Truth lives at That LARRY SHOW, a weekly sojourn at the crossroads of madness and enlightenment. With LARRY in your life, you'll Take No Sh*t, and laugh your way to victory.
Meet the ghosts of Larry’s Christmas past ● The weight-lifter’s trick that helps you beat the holiday blues ● The difference between lost Christmases and haunted ones ● What you can do today to make your Christmas (and life) more enjoyable ● The vilest holiday libation ● The greatest Christmas story of all ● Merry Christmas, everyone!
A preview of Larry’s John McAfee interview! ●Why Larry’s STILL glad he helped Charlie Brown commit suicide ● Why Coca Cola thinks you’re a chooch ● The only 3 Christmas movies worth watching ● Why polar bears are NOT cute ● Larry disses cheap (but rich) party givers ● What’s pissing by candlelight, and how can it be stopped? ● All this and more in this stark look at the hellidays!
With mere days until Christmas, what America needs now is mass sedation. How to do it? How about like in Goldfinger, where Pussy Galore and her flying circus of lesbians crop dust us with aerosol anesthesia. When we wake up, on Dec 26th, everything will be okay. If she were the first thing you’d see upon waking, things would be more than okay.
Honor Blackman (Pussy Galore) Uber Pointy Chick.
There are eleven other 25th days of the month, why does December’s torment us? I never liked John Lennon (his name was too similar that Commie with the pointy chin and the Greek fisherman’s hat – which I just learned is a Marxist dog-whistle – the hat, not the chin – but that’s for another episode), and I really dislike his “Christmas” song, but there’s no denying the poignancy (did I just use that word? Excuse me while I punch myself in the face) of the lines:
So this is Christmas, And what have you done
Another year over, And a new one just begun
For most with an IQ surpassing that of a Dalmatian (many of whom are inbred stupid), that line is a lyrical, time-sensitive sword of Damocles, always at the back of one’s mind as we scurry about, conducting our inconsequential affairs.
I’m not certain if, in this episode, I enumerated 10 things I hate about the holidays – it may have been 9 or 11, but who’s counting? The “Holiday Season” has become an assault on all five senses. Especially sound and sight.
How can I unsee this deranged Santa Claus, who is probably 15-feet high. What kind of fiend would not only create but display such a grotesque affront to St. Nick?
Syko Santa
Since this is Los Angeles, betcha this guy worked, in some capacity, on The Polar Express, a movie that was not so much about Christmas as it was about Tom Hanks showing us he put the V in versatility, by voicing every character.
Was that Tom imitating the screech of the locomotive’s brakes? Who knows! Maybe Mr. Hanks is that good!!!!! Here’s Tom being versatile.
What the producers saved on hiring other voice actors, they should have put into the CGI characters’ eyes. Every one of them had orbs as dead as a hammerhead.
Dead eyes, both=shit CGI
How about these lollipops that look like coiled blood sausage? Noel.
Merry Pokemon Christmas, everyone! What would the world be without Mary, Joseph and Pikachu?
The (new) Holy Family.
What’s that? Why, it’s the Iron Giant – well known Christmas symbol.. And, look! There’s an elf on his big, tin shoulder. Alleluia!
The Iron Giant. Christmas Icon, circa 2019.
Santa traded Rudolph and the reindeer team for a couple of polar bears, just like the Coca Cola corporation commanded. And hey, look at his Model T!Oh come let you adore…my stuff.
Reindeer out/polar bears in, by order of Coca Cola CorporationWarm and fuzzy Coke bears.Actual polar bear doing what polar bears do. Hope he washed down that sea lion with a Diet Coke!
Inflatables don’t even look good at maximum inflation. Once the air seeps out, they look like giant, fiesta colored condoms on the lawn.
Deflated inflatables look limp.
Ahh, Snoopy. He’s what Christmas is all about. Especially when you double dip the corporatism wand and make Snoop & the Peanuts gang… Dodgers! Nothing says Christmas like cartoons and baseball.
Snoopy bleeds Dodger blue.
Does Snoop feel lonesome since I handed his master that fistful of Nembutal 3 Christmases ago, and sang him into oblivion with his own gloomy Christmas ditty? I wonder…
Hitch a ride with Larry in his Christmas Time Machine♦Meet Larry’s Magic Blue Star ♦39-18-33 = Barbie’s measurements = Larry’s first pointy crush ♦ Why knives can be better than guns ♦ Larry’s secret Christmas place you’ll never want to leave ♦ How Larry vandalized the family Christmas tree and got away with it ♦ Don’t do Christmas without this episode!
Across the street from my childhood home in Queens – well, that’s not entirely correct, growing up, we lived in 3 different homes, but across the street from the one I liked best was a Methodist Church and each Christmas the pastor would hang a big blue star from the steeple. I would stare at that star for hours and imagine it took me all kinds of places.
Of course I don’t have a picture of that star, or the church or the house, but I liked the star so much, I built my own replica some years ago. Here it is:
My magic blue star.
When I hitched myself to that star, I often traveled here:
Where (and when) I want to spend Christmas.
Beats the hell out of the mean, asphalt, slush covered streets of Queens, NY, doesn’t it?
When I wasn’t looking at the Christmas star, or getting the hell beat out of me by four Domincan nuns (See episode 5 : Larry Slugs a Nun), I was probably in the house (because the weather was so shitty) watching Christmas toy commercials, a staple of which was this pointy plastic vixen, Barbie. She looks pretty damn healthy doesn’t she?
Malibu Barbie
For decades, America loved Barbie. Then, some hideous harridans, envious of her statuesque carriage, declared she represented an “unhealthy” role model for young girls. And so Mattel launched Curvy Barbie.
Curvy Barbie
And sales plummeted.
Which one do you want to take to the dance? Or to bed? (I’m not asking the harridans, we already know they want to take Malibu Barbie to the gas chamber. And then destroy every mirror on earth. Then they’ll be happy.
For a while, (a very brief while in the early 90’s) this was Barbie’s boyfriend Ken. When Mattel realized Ken was wearing a cock ring, they yanked the poor guy off the shelves.
These stupid toys are only a part of what this episode is about.
The BEST places to meet women (and there’s no cover charge!) ♥ HOW to talk to women ♥ How to filter out the bad ones ♥ Chick magnets that work ♥ Where to find the right girl for you ♥ Common mistakes to avoid ♥ If you heed the advice in this episode, you will find a girlfriend by New Year’s, or your money back!
Mental health tips from Charles Manson ■ Elon Musk’s success secret, revealed ■ How to navigate the family Thanksgiving minefield ■ Reality is a demon, and he’s out to screw up your holidays ■ Why car and wine companies are to blame for all holiday misery ■ The Commie punks trying to destroy Thanksgiving ■ Bring your appetite to this feast of an episode!
From Lust to Gluttony, how far can you go? ♦ What is moral relativism and why is it crap? ♦ How can pride be a sin? ♦ What’s the difference between wrath and anger? Which one is good for you? ♦ Which is the groupsin – and the deadliest? (It’s not the one you guessed!) ♦ This episode will help you look better, have more fun and avoid eternal damnation!
Bullshitters I have known ■ Why do people bullshit? ■ Good responses for bullshit ■ Where do most bullshitters live? ■ What do bullshitters drive? ■ The fake it ‘til you make it mentality ■ What is the salvage economy and why does Larry love it? ■ Which has the highest concentration of bullshitters, politics, academia or corporations? ■ Put on your hazmat suit and prepare for a deep dive into the world of bullshit!
Bullshit and bullshitters are everywhere, but the highest concentration is in The City Without a Soul, Los Angeles. When you think bullshit, you think agents and studio guys and entertainment attorneys in their I’m too cool offices spewing lies like a minigun spews 7.62 rounds. I’ve heard it myself from all of the aforementioned parties. But I really didn’t expect an avalanche of bullshit on the other side of the tracks, in the industrial bowels of the San Fernando valley, from a junkman who called himself an antique curator. He claimed to be worth many, many millions, but hung out in his dingy junk shop on a gorgeous Saturday morning because he “missed working.”
I encountered him while searching for coffee as my car was having an alignment at a shop in an alley.
Given a choice, I will always support the small business man, and avoid the corporate entities. Get an alignment at Pep Boys, and a chunk of the tab is buying club memberships for the corner-office jack-offs who’ve never scrubbed bearing grease off their hands with a bar of Lava. Fuck them. And their clubs.
I support the small business man, who feeds his family by his toil. And they invariably do a better job than some hourly-wage felon working at his third chain repair shop this month because he’s incompetent.
While my wheels were finding their proper camber and castor and toe-in and out, I took a little walk around the neighborhood. A neighborhood that soccer moms and senior partners would never venture into. Is it dangerous? Probably no more than the upscale malls and boulevards. But it doesn’t look so tidy and neat and sanitized and goddamn BORING!
I hate the phrase “photo essay.” The authors of most photo essays are guys with chin-strap sun hats and Birkenstocks and lifetime Sierra Club memberships. That ain’t me, folks.
So I’ll just post a few pics and comment as I go, and leave the photo essaying to… them.
First: sex. I should have stepped inside and asked if Dr. Love was seeing patients today. But whoever he (or she) is, I admire their blunt approach to marketing. In better neighborhoods, sex shops try to be subtle and tasteful. In the flats of the mid-San Fernando valley – the region that birthed the porno business, they gave subtlety a golden shower 50 years ago, and left it on the bathroom floor of the hot-sheet motel/studio.
Get to the doctor.
The mannequins are dressed and posed to engage and engorge. Wanton. Crass. Whorish. Craven. Every man’s dream woman in polyurethane and stretchy , washable Rayon.
May I have this lap dance?
The salvage economy is both diverse and highly specialized. Erring on the side of variety: the Moon Store, where you can buy shoes (3 pair $20! – imagine the quality…) and cell phone accessories, all while you have your pants altered.
God is everywhere, especially here, with the Camino de Santidad. Turns out this storefront church is a chain, so I won’t be attending. I guess Corporate God Providers have to start somewhere. For more about those, click on any Sinners’ Sunday link. .
The “Path of Holiness.”
In the salvage economy, used is not a dirty word, and they don’t spray paint it with bullshit by calling it “pre-owned.”
Here’s a store that sells used bikes and only used bikes. Some rust on the handlebars, but they’ll probably go for miles or decades more. In tonier neighborhoods, they call these things “beach cruisers.” In my childhood neighborhood, they called them truck bikes. They were ridden by delivery boys, who were often grown men, but that’s what they were called.
Odd that they are all girls’ bikes, sans the testes-crushing crossbar standard on boys’ bikes. Yeah, I know, some shit about no crossbar accommodating flowing skirts. Seen any females riding a bike while dressed in a flowing skirt? Neither have I. Get your shit together, Diamondback, Trek, Scott, et. al. You’re doing it WRONG.
Nobody in the salvage economy sweats the details or aesthetics. Made a mistake on your window sign? Fuck it – just redact it with a fat, chisel-point marker. It’s good enough for de-classified FBI shit, isn’t it?
People still play with slot-cars? Sounds as quaint as physical media.
Seems like every neighborhood (we don’t use the word community here – it’s too close to Commie) has a mystery door. This door would look right on a nice, Spanish or Mediterranean style home. Why is it plugged in here with the wrought iron security fencing? Inquiring minds want to know.
Maybe it is the door to a home – where the owner of PayDay loans resides. With 460% interest charges, he probably needs a lot of security.
460.16% APR. Are they fucking kidding? Gambino loan sharks were locked up for charging 10% vig.
L‘art pour l’art? Maybe in Paris, but in the deep Valley, there’s always a prick with a can of Krylon to fuck up your masterpiece. Looks like they want blood on Larry. And they like (sell?) LSD. You just can’t have nice things in the new America.
Lastly, this plumber’s truck. Vintage 1950’s? 60”s? Whenever, it pre-dated the need for a phone number or URL. Toilet’s plugged up in Canoga Park? Stick your head out the window and scream the crapper’s clogged!
Mr. Allen will hear you. It was a better world in his day, I suspect.
When you finally flip out, will it be like a champ or a chump? Here are the pro tips you need.
Snaps – they’ve become a part of life. Drudge seems to list at least one per week. But are those truly organic, authentic rage and fritz–out snaps or copycat snaps from attention–starved wannabes? Because a lot of them are looking very similar. Almost cookie cutter.
Be a loner, with creepy social media posts. Become either disgruntled employee or bullied student. Write a “manifesto” and/or suicide note. Commence “senseless killings.” Die by cop or suicide.
Same old, same old.
Once in a great while, some iconoclast snaps and re-defines the art of snapping.
One of the greatest of all time was Tony Kiritsis.
He elevated snapping to a higher art form. Maybe they should call it “Tony’s Safety Snapping.” Incredibly, nobody died during or after the 63 hours he spent with a shotgun wired to the head of his (former) mortgage broker. Tony became a folk hero of sorts. He made the entire City of Indianapolis kiss kiss ass for nearly three days while he heaped verbal abuse on them. Then, the hostage signed promissory note awarding Tony $5 million in damages. And the District Attorney gave written assurance Tony would not be prosecuted, either for his obstreperous behavior or for calling everybody motherfuckers and cocksuckers.
So Tony released the hostage and was promptly arrested, jailed and then locked in nuthouses for more than a decade. He was pretty damn smart until he trusted his government.
It took more than a quarter century for another snap maestro to emerge, one Marvin Heemeyer of Killdozer fame. The town of Granby Colorado was tormenting him, so over the course of 18 months, Marvin created this:
She’s a beauty, ain’t she? When he was finished, Marvin had demolished a substantial portion of Granby, including the police station and town hall. Why doesn’t Marvin get top honors over Tony? Because he put a bullet in his own head. That’s a forfeit. Sorry, Marv.
However, it was much more evident that Marvin’s actions were justified and his folk hero status is so secure, he’s even got his own flag.
That’s pretty cool.
So have a listen, and learn from the masters how to snap with style.
