The Slipknot Retirement Plan

Annual Review time has come around once more in my company. I remember my elation on graduation: at last, no one would ever again bug me about “my performance” and “what I wanted to do with my future.” Oh how wrong I was. In retrospect, the only thing that’s changed since college is that girls in my office are significantly less slutty than ones in my college classes. Also, I have student loan payments. Growing up sucks.

I always expect my Review to go something like this:

I enter the room and am immediately grabbed by two goons in suits.

Me: What the hell is this???
Boss [coming out from behind a desk with a manila folder]: we’ve gotten your review back from HR and they’ve informed me that as compensation this year you’re getting—

[She thumbs through the folder and stops, pointing at the relevant section]

Boss: A caning.
Me: Are you sure that doesn’t say, “canning?” Maybe I’m just supposed to be fired.
Boss: Hmm…I guess it could be a typo. But just to be sure, we better administer the flogging, too.

[The two goons begin tearing off my pants]

Me: Is this even legal???
Boss: Break his thumbs.

I’m never sure what to say at these review things. Just give me my report card and let me get back to being the bitch of the giant, evil corporation I work for. I don’t need to be flattered by having HR pretend to be interested in where I see myself in 5 years. If they had any compassion they’d just deposit my checks at the discount liquor-mart down the street.

Do you want to hear my five-year plan? It’s simple: blow all my money on a crooked midget-wrestling match and then hang myself in a sleazy motel room. It’s a brilliant plan that explains why I don’t bother paying into my 401k. I don’t need a 401k. All I need for retirement is a length of rope from Home Depot or a state without a ten-day waiting period.

Real Love

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I'm Critically Acclaimed...Sort Of

Evil Derek of Three Angry Guys did a review of my blog today. It’s bizarre to read reviews about yourself from people you’ve never met. But I appreciate his kind words. I also appreciate the irony that they are probably the ONLY nice words he’s ever written on his blog, which is one of the reasons why I look forward to his posts.

Was it Kobe Bryant who said, “There’s no such thing as bad publicity”? Still, I often think if everyone who read my posts here told three friends, and each of them told three friends…I’d still have no social life and make no money. But at least I’d be popular…to strangers…over the internet.

My friend Gary came over to my desk as soon as he read my review and laid out a 5 point plan into monetizing this site. According to him, I should use this review to springboard myself into fame, fortune and fine women. I appreciate his enthusiasm.

But seriously, it’s I don’t see it in the cards. The first reason is that I’m currently just a fat, ugly slut who hasn’t graduated to the level of charging for handjobs. Which is to say: It’s not like I have thousands of visitors a day flocking to my site. Why the fuck would anyone pay for my writing when I can barely give it away for free?

The second reason is that, while it would be entertaining to my few readers to watch me blow-up, become an insane ego-maniac, get addicted to coke, blow all my money on ridiculous shit (I have three words for you: Gorilla. Knife. Fights.), before getting spit out the bottom of the porn business, I’m not sure that I could handle it. Seriously: me with fame would just be a disaster waiting to happen. Li’l Terrorist would be able to do his entire blog for a year just based on my exploits.

A while ago I wrote about what my press conference would be like if I got bought out by Google and became fabulously wealthy. So it’s high time I finish off the fantasy of shit I would do if I became famous.

1. Attend black-tie events and award shows wearing a wife-beater and flip-flops. Throw whiskey bottles at any teen idol, pop-star, or boy band idiots I see. Regardless of whether they are performing on camera.
2. Do donuts on the front lawn of anyone who gave me a bad review. In a tank. Follow the reviewer around for a day, and write a scathing review of his or her life. Then send it to everyone he or she knows.
3. Crash parties at the Playboy Mansion and P-Diddy’s house. Take massive Wendy’s-Taco Bell-and-Guinness shits in all of the upper-water tanks of the toilets.
4. Terrorize anyone from Hollywood who owns a boat by repeatedly getting arrested for Piracy. Not smuggling goods, but actual made-me-walk-the-plank-and-fork-over-me-doubloons Piracy.
5. Show up at a Dave Mathews concert as a special guest. After I’ve been introduced to wild cheers, castrate him in front of the crowd. You want sing like you’ve been kicked in the balls? Let’s do it for real, you whiney cock-sucker!
6. Spread wild rumors that I have AIDS, Herpes, Hep C, and Gonorrhea. Be romantically linked to every Hollywood starlet and squeaky-clean female singer.
7. Drop kick Jon Bon Jovi. There’s no clever witticism there. I just hate that fucker.
8. Check into rehab for addictions to sex, opium, and flo-nase.
9. Pimp-slap Bobby Brown. Give me that hat, bitch!
10. Have a made for TV movie about my life story, starring Samuel L. Jackson

Come on, realistically, I my body could only handle about a month and a half of that life before I died of massive kidney failure. And while I’m certain that that’ll be the cause of my death anyway, I’d like to try to delay it for at least another 2 years.

Random Thoughts and "The Magnificent Stranger"

Unfortunately, I’ve been ungodly busy the last week or so. Meaning that I’ve been unable to terrorize the web as frequently as I’d like. The reasons are all too mundane: work, a new band, a girl, increased security around fresh graves…the usual. Nothing all that interesting worth rambling about. Today, yet again, my writing time will be cut short. Hey, my hot girlfriend isn’t going to violate herself. Oh wait…I think she sent me video of that earlier this week.

Regardless, since I don’t have time for a proper post, I figured I’d at least put up some of the more amusing shit that spouted from my face this week.

• I’ve been diagnosed with multiple personality disorder: 200 different identities, all of them Lincoln.
• They just don’t make zippers like they used to. That’s why I’ve decided to convert all my pants to “tear-away.”
• Coworker: I have the body of a god: Buddha
  Me: I have the body of a god, too. She’s tied up in my trunk.

I was hanging out with some friends last weekend, and we began discussing the different names that they have for their penises. Among the more note-worthy names were:

• Sparticus
• Ironman
• Mr. Incredible
• Jesus (because He is risen. And returned from the dead.)
• Goliath
• David Banner

The last one is by far my favorite. All he needs to do is dress his cock up in tiny purple pants and a shirt. “Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

Apparently, I’m the only guy on the fucking planet not to name his junk. It really just never occurred to me. I’m sure I could come up with a few good ones if I tried…but I’ve got to run. So I invite you, my crazed, fanatical readers to engage in the most disturbing group-participation activity ever:

Name Ehren’s Cock.

See you Monday. I’ve got to go introduce my girlfriend to “Magnifico Extranjero.” What? Do you like "High Plains Drifter" better?

My Will Be Done

A friend of mine was opining about his will, seeing as he was the recently beneficiary of a dying relative. His uncle passed on and left him and nine other relatives $3,000 each. The rest of his uncle’s kin received the following note:

“If you received this letter along with a check, it is because I see promise, talent, and good-will in you. Know that I’ve always thought fondly of you, wish the best for you and have no doubt you will leave your stamp upon the world.

If you didn’t get a check it’s because you bastards were, frankly, not worth my time. See you in Hell. I’ll be waiting.”

I’d never really put a lot of thought into my last will. But if I have to admit, that’s a pretty bad-ass way to be remembered by your family. It’s fortunate that he didn’t live in ancient Egypt, or that dude would be one poor son of a bitch in the afterlife. After that, he’d be lucky to be buried with anything but crabs and 8 pounds of rat feces.

I’m sometimes asked what I plan on doing with my wealth when I die. I realize that realistically, I’ve got zero chance of dying in anything but complete and abject poverty. I fully expect to be found frozen to death under a bridge in Newark sometime in…oh I don’t know, the next 10-15 months. However, in the unlikely event I die fabulously wealthy I’d like to distribute my worldly belongings in one of the following ways:

1. All of my assets are to be sold off and donated to Big Tobacco. Fuck trying to suck up to God, my family and the world in the attempts at appearing to be a good man. I don’t do ass kissing. I want to be remembered for giving people cancer.
2. All my existing relatives will engage in tournament-style steel cage matches to determine my sole heir. WELCOME TO THUNDERDOME!!!
3. Provided she was not directly responsible for my death, my money will be given to my gold-digging, supermodel wife—on the condition that I be stuffed and kept in her bed as a constant reminder of her marital vows. As a stipulation, she will be required to continue to make love to my corpse at least twice a day for no less than 20 minutes each time. Should she be responsible for my demise, she is to be buried alive with me.
4. All my money will be exchanged to gold, and melted down to create a massive statue of me clad in a kilt, brandishing a sword in one hand, a baby in the other, as my foot grinds an opponent’s head into the dust. The statue will then be launched into space to orbit the earth at the expense of my remaining relatives.

Honestly, I’m sort of leaning towards the last option. Mostly, just imagining my family’s face when they get a letter in the mail that says:

“Your great-great-grand uncle Ehren the Terrible has died. May his spirit devour his many, many foes in the afterlife. As one of his fondest relatives, he has included you in his will, and left you the generous sum of:

-$856,099.35

Payment is due by the end of the month and he asks that you be prompt in submitting your bill. We accept cash, checks, and all major credit cards. Failure to do so will lead to vengence from beyond the grave.”

You know, I’m glad I put some thought into this. Nothing’s more important than preserving your legacy.

Ehren Ridicules Rednecks

My girlfriend grew up in West Virginia. One of the benefits of dating someone from the region (aside from some spirited games of “free the slaves” and “pretend I'm daddy in the corn silo”) is that you get to hear such weird stories as the one below.

Apparently, one of the friends she keeps in touch with is involved with a girl who sent him this letter:

"Handsome Prince,

I have been thinking of you with smiles all over my face and in my heart. I hope you are having a great day serving the Lord and I can not wait to see you tonight to hear all about your day. You are a wonderful man of God...so kind and prayerful, smart and fun, hardworking and loving. Thank you for your leadership in our relationship. God willing, I will have you in my life forever.

'You are a blessing to me. I thank my God every time I remember you.' Phi 1:3

Have a lovely day living for Jesus.
Love,
Your Beautiful Princess, Tammie-Lynne"


Usually I leave the Christianity ridicule to Flumadiddle. She’s way better at it. But when Middle America allows such a tender, underage choirboy to fall into my evil, priest-like clutches, I’d be remiss if I didn’t nail him harder than the Jews nailed Christ.

It’s not often that you write a love letter and mention another man almost as much as your boyfriend. There are seven sentences in the letter above. God appears in five of them. Personally, I’d be a little offended if I received that letter. And seeing as how God would smite me down if I was seen speaking with a woman (or as the church calls them “wicked sperm-receptacles”); I’d have no recourse but to write her back.

“Wench,

you mean I rocked your world with all those hot, sweaty hand-holdings; spent all those afternoons denigrating women and minorities; and attended all those book-burnings with you only to play second fiddle to the 'I am'? Remember that time we held each other and cried all night because you accidentally saw my underwear and were thus (according to Father Jesse-Luke) a filthy, filthy whore of Babylon?

As a man, God clearly decrees I am your owner and master. In the future, please refer to me as such, particularly when bad-touching your naughty-hole and crying furiously.

Yours in Christ,
Master Billy-Jim-Bob-Luther-Ray”

Seriously, my favorite part of her letter is the sentence “Thank you for your leadership in our relationship.” I wonder how long it is before she’s making supper, being beaten with a mule bridle, and popping out a kid every eight months. Why eight months? Well, waiting the full nine would be slothful, a sin against the Lord. Kids are basically done after eight months. An’ aint no child of mine gonna laze around the womb for an extra month, makin’ baby Jesus cry. And havin’ sex and enjoying it? Wicked. That’s why I’s gots to inseminate her afore she heals up good.

Sorry, that last scenario got a little too vivid. I almost knocked my teeth out, bought overalls, took up banjo, and started talking about “the coloreds.” God, I love being from the North.

Liebrows

The biggest transition a man has to make when making the transformation from single to “in a relationship” (or, as it’s sometimes pronounced “prison”) is what to do with one’s eyes in the presence of a hot female. This is especially true when you’re hanging out with your significant other. When you’re single, no one cares how much you eye-rape the hot girl standing in checkout in front of you…other than her 6’10” body-builder boyfriend, that is.

We men are a weak bunch. We see boobs and it’s a natural reaction to look. Temptation lurks beneath every blouse, tank top and sweater. It's your job, as a relationship guy, to avoid temptation and maintain eye-contact with any other shapely females. Never, EVER let your eyes stray elsewhere.

My girlfriend and I were eating lunch when a I noticed a girl sitting not-too far away. I suddenly realized that I was going to break the cardinal rule of checking out girls. Eye-contact was simply not an option...but for a totally unexpected reason. She was not especially attractive. Nor did she have any particularly stunning curves. She wore an outfit that probably would have looked more fetching on a clothes-hanger…which was good, because she filled them out roughly as well. She’d have to gain 20 pounds to be considered emaciated. What was fascinating to me was her use of make-up.

I know what a whore looks like. I’ve been to Buffalo, ok? I’ve seen my share of questionable make-up jobs, but I’ve never, EVER seen anything quite like what this girl had done. Normally I’m of the opinion that the less hair a girl has the better. I mean, nothing kills the mood like flossing pubic hair out your teeth mid-kiss. But this girl had taken the idea to whole new level. I’d never actually seen someone go to the length of shaving off her own eyebrows, just so she could pencil them back on. Until then, that is.

Her new, artistically created brows were as skinny and starving looking as she herself. I kept desperately hoping that she wouldn’t notice my eyes traveling up to sneak a peak at them as she ate. They never moved. They weren’t even the same color as her hair. When she got up to go to the bathroom, I half-expected her to return with the brows having migrated to a different portion of her face. Like a Hitler mustache and a goatee. Hey, it couldn’t possibly have looked any less natural.

I have to admit, I probably only heard about three words the girl said all afternoon. All I could think of was the logistics of maintaining those eyebrows.

Did she draw them on each morning? Or did she just sharpie them on one morning about 6 years ago? Maybe she got them tattooed on?

I think that if you’re going to the trouble of scribbling on your own eyebrows each day, why not use them to fuck with people? I think I’d wake up each morning, decide on an expression and create my eyebrows accordingly.

“Today I think I’ll be ANGRY.” Whereupon I’d grab a huge, black marker and draw enormous slanty lines above my eyes. I figure that would instill my every comment for the rest of the day with a new meaning.

“Hey, want to go to lunch?”
“NOOOOO!!!”
“What the fuck is Ehren so pissed about?”

It might also be fun to install white, erase board on my forehead and manually draw in your own expressions when appropriate:

• Angry
• Intrigued
• Confused
• Sad
• Surprised
• And, my personal favorite, unibrow.

These are the kinds of ideas that prevent me from getting into the really good clubs.

Ehren Vists The South

I knew it was going to be an interesting vacation when, after checking into the bed & breakfast in the center of Fredericksburg, VA, I found that a bottle of Scotch was included with the room. Scotch and a canopy bed. What more could a man ask for?

Seriously, they served scotch with breakfast. On the same table as corn flakes. It took every ounce of willpower not to pour it over my cereal and mix it with my orange juice. I can just imagine the looks of horror as I became louder and more belligerent over the course of breakfast before finally screaming, “WHO THE FUCK PUT CORNFLAKES IN MY SCOTCH???”

All in all, the weekend really brought home the John Cusack quote from the movie “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil”:

"This place is fantastic; it's like "Gone with the Wind" on mescaline. They walk imaginary pets here, Garland - -on a fucking leash. And they're all heavily armed and drunk. New York is boring!"

Further proof that I was in for an interesting experience was when we had a brief conversation with the inn’s proprietor:

“So, where are you from?”
“Just outside of New York.”
“Oh…well, you should still be ok. Just don’t tell anyone you’re from the North.”

Obviously, I had no idea what the fuck I was getting myself into.

Wandering around the quaint, little town I quickly noticed two things:

1. People in Fredericksburg fucking LOVE ice cream. There must have been 15 shops for the stuff in the tiny place, and they were all open. In February.
2. The Motto for the state is, apparently, “Virginia is for lovers.”

Now, I’m sure a bunch of people are expecting an incest joke here. My friends, I would never pick on the slow, inbred, racist residents below the Mason-Dixon line like that. Instead, I’m going to hypothesize that given their obvious insatiable hunger for ice cream, that the motto should more accurately be changed to “Virginia is for FAT lovers.” Sort of like the official state for chubby chasers.

While I saw many strange and glorious things on my trip, the winner, hands down was this little place off the side of one of the main roads:



That’s right. It’s a Drive-Through or Walk-Up Bar-B-Que place, converted from a drive-in bank. Just for education of anyone who’s considering actually visiting a place that lets you order Bar-B-Que sauce by the gallon: the food there is strictly for torture or initiation purposes. I actually went so far as to sample the food. It was as if an angry, hammer-wielding dwarf was attacking my colon. In retrospect, downing a healthy portion of questionable meat product before a four hour car-ride was NOT one of my better ideas. I may need to hire an exorcist before my pants (or car) smell the same again.

I can see him now: spritzing Holy Water on my seat, starting the wash and yelling “The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you” as the washing machine spins demonically and climbs the ceiling.

Of course, the weekend wasn’t ALL bad. And not just because of the brandy and girlscout cookie dinner. Sometimes, a picture really is worth a thousand words, and while I COULD type them all out, I just feel so dirty writing “eight-rope money-shot.” So just enjoy this picture instead.

Nothing Says "I Love You" Like V.D.

Over the last few days, I’ve been struggling with my blog, self-image, and writing motivations. I’m caught in a situation where something has changed in my personal life that, while wonderful, affects each of those elements. I have once again taken the plunge and am involved in a relationship.

This is the second time I’ve been here and the first time, frankly, I fucked everything up royally. I began writing substantially less about sex and girls out or respect to my girlfriend, but I didn’t want to change the tone of my blog, so I never came right out and included her in my writing. The result was a lot of mediocre posts that still infuriated my significant other and left me frustrated. I’m determined to do a better job this time around.

Look, I’m never going to be that guy blathering on about two-person bicycles, lingering kisses, and tender hand-holding sessions. It’s just not going to happen. But something’s got to give. I’ve changed and so my writing here must change with me or else it’s all just bullshit.

So basically, I’ve decided to try to get back to expressing my random thoughts. Maybe they won’t have so much to do with horrible dates with random broads anymore. But I feel confident that my life is interesting enough to provide me with plenty of material for as long as it continues. I’ll be sure to include as much entertainment as I can that doesn’t plunge my life into turmoil….well, more turmoil than normal.

I’m sure some of you are wondering what kind of girl it takes to win over a hopeless misanthrope like myself. To give you an idea, here’s a brief story.

A while back when I had a killer case of insomnia, she sent me two stuffed, plush microbes as a gift: Sleeping Sickness, and Syphilis.

Obviously, she’s a deliciously warped character. Add to that unbelievable smarts, a stripper body and the fact that she fucks like a porn star and ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a winner. For the record, though, playing guitar, loving the Yankees, and owning a schoolgirl outfit didn’t hurt, either.

Perhaps some of you are recoiling now. “Is this the end of the old, bitter, callus, insensitive Ehren?” I hear you ask. I’d like to think not. I spent a couple days wandering about the country, meeting interesting people, seeing weird sights…and mocking them all endlessly. Being in love does not, apparently, decrease my levels of sarcasm or my need to shameless kick people when they’re down. But I’ll get to the South tomorrow.

See you then, bitches.

The Chocolate Get-Away or "Put A Coaster Under That"

Dear readers, it’s high time I introduce you to yet another of my friends, at least as interesting as Jack Saddle. Given the proximity to Valentine’s Day, it’s only appropriate that my first tale of him has to do with a very special kind of romance. Ladies and Gentlemen, meet my dear friend Chocolate Loving.

Chocolate was flirting with a co-worker one day, when he found an interesting tidbit of information: she was a born-again Christian, opposed to premarital sex. It was not the first time that my friends had encountered said religious opposition to loving. While it’s not always a death-knell for sex, it is a warning flag. I had a friend who broke up with a girl when she found Jesus. To this day he says, “Things were never the same after the Pope told her to stop having sex with me.” It was probably the right move on his part.

Chocolate made note of the comment, filed it away for future reference, and changed tactics. He didn’t exactly ignore the girl. After all, she might have hot, Satan-worshipping friends, who were desperate for cock. So he toned down his flirting and began paying more attention to the girls who were friends of sin.

If psychology (and Taoism) has taught us nothing else, it’s that we pursue that which retreats from us. Often, it would seem, with our mouths. Which is how, a few scant days after declaring Jesus wanted her to stop fucking more guys than the Alimony laws, she found herself in the passenger seat of Chocolate’s car in the parking lot behind the office, sucking him like his dick forgave sins.

I’ve never understood the logic of deeply religious people when it comes to sex. God doesn’t want us to screw. Before marriage. And then only if you don’t enjoy it. Seems like a weird way to live. Fuck that. In the words of George Carlin, “If God didn’t want us to masturbate He would have made our arms shorter.” Frankly, I believe that if God didn’t want us to masturbate, he wouldn’t have made Catholic Schoolgirls. “Suffer the little children, come unto thee” indeed.

But enough about my pending trial for a violation of Megan’s Law. Back to the story:

Chocolate had just given her his own special twist on the “Holy Communion.” It may not have been blessed by a Priest, but he HAD had sex with a teenager. Plus, he’d taken the Lord’s name a few times as she swallowed.

She wiped off her chin and suddenly sat bolt upright. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she announced.

“Uh…ok,” said Chocolate a bit startled by this sudden revelation. “The door’s right over there.”

“NO!” she said more urgently. “I have to go RIGHT NOW.”

“Oh. OH!”

He gunned it across the parking lot to the building. She was out of the car pounding pavement before the car rolled to a complete stop like she’d heard her God was going to punish her.

Unsure about how to proceed, Chocolate stayed in the car. He’d never actually said, “Goodnight” and while he was all for skipping the mandatory post-blowjob talk-about-feelings, it had been good enough that he had visions of new ways to spend his lunch breaks. He was just considering whether to start calling his cock the “double-meat special” when God Girl emerged from the building.

She hung her head and looked dejected as she approached the door.

“Ummm…how’d it go?” Chocolate asked.

“I…uh…didn’t make it.”

“You didn’t make it?”

“…to the bathroom.” She said brokenly as she reached for the door handle.

“Oh!” In a split second, Chocolate had a decision to make. He could console her and possibly get her to fuck him in the backseat. Or he could maintain the cleanliness of his passenger seat. He cast around his car frantically. There were no viable coaster-replacements.

As if in slow-motion, he saw her hand reaching out for the door handle. Her finger grazed the metal. It was now or never.

“Well…See you tomorrow.” He said and floored it out of the parking lot. I wonder if the dust from his fleeing vehicle stuck to her still-soaked nether-regions.