Category Archives: Rants

Brendan Tries Muay Thai

I tried Muay Thai recently for the first time last week.  I don’t have any plans to become a mixed martial arts athlete any time soon, but it’s something I had to do, both because I feel as though one should constantly challenge themselves to develop in different ways so that the through the crucible of awkwardness and near humiliation they can find themselves transformed into a better stronger more pure version of themselves… AND because I had talked about doing it so much that my wife bought me 10 classes at a local Muay Thai school and if I didn’t take the classes, she was going to be really pissed off at me.

My desire to take up this training is complicated.  The most simple explanation is that several years ago, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized that in having lost weight, I had very little muscle tone.  Having had a few on again-off again extended trysts with the gym, in the past, I knew I could do better.  So I started lifting.  Slowly but surely, I became stronger and added actual muscle to my body.  One day at the gym, I saw a heavy bag and thought, I’ll go ahead and punch this a few times.  I’m much stronger than I used to be, I’m going to wail on this thing.  Very quickly, I realized I would get exhausted and really had no idea what I was doing.  Unlike a lot of people in internet discussion threads, when I have no idea what I’m doing, I try to learn more.

Enter months of watching boxing videos, MMA, videos.  Slowly but surely, it became something I would try to learn more about.  I bought hand wraps.  I bought boxing gloves.  I got better, but after a time, I realized I probably wouldn’t really do well if I  were in a physical confrontation.  I was faking it but I had no idea what I was doing.   Don’t get me wrong…

I’m 6’2, 235 pounds and people assume I played football in high school (I didn’t, I wrestled though.  Badly).  People my size generally think it’s not a good idea to pick trouble with me.  It’s a great feeling.  At the same time, I had an older brother who was much more the naturally athletic type, who, though I could easily out-grapple growing up (I sucked in matches but man I could outwrestle most people who had no idea what they were doing), he had MUCH better hands (punching abilities) than me.  Like a Civil War  trauma surgeon’s assistant, I caught so many hands.  I had to figure out what I was doing.

Watching mixed martial arts videos, I generally came to realize that the fighters in the octagon use Muay Thai so much because it’s so damn efficient.  It’s the science of 8 limbs.  There’s no silly forms or impractical stances.  It has basic parts of boxing, but adds kicks, knees, elbows, trips and throws, and makes use of clinching.  In the past, when I watched boxing, I would see boxers lock up and just look like they were hugging because they were exhausted.  It ruined the sport for me for a long time.  In muay thai, it’s not just hugging.  It’s the setup for all of those trips and throws.  And it can be so damn efficient.

So I made an appointment for my first class as this would be a one on one experience.  The impression I got over the phone was that I would just be learning basic things like how to not hurt myself by sprinting headfirst into a cinder block wall.  That’s not part of Muay Thai or anything, but they probably not want me to do that, especially on my first class.  I figured I could get in a quick weightlifting session and a little bit of cardio beforehand and not really suffer any negative consequences.  I took my preworkout supplement, had a good workout and came home with enough time to eat my first real meal of the day and then shower.

I got to the class and my instructor showed me the basics of kicking with my front and rear leg and basics of throwing jabs, crosses and hooks.  Still running high on the tail end of my preworkout, I found myself pouring sweat just standing still.  After a half hour, my instructor said “well that’s the end of the one on one, you ready for your first class?”

Not knowing what I was getting into, I smiled and started stretching.  It turned out I was getting into fighter conditioning.  What followed was 30 minutes of a 60 minute class based in repeating the teacher’s commanded combinations five times and then calling out your partner’s repetitions as they performed them.  I made so many mistakes.  Not just in form and footwork.

I barely ate during the day and hadn’t digested the food I just ate.  I was in the ironic situation of having calories sloshing around my stomach and not having any in my bloodstream.  Being used to hitting a poor heavy bag, I unintentionally put way too much effort into each punch.  Lastly, and possibly worst of all, I didn’t breathe properly.

This sounds incredibly stupid to anyone who has never worked on a heavy bag.  When lifting weights, especially doing squats, one does “valsalva” breathing in which you hold your breath for a time to make your core as rigid and firm as possible.  When throwing a punch, you find yourself attempting to keep your core rigid for the maximum transference of energy from your hips to your hands.  If you ever listen to a boxing match, you will hear lots of hissing between grunts as punches land.  This is because the boxers let their breath out with each punch to maximize core rigidity but not hold their breath so long that they become winded extra quickly from moving around the ring and punching.

After a half hour, I was on the verge of vomiting, my eyes were bloodshot, my face was beet red, and my shirt was soaked in sweat.  My right bicep was so worn out from throwing right hooks that I could no longer hold my arm straight.  My heart would not stop racing and yet I wanted to pass out.  Having made plans before the class, I left at the half hour break.  When I left, I was so exhausted I didn’t even bother putting my shoes back on.  I shuffled off to my car, still gasping for air and started the engine… with my left hand, as my right bicep was still useless.

Before I left, I looked around the room and everyone had a big smile on their face.  Not because they were laughing at my idiocy, that I was some meathead better suited for putting idiotic amounts of weight across my back than fighting.  It was a smile of camaraderie.  Their eyes said “you’re not great yet, but you’re trying so you’re one of us now.  Welcome to the club.”  Before I left, my instructor asked how I was doing.  I told him “it’s the most tired I’ve been in a long time, but it’s the most alive I felt.  This is the hardest I’ve worked since wrestling in high school.”  I then drove home and laid on the floor and panted and asked my wife to rub my cramped arm because I was underfed, overworked and dehydrated.

I can’t wait to go back.

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Home Maintenance Sucks

Long time since the last post.  I’ve been busy.  My fiancée and I got engaged (hence the second word of this sentence).  Before that we got a house.  At the time we had the typical dreams of home ownership.  No matter how old you are when you buy a house, there is a common sense of teenage independence.  “Finally!  We can play our music as loud as we want!  We can paint the walls and not worry about paying a security deposit!”  And there is a part of you that wonders about it being an investment that you can eventually collect a slight profit on.

Home ownership is not just punk rock turned up to 11 and rainbows.  Nature is trying to destroy your house every single second of every single day in ways you cannot imagine.

Carpenter Bees

Photo Credit: Wikipedia

This is a carpenter bee.  Now, you know usual bees.  Black and yellow, make honey, they love eating Cheerios.  Enter carpenter bees.  These are bees that can still sting you, but they don’t make honey, they don’t give a fuck about eating cereal, and oh yea… THEY BURROW HOLES INTO ANY EXPOSED WOOD YOU HAVE ON YOUR HOUSE.

Now these sons of bitches annoying.  Most bees are polite.  They make their honey and mind their business.  No.  Carpenter bees say “Fuck you.”  And you say “Agree to disagree.”  And then carpenter bees say “Fuck your house, bitch!”  And then they burrow holes into your shit.  It’s not as though these guys go to Lowes and borrow a drill and carefully place holes in your deck or fence.  No, these little manic fucks hover up to some wood and then just hover and SHAKE THEIR ENTIRE BODIES AROUND, TWERKING LIKE A METHAMPHETAMINE FUELED MOLLY CYRUS WHILE THEIR JAWS GRIND THE WOOD AWAY.  And they don’t work alone.  For every one of these insane bastards  there’s a guard.  The guards don’t sting.  They just float in the air.  Creeping you out.

Photo Credit: Wikipedia.

Crabgrass is one of those organisms that mankind once had a use for and then got bored with.  It’s like a government project that went wrong.  I imagine a lab where crabgrass was genetically engineered and some general being disgusted and saying “the funding’s run out.  Kill it.”  Someone hits it with a flame thrower and then buries the lab under fifty feet of earth.  The next day, crabgrass is outside of the general’s home at 1am.  The next morning the general is dead.  And now crabgrass has gone rogue.

Okay, so it doesn’t kill anyone, but what happens is this.  One day you see crabgrass in your lawn.  The next day there’s a little more.  Then one day in June your entire lawn is covered in the stuff and you don’t know what happened.  Crabgrass produces 150,000 seeds per plant, so if it gets established… you’re fucked.


Photo Credit: Wikipedia

These 6 legged fucks.  Carpenter bees work in pairs.  Ants work in thousands.  You see one ant?  That means there’s 8 million more.  If you’re in the south, it doesn’t matter what you do.  Boric acid works.  But every spring, they’re in your house looking for something sweet.  Well, that’s if you’re lucky.  Like bees, some of these motherfuckers come in a carpenter variety and THEY DESTROY YOUR FUCKING HOUSE.


Photo Credit: Wikipedia

You’re thinking “no, Brendan, I don’t know anything about that.  I’m a clean person, you’re nasty bla bla fucking bla.”  If you’re in the south, you have dealt with cockroaches of some sort.  You might say “no, we don’t have cockroaches!  We have had water bugs though.”


This is a water bug:

Photo: Wikipedia

This is not:

Here in the south, we have warmth and humidity.  You know what cockroaches love?  WARMTH AND HUMIDITY.  Whenever spring comes back, flowers come in to bloom, it’s time to mow your yard again AND COCKROACHES ARE ALIVE AGAIN.

So yea.  There’s termites too.  Rain will get in your house and warp wood.  Nature hates you and wants to make your house a disgusting filthy place.  You will have to build fences, mow grass, kill bugs, kill bugs, power wash.  You will go to Lowes and Home Depot and just fork portions of your paycheck that will have you needing money several paychecks into your future.  And that’s if you’re LUCKY.  There is plumbing, Chinese drywall, and her getting bored.  Now because DDT is illegal, BED BUGS ARE A THING AGAIN.

And you have to deal with this all by yourself.  There’s no maintenance you can call.  Mom and dad don’t care.  It’s all for you to take care of.  You literally have nightmares about yellow nutsedge.

And you wake up and you spend more money on your god damn house.

Don’t let the bed bugs bite.

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How to be a responsible comedy audience member

If you’re reading this blog, I can assume you have either some interest in stand-up comedy.  That, or beer or any other ridiculous thing I feel that the internet needs my opinions on.  Or you’re my mom.  Hi mom.  Sorry I don’t visit as much as you’d like me to.  But let’s say you have some curiosity about stand-up comedy or my opinions on it.

The last blog entry I wrote detailed how a comic should act at an open mic.  If you haven’t read it, scroll below this one.  Sitting in the crowd, there’s few things worse than seeing someone break simple rules that exist to make the whole experience less awkward for everyone.  Because it is awkward… one person grabbing a microphone and sharing their innermost thoughts in the hopes of amusing you bears such a high chance of failure that will leave the audience wanting to be somewhere else.

Sometimes, the audience itself can be a barrier to the greater enjoyment of the show.  There are some simple things that audiences can do to make sure that their experiences will be as pleasurable as possible.  Most of the time an MC tries to condense this down instead of dragging it out as much as I have, but you came to my site to read this, so now you’re prisoner till I reach the video at the end.  Yea.  Now you have to finish.

Sit down, get comfortable, and prepare to be entertained.  Like an LSD trip, your attitude going into a comedy show is going to have a big impact on how the next couple of hours go.  If you sit there, arms crossed, thinking to yourself “I seriously doubt that these people are going to be able to entertain me,” there’s a huge chance that you’re going to experience a self-fulfilling prophecy.  If you really want to have fun, you’re going to have an absolute blast.  If you’re a miserable son of a bitch who didn’t want to come in the first place and would rather have an IV stream of Busch Light into your arm as you sit on the couch, stay home.

Express your approval through laughter, and your disapproval by silence.  Nothing else, unless specifically called for (for example, if a comic says “by round of applause… ” and then asks a question).  The first part is fairly simple.  Comics have prepared some material to present to you in the form of a monologue with the occasional breaks for your laughter.  If a comic says something funny, laugh your ass off.  That’s what you just paid for, right?  If he or she didn’t say something funny, sit in your chair quietly and stare holes through them with your eyes.  Don’t heckle.  Here’s why: if a comic is bombing and you heckle him, that takes the pressure away from them and gives them an escape route.  If you really don’t like something a comic says, be quiet and let them stew in the broth of their own failure.  Alone.  In the spotlight.

Don’t heckle.  Don’t shout shit out, don’t try to help the comic.  Even if you think the comic is doing a great job, don’t say anything or try to help.  The comic has a specific plan he doesn’t want you interrupting.  If he or she asks you a question, feel free to respond.  Otherwise, the comic is going to think you’re trying to derail him or her and then you’ve become a target to destroy so the show may proceed to the point the comic was trying to reach.  Now your feelings are hurt and no one is happy.

If you liked a comic, let them know after the show.  Now that you’ve finished the show, you’ve paid your tab and left your server a huge tip, stop by and talk to the comic on the way out.  We work really hard to amuse you guys and if someone comes up and tells us, it really makes the whole night amazing.  Your laughter and applause are like a drug to us.  But that can be a fleeting experience.  When you come up to us after the show, shake our hand, buy some merchandise, it let’s us know “yea, that really did just happen, you didn’t hallucinate them enjoying you because the lights were so bright.

Don’t be a douche.  Maybe you don’t know what that means.  You’re good.  Just put a little extra Axe bodyspray on your Affliction shirt.

-Don’t bring cats to comedy shows either.

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The [Now Written] Unwritten Rules of a Comedy Open-Mic

In the past, I’ve hosted comedy open mic nights and found myself getting incredibly frustrated about similar habits a lot of shitty new comics had.  When a venue contacted me a few years ago to run their comedy open mic night, I put together a list of rules for my show that I actually codified into paper and made every comic read before letting them on my show.  Some of them ignored these rules and were not welcomed back, though most comics took these rules to heart if they needed to be told so at all.  Below are the rules that I feel every comic should follow when attending a comedy workshop.

-Do not disrespect the house.  They have been nice to us to let us perform here, recognize that, don’t say anything dumb that will make the venue reconsider giving people a mic and PA system to talk into.
-Don’t harass people in the audience.  Consider the fine line that does exist between crowd work and being an asshole with a microphone in your hand.  They’re there to laugh, not to be abused.  Also, as this show is a work in progress.  As such, a lot of people in the crowd might not even know a comedy show was planned.  Unless they’re really asking for attention, leave them alone.

-When you are given the light, your time has come to a close.  Go ahead and rap that shit up, B.  While you don’t have to stop talking and flee the spotlight, don’t go on to a new subject.  Finish your thought and dismount.
-You can curse; however, do not use foul language for the mere sake of using foul language.  Have a point to it.  Saying “motherfucker” and “god damn” between every word and at the end of every sentence expedites the aforementioned illumination (See above statement).
-Don’t hack.  If you want to say some other comedian’s jokes, save that for when you’re sitting around the water cooler at work.  This will also cause you to go into the light.  The point of going to an open mic is to make you a better comic.  You’ll never be better telling someone else’s jokes.
-Before and after you go on, show the performer on stage the respect and attention you would want while on stage.  Keep your personal conversations to a minimum, and if you are going to talk, do it in a way that’s not distracting to the show.  You want everyone’s attention while you’re on stage.  Don’t fuck it up for the next guy.
-This is a show.  While open mics are a great opportunity to hone new material, bear in mind people have to watch it.  Be funny.  Don’t try to shock people or do jokes that only you would ever find funny.  A groan is not as good as a laugh, and a “what the hell was that?” is pointless.

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Samichlaus Classic

I’ve written on this blog before about Winter Warmer beers (Samuel Smith’s Winter Welcome and Trader Joe’s Vintage Ale), but in my heart no other beer celebrates the category as Samichlaus Classic.  At one point it was the strongest beer in the world at 14% alcohol, and on it’s label it brags that it’s the “World’s Most Extraordinary Beverage.”  With swagger like that, you almost wonder if they were drunk on the stuff when they wrote its description.  All this, combined with its slack and silver label tell you : this is not a Bud light.  This is something big, but not in a childish way.  There’s no childish Four Loko technicolor camouflage strewn across it here.  No, the outisde of the bottle seems to both warn and entice.  It says to you “there’s something good in here, but if you’re not man enough, it will dominate you.”  I consider myself a Cesar Milan of booze.  I shall now try to calmly assert myself.

When you take the cap off the bottle, its siren song commences, as waves of malty goodness begin to emit from its orifice.  I smell the bottle and smell a layered maltiness, as if the brewers took the most flavorful malt and somehow distilled its essence into a beer.  As I smell it in the glass, I am taken back.  As a lapsed and lazy homebrewer, boiling wort (beer before its fermented) is a smell that’s both familiarly enjoyable and almost synonymous with an exhausting night of checking temperatures and waiting, lifting gallons of water around and hoping nothing is broken.  The smell itself is, from a practical standpoint, the smell of caramelized malts now in solution in the wort becoming further caramelized during the boil, and volatile hop aromas evaporating into the air.  Samichlaus screams these notes to me.  Moaning even.

Seriously, in the time it’s taken me to type this, my mouth has been watering looking at this auburn glass, watching little CO2 bubbles rise to the top.  The first sip is like a kiss from a lover who I’ve not been able to hold because of circumstances beyond our control.  Malty sweetness, roasted caramel, dark raisiny fruit and a cognac like alcoholic presence.  This is a beverage superior to what the idea of beer is in most people’s minds.  This is a monster of the best kind.  Power and potency combine with a certain eloquence.  Samichlaus is like a bull in a China shop, but a bull who speaks five languages.

Samichlaus is not a beer for every day.  Even in its native Austria (Samichlaus is Swiss German for Santa Claus), it’s brewed once a year and then aged 10 months.  But it’s Christmas Eve.  It’s cold outside, and the only way to fight sometimes is with a good strong drink.  Merry Christmas, and I hope one Christmas in your future, Samichlaus visits you too.  Merry Christmas!

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Filed under Beer, Food, Rants, Wine and Spirits

Brendan talks religion

I work retail, as discussed earlier in this blog. I go to ring a customer up and she’s wearing a technicolor star of David necklace.

Me: I saw your necklace, are you Jewish?
Her: Well, let’s just say my boss is a Jewish carpenter!

Part of me wanted to be like “Whoa, you know Marty Horowitz? He did a great job on my parent’s cabinets.”‘ Instead…

Me: Oh okay.
Her: Yea, they really look at me confused when I go to the JCC [Jewish Community Center].

Now I’m kind of annoyed with this woman. As we talk more, she round about tells me that if Jesus was Jewish, then she kind of sees herself as a Jewish Christian.

Me: Do you read the Bible much?
Me: Are you familiar with Paul? I don’t know which letter it is [turns out to be Romans 11:17], but he makes the analogy about Christians being a graft of wild olives on to the tree of olives that is essentially Judaism.

Generally speaking, I find faiths living together in harmony a wonderful thing. But in this situation it pisses me off.

In short, Paul makes the argument in Romans that the Christians of the time were not Jews, that Jews have a special connection with God, that they are HIS chosen people. Christians, at the time of Paul [and maybe moreso now] were a bunch of barbarians doing all kinds of weird crap, and they thought that just because Jesus saved them, that made them honorary Jews, so they started doing things like getting circumcised. Because apparently, if you’re a new Christian, the first thing you do when you see Jews is say “Hey! Look at my dick! I’m one of you guys now!”

And they’re just like “oy…”

This is all moot if you’re not a fan of Paul’s work and feel like he over-legislates Christianity. That’s perfectly fine. But this zealot already claims that she reads the Bible every day, I just wish she would read only what’s in there and not go and start making inferences and what not. The thing is, I’m not even religious. I just know the rules, and if you start getting all preachy, I hold you to the rules more than other people.

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So, I figured, if you’re into what I’m doing, my attempts at stand-up comedy and storytelling, you might be interested in another project I’ve started: Podcasting.  Me and my buddy CB Willkins have begun producing a new podcast called “What’s a Podcast?”  The idea behind this title was that neither of us had really ever fully researched exactly what we thought a podcast should be.  So this podcast is what CB and I think that people would be interested in listening to.  In essence, we both think a great deal of what’s on the podcast is what we both enjoy, bullshitting with each other and recording the stupid insights we have into each other’s lives.

It’s not on iTunes yet, as we’ve not produced a separate site/feed to host all the mp3’s, so for now, what we’ve done is produced the show and listed it on where it can be both Downloaded AND Streamed here.

I’m a bit late posting this, as the link above is to our second attempt at podcasting. If you like the link above, check out our first attempt here: here.

If you have any ideas about stuff you would like us to talk about, questions, and anything in between, shoot us an email at whatsapodcast “AT”

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Selling Plasma

Not one of the TVs. The stuff that keeps the ol’ red blood cells, leukocytes and platelets from congealing together in my veins. I got paid on Thursday, but I was so backed up on bills that I thought it would be good to have one or two extra dollars in my pocket. I’d looked into selling plasma in the past and it seemed okay… a plasma center put a video online in which they had people sell it as “a nice way to relax for an hour or so” or “good time to catch up on reading.”

So, one day, I called up, it sounded like it was a slow day there, and a nice lady told me on the phone that I could be signed up and out the door in about 90 minutes or so. She told me that their hours were from 7am-7pm and that they even accepted people as late as 6pm for donations. At around 3 today, I figured it would be a good time to go check it out. I drove out there, and parked my car. The first open parking spot I saw was a convertible…

…with the back window all busted up, the ragtop all torn apart. As I walked to the car, I had a flashback to watching Harry Potter movies, and Harry’s first experiences with dementors… “it was as though all the happiness and hope in the world were suddenly gone.” There was a woman standing outside the building with a general countenance that made me feel as though she were likely to propose a fellatio for cash endeavor, a more common panhandling, a robbery, or some combination of the former in which I am serviced and then flees the scene without receiving money from me.

People sort of rushed past me to get in. The people who rushed past me, though we were in Virginia Beach, felt very Portsmouth. It’s odd. When you’re in the ghetto, everyone has this sense about them that, some might call swagger, some might call a war face… It’s this aura you sense that though things are ugly all around us, they have some sort of plan and attitude that’ll get them through this.

The plasma donation center is the exact opposite of this. When you’re in a plasma place, you can see the same emotion on every single person’s face… “I’m stuck in this room with your broke, tired hungry masses.” And the room was packed. I mean, it’s incredibly naive of me to go into a plasma business, on a Friday afternoon and think “oh gee, it’s not like I’ll be the only one who’d need money before a Friday night.” It was one of the saddest god damned sights I’ve ever seen in my life. Imagine the DMV, but every single person in the room is having such a hard time in their lives that they’ve decided they need to sell a part of their body just to make ends meet. And the room was crowded. They’d run out of chairs for people to sit on, and so there were people sitting on the floor. And people were still one-by-one coming in behind me.

It was so packed in there, that I didn’t even get a chance to sign up.


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Christmas Music that Doesn’t Suck

Here’s the deal. I fucking hate Christmas music. Working retail and hearing it blasted against my ear drums doesn’t help, but it is for a lack of a better (or less unintentionally ironic word) too shmaltzy. Whenever I hear Christmas music, it’s so over the top, that its only effect is simply causing me to feel the exact opposite of any way it was intended.

“Here comes Santa Claus… right down Santa Claus lane”? Seriously. You couldn’t make up a better lyric than using the mythical bastard’s name a third damn time?

And any carol that references Jesus and the nativity just makes me feel like a terrible person, listening to Christmas music but doubting that two thousand years ago, a man was born two thousand years ago in the Middle East was crucified in order to die for my sins. All I wanted to do was buy some nice things for the people I care about, and you want to make this a time for me to feel guilty?

Jingle Bell Rock? Rock’s been dead for at least 5 years, and never, ever would it have ever combined with jingle bells to make a song like that.

That song Wham did? Fuck you.

But, I actually enjoy a couple of songs.

I’ve never had chestnuts roasted on an open fire. But the way Nat King Cole sings about them, I want them. Like they’re delicious and somehow soulful.

This is another song that I’ve always loved, but then again, maybe it’s just the fact that I’m a miserable bastard this time of year if I’m not careful, like Charlie Brown and relate to the depressed giant-headed cartoon.

See the thing is, a lot of this music has its roots in an earlier time when instead of passively listening to music on a radio, if you wanted a tune, you had to actually play/sing it yourself. Carols were something that people sang together. And they got hammered while they did it and called it wassailing. In lieu of this companionship, they tried to overproduce songs, and in faking the funk, killed the joy of the season.

Which is why the last song is so beautiful and strikes a chord with me. It’s real people in a real situation, and though they’re all trained singers, it seems so natural you can’t help but me moved… enjoy:

Merry Christmas.

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Filed under Check this out, Music, Rants

This Ad’s Creepy.

I watched this advertisement about 30 times, not really paying attention, and having no clue what the commercial was about. Seriously, at the end of the commercial they look as though they’re about to start gratuitously making out.

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