Worst Case Scenario


DISCLAIMER: The content of this podcast is for a mature audience.

Talk, music and comedy show featuring the dubious opinions and highly suspect social commentary of master debaters Foul Mouth Jerk & Adam Strange. It features in-depth interviews with both local and nationally disreputable artists and musicians of every sordid manner, as well as advice from a suspected felon. Hip-hop, funk and classics provided by Adam Strange & Smidi. The inmates are now running the asylum!


Worst Case Scenario's Blog

Oct. 9 2010

It had been a long month on the road. A classic funk tour with a dozen musicians and their various odors, stuffed into a passenger van for approximately forty one days. This particular endeavor, while amusing on many levels, had been particularly fruitless in a monetary sense. Thus we returned to Asheville, much to our chagrin, in a collective state of borderline poverty.
Subsequent to our arrival home I accompanied my band mate, spiritual guru & scientific advisor, Adam Strange to a local boutique, where I cast a circumspect eye as he proceeded to liquidate the last of his funds on a gift for his lovely girlfriend. While I considered the purchase a highly dubious decision, I none the less did not question it as we departed. On our way home I puzzled over the situation & upon returning back to the good Dr. Strange’s Lexington Avenue loft, I had to ask “Dude, what are you doing? I know for a fact that was your last forty dollars, and you just spent it on a gift for your girl. I mean, she’s cool & all, but don’t you think you should have bought some food?”
…Unfazed, Adam Strange gently sat his small boutique bag on the kitchen counter, turned to me and calmly related “Listen buddy, I can eat pussy… I can’t fuck the groceries”. Check and mate.
And those are words of wisdom from Adam Strange.

Sep. 24 2010

I recently learned the term “Dead Ender”. It’s is apparently the name for those men & women who have made it their business to not have children. Now, I have known for quite some time that I wanted no part of producing and raising offspring. But I was unaware that their was an inferantly negative term dedicated to those of us who have made the conscious decision to not reproduce the growing garbage machines that will leave increasingly detrimental carbon footprints on the blue marble. Not that my motivations have anything to do with any lofty environmentalist notions, but don’t get me started on the irony of hippie-ass Whole Foods type supermarkets, that refuse to give you a plastic bag for your minor stockpile of purchased goods, reserving several preferential parking spots at the front of the establishment, near the handicap spots, for the sole benefit of “new & expectant mothers”. No offense, but fuck those bitches. Really? Nothing does more damage to our beloved planet than the rapid & random creation of a subsequent human. I can’t get one fucking plastic grocery bag to carry my egg sandwich, two bottles of water, block of cheese and a 1/2 & ½ creamer, yet these manufactures of walking dirty bombs get preferential treatment? Whatever dick.
But I digress, that’s not the genesis of my reasoning. It’s not that I hate kids, far from it. There are a few members of the pediatric generation whose company I find somewhat charming and quite entertaining. It is because over a myriad of years & experiences I have taken notice of the fact that children & myself have no business in the company of one another. It was of no use or benefit to either of us, and in some cases been to the possible detriment of both of us, especially them. So in that sense perhaps, it is because I like children that I have come to this conclusion. The following is the best example of that train of though that I could relate to you.
At some point in 1997 I was raising both a beautiful, female, red nose pitbull and an amazing all black cat. The cat, Sativa, had in the last week given birth to a litter of kittens. My impressively sexy friend Abbey heard about the new birth and thought it a good idea to bring her six year old little sister to come see the new brood of baby cats. So I, naively trying to relate to the youngins agreed to have them come to my apartment & show this little girl the kittens.
The two came over and I brought them to the bedroom closet where the new family made their home, but as we opened the door to the closet and looked in, it became apparent that the kittens had been unceremoniously disemboweled. For whatever reason she saw germane, the mother had chosen to eviscerate her progeny. Obviously this crime scene of mass feline infanticide was a bit much on the fragile mind of a six year old girl, and it’s impact, well-meaning insufferable prick that I am, was not lost on me. Predictably I fumbled for any semblance of recovery or explanation.
Before anything made it’s way from my stymied brain to my mouth, Little Sister looks to Big Sister and says “Abbey, the doggy killed the kittens!”. Obviously this was not the case. But from my humble perspective, in a child’s mind dogs & cats are known natural enemies, synonymously so. So her natural assumption that the dog killed the cats, however erroneous or grievous to witness, made sense and thus the world still made sense, hence I was comfortable with that misconception and was not only in no way ready to correct that misconception, but was grateful for what I saw as the easiest exit from the worst case scenario. No sooner had I acquiesced to this solution than Abbey explained to baby girl, “No honey, the mommy killed the babies. It wasn’t the dog, the mommy killed the babies”. Why the motherfuck?!
At this point I smoked a cigarette and tried to decipher my next step. Now, these aren’t six dead goldfish and I’m thinking about the most humane method of disposal. I happened to live in an apartment that had a back balcony that overlooked a patch of forest. It’s not like I could flush a half a dozen dead kittens down the toilet, no that would’ve been too neat and clean,. But dumping a series of newborn cat corpses in the trash seemed too disrespectful in a back alley abortion kind of way. So it was at this point that I made the decision that is the crux of my argument as to why it is best to not let me and children intermingle.
As the young girl sat on my living room couch crying, with her older sister consoling her, in what way I can’t imagine from her last explanation of life’s harsh realities, I decided that the best and most caring way to dispose of the bodies was to give them back to nature, i.e. throw them off the back balcony into the woods. To wit, throw animal carcass’ into the woods and continue Elton John’s much venerated circle of life. It was following this train of thought that I walked to the kitchen and retrieved one plastic Ingles shopping bag (thanks for nothing Whole Foods) and proceeded to the scene of the crime. I pushed my hand into the bottom of the bag in an inside-out fashion and reached for the pick of the litter so-to-speak so that it rested in my hand through the bag.
Walking from the bedroom to the balcony, past my friend Chris, who was incidentally, smoking a blunt on the back porch with a stoner’s keen perception for the many layers of irony that were at work in this tragicomedy. Holding the bag high over the edge of the balcony’s railing I launched the most adorable of cadavers from the bottom of the bag towards it’s destiny in the woods. As the kitten’s mortal coil was ejected from my clutches it’s feeble paws spread eagled, catching the ringed handles of the plastic shopping bag, and with it’s momentum carrying the bag, perfectly laced in it’s underarms, the kitten’s remains flew just a few feet from it’s launching point before the bag caught the wind and before the aghast eyes of all present, this dead baby cat parachuted close-eyed, head bowed, slowly and deliberately down three stories to the earth, a great many yards from it’s intended resting place in the forest. As this adorable post-mortem paratrooper floated mockingly down to my new-to-be desecrated back yard, I turned my gaze over my shoulder to see a miniature, toe-headed angel in a gape-mouthed state of horrification, never to be the same again.
I don’t think it takes any explanation to bring to light why this is less than analogy, and more a stand-alone reason, amongst many as to why I say I am a stalwart “Dead Ender”.

Jul. 31 2010

So let it be said that I have not made an entry on this blog in quite some time. And those that I have made have been few & far between. And while the entries that I have made have been nothing of a current nature, they have all been entertaining to the scumbaggery & the righteous alike. They have been tales hoisted from the past adventures of Foulio the Pirate, in his lifestyle of disreputable fortunes. That being said, the following is the report of an equally true story from my teenagehood, that could have happened to anyone, nonetheless it did indeed happen to me.
Anyone born before the mid-eighties will likely remember a series of commercials by the Reese’s Peanut Buttercup Co. That claimed “there’s no wrong way to eat a Reese’s” . Well at some point during said campaign I was remanded, dubiously & against my will, to the care of Baywood Psychiatric Hospital in Houston, TX. During the forty two days spent incarcerated in this facility, witness was borne to many & myriad of manor of human strangeness. On this particular day I was in the cafeteria with the rest of the adolescent unit when “Crazy” Kim (a name used more liberally, in comparison to Kim Oliver & Kim Sandoval who also inhabited the adolescent ward at Baywood) decided that she would visit the candy machine with her disposable income.
Crazy Kim returned to her seat just a few spaces down from myself with her afternoon delight and proceeded to peel the Halloween colored package open ever so slowly, revealing her treats in a seductive spectacle true to form for the mental hospital crowd. She then picked up one whole peanut butter cup & placed it delicately inside her mouth & did not chew, simply held it just so. She then began to methodically break the other cup into pie-like pieces in front of her.
Noticing this neurotically tantalizing procedure, staff overseer Mr. Laythom caught eyes with the young mental patient. (It is at this point that it should be mentioned that James Laythom was a gargantuously swollen human being that not only had previous occupations as both an NFL player for the Houston Oilers and a prison guard, but that he also had a PHD in psychology) Raising his over-sized arm and pointing at Crazy Kim, he shouted across the lunchroom “Kim, you will eat your Reese’s the right way, or you will not eat them at all!”.
Now, red blooded American & unjustly interred mental patient that I was, I felt that I was seeing my opening. An opening that possibly had never been opened before and would likely never open again… For Anyone, So against my better judgment, (and against the better judgment of many a man who have ever come up against the authority of James Laythom) I interjected, boisterously & for all the room to hear… “But Mr. Laythom, there’s no wrong way to eat a Reese’s!”
Re: “Mr. Capra, you will Not finish your lunch. You will go back to the ward & sit in time out”
… And that’s the day I found out that, at least in Houston Texas, there is in fact a “wrong” way to eat a Reese’s.

yo,isnt this sharky?


Hey fellas whats good, listened a bunch......but only in the shadows!! Loved getting down with you kats in G-Ville!!! LOVE THE SHOW!!!!!!!!!! Keep doing what you doing, FOULMOUTH......ADD ME ON FACEBOOK HOMIE!!!! FRIEND REQUEST BEEN SAYING PENDING for a MONTH!!!!! LOLOLOLOOL

Life's true failure is when people do not understand how close you were to being successful when you lost the fight

love the show! I am playin it for the boys and they are bobbin' thier heads, "worst case scenerio loved by babies too" I think they recognize your voice Foulio, keep up the good work!

im listening. i even made tater tots in this shows honor.

nice! what up Funk Fam? i'm diggin this groove.


Ole Rusty Squeez is a dirty dawg indeed!

hey, not that there's anything wrong with that! We've all had to do crazy things to keep warm while camping out at Beuna Vista park on a cold December night.

Of course i wouldn't , DJ yellow alert. Don't you see my name?: "Anonymous Coward!" I'm just keeping it real, yo.

Bet you wont say that to his face !

That's pretty big of you seeing that your typing it on a computer. I'd like to see you say that to him face to face. Bet you wont.

WCS is the bizness!

But topper is a homosexual.

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