Wednesday 28 January 2009

Sean Rodrieguez Writes: An Apology

Dear Loyal Readers and my Newbury Peeps,

I apologize for the distinct lack of updates over the previous two weeks, it's not because I've given up writing for this most awesome of pages, I merely have a college exam coming up (tomorrow in fact) and I've been running around like an idiot applying for University (Stafford, Keele, De Montford, Chester and Salford.)

I'll be back with new material very soon when I no longer have to give a shit about knowing about singular personal pronoun's, active verbs and the date Samuel Johnson published the first English Dictionary thus spawning standardized spelling and allowed for deeper analysis (heh, ANALysis) of the text. Samuel Johnson published the first dictionary in 1755 in case you were wondering.

I'd like to thank any of you reading this on any regular basis and for those of you I know are sharing the site with. Also I'd like to personally thank the lone person from Sydney, Australia for visiting the site. Worldwide Fame Baby!

By way of apology here is a picture of a piglet wearing Wellington boots:

Awwww!

Love,

Sean Jose Jesus Rodrieguez.

Thursday 15 January 2009

Dating for Idiot's Part 3

Dating for Idiot’s Part 3: Surviving a Relationship WITHOUT ANY Violent Convictions.

Or

Shut The Fuck Up Already I Didn’t Fucking Look At Her.


Congratulations today is the first day of the rest of your life the way she envisioned it. So you’ve got yourself into a relationship, which is kind of like getting sent to jail in a game of monopoly, it’s a minor pause before you start trying to buy something else for minimal cost… that metaphor made no sense.

Which leads me to my other opening point: You will slowly lose your mind over the course of the coming months. Sure you have what is graciously referred to the “Honeymoon” period which basically can be translated as “Fucking Each Other Hasn’t Got Repetitive Yet” but it’s short lived like my erection after a bottle of tequila. 

Eventually those eyes that held the key to everything you thought you needed will be filled with intense rage because you said that Hollyoaks didn’t have a logical plot line, they’ll be filling with tears every time you say her best friend looks good tonight. That shapely body that first drew you to her like she was wearing a suit of armour and you had a magnet on your dick will soon be used to essentially bribe you into attending meals for your “5 and 3 weeks anniversary”. Her mind which spawned such stunning personality that you were dumb struck upon first meeting her has now apparently been overtaken by a malevolent force with two main goals. First, to turn you slowly insane. Second, to make you believe that it’s YOUR fault you turned insane. 

You don’t even want to know what the erogenous zones will do to you, I don’t know if you can take it yet.

You can’t take it yet because you haven’t read the latest and greatest advice from a man who’s in the process of inventing a GPS system that tells you where her clitoris is from the other side of the room. A man who was recently referred to as “The #1 Man You Would Sleep With If The Vibrator Broke On A Desert Island”. The following is the secrets that I have slowly perfected over years of arduous relationships. I was once like you. I know it’s hard to believe but work with me here. I was once the guy who’s got his neck tied to his shoelaces so he can’t look at anybody else when he’s out. I fought my way out with my patented system of rules, which I now bestow upon you, kind reader for being SuperAwesome enough to read this blog.

So check if it’s OK with her and then let’s begin.

Rule #1: Accept That She Will Never Trust You BUT Don’t Take No Shit.
Ok so she’s tied you down now and I don’t mean in the kinky way where you have to use safe words to escape when she’s read the sex tips wrong and is pouring boiled wax onto your bare chest. She’s got you tied down in the sense that this women now for all intent’s and purposes owns your testicles. You may as well copyright a picture of them in her name. 

The problem with getting with a girl is, unlike when you’re single, they notice every single fucking thing you do. Thus this means you will inevitably do something that she doesn’t agree with. This will usually occur shortly after your feet touch the carpet rolling out of bed in the morning and end when one of you is dead or in a coma. You have to see things the way she sees things just without the hormones. You’ll quickly learn this is an impossibility. 

They just don’t see things the same way as you, this is why they find Pop Idol interesting and give a flying fuck what celebrities are wearing. It took me years of painstaking accusations and this is by no means concrete but the following is a rough translation guide of she thinks you’re doing when you say:

You Say: I’m just off out for a few pints with the lads.
She Thinks: He’s clearly lying, his friends are all layabout evil bastards intent on turning him against me. He’s going to go the nearest brothel whereby his friends will pay for a wild orgy of people who look just like that girl I don’t like.

You Say: I’m going to work.
She Thinks: He’s going to pull up, clock in and then proceed to have wild photocopier sex with that secretary who always looks at me funny.

You Say: I’m going to live in a remote monastery with some monks.
She Thinks: It’s a monastery of nymphomaniac monks who all look like that girl off The OC. Urgh, I just can’t watch that show now.

You Say: I’m going out to buy you a large gift to show my undying love for you.
She Thinks: He’s going to fuck the girl who work’s at Thornton’s and bribe me with a box of Continental with a gift tag he wrote with her pen in the car on the way back here.

As you can see gentlemen, you’re royally fucked. Basically her main tactic of stopping you from fucking any girl other than her is to automatically assume that you’re fucking every girl but her. The main thing to remember is NEVER admit that you’re actually fucking every girl AND her, it doesn’t go down well, trust me. 

Let her accuse you a few times and explain calmly and carefully that you are not in fact doing anything wrong by doing exactly what you did 6 months ago when she didn’t give a flying fuck where you were. She’ll continue to accuse you. Now it’s time to display masculinity in order to set her straight. 

Chicks dig masculinity trust me. 

The next time she accuses you of something like this calmly pick up the TV set and launch it through the window and if she has any pets viciously slaughter them and then CALMLY explain that you didn’t want to do that but she wasn’t listening to you. She’ll lock herself in another room, call her best friend and you can have a nice casual beer and cigarette whilst you text that other girl in peace. Just like she would do, if you only gave her the chance, which leads me to:

Rule #2: If you can’t see her, she’s fucking somebody else.
The rule says it all really. Remember that nice guy she introduced you to last time you dared to go drinking with her without your own friends. The one who was so funny and such a good friend? Yeah the second you aren’t there she’s going to be doing some freaky shit with him and biting the teddy bear you brought her to apologize for going out with your friends and having a good time. 

Trusting a girl you can’t see is like looking a tornado heading straight toward you, turning your back to it and saying “oh well it probably won’t hit ME”. This is retarded. There’s a very simple method of dealing with this however I told you that you wouldn’t get any violent convictions. 

Beyond that, unfortunately, you are essentially royally fucked. I never said a relationship would be easy. 

You have to deal with it like a cold by which I mean you treat the symptoms not the virus. Every time you leave her alone leave some kind of ingenius booby trap in your wake. Duct tape some thumb tacks onto your side of the bed, set up a cunning spring assisted claw hammer trap that triggers when the headboard hits the wall. The best trap I’ve found is to SAY you’re going out and then climb into the attic and wait on the space of roof above your bed. If you hear any noise jump through the floor holding a sledgehammer whilst screaming wild obscenities. 

Besides that you’re really on your own sir. I’m trying to figure out a shock collar to deter women from doing this but the fucking fashion season’s keep changing every time I perfect the design. 

Rule #3 For The Love Of Christ Don’t Mention Their Weight.

This includes:


- Saying another girl looks thin.
- Saying another object looks thin.
- Saying anything that means “light”. If a bag is light then simply say “Well this bag weighs as much as you!”
- Saying thin in any context not involving her.
- Say anything, ANYTHING about heavy weights or something that connotes “Heavy” around her. I’m sorry, you’ll never eat a Whopper at Burger King around her due to this.

There are drug dealers less concerned with weight than most women. Often you will hear this immortal phrase: “I Feel Fat”. DO NOT SAY:

- Well that’s a stunning coincidence because you look fat.
- Well that’s kind of what happens when you eat 3 kilograms of chocolate.
- Well you’re not exactly athletic.
- YARRR thar be whales ahoy! Drop the anchor! (whereby you pick up and drop her arm)

Simply reassure her in a calming tone, something along the lines of:

- Don’t worry we’re entering an economic depression, you’ll HAVE to lose weight soon.
- I happen to know a great liposuctionist.
- I think the idea of a crash pad for my pelvis during sex is great.
- Don’t worry, you look beautiful.

It doesn’t really matter which of the above you choose because she won’t believe you. It’s here that I want you to go to your happy place. Think of puppies holding hands, think of kittens playing hula hoop, think of two giraffe’s playing “header tennis” with a football. 

Just distance yourself because now for at least the next hour she’ll talk at great length about her weight. You advice here is the same as your advice about her buying clothes: she will ask for it but pay zero fucking attention whatsoever to what you said. 

Just prepare yourself to calm your homicidal tendencies for the next time she says “I feel fat” around one of her female friends and they say exactly what you say and your girlfriend proceeds to gush and proclaim her love for her. Take revenge for this. The next time you’re making sweet love to her, in the foreplay tell her that you can’t wait to harpoon her.

Rule #4: You Aren’t Ever Going To “Get” Her TV Shows/Magazines.
Yes it is entirely believable that a man would get a map of a prison tattooed onto himself, get sent to prison and then break out just to save his brother rather than say, oh, going to see him in visiting hours and getting on with his life. It’s always highly viable that they’ll both be tall, muscular, good looking and total arseholes that every woman would likely rape given a Viagra and a bed. 

It’s also entirely possible that four women who live in New York can get laid more individually than every single person you know ever will in their entire lives. They’ll also juggle high powered jobs and have lots of time to shop as well. Also the best looking one will get laid the least. It’s completely believable shut the fuck up.

Gay people are funny too. Gay people all also know fashion and clothes really fucking well and want nothing more than to be best friends with the gender they optionally chose not to mate with. They’ll all be really flamboyant and be the comforting fe/male presence when any women in a 50 yard radius is single or in the middle of a break up.

Yes it is a good use of our trees to create paper on which to print 300 + pages of pictures of clothes and shoes that they will never, ever purchase but rather look at longingly like a caged lion being offered a sirloin steak with a side of paralysed zebra.

It doesn’t make sense, but for the love of almighty god just let them have their illusions, shut up and buy them the fucking box sets for Christmas.


Rule#5: They aren’t stupid, Why are you talking to them like they’re stupid?!
As if the above wasn’t already like trying to navigate a minefield whilst wearing stilts and being chased by a lion whose mother you just insulted, you have to watch your patronization. 
Now whilst I’m a strong advocate of the ideal that patronization is the most fun you can have with a woman that doesn’t involve broken bed slats followed by a smirk and a cigarette, if you want to survive the relationship it’s not recommended. 

Bear in mind that women very often confuse honesty with patronization. So your best bet is to just never be honest or better still to just never communicate with her on any medium other than a Birthday, Christmas or Valentines card.  

Because if you tell her she just did or said something incredibly stupid it might well be true but telling her isn’t honesty it’s patronizing her. A girl could walk into the path of a speeding truck and if you told her during her recovery it was a pretty stupid thing to do, you can expect a mood.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Now I’m not saying these things are easy to achieve. You probably now understand why your father was so unhappy/angry/alcoholic all through your childhood. You probably get why men celebrate quite so hard at stag parties. 

Film and Literature would have you believe that love is some kind of beautiful, bountiful thing that you’re supposed to embrace. The truth sadly is that whilst a relationship is like sex on a fire hose to you, it’s like a licence to fuck you up anytime she pleases to her PLUS she gets the sex. So in essence it’s like embracing a ball of razor wire. 

But this is what you get when you give women equality so my dad tells me. Surviving a relationship comes down to these above five rules more often than not. The depressing thing about these things is that there’s a million other little things you learn on your own. They’re usually learnt via a long drawn out argument that solves or proves nothing and leaves none of you any the wiser about each other. 

You tread your own little path on the minefield that is a relationship. The prize for making it through is simply a very tired woman who simply cannot be bothered to criticize your faults anymore and grudgingly accepts them and this, my friends is what marriage is. 

You don’t want to get married though. As the man I was educated in women by once said “Son don’t get married because then the next thing you know you’re paying for an idiot like you to attend college to avoid a divorce.” 

He was a loving man my father.

But you’re in luck because as always I’ve got you covered my lucky readers and fans. If you’re already contemplating caving your girlfriends head in with her latest pair of New Look heels then have I got the right guide for you next…

Tune in Next Time For The Final Part Of Our Guide Series: Dating for Idiot’s Part 4: Breaking Up.

Monday 12 January 2009

Dating For Idiots: Part 2

Forming a "Relationship".

So the first date went well. She fell like a double leg amputee patient negotiating a large set of stairs for your boyish charm, viper like wit, exquisite sense of style and your penis that would put a sperm whale to shame in the showers. Of course she did, this is to be expected when one follows the Rodrieguez Guides but you now will find yourself asking; “What happens next?”

Well of course, as a man of intense passion and romance, as a boiling over saucepan of sheer male hormones, as a man with so much testosterone I once one punched a grizzly bear for looking at me funny, I know what comes next. 

What you have to do now is form a relationship.

You don’t, I suppose, HAVE to form a relationship. Some men may prefer tagging their dates best friend next, start the slow arduous task of having one night stands with the rest of her family or even start going to singles nights to pick up lonely fat chicks with inferiority complexes. These are all perfectly understandable options that I inherently endorse especially the charity of banging fat girls, it being recently discovered in a scientific study that every time a fat girl gets laid Jesus smiles a little. 

But these options are not necessarily the correct option.

The thing that most men overlook about relationships is that it’s essentially like having sex not on tap as the saying goes, it’s like have sex on fucking fire hose set to full. Now some men (whom are gay) will point out the emotions involved. The feeling of contentment and extreme happiness of being somebody who you love, the great times you can spend together, the feelings you can share. These are generally the men who don’t like having regular sex with females (because they are gay) because they don’t read guides like this. I mean Christ they probably even try to “make love”…

Regardless the following is going help you to steer your battle cruiser of love into her pearl harbour so frequently you’ll be known to all your friends as “The Admiral”. Building a relationship can take patience and requires nerves of steel so that you don’t lose it and start beating her over the head with a rolled up copy of her Cosmo when she tries to get you to watch Will & Grace. This guide can’t teach you these things. The gift of causing severe brain haemorrhages with a magazine that’s all about (from what I’ve gathered) clothes, how men suck and how to make men want you is a rare one. 

But don’t be glum, chum! With my technique soon to be published in Cosmo’s “Sexiest Sexist Male Bastards” column, you probably won’t even need to strike her. 

Unless it’s for fun of course.

Section 1: Making That First Step.
So the date went well. You’ve dropped her off at the door, she didn’t sleep with you because you only had £30 on you and didn’t want to haggle. You’re in position to strike like a cobra playing Wii Sport’s bowling. 

As soon as her door shuts on that last sweet goodbye, head home. Camping in her front garden, whilst it shows dedication to her, is sadly illegal. It’s also not recommended to pick the door lock on her house later that night, slip into bed next to her sleeping body and explain it with “I missed you” when she awakes screaming. Trust me. 

No you have to play it cool and casual. Women love a man who’s aloof. Go home and go about your life. Watch some TV, maybe a film, read a book, take a relaxing shower and think about how awesome you are. Anyway after 20 minutes have passed, call her house. If she doesn’t answer it slam the phone down, wait five seconds and redial. She’ll answer eventually. When she does answer, don’t waste words. Tell her that you love her and you miss her, that you want to be with her and any other decent lies you can come up with. 

This will catch the female off guard because you’re sending her mixed signals and women can only notice one emotion at a time. Any more than one and they tend malfunction and have to drink wine with their friends and call you an arsehole. Now the girl will think you’re displaying a weakness by showing emotion. Let her have her petty games, play along as a being of superior intellect. She’ll tell you that you’re a really nice guy but she:


- Just doesn’t know you well enough yet.
- Thinks of you as more of a friend.
- Is married/arranged to be married/in a relationship/a mail order bride.
- Is gay (don’t be alarmed by this unless she didn’t wear make up to the date)
 

These are all complete fallacies. If she didn’t want to be bound to you for the foreseeable future then she would never have let you pay for the dinner at the first date. She’s simply trying to outwit you the best way a woman can: by lying. 

But you are prepared.

Let her finish telling you one of the above reasons. 

(NOTE: Which can take anywhere up to half a day as she explains her emotions and probably cites previous examples of where there was a guy like you and she took a chance and it didn’t work out and she got hurt and she doesn’t want to make herself vulner…etc. So I recommend recording a clip of you saying “Alright” and “I understand”, set it to repeat every minute and go start a hobby, ship building worked for me.) 

Letting her finish is important because if she thinks your listening you’ll boost your status with her even more because then she’ll think you’re “sensitive” and she doesn’t mean after an orgasm. She means in the emotionally involved way, little do they realize men have long since evolved past the need for any emotions. When she’s finished make a few anguished sobbing sounds and hang up, then go make yourself a large manly sandwich, you’ve earnt it.

We are now playing on the second most reliable emotion a woman can display “Guilt over things she hasn’t actually done.” Get comfortable exploiting this, it’ll come in handy during the relationship. 

Part 2: The Seduction Method That’s Like Shooting Retarded Fish In a Barrel That Worry If Their Outfit Goes as They Bleed to Death.
 
Give it a day exactly from the moment you hung up. She WILL call (if she doesn’t then just trust me on this, she had a cock). 

When you finally decide to answer her call, she’ll explain that she feels bad and that she hopes that her “rejecting” you isn’t going to make things weird between you. React as though she told you something really ordinary, as though she just commented on the weather, a current news event or how badly she wants to tear off your boxers with her teeth like a rabid jackal. 

I find saying “Oh”, “That’s nice” or “Jesus Christ would you shut the fuck up” works. Whatever you do, do not accept her apology. Don’t say you’ve forgiven her, this helps keep her right on the edge of the cliff where at the base of the fall is your penis. 

Then say “So do you want to go out sometime?”
She’ll respond affirmatively.
Then say “Yeah I’ll call you when I’ve got some spare time ok? Bye.”
WAIT for her to begin saying goodbye then hang up halfway through her saying the word.

Now we’re in control. Notice that the females power, though feeble at it’s peak relative to your male prowess, is now stripped away. Thus you learn:

Rule #1 Of Starting a Relationship: Strike when they are at their weakest. 

As you wield the power now feel free to do whatever the fuck you want to really, just don’t call her. If you’re on fire and she’s got the bucket of water, just act cool until you either die or pass out from the pain. If our almighty saviour Zeus was to come down from the heavens and says he’ll bitch slap you with lightning bolts if you don’t call her, refuse and spit on him. If Mike Tyson threatens you with some “cellblock loving” then goddamn it man you bite into that bar of soap and take it like a champ, cause this is all for a higher cause. 

If she calls you, do not pick up. If she bumps into you on the high street, shield your vision from her and run frantically away screaming “LALALALA” so you can’t hear her yelling out for you to come back. If by some insane, incredible coincidence you end up in the same social situation as her that you can’t escape then be sure to answer her every sentence with “The Three Magic Words.” 

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

Example:

Her: Oh..hi…Ralph? Ralph!! Hi!!
After a quick glance for escape routes you discover that you’re at a bar and last orders is just finishing. You weigh up your options and decide to grit it out. But it’s ok, You’ve read this guide
Her: Wow! I haven’t seen you for about…2 weeks? Has it been 2 weeks?
You: Yeah. Sure. Whatever.
At this point she attempts to hug you, a common trap that you should never fall for. You do the right thing and go completely limp, thus using her power against her and sending her to the floor
Her: Owww! So how’ve you been?
You: Yeah. Sure. Whatever.
Her: I’ve been pretty good in fact I got promot…
You: Yeah. Sure. Whatever.
Her: Well I have to go back to my mates now (LIE) but we should really get together again sometime soon OK?
You: Yeah. Sure Whatever.
She dives onto your face right there at the bar, guaranteed.

And with just those three magical words I’ve just got myself date number two and I’ve demonstrated why the above was worth the anal rape, the lightning bolt injuries and the first degree burns:

Rule #2 of Starting a Relationship: Women love a guy to be an obnoxious, self absorbed prick more than they love Sex and The City.

With this rule absorbed you know now the basically infallible rule of getting women into a relationship.

You see gentlemen, it’s all good being that nice guy who listens to what she say’s, who’s sensitive, who always tells her how pretty and unique she really is and how it’s totally not just about the sex for you at all. It’s all good being the guy who likes all the same things she does and buying her gifts “just because you saw it and thought of her”. It’s fine to go about your appearance with only pleasing that special girl in mind, smelling the way that she wants you to, wearing your hair the way she likes it, squeezing yourself into skinny jeans because she thinks they look good on guys. This is all well and good until you make that great revelation every man comes to make at some point in his life. 

Women don’t have a fucking clue what they want. 

That doesn’t matter at all though because thanks to this guide you just ascertained yourself a relationship and months of carefree rampant sex, god bless you. Who’s glum now chum?

Well give it a few months or so and it’ll be you and you’ll be needing to read the next part of my critically acclaimed “Sean Rodrieguez’ Guides” series:

Dating for Idiot’s Part 3: Surviving a Relationship WITHOUT ANY Violent Convictions.



Wednesday 7 January 2009

Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary: Day Six

I awake among a cluster of naked runway models with severe father issues. In my left hand I’m grasping the long neck of a drained bottle of Jose Cuervo my right holds a bottle of Bud Ice that’s dripping it’s last slowly onto sound asleep female midriff. Something is definitely right here…
I get out of bed and walk over a carpet of naked bodies, waking up each one as I step with a shower of profanity and abuse. As a celebrity I’m pretty used to that kind of reaction when I stand on people’s naked girlfriends. I step into a more literal shower and looking over the stunning mass that is myself I realize suddenly I’ve gotten a new tattoo. Despite my usual tattoo of the word “Talent” in bold letters down my left forearm I apparently got “Matthew xvi. 23” down my right forearm at some point last night. 

It never felt so fucking awesome to make a drunken mistake.


Alcohol Intake: FUCK THIS DIARY SHIT.

-----

 With Special Thanks To: Seb De Turenne for help with the French on day 4 and to all of you who read all the updates. Thanks for reading.

Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary: Day Five

I awake with a sense of desperation. My body is screaming out for alcohol. I shower and seeing as I get most of my major thinking done there, staring absently at the sheer beauty of myself. Whilst stood there in the steam and soap I made a decision, perhaps the best decision of my life. I dried myself off with a thick luxurious towel and decided that I was going to act now. It was time to take control of my destiny. I flung open the door to my walk in closet (recently valued at around £1.4 million, not including the clothes) and picked out a crisp, new Paul & Joe suit.I all but ran out to the courtyard, dived into my Ferrari Enzo and took off, heading for the bright lights of the city. 
I came to a screeching halt outside a cathedral looming over me casting a dark shadow over my stylish entrance as I rolled out of the car and sprinted up the long stone steps to the heavy wooden doors, throwing myself at them and flinging them open. The midday sun poured into the room, showing thousands of specks of dust floating through the air like gnats. I looked to the right. A confessional booth. Salvation. 
Throwing aside a queuing nun I dived into the booth.

“Bless me father for I have sinned.” I blurted out. “It has been 19 years since my last confession.”
“Go on my child.” Said the priest, his face obscured by a small stained glass window.
“Well I might as well start from now” I sighed.

Then I stood and punched him on the jaw through the window, sending glass shattering throughout the booth. Outside a woman screamed, I didn’t care. I stepped out of the booth and breathed in the balmy air, feeling like a new man. A new born soul. That’s about the time that the vicar slammed me on the temple with the hardback edition of The Bible, sending me sprawling into the pews. I stood up and wiped away the blood from my lip. I reached out for my Ray Bans on the floor, picked them up, cleaned them off and put them back on. Then I knocked them down my nose and looked hard at the vicar. He seemed unshaken by this, odd I thought, but at least it was a challenge. He moved into some kind of martial arts stance. 

“I’m not having this shit” I thought and went to kick him in the balls.

He caught my foot and went to throw me but I used to momentum to back flip and land perfectly on top of a nearby pew. I laughed at his attempts to harm me and began what could only be described as a breath taking display of acrobatics using the pews as landing and launching pads. The vicar was astounded, dazzled by this display, that is until I landed right next to him like a ninja and floored him with a powerful elbow blow so hard I could feel his nose break through the delicate fibres of my suit. He fell to the floor, writhing in agony. I looked down on my fallen foe and smiled. 

“Good shot with that Bible” I said in my coolest voice, which caused a cry of female orgasmic pleasure to come from the office block across the road, shattering every window on the street. I helped up the vicar, he rubbed his broken nose and smiled at me.


“Don’t worry about it, it’s cool” He said and gave me a high five.
“Say sorry to your friend.” I said pointing to the unconscious priest in the confessional booth. “It’s been a bit of a rough week for me.”
“Consider it done.” The vicar said.
“Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going for a drink.” I declared.

And, seducing four nuns on my way out with a click of my fingers. That’s exactly what I did.

Alcohol Intake: 27 Units.
Cigarettes Smoked: 20
Drug Intake: None.
Nuns Slept With: 4
Song of The Moment: My Sweet Lord by George Harrison.
Current Mood: Elated, Free.

Tuesday 6 January 2009

Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary: Day Four

2pm
I awoke groggily in the middle of my 20 foot master bed. I went downstairs and Jive’s the Butler had already prepared my breakfast of Bran Flakes with low fat milk with the incentive of a banana if I finished the bowl. I wolfed down the bran flakes, took a great swig of my Evian water and then dressed in my tracksuit and went for a jog. I’ve taken to jogging from my front door to the gates of my estate and back which my pedometer tells me is roughly 3 miles. I can do it inside of an hour now, I’m definitely improving. When I got home I took a quick shower, slapped a nicotine patch on my forearm and dressed into my best suit, I was heading out to my psychiatrist. He says that I’m suffering from severe manic depression, egotistical delusions and he says it’s all related to my mother but he’s Freudian so he would. I walked down the stairs and Amelie looked up from checking the mail on the armoire by the ornate front door. She smiled as she noticed me and as I passed by she kissed my lightly stubbled, chiselled cheek.

“Ton nouveau mode de vie m'excite grave” She said, her whirlpool blue eyes gazing lovingly into my own. 


I just smiled one of my handsomest smiles, the sort that’s reserved for only a few occasions one being like this one where I just have no fucking idea what a beautiful woman just said to me,

“See you at one.” I said with a voice that’s been known to be comparable to foreplay. “We’ll go out, I’ll buy you a horse steak.”

She smiled at me and nodded gleefully, she didn’t have a fucking clue what I’d just said but those crazy French bastards man, they love their horses. I knocked on my Ray Bans and as I crunched up the gravel courtyard to my Bentley Continental I was fairly sure I’d made a significant, positive change in my lif…

Ahahaha. You didn’t believe that shit did you? I started today (well I haven’t actually slept now for about 48 hours) running around the grounds naked and punching out the gardener’s for no apparent reason. This rehab might be slowly getting the better of me. 

Last night I sat in the corner of the room with “Nothing Compares To You” by Sinead O’Connor playing on repeat whilst I drew endless pictures of bottles containing alcohol and glue-sticking them to myself giggling. The cocaine stopped somewhere around my fifth set of heart palpitations when Amelie started crying hysterically whilst running in circles to drum and bass music I started to think it wasn’t a very good idea anymore. She started freaking out when we ran out and started whipping me with anal beads, which was a pretty shitty situation. 

Anyway she ran off to somewhere else on the estate and I locked myself in here coming down and deliriously believing I was an entire barbershop quartet and singing “For The Longest Time” by Billy Joel that’s when I started deliriously drawing bottles.

I’ve calmed down a little now, stopped licking the CD cases and rubbing the baggies onto my eyes. The music’s toned down and I’m sat here on the bed wondering just why I ever wished this rehab on myself. All’s I can remember now is something about sleeping with Grant Hancock and punching his dog. My willpower is lower than ever. In the distance I can hear Amelie screaming “espèce d'enculé de ta grand-mère la vieille pute suceuse de cailloux” Whatever that means. 

Its time to sleep I think, my eyes are dark bruises set onto sunken holes, my nose is red raw and bleeding sporadically and I’m daydreaming of snow white mountains made of cocaine with me sliding down it from the peak naked laughing maniacally. Yeah definitely time for bed.

Alcohol Intake: ZERO FUCKING UNITS
Cigarettes Smoked: Countless
Drug Intake: Too much cocaine
Song of the moment: For The Longest Time by Billy Joel
Current Mood: Exhausted, emotionally drained, very anti French.

Monday 5 January 2009

Sean Rodrieguez' Alcohol Rehab Diary: Day Three

10 A.M.

GOOD MORRRRRRRRNING SWEET DIARY! How great it is to be alive on the glorious, happy, happy, awesome day. You know what I just realized this morning, well actually what I realized about ermmmmmm twenty minutes ago about addiction? Yeah about addicition? Honestly I’ll tell you diary because you’re fucking awesome dude I fucking swear. Hold on a minute I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG...

WHOO HOOOOOO!

WHEN I FEEL HEAVY METAL! WHOO HOO!
AND IM PINS AND IM NEEDLES! WHOO HOO!
WELL I LIE AND I’M EASY! 
ALL OF THE TIME BUT I’M NEVER SURE WHEN I NEED YOU!
PLEASED TO MEEEEEEEETCHA!

…FUCK man that’s such a fucking great song. Hold on a minute…YEAH!!! So what was I saying? Oh yeah dude I swear to Christ mate I’ve figured out an easy way to beat this addiction shit! Cocaine! This is the most awesome rehab I’ve ever had I swear to god. What’s even better is I didn’t do anything wrong yesterday! I just had what my drug dealer/psychiatrist refers to as a “relapse” which caused me to “accidentally” get a “hedge strimmer” and “mercilessly slaughter puppies”. Which is good cause they’re much easier to dispose of than Amelie’s corpse! How fucking great is that? FUCK MAN I’M SO FUCKING HAPPY!! So after I woke up yesterday I kinda, you know, ran around sobbing and screaming which is all good cause I’m letting the emotions out and that’s part of the healing process and that can only cause me to get better and help me with my rehab and god everything is just fucking GREAT! This waterfall is incredible, hold on a minute….ALRIIIIIIIIGHT!!! So yeah I found out what I’d done and I apologized to Amelie and she forgave me and then we went to my room and she was like “J’adore Cocaine?” and I was all like “Fuck that shit, you know who I fucking am Sean Rodrieguez baby SUPERAWESOME?” but I tried some cause I’m all about expanding my mind and next thing I know it’s 10am and I’m sat here on top of the waterfall again with a really tense jaw feeling like I really need to blink and listening to some kick ass SuperFuckingAwesome music. GOD I never knew drum and bass music could be so GREAT!

Alcohol Intake: Zero Units
Cigarettes Smoked: 55
Drug Use: 9 grams of Cocaine. 
Song of The Moment: Funky Shit by Prodigy.
Current Mood: AWWWW YEAAAH!!!!

Sunday 4 January 2009

Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary: Day Two

7:32 am 
I’ve just awoken naked atop my man made waterfall. Amelie sleeps peacefully beside me, her black hair shifting back and forth with each breath like an ocean tide drawing back and forth into the beautiful infinity of her shoulders. For a moment everything in the world seems right. Something inside me fits just perfectly. I light a cigarette and exhale slowly, looking out across the expanse of luxury below me. How lucky I am to be so SuperAwesome. Outside a symphony of birds play a delightful tune to the lush backdrop of the sun shining out across a frosty early English morning and it seems as though I can see it’s reflection in every slowly melting piece of ice on every blade of perfectly trimmed grass on my long, ornate 44 acre back garden. Outside it’s probably below freezing but here in the artificial environment of the Spa it’s a delightful 22 degrees which the inordinately expensive air conditioning is blowing a perfect breeze through. I let my feet dangle off the edge of the waterfall and look down into the plunge pool below, finishing my cigarette off and stubbing it out on one of the many ashtrays I had built into the artificial rocks decorating the peak. Perhaps this rehab was the right thing for me, maybe it’s going to make me a better man, a better human.
A long elegant, bronzed arm reaches over my broad shoulders and rests on the expanse of muscle that is my chest. It’s Amelie. Suddenly I feel such love and compassion for the world, for her. I feel her lips kiss my shoulder muscles gently and her breath sounds into my ear as she leans close to it.
“Mon Chéri…” She whispers, her voice an angelic choir to my ears…
“Would you like a beer?”

9:02am  
I awake in a daze, washed up on the plunge pool’s shore. There’s blood everywhere. Christ what have I done? Where’s Amelie?

Alcohol Intake: Zero Units
Cigarettes Smoked: 6 (better today)
Urge To Kill: ???
Song of The Moment: Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve
Current Mood: What The Fuck Have I Done?

Saturday 3 January 2009

Sean Rodrieguez' Alcohol Rehab Diary

DAY ONE

This may be the hardest thing any man has ever done. I’m sweating out alcohol and ten minutes ago I tried making wine by stamping frantically onto some grapes and weeping. I’ve completely purged my house of any alcohol. I filled two large dustbins with crates of lager, bottles of tequila, fine wine, spirits. I then rolled them to the curb where a group of homeless men ran from nowhere and stole them as I screamed obscenities and death threats at them until Jive’s the Butler restrained me and led me back to the Spa, where I currently write this on a waterproofed laptop sat on top of my man made waterfall. Everywhere I look I see alcohol, even in the small diving pool filled with Budweiser, I’d empty that but it’s on a constant refill cycle so instead I drowned one of the homeless thieving bastards in it as an act of retribution for stealing the alcohol I was throwing away. My hands are clenching into fist’s uncontrollably and my urge to kill has hardly been sated by the homeless guys thrashing, violent death. I’ve just put out my tenth cigarette since I quit.

It’s been a horrible 20 minutes so far.  

Alcohol Intake: Zero Units
Cigarettes Smoked: Ten
Urge to Kill: Insatiable
Song of the Moment: The Hush Sound – Don’t Wake Me Up
Current Mood: Optimistic/Homicidal


Friday 2 January 2009

SuperAwesome Sean Rodrieguez' Wild Adventures #2

The Story of Sean Rodrieguez’ Alcohol Rehab

Featuring today’s guest star: Grant Hancock 


(Hint: He's The Drunk One.)

“Sean…Sean…”


The room was dark, very dark. I couldn’t see anything in fact. Had I gone blind? Had the previous New Year’s Eve’s night of debauchery ended terribly? Was I dead? I lay pondering these questions and thinking of the beginnings of a new, more efficient theory of relativity as a voice called out my name from somewhere else in the room. As a man of such incredible sexual prowess I can actually impregnate people’s pets by stroking them (an ability that caused my upcoming television advert for the RSPCA to be banned) I was more than used to hearing a voice calling my name in the morning, but this was different, this was a male voice. Something was definitely wrong.

I realized this fact was definitely true was I attempted to move and found that it felt as though an angry barbarian had taken a sledgehammer to my skull. My limbs were paralysed. Perhaps this was where it would end for me, perhaps some evil mastermind had taken offence to my sheer, effortless perfection in all area’s and captured me in my drunken partying, sedated me, blindfolded me and tied me down to this bed. This would not stand. Sean Rodrieguez wasn’t going out like this.

“Sean can you hear me Sean?” the voice called out again, this time cackling malevolently afterward.

I’d be damned if I was going to be laughed at. I summoned all of my strength and willed my limbs to move. Miraculously I sat up and realizing my strength had returned dived, screaming like a banshee toward the voice. I landed a sublime right handed punch on whoever or whatever it was and the voice screamed in pain, crashing backward into a TV set in the corner of the room with a sickening crunch of glass, plastic and bones.


My vision refocused, I realized a few alarming facts.

First of all, I wasn’t in some kind of evil madman’s secret dungeon awaiting to be tortured slowly to death, I was in some kind of living room. Across the room a younger couple lay in a fold out bed looking at me in open mouthed awe or perhaps shock. This was a reaction I was fairly used to by now but this time something seemed different. 


“Why are they staring?” I wondered as the body of what I thought was my captor groaned in the wreckage of what used to be his home entertainment set up. 

It was then I realized I was stark naked and looking down I still had a condom sheathed around my gigantic love stump. Reaching to my knee I pulled off the condom and in a moment not so rare to me I looked around to see where I’d been lay moments before, surely my bed partner would still be there, waiting for a bout of passionate morning after sex?

It appeared I had been lay on a sofa and from under the duvet bounded a small, white dog who barked happily, winked at me and ran off to god knows where. 

I felt perhaps this time I had gone too far. Perhaps it was time for me to quit drinking. Not one for apologies I quickly winked at the girl in the fold out bed, causing her to orgasm so hard the plate glass patio windows next to her smashed and put my suit back on. Her boyfriend (I assume) ran at me in anger for (I assume) pleasing his girlfriend more than (I know) he ever could. As he was about to strike me I put on my Ray Ban’s and knocked them down my nose. The boy froze.

“Thanks for keeping her warm for me” I said, clicking my fingers into a gun and pointing my index finger at him.

With that I walked over to the television set to see just who I’d brutally incapacitated. I was mildly surprised to see it was my ever trusty sidekick Grant Hancock. He lay groaning in the shards of glass and plastic. I smiled, relieved I’d hit a person I knew.


“Rough night eh Granty Boy?” I questioned
“Urrrrrrrgh” Grant replied.

I felt kind of bad about the whole affair so I counted out £2,000 worth of £20 notes onto his prone body to pay for the television.

“Keep the change” I insisted. With that I walked out of the house, stopping en route to give the dog I’d apparently slept with my business card. From there I got into my Rolls Royce Phantom and drove top speed back to my palatial estate in Barlaston stopping only when a female police officer stopped me for drink driving which I got out of by bending her over the front of her police cruiser and making sweet passionate love to her whilst passing by cars honked their horns in approval.

As I arrived home to my estate and handed my keys over to Jive’s the Butler I considered what I’d thought earlier. Had I gone too far? Was it time to quit the booze for good and all? Like all my decisions I decided to relax before making it.

I walked into my spa complex and paused for a moment to soak in the opulence of the place. White marble covered every surface, my iTunes selection played quietly in the background on hidden speakers. I pulled out my platinum pill dispenser from my suit jacket and popped two paracetamol. Then, in my Armani suit, climbed into my 16 man Jacuzzi to think about my rehab and recover from my hangover. Floating there in the foamy delight of the water, my long blonde hair splayed around my superbly featured head I mused about life, philosophy, women and just which publisher I’d let publish my next bestseller.

Somewhere on the other side of the room I could hear my man made 30 foot water fall splashing playfully into it’s plunge pool or it could have been my fountain in a likeness of me pissing onto a globe whilst smoking a cigar and giving all onlookers a thumbs up. I gave up deciding which it was and climbed out of the Jacuzzi, feeling fresh and invigorated. I stripped out of my suit and handed the ruined thing to Amelie my French maid who knew only how to say the English phrases “Would you like a beer?” and “You look great naked, sir.”


“You look great naked, sir” She said in her cute accent.
“Why thanks doll.” I replied
“Would you like a beer?” She asked

WOULD I like a beer? I remembered that before my relaxation time I was supposed to have made a decision about something roughly like that. Quit alcohol? Sure why not? What’s the worst that could happen?

“No thanks baby” I said, considering having sex with her later, “I’ve quit.”

There will now be daily updates with Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary. Be sure to check in each day to see just how the man Time Magazine deemed unfair to name "Man of the Year" is getting on with his rehab. Updates should go up at 7pm GMT, but it really depends on whether he's getting any at that precise moment or not. Which as we all know is fairly likely.

Thursday 1 January 2009

The Rodrieguez Lists #2: Where I can't use pictures right.

The Rodrieguez List’s: Because everybody loves a top ten li…oh shit already did that joke.

The SRSA (Sean Rodrieguez Super Awesome) Cool List.

As you may or not know some stupid magazine written by people less talented than myself called NME does what they dare deem a “Cool List” whereby they stroke the cocks (or the female equivalent) of celebrities and cause a lot of flocking scenester’s to suddenly begin to follow them and claim they always knew about them. (LINK) You can see their attempt here. But it occurred to me that they don’t really have a fucking clue as to what cool is. I, being super awesome, however do know what cool is. I’m basically the epitome of cool so it’s understandable that I’d “get” cool. I mean if Elvis hadn’t lived I’d have probably invented the word. 
So here, for posterity is the REAL cool list from the source of what cool really is which is basically this very blog you’re cool enough to be reading right now. Cause let’s face it, you’re a suave motherfucker.

10. Russell Brand

 

What he did: 

- Had long, gay but oddly enviable hair
- Caused vast lust among many, many females for no real reason.
- Appeared in “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” and made me realize he was funny.
- Claimed he fucked the butler from Fawlty Towers daughter, caused tabloids to wet themselves in gossip glee, half heartedly apologized and managed to come out of it just aces. Which is worthy of respect if anything because he probably did fuck the daughter.

Why he’s cool: When you can happily admit that a man could nail your own mother and you’d just shake his hand because he’s so cool. When a man can do this whilst wearing skinny jeans, cowboy boots with hair gayer than gay porn star’s holding a lubed up sign that reads “We’re really gay” you have to like, nay, respect him. When somebody who I wholeheartedly despised before this year can turn that table on me, he’s pretty fucking cool in my book.




9. Dave Walker



(Photo provided by Becki Birkett Photography. Taken from the album "Drunk Crazy Hobo's" out soon) 

What he did: 

- Had a bit of dance everywhere he went.
- Rocked the decks at the world’s (read: Stone’s) hottest bar: The Lounge
- Drank a concoction of drinks that included: Half a pint of Guinness, a shot of: Rum, Bacardi, Vodka, Jack Daniels, Southern Comfort, Gin and Tequila in 10 seconds with two straws
- Came onto every single woman he met the entire year, including my mother and YOUR mother.
- Took a world of abuse in everything I wrote and yet still called me funny.

Why he’s cool: When a man can turn alcoholism into a fine art and smack that many female asses his hand is actually appearing on wanted posters throughout the county, he deserves some semblance of respect. Dave’s cocky southern charm found it’s fame in being written about by me, by which I mean at least 5 people who didn’t know him before I wrote about him know about him and, in time, will be flirted to by him.


8. Sean Rodrieguez

 

(Photo Provided by J'adore Ya Photo's)

What he did:

- Started what is, questionably, the greatest blog ever written.
- Re-attended college, got shitfaced and somehow didn’t fail.
- Made at least 30 people smile.
- Became an alcoholic after discovering Dave Walker was actually his father.

Why He’s Cool: When a man can fail astonishingly and set himself up to fail even more astonishingly the same year whilst developing a new addiction that has him in Wetherspoons at dinnertime so often the bar staff know what he drinks, he’s done something so remarkably stupid he deserves recognition. 


7. Alex Turner
 

What he did:

- Started the side project band “The Last Shadow Puppets” which despite having an incredibly cool name were also pretty fucking awesome whilst using classical instruments.
- Was still a member of The Arctic Monkeys which is easily the coolest and best band Britain has spawned since Oasis. 
- Did fuck all else, which in a lazy way is so fucking awesome it’s beyond words.

Why He’s Cool: Is the author of and regularly performs “A Certain Romance”. If you’ve heard that song, that’s reason enough. If you haven’t you’re reading the wrong list. Shit I just sounded as obnoxious as NME.


6. Robert Harvey (Lead Singer Of The Music)

What he did:

- Played a gig at Keele University so awesome I think it actually caused my penis to grow permanently.
- Caught a fan’s jumper and sang to it.
- During the last song of the gig exclaimed “Fuck it, lets have a fucking dance!” and then did just that in a way that was basically so cool Jimi Hendrix stopped rocking in heaven and pointed in the general direction.

Why He’s Cool: Despite starting his career as a long haired weirdo he managed to turn into this incredibly awesome skinhead that can also play the bongo’s which is, past the pink oboe, the coolest instrument ever. He also just happened to be the front man of the first real live gig I ever attended and thus soaks up some of my coolness.


5. Hunter S. Thompson


What he did:

- Wrote perhaps some of the best drugged up, euphoric pieces of genius man will ever see.
- Was played by an equally cool Johnny Depp in the film “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
- Did a LOT of drugs.
- When he died he had his ashes fired from a gigantic customized cannon.

Why he’s cool: Despite being heralded as what he would despise: a cult icon, Hunter S. Thompson managed to give so little of a fuck about things he’s didn’t care about and write about what he did care about so superbly he could still serve as an inspiration to countless people, including myself. A modern philosopher that didn’t even try to be, an effortless prophet, deserves to be read by every single person who reads this blog. 


4. Bono


What he did:

- Was an absolute cunt.
- Was an incredible, absolute, arrogant, whiny cunt.
- To be fair did a lot of good for charity.
- Is such a cunt I don’t really mind calling him a cunt and that’s a horrible word.

- Was however the guy running around a MASSIVE stage in front of a mind bogglingly huge crowd in this clip (Where The Streets Have No Name Live At Slane Castle)

Which Blogger is fucking refusing to show whatever I do so: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=uDkBzkA9L4s

Why He’s Cool: To be fair, he’s not a cunt he’s just that cool that I hate him for it. I’m not a fan of U2 on ANY level. I don’t think they’re that great, no real reason they just aren’t my kind of music. However when I saw the above clip it made my hairs stand on end. The energy is pretty sickening and during this beautiful moment of just well, sheer stage presence I guess…Bono is RUNNING laps around the stage. Just because…he can. He’s Bono. So whether I think he’s a cunt or whether I like his music is irrelevant. He run laps in front of a crowd of god knows how many people whilst some genuinely hair raising music is being played, LOUD. That’s pretty cool.


3. (tie) Jeffrey Bernard


What he did:

- Was never heard of by any of you, I guarantee.
- Was an absolute literary genius whilst being an incredible guy.
- Drank and smoked so heavily, whilst being diabetic, he had both legs amputated and eventually died. Yet never stopped doing either.
- Never once finished any project larger than a weekly newspaper article about his own life and wasn’t very punctual at doing that.

- Hated a lot of people in a very clever way.

Why He’s Cool: Cool is supposedly doing your own, unique thing. If so, Jeffrey Bernard did this without even trying to be cool, just doing what he enjoyed most. He made a career of it and never once tried to be recognized, hated to be in fact. Jeffrey Bernard was cool without even trying. Deserves to be read.


3. (tie) Jamie T


 

What he did:

- Released the album “Panic Prevention”
- Which included the songs “Sheila”, “If You’ve Got The Money” “Pacemaker” and “Alicia Quays”
- Was cooler than Alex Turner and performed questionably as good music on his own
- Made songs for near enough every drunken and very English occasion, that you can sing along to with glee every time it’s played anywhere.

Why He’s Cool: He’s just the songwriter you wish you could be after 8 pints down the local. Immeasurably British, incredibly talented, insightful and yet does its all without ever being pretentious in the least. Plus he makes the most songs by one person that make me smile every single time I hear them.


2. Bob Dylan


What he did:

- He’s Bob Fucking Dylan.
- Wrote the greatest song ever written; “Like A Rolling Stone”

Why he’s cool: He’s been cool without remotely even thinking of starting to try for something like 4 decades now. He released an album at aged 65 that was a complete change of style and got rave reviews by near enough every major music reviewer out. That was also his 32nd studio album. Despite writing “Like A Rolling Stone” which Bruce Springsteen himself said the opening snare “was like somebody kicked open the door to your mind” he’s written countless other timeless songs that could in their own right be some of the best songs written since music has been recorded. If that wasn’t enough in an interview once when asked a question he didn’t agree with he got offended and exclaimed: “What?! Would you ask the fuckin’ Beatles that question?!” Genius.


1. Van Morrison.


What he did:

- IS most likely the person who actually “Gets” music the most out of everybody in the world
- Is immeasurably cool, even when improvising on stage.

- Wrote the song “Caravan” which if it weren’t for “Like A Rolling Stone” would be the greatest song ever written.


Why He’s The Coolest: It was close between him and Dylan but listening to Van Morrison you can practically hear him make the decisions he makes as he sings. That isn’t what’s cool. What’s cool is that every single decision he makes sounds absolutely incredible, it’s like an orgy in your ears where everybody is having a multiple orgasm. Mix that with stage presence and a lot of drugs, alcohol and smoking and the coolness level rises. That isn’t to say Dylan didn’t do those things, or that nobody else did, it’s to say that for me Van Morrison does those things best even though he didn’t even write my favourite song. 

He also wrote and performed “Brown Eyed Girl” which quite possibly the most universally liked song I can think of that isn’t the Beatles or Elvis (whom I didn’t include because I don’t like either of them that much and it’s my list dammit). 

There are an absolute mass of people that could fill this spot. Not just in music which I tried to stick to for the NME theme; in film, in effectively every single aspect of life. Van Morrison to me however is the epitome of “cool”. He exudes that much passion, talent and ability in what he loves that you can pretty much experience it every time you hear him sing.  

The main factor of being “cool” to me is envy. That’s why Bono is so high on the list despite the fact I hate him. If something is “cool” to you, I feel you basically envy whatever that is because you know really that you could never do it in the same way and frankly you’d give pretty much anything to be able to. This is why Van Morrison is a close number one on Dylan. I envy Van Morrison because he is so incredible at what he does, so remarkable that not only will I never be as good as him, its highly doubtful anybody ever will. 

Plus you know, he’s got the drugs, alcohol, smoking and “Brown Eyed Girl”.

People I Remembered after writing this list and then realized the futility of writing any serious top 10 list whilst drinking:
- Prince
- Robert De Niro
- Al Pacino
- Seann William Scott
- Charlie Sheen
- Mick Jagger (when he was young)
- Nick Cave
- A begrudging vote for Oasis
- Countless others, I’m never writing a semi-serious top 10 list ever again.
- Late much more drunk addition: Beck.