Proof That I Hate Myself

There have been a few moments in my life where I realized with absolute clarity, that I must have an enormous amount of self-loathing. I’m talking about instances that go above and beyond living in Rockland County, my job as a corporate bitch, and fucking that horrible she-beast a few years back. Ok, maybe the moment didn’t top the time I slept with the she-beast. When you have to pull-up a girl’s back-fat to fuck her doggy-style and fake an orgasm…well, some wounds just never heal, even with time.

Not surprisingly, St. Patrick’s Day offered me ample opportunity to feed my undying hunger for self-mutilation. And while one might think it’s tough to drop lower when you’re drinking Budweiser a wife-beater that reads “I want to cum in your mouth” in Gaelic, somehow I managed.

Our evening’s plans revolved around a filthy little bar, just outside of Philadelphia. It was tiny, smoky and completely devoid of any class. Meaning my friends and I fit right in. Now, when I say that the bar lacks class, you might wonder, “Ehren, how do I know your use of the word matches my own? Maybe you’ve just got a weak stomach.” It’s a fair enough challenge, but I think my story about fucking that enormous, hairy beast proves that I have stomach. Regardless, don’t take my word for this establishment’s dubious quality. Instead, just enjoy this story:

Scientist, her friend and her father were drinking in this bane of quality. Her friend turned to her father when the later returned from a trip to the restroom and said, “You know, I have to hand it to you. When I found out that we were going to be drinking with Scientist’s father, I was a bit nervous. But it’s been a real pleasure having you here. You’re way cool. And I’m impressed with your ability to hang.”

Scientists father, turned to the table and said, “Oh no, you’ve got me all wrong. Right now, there’s a pair of underwear in the men’s room garbage that’s complete full of shit. It’s everywhere. Some dude must have shit his pants and tossed his underwear. He’s still here, somewhere. That guy can hang.”

I rest my case.

So why would my friends and I drive two hours to enter this cesspool? Mixed drinks under three bucks. Even with gas and tolls it was cheaper than drinking in New York.

While the night was a blur of avoiding fights, dissuading Chocolate Love from fucking a fat girl in a moo moo, and someone throwing up in my car’s ashtray, the real moment of truth came the following morning.

After trying to piece together the night, we realized that Chocolate must have left his cell phone at the bar. “What bar is open and full of people at 10 am, the day after St. Patrick’s Day?” you ask. Why, a place where people shit their pants, and then continue drinking anyway. Which why I found myself doing car-bombs, yager shots, and vodka sodas before noon. None of that is really all that startling, given my propensity for alcoholism. In fact, in and of itself, it’s barely blog-worthy. However, it might go a long way towards explaining why I thought that ordering a full pound of peal-and-eat shrimp from the same establishment was a good idea.

The price of this monstrous helping: $10, my self-esteem, and the contents of my bowels.

Everyone has a line. I didn’t just cross mine. I blasted past it on rockets intended to break the earth’s gravitational pull. Unless I start killing crying puppies, all dressed in sailor suits, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to top this.

One pound of peal-and-eat shrimp. At 11:30 AM. After car bombs, yager, and vodka-sodas. The morning after St. Patrick’s Day. In the scummiest bar this side of Mexico.

Yeah, I hate myself.

Celebrity and Professional Smack Downs

Just a question before I begin today’s post: Does Angelina Jolie still have a career besides “child abductor”? Really, why exactly are we paying attention to her? Granted, her tits are nice. But still…we’re talking about a woman whose last notable acting role was in “Girl Interrupted.” That was 8 fucking years ago. No tits are spectacular enough to keep someone on the A list for 8 years without a real role. She’s Cuba Gooden Jr. with tits, ok?

Now, while I detest her as a person and find her filmography pathetic and laughable (serious, “Sky Captain,” “Alexander” and “Tomb Raider 2”? These are movies that Paulie Shore knew enough to pass on), I would none the less like to nominate a new candidate for adoption:

Me.

I’m poor, clueless, and in my career and social life, hopelessly downtrodden. Screw those starving kids in African nations. It’s time you inspired the world with a touching charity case right here at home. I’ll even wear blackface if necessary. Feel free to spank me all you like. And I swear: I’d only bust in on you changing two or three times…a day. Mama Angelina, I throw myself between your two, large, glorious, soft…hands.

Sorry about the celebrity rant. Li’l Terrorist is on hiatus once more and I get antsy when idiotic film stars go for weeks without the literary smack-down they so richly deserve.

On to people in my professional life that need a beating.

My company is truly bizarre. Granted, this is the only “real” job I’ve ever had with a large corporation, so I’ve little to compare it to, but the way of doing anything seems completely psychotic.

Example: they moved us all to a larger office in a more upscale part of town. The idea was to move us to a space with a more “professional” feel. Which translated into uniform, soulless green walls and the most hideous florescent lighting ever conceived. We’re talking lights so bright that I had to start bringing in sunscreen to work. I could probably just set up a lawn chair and reflective neck-shield in my cubical during lunch. I’m about a week away from looking like George Hamilton.

Numerous complaints and seven months later failed to bring any solution from management. The whole conflict is fascinating to watch. I don’t feel any real motivation to get involved because I took it on myself to unscrew all the bulbs in the lights above my desk. Meaning I have one of the few head-ache and tan-free cubes in this soulless office.

But my real headache is this: my company, under the vain hope of reducing the backlash of subjecting everyone cancer-causing lights, decided to throw an open-bar event for tomorrow. The idea was the loyal minions could knock off at 4 tomorrow and get drunk on the company dime until 6. Today they canceled it due to “bad weather.”

Now here’s what I don’t get: The bar in question is about half a mile from our office. The drinking was supposed to run until 6 pm. Since it was canceled, everyone has to stay for a full work day until…you guessed it, 6 pm!

Honestly, I’ve stopped trying to figure out the next move. I’m expecting to hear at any minute that they’ve canceled Christmas, due to religious reasons.

My Trip To The Mecca Of Drinking

You know how ice-cream places sometimes have “Build Your Own Sundae” stations? I was wondering today whether Scottish restaurants have “Build Your Own Haggis” stations. Now that would be a good time. There’s nothing that says, “Family Fun” like stuffing a sheep’s stomach with a fresh heart, liver and lungs.

Recently I decided that my company had received far too many consecutive work days out of me and began looking for suitable places to go and unwind. And when I say, “Unwind” I mean, “drink until I pass out.” It took all of 20 seconds to decide on the UK. After all, who knows drinking better than the Irish?

The real deciding factor, however, came when I when received an invite to a wedding at the Mecca of Drinking. For those of you who really, and I mean REALLY, like to drink, I have three sentences that will turn you green with envy:

1. Full Bar
2. Open Bar
3. From 5 pm until 5 am.

I’ll let that sink in for a moment.

What makes this event even more dangerous is that the reception is being held in the same hotel where we have reservations. Meaning that all I have to do at 5 am when they cut me off is drag myself to the elevator and find my room. I’m placing the odds at about 70-30 that I’m too drunk for that and pass out at the bar.

Back in college, there was a day when between the time I woke up and the time I was hauled back to my room in the back of a pick-up truck, that I drank a full bottle of 100 proof Southern Comfort and a six-pack of beer. I don’t mean a shoulder. I mean a full, 750ml bottle.

The chances are good that this trip will see either me eclipse my record, or finally give in to alcohol poisoning. Naturally, those two possibilities are not mutually exclusive.

But the real fun of the trip, I imagine, will be seeing how badly one deranged Jew can do to a ceremony that binds a man and woman together in the bonds of pure love. If history has taught us nothing else, it’s that I full expect my actions will allow me ample opportunity to investigate the inside of an Irish prison. Below is a list of activities that may actually take place, depending on how high my level of supervision is and how much I pre-game an open bar event. Lest you think I exaggerate, I have one final tidbit: I’ve already got a line on Irish Moonshine. In the eyes of wedding planners, this is an event I like to call “End Game.”

1. Show up at the ceremony dressed in a T-shirt tux, boxers and flip-flops. Taking generous gulps from a flask I demand to know where the “Free hooch is.”
2. Drop-kick the best man for “eye-balling my woman.” So what if she’s the maid of honor?
3. Loudly interrupt the ceremony to inform the Church that, “If the bride were going to take into account her actions of the bachelorette party, she couldn’t wear white gloves…or lipstick.”
4. As a gift, bring an unwrapped, 15” black dildo with an attached card that reads, “I wasn’t sure what to bring, but then I began thinking, ‘What is it that the bride likes and the groom doesn’t have?’”
5. Muscle in on the first dance…naked.
6. Sweet talk my way into singing a tune dedicated to the bride and groom. Bust into “99 Problems” by Jay-Z.
7. As I get progressively drunker, accuse everyone of being “after me lucky charms.” Get shanked in the back 47 times by the bride’s party with those tiny knives they wear in their kilts.
8. Clothesline and flying tackle my way into catching the bride’s bouquet. Refuse to give up even once a winner has been declared. Carry out an ambush in the parking lot at the end of the night if necessary.
9. Include the number of a good divorce lawyer in my card.
10. Make fun of the little black hats worn by militants. Loudly declare that the IRA is a bunch of pansies.

Ehren Reviews A Movie

It’s not often that I take the time to jot down my movie reviews. After all, I think that UHF and Trading Places rank among the greatest movies in history. However, after seeing “300” last weekend, I’d feel guilty if I didn’t take some time lashing out at pretty much the biggest two hour waste of life ever. Seriously, if you’re looking for a more constructive way to spend your evening, I’d suggest freebasing Drano.

If you haven’t sat through this piece of shit, don’t worry about me giving away plot details. Because this film had less development and character depth than “See Spot Run.” But that’s not why I hated it. Generally, if a movie has some cool fight and explosions, scenes I can hang. It’s not like Lethal Weapon 3 had any particularly startling twists or intellectual value. It was just fun to watch Mel Gibson vent his rage on the Chinese rather than the Jews for once.

Of course, this movie does have some redeeming value. I mean, if you’re looking for the worst 2 hour Sean Connery impression ever done, this is your movie. Also, the lead seemed to believe that he would somehow be more believable if he showed every tooth in his face each time he delivered a line. At this point, I’m just going to assume that Gerard Butler suffered some massive head trauma. Because otherwise, there’s really no excuse. I’ve seen less blatant over-acting in Jim Carrey out-takes.

Lena Headley, as the female lead, gets the award for worst half-assed accent in a film ever. If you got a bunch of deaf-mutes together, one of them would have been able to fake a British accent more believably than her. She’s not even TRYING. Usually she gives up on it halfway through each sentence. It would have better if she just carried around a cup of tea and spoke like a kid from the Deep South. Granted, I don’t understand the need to speak like a Brit anyway given that everyone in the film is supposed to be Greek. But once again, I’m assuming that some degree of thought went into this movie.

It was by pure accident that I struck on the real mind behind 300. My girlfriend asked, “Hey, wasn’t this done by the same person who did ‘Sin City’? What’s his name? Arthur Miller?”

I was about to correct her and point out that Frank Miller had written the Graphic Novels Sin City and 300. Arthur Miller (in order of important life accomplishments) banged Marilyn Monroe and wrote the “The Crucible.” Then I realized, “Is it really so outrageous that Arthur Miller directed this steaming pile of donkey shit?" Granted, he died in 2005. But given the complete lack of coherency this film had, it’s completely plausible that they had him exhumed and interpreted through a gypsy rolling bones in a tent somewhere.

“Arthur Miller commands that all dialogue will take place on cliffs, in front of sunsets.”

“Arthur Miller is displeased at the amount of man ass that appears thus far. He decries that there will be 500% MORE man ass!”

“All women will have painfully-erect, 6” nipples. Think ‘fully-aroused Whoopi Goldberg drowning in ice-water.’”

“Arthur Miller instructs that flamboyant homosexuality will increase by 2,000%. He proclaims that he wants a flick that makes ‘The Birdcage” seem subdued.”

“Ummm…are you sure that he said that? I mean, maybe it would be better if--”

“ARTHUR MILLER HAS SPOKEN!”

I can just see them carrying the bones of Arthur Miller around the lot at Universal, Arc of the covenant style: a litter borne shoulder height by eight, half-clothed servants. Producers, d girls, and agents all kneeling in the street as it passes on its way to a power lunch at Spago with Dick Wolf while a vacant-looking blonde tags along beside it, powdering her nose.

In summation, if 300 was directed by a year-dead corpse and acted out by a man with a head wound, it would have been a truly inspirational film. Not good one, understand, but still uplifting. Like watching handicapped people struggle against God’s twisted plan at the Special Olympics. Unfortunately, I learned, the film was directed by Zack Snyder who, despite my fervent wishes through the course of the film, stubbornly refuses to die. Like-wise, there is no proof that Gerard Butler is actually functionally-retarded. This doesn’t mean that he isn’t. Just that there’s no proof of such.

All in all, I give 300 a “6”…on a scale of 1-1,000,000,000,000: watchable only by those who’ve been repeatedly bludgeoned in the head with a pipe so often, they no longer realize that they’re speaking like a retarded Sean Connery.

Film Musings and St. Patrick's Day Threads

In strange news, my coworker was called away from work for a meeting with Lucas films. It seems he is the member of a “light saber troupe” that performs elaborate fight scenes at conventions and George Lucas wants to sponsor them. Look, I work for an internet company. These are the kinds of people I deal with every day. The last time half the employees here were inside a woman they were getting their picture taken with an ultrasound machine. The other half are female.

As my coworker left, I had a simple, reasonable request: “If George is at that meeting, promise me you’ll beat his ass into intensive-care with your light saber.” That dude deserves a good beating after those last three Star Wars films. I can see the headlines now:

“Obese, Washed-Up Director Clings To Life after Geek Beating.”

Mmm…delicious irony.

In other film-musings, many of you know, this year’s big Scorsese flick “The Departed” was actually a rip-off of the Japanese movie “Infernal Affairs.” The movie was pretty much a three hour morality story that can be summed up in five words: Don’t fuck with Marky Mark. I’ve been thinking of doing a Mexican remake of the film. I’ll call it “The Deported.”

This leads me to the main point of today’s blog: St. Patrick’s Day. Many of you may have heard the saying, “Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.” It’s really nothing more than a knock off of the lesser known colloquialism, “Everyone’s an illegal immigrant on Cinco de Mayo. Now clean my toilet, Paco.”

In preparation for these monumentally important drinking holidays, my friends and I have decided to make new T-Shirts. That way when we pass out in a pool of our own waste after drinking for 36 hours straight, we can do so in style.

Chocolate Love has declared that he needs a shirt that says “Daione Ghorma.” Roughly translated, it means “hot, black man” in Gaelic. Seeing as how we’ll be hanging out with some straight off the boat Irishmen, it’ll be interesting to see how the shirt goes over.

Jack Saddle has decided on a shirt that advertises his newest creed. It’s one that truly captures his modesty, dignity, and classiness. It reads: “Life is my bitch.”

This brings us to my shirt. I’m one of those guys who hate to go clothes shopping. As such, when I buy a new shirt, it’s important to me that I know I can wear it to any possible social occasion: job interviews, first meetings with the parents of girlfriends, funerals, AA meetings, Take Back the Night Rallies, and parole hearings. That’s why I went with the least offensive of my ideas:

Blow Here For Rape Whistle

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.