Why My Friends Keep Me Around

I like to think that I’m generally a pretty good friend. I mean, friendly cock-blocking, shameless poker-hustling, and drunken mailbox assaults aside, I usually try to look out for my comrades. Unfortunately, this sometimes puts me in the position of having to be the one to break bad news to someone close to me. And because everyone knows I completely lack the part of the brain in charge of “tact” it falls to me to be the bringer of tidings no one else wants to be responsible for. Shit like: “Someone threw up in your car,” “Your ex-girlfriend has herpes,” and “Your fiancé is a bitch.” This is a story about that last item.

A few years ago, at the behest of my friend (let’s call him “Glen”), I went back to my old college for a weekend of drinking, destruction of private and public property, and the shameless exploitation of college freshman too dumb to know better. Basically, it was like all my other weekends, only with more dorm-room fires.

Glen and I go way back, back to a time before he got engaged to a girl who was, essentially, Hitler with breasts. I’d call her Satan, but I wouldn’t want to insult the Devil like that. She’d cheated on him twice, put him down in front of his friends, and generally kept his balls tightly locked in a jar out of his reach. Imagine all this in the body of Rosanne—only more annoying.

True story about the first night I met this train wreck:

I was at Glen’s house attending a party, when someone sat down next to me. They wore a huge, baggy Eminem T-shirt, baggy cargo pants, and a backwards baseball cap. They slung their ass down in the chair next to me, straddling the back of the chair legs wide open.

“’Sup, man?” asked the figure in a guttural growl.

I proceeded to have a conversation with what I assumed was a frat guy for about five minutes before asking, “What’s your name, man?”

“Cindy.” [The name has been changed to protect my friend…really man, what the fuck were you thinking?].

A few months after they started dating, she moved in with him and they got engaged. When I heard that, it was all I could do not to lead a strike force team into Buffalo to break up the impending nuptials. My plan involved a tranq gun, 30 feet of rope and an unmarked grave in the Los Vegas desert. To give you an idea of how much this bitch was loathed, I was able muster 10 volunteers in less than five minutes.

Back to my trip. Cindy didn’t like me. Mostly because I expressed my feelings regarding her glaring faults to Glen. In front of her. And Glen’s parents. Look…if people don’t want to know what I think, they shouldn’t ask me after half a pitcher of Sangria.

Now, I knew that she was a bitch, but I had severely underestimated the extent to which she had pussy-whipped my friend. Because on the car-ride from the airport to Glen’s apartment he said, “Look man. Cindy’s made it clear that she’s not comfortable with strange men sleeping in the apartment with me and her.”

I let this sink in for a moment, struggling to understand.
“Don’t worry.” I said. “I’m not into guys. No matter how much I drink, the odds of me inviting anyone with a penis back to your place are nil.”

“No.” he replied, at least having the courtesy to look uncomfortable. “She means you.”

“Me???” I asked. “You’ve known me for six fucking years now. Does she tell you not to take candy from strangers? And by ‘strangers,’ she means ‘your parents’?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I tried to talk to her, but you know…she insisted.”

I resisted the urge to throttle him. After the studying the ceiling of the car for about 15 seconds, I came to the following conclusion:

I had two options:

Option 1: Throw a fuss, hospitalize the fiancé, possibly wind up in jail and definitely ruin the rest of the weekend.

Option 2: Play nice, blow off my friend, put the incident from my mind and focus on having fun.

For possibly the only time in my life, I went with the more reasonable option. I grabbed my shit, hiked to campus and called up some other friends. The following 12 hours are a blur, mostly because I had vowed to drink nothing but alcohol for the duration of the weekend. I brushed my teeth with vodka, for Christ’s sake.

My crew was halfway through defiling the hot-tub of a nearby hotel when my cell phone rang. It was a text message from Cindy.

“Having a good Weekend?” it read.

I stared at the phone for a second, and started to see spots of rage in front of my eyes. I couldn’t believe what the fuck I was seeing. Now it’s one thing to try to ruin my fun. It’s another thing entirely, having manipulated one of my friends into trying to sabotage me, to call me and gloat.

An awed hush fell over the half-dismantled hot tub as the occupants sensed an Ehren blow-up about to shatter the mood of joviality.

I dialed Glen’s number.

“Hey, man. What’s up?” he asked. The poor bastard had no idea about the shit storm that was about to engulf him.

“Is Cindy there?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Put me on speaker phone. Listen here, you fat cunt: Daddy won’t love you no matter how many bull-dykes you go down on. I have no idea why Glen is involved with a post-op trany whore like yourself, but you’d better believe eventually he’s going to sober up and you’ll be back where he found you: sucking dick for crack.”

There was some shuffling at the other end and Cindy started screaming. I hung up the phone and turned to the one friend who could still pass for sober. Dead silence had fallen across the pool area.

“Drive me over there.”

“Are you SURE? I mean, maybe we should just--”

“If you don’t drive me, I’m hot-wiring your car.”

In the end, no one wanted miss the showdown. So 2 minutes later, we were speeding towards the apartment, 12 deep. The rain was starting to pour down, and all I could think of was a samurai film just before the last battle. I suddenly realized I was less concerned about going to jail for assaulting a woman than I was for having to knock Glen out for the opportunity to go to jail for assaulting a woman.

I was out of the car and up the porch before the car came to a full stop.

“You fat fucking pig!” I yelled hammering on the door, still clad in only a bathing suit. “Put down the hot wings, and drag your cottage-cheese ass down here!” I demanded in tones so reasonable, neighbors began opening their windows.

By the time she came flying out the door, most of the neighborhood was on their lawn. My friends were leaning against the cars laughing hysterically, and (I hoped) assembling bail money. Glen was desperately trying to hold his fiancé back…which was tough because she had about 75 pounds on him. Not to mention his testicles.

“You want to gloat about breaking a pussy-starving man? Come on, gloat to my face, you dumb whore.”

“You Bastard! Get the fuck off my lawn!”

I was nose to nose with her. Well, as close to that as you can get to a woman with a 78 inch waist.
“Ehren, come on.” Pleaded Glen.

I stood there for a moment, waiting for her to take a swing while his words penetrated my rage. “Say something now!” she yelled.

I studied her up and down for a moment, then I turned to Glen and in a quiet voice I said, “Glen, she cheated on you twice that I know of. Anyone who would do that, disrespect you and try to turn you against your friends isn’t worth being in your life.”

Then I looked back at her and told her, “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met. I’m leaving out of respect for my friend, but if you really want to get knocked the fuck out, take one step after me.”

With that, I turned and walked back to the car.

Thankfully, they broke up not long after that. And he thanked me for unaviodably calling his attention to the somehow overlooked fact that his girl was a raging bitch. I guess the reasons why my friends keep me around are two-fold:

1. My blatant honesty when it comes to unsavory subjects
2. My willingness, under the right circumstances, to punch a girl in the mouth.

How do I get the job of scattering sexy rejects from bed amongst my comrades? That's the job I really want.

An Open Letter To The South

I was wandering through the video store today, desperately hoping to find something I could watch without being filled with the overwhelming urge to go on a Hollywood killing spree, when I saw this movie. Now, I realize that this is a British film and a parody, but the fact that we’re still talking about the Civil War is enough to make me want to revenge fuck lots of southern belles. But when I was done making love to Southern women, I’d sell videos of them in various stages of undress to humiliate them and their parents…wait, that’s Girls Gone Wild. I knew those movies had a purpose. That should really be their slogan: “Girls Gone Wild: Payback for the Confederacy.” God bless those boys.

Why is it that the South is still celebrating the Civil War with those gay-ass flags and re-enactments? It is with concern and respect that I offer this open letter to our inbred cousins below the Mason-Dixon Line.

Dear The South,

I know you and I don’t talk as much as we should. Granted a lot of that is because of you’re inability to say “you all” and “dental work,” but I guess I’m to blame, too. I should have done a better job at guiding you, teaching you, and steering you away from incestuous, anal-rapes.

Listen, it’s time for you to admit that the Civil War is over. The rest of the world has been polite and ignored your unhealthy obsession for the last 141 years, but it’s getting creepy now. You lost. Move on with your life. It’s like Bills fans celebrating losing the Super Bowl in four consecutive years. News flash: there were only two sides in the Civil War. There is no second place. Second place is we rape your children and impose our rights on your inbred asses because you’ve proven too incompetent to beat corrupt, chowder-eating fags. It’s not a moral victory. YOU FUCKING LOST.

You can start with taking the flags down. It’s the equivalent of Germans driving around with Swastika flags on their BMWs.

Next…cut out the country music. COMPLETELY. Steel guitars are the lowest form of musical expression, just below retarded children playing the triangle.

Now, I know you’ve contributed a lot to society, like…umm…sweet tea. Sure it’s sort of the equivalent of adding a clock to a radio, but that’s something. And don’t forget car racings. Sure horse racing is the Sport of Kings, but you took autos driving in circle for four hours at a time and made it the “Sport” of those with a Third Grade Edu-ma-cation. But maybe it’s time to branch out a little and stop resting on your laurels. Or you could start admitting that other people have good ideas. Things like, “Not wearing mullets,” “Deodorant,” and “acceptance of other cultures.” Tell you what, if you make an effort at all that, we’ll give you the whole incest and trailer park scene. In fact, I’ll sweeten the deal further: do everything I asked and I’ll throw in Britney Spears. That’s right, you can have her and all her hideous off-spring back on the condition that they never be allowed north of Virginia again. Come on, there’s at LEAST 5 years of amusement left there. Not to mention the enjoyment of the inevitable divorce and failed come-back tour. I swear it’ll be literally minutes of entertainment. Plus, she’ll actually make “y’all” seem like capable, coherent, responsible human beings. It’s win-fucking-win.

Lastly, we’ll give you a mull-again on Bush. I know Texas is a whole other head-ache and cultural phenomena, but you guys are close to them, and I’m completely fed-up with dealing with those assholes.

Thanks again for listening and taking my proposal into consideration. I hope you do the right thing so that you can move to your rightful place as “less crazy than Mexico.”

Regards,
(Dictated but not read or signed)
-Ehren

The Pinky Guy

I’ve often wondered about what it is that women think the first time they see a guy naked. My common sense tells me that unless a man is freakishly over or under-endowed they just sort of think, “Yep, that’s what a penis looks like.” And that’s all the consideration they put into it.

I’ve often wondered what a girl thinks when she sees a guy that is poorly equipped. Do they get up and run? Do they close their eyes and suffer through it? Do they point and laugh? As luck would have it, one of my friends recently told me a story that laid all my questions to rest.

The two of us were out at a bar, hanging out and sharing a couple beers, when we got sucked into a conversation at a near-by table. Two minutes later we were seated and chatting away like we’d known everyone for years. While I focused my concentration on a rather fetching blonde at the other end of the table, my friend began putting the moves on a tall, dark, rocker looking guy sitting to her right.

The evening progressed nicely and both of us managed to get numbers. Now, about 75% of women that I know claim to have a supernatural power to deduce a man’s penis size based on some aspect of their body. The weird thing is, no two girls can agree on WHAT it is that grows in direct correlation to a guy’s member: ear lobes, hands, shoulder width…At this point I fully expect to have a woman come up to me and take a measurement of my skull and then grin suggestively and ask to buy me a drink. My friend was certain that she could deduct with absolute certainty what would, ideally, be buried in her later that week. Turns out she was wrong.

One date in she decided that there was no chemistry working between them. It wasn’t that they didn’t find each other attractive…just that their personalities didn’t align well. So she figured, why not just use him for sex?

It was a good impulse, and she was still fairly certain that he was hiding three pounds of beef in his pants. So certain, in fact, that when they made out at the end of the night, she didn’t even bother checking out the goods.

It’s a move that I know too well from my make-out sessions with women. Both of you are in the car, there’s some serious kissing and touching going on…she wants to see what she’s got to work with. Generally, it’s nothing as obvious as a full blown hand down the pants. It’s usually a much subtler move, like pressing her whole body against you. It’s a casual, “yeah, he’s a guy, and that’ll do the trick” maneuver.

So after some heavy petting, my friend left the car with plans to go over his house that weekend to “watch a movie.” Which, as we all know, is code for, “fuck like beasts while ‘Good Will Hunting’ plays in the background.”

There they were in his room: a long forgotten TV was blaring Cooking Network shows, her top was off, he was down to his boxers and kissing her neck, so she sent an exploration party to see if he was ready for the main event.

The first land survey turned up no proof of life. Ditto for the second. At this point, she was beginning to get concerned. She had one purpose for being there: getting pounded like a white boxer on fight night. If he wasn’t going to be able to perform, there was no point in her presence there.

So, in a last ditch effort, she went up the leg of his boxers. At long last her, her hands closed on the prize.

“How bad was it?” I asked, when she recounted the story for me later.

She didn’t say anything in response. Instead, she simply held up her pinky.

I let that sink in for a moment. “Well, maybe he wasn’t ready to go. Are you sure he was--”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

She never told me her exact line of reaction to the guy, but I do know that she made it clear to him that “she had to get up early the next day.” The worst part for her was lying in bed cuddling for about 20 minutes before hunting down her bra and sprinting for the car.

Now, I’ve never had a comparable experience, thankfully. I can’t even imagine how crushing that must be to a man. My heart goes out to the dude, and truthfully, I feel bad for him. But not bad enough to not laugh.

The funny part about the story is that we still see him around from time to time. I wonder if he noticed that we both develop itches on our face that we scratch with our pinkies on his approach.

First Date Fuck-Ups

I don’t know a whole lot about first dates. I mean, I know I’m supposed to show up on time, and pay for a meal. Bonus points are given to me (and redeemable for a one-way ticket to second base) if I manage to repress my urge to blurt out every inappropriate thought that crosses my mind.

Sometimes I wish that I had an enormous neon sign with movable numbers that I could place on the table to restaurants. That way, at any given time, the wait staff could glance over and see what their tip would be as of that moment. I imagine that nothing would get a waiter’s attention like seeing his tip falling like some sick inverse National Debt calculation.

That’s sort of how I picture my evening out with a girl. Based on the number of dates we’ve had previously, the physical reward is going to be proportionate to how little I managed to fuck up. For example, let’s say I’m on a second date. Dating law clearly states that at the end of evening number two, I’m entitled to at least cop a feel. However, if I’m unusually charming (or she’s unusually drunk) the reward can be increased to give me unrestricted boob access and a shot to steal third. If on the other hand (and much more likely) during the course of the evening I’ve said something monumentally stupid points will be subtracted and I’ll either be called back to first or thrown out of the game.

However, it really never occurred to me that a girl could do something that would make me seriously question whether her boobs were worth another night out. At least, not until a few weeks ago.

I was on a first date with a girl who I’d met through a friend. We were on our way home from a concert, and I was casually flirting.

“What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever had sex?” I asked.

“Hmmm…probably at a party.” She answered. “I ended up sleeping with this guy that I knew. We were upstairs with the door open and people were definitely walking by and looking in. In fact, when I got up the next morning, I flashed one of my friends who asleep on the floor.

“Interesting side note to that story, by the way” she went on. “That was the event that led to my abortion.”

I glanced over at her. “Did she really just say that?” I wondered. Was she joking? What the fuck do you say to that?

“Ummmm…ok.” I said in what I hoped was a neutral tone.

“Yeah, it was funny because I went in to the woman’s clinic and I still had my family’s health card. So when they sent out the bill a few weeks later, it went to my mom’s house. So I had to have the ‘Hi mom, I got knocked up’ conversation. That was no fun”

This was already, by far, the most interesting first date I’d ever been on. I mean, at this point I was afraid of saying anything to break up her rhythm. On a scale of social fuck-ups, 1 being “shitting your pants in the car on the way over to the restaurant” and 10 being “your date finds you beating off to pictures of your mother” this was somewhere around a 35.

“The only good part of the experience” she went on. “Was that my friends got together and threw me an abortion party.”

I let that sink in for a moment.

“What does one serve at an abortion party?” I finally asked. “I imagine it would consist of a lot of veal and eggs.”

“It’s easy,” she said. “You just serve everything that you’re not supposed to have while you’re pregnant. So we had wine, cigarettes, and spaghetti.”

“Pregnant women aren’t supposed to eat spaghetti?”

“No, they can. But we needed a main course. Actually, I didn’t end up eating too much. The wine didn’t mix well with the meds the doctor had given me. It was an interesting buzz, but I passed out pretty early.”

“You guys should have dropped acid and stood in front of the microwave.” I said, wistfully.

“Yeah, you’re right. But have you ever tried to get a group of people on acid to stand in one place for any length of time? Still, I guess there’s always next time.”

I was pretty much speechless by this point. I mean, really: what do you say to that? “Maybe next time I can help with the prep-work”? On one hand, it’s good to know that there’s someone out there who’s more of a social retard than me. On the other, it’s kinda scary that she knows where I live.

Still, the strangest part of the evening was when I recounted the story to my friends, they all said the same thing:

“Marry her.”

I guess now I know what my friends really think of me.

Why I Barely Graduated

As most people who read this have no doubt surmised, I was a weird kid. How weird? Well let’s put it this way: basically for school essays I would rattle off a page or so of material that would in no way be out of place here amidst the vainglorious pipe dreams, tales of sexual trauma, and random penis jokes. Don’t believe me? Below is an actual essay I handed in for a college course in “Emerging Infectious Diseases.”

I remember when my living quarters were not as pleasant. It was back, way back in the dark days of 2001 when it was still cool to say President Bush was Texas’ most idiotic export since inbreeding. Spandex was in, money was cool, and our technology had just reached new heights with the invention of Velcro. Wait, that was George W’s dad and the 80’s. Anyway, the point was that it was a dark time. Not as dark as the “Me Decade” perhaps, but dark none-the-less.

Now while I thought I was moving into a school dorm in the year 2001, I was actually moving into Central Europe in the year 1348. For the first month there was no heat in my suite. Fuses blew regularly. The water was, well, Western New York water. I don’t care what you say; I can taste the lead.

So there I was, wrapped in bear skins, battling cold and rats in the semi-gloom when my roommate stumbled home. At first I attributed his incessant nausea and moans of pain to alcohol. When it continued for three agonizing days, I decided that if it was alcohol I needed to get my hands on it and if it wasn’t, I should start bathing in peroxide. Regretfully, neither heavy drinking nor peroxide could ward off the horde of bacteria (though the latter did manage to dye all my body hair white). The merciless microbial foes rolled over my defenses like I was WWII France.

My entire suite went down. I was unable to move from bed for three days, except for the trips to the bathroom to be sick. My temperature rose to a comfortable 198, which was good because I gave enough heat to finally keep the room warm. And hey, what with the delirious hallucinations, I hardly noticed the dark, the cold, the smell, or the sounds of six other people being violently ill. I fully expected to see a line of penitent monks march down the hall of our suite, whipping themselves.

One of my suite mates, a braver man than I, traveled out to the health center for help. They asked him repeatedly if he was sexually active. When he answered that he could hardly keep down solid foods, let alone carry on a meaningful relationship with a member of the opposite sex, they seemed disappointed. They sent him home with Claritin and told him to come back when he got some action.

I had no remedies and I wasn’t about to try to make it to the health center to be asked about my personal life. So I did what I usually do when I’m sick: roll myself into a ball, drink hot tea, and prepare my will. Fortunately, on day three my white blood cells landed on the beach, circled, and defeated the enemy. Three weeks later the front desk finally heeded our cries of pain and turned the heat back on. After that, the dorm was almost habitable. Almost. It was, after all, still Western New York.

To this day I have no idea what this vicious ailment was. My guess would be some airborne form of syphilis chemically bonded with a strain of Ebola with a dash of Mad Cow Disease for good measure. Sure, I walked away with no harm, but my suite mates weren’t so lucky. Approximately one in every three was killed. And by “killed” I mean recovered fully. But you know what I mean. To this day I can’t walk by a dormitory without in involuntary twinge, and the feeling that I am very, very lucky to be…ALIVE.

Ehren's Press Conference

My friend was commenting to me how the owners of YouTube look noticeably stoned during their video announcing the sale of their company to Google for 1.65 billion dollars. I don’t know for certain whether they were high when they went in front of the camera, but if they were, I approve. Let me tell you, if Google came to me and wanted to buy my blog for 1.65 Billion, they’d be lucky if I hadn’t already spent three grand on whiskey and consumed it all by the time the press conference started.

Here's how I imagine it would go down:

[An announcer stands before a podium on a small stage. Reporters from all the major media outlets jockey for position and fall to a hush as he raises his hands.]

Announcer: “Ladies and Gentleman, the president of Swearing and Sweet Talk, Ehren!”

[Long silence, while loud crashing, bumping and cursing are heard offstage. Finally, clad in a lamp shade and a smoking jacket, while clutching a half-finished bottle of Jameson in his hands, Ehren is ejected onto stage. He’s followed by three huge African Americans wearing chains, sunglasses and looking blatantly stoned. Ehren staggers around and blearily turns to face the audience. Lifting his hands in two peace signs and simultaneously causing his robe to ride up flashing the entire audience he gleefully erupts:]

Ehren: FOUR MORE YEARS!!! FOUR MORE YEARS!!!

Female Reporter [trying desperately to ignore the cock six inches from her face and rising rapidly]: Sir, I have a question: is it true that you’ve already spent half the money on cars, hookers, and a team of scientists to discover “what gives Honeycomb that big, big taste”?

Ehren [now completely erect and eye-raping the reporter]: I have a question for you, hot lips: what are you doing tonight?

Male Reporter: sir, what do you have to say to those who claim that your success is “an abomination unto the Lord”?

Ehren: I AM God! I’m rich, bitches! [Imitating truck horn] Bwaaaa Bwaaaa!!! Ray-ray, Little Dog, Dumpster, give me a ‘Hell yeah!”

[The three huge African Americans wearing gold chains and playing dice in the corner look up and yell,]

Ray-Ray, Little Dog, and Dumpster: HELL yeah.

Third Reporter: Sir, given the current economy, would you say that the sudden boom in internet…did you just throw up?

Ehren [wiping hands to clean vomit away from his mouth]: that counts as your question, loser! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to hire a team of scientists to resurrect Muhammad Ali to give me boxing lessons.

Third Reporter: Muhammad Ali’s not dead!

Ehren: Then whose bones have I been carrying around all day?

[Ehren turns to face an off-stage party answering his question]

Ehren: Who the fuck is Al Jolson? Balls to this then, I’m feeding them to my 200 English bulldogs.

[Ehren turns to leave and is tackled by security guards, who try to wrench the bones away]

Ehren: This is no way to treat your Messiah! Hands off me peasants! Bow before your new God! I condem you all to Hell!

Announcer [looking noticeably shaken and trying to ignore the incoherent, thrashing, half-naked man to his left]: Umm…this press conference is over.

End Scene


They say that power corrupts. I think, in my case, it’d be foolish to blame the power.

Anal Justice

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Back To School

I was thinking today about how useless my seemingly endless years of schooling have been. The formal education portion of my life lasted about 18 years and included one of the most bizarre curriculums one could image.

I mean, 8 years later, I’m still waiting for that moment when my knowledge of fractions, the Scarlet Letter, and dodge ball will further my career. I get the feeling I’m going to be waiting a long time. I’ve never had to use a common denominator in a confrontation with a drunk over whether I was eyeballing his woman.

Never has the loudspeaker in my company blared out, “As all of you no doubt are aware, our annual reviews are upon us once more. In keeping with company tradition, this year’s round of promotions will go to the winners of our dodge ball competition. WELCOME TO THUNDERDOME!!!”

Think about it: let’s say that you had a kid and you could spend 18 years educating him on any subjects at all that would make him successful, happy, and confident. Where on that fucking list would you put “Trade Routes of the British Empire” or “Astronomy”? I don’t have anything against either of those two subjects…I’ve just never once had to estimate the next full moon for…well ANYTHING. EVER.

It’s all especially ludicrous, considering the amount of useful shit that noticeably absent from my curriculum. Shit that I’ve actually been expected to know and had to figure out on the fly. Off the top of my head, here’re some of the topics that should be added to any school:

• Sex. Enough of this Puritan bullshit already. I’m talking, hardcore, detailed, in depth, “let’s-hire-some-prostitutes-and-get-down” type training. The beauty of this course is that it also teaches kids how to recognize V.D.
• Self Defense. Number of times my ability to climb a rope has come in handy since graduation: 2. Number of times knowing how to drop a drunk guy in a street brawl outside my car at 3 a.m. would be useful: 200
• Driving. Let’s just save everyone time and make this part of the high school curriculum, ok? I want an advanced class that shows kids how to do 180 degree turns at 70 mph, perform jumps, and the fine art of staring someone down before a drag race.
• General mechanics. Being male, I’m somehow expected to understand the functions of an alternator. I’m also expected to be able to identify what the problem is on sight and be able to correct the problem with a hammer. My four years of Woodwork never got up to that, ok? In a pinch, I can build a nearly functional birdhouse. That’s the extent of my repair and building abilities.

You could throw in seduction, survival, stock market, and meditation as well. It’s almost enough to make me want to found a new school…especially if I get to personally interview the Sex Ed teachers. Rrrrrrrrrroawr.

Kids. What's The Matter With Kids These Days?

I was thinking today: Fuck the Amish.

Not really. I just thought it’d be a funny way to start today’s blog. I have a question: What the fuck is going on with High School killing sprees? What ever happened to the angry loners just repressing their rage and developing severe psychological trauma until they killed themselves 20 years later in a hunting shack in the middle of Washington State? Seriously, you little fucking pansies: suck it up and deal.

Waaaaaaaah! I’ve got acne and no one understands me. Waaaaaah! Daddy doesn’t love me! Waaaaaaaaaaaah! Grandpa used to touch me! Welcome to life, dipshit.

It’s ridiculous. Not because I don’t condone killing idiotic high school kids (What, did anyone else like “Carrie”?), but because it’s such a loser way out. Yeah, I know the kids are all anxious to shoot a dude in the head with a rifle after seeing their role model, Dick Cheney do it. But there are so many cooler ways to get revenge.

For example, is a dumb football jock picking on you because you shower in your underwear? Don’t shoot him in the head, taser him and then ritualistically castrate him.

Is the head cheerleader calling you a fat pig every day? Why make her swallow a shrapnel grenade when you can ether her and remove her nose, tongue and jaw with a paint scraper?

The point I’m trying to make here is that killing people is never the answer. Violence is. Besides, mass murder is such a pansy crime. If you want to have class, you should aim for a “Seven” style series of serial killings. Think about it: you already have no friends and are living in a fantasy world. How much of a change would it be use the 20 hours you spend downloading information on gay porn, vampire chats and napalm on something useful like…oh, I don’t know: torture techniques and Satanist rituals.

Damn kids are lazy. Anybody can go on a rampage. Put in a little effort and do something productive like serial killing or…date rapist! Yeah, that seems like a good hobby for burning off that excess aggression. When a girl says she just wants to be friends, just slip a pill into her school milk and go to town when she loses consciousness in homeroom.

In my day we didn’t kill our high school tormenters: we contented ourselves with the knowledge that in four years they’d be busted for raping an unconscious girl at house party or be kicked out of school for dealing drugs…true stories, by the way.

I guess what I’m saying is that kids today are really in need of a role model. Someone like Charles Manson or Jeffery Dahmer or even whomever killed Jonbenet Ramsey. It’s high time that kids learned the value of setting goals, channeling frustration and putting in a hard day’s work. Teenagers: stop smoking, wearing baggy pants, and playing with your skateboards. Do something productive and turn down that rap music for Christ’s sake.

Cocaine: Indiscriminate Destroyer Of Nose Cartilage And My Dating Life

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