The Ismar Diet

I don’t consider myself the most health-conscious individual. My single bout with fitness came in high school, when I got a chin-up bar for my room. Every night I did 75 chin-ups, 30 pull-ups, 300 sit-ups, and then used free-weights for my forearms and chest. However, there was a problem: pretty much every single one of my actions was done simply as a way to get me laid. And I was Persona Non Grata as far as High school vagina went.

So I said, “Fuck it,” concentrated on college girls, and stopped working out. I often wonder whether I’d be running 3 miles a day and grating cheese off my abs if I banged just one girl back in tenth grade.

Now, as little as I’m motivated by physical fitness, I do understand the basic concepts of health. Things like, “Hey, maybe I shouldn’t eat this entire pound of cheese if I want to look good.” My friend, I discovered, has no such basic knowledge.

Because his car is in the shop, I’ve been shuttling Ismar about for the last week or so. On our way back from work, we stopped at the grocery store so he could pick up some food for the week.

“Ehren,” he said as we entered the store. “I’m really making an effort to eat healthier. I want to lose some weight.”

For those of you who want to take part in this revolutionary diet, the building blocks are:

• Chocolate Pudding
• 12 pack of Yuengling Black & Tan
• Teriyaki-Style Jerky

If anyone was curious what his Food Piramid would look like, I think it'd be something like this.

The experience was truly staggering for me. It left me wondering what the fuck he was eating before that was less healthy than this. Here’s what I’ve come up with:

4:30 AM: Sleepwalks to the fridge and gorges on full order of ribs. Drinks bottle of Barbeque sauce and a fifth of Jack Daniels. Stumbles back to bed, still covered in grease.

7:30 AM: Wake up. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day and no one knows this better than Ismar. He kicks off his morning with 3 pounds of bacon and a crisp, bracing gallon jug of milkshake, to go.

8:25 AM: Still covered in bacon fat, stops on the way to work for Dunkin Doughnuts and Coke. The drug, not the soft drink.

11:00 AM: Coffee break: 54 Mocha-caramel-brownie-fudge lattes from Starbucks and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Tosses the jelly ones back because they look “suspiciously nutritious.”

12:30 PM: Ismar is a busy executive on the go! No time for lunch. Take 15 minutes to freebase cleaning solvents in the men’s room instead.

3:30 PM: Starting to crash! Snorts a pound and a half of Pixie Stix. Plus a suckling pig to tide him over until dinner.

6:00 PM: After a long day, it’s time to relax with a cold, refreshing pint of Everclear and a box of new "High Tar" Cigars.

6:30 PM: Dinner is served: half pound of fatback, fried in butter, a side of American cheese over micro-waved Twinkies and a single carrot: gotta watch the weight! Smothers carrot in Ranch Dressing. For desert: a punch bowl of Nerds.

9:00 PM: Large Hot Fudge Brownie Delight from Dairy Queen. It was on the way…to another Dairy Queen…where he buys second Brownie Delight.

11:45 PM: Can’t wait until Midnight snack. Buckles and eats 64 slices of American cheese to tide him over.

12:00 PM: Hurray, midnight snack time at last! Eat entire turkey, along with a nice, warm glass of gravy.

The good news for Ismar is that he’s a non-smoker…for 20 days now. Medical Science predicts a life expectancy for him of a long, ripe 24 years. The bad news is that he turned 26 in June. Ismar, I say to you “Live in the now! Forget the Jerky and Beer diet and eat whatever your heart desires. Chances are it’s on its last tick anyway.”

Lucite and Strippers: Together At Last!

On Friday I spent an interesting evening at Robot House. Perhaps my favorite aspect of the locale is the sheer unpredictability and volatility of every moment. Take 10 crazy young people: add alcohol, a sword collection, a remote control tank that shoots B.B.s at high velocity, and a complete disregard for dignity, ethics or hygiene and stand back. It’s really a marvel that the place hasn’t burned down yet.

Somewhere, between Yager shots and trying to videotape the live sex going on in the basement, we had an interesting discussion about new decoration ideas for Robot House. See, all the residents (and honorary residents, who bring them alcohol and don’t inform the authorities to their semi-legal dealings) agreed that a Stripper Pole should be the next big addition. I think the reasons are obvious: watching drunk people fall on their ass.

Several residents still hold out the belief that they will one day convince strippers to enter the house when they aren’t bound, gagged, and chloroformed. I’m not really sure why. Any gold digger who doesn’t take one look at that place and realize that she’s going to have more luck getting naked at a gay homeless shelter deserves the crabs she’s sure to contract. I don’t use the phrase “dirtier than a strip club” lightly.

At any rate, after some discussion, we decided that the optimum location for the pole where these mythical strippers would dance would be in the center of the living room.

“We need to cut a hole in the coffee table, and run it up through there.” Suggested one resident. “That way, when we’re sitting on the couches our eyes will all be at cootch level.”

I’m not really sure why this would be an appealing idea. Stripper crotch is the most ugly, depressing place on earth. Sort of like the opposite of Disney Land. Why you’d need a closer look is really beyond me—unless you were really curious to find out what chlamydia looks like.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I chimed in. “But if you guys REALLY want to do it right, you need to get a whole new table made out of the most glorious substance on earth.”

I paused to build the anticipation. The room leaned in to hear my idea. I grinned and said one word: “Lucite.”

The benefits of a Lucite stripper table are multi-faceted.

1. It allows a here-to-fore unheard of and unrestricted sight line to the cootch--nasty and oozing with the shame of a dozen of business men though it might be. Basically, it operates under the same principle as a glass-bottomed boat ride.
2. A clear tabletop would allow you to position lights from below, highlighting stripper strong points (i.e. fake breasts) and gracefully calling attention away from traditional stripper weaknesses (i.e. busted face and scars).
3. Said material, being durable enough to withstand bullets, might also offer you a slim chance of protection from some of the myriad dangers that await the stripper connoisseur. Dangers such as gonorrhea, snatch glitter, and angry bouncers.

With all due modesty, I think that my idea is clear proof of my awe-inspiring genius. Some people toil to send men into space or cure AIDS. I innovate ways for perverts to ogle cheap, molested whores, dancing vainly for daddy’s love. Who is it for anyone to say which cause is nobler? I have to say this, though: should anyone from Robot House be called for comment, I’m a fucking god. Take that, Sir Isaac Newton!

Hiatus

Hi all,

There's a lot going on with work, play, and life right now. Between that and a mean case of writer's block, I've decided to take a little break from writing.

I'll be back on 1/22.

Like the kids say, "Be there, scumbag!"

-Ehren

Lazy

There are days when I wish I ran the type of blog where I just comment on celebrities, weird video clips, or pictures of Britney’s snatch. Because you always have something to write or comment on. Unfortunately, I had to be “original” and write about weird thoughts that come to me during the day. Meaning that on slow days, such as today, I’m royally fucked.

Besides work, here’s what darted across my conscienciousness today:

1. I must be slipping. Since when does a girl sending me a photo of her nipple rings qualify as sending “mixed signals”?
2. Nipple rings are hot.
3. Revenge fucking an ex-girlfriend: worth it?
4. Did the Chinese place around the corner noticed that I stole one of their beer mugs?
5. I want silicon implants to keep on my desk at work. That way, whenever I’m stressed out, I can squeeze a breast.
6. Nipple rings are REALLY hot. The girl who sent me this is the devil. Now that this picture is in my possession, I’m never going to get any work done.
7. My Ex-girlfriend who cheated on me is a filthy whore. But she had an incredible rack. And ass. Maybe I should punish her through anal sex.
8. Masturbation in the work bathroom: Hmmm…Probably not a great idea. The C.E.O. probably doesn’t need to hear me whisper, “You like that, don’t you whore?” from the stall next to him.
9. Maybe I should get a tattoo. Or start cutting myself. I think “crack whore” is “in” again this year.
10. Nipple rings are REALLY FUCKING HOT.

None of those things is really worthy of a whole post about. Except maybe the nipple rings. But if I did so, I’d have to go ease the tension in the men’s bathroom. And that’s just too dirty, even for me.

So instead, I’m going to be unoriginal. Below is a picture of what my sister made for me. And by “made” I mean by hand, using enamel, bronze and a torch.



She’s the best. Hon, we need to come up with a cool alter-ego for you, like Jack Saddle did. Write in if you have any suggestions. If anyone’s interested in seeing her other work (she’s fucking amazing) check out her myspace page, which she uses to display some of her other art.

Lastly, I don’t usually go on You Tube. But today, I was listening to a guy named Monte Montgomery who’s absolutely sick. If I could play guitar like this, I would never leave my house again. He’s a fucking god, especially starting at about 1:30 in. Enjoy. Maybe I’ll get back to actually coherent writing tomorrow.

Why I'll Never Visit Ecuador

I’d be the first to admit that I’ve made some mistakes when it comes to women. OK, that last sentence is perhaps the understatement of the decade. “Some mistakes” doesn’t quite cover taking a girl’s virginity then breaking up with her and sleeping with her best friend three days later. Hey, I never specified the SIZE of the mistakes.

However, lest anyone think that the universe is not only just, but has an incredibly perverse sense of humor, I’ve also paid for the error in my ways. In general, I like to think I’ve caused less injury than has been inflicted on me. In retrospect, if karma actually does exist, I’ll probably be suffering for a very long time…before being reincarnated as the bike owned by a morbidly obese sexual deviant.

However, sometime, just sometimes, I can’t help but think I’ve done ok for myself, considering what I had to work with. Lots of guys can claim that they had crazy ex-girlfriends. I have proof. In what is a weirdly satisfying experience, you can actually Google one of them along with the words “paranoia,” “delusional" or “psychotic” and get valid results. I don’t mean you get someone else with the same name, or you get blogs about her: you get actual news articles on a girl I dated.

Now the articles that come up go on to explain that she was not suffering from the afflictions I listed above until the Peace Core doled her out a controversial medication. But still…it’s nice to get validation.

I’ve never been a really vindictive guy in my romantic life. I usually cut ties and let bygones be bygones. Yet if I HAD been spiteful, I’d be hard-pressed to come up with an ordeal crueler than the one she went through. I mean, how many guys can say their ex-girlfriend caught Malaria in Ecuador and then had to be treated for “depression, vivid nightmares, paranoia, hallucinations and lethargy”?

Now as weird as that is, there’s more to the story. See, remember the story I told you at the beginning of this post about taking a girl’s virginity and then sleeping with her best friend three days later? This ex was that best friend. Meaning either:

1. God is decidedly male and wants to fuck her over for her role in…well, fucking over her best friend.
2. God hates us both and is in the process of dreaming up equal or worse punishment for me.

In a related story, I will be sleeping, peeing, and living under a mosquito-net for the rest of my existence.

Temptations (Sexual and Asian) And Why I'm A Bad Jew

A new restaurant opened up around the corner from office, with the dubious moniker “Asian Temptations.” At least, I think it’s a restaurant. They have tables and a bar. Seriously though, with that name, would anyone be shocked if they turned out to be a massage-parlor/mail-order bride center/whorehouse?

Today I decided that, whorehouse or no, I was going to spend my lunch break there. Just to be safe, I took a coworker with me. Hey, who knows if they were on the look-out for U.S. identities to steal as part of their slave-trafficking/prostitution ring?

Now, while I certainly have no moral objections to the sex industry, I must admit that it’s not really my thing. I generally only go as far as downloading the videos. I’ve been to exactly two strip clubs in my life. Neither experience was so thrilling that I found myself eager to return. Maybe it was the cheap perfume, the nearly impossible to remove glitter and stench of fear that clung to me the next day, or the bored swaying of countless pairs of dead eyes and fake breasts. Or maybe I’m just an asshole missing the true beauty of titty-bars.

I’ve never had sex with a prostitute…that I know of…though I do harbor some suspicions about one of my shadier ex-girlfriends. Maybe it was the ownership of clear, plastic pumps, the fact she never kissed me on the lips, or the time she charged my friends money for sex. But deep down, something never seemed right about her. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.

I’m kidding. I never dated a girl who charged my friends money for sex. I did, however, have a girlfriend whom I later found out fucked a guy for drugs. But that’s totally different. And much classier.

One of the deciding things (other than my over-powering paranoia of V.D.) that no doubt factors into my hesitancy to purchase sex is that I am, perhaps, the worst negotiator known to man. I know. I know. It’s shocking, given my Jewish heritage. One of my friends said it’s because I never got bar Mitzvahed. Apparently, that’s where they program you with all the tricks on how to control the world’s media, suck at sports, and steal the White Man’s money. Fuck! I knew I should have sucked it up and attended Hebrew School.

How bad do I suck at negotiating? I paid full-price for my cell-phone. And I went in there with a corporate discount rate. That’s right. I some-how managed to increase the amount of money I spent from the sticker price.

Come to think of it, my inability to strike a fair trade probably explains the bulk of my relationships.

“What’s that, honey? You say if I promise never to drink, see my friends, or show any signs of independence, you’ll completely walk all-over me for the rest of my life and eventually suck me down into a joyless marriage? Where do I sign up?”

Now as bad as my haggling skills are, one can only imagine what they would be when bantered over a pair of naked breasts, fake or not. Basically, I’m smart enough to know that only one walking away from that transaction being thoroughly and properly fucked would be me.

Fortunately, Asian Temptations showed no signs of being a whorehouse. Which is good for my bank-account, self-esteem, and truly awe-inspiring lack of gonorrhea, but bad for my near-fatal thirst to get laid. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to suck it up and go back to being charming.

Fuck! I’m never getting laid again.

Robot House

In the Futurama episode “Mars University” Bender, the alcoholic, kleptomaniac robot, joins up with a branch of his fraternity, Epsilon Rho Rho, at a their headquarters: Robot House. Much of the episode is dedicated to Animal House paradies. A number of my friends have recently rented, conquered, infected or are squatting in (the distinction was never really explained to me and I shudder to ask) a house that we've officially dubbed, in honor of that cartoon, “Robot House.” Considering the amount of quasi-legal substances, activities, and sexual exploits that go on between those walls, it’s somehow only fitting that the name, too, was illegally used and obtained.

Robot House has anywhere between 6 and 15 residents. It’s really anyone’s guess. It’s the kind of place where one never knows who one will discover sleeping amidst the wreckage of last night’s carnage.

I was asked if I’d like to rent a room there, once. I politely declined. See, while I love my friends, I’m simply not ready for the level of psychological warfare that existing at Robot House entails. Allow me to explain.

Let’s say that you’re a resident of Robot House and you notice that you’re out of soap. Do you:

A) Go down to the store and buy a new bar.
B) Call your parents and ask them to mail you soap.
C) Put off bathing altogether, guessing that someone else will crack to the overpowering stench of countless unwashed men living in close proximity.

If you said "C," welcome to Flavor Country!

Simply existing in Robot House is a practice in Darwinism. Did you notice that your roommate has come down with the Hanta Virus due to the pestilent surroundings? This is the perfect time to skip out on the Gas Bill! Because you know damn well that when it comes to living in subzero temperatures, his weakened immune system makes him a far more likely candidate to crack and pay your share.

This is what it’s like with everything in the house: dishes, garbage, groceries, cleaning, maintenance, utilities, EVERYTHING. The cable bill usually gets paid on time. After that, it becomes a game of eyeing your housemates like jackals, waiting for someone to show a sign of weakness.

"Give me your gas-can fire!"
"Fuck you! Pay the gas bill, mother fucker!"
"If you won't share the fire, we have no choice but to take it by force!"
"You don't have the grapes."
"I smell fear on you!"

It’s sort of like Lord of the Flies. Only with more porn.

Frankly I don’t have the energy for it on a 24-7 level. But I do enjoy visiting. In fact, I have officially been given a title:

Robot House President of Public Relations

I think that it’s mostly due to this blog. That should probably make the public at large very nervous. Why? Given that it’s my job to portray Robot House in a generous light, take another look at this page and imagine if I HADN’T been spinning my coverage. Decent townsfolk, bolt your windows, lock your doors, and cower in your cellars. For no one is safe from the carnage that is

ROBOT HOOOOOOOOOOOOUSE

Boogies On Your Six: The Art Of The Wingman

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Northern Exposure

There is no quicker way to bond with locals than through the sex industry. What can I say? Something about it just brings people together.

I didn’t actually get the chance to visit a Canadian strip club last weekend. Which is unfortunate. Not because I’m into glitter and the smell of fear, but because I was really looking forward to figuring out the logistics of putting coins in a girl’s G-String. Obviously, Canada did not take the titty bar industry into account when settling on non-paper dollars.

My friends said that the matter was easily negotiated through the “Lick it and stick it” method. One of them put a dollar in his palm, ran his tongue over the coin and slapped my friend across the face to prove his point. Call me old fashioned, but something about that seems so wrong. Maybe it’s the fact that you'd have to be bat-shit insane to allow any object from a strip club into any of your orifices. I hope strippers douche with bleach.

My friends and I didn’t visit any gentlemen’s clubs. Maybe because they were too busy soliciting prostitutes. This is where the trip got interesting.

The six of us wandered the streets of Montreal in freezing winds, ankle-deep slush, and patches of ice in search of a bar. I was having a difficult time staying vertical in my Harley Davidson boots. The pavement seemed to shift beneath the slush, snow and ice at exactly the right time to catch me off-balance. Or maybe it was just the Vodka and Red Bulls.

At any rate, I was shocked when I saw a girl briskly marching down the street in what was perhaps the most idiotic winter-wear ever. An obscenely low red spaghetti-string belly shirt desperately fought to cover the top third of her stomach. A black pleather skirt was waging an equally pointless war with her thighs, but what really brought the ensemble together was the boots.

Imagine the biggest whore in creation walking into a shoe maker and, just before she allows him, his entire family, his neighbors, and all of the animals in the local zoo to penetrate her with their own shit, she says, “I’m afraid my clientele is starting to think I’m too good for them. Can you make me boots to make me seem like a bigger whore?” That’s what this footwear accomplished.

In retrospect, I’m glad they were pleather. Because they would have had to wipe out half the cows in the Midwest to make them.



Basically, there was no more than 2 square inches of boot touching the pavement at any given time. Then again, given the amount of time she probably spent on her back anyway, I doubt this was a substantial inconvenience.

My friends, being the jackals that they are, decided this was the perfect opportunity to get to know real Canadians in the up-close and personal way that only cheap, purchased sex from an underage street whore with the same dental hygienist as Michael Strahan could provide.



Friend: Hey baby, how much?
Whore: You guys cops?
Friend: Nope.
Whore: How much are you looking to spend?
Friend: What can I get?
Whore: One date is $80

Just to reiterate, WE WERE IN CANADA. How big a skank are to you charge $80 Canadian for a fuck? That’s about $68 American. Or less than a George Foreman oven. Thank God they have free health care up there. Because she’d never be able to turn a profit and cover the cost of Chlamydia medication otherwise.

Friend: Is that $80 per person, or for the six of us?
Whore (long pause to eye our little posse): You ALL want dates?
Friend: Hell yeah!
Whore: That’s $80 per person.
Friend: Can’t we get a group discount?

This is when she decided that we weren’t for real. She quickly began walking away. Well, as quickly as one can manage on 6” pleather stiletto fuck-me boots.

Friend: Wait! WAIT!!!

She turned her head briefly, pulled by the allure of easy money. With an emphasis on the word “easy.”

Friend: How much to just shit on your chest?

The way I see it, we’ll be fortunate if they even let us back into the country next time.

Ehren Ruins A Potentially Tender Moment

Perhaps the most amusing moment in existence is when a guy makes his first pass at physical contact. I’m a firm believer that over-thinking, especially on a date, is death. Despite that, I still sometimes get caught up in that split-second moment of panic where my brain screams, “Touch her, you tool! No, you missed your window! Uh-oh, now she’s looking at you. Better say something smooth, quick!”

Ehren: So…what kind of…floss…do you use?
Girl: Umm…
Ehren: Cool…Want to…make out?

I always thought that the old subterfuge move of “pretending to yawn and putting your arm around her” was completely lame. First of all, no one ever believes that it’s an accident or unintentional. Second, the whole point is to let her know you want to touch her. And lastly, there’s no way to pull it off without looking like a complete tool.

In my book, you get extra points for just going straight out and announcing your intentions. Which is why I use the line, “OK, you’ve successfully wooed me with your wily female charms. I’m putting my arm around you.”

Of course, I don’t always remember that. Sometimes I’m actually quick-witted enough to do something smoother and less transparent. Then again, there are times that I lack even the mental where-with-all to remember that simple, fail-proof line. Here’s the story of one such occasion.

I was on a date with an attractive girl I met through a mutual friend. Seeing as how said friend was probably the worst hook-up proprietor in history, I was forced to take matters into my own hands. It was the dreaded “First Date” situation, where both of us pretended to laugh at each others’ jokes and tried to hide our obvious discomfort about being locked in a car with a total stranger.

The night went moderately well. I’m not really a “date guy.” I don’t like to talk all the time…unless I’m drunk, and then God knows what the fuck will coming shooting out of my mouth. On the other hand, I also try to cover-up uncomfortable silences. But having nothing to say, I wind up with the lamest conversations. Like, “So…You ever eat…things” or “Hey…remember that show…‘Family Ties’?” or “have you ever…seen...those pink shirts? What’s the deal with that?”

Look, some women find it charming and adorable. Not most women. But my target women do: the ones who drool and wear helmets. I need a shirt that says, “Irresistible to Retards.”

On a scale of 1-10, the evening had been a 4. I was occasionally amusing, generally sweet and pretty good at preventing my eyes from rolling up into my skull when she spoke. To me, that's a solid win.

At the end of the night, there was an awkward moment as the car rolled to a stop outside the door.

“So” she said, after a moment of nervous silence. “I had a really great time.”
“Yeah, me too.” I replied, flashing her what I hoped was a cool smile. “We should do this again.”

There was another second of silence and then a couple things happened at once.

1. She decided that one way or another she was going to get a goodnight kiss. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward to plant one on me
2. I decided to put an arm around her and kiss her.

I was sitting in the driver’s seat, and with my right arm swinging up, I wasn’t prepared for my target to move closer. There was no time adjust my trajectory. With her eyes closed, she had no chance at spotting my arm swinging up in a tight, quick arc. There was an audible CRACK as the front of my hand landed squarely across her mouth.

Basically, I pimp-slapped her.

“OW!!!” she yelped, grabbing her mouth and leaping backwards. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” I answered, trying my best not to dissolve in laughter. “It worked for Bobby Brown.”