pennies

My Parents are both 79, so it’s impossible to do anything nice for them. Last year, my brother got them a GPS for the car. Now the two times a year they go anywhere, my father refuses to bring the GPS along. Instead, he and my mother will argue for three hours as they write down the directions the unit gives, no matter how hard anyone’s tried to explain how it works. Typical. Logic has no hold on them as they rush to unplug the toaster (and ONLY the toaster) during a lightning storm, or as my father freaks out on my mother for bringing her cell phone with her because it “wastes the batteries”. I know. We all will get to that point someday. I just got them a remote starter for Christmas and I shudder when I think of the price I’m going to pay for it. I can see it now. It will be five degrees outside, my father will spend 30 minutes scraping the ice and cleaning the snow off his car. He’ll then get in, sit in the driver’s seat, pull the remote starter out of his pocket and start the car. ARGHHHH! Oh well, I should be more thankful. I’m lucky to still have them. I’ve got to split now and finish my shopping. But wait… why am I feeling this uncontrollable urge to pay for everything in pennies?

-----Merry Christmas everyone!

class

My actual job is a complete stress fest. And not only is it company policy to make it as stressful as possible, every non-work related aspect of my workplace is likewise designed to make you explode in a career ending tirade just as you approach a near living wage pay grade. From the long lines for D grade food in the cafeteria, to the spring loaded faucets in the rest rooms that give you 0.3 seconds of water, culminating in the coke machines that now only give change in nickels, something’s got to give. So a move is required.

I need a new job. Let’s see. I could become a propaganda writer for a snake oil pyramid scheme. (Funny how those types of companies are always hiring.) Nah, there’s some things that even I won’t stoop to. I’ve got it. I’m gong to sell the official Elvis Presley line of White Trash Jewelry.

The first item we’re offering is the men’s Royal Flush Diamond Ring. Resplendent with 5 multi-faceted Diamondess stones, surrounded with 18kt Royal gold. It’s an exact replica of the ring the King wore when he puked on Richard Nixon during his 1972 visit to the White House.

Continuing our line of distinction is the men’s Diamondess Onyx Cross. Plated in 24kt gold, it is a faithful reproduction of the very same cross Elvis wore when he was statutory raping Priscilla Beaulieu, and a bold symbol of his very deep faith.

And what fan of the King doesn’t remember the gold and stainless steel Men’s Flex Bracelet that he wore as he nearly choked to death on a deep fried banana and peanut butter sandwich right before his incredible 1967 comeback special? Order this limited edition soon folks. Supplies won’t last.

And finally, we are most proud to present for the first time ever; The “Aloha From Hawaii” Horseshoe Ring. Exquisitely crafted in 10kt gold, this is a cubic zirconia re-creation of the legendary ring worn by the King of Rock n’ Roll while he was overdosing on prescription barbiturates on the personalized red velvet and gold inlayed toilet in his famous Vegas penthouse.

So remember, when thinking of a gift for that very special someone; think of Elvis Presley’s White Trash Jewelry. Because, nothing says class like Elvis Presley.

one more

Another bad day in a lifetime of bad days. So when I’m feeling exceptionally low, I do a midnight drive all the way out to Montauk Point. There in the Lighthouse parking lot, I stare at the stars. On a good night, not only is the spiral arm of the Milky Way stretching like a band across the breadth of the sky visible, clouds of brilliant stars actually show their color, from whites to orangey redness. As I ponder the expanse above me filled with thousands of suns, and the billions of attached worlds within my eye span, I feel a little less worthless. Not infinitely small in an infinite sea, but part of something infinitely large. And somehow, it gets me through one more day.

hallelujah

For some, the American dream has been a non-attainable illusion. For others, it never even arose to the idea of remote possibility. The happenstance of our birth has kept us in perpetual second citizenship, forever unable to enjoy the freedoms or aspirations to greatness afforded to the majority of our fellow citizens, held down by the fear, intolerance, and prejudices of those that have deemed themselves superior. After this election, no more. We have crossed over the mountain top and seen the promise land. A land we thought impossible to reach in our life time. A land where the injustice and ignorance of the elite will be replaced by the justifiable self-righteousness of oppressed. A land in which any man can walk in the light of inalienable freedom. A land of true and equal opportunity for all. A land of eternal brotherhood. No longer will we folically challenged be forced to avert our eyes, but instead stare in the sacred brightness of a new day of freedom. A new age has dawned, an age in which no man will be judged by the baldness of his skin, but the content of his character. Why, I might even be able to interact with a non-inflatable woman. Hallelujah!

look

Another shocking experience of aging is seeing the ravages of time on all of the starlets and bikini models of your youth. When I was in high school, a guy I knew told me how to hot wire the cable box so I could get the Playboy Channel for free. What I got was an overwhelming vision of beauty, tame by today's standards, called the Playmate Playoffs. For a young male teen, this was months worth of "inspiration". The visage of one woman in particular buried itself deep within my cortex, a Playmate named Gina Tomasino. So, many years went by, mental images faded into long distant memory. Then last year, I was flipping through the channels and spotted a face on Housewives of Orange County. Why, who is that? Where do I know that face? Uh… Holy shit, it's her! What the hell happened? The tight little ass' became a cellulite field. The cute little upturned nose's become piggish. And the aura of "hot little thing" has become "wallowing sow". Jesus, to think I used to masturbate over her. The horror… the horror. Oh well, at least know I recognize the look I see in the eyes of any ex girlfriends I run into.



Yeah, yeah, I get it. Hey, you gotta write about what you know.

question

Somehow, I never saw one single episode of those non-funny “shit-coms” of the 80’s. You know, like Full House or Saved by the Bell. So, could someone answer a question? Are Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen old enough for me to masturbate over yet? What’s that? Oh… I gotta go!

mixing

I just can’t get myself to vote for either of these two assholes on Tuesday. That’s why I’m writing in my own candidate: Sara Silverman. She’s one hot little kosher bitch. But wait a second… If Jimmy Kimmel sucks on her tit and then eats her pussy, is that mixing meat and dairy? Maybe she’s not so kosher after all.

hair

I know it’s kind of last minute, but I haven’t picked out my Halloween costume. My arsenal is vast. There’s:

Broken human,
Disgruntled employee,
Middle aged dork,
Emotional cripple,
Self-conscience hunchback,
Bad childhood defective man,
And lastly…
Bald headed loser who couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse with a fist full of fifties.

Hey, I’m just kidding. I’ve actually got more hair than ever. It’s just that it’s all coming out of my ears and my ass.

burger

Now, I can’t really judge other people for being masochist. Hey, what ever floats your boat. But I just can’t understand how some people can subject themselves to tortures that most of us couldn’t even contemplate. So the other day, as I was walking downtown, I stumbled onto such a pain emporium. Oh, this is absolutely fiendish, no, horrible. What kind of people could find pleasure in this? This place is all my nightmares combined. Its… vegetarian kosher!?! Jesus, haven’t the Jews suffered enough? You would think after all the shit they’ve gone through God would let them have a fucking cheese burger already.

dream

You may think from my last blog that I don’t believe in God. Well, there has to be a God. Who else could have been fucking with me for my whole life? It’s just that I’ve never agreed with the path he’s laid out for me. And I haven’t totally given up the fight. Now, I buy one scratch off ticket every Monday. And since God would never allow any real dreams of mine to come true, I never bother to buy any potential big win tickets, like $100,000,000.00 kind of stuff, just one “Win $2,000.00 a Week for Life” ticket. I figure if God’s busy causing a plane crash or famine some where, or even starving some African child to death, I might be able to sneak a win in while he’s not paying attention. Hey, I can dream can’t I?

count

My first memory was throwing up in class and being sent home. But later in the year I ran into the bathroom to puke. And they kept me there, there ready to spew at a moment’s notice, for the rest of the day. And after nine years of this kind of stuff, what lessons did I carry with me? We were sinners, worthy of eternal fiery torment for such abominations as eating meat on Friday, or eating at all before mass on Sunday. But don’t worry, the church is the one true path to heaven they told us, unless of course you fuck up, like chew gum in school or forget to kneel as you pass the tabernacle. But then second grade hit. Now it was explained to us that through the sacraments, like First Communion, you now have the path to heaven. Whoopee! I can live forever. But wait a second. What was all this shit about chewing gum? Oh well, I was just a child. I really just didn’t understand. Time passed. Two years later came the fourth grade, and first confession. Now heinous cardinal sins, like bugging our parents to go to Wetsons, could be wiped away by the benevolent forgiveness of our savior. It was then explained to us that we really couldn’t have gotten to heaven before, original sin and such shit. Huh? Was I missing something? Around this time faith became important to me. You know, faith: that tacit ability to accept any bullshit because you are simply too stupid to understand God’s infinite wisdom. Faith got me through a lot in my childhood, all the way to the seventh grade and Confirmation. According to the lesbians, oh sorry, I should call them what they used to be known as: “nuns”. Anyway, according to the “nuns” we were now adults in the eyes of the Lord and everything we did before didn’t count because we were just children. What???!!!! You mean I could have been eating all the Three Musketeers I wanted, not gone to bed on time, or murdered my parents for that mater, and still have gotten to heaven? What the fuck? It was at this point the first subconscious cracks in my faith were sown, yet they were not to outwardly reveal themselves for many years. So, looking back, what did I really learn in nine years of Catholic School? It’s this: If you’re going to throw up, do it in front of someone or it doesn’t count.

yacht

Alas, I long for the innocent days of yore, a simpler time, when life was never so complicated. A world full of “swimmin” holes, Saturday barn dances, and moon light walks. A more noble age, where, after some Wall Street scumbag obliterated someone else’s life savings, they at least had the decency to jump out of a fucking window, thereby doing their bit to reduce the potential homeless problem. Now, all they have to do is sell the yacht. Boo fucking hoo.

Vegas

Some one told me that I'm fighting against the universe. And I should go with what is made available to me. She's right. So instead of banging my head against the wall about being perpetually alone, from now on I'm going with the flow. With that in mind I've become self reliant, and decided to grow my own set of tits. I have to say that it's going pretty well. I'm only about two super-sized shakes away from treating myself to a weekend in Vegas. The relationship won't last long though. I'm a little too slutty for my taste.

score

Even though it was thunder and lightning outside, I ignored the weather reports, strapped my bike to my car and headed to the north shore. Just as I got there, the sun came out and I went riding. Lets see. That makes the score:

Me: 1 God: 1,652,294

Hey, I'm catching up!

profile

I've got an hour to get to work. That muzak is boring into my brain. It's one of those insidious virus like tunes that target and destroy inhibitory neurons, allowing itself to multiply, loop around, and play endlessly in my head:

I gotta pocket gotta pocket full of sunshine, whoa… whoa oh oh

Alright, tune it out. I can do this. I shop quick. Just got to maneuver around the intra mall traffic of the undead. No problem. First kiosk: first obstacle. As I approach, this supra pretty, lanky, sales girl's eyes light up.

"Excuse me, do you have a minute?" she asks.

I'm kind of tall and walk at a very fast pace. So I do a sort of stutter step to slow down and respond.

"Sorry, I'm really in a rush. I'm not interested"

"But you don't even know what I'm selling" she said has she beamed me with her pheromone ray and broad smile.

From a quick glimpse I could see the kiosk was full of body sprays and stuff.

"That's ok, I don't use those things. I'm really in a rush, sorry." I said as I re-quickened my pace.

"Try that shit on me. I've been impervious for the last 10 years." I thought.

Back to my quest. Two pairs of cargo pants and a pair of casual shoes. Ok, nothing in Sears, There's an Abercrombie and Fitch, maybe they have the pants. As soon as I walk in the door, I'm confronted by some half naked boy toy, some retailer's attempt at homo-erotic marketing.

"How are you today" he says.

Instantly, I feel the need to macho up.

"How you dooin?" I reply about half an octave lower than my normal tambre, the worst of my New York accent bleeding through. You hear that world? I'm not gay! Anyway, I spin my head around a few times to see what clothes are available.

"What the fuck was I thinking coming in here?" I said to myself.

Out again and moving on. Unbelievably Macy's had what I was looking for. Time to leave. So as I was speeding out the mall, I passed that same kiosk again. But this time the crowd around it caused me to slow up. A herd of smiling, middle aged, balding, nerdy, self conscious, pudgy, ex bed-wetting super dorks were happily emptying their wallets. Oh, now I see. No wonder that girl's eye's lit up the second she saw me. I fit the profile. Ok, ok. I get it. Oh well. It turns out that I'm not so impervious after all.

better

Well, my last job didn’t work out. So I moved on to something a little more fulfilling. I purchase third world children for celebrities. And let me tell you, they have very particular tastes. Madonna’s looking for something in a toffee/mocha mix to match the Dupioni drapes in her west side duplex. And Christ did she fly off the handle when I suggested she try a domestic blend. On the other hand, Brad and Angelina are a little easier to deal with. They’re just looking for a couple of Indo-Guyanese toddlers to complete their living international chess set. Hold on. I have to take this call,

“Talk to me... NO, NO, NO!!! You tell mister Loc the going rate is 2 cows. And if he thinks he can do any better, remind him about the glut in the post tsunami market. Ok, ok. Talk to you later. Chao!”

Jesus, it makes you think some people just don’t want a better life for their children!

shoe

As I was heading out the door today, I spent about five minutes looking for my pocket comb. Then it hit me. Me looking for a comb is like a double amputee looking for his right shoe. Perhaps it's my "phantom" comb-over acting up again. Anyway, some itches never go away. And remember: for bald people, every day is a bad hair day.

shared

It's amazing how myspace can help you discover that you have similar hopes and dreams with seemingly vastly different people from across the world. Common connections that let us know we are all just branches on the eternal tree of life. For example, just look at me and Katie Holmes. We've both shared the same life-long ambition. That is: to marry someone who we used to masturbate over in high school.

cable

There’s so much poetry on myspace I thought I’d give it a try:

Today was bad

Aching to my very core

Pain so deep it makes me question

Can I go on?

Is it worth it?

Struggling to get through

Life is hurt

Gasping in torture

Today was bad

Tomorrow will be worse…

That’s the last time I wait a year in between sets of sit ups.

You know, the depth of my own talent frightens me. Oh yeah, how come my life has to come to an end for five minutes just because I hesitated on the Pay Per View channel? For some questions, there are no answers. God Damn cable.

finger

Man, the females were all over me today. What can I say? I’ve just got that special something… blood that is. I made sure to coat myself with repellent, spraying my legs, arms, face, back, clothes, and even my helmet. It worked for about three minutes. The horse flies would land, hesitate for a second, then take off. But for the black flies, it was like I rang the fucking dinner bell. DEET my ass. I’ve been trying to get back into shape. But instead of just chugging along on my bike, continuously feeling seconds away from a stroke, I’ve been stopping to eschew the scenery. The sunset, a pair of fox kits frolicking, a deer poking his head above the high grass, an osprey perched next to its nest platform, in short: riding like a tourist. It’s been good for my soul, but bad for my pot belly. And it attracts clouds of bugs. When I was into photography, I would spend hours and hours laying out in some salt marsh to get one half way decent shot of a fiddler crab. The biting flies didn’t bother me. I‘d just tune them out. Today, I couldn’t take it. Do I have no metal toughness left? When did I become such a pussy? Fuck that. I can take it. Tomorrow I’m getting up early and head out to… OOWEEE!!! I got a finger cramp. Gotta stop.

wipe

For me, breakups are usually hard to get over. But I’ve used a few tricks over the years to get by. At first, I use to imagine a recent ex as a mud wrestler. But the images of a semi-clad ex writhing around in the muck, with a similarly topless opponent were always ultimately counter productive. As the years past and the exes piled up, I would picture her living in some trailer trash hell, cigarette in mouth, curlers in hair, screaming baby in one hand, iron in the other, with a hugely fore headed snot faced troll pulling at her apron string as her pot bellied disabled carpenter husband yells at her to get him a beer as he sits on the couch in his stained wife-beater, watching his Hee-Haw collector’s edition DVD. Unfortunately for me, every ex I’ve ever run into as been relatively happy and successful. Damn. So now, I’ve invented the penultimate tool of breakup recovery. As soon as it’s over, I run out and have my ex’s face printed on a roll of toilet paper. It’s amazing how the bad memories just wipe away. Now this all may all sound very low class to you but I promise: I always wipe with my pinky out!

A more positive use of creative printing, I wear boxer-brief underwear with Jennifer Aniston’s face printed on the front. Right before I go to bed, I turn them inside out. “Sweet dreams my pet”.

cinderblock

My life thus far has been a never ending battle with my feeble brain. It works in spurts and sputters, trains of thought derailing after about thirty seconds, or dead ending in darkened tunnels. My past week, in which I waged a war of will against a mighty opponent, engaging in an epic struggle between man and beast for ultimate dominance, proves my point. The opponent: my friend’s cat. The damn thing ran out through a broken screen door the first night of house sitting. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit. But this cat replaced one that was run over. So I had to try to get it in. What ensued over the following week ranged from a few hours of nightly pursuit, attempted lures, leaving food out, not leaving food out, and once the mocking tinkle of its collar bells were no longer heard, two night of driving around the neighborhood and a visit to the pound. All I could think about was how I was going to tell my friend’s little girl after her return from the magical world of Disney, that maybe pet ownership was not for her, as this was her second dead cat in two years. Not an appealing prospect. So after about a day and a half of no signs of life, at 2:30 AM the little shit showed up on the front porch. I opened the door, and he walked right in. Now I make no claims of any kind of psychic ability, but as that cat strode past me he thought: “And what the fuck are you going to do about it?” Images sped through my mind, like: his bloodied limp body hanging in the foyer greeting my friend’s family on their return. Or, tying a cinderblock to his tail and throwing him into the canal. But then I thought about the little girl. Ok cat. You win. Yours is the superior intellect. Thanks a lot brain

improvement

I can’t really blog about work. Big brother is watching. But let’s just say I work amidst a sea of cubicles, where I and my co-slaves share the broken down look of inner sorrow that is only truly found on the countenance of government workers. In a well of darkened wretched damaged souls we dwell, beyond to the spectral light of life and hope, three levels of hell below the Motor Vehicle Department. The kind of karmic repository reserved for people that must have been murderers, Nazis, or Catholic school teachers in a past life. The medicals ok though. Anyway, flashback to a month ago, where at our weekly meeting, our manager berated us at length at the behest of the head of our department, about how we were the “worst unit in the department”. And since were so exceptionally incompetent at our jobs, the department head was reviewing the records of all of our work because it was so low grade. So it wasn’t an atypical day. Jump to today… when we were begrudgedley informed by that very same supervisor, that the department that measures quality had just given us an award for having the highest level, lowest error work in the department, and we were to be lined up for a group photo to be published in the company newsletter. Couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. I informed my manager that were lines of hypocrisy that I would not cross, and there was no way in hell I would stand there for that propaganda shot. I stayed at my desk and worked. Oh well, it looks like going to be back to cleaning toilets for me. Might be an improvement.

neck

Another evening wasted, blown watching There Will be Blood. Fucking pointless. Not quite as painfully disappointingly pointless as No Country For Old Men, but close. You know, I could prevent so much suffering in the world if I became a critic. How's this:

Breakfast Club: 4 teenagers bitch about whose parents suck the most. Add a star if you were 12 in 1985.

Swimming Pool: Menopausal author writes a story about slutty murderous teenager with perfect tits.

Mr. Deeds: Adam Sandler wrests the gauntlet from Chevy Chase for the title of most painfully unfunny movies in a row, with yet another inconceivable flick about some over-achieving moron who succeeds beyond all logical possibilities. Wait. Which Adam Sandler movie are we talking about? Perhaps we should euthanize anyone the second they become a Saturday Night Live alumnus. Oh to dream…

And did anyone see that Metalica documentary that was making the rounds on cable a few years ago. It was like 4 mentally challenged children saw the movie Spinal Tap and decided that's what they wanted to be when they grew up, sans the intentional comedy. I'm being too hard again. How about prime time TV:

CSI: Miami: What the fuck's wrong with David Caruso's neck?

Ahhh I give up.

disappear

I can’t believe it. They’re back. I’m driving along, had to swerve around some knocked over garbage pails, looked back to see what did it. Are those little dogs? What the fuuu… no! It’s fucking Chickens! Again with the fucking chicken?! And look at them. They’re staring back at me. Great, I live in a town crawling with gangs of punk poultry roaming the streets. And they’ve got an attitude too. Next thing you know, I’m going to wake up in the middle of the night with a bunch of them standing over me. If I disappear tomorrow, you know who did it. Maybe I should start wearing a bag of Shake and Bake around my neck.

cake

The true test of advancing age is not when you first hear a song you thought was hard core in high school, rendered as muzak while at the super market. That usually occurs in your late twenties. Nor is it the appearance of the pre-crow's feet lines in the corners of your eyes that you shockingly discover as if they appeared over night one sunny morning. That's what your thirties are about. No, it is none of those things that let you know that you have reached the summit and teetered over the tipping point, where the icy hand of death is slowly, silently creeping closer and closer. Today, I crossed the apex, over to the negative slope of the backside of life. And what was this penultimate event that let me know that I'm desperately clawing to the remnants of light as descend into the eternal sunset? Today I … not only saw a CD I liked in a bin at the car wash, I (gasp) bought it. I'm so ashamed. (sigh) I guess that's it. Senility is around the corner and it's fiber with every meal. And I was wondering why prunes have started to taste so good.




PS. If the guy at the car wash asks you what scent you want applied to the upholstery, don't pick "citrus breeze". My car now smells like a urinal cake at a welfare motel. If I had only known.

winners

Wow, I lost a few subscribers due to my Easter blog. Perhaps I should adopt a lighter tone. Ok, I’ll lighten up. So in a new spirit of fellowship with all of mankind, I would like to propose a new reality television show. One that would not only encourage those of us who sometimes have to struggle with the trials and tribulations of everyday life, but also enable those of us who have been able to enjoy the finer things, to take a step back, and take account of all this beautiful and wondrous world has to offer. I would call the show:

“People Who Should Be Shot in the Face”

Now, bear with me. Basically, I would take a bunch of people, 50% of whom only have their G.E.D.s, mix in a few ex-crack whores who now manage their children’s careers, add a few male prostitutes, and at least one billionaire with a really bad weave, put them onto some tropical island, or ridiculous mansion, and allow them to backstab, scheme, screw, and cheat their way to the top. Just like every other reality show, the biggest asshole will win. The only difference will be that at the end… BLAM!!! We have a winner!

It’s very gratifying to be able to contribute to a better world like this.

pissed

So far, the highlights of my life have been: when I toilet trained myself as a toddler, and when I finally got DSL enabling me to download porn up to 100 times faster than dial up. Everything in between has been muddled and ill defined. I've got to speak to whoever's in charge. According to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe, white mice are pan-dimensional beings running the whole show. I don't think so. If that were true, I would imagine that I would run into them every so often. Let's see. Who, or what kind of strange creatures do I come across at odd occasions? Come to think of it, a couple of months ago while I was driving home on a dark and lonely road, I almost ran over a chicken. And more than a few times, I've found chickens running around my back yard. And you know, just this last Saturday, when I got out of the woods after mountain biking, there were two chickens patrolling around my car. Now, unless I fell asleep and some how woke up in Nicaragua, there's something strange afoot. Could it be that they're the pan dimensional beings pushing all the buttons... or maybe they're just pissed off that I go to KFC so much?

useless

Tomorrow is Saturday. Do not wake me up. I don’t give a shit if the house is on fire. I’ll get up when it gets too hot. Anyway, you know how I am. If I don’t get 14 hours of sleep, I’m useless all day.

nice

Hey, good new! I just won a recent pole at Old Scag magazine naming me 2008’s “Most Horrifying to Wake Up Next To”. And I beat out some pretty tough competition: Rosie O’Donnell and Donald Trump. It’s nice to finally get some recognition!

leisure

Scream if you want to. No one will hear. And I promise; this is going to take a long time. Everyone thinks you're sooo sweet, but only I can see your soul is hollow. You are here for me, to do what I want. You'll regret you ever let me pick you up. First, I'll start with your eyes, gouging them out with my teeth, rolling them around my mouth until their sweetness dissolves into my tongue. Next the knife. My favorite. Each piece of your ears I slice off fills me with succulent warmth. Mmmmm. Bit by bit you're starting to realize that this is just the beginning. Back to my teeth again to rip off each cheek. Ha! This is why I started with your eyes. A mirror could never compete with your mind's eye, filling you with the horror of the mutilated vision you've become. Awww, what a pretty bow you have around your neck. I could cut your head off with it if I made it tight enough. But that's too quick. Just tight enough to scare you, but not tight enough to distract you from what's to come is what I want. Now I carefully, oh so carefully, cut off the top of your head. One slip of the blade could end this all too soon. Here it is… Here's the proof that you are nothing more than an empty headed little rodent. Do you see? Can't you all see?! But alas, I've neglected the rest of your body. So starting with your feet, I slowly, very slowly cut off your toes, working my way up until you are nothing but a torso and half a head. The end is finally here. There's not enough of you left to amuse me any longer. So I just crush with my fist, leaving chunks of you big enough to eat at my leisure. Wow. I haven't had this much fun since I ripped that chick's head off. I just Love chocolate bunnies and peeps. What a great holiday.
Happy Easter everyone!

Ooooo, I've got some chocolate left. OOWWWW! A cavity! – You Bitch!!!

call me

Alright, I don’t really hate the God damn cell phone. I found a new use for it. I turn the volume all the way up, put it on vibrate, stick it in the front of my pants, and tell all of my friends to call me. Hey, a boy’s got to have some fun.

hard

I needed someone who wasn't afraid of thickness. And even though I knew about her, I could never make it happen. Forget all that. We finally hooked up. Say hello to my new partner, my Swingline 390NX Heavy Duty Stapler. I just stapled 80 pages of BIO notes. I ain't kidding. I'm in love. Come here baby. Show me some of that good stuff. Yeah, you know how I like it. A little to the left, almost there. One more hard pull and.... OWWWWW!!!!!!!

I thee wed.

Time to finally grow up, settle down, and make that final long term commitment that I have avoided all these years: I’ve come close a few times, bolting just when things seemed to be getting to close. It’s never really felt quite right. I’ve been guilty of thinking there is always something better around the corner and I don’t want to be stuck. What can I say? I’m shallow. Maybe I’m just sick of everyone telling me I should. I haven’t listened before. And even though I’ve promised myself I would never do this. At 44 years old, I’m ready to settle. All right, all right everyone. You can stop nagging me. The time has come. .. I’m getting a cell phone. Al last, I can be the jackass who takes a call in the middle of a movie, or the dick head whose “This is why I’m hot” ring tone goes off in the middle of a funeral. And for the record, I’m still having a little trouble understanding why anyone actually needs to keep the ringer on at all. Vibrate is not obnoxious enough? Ooooh I can bombard my co-workers with shitty cell phone pictures of my cat, or post grainy, drunken videos on myspace. No longer will I be considered rude to ignore someone speaking to me. They’ll just have to deal with me talking on my blue tooth at the same time. And if it offends them that I’m texting someone else while they’re talking, Fuck em. It’s time they get with the 21st century. Now I can stand in public places, shouting the details of my visit to the proctologist for all the world. Not that long ago. This behavior would have gotten me a comfortable padded room. But the world has changed. I'm allowed to be a jackass. These days, no one is really allowed a moment of privacy, or peace. This is what I’m giving up. Just so I won’t be stuck when my Ford P.O.S. craps out again. Thanks AT&T.

thank you

Not much going on. The highlight of my day was when a poppy seed that was stuck between my teeth came out sometime this afternoon. Woopee! Twice as good the second time. Anyway, the day was not a total waste. I came to a significant revelation. If you can't tell from my coke bottle glasses, complete lack of coordination, and the fact that I have all of the Star Wars movies on DVD, including the original versions: I'm a dork. But I'm not the world's biggest, thanks to the makers of World of Warcraft. There are bigger dorks than me wandering the earth, posting screen savers of their characters on their computers at work. Openly, and publicly, discussing how they just became a "60th level elvin mage" last night, or how the "game administrators should take do more to stop people with cheats from ruining the game for everyone else". Thank you. Thank you god. For now I have people I can pity.

judge

Hello. My name is Richard. And I have a problem. For I… am a chronic masticator. It has taking control of my life. And I am powerless to stop. I masticate before I go to bed, dream about masticating, and I have to masticate as soon as I wake up. I just can’t concentrate all day unless I do. I masticate anytime I get a few seconds alone but secretly it gives me some devious thrill to masticate in public. Anywhere I’m in danger of being caught just adds to my excitement. And though it may cost me my job, I masticate in my cubicle at work. I better stop. The day shift is starting to notice the stains! My self abuse problem has ruined more than just a few carpets, and all of my clothes. It has destroyed all of my relationships. They all say they’re into it, sometimes inviting friends to join in, yet they all prove to be amateurs, unable to keep up. And every woman I’ve ever dated always wants me to wait and masticate with them. And even though it may ruin it for them later, I can’t. Don’t they know it’s different for men? I know I’m weak. I’ve tried all the tricks to stop myself, like thinking about baseball or Rosie O’Donnell, but then it’s BOOM! At it again until my hands or so cramped I can only use my mouth alone – yeah, I’m that flexible. Usually, I can masticate with either my left or right hand. I’m ambidextrous. But that is nothing to be proud of. So everyone, take heed of my tale of woe. I have ruined my life due to my lack of self control. But judge me not, for I could be any of you. And after all, what do you think I am? Some kind of fucking jerk off?!

random

Today I was forced to use a woman’s public lavatory due to construction. I went into all the stalls and lifted the seats in protest. FIGHT THE POWER!

Later on, I bought a John Lennon CD: Walls and Bridges. Not his greatest stuff. But as I walked to my car it occurred to me: Mark David Chapman’s aim was only about 12 inches away from making him the greatest man who ever lived…. Damn.

Yesterday, I had a bacon double cheeseburger, biggie fries, chocolate frosty and a large diet coke. Such is the depth of my hypocrisy.

cousin's wedding

Everyone please listen, for today I had one of the worst experiences of my life. And the cause has a name. Its name is: Cloverfield. A movie that even surpassed The Blair Witch Project on the annoyance scale, and has led me to believe that having rusty nails drilled into my eyes would have been a more enjoyable way to have spent my afternoon. It was 2, or was it 3, (or was it 10) hours of a simulated continuous one camera shot, by someone who doesn’t know where to point the fucking camera, or even how to work the damn thing. To make the film even more enjoyable, the guy with the camera always says: “What’s… what’s that?” or “What’s he, she, or they saying” while he waits a few seconds before actually half putting the camera on the subject. The effect was like being stuck in a car with an elderly aunt that waits five seconds before she goes at every green light on a thirty mile trip to the dentist. Except that is, she probably doesn’t scream, “Oh my god!!!” every ten seconds like the characters in this movie. As I watched, praying for an embolism, having debated walking out four separate times, at the very end of the movie, the giant monster finally appears in front of the camera, right in the middle of Central Park, thankfully eating the camera man, yet some how leaving the camera intact. The “love interest” couple, who were running with him, turn around, discover his remains, and tearfully mourn where the monster has now magically disappeared. Having blown the last on my “what the fuck” neurons, they decide to pick up the camera and run for shelter. Thankfully, everyone dies in the end, somewhat sating my thirst for vengeance for a lost afternoon. Everyone that is, except the monster, setting up the possible sequel. Hopefully, I’ll be dead by then. What should you do if someone asks you to go see this? Remember your drunk uncle’s video of your other cousin’s wedding? You know… the one where he puked on the camera? Spend the day watching that instead, you’ll be happier in the end.

scoop

Every so often, I am struck with a moment of clarity. A fleeting millisecond, where all things comes together in a kind of metaphysical oneness. Today it hit me. If Einstein's model of the universe is correct, in which space and time are infinite, ultimately curving back upon itself, Then every experience, thought, and accomplishment, is both the penultimate culmination of all being and existence, and therefore not only an end, but also a new beginning. Everything is both an alpha and omega, zenith and nadir simultaneously. We should all therefore exalt in every moment, for its uniqueness and newness, It's potential and kinetic possibility. Celebrating all we do, and all we know... This is what I remembered as scooped the cat shit out of the litter box today. The ultimate culmination of my life is to shovel feces, something I would never do for a human. Christ, I doubt I'd even do it for myself. Hold on. If all this is true, then our pets ultimate purpose is to provide the shit. Jesus, all this time I was convinced that we all just complex meatbags, created to propagate genetic material. But the truth is far worse. Ultimately, I am nothing more than some pet's piss boy! That's it. Cancel the celebration. Never again will I clean up after an animal. And the next time I see a monkey at the zoo, I'll be the one throwing the shit. It's time. It's time we humans rise up and cast off the shackled pooper scoopers of our repressors. Let the revolution begin, even if the heavens fall!

bananas

In my youth, all of the quotes that I would utilize during casual conversation came from either Bugs Bunny, or Monty Python. Now that I've lived a few years, and acquired the knowledge of more than four decades, I've become some what more sophisticated. Correspondingly, the complete arsenal of references that I interject into small talk, come from either South Park, or The Simpsons. Not real progress, just change. It could be worse. All of my quotes could come from Scooby Doo or George Bush! You know, I'm still waiting for that aged wisdom that is supposed to befall you as you get older. From what I've seen, it never happens. All I've acquired is a zero bullshit tolerance. I've got no tolerance for other peoples ego requirements, emotional reinforcement requirements, world conquest schemes, and delusional self confidence. After so many years, my bullshit storage tank is full. It's probably the same for a lot of people. Maybe that's what's mistaken for wisdom. Looking back, I think the only thing I'm sure of, the one piece of information that I can pass on to younger generations, the culmination of my life's experience is this: "Bananas don't travel well. They get really fucked up!"

Africa

There aren't many adult parallels to simple childhood joys. But I admit there is still one thing that gives me a similar thrill. That is: taking off a woman’s bra. (I prefer front loaders myself.) It's just like opening presents on Christmas morning. "Hey look at what I got. They're just what I wanted! I can't wait to see what's next." But every so often, you unveil... franken-tits. Now called me old fashioned, but I prefer tits that don't have giant steel bolts through them. I always feel like saying "Aw... you know how much we guys like playing with these things. Did you have to ruin them?" It's almost as bad as getting sock for Christmas. Oh well, there's still that big present left to open! Here goes... ahhhh shit... Oh well, I guess I should be thankful. There are starving children in Africa.

tomorrow

Man it was cold out today. But by watching my coworkers, I’ve concluded that it’s never to cold for cancer. Every hour on the hour, they run out and form their “cancer clutch”, puffing and bitching, me along side smoking by proxy. Now, I don’t smoke, at least not directly. And it seems, from my old job in the toxic smog of an OTB parlor, to hanging around with my best friend of 20 mrrrphhh or so years, I always put myself in close proximity of nicotine slaves. (Sorry man, I love ya but I’ve been telling you for years to quit). Anyway, my old friend has always been impervious to the cold. I remember when we were in our late teens, we’d be hanging out in his car bullshitting. It could be 14 degrees Fahrenheit outside, he would open his window all the way while he smoked. I used to say, “Hey Zool!”, we used to call each other Zool back then – but that’s a whole nother story – “ Zool close the window. Cancer’s tomorrow, cold is today”. I later shortened it to “I’ll take the cancer”. To this day, he knows what I’m referring to when I say that.

These days I’m thinking, maybe I should take it up. You know, cut out the middleman. It’s like I’m getting all the cancer and having none of the fun. Ah... I think not. But I really feel kind of left out. I don’t know why. Could it be that cancer loves company?






Today’s blog was brought to you by the Phillip Morris co. Working today for stronger cancers tomorrow! ©

destiny

I would have to say that my personal style is somewhere between "contemporary slob" and "American fat-ass". So, you would think that if I went shopping for some everyday household item; say a lamp, that I wouldn't have any trouble. More specifically, all I needed was a floor lamp. Nothing fancy, just something that works, and is moderately priced. So off I went to Sears, the psuedo-Mecca of semi-white trash. What did I find? Exactly one, That's right, one. And $200.00 at that. It was a pretty big mall, there had to be more to choose from. Well, I had vowed never to go back, but being a towering mountain of jello, I next headed to one of the nation's largest purveyors of bad service with an attitude: Macys. After being ignored by at least five sales people, I found something that I liked, only $450.00. Whoa, going in the wrong direction. Across the mall again to Penny's. A place that's trying to overcome it's crap store reputation, and be as fancy as Macys. Good news! They are now surpassing them, because there were eight sales people who ignored me, and their prices were about the same. Looks like they're going for that "we don't give a shit and we're over-prices" niche too. So what's a poor boy to do? I have often joked quite accurately, that I shop for presents for my rich relatives at Lord and Taylor, and for myself at Wal-Mart. I must have the white-trash gene, because that's where I wound up. Now some day, I may die in an electrical fire that was ultimately caused by a previously agreed upon unholy alliance between the Chinese government and Sam Walton, in which slave labor would be used to make cheep, non-U.L. approved appliances, but at least I was able to find a lamp for thirty bucks. Oh well, you can't argue with destiny.

close

Now, I'm not the world's most macho guy. In fact, I'm not even confident enough in my own masculinity to use Ivory Liquid. But I, like many other males, LOVE lesbians. It's not just the images of a never ending boob and vagifest made flesh flitting around my brain that intrigues me. And I suffer no delusions that two such ladies actively engaged would find me anything more than just an amateur gynecologist, or at best an annoying breeder. I really think it's because we have so much in common. You know similar interest. If you made a point by point list, we would almost be identical. Why, I'm this close to being a lesbian. Come to think of it... I'm only about six inches away. (sigh...) But bi women are pretty cool too. I have only been lucky enough to date one woman in my life who openly admitted to being bi. Loads of fun but unfortunately, she suffered from the "Angelina Jolie" syndrome. Meaning that everyone was just another notch on her belt. (Or was that a notch in her diaphragm?). And to tell the truth, I was pretty surprised how flattered I felt that someone thought me notch-worthy. These days though, after catching a horrifying glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, I don't think I'm even secret drunken rebound worthy. Oh well, that's why they invented internet dating. Now where did I put that ten year old picture where I had hair? Oh, here it is. It's off to the world of cyber-self misrepresentation for me. Let's see. I now make $250,000.00 plus, drive a Porsche, have visited Europe, Eastern Asia, and Australia, and am looking for that special woman who is "tired of games". Isn't technology wonderful?

10,000 years

It has been said that you can judge the measure of a man by the magnitude of his enemies. If that's true, I rate at about toaster level because I haven't made it off the inanimate scale. I guess I'm only about as significant as my piece of shit Ford, with it's sticky radio buttons, intermittent air conditioning, ineffective defroster, and moon roof that has no problems opening, only closing with a very precisely placed mid-roof punch. But it's old. I can forgive its many foibles, and I'm currently trying to get rid of it. No, it's the mechanical objects that I don't own that give me the most shit. Like the soda machine that takes my money and then only thinks about giving me a soda, teasing me with mechanical gastritis sounds for thirty seconds before deciding I don't warrant one. And the one type of object that I can never turn my back on for a second, defeating me at every encounter, leaving me stained and humiliated is: Toilet seat lid covers. You know what I'm talking about, those pieces of carpet some women insist on using, insuring that no mater what you do, the toilet seat will stay down. Insidious things they are, making the lid appear balanced after you lift it just long enough to entice you to let go, thereby coming down mid-flow, splashing the unsuspecting male with a high tide like urine mark across his pants. No wonder some guys just piss on the top. As I see it, men have two choices. You can either hold the seat with one hand, or sit and piss, which I refuse. I will not of my own free will give up my natural right to stand up while I urinate. God himself has given me the ability to write my name in the snow, and you'll never take it away. Anyway, I'm convinced a woman invented lid covers as revenge for the last 10,000 years of male oppression. Ok, ok ladies. You win. We're sorry. Please, I beg you. Stop using them.

rehab

I'll try to keep this blog apolitical, but I really feel compelled to speak out about something. Now, I've never been ashamed, and always been proud to be, an American. That is, until I saw the latest Burger King commercial. You know the one I'm talking about. The one featuring the parade of dumfounded morons protesting: "I want a Whopper". It's amazing how a minor crisis, such as a missing barf burger, can leave someone unable to express themselves in any coherent fashion and stammering in protest. I think these are the same people I was stuck in line behind at the motor vehicle department for three hours the other day. I recognize the stains on their t-shirts. Christ, I hope other countries can't see this. Al Jezeera will have a filed day. Come America, let’s keep our unemployed, drunken, semi-medicated, semi-illiterate, rehab dropout relatives off the TV. It's embarrassing.

Hello

Hi blog world. I've been blogging on myspace but haven't been getting many reads. So I figured I'd give this a try. Most of my blogs are going to be reprints of those blogs for a while. Hope you think I'm at least a little funny. You don't? Me too.