Why I Have Time For Video Games, Fantasy Baseball And Porn

I came to a startling realization over the last week or so: It’s a miracle that I’ve ever managed to convince a woman to hang out with me. I think I produce my own birth-control.

Of course, it’s been my mouth. Look, some girls will say there’s nothing wrong with my mouth…but generally they have nicer things to say when the only thing coming out of it is my tongue. But I guess that’s another story entirely.

Recently I had a girl from my past make contact with me to kick the tires on the Ehren-machine. It’s a typical move: Hey, I’m single; I seem to remember you being vaguely tolerable, what’s your deal?

Now, a smooth guy would have sent out a cool, interested, but not desperate vibe. He would have set a mood that encouraged her to think, “I could imagine scenarios where I’d hang out with this guy under fewer than four federal marshals and enough pepper spray to neutralize a rhino." In case anyone’s somehow missed it, here’s a news flash: I’m the most awkward mother fucker on the planet.

Having gotten her phone number via email a few days before, I called her. At 12:30 in the morning. Drunk. And that was the high point of the conversation. Things quickly went down hill from there. Let’s just say that at this point I have a better shot of fucking Jessica Simpson, The Olsen Twins, Margaret Thatcher, and the remains of Mark Twain…at the same time.

“So…when’s the last time you got laid?” I asked by way of hello.

“Who is this?”

“It’s a guy you made out with three years ago and are thinking about fucking! Answer the question!”

Yeah…it got ugly. After making several wildly inappropriate comments about her ex, and conveying a play-by-play description of my orgy experience, she tried to put me out of misery by ending the conversation.

“Look, it’s getting pretty late. Umm…Maybe we can talk again later in the week.”

Unfortunately for both of us, I was having none of it. “Fuck you! Don’t be such a girl!”

“Huh?”

“Look, if you don’t want me to call, just say so and I won’t bother you again. But don’t say you’ll talk to me later if you’ve no interest in me.”

“I just said, ‘we should talk later in the week.’”

“I know what that means! It means you think I’m a psycho and you want to get me off the line before I start telling you about the tiny animals I sacrificed to the pictures of you! You don’t want me to call again!”

“What’s your problem?”

“My problem is insincere bitches who can never say what’s actually on their mind! Why can’t you just say, ‘Yeah, on second thought I don’t really want your cock in my mouth’?”

Somewhere, there’s a knife-wielding hobo that’s moved above me on this girl’s list of fuckable guys. Oh well. At least I know I can save my condom money and prepare my self for a long life of video games, fantasy baseball and porn. And until my hand files a restraining order, I’ll always have plan B.

I Suck!

OK, so this is going to be the second day in a row with no real post. I SUCK! The problem is, between the endless supply of seminars, company-expensed meals, and Jack Daniels, I've got almost no time to write. Also, my only computer access comes during the day. So as much as I would like to be broadcasting my pointless rants bashing the handicapped, it's just not going to be possible this week.

I know, I suck. But providing that I haven't completely destroyed all of my braincells with Jack and Cokes, I'll return on Monday.

Handicapped People Are Pimps!

So the good news (depending on your view of me) is that I’ve survived a weekend of debauchery in San Francisco. All in all it was a pretty crazy weekend, and while I don’t plan to bore you with all the details, here were some of the memorable moments:

• Traffic to the airport was horrendous due to the army closing a number of highways in the New York area. Why did they close down roads? A truck carrying a tomahawk missile had crashed, throwing its cargo into the Saw Mill Parkway. Boy, those guys in the military are doing a bang-up job.
• M.C. Hammer is still alive. I was on the same Jet Blue flight as him on Friday night. Meaning that, as far as I know, there were no celebrities on my plane.
• The Wailers (as in Bob Marley and the) stayed in my hotel on Saturday. Meaning that, as far as I know, there were celebrities (and most likely, gang-banged, hash-smoking groupies) under the same roof as me.
• Eight Jack and Cokes, two shots of jagermeister, and a quarter of a bottle of sake is still not enough to get me to dance, sing karaoke, or make out with members of the same sex. I wish I could say the same for my friends...because everything above was engaged in by some member of my posse.

I don’t have a whole lot of experience with hotels. I mean I know enough that if they charge by the hour, you shouldn’t be expecting scented soaps and chocolates on the pillow…Although chances are good that your bed will contain both interesting scents and brown stains.

Let me just say this when it comes to hotel accommodations, though: those handicapped folks really know how to travel in style. And not just because of the mopeds, legal drugs and sponge baths.

This is now the second time that I’ve shown up at a hotel and been given a handicapped room. And people told me that the slow, barely cognoscente glint in my eyes would never come in handy.

The first time this happened, the clerk told me, “I’m going to put you in a room for the differently-abled. Is that ok?”

Not sure what to make of this development, I said, “Umm…sure.” I figured that at most I’d be seeing an extra ramp or something. So I was shocked when I found that my room was equipped with a full-size hot-tub/whirlpool. I really don’t know why they figured that paraplegics needed with a hot-tub. It’s not like they can even feel their legs! They’re enjoying the soak only 50% as much as the rest of us!

I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I’m on the road, I like to drink. Heavily. IN fact, I don’t even consider it a real trip unless I have to go in for dialysis at least twice. And as you all know, when you’re drinking until you suffer massive kidney failure, you have many enemies, not the least of which are stairs, bladder control, and standing vertical. This point leads me to the next reason I love my room: two eyeholes. One for when I’m sober, and one when I’m unable to claw my way higher than my knees. It’s perfect for half-way into that third bottle of Southern Comfort when there’s a knock on your door. Because it’s important to know whether it’s the cops coming to beat you into submission for bellowing off-key renditions of bawdy Frank Zappa songs, or that call girl you ordered what seems like 2 days ago.

My favorite feature of handicapped rooms, however, is the shower. Have you ever laid in bed and thought, “Gee, I’d love to be clean, but that would mean standing on my feet for a whole ten minutes. Isn’t there a way that I can sit on my ass be hosed down like livestock?” Well, my lazy, smelly friends, wonder no longer. The shower in my hotel features a detachable showerhead and a bench. Which is perfect whether you’re suffering from Lou Gehrig's Disease or just a nasty hangover.

All in all, it’s been a truly remarkable couple of days. And between my room and the parking, I’m seriously considering asking some friend to take a bat to my legs. Because somehow I know that the closest I'll ever come to living like a pimp is taking a blow to my spine.

Wow, I’m going to Hell for this post.

Trouble In Gay-Town

The Denizens of San Francisco have no idea what terror is about to be unleashed upon them. Honestly, I don’t even have a good idea.

No matter what Philadelphia claims, San Fran has the whole “City of Man-on Man Love” title locked up. I was speaking to some females who live out there and they were saying that it’s impossible to find straight single men. As my friend says, “If you’ve got an Adam’s apple and don’t like cock, it’s a buyer’s market.”

Of course, this is the same guy who somehow managed to pick up an entire department of straight, female firefighters.

I was thinking that I should invest in this shirt. You know, just to inform ladies of my stance on penis. In case anyone was wondering it’s this: I have enough that I’m not looking for more.

Actually, I don’t think that I’m going to be looking for any companionship while visiting our “jazz-hands” flaunting west-coast neighbors. In fact, there’s a good chance that I’ll simply get drunk, rowdy, and fiercely antisocial. And by antisocial I mean becoming basically the person I represent here in this blog.

Because I foresee a perfect storm of drinking developing on the horizon. Parties on the road are dangerous for a good reason: there are no consequences. The next day there are no brothers, fathers or husbands to come looking for revenge because you’ve already skipped town. It’s almost as if nothing you did ever really happened.

On top of that, I’ll be hanging out with at least one experienced drinker, and trying to deal with recently becoming single. So God only knows what this weekend is going to bring. Really, there are equally good chances that I’ll manage to reach my hotel or that I’ll be killed in a high stakes, back-ally knife fight. Come on, after reading some of the stories of my life, would anyone really be shocked if that’s how this all came to an end? Lest you think that I exaggerate the trouble that parties on the road bring, I have a story for you.

A couple years ago a few of my friends and I drove down to New Jersey to attend a party. The shindig was being held by a friend of mine, who called me up and said, “Hey, you should bring some friends along with you.” Which I interpreted as “Bring cock.” So a bunch of us piled into a car headed out for the wilds of Dirt Jersey.

The party ended up sucking heavily. So the decision was made for two of my comrades to head out in search of poker chips and playing cards. The two chosen on this life or death mission were named Iz and Spencer.

The two took my car and were driving along without luck for quite some time before they saw a Walmart. They parked and wandered through the store for a while until they found an entire poker set, which they promptly grabbed.

As they were heading back towards the checkout lanes, however, Spencer suddenly stopped.

“Hey, Iz, have you noticed that we haven’t seen anyone since we came in here?”

The two did a full 360 and realized that there wasn’t another soul in sight: no greeters, no stock boys, no clerks, and no other shoppers: the place was dead. Two employees in the back froze and turned pale when my friends finally found them.

“Guys, we don’t want any trouble. You’re on film now, so don’t do anything stupid.”

“What do you mean? We just want to buy this poker set.”

“We can’t do that. The store’s closed, and everything’s locked up.”

“The front door’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not.”

“OK, just calm down and tell us what you want.”

“Look, we’re not trying to rob you! The front door is fucking open and all the lights are on!”

So my friends had to leave empty-handed. This story would be amusing if it ended here—but it keeps going.

Perhaps half a mile down the street, the two passed a convenience store on the opposite side. Without thinking, my friend pulled a quick U-Turn. As soon as he did so, sirens went off behind him.

By the time John Law had walked up to the window, Iz was in full spin mode.

“Oh officer, thank goodness I found you. My friend and I are lost. We’ve been driving around all night trying to find Sparrow Lane, we have no idea where we are and I--”

“Shut up a second, ‘Sir,’” snapped the officer. “Do you realize that it’s illegal to make a U-Turn? Give me your license and registration.”

Of course, Spenser and Iz were driving my car, and had no idea where my registration was. The officer grew more and more impatient as my friends rummaged through my glove compartment. Just as they found the papers and were about to hand them over, the cop’s walkie-talkie blurted:

“Attention, unit 8. Attempted robbery reported at 701 West Main Street. Repeat, reported robbery at the Walmart on West Main.”

The officer took a quick look at the registration, tossed it back in the car and said, “Sparrow is two block down on the left. Have a good night.”

The second the officer’s car pulled out Spencer grabbed Iz’s shirt and yelled “DRIVE.”

So let’s see, for one night we had drinking and driving, breaking and entering, attempted robbery, illegal U-Turn, and calling a peace-officer an inappropriate name. And this is my friends going out of their way to be law-abiding.

So there’s a good chance that my weekend will end with death, incarceration, or pepper spray. Wish me luck. If there’s no post on Monday, you’ll all know why.

Why I Drink

I’m doing my best to think positive thoughts over the next few days. Because there’s a good chance that Saturday night is going to be a trying experience for me. Next week I’ll be out of town and, as co-workers are want to do, there is already a department drinking night arranged. I’m not in the least apprehensive about my coworkers or drinking, it’s WHERE we’ll be getting shit-faced that worries me.

I’ve always been a mellow drunk. I like to sip on my drink and chat with people. What I don’t like doing after 18 jack and cokes is moving or screaming. However, I have been out-voted and will be drinking in a club this weekend.

I have zero understanding of the club scene. It’s something that’s just out of my comprehension. Like trying to imagine Mr. Rogers fucking a donkey. There is no way to wrap my mind around it.

The main problem is that I don’t dance. I know that a lot of guys say this, but in all fairness I have a great excuse: I’m white. If I were any paler I wouldn’t cast a reflection in a mirror. And I’m ok with that. It’s not bad being a Jew: I tell jokes, eat good food and cheat White People out of their money. But I don’t dance. Trust me the world is a much better place.

But it’s not just the dancing that I dislike about these hangouts. It’s also the music. OK, maybe I really am out of touch, but answer me these two questions:

1. Does anyone (aside from sorority girls on their 28th wine cooler) actually like the music they play in clubs?
2. How does anyone deal with the volume of the music?

Seriously, the music in every club I’ve ever walked by is enough to make me want to smash my CD player and give up on music all together. No matter how many times you play the noise “inst inst inst,” and how loud you blast it, it’s never going to be a song, ok?

When I go out, I want to be able to chill out, have a conversation, and sit down. I don’t want to wave a glow stick, suck a pacifier, blow bubbles, or try to flag down a bartender through a strobe light, ok? Is that too much to ask?

Maybe I’m underestimating the attractiveness of the general population, or the ease of picking up girls on Xtasy. But most of the guys I know require a bit of conversation to seal the deal. I’ve given up trying to attract women through my appearance. I know that to have a chance, I have to be charming or at least entertaining. Fine. But I’d have a better chance of meeting a woman by wearing an eye patch, knocking out my teeth, and wearing a wife-beater that reads “I rape puppies.” And I really don’t understand how other men are any different.

Fortunately, there’s always one person to whom I don’t need to speak a word to have a fun night out: Mr. Jack Daniels. If he can’t get me through an evening blaring dance beats and men wearing body-glitter, no one can.

White Man's Revenge

It is officially too hot to do anything. Yesterday the temperature got up to 101 with 80% humidity. It was like living inside Rosie O' Donnell. It was officially hot enough to justify killing yourself. How can you tell when it’s that hot? For the past two days, no matter how many times I showered, all I could think was, “God damn my balls are sweaty.” That’s how you know. If it weren’t for air-conditioning I would have killed myself...and probably some of my neighbors.

My neighbors are Dominican and regularly freak out if anyone parks in front of their house. They don’t even like it if we keep the porch light on. But that doesn’t stop them from throwing at least five parties per summer. Let me explain the details of a Dominican party.

At 4:30 AM, relatives show up with 18 dogs. Every person and animal then proceeds to produce as much noise as possible until they pass out.

At 5:00AM, they begin playing salsa music through a 600 watt PA system. It is totally unacceptable if the music is played at decibels that don’t set off every car alarm on the block.

The music, screaming and barking then continues for 36 hours straight.

I’m not certain that I know Spanish, but I’ve definitely caught myself singing along with random mariachi songs. I’m pretty sure that it’s all subliminally picked up from my neighbors. I do know that I want to kill myself anytime I hear a horn player.

I wouldn’t mind this so much if they weren’t so completely uptight and unreasonable about my occasional party. They called the police on me because people parked on the street in front of their house. And I had asked them for permission.

Little do they know that they’re fucking with the wrong hombre. They want to play 36 hours of Spanish music? Go nuts. But you have no idea what you’re getting into. I’m white. We’re responsible for the worst music ever created. This weekend I’m turning on my PA System, setting the complete John Tesh discography on a loop, and leaving town.

Sometimes I contemplate swapping Yanni in there instead, but I think, “why should I have to choose?” Maxim Magazine called this album, “Worse than Hitler.”

A Street Fair At The Corner Of White And Uppity

I wandered through a street fair yesterday. It was hot and, having spent most of the day in the car shepherding some relatives to the airport, I decided it might be nice to walk around for a while and stretch my legs.

I was there for about 10 seconds before I realized why I rarely bother to visit these things. The street had been closed off and filled with tiny booths. There were perhaps 100 little tents and tables lining the sidewalk, each offering a truly diverse range of items for sale. Well, it was diverse provided all you ever decided to wear was billowy tie-dyed gowns, and jewelry with semi-precious stones the size of raccoon’s brain and roughly as attractive. Seriously, I’m not sure if the sparklers were intended to worn or used to decorate the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Blind pimps wouldn’t be caught wearing anything as ostentatious.

It was kind of amusing to walk up and down the street, because virtually all the booths were identical. Who the fuck would need to see 15,000 different varieties of amber necklaces? Rich, stupid, white people. It’s a demographic on which the tie-dye and turquoise industries are built on. Much like golf, Protestantism, and over-blown feelings of self-importance.

There were probably a grand total of six booths that weren’t desperately trying to exploit white people’s crimes against fashion. One of these places sold (I shit you not) grandfather clocks. Look, I realize that I said this street fair was teaming with rich stupid crackers, but enough is enough. Who has ever, EVER made an impulse buy of a grandfather clock? Who the fuck has walked through a street fair, sipping on a five dollar lemonade, and said, “Oh, that grandfather clock would be so perfect for the backseat of my yellow Hummer. What the hell, I have six grand to spare. It’s just a couple dinners at Nobu. Rupert, carry that to my car.”

Next on my list of bizarre booths was a pretzel stand. To give you an idea of how upscale this street fair was, let me fill you in about a couple details regarding this particular stand.

1. It was the only stand in the whole place selling pretzels.
2. The pretzels were made from all-natural ingredients.
3. They weren’t pretzel shaped. Instead each one was braided like bitchy, white, tennis-player’s hair.

All of this I took in stride. The thing that made it amusing to me was a giant banner they had made to advertise. It read, “Sample Our Mustard Bar!” Did they really think that mustard was going to be the big selling point? It took all my willpower not to belly up to the bar, slam my fist down and demand two shots of honey mustard with a horseradish back.

About a year ago, I was walking through Manhattan when I passed an optometrist’s office. There in the window was a pair of the largest, ugliest Gucci sunglasses I had ever laid eyes on. You know those tacky state trooper glasses people used to wear back in the 80s? It was one of those things on steroids. “Christ those things are hideous.” I thought. “A person’s got to be a fucking moron to wear those.”

Turns out I was right, but I had severely under-estimated the number of morons in New York State. It seemed as if every single female attending this street fair had bought one of these crimes against taste and was wearing it along with an expression that screamed “unless you make six figures a year, technically, eye contact constitutes rape."

I have a theory that in two years, people will be wearing sunglasses made from two, purple-tinted car windshields. They’ll start at your nose and go eight feet straight out on either side. They’ll cover everything from above your head to you crotch and you’ll have to use a neck-brace just to support them.

At any rate, it was an interesting day. And I’ve decided that white people suck, though in all fairness, I’m not sure how much of that is just the fifteen shots of Passion Fruit Wasabi Mustard talking.

Child Entertainer/Gigolo

I’ve discovered that there are few things in life more depressing than fulfilling 90% of your dream. It’s like banging a playmate’s grandmother. Or being in a band with Sean Lennon. Actually…I guess it’s like doing ANYTHING with Sean Lennon. Seriously, how has that guy not killed himself in a motel bathroom yet?

One of the many jobs I’ve had is teaching music at a camp. With all due modesty, I’ve been an overwhelming success. Kids SCREAM my name and rush me when I walk around. Parents ask me for autographs. It’s crazy.

At any rate, I agreed to do a concert for this camp last night. There were about 100 people packed outside to see ME. They screamed my name. They did the wave. They hung on every song, every word and applauded like mad. And it was all supremely depressing.

Don’t get me wrong, I love them and I’m very happy for the support. But what the fuck does it say about my life? Yeah, I’ve managed to get people to drive out to see me. Yeah, they love me. But somehow, the only way I’ve managed to be a musical success is by singing other people’s songs. For kids. It’s like winning the gold medal for curling.

Speaking from personal experience, there is no profession in the entertainment industry that comands less respect than Children’s Musician. The hierarchy is clearly set. Starting near the bottom and working down it goes:

1. Fluffer
2. Mime
3. Medical Curiosity
4. Jizz Mopper at a nudie-booth
5. Children’s Musician

It’s not that there isn’t good money to be made there. In fact, I made an obscene amount for money for 45 minutes work last night. But the amount of humiliation you’re subjected to is beyond belief. I know one of the biggest acts in Children’s music. He lives in a very nice house and tours whenever he likes. But I have no idea how he sleeps at night. I don’t mind doing the occasional show…especially when I’ve just had to replace the transmission on my car, but if that’s all I’d accomplished in my life, I’d have long ago hung myself with the ribbon from a party balloon.

I had some supremely weird experience in my time as a children’s entertainer. Example: I once got a call from the mother of one of the children. She chatted with me for a while and finally asked if I would play at their house that Friday.

“What’s the event?” I asked. “Is your son having a birthday party or something?”
“Not exactly,” she answered. “It’s my anniversary, so I thought you could just play while we ate dinner.”
“So it’s a dinner party?”
“No. No other guests.”
“You want me to play for just you, your husband and son?”
“Actually, my son’s sleeping over someone else’s house that night.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. In fact, you don’t even have to bring your guitar. We have a pool. Just bring your swimming trunks.”
“Um…"
“We’ll pay you $300 bucks just to keep us company.”

By this time I was thoroughly skeeved out. I mean, as close as I could tell, I was being asked to be a male prostitute. This does not necessarily go against my morals…provided the clientele is easy on the eyes…and all female. Frankly, the creepiest part of the whole experience was how comfortable she was asking me. It definitely gave me the impression I wasn’t the first person she’d propositioned to suck her husband's cock.

But it also underlines my point about how low down on the totem pole Children’s Entertainers are. As this woman clearly shows, there’s little or no line between performing for kids, and “performing” on her and her husband.

So tonight I go off to band rehearsal with a new sense of determination. I’m sick of fucking Ms. October 1956. From now on, it’s Playmate of the Year or bust. And by “bust,” I mean boobs.

The Smell Of Progress

This just in: brace yourself, people, but it seems that the internet has some really weird things on it.

Alert the media.

I know that there are those who think that pedophilia didn’t exist before chat rooms and My Space, but the truth is that the people in general are really sick and twisted. Maniacs and predators have always existed. Only now they all have blogs and instant messengers (I mean, don't look now, but you're reading a maniac's blog right now). And, in some cases, large grants from Japanese investors.

A while ago, I wrote a whole post on why I have no fucking idea what’s going on with Japanese culture. This story does nothing but underline that fact for me.

Why, in God’s name, would you possibly need a machine that simulated smells? Forgetting for a second that the name was stolen from Matt Groening's Futurama, why would you EVER purchase a TV or attend a movie that offered “Smellovision” (I kid you not, see paragraph 8 of the news story: Smellovision). I don’t care how attractive people think Paris Hilton is. Under no circumstances will smelling her will enhance the experience for me. I already know what “whore” smells like.

Seriously, the Dennis Hopper line from Apocalypse Now, “I love the smell of Napalm in the morning” is an all time classic. Is there any chance my kids get to watch that movie without having to smell burning human remains?

This latest development signals two upcoming disasters:

1. All the old movies will have to be redone in “Smellovision.” So mark my words, 5 years from now, I’ll be unable to find a replacement DVD for my copy of Goodfellas that doesn’t flood my apartment with the smell of shit when I play the scene where Pesci strangles the dude in the car with piano wire.
2. It’s only a matter of time before this breakthrough comes to the world of porn.

I can’t even imagine how it’ll be incorporated into scenes of barely legal girls getting fucked by guys with child molester mustaches and shaved taints. Ok, so that’s not true. What I should have said is that I don’t WANT to imagine how it’ll be used.

And don’t even think I’m off base here. If there’s any business that’s shown no reluctance in using the latest “gadgets” creatively, it’s the Porn Industry. I have it on good authority that a number of X-Rated films have already been made that use the “Bullet time” spinning camera effects of The Matrix. Oh, how I wish I were joking. Just when you thought watching a man with a unibrow and a waxed nut sack blowing his load on a 70-year-old amputee couldn’t get any creepier.

Maybe I’m making too big of a deal out of this. It’s just depressing to me that somewhere in Japan there’s a group of dudes who couldn’t think of a better way to spend their money.

Beef, Bowel-Obstructions, And The American Spirit Of Adventure

I decided to try a new place for lunch yesterday. It was a dank little hole in the wall with tiny booths and loners morosely sipping beer watching Sports Center highlights at noon on a Monday. This is to say it’s only slightly less classy than brown-bagging forties behind the dumpster of 7-Eleven. The only major difference was the rats and flies in the dumpster might provide more animated conversation.

At any rate, this dimly lit pit offers an eight ounce burger, which I promptly ordered and swallowed whole. I fell to chatting with the waitress when she revealed that, contrary to what the menu said, eight ounces was not the largest hamburger they served.

It seems that this particular bane of respectability offered a 2 pound burger and, provided it was done without killing the customer, finishing it inside of 45 minutes made it free of charge. Think of what a bargain that is: 32 ounces of meat and all it costs you is a bowel obstruction and your self-respect.

I should admit at this point that I’ve never seen this deep-fried monstrosity in person. In fact, I’m kind of struggling to imagine it. The waitress told me that it takes 30 minutes to cook each side of it.

I’m still trying to figure out what would possess a place of business to make this sort of challenge. I mean, it seems like a poorly-planned proposition. Americans are the most litigious people on the planet. This is a country where someone sued McDonalds because her coffee was too hot. Can you imagine the shit-storm if some idiot goes in there and has to have his stomach pumped?

My co-worker’s eyes lit up when he heard about the challenge. I suspect he’s going to go try it at some point in the future. I believe in drinking heavily, skipping sleep, missing meals, and not exercising: and even I’m not ready to abuse my body like that. I figure my body’s already stretched to the breaking point. If I ate a two pound burger in an hour there’s a good chance I’d disrupt the delicate dance of alcohol, cocoa-puffs and heavy sarcasm that somehow provide the fuel I need to make it through the day.

I told my friend to let me know when he decides to try it. Mostly because I want to watch and partly because I’d like to be able to have the medivac chopper deployed.

It’s really a shame that America has become a place of such unapologetic bitches. Do you remember the American spirit of adventure, independence and hard work that our forefathers shared? It took balls to leave Amsterdam and travel on a rickety ship for months to place that might or might not even exist. Then head west to unmapped territory with weird-fuck animals, natives, and diseases. These days we can’t even handle the adventure of sipping a cup of coffee. How the fuck do you even show your face in public after winning that lawsuit?

“I got my fortune because the court ruled that I’m not responsible enough to handle drinking liquid unsupervised.” What mother, sibling, spouse or friend heard that statement and didn’t immediately pimp-slap the prosecution into common sense or death?

Once, just once, I want to read the story of some stupid fucking hayseed that’s laughed out of court when he tries to sue the kerosene company because “he didn’t know their product was flammable.” We, as a country, need to stop providing rights (and more importantly, blood-thirsty lawyers) to idiots. If we don’t, soon we won’t even be able to eat two pounds of undercooked meat in the name of a liberty, justice and a free meal.

My Life As A Moneyshot

Sometimes I feel like there’s entirely too much stuff coming out of me. Maybe it’s because as a male, my primary purpose (as far as the gene-pool is concerned anyway) is to empty genetic matter out into any available orifice.

Lately that seems like a good metaphor for my life.

My job, my relationships, and my bank account: it seems as if all I do is expel my substance out into every possible outlet. Then I drink, sleep, get up and do it again. Masturbation is the single most accurate description of my life.

Because it’s all fun. I like working hard, I like being creative, and I like being involved with people. But it’s all starting to feel pointless. For the males in crowd, have you ever jerked off more frequently than usual? Think back to high school or a really slow weekend. Have you beaten it like 8 times in a day? It gets to be sickly feeling. You’re totally drained and just going through the motions.

Maybe I need to just cut everyone and everything off for about a week or a month. That way I can at least shoot a load worth bragging about.

I may or may not be involved in a break-up at the moment. I really have no idea. That’s probably a good reason why I’m so emotionally drained. The devil of the whole thing is that I’m uncertain about what the fuck happens next. I feel like hell because I’m uncertain, and I’m uncertain because I feel like hell.

I honestly feel really badly for the girl involved with all of this. Because it’s not her fault. She’s doing her job (and more besides, because I’m a complete psychopath) by being supportive and sweet and trying to get commitment out of a boy who can’t even figure out where he’ll be 20 minutes in the future.

I’m the asshole here because I don’t know what I want. I feel a general discontent with life recently. Maybe I force myself through too many proverbial daily money-shots.

Over masturbation is a form of self-abuse. It feels more painful than pleasant. You know it’s going to suck and you do it anyway. So maybe I’m just trying to abuse myself. Fuck you for being happy! Fuck you for having outlets for all your sexual, creative, and intellectual lecheries. Perhaps I’ve reached a point where I’m just trying to completely…well…fuck myself.

• My meats been jerked like it was the only ingredient in a Jamaican kitchen.
• I’ve beaten my dick more than the passengers on the Amistad.
• My cock’s had more debilitating strokes than Luther Vandross.

Enough of this shit. I’m going to beat off. Maybe tonight I’ll finally be able to zip my pants up and get on with my life.

261 Down, 999,739 To Go

There were a bunch of phrases that I thought I’d never have to use over the course of my life. Little sentences that somehow describe how sad a person’s existence has become. Come on, you all know the types of phrases that I mean. Things like:

• Jerry Falwell makes a good point.
• I traded in the mustang for my minivan.
• Isn’t this the coolest pair of biking pants ever?
• Nothing beats a Speedo for pure comfort.
• My wife said I’m not allowed.

Expounding on that list, there are a number of phrases that have never been uttered before:

• Ralph Macchio is such a pimp.
• You got me Yanni Tickets??? This is the best birthday ever!
• Female circumcision is hot.

Sometimes you don’t even realize that a phrase is on your list as a summery for how sucky your life has become. Such was the case with me over the weekend when I said, “I’m totally writing about this in my blog.” I instantly wished I had saved my breath and simply unloaded a shotgun into my skull.

What the fuck have I become? Two years ago I thought blogs were a narcissistic, masturbatory practice with no use other than providing a forum to teenagers, trekies, and desperate singles with nothing better to do weeknights. Honestly, I’m not sure how much my opinion has changed.

Look, good writing is good writing, whether it’s published in a book, on the internet, or the men’s room wall at the Denny’s Truck stop on I-95. But I think it’s the complete lack of any minimum standards that have ruined the world of internet writing. Way too many people write mind-numbing, self-absorbed crap. It seems as if 70% of the blogs out there are either:

"Yeah, so Diane and me went to The Otter for that thing and ran into Frank. Wooooo! Yeah Frank! Remember “Red Cow”? Yeah! Party with you and Captain L tomorrow."

Or:

"Ken just meant so much to me and now he’s gone. He doesn’t even care about all the candles and pictures and animals I killed for him. Can’t he see that we’re DESTINY. I want to die."

I guess my question for the day is, “Are there any circumstances under which I don’t have to be socially ashamed for maintaining a blog?” I know my stuff is a bit different from the majority off blogger material, but still…How distant am I really from the ugly 14 year-old with a broken heart?

After a moment or so reflection, I think there IS one time when saying, “Yeah, I maintain a blog” isn’t the height of loserocity: when you can follow it with, “that has a million hits a week.” Oh well. 261 down, 999,739 to go.

No-Doze: Legal Angel Dust

On Friday I had my first experience with a product called “No-Doze.” I had decided to drive from New York to Washington D.C. which would have been fine and good, except that I was unable to leave until midnight. So I stocked my car with Red Bull and No-Doze and hit the road.

The information on this over-the–counter pill reads, “One pill has the same amount of caffeine as a cup of coffee.” “Ok.” I thought. “No problem here. I’ll kick a few of these suckers back, and just glide down to Washington.”

Now, I’m not really in the habit of drinking coffee. I don’t find it has all that pleasant a taste and it's never really helped keep me awake. Late nights at a diner I almost always ordered coffee and never had problems falling alseep. So I didn’t think I’d be over-medicating if I washed three pills down with a can of Red Bull.

Right about the time I became convinced the bats who had magically stowed away in my back seat last time I stopped to pee were trying to steal my blood, I decided I may have made an error. Yes, one No-Doze pill is equal to a cup of coffee—if each cup is laced with 8 pounds of pure angel dusk.

After about two hours, I became certain that my heart had stopped beating. Instead it was humming. I was over-come with the overwhelming urge to drink my weight in nectar.

Now, as anyone can tell you, when your nervous system is running faster than ferret on crystal meth, you get thirsty. Unfortunately, all I had in the car with me was Red Bull. It got to the point where I was no longer afraid of falling asleep on the road—I was concerned that I’d never be able to sleep again. Partly because I felt like pulling the car over to run laps through a field at 3:30 am, and partly because I’d convinced myself that if I for moment lapsed from my state of cat-like readiness, the bats would come back and steal my blood.

I’m sure the more rational among you are asking, “Why would bats want your blood?”

Honestly, I have no idea. Though in retrospect, at that point they could have boiled it down and kept the entire population of El Salvador high out of their minds for two weeks.

Just as I started to be able to see through time, I had a frightening thought: the stuff I was on was over-the-counter. What the fuck is the illegal stuff like? Even scarier, why would you need it? The question gave me something to ponder 3 hours after I had pulled over and completed counting the fibers in the carpet.

Around four in the morning I became aware that I was speaking. It happened this way:

For the last hour I had been tuned in to a really great talk radio station. The host had this great way of talking without stopping for breath and was making some really righteous points about life, the state of the highways, and what it’s like to drive alone in a car through the night. Things started getting creepy though, when I would think of a topic and then the radio would start talking about it ten seconds later. So started suspecting that the radio host was in some way part of the dark conspiracy to steal my blood. Naturally, I promptly leaned forward to turn off the radio, and realized that I had never turned it back on after I had stopped to challenge my pants to that lap-running competition.

There’s really no way to describe how creepy that is.

If anyone wants to recreate the experience, let me know: I still have an entire bottle left in my glove compartment for the ride home.

Because It Is Written, "I'm An Idiot"

Yesterday I attended a true, country-fried, inbred Southern Parade—or as close to one as I’m ever likely to see. It was out in the suburbs of D.C., which, no matter how hard the locals protest, is still just Virginia to me.

In a lot of ways it was an inspiring piece of Americana: City officials rolled up the street in old-fashioned cars and kids stood and saluted soldiers.

In still other ways, it was profoundly depressing. For example, I saw crowd of at least 75 men, women, and children stomp, dance and cheer to banjo music—and that number doesn’t count the parade’s participants. If you’re ever curious about where exactly the south begins, this is as good a test as any: pull out a banjo. If you’re met with anything other than groans and death threats, youse in Dixie, boy.

Sitting there in the sun, watching a huge crowd of white people genuinely enjoying ass-rape music made me profoundly embarrassed. The only way I can describe it is to imagine how Germans must feel each time they show picture of Hitler on TV. You just want to shrink into a hole and apologize on behalf of your entire ethnic group.

The crowning moment of the whole affair was yet to come, however. Just when I thought that I wasn’t being alienated enough by the event, a man came up to me and handed me a pamphlet. To truly understand the sheer craziness of this, I have to set the scene for you.

It was about 11:30 in the morning, and I was sitting curbside with the continuous mass of humanity that stretched as far as the eye could see. The local Democratic Party was stomping by on the street waving banners and yelling re-election chants. About half the crowd was cheering while the other half was ominously silent. I’d decided that there was no point in screaming myself horse for any of the parade. I’d just watch and wave a flag should any of the participants make eye-contact with me.

So I was kind of half-assedly waving my miniature replica of Old Glory when a man marching in the parade drifted over to the side and handed me (and ONLY me) a pamphlet. It’s an automatic reaction with humans: you hand someone something and nine times out of ten, they’ll take it without thinking.

So the guy looked right into my eyes and handed me a folded piece of paper and I took it—because the alternative was creating a scene. When he had drifted away, my friends pressed around me and what I had gotten. The man hadn’t even attempted to give them anything.

The cover of the paper read, “It’s a honey of a deal!” and depicted a bear eating honey out of a tree. Still mystified, I opened it up and read:

What’s a honey of a deal? The fact that Jesus Christ died for your sins, the Just for the unjust. JESUS DIED FOR YOU!”

The pamphlet goes on to ask such tough questions as, “Heaven or Hell, which one for you?” and “Wouldn’t you like to be saved?” In the whole crowd of white people, what were the odds that he’d manage to single out the one non-Christian? This guy’s Jewdar must have been working overtime.

Honestly, I have no problem with anyone who takes their faith seriously. If it keeps you off the streets at night and adds a little guidance to your life, more power to you. Because honestly, some people need to be reminded repeatedly: defiling the week-dead body of your neighbor’s wife whom you murdered with a wrench is bad.

But I’ve noticed a disturbing correlation between the extent one must broadcast his or her faith and one’s intelligence. Think about, Stephen Fucking Hawking doesn’t go about in his wheel-chair saying in that creepy robot voice of his, “My theory’s the best. And if you don’t believe me, you’re a fucktard.”

No. The only people who do that are complete fucking idiots. And you can tell by the arguments they put forth to defend their beliefs. “If you don’t believe it you’re going to Hell.” “You’re only saying that because you hate America.”

Sure enough, right there in the pamphlet I had been handed was the command: “Be Ye Holy.” And what did they use to support this rule?

“Because it is written.”

Pretending for one second that I was actually considering conversion, this is the best you can do? It’s the equivalent of saying, “But my mom said…” It’s not an argument. It’s not even a justification. “Well, I was going to spend my life wallowing in sin and worshiping Satan, but if it’s written somewhere ‘Be ye holy’ what the hell? Sign me up for Jesus!”

Basically, if you can only express your religious, cultural, or political beliefs through bumper-stickers, you’ve forfeited your right to be part of the debate. Hand in your right to free speech and try to stay out of the way while the grown-ups talk, ok? Because I have a new rule: Shut the fuck up!

Why?

Because it is written, you ignorant cock-sucker.

And while Jesus might not be around to tell you exactly what he was talking about, I’ll be happy to clarify my point using sexually explicit pictures of your mother, a sack of quarters, and six foot length of steel chain.

Ruminations Of A Recovering Pyromaniac

I’m always confused by the 4th of July celebrations. Each summer, countless Americans run out and purchase enough illegal fireworks to declare war on a small country then rush home and promptly blow their fingers off. Of course that’s leaving out the part of the tradition where you get so shit-faced that you’re unable to tell whether you’re lighting the business end of a Roman Candle or your cock. Because really, what better time to detonate explosives then after your 16th beer of the night? “I light better when I’ve had a few!”

Really, idiocy aside, how’d fireworks get involved in this celebration? Isn’t it the height of irony to observe an independence holiday by doing something that could land you in jail?

Think of all the festivities that would be so much more appropriate, like voting, or criticizing the government, or hell, even bearing arms…peaceably, of course. Anything would be more natural than vandalism. To quote the Simpsons, isn’t there a better way to “honor your country’s independence [than] by blowing up a small part of it”?

It’s got nothing to do with me disliking fireworks. Believe me, I’ve sent more than my share of bugs, frogs and plastic action figures to a fire demise. Long before the terrorist kidnapping tapes came out, I was running my own personal G.I. Joe internment camp.

Typical screenplay from my childhood follows. Those sensative to violence, profanity and poor camera work should avert eyes now:

[An African American in bloody uniform is show tied to a chair. His face is concealed by a paper bag. The camcorder swings unsteadily towards a man with a maniacal smile and mid-eastern appearance. He tears off the soldier’s dog tags and holds them up to the camera. They read, “Sigma Team: Heavy Duty.”]

Mid-Eastern Man: So, you heavy, you still refuse to talk? Let’s see if our new death ray will loosen your tongue.

Heavy Duty: I’ll never tell you the location of the base! Tell my wife…I love her…

[The outline of a magnifying glass is held up.]

Mid-Eastern Man: Oh, I wouldn’t be worried about your wife, Mr. Duty. I doubt she’ll have much use for you after this.

[Heavy Duty’s crotch suddenly bursts into flames.]

Heavy Duty: Oh God, no!!! Fuck you, Duke! This is the last time I go on a mission lead by a white man!

[The Magnifying glass silhouette disappears. Heavy Duty slumps unconscious in his chair as his crotch continues to smolder. A bucket of water extinguishes the flames and wakes him.]

Heavy Duty: Jesus, look at me. What have you done? I’ll KILL YOU!!!
[He struggles to no avail.]

Mid-Eastern Man: Still haven’t learned have you? Well we have other ways of making you talk.

[The soldier is fixed with a belt of caps around chest.]

Mid Eastern Man: One last chance.

Heavy Duty: Fuck you!

[The belt is lit. As the fire reaches each cap, it detonates, sending a flame deep into Heavy Duty’s chest]

Heavy Duty: Arrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhh! Ok, I’ll talk! The co-ordinates of the secret base are: 12-2343-95876

Mid-Eastern Man: Excellent. Now you must pay for what your country has done to our people, great devil.

Heavy Duty: But you said you would let me go!

Mid-Eastern Man: Oh no, you infidel scum! You must pay for your crimes against Allah!

Heavy Duty: Ha! We both know that the rest of the Sigma Team will rescue me!

Mid-Eastern Man: Not this time, Mr. Duty. Not this time.

[Cut to a cardboard base filled with action figures. Suddenly one of m sister’s Barbie dolls, wearing a napkin over her face and carrying an M80 on her back charges in. The explosion is spectacular. Torsos and burning plastic shatter everywhere.]

Heavy Duty: Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! [He begins weeping].

Mid-Eastern Man: So die all the enemies of Allah!

[Heavy Duty is strapped to a line 2,000 Jumping Jacks. The end is lit and he is torn limb from limb.]

Mid Eastern Man: Until you leave this country, we will continue to execute one of your citizens a day.

[The camera pans to reveal a huddled mass of Dick Tracy, Ghostbusters, and Lego characters]

You have our demands! Death to the infidels!

[Camera goes black.]

End Scene.


I was weird kid. But I guess that I kinda answered my own question there. We light fireworks because we’re bored, over-exposed to violence and unbelievably angry at my sixth grade math teacher. Or maybe we’re just stupid. Either way, I think the time has come to grow up a little and celebrate this country in a more appropriate fashion. Happy July Fourth, everyone!