

However, there are still three solid business days left to sound cool.  A few suggested uses:

“In the dime, I gots mine.”

“I busted rhymes in the dime.”

“How was the dime?  All that and a bowl of thyme.”

Trust me — it will up your street credibility by at least four percent.

I was hired to coordinate The Yard — an underfunded HipHop companion piece that featured b-boy battles, deejay battles and graffiti art exhibitions.  It was fun exposing middle America to underground HipHop, but it also meant that I had to find breakdancers in cities like Cincinnati.

Because I’m a control freak, I ended up hosting, producing and editing the segments that aired weekly on Fox Sportsnet.  A few of my favorites after the jump:

Walking down memory lane is nice and all, but I’d be remiss not to use this opportunity to air a few grievances.

Shawn Quarles and the rest of the cocksuckers at Mixwell still owe me $3,000.00

Also, Frankie Flave apparently didn’t feel like we paid him enough.  His trifling bitchass stole a Playstation out of the V.I.P. lounge.

I’m just glad I’m mature enough to put everything behind me.

UPDATE:
That dude Enferno ended up deejaying/touring with Madonna.

Shoutouts:
Trooperz: Enferno, Oz, Geometrix
Lionz of Zion
Skwint
Swan
Motion Disorderz
Chicago Tribe
CAB Crew
Toksick
AWR
Reuhel One
Triptych