The guys discuss the possibility of digging up a time capsule too early.
2009.08.28
Andrew and J.J. talk with KTLA's Jessica Holmes about covering fires and chasing cars in helicopters.
Charactures WANTED!
We here at AndrewandJJ.com are looking for an artist that would be interested in helping us with a new logo for us. We are thinking of a characture type design based on our photo above. If anyone knows someone, or is able to work on it themselves, please contact us at Andrewandjj@gmail.com.
2009.08.27
Jessica Holmes shares stories of hosting Nickelodeon's Slime Time Live and winning the American Idol of weather personality contests.
2009.08.26
Andrew gets fed up with J.J.'s zombie stories and quits the podcast; Juan the Pool Boy cleans the hot tub.
2009.08.25
The guys discuss what would happen if everyone had their own black box recorder; Andrew devises a plan to keep Nadav the Intern from graduating college.
2009.08.24
J.J. poses a philosophical question involving money and murder; Andrew discusses the second coming of Jesus Christ.
2009.08.21
The guys from Vaudeville talk about genetics, the state of Wisconsin, and play two more songs from their latest record.
Search for Orgazmo
Now this isn't a blog, BUT something fairly awesome...
Follow these travelers as they search for the very illusive "Orgazmo."
Follow these travelers as they search for the very illusive "Orgazmo."
2009.08.19
Andrew's bitterness toward his successful, wealthy family finally comes out; J.J. gets lap band surgery. Kind of.
The Wrath of the Alarm
Some people are unaware of the fact that I am a published writer. While J.J. goes to work all day and I stay home with the kids doing the cooking and the cleaning, I find a few spare moments here and there to write a short story or two. Well, that said, here's a sample of my latest work. Sit back with an ice cold Shasta and enjoy.
The sun was slowly creeping across the morning sky. I was in bed, attempting to ignore the harsh glare coming through the window, but when you’re too lazy to move, the sun eventually wins. The earth keeps spinning, outer space keeps functioning, and at some point you’re forced to see the light, unless you get up and close the drapes.
The stubborn beam of light crept slowly along the bed spread, lurking in the folds of the covers like a lion waiting to tear into a gazelle. The problem was, the dumbass gazelle, or me, should have known it was coming. I always watch those shows on the Discovery Channel and shout at the screen in hopes of being heard before it’s too late, but when you think about it, how can the gazelle NOT know? It’s seen like 18 of its family members get mauled to death by the same herd of lions that live just down the river, yet it still wanders to the same spot to get a drink. If 18 of your family members had been torn to shreds in the same bar, would you still decide that was the best place to wet your whistle? No, probably not. Not unless you were a moron, just like the rest of your family. You would sit at the bar, unaware of the impending doom of teeth ripping into flesh, your Mai Tai flying across the room while a camera crew hid in the corner and filmed the whole thing.
Come to think of it, every time a gazelle sees a camera crew, it should run like hell. If it knows anything about primetime cable ratings, it will know that viewers aren’t interested in a peaceful encounter between two animals. They want dismemberment and death.
Where was I? Oh right, in bed and trying to block out the daylight.
Well, I would have stayed in bed, (I swear I would have…the sun can go screw itself…or unscrew itself actually) but the same car alarm that had gone off the past three mornings in a row decided to give it one more go. The risk of eternal blindness couldn’t get me out of bed, but the guy two houses down who owned the Geo Metro with rims, a spoiler, and an alarm so temperamental that a good sneeze could set it off needed to be stopped.
I stumbled down the stairs and into the garage, grabbing the crow bar I’d purchased at Sears for this very occasion. It had been an exciting conversation with the Crowbar Salesman, a bulging, butch guy with a buzz cut and a mullet and a set of man boobs the likes of which I had never seen:
Me: I’m looking to get revenge on someone who made a very bad vehicular enhancement decision.
Crowbar Salesman: What did he do?
Me: He put a spoiler on a Geo Metro.
Crowbar Salesman: Let me show you our selection of machine guns.
Me: No no, that might be sending the wrong message. I just want the car to die. I think destroying the spinning rims on his tires will be ample punishment.
Crowbar Salesman: What about a rocket launcher?
Me: You sell rocket launchers at Sears?
Crowbar Salesman: We want to be your one stop shopping choice.
Me: You don’t sell food though. Wal Mart sells food.
Crowbar Salesman: Wal Mart grinds babies into meat patties and flash freezes them.
Me: No wonder my stomach was crying at Jim’s barbeque last weekend.
Crowbar Salesman: You’re funny! Have you ever done stand up?
Me: (Pointing to my legs) I’m standing up right now!
Crowbar Salesman: (Crying from laughter) I’m SO texting Bob Vila about this when I get home!
Me: You-you actually know Bob Vila?
Crowbar Salesman: We dated for awhile.
Me: Bob Vila is gay?
Crowbar Saleswoman: No.
Me: So I’m gonna go.
Crowbar Saleswoman: Call me?
Me: I have terminal Herpes.
Crowbar Saleswoman: …Call me?
Three hours and one awkward encounter in the lawnmower section later, I left the store with a gleaming crow bar and an appointment to get tested for STDs the next morning. I had listened to that car alarm one too many times.
What moron pimped out a Geo Metro? Better yet, what moron risked imprisonment for STEALING a pimped out Geo Metro? Was the alarm a necessary feature? Not once in my life had I ever heard a car alarm going off due to someone breaking into the car. Not once in my life had I ever seen someone tearing through a parking lot toward their car for fear that it was THEIR alarm going off. It was the most unnecessary invention since the Slap Bracelet. Do you like pain shooting through your forearm? Do you hate looking fashionable? Have you never been intimate with someone when it didn’t involve providing your credit card number? Then we have the accessory for you! Comes in 13 hideous designs – be the first homosexual on your block to own them all!
I marched down the street in my bathrobe and slippers like a homeless drunk determined to be the first one in line at the soup kitchen. The noise of the alarm grew louder and louder.
Now I know what you’re thinking. Wouldn’t the owner of this horrendous piece of crap call the cops when he saw me destroying the precious gem rotting in his driveway at 8:45 in the morning?
No.
I say this for several reasons. First, this Douche Mobile, as I lovingly referred to it, hadn’t been registered with the DMV in years. A raging alcoholic growing pot plants in his bathtub couldn’t possibly be expected to pay such a hefty bill. Paying the bill would involve money. Money would involve having a job. Having a job would involve leaving the house before 2 PM. Leaving the house before 2 PM would involve sobriety. That said, this guy wasn’t gonna pay.
Second, the pot plants in the bathtub.
While there would initially be no cause for a cop to go into his house when the shattered remains of the Douche Mobile were scattered outside, any human with functioning brain cells could see that the owner of the Douche Mobile would be high as a kite. The moment he stepped foot outside, the officers would take notice of the fact that his eyes were more bloodshot than a schizophrenic albino on suicide watch. The pot would be discovered, the Douche Mobile would be repossessed, the owner would be sent to prison for putting a spoiler on a car with a maximum speed of 40 miles per hour, the case would be closed.
So I wasn’t too concerned about having the cops called on me.
As I approached the car, I paused for a moment. I could see the outline of what had once been a respectable, albeit cheap, little car. It had no bad intentions. It had been taken hostage against its will and forced to endure this humiliation. The headlights and grill stared at me, forming the same sad expression I had given my mother when she forced me to wear a sailor suit to Molly Henderson’s birthday party in third grade.
“Don’t make me do it,” I had pleaded. “Get me out of this stupid thing!”
Needless to say, I had been ignored at the party. Molly had taken one good look at me, laughed, and by the time the cupcakes hit the coffee table, she’d been all over Tommy Morris in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt.
I cautiously approached the car.
“Look, I’m doing this for your own good, okay?”
“Waaaaah waaaaah waaaaah!” the car alarm pierced the sky, echoing off the surrounding buildings and filling the alley with noise.
I walked to the back of the car, vowing revenge on my mother for putting me in that sailor suit. I lifted the crow bar high above my head, took a deep breath, and brought it down with all my might.
It hit the spoiler with a resounding crunch. Plastic shattered, shrapnel flying in all directions. It felt good.
Next I went for the tires. Large gleaming rims reflected the sunlight, throwing it back into my eyes. I swung the crow bar at each offending one, feeling the satisfaction as metal met plastic. First the two rear tires, then I went for the front.
“Waaaaah waaaaah waaaaah!”
I stepped back and looked at the destruction. Something wasn’t right. The windows, black with tint, were unharmed.
“What fun is destroying a car if you can’t break a little glass?” I asked no one in particular.
The car protested.
“Waaaah waaaaah waaaah!”
I lifted the crowbar high above the windshield, standing on my toes to make sure I would get the most height possible. One glance to be sure no one was watching me, and I brought the bar down.
It met the windshield with a thud.
That’s right, a thud. Not a shatter, not a crash, not an explosion. A thud. Sure, a giant crack now splintered in all directions, forming a spider web as wide as the whole car. But it was still in place. I stared in disapproval at the crowbar, somehow hoping to blame it for this failed attempt.
Had the Crowbar Salestransvestite lied to me? It had told me the crowbar would do the trick with one blow. Had it mislead me as it sat next to me, curled up in my arms on the seat of that John Deere Grass Assassin 9000 in the basement of Sears?
I looked at the car once more. Vowing success, I gave it another go.
The metal hook tore into the windshield like that lion tearing into the gazelle. Glass shattered into millions of pieces.
“Waaaaah waaaaah waaaaah!”
My breathing was heavy now as I stared at my work. A bead of sweat slowly trickled down my forehead before connecting with my eye.
As I rubbed the moisture out of my vision, I looked at the car closer. Something was in the front seat, covered in glass. It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t something – it was someONE. And not just any someone. It was the owner of the Douche Mobile himself.
I slowly approached the car, bits of glass crunching beneath my feet as if to provide a warning. I reached through the gaping hole in the front of the car to move away the debris that covered the lifeless stoner in the driver’s seat. That’s when I saw it.
A Black and Decker cordless drill was planted firmly in his chest. A stainless steel 9 3/4” rust proof drill bit had been lodged into his heart. He had literally been screwed to death.
I stood, jaw open, taking the scene in.
“Waaaah waaaah waaaah!”
The sound of the car alarm brought me back to reality. This could be pinned on me. It made perfect sense. I had destroyed the car, my fingerprints were all over the crow bar. There was no way I would be found innocent.
I panicked. I backed away before turning and running up the street. My mind raced as my Scooby Doo slippers made contact with the pavement, my bathrobe flapping in the morning breeze.
I ran into my garage and stopped dead in my tracks. Parked in the middle of the floor was the John Deere Grass Assassin 9000, the very same machine I had seen in my nightmares for a week after the crowbar sex. And to make matters worse, it was being straddled by none other than the Crowbar Salesfreak itself. An evil grin crossed its face.
“What are you doing here?” I managed between breaths.
“Did you like my work?” it said.
I was confused.
“What work?”
It grinned even wider, the green paint of the mower reflected in its face, creating a frightening resemblance to the Grinch.
“I took care of your friend down the street,” it cooed. “He won’t be a problem any more.”
I was in shock.
“You wanted me to handle the situation, right?”
“No!” I cried out. “That’s why I bought the crow bar! I was going to take care of it!” My head was spinning.
“We at Sears want to make sure our customers receive one-hundred percent satisfaction,” it said. “So I was just doing my job.”
“It’s right,” I heard a voice behind me. I turned around, my gaze met with a bright red Ford F-150 now parked in my street. Standing next to it was the owner, holding a Black and Decker cordless drill with a stainless steel, rust-proof 9 3/4” drill bit jutting out from the end. Blood and flesh clung to it like eggs congealed on a pan.
“Couldn’t let this beauty go to waste now, could I?” Bob Vila said as he approached me. “This baby retails for $79.95. I wasn’t going to leave it in his chest forever,” he smiled. “Although I could – it’s rust-proof.”
“Mmmm,” the Crowbar Salesthing moaned from atop it’s perch on the mower.
I stood in the middle of the garage, uncomfortably underdressed considering I was in the presence of tool royalty, although all I could keep thinking was, ‘Bob Vila murdered my neighbor with a Black and Decker cordless drill with a stainless steel rust-proof 9 3/4” bit.’
“So,” I managed, “what do we do now?”
The Crowbar Saleswhore stared at Bob Vila; Bob Vila stared at the Crowbar Saleswhore. They shared a smile.
“Well,” Bob Vila grinned, “now you compensate us for our outstanding customer service.” He put his hand on my shoulder. The Crowbar Salesthing closed the garage door. Bob Vila gingerly walked me over to the mower and slowly caressed the steering wheel with his hand.
“Hop on.”
The whine of the car alarm down the street barely covered up the rumble of the John Deere Grass Assassin 9000 mixed with my screams.
The End
The sun was slowly creeping across the morning sky. I was in bed, attempting to ignore the harsh glare coming through the window, but when you’re too lazy to move, the sun eventually wins. The earth keeps spinning, outer space keeps functioning, and at some point you’re forced to see the light, unless you get up and close the drapes.
The stubborn beam of light crept slowly along the bed spread, lurking in the folds of the covers like a lion waiting to tear into a gazelle. The problem was, the dumbass gazelle, or me, should have known it was coming. I always watch those shows on the Discovery Channel and shout at the screen in hopes of being heard before it’s too late, but when you think about it, how can the gazelle NOT know? It’s seen like 18 of its family members get mauled to death by the same herd of lions that live just down the river, yet it still wanders to the same spot to get a drink. If 18 of your family members had been torn to shreds in the same bar, would you still decide that was the best place to wet your whistle? No, probably not. Not unless you were a moron, just like the rest of your family. You would sit at the bar, unaware of the impending doom of teeth ripping into flesh, your Mai Tai flying across the room while a camera crew hid in the corner and filmed the whole thing.
Come to think of it, every time a gazelle sees a camera crew, it should run like hell. If it knows anything about primetime cable ratings, it will know that viewers aren’t interested in a peaceful encounter between two animals. They want dismemberment and death.
Where was I? Oh right, in bed and trying to block out the daylight.
Well, I would have stayed in bed, (I swear I would have…the sun can go screw itself…or unscrew itself actually) but the same car alarm that had gone off the past three mornings in a row decided to give it one more go. The risk of eternal blindness couldn’t get me out of bed, but the guy two houses down who owned the Geo Metro with rims, a spoiler, and an alarm so temperamental that a good sneeze could set it off needed to be stopped.
I stumbled down the stairs and into the garage, grabbing the crow bar I’d purchased at Sears for this very occasion. It had been an exciting conversation with the Crowbar Salesman, a bulging, butch guy with a buzz cut and a mullet and a set of man boobs the likes of which I had never seen:
Me: I’m looking to get revenge on someone who made a very bad vehicular enhancement decision.
Crowbar Salesman: What did he do?
Me: He put a spoiler on a Geo Metro.
Crowbar Salesman: Let me show you our selection of machine guns.
Me: No no, that might be sending the wrong message. I just want the car to die. I think destroying the spinning rims on his tires will be ample punishment.
Crowbar Salesman: What about a rocket launcher?
Me: You sell rocket launchers at Sears?
Crowbar Salesman: We want to be your one stop shopping choice.
Me: You don’t sell food though. Wal Mart sells food.
Crowbar Salesman: Wal Mart grinds babies into meat patties and flash freezes them.
Me: No wonder my stomach was crying at Jim’s barbeque last weekend.
Crowbar Salesman: You’re funny! Have you ever done stand up?
Me: (Pointing to my legs) I’m standing up right now!
Crowbar Salesman: (Crying from laughter) I’m SO texting Bob Vila about this when I get home!
Me: You-you actually know Bob Vila?
Crowbar Salesman: We dated for awhile.
Me: Bob Vila is gay?
Crowbar Saleswoman: No.
Me: So I’m gonna go.
Crowbar Saleswoman: Call me?
Me: I have terminal Herpes.
Crowbar Saleswoman: …Call me?
Three hours and one awkward encounter in the lawnmower section later, I left the store with a gleaming crow bar and an appointment to get tested for STDs the next morning. I had listened to that car alarm one too many times.
What moron pimped out a Geo Metro? Better yet, what moron risked imprisonment for STEALING a pimped out Geo Metro? Was the alarm a necessary feature? Not once in my life had I ever heard a car alarm going off due to someone breaking into the car. Not once in my life had I ever seen someone tearing through a parking lot toward their car for fear that it was THEIR alarm going off. It was the most unnecessary invention since the Slap Bracelet. Do you like pain shooting through your forearm? Do you hate looking fashionable? Have you never been intimate with someone when it didn’t involve providing your credit card number? Then we have the accessory for you! Comes in 13 hideous designs – be the first homosexual on your block to own them all!
I marched down the street in my bathrobe and slippers like a homeless drunk determined to be the first one in line at the soup kitchen. The noise of the alarm grew louder and louder.
Now I know what you’re thinking. Wouldn’t the owner of this horrendous piece of crap call the cops when he saw me destroying the precious gem rotting in his driveway at 8:45 in the morning?
No.
I say this for several reasons. First, this Douche Mobile, as I lovingly referred to it, hadn’t been registered with the DMV in years. A raging alcoholic growing pot plants in his bathtub couldn’t possibly be expected to pay such a hefty bill. Paying the bill would involve money. Money would involve having a job. Having a job would involve leaving the house before 2 PM. Leaving the house before 2 PM would involve sobriety. That said, this guy wasn’t gonna pay.
Second, the pot plants in the bathtub.
While there would initially be no cause for a cop to go into his house when the shattered remains of the Douche Mobile were scattered outside, any human with functioning brain cells could see that the owner of the Douche Mobile would be high as a kite. The moment he stepped foot outside, the officers would take notice of the fact that his eyes were more bloodshot than a schizophrenic albino on suicide watch. The pot would be discovered, the Douche Mobile would be repossessed, the owner would be sent to prison for putting a spoiler on a car with a maximum speed of 40 miles per hour, the case would be closed.
So I wasn’t too concerned about having the cops called on me.
As I approached the car, I paused for a moment. I could see the outline of what had once been a respectable, albeit cheap, little car. It had no bad intentions. It had been taken hostage against its will and forced to endure this humiliation. The headlights and grill stared at me, forming the same sad expression I had given my mother when she forced me to wear a sailor suit to Molly Henderson’s birthday party in third grade.
“Don’t make me do it,” I had pleaded. “Get me out of this stupid thing!”
Needless to say, I had been ignored at the party. Molly had taken one good look at me, laughed, and by the time the cupcakes hit the coffee table, she’d been all over Tommy Morris in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt.
I cautiously approached the car.
“Look, I’m doing this for your own good, okay?”
“Waaaaah waaaaah waaaaah!” the car alarm pierced the sky, echoing off the surrounding buildings and filling the alley with noise.
I walked to the back of the car, vowing revenge on my mother for putting me in that sailor suit. I lifted the crow bar high above my head, took a deep breath, and brought it down with all my might.
It hit the spoiler with a resounding crunch. Plastic shattered, shrapnel flying in all directions. It felt good.
Next I went for the tires. Large gleaming rims reflected the sunlight, throwing it back into my eyes. I swung the crow bar at each offending one, feeling the satisfaction as metal met plastic. First the two rear tires, then I went for the front.
“Waaaaah waaaaah waaaaah!”
I stepped back and looked at the destruction. Something wasn’t right. The windows, black with tint, were unharmed.
“What fun is destroying a car if you can’t break a little glass?” I asked no one in particular.
The car protested.
“Waaaah waaaaah waaaah!”
I lifted the crowbar high above the windshield, standing on my toes to make sure I would get the most height possible. One glance to be sure no one was watching me, and I brought the bar down.
It met the windshield with a thud.
That’s right, a thud. Not a shatter, not a crash, not an explosion. A thud. Sure, a giant crack now splintered in all directions, forming a spider web as wide as the whole car. But it was still in place. I stared in disapproval at the crowbar, somehow hoping to blame it for this failed attempt.
Had the Crowbar Salestransvestite lied to me? It had told me the crowbar would do the trick with one blow. Had it mislead me as it sat next to me, curled up in my arms on the seat of that John Deere Grass Assassin 9000 in the basement of Sears?
I looked at the car once more. Vowing success, I gave it another go.
The metal hook tore into the windshield like that lion tearing into the gazelle. Glass shattered into millions of pieces.
“Waaaaah waaaaah waaaaah!”
My breathing was heavy now as I stared at my work. A bead of sweat slowly trickled down my forehead before connecting with my eye.
As I rubbed the moisture out of my vision, I looked at the car closer. Something was in the front seat, covered in glass. It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t something – it was someONE. And not just any someone. It was the owner of the Douche Mobile himself.
I slowly approached the car, bits of glass crunching beneath my feet as if to provide a warning. I reached through the gaping hole in the front of the car to move away the debris that covered the lifeless stoner in the driver’s seat. That’s when I saw it.
A Black and Decker cordless drill was planted firmly in his chest. A stainless steel 9 3/4” rust proof drill bit had been lodged into his heart. He had literally been screwed to death.
I stood, jaw open, taking the scene in.
“Waaaah waaaah waaaah!”
The sound of the car alarm brought me back to reality. This could be pinned on me. It made perfect sense. I had destroyed the car, my fingerprints were all over the crow bar. There was no way I would be found innocent.
I panicked. I backed away before turning and running up the street. My mind raced as my Scooby Doo slippers made contact with the pavement, my bathrobe flapping in the morning breeze.
I ran into my garage and stopped dead in my tracks. Parked in the middle of the floor was the John Deere Grass Assassin 9000, the very same machine I had seen in my nightmares for a week after the crowbar sex. And to make matters worse, it was being straddled by none other than the Crowbar Salesfreak itself. An evil grin crossed its face.
“What are you doing here?” I managed between breaths.
“Did you like my work?” it said.
I was confused.
“What work?”
It grinned even wider, the green paint of the mower reflected in its face, creating a frightening resemblance to the Grinch.
“I took care of your friend down the street,” it cooed. “He won’t be a problem any more.”
I was in shock.
“You wanted me to handle the situation, right?”
“No!” I cried out. “That’s why I bought the crow bar! I was going to take care of it!” My head was spinning.
“We at Sears want to make sure our customers receive one-hundred percent satisfaction,” it said. “So I was just doing my job.”
“It’s right,” I heard a voice behind me. I turned around, my gaze met with a bright red Ford F-150 now parked in my street. Standing next to it was the owner, holding a Black and Decker cordless drill with a stainless steel, rust-proof 9 3/4” drill bit jutting out from the end. Blood and flesh clung to it like eggs congealed on a pan.
“Couldn’t let this beauty go to waste now, could I?” Bob Vila said as he approached me. “This baby retails for $79.95. I wasn’t going to leave it in his chest forever,” he smiled. “Although I could – it’s rust-proof.”
“Mmmm,” the Crowbar Salesthing moaned from atop it’s perch on the mower.
I stood in the middle of the garage, uncomfortably underdressed considering I was in the presence of tool royalty, although all I could keep thinking was, ‘Bob Vila murdered my neighbor with a Black and Decker cordless drill with a stainless steel rust-proof 9 3/4” bit.’
“So,” I managed, “what do we do now?”
The Crowbar Saleswhore stared at Bob Vila; Bob Vila stared at the Crowbar Saleswhore. They shared a smile.
“Well,” Bob Vila grinned, “now you compensate us for our outstanding customer service.” He put his hand on my shoulder. The Crowbar Salesthing closed the garage door. Bob Vila gingerly walked me over to the mower and slowly caressed the steering wheel with his hand.
“Hop on.”
The whine of the car alarm down the street barely covered up the rumble of the John Deere Grass Assassin 9000 mixed with my screams.
The End
2009.08.18
J.J. discusses the budget for a ridiculous publicity stunt; Andrew explains his method of cleaning house.
2009.08.17
The guys buy a beach house with profits from the show; J.J. discusses a video game that makes Grand Theft Auto look like an episode of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.
2009.08.14
Romi pleads with the guys to get her into the Teen Choice Awards after not receiving an invite; The guys fail miserably.
AndrewandJJ.com's "Man of the Year"
J.J. here with a blog you are going to love.
Many of you know who Einstein was. Albert Einstein, of course, has been called the smartest man ever to have lived. I would have to agree to some extent.
His theories like Special Relativity (E=mc2), Photons and Wormholes have been the topic of many sci-fi movies and discusses of nerds all over the world. Its very interesting that his scientific research is all they know of this amazing man.
Let me tell you about Einstein in a different manner. Did you know that he had a child out of wedlock in 1902? People are uncertain of her fate after 1903. Was she put up for adoption? Did Einstein kill her in a fit of passion and dump her in a river? We don't know!
In 1903, he married his FIRST wife. He was so miserable with her that he set her down one day and proposed a bet. "I am very confident that I am going to win a Nobel Prize. With this said, if you divorce me, I will give you the money that I receive with the prize." I am not telling you a lie, this actually happened. Some might say that his ego was the size of a red giant. (pushing up glasses)
The last thing that makes him AndrewandJJ.com's Man of the Year (which I don't agree with this completely) is his marriage to his cousin. Yea, his cousin.
In conclusion, Einstein was a brilliant man. A man that has caused all humanity to look at space and science differently. A man that has indirectly caused my favorite movie Back to the Future to be made and lastly, a man that married his cousin and possibly killed his first child.
2009.08.13
Romi Dames talks about starring on Hannah Montana, probability with Bill Nye, and growing up in Japan.
2009.08.12
Emilio Estevez and Charlie Sheet are brothers; Andrew's roommate nearly gets to meet Michael Jackson in the afterlife.
2009.08.11
Andrew bores J.J. with facts of the Hoover Dam; The guys discuss chatting with strangers on Omegle.com.
Dear Michael
My name is J.J. and I would like to be the first to apologize.
I are very sorry for the joke we have played on you. For those of you that don't know, we are going to enlighten you on the exciting evening Brandon, Adam, and myself participated in.
When I was headed home last night from work, I received a text message from a number I did not recognize.
"Hey can you text me jons number? I wanna ask him to play drums in two weeks when I have you on bass again. Will probably have both of you play together so it's more convenient as far as travel wise."
I, of course, replied "Who is this?"
"Michael lol. Who else would ask you for that lol"
Then this is where I decided to play with him a bit. "You got me there. Here's jon's number." I put a number from brandon's phone of the only jon that we know and waited for a reply.
Shortly after, we get a message back from Michael saying, "You sure that's his number? Lol. They just text back saying, who are you trying to reach? And this, if you're trying to reach John this is not his number."
Brandon and I could only laugh. "Oh shit I'm sorry, wrong jon." I then send him Brandon's number. Brandon tells Michael that he is a guy named Rick, and that Jon's number is our friend Adam's number.
Back to my phone. "Dude. Stop doing it by memory. That was for some guy named Rick lol. What's your brother, Jonathons number?" So this guy is my brother apparently.
Well, the evening completed nicely. Adam never text Michael and I received a last message from Michael. "Tell your brother to text me. Still trying to get a hold of him."
In conclusion, Michael, again I am sorry. This was a cruel joke and we all apologize for wasting your time. Please look at this as a funny story to tell your friends.
I are very sorry for the joke we have played on you. For those of you that don't know, we are going to enlighten you on the exciting evening Brandon, Adam, and myself participated in.
When I was headed home last night from work, I received a text message from a number I did not recognize.
"Hey can you text me jons number? I wanna ask him to play drums in two weeks when I have you on bass again. Will probably have both of you play together so it's more convenient as far as travel wise."
I, of course, replied "Who is this?"
"Michael lol. Who else would ask you for that lol"
Then this is where I decided to play with him a bit. "You got me there. Here's jon's number." I put a number from brandon's phone of the only jon that we know and waited for a reply.
Shortly after, we get a message back from Michael saying, "You sure that's his number? Lol. They just text back saying, who are you trying to reach? And this, if you're trying to reach John this is not his number."
Brandon and I could only laugh. "Oh shit I'm sorry, wrong jon." I then send him Brandon's number. Brandon tells Michael that he is a guy named Rick, and that Jon's number is our friend Adam's number.
Back to my phone. "Dude. Stop doing it by memory. That was for some guy named Rick lol. What's your brother, Jonathons number?" So this guy is my brother apparently.
Well, the evening completed nicely. Adam never text Michael and I received a last message from Michael. "Tell your brother to text me. Still trying to get a hold of him."
In conclusion, Michael, again I am sorry. This was a cruel joke and we all apologize for wasting your time. Please look at this as a funny story to tell your friends.
2009.08.10
J.J. discusses his high school reunion and visiting home with his dad; Andrew calls out Kate for not showing up.
Knuckle Draggers
Ladies and Gentleman! People of ages older than 18, come see the Los Angeles Premiere of "Knuckle Draggers."
August 12, 7:30pm
Laemmle's Sunset 5
8000 Sunset Blvd.
West Hollywood, CA 90046
This movie is gonna be awesome. Yea I said Awesome.
August 12, 7:30pm
Laemmle's Sunset 5
8000 Sunset Blvd.
West Hollywood, CA 90046
This movie is gonna be awesome. Yea I said Awesome.
Bueller...Bueller...?
All of us here at Andrew and J.J. are sad to learn of the loss of John Hughes. Ironically, just last night as we taped the shows for next week, J.J. brought in the idea of suggesting Breakfast Club as our rental for the weekend feature.
Do yourself a favor and dive back into that old VHS collection and dig out the classics, the movies that didn't need fancy special effects, giant explosions, or the twisted mind of Michael Bay to make money and entertain the masses. I have long said that Trains, Plains and Automobiles is my favorite film of all time - thanks to John Hughes for making that happen.
If you were a child of the 80s, you were brought up on amazing films like Ferris Bueller's Day Off, you rooted for Kevin McCallister in Home Alone, you enjoyed the ridiculousness of Sixteen Candles, and if you were like me, you watched Uncle Buck over and over until you had it memorized.
Thanks for making 1980s cinema a real golden age, John.
2009.08.05
Andrew and J.J. are like the 21st century version of CHiPs, except without the Hispanic influences. The guys realize their paths crossed in 1992 - literally.
2009.08.04
J.J. shares an awkward Olive Garden experience; Andrew's life is saved and has his bank account drained by an attentive Pep Boys employee.
2009.08.03
Andrew displays his great architecture knowledge and J.J. tells you about a new special project.
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