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.