General Douchebaggery: Pontifications of an Idiot

Interpret THIS Freud, You German Prick!

2011-12-29T23:23:00.000-06:00

I had the weirdest mid afternoon lazy fat ass nap dream today.

It was a great nap, don't get me wrong, but the dream I had was weird and vivid. It was one of those naps where you fall asleep with the window open, a cool breeze blowing in against your exposed feet while you're snuggled under the covers. The kind where a ray of sunshine falls across your arm and you can feel the warmth of its radiation giving you forearm cancer. You stretch out as much as your body will let you and then put one foot high up in the air as you lean in and start licking your balls…oh sorry, that’s what cat’s do. Anyway, the TV was on the History Channel with the volume low and, as is always the case when you fall asleep with the TV on, my dream incorporated things FROM the TV into itself.

I dreamt that my friends had set me up on a blind date with a woman who, as it turned out knew who I was and was super excited to meet me (who wouldn't be?). I, not knowing this girl at all, was scurrilous at the prospect of meeting another potential failure in my quest to find love. Plus, even in my DREAM I knew what kind of assholes my friends could be and was 65 percent sure I was being set up with a monster.

Dream jump to me and this girl (whom I have no recollection of in real life, I only mention this because usually you dream of an acquaintance or person you know) walking at night, down a derelict but wide concrete path in a wooded area. The trees around us seem to be decaying as the concrete crumbles beneath our feet. (The show 'Life after People' was on as I slept by the way) The woman I was with was blonde and wore glasses. She was thin, yet very average looking in her features. I didn't mind at all. She wore glasses and her hair was in a pony tail. She wore a blue coat with a pink scarf that seemed to dance on the wind that swirled around us. I don't know what we talked about, but I know I felt very comfortable with her. She talked of reading my blogs and gushed over how much she enjoyed them. It was a little off putting, but I remember thinking that if I could get past that...this one might work out.

Dream jump to the two of us in a very small hotel room with 60's style decor. An orange Brady Bunch bedspread and wood panel walls. I know it was a hotel room because there was one of those silver steel suitcase stands at the end of the bed. Not only was this an entirely different setting from where I was at before, but my mood had done a complete 360 within the dream as well. Where at first I felt flattery and a calm reserve at what might come, now I felt a desperation that wasn't being returned in the slightest.

The Television was on in the hotel room playing a commercial for some sort of workout equipment that you could order. We were there to fuck and I asked this girl to turn the TV off, to which she replied 'sssssshhhhhh'. She was WAY into this commercial. There was an old black rotary phone on one of the bed stands, and she picked up the receiver to call and buy the item that was on TV. When she put the receiver to her ear the bottom of her shirt lifted slightly revealing the smooth white skin of her hip just above her jeans. I know that's a small detail for a dream, but my god did it turn me on. I don't think women realize it, but sometimes the slightest thing about them can be SUCH a turn on.

I put my hand under her shirt and started rubbing her back. Without looking at me, she placatingly started to kiss me. I FELT the lack of effort in her make out and as we did, her teeth scraped against mine. She didn't even notice it was happening.

I KNEW that I should tell this chick to fuck off, but at the same time I was JUST so elated to be having any type of human contact that I couldn't bring myself to stop this.

Teeth scraping like fingernails on a chalkboard, the TV volume entirely too high whilst playing an infomercial of some kind, and a cute woman who was ENTIRELY disinterested in me.

I woke up and apparently my dog had stepped on the remote for the TV, turning the volume up, which is why that commercial was so deafeningly loud in my dream.

The SADDEST part of this dream is that when I groggily woke up I ACTUALLY uttered 'goddammit' under my breath. Ain't THAT some shit? When I'd rather be trapped in a dream that MOST people would consider a nightmare JUST because I'm kissing a girl, than deal with the reality of loneliness. I'm even pathetic in my fucking dreams!

Then my brain started working overtime to interpret what I'd just been through. What would Freud say?

Freud would probably say that based on the first part of my dream, I have a lot of hope when it comes to meeting a woman and that I'm a hopeless narcissist when it comes to my writing. But based on the second part of my dream he'd probably say that I feel that women don't pay attention to me. I feel that I'm always background noise to something else. I’m also probably feeling my age, hence the 60’s style hotel room (not that I’m from the 60’s, but what do dreams know?) Then he'd say that I want to fuck my mother; I’d agree with him up until the last part, but I don't you German prick.

I don’t know about you, but when I go to bed at night I WANT to have dreams like this. I TRY to have dreams like this; the reason being that these VIVID ass dreams are great EVEN when they’re horrible. It’s almost like being INSIDE of a movie. Fuck bluray, fuck 3d, you’re ACTUALLY there. But for some reason that I’m sure someone who gets paid ENTIRELY too much money has figured out, I only have dreams like that when I take a nap.

So, since I try to live on the verge of reality, just occasionally poking my head in to pay bills and walk my dog, I’m going to make a concerted effort to take more naps so I can, in effect, meet more women. Fuck reality based women anyway.

How would YOU interrupt that dream?

'Corporate Buffoonery' OR 'I Can't Masturbate with Sunburnt Palms'

2011-12-26T22:03:00.004-06:00

(I started writing this in July and just finished it now, hence the summer time theme)

As I was driving home from work today, I about lost my GOT-damned mind. Did you ever start imagining that you have telekinetic powers while you’re behind the wheel? You start flicking your fingers at the car in front of you, imagining that you’re throwing it off the road and crushing the chick driver who’s on her cell phone, putting lipstick on in the rearview mirror while driving so slow that she gets lapped by a fucking bee, under the weight of her own vehicle? Or that you could wrap the stop light you’re stuck at around the tank topped Mexican riding a bike with a banana seat across the street while carrying a lamp that’s longer than a fire engine ladder like some medieval Tijuana jouster? Or that you could simply make your car float up above all of the traffic and just drop derisive laughter and elephant shit out of your window on the mindless drones stuck in an endless Freudian loop of that Police song Synchronicity II? If there is a god, you can be sure that with the thoughts that come spewing out of MY noggin, he won’t be dishing out any super powers to me. You should hear what I’d do with invisibility or being able to tie my dick into a lasso.

As much fun as the downfall of civilized society through the use of my imaginary super powers may be, I know better than to start treating Harlem Avenue like my own personal demolition derby (mostly because I don’t have insurance…shhhh). I get angry in traffic, hell…everyone does, today however I was in rare form. I actually prayed to a god that I don’t believe in to make side mounted machine gun turrets and a silo of surface to Volvo missiles appear on my truck. So, why am I so fussy?

Therein lies my story.

As you all may well know, I work in the corporate retail equivalent of a cotton farm circa 1876. A few weeks ago, I was given praise by my plantation bosses for having a slightly better than mediocre month in sales for June. My reward for this fantastical feat of averageness? A fucking company picnic filled with other managers who have somewhat ok numbers to boast about. Having good sales in my company right now is like being the tallest midget.

I’ve been in the retail world for a long time, and I can tell you that the reward system at my current job is not only flawed…but biased. When I started, I was all gung ho because they would give out these great prizes to the winning managers. A new cell phone, an ACTUAL lunch, hell, sometimes they’d even give out vacations to Vegas or some place.

One of the first things I learned, however, is that the prizes weren’t based on merit…but location. If your store was in Cottage Grove? You were gonna make a shit load of money off the drug dealers buying ‘throw away’ phones for their crew. If your store was in Burbank? You were gonna make SHIT…because your only customers were either 131 year old men coming in to buy a 2 dollar fuse for their pace maker…or people from Cottage Grove coming in to steal phones. So, the same people would win month after month, and then they’d come up with some NEW idea to make it fair…but ‘fair’ wasn’t going to change your location…so the same people would still win.

Then my bosses would call me up with that jag off infomercial salesman pitch asking me if I was ‘onboard’ or ‘pulling for the team’ or some other douche bag corporate jargon. I’d say ‘you betcha!’, or ‘we’re all in’ because corporate dickhead is a second language for me at this point. What they were really doing was Pavlov’s dogging us.

I’ve always had this image in my head of a bunch of guys who peaked in high school sitting in high backed, leather Masterpiece Theatre chairs, in a smoky room filled with books they’ve never read, laughing at the stupidity of their management team before they went off to trip the dick fantastic with some waitress they were banging behind their wives back at Bennigans. Sometimes I really think that if we just rounded up every one in the corporate world two levels above me and threw them in an oven…I could sleep just a little better at night.

So, since the economy has been flushed down the toilet like last nights Whitey’s and the retail bubble has burst…they now have this moronic ‘point system’. The way this piece of upper management brilliance works is that you are awarded points when they pull their heads out of their asses far enough to see that you’ve accomplished some pre ordained goal. Then, you use those points to buy things from a website.

First of all, this is their ONLY means of reward. Second? I don’t think I’ve seen anyone get points for about 2 years now. My district manager doesn’t even KNOW about this program and HE’S the mother fucker that has to dole this shit out.

Not that it matters anyway because your odds of winning a billion dollars at Trump Casino on a slot machine while being blown by Lindsey Lohan are better than you ever earning enough points to buy any of the stupid shit that you’d have to be a nitwit to want any fucking way. I kid you not…I once won 5000 points and when I went on the website to ‘cash in’ as it were? A fucking spatula was 800,000 points, a case of Lou’s ‘Maybe Meat’ Tenderloin steaks? A million and a half points. And the best? A fucking pool table that was a giggidybazilliondy points.

The point is that you’d have to ‘Louis and Clark’ your way to the fountain of youth, OR become a fucking vampire (a cool ‘True Blood’ vampire, NOT one of those lame ass, sparkly, incestual, pedophile ‘Twilight’ vampires) in order to live a long enough lifespan to earn the points needed for that ‘Chumley’ from Tennessee Tuxedo shot glass. Which means that A.) These mother fuckers KNOW you can’t win, and B.) Once again, they regard us as the employee version of a medieval ‘town idiot’ who could never hope to outwit their dastardly plans. Fucking cartoon super villains…every one of them.

Well, I stopped pandering to their idea of a reward system a long time ago and I just do a good job for one simple reason…bonus. That’s all I want. I’ll hit all their numbers; I’ll jump through all their hoops, just to get that bonus. That is my one and only motivation and I bust my ass for that bonus every month.

So when my boss called me up and told me that I won an extra day off? Well, that’s a good incentive too. Then he told me that I had to take a SPECIFIC day off…to go to this company picnic. I told him that I wasn’t going to do that, to which he told me it was ‘mandatory’ (another great fucking corporate word…where outside of slavery and Nazi Germany has anyone used the word ‘mandatory’?).

I really did NOT want to go to this picnic. My reasons were many and obvious but let’s just state them anyway. First of all, I know I work in retail…but I fucking hate people. I ESPECIALLY hate other retail people. Not ALL of them to be sure, there are many of these people that I consider my friends, but believe me, THEY know who the fuck I’m talking about. They’re the ones that actually WANT to go to this fucking picnic. They’re always SO fucking happy to kiss whoever’s ass happens to pass by them wearing a lanyard that says ‘I’m your boss asshole’. Secondly? It’s fucking JULY…and they want me to be out of doors. Look, I don’t like it outside…It’s hot and it frightens me. If I could just hop in a pneumatic tube to get to and from work without leaving my apartment, I would. (Oh…AND if I could blow myself…I occasionally have to go outside to get pussy). THIRDLY, when I go, I’m told I HAVE to participate in sports. Corporate ‘team building’ bullshit. Think of a forced labor camp in Nazi Germany, only this is ‘forced exercise’. I figure there will be about 200 people at this thing. Granted, the odds of me hooking up with any kind of ass are 2% at best. But you put a fucking baseball mit in my hand? Or make me play volleyball? My chances skid down to a negative 12%. If they had a contest that involves me sitting on a couch eating hot dogs and watching porno? I’d fucking DOMINATE that sport. I’d have a fucking Olympic gold medal at that shit. But making me play sports so that my corporate bosses can feel they’ve done some ‘team building’ exercises, isn’t going to fly. I didn’t feel the need to impress the thick necked jocks in high school and I DON’T feel the need to do it now. And lastly, and the biggest reason I didn’t want to go…because it’s a fucking hour and a half away in Indiana.

I’m not racist…but I hold a special place of hatred in my heart for Hoosiers (my friends are excluded of course, plus the ones that live there now weren’t BORN there so they get a pass). I’ve actually petitioned the Ku Klux Klan to STOP hating black people, Jewish people, and Catholics and direct that hatred towards a state that we can ALL get behind hating. Indiana is a toothless Wal-Mart subculture that’s so dumb they can’t even come to a general consensus on the fucking ‘time zone’ issue that the rest of America figured out while people still wore powdered wigs. No shit, Indiana has like 17 different time zones in it. My friends that live there said that the reason they moved there is because housing is cheaper…yeah I’ll sell you a piece of dogshit between two pieces of bread and tell you it’s cheaper than a big Mac too, you gonna buy that? This place is a state sized trailer park. These people are so racist, homophobic, and such religious zealots that they make Alabama in the 1950’s look like Woodstock. Indiana is the hidden south, and it’s hiding in plain sight.

I got kicked out of the state of Indiana once for ‘Don Rickling’ the crowd in a camp ground at an Elvis Impersonator concert. I called them a bunch of human double wides and said that the people in Indiana are so fat that anything under 300 pounds doesn’t even trip the automatic door at Wal-Mart’s there. Then I asked the crowd when they thought the police in Indiana would catch the ‘sleeve thief’ that stole the arms off all of their ‘Fog hat’ concert shirts, or the ‘good taste bandit’ that broke into all their homes and put blankets with pictures of wolves on their walls or statues of eagles in every room. Next thing I know, I’m being rushed by a wall of flannel screaming ‘faggot’ and ‘nigger lover’, for some reason, and the cops are rushing me off stage like Jim Morrison after whipping his dick out in Detroit. My I.Q. is a bowling score…their collective I.Q. is a fucking shoe size.

So going to this picnic is NOT so much an invitation…as it is an imposition.

About a week before the big day, I invite my fellow manager Ruthy to do a ride-a-long with me out to Indiana so I have a witness if the cops try to ‘disappear’ me. She agrees and frankly I’m not that surprised. After all…I’m kind of a big deal. We’ve been rapping for a few weeks now, and to be honest with you, I’ve KNOWN Ruthy for about 5 years and I’ve always said that she is the ONLY attractive manager in my company. So it was only a matter of time before I made an awkward pass at her like a teenager fumbling for his first bit of tit in the backseat of his dad’s Ford Focus (since I'm trying to get a book deal, I have to show I can whore myself out to product placement, right?)

I am such a moron too, you’d think at this point in my life I’d be aware of the ‘consequences’ of sleeping with NOT ONLY a younger woman…but one who has the same boss as me AND has the ability to tell my co-workers the various shapes and colors of my pennis. I haven’t had a GOOD relationship with a woman since fucking Clinton was in office and I KNOW that if things don’t work out she’s going to tattle on me because I haven’t shown up for work on time in 4 years and that I take longer lunches than Paul Prudholmme during Mardi gras. I also know that if it doesn’t work out, at my next manager meeting people will be putting their pinkies up in the air and laughing with each other RIGHT in front of me, like I don’t know they’re talking about my dick. Fucking high school all over again. But no, I’m such an idiot all I can think is: ‘heh-heh, uhhhh…hehehehehh…I’m gonna get some pussy’.

So the big day comes, and I’m dreading it the same way an 18 year old chick dreads her first trip to the abortion clinic. I get up at 5am because I have to GET to my store super early. I have to do all the paperwork still, I have to council my employees because frankly when I’m not there? They are as productive as the fuckers who’ve been trying to find an MS cure for Jerry's Kids since 1910. We have to leave by 830 AM in order to get there by 10 AM.

For some reason that I cannot fathom because some deep recess of my mind made this decision FOR me…I wore ALL red. I mean ALL red. Red t-shirt, red shorts, red tennies. I looked like the fucking Kool-Aid guy had sent in all his Marlboro points. After the sunburn had brightened my skin to a healthy ‘hot coal’ glow…I looked more like a giant hemorrhoid. It was either THAT or go all blue. See, I don’t go outside a lot so I have limited ‘summer wear’. If I went with the BLUE t-shirt, the BLUE shorts, and the BLUE tennis? I would have looked like a big ass blueberry. At the end of the day? A fucking bruise.

So, Ruthy shows up, I grab my map quest printout and off we go. We talk the whole way there. There are no uncomfortable silences. There are no awkward pauses. The whole time we just have this awesome conversation. We’re making fun of people, we’re sharing our sexual secrets, and we’re getting along really well, so MUCH so…that we miss the fucking exit I needed to get to our destination. And because I’m SO engrossed in listening to this interesting woman, I don’t even realize it for 30 miles. When we finally DO break out a GPS, it tells us that we’ve driven 50 miles out of our way and that it will take us an hour and fifteen minutes to get there. So now I have to call my boss and tell him we’re going to be very late because it’s ALREADY 9:55. He bitches me out for a good ten minutes until I can’t take it anymore and I tell him my reception isn’t very good ‘click’.

Finally we arrive at this wooded wonderland called the ‘Deeply Imbedded Tick Forest Preserve’ and we have to sign in at a ‘gate’. The woman who comes out of the gate house is so ugly that I actually made an ‘ew’ face when she approached my car. I haven’t made an ‘ew’ face since I was in 4th grade when one of the kids in my class shit himself so much that it ran out of the bottom of his pants and the teacher tripped while chasing after him landing in the dookey trail he was leaving in his wake. I WAS, however, glad to see that we’ve become so politically correct and tolerant in this country that we’ll even hire Orcs from Mordor now that the one ring is gone.

Her face was COVERED in welts like she dove, head first, into a bee hive. Her hair was in some kind of a ridiculous swirl on top of her head like she just stood underneath a cotton candy machine, and the left side of her body was covered in a birth mark so big that at first I thought she was being attacked by a giant leech. I’m pretty sure that she was her own aunt. WELCOME TO INDIANA!

We drive on past this cave troll and approach the parking area. I’m already dreading this day because from where we park I can see miles in every direction and I STILL can’t see 200 of my fellow employee’s. We head off in the direction that they are supposed to be with two Sherpa’s and a fucking pack mule. 45 minutes later I can make them out like a wavy mirage in a fucking desert. It’s 108 degrees outside and I’m schlepping across the surface of the sun as a REWARD for doing a good job.

Look man, I’m fucking fat ok? There’s ONE truth in life that I know…fat people and heat don’t mix. This is how strange smells and rashes appear on a human body. I’m fucking MISERABLE in that kind of heat. I’ve already developed a line of ass sweat that can be seen on my shorts, and my head is pounding from the 4 gallons of moisture my body has poured out of itself on this fucking trek through the open plains of Douchiana. We finally arrive at 4 baseball diamonds where my fellow managers are engaged in playing softball. My boss approaches me with a puss on his face like he just smelled a wet fart and engages me in a bitch out session for being late.

He tells me to get in the outfield to which I reply ‘I don’t play softball because I’m not a Lesbian’. He tells me that I have to participate or there will be ‘consequences’ and I tell him that I hope he doesn’t accidentally stab himself in the eye with his pen as he’s writing me up, and I go sit under the tent they’ve erected for the boobs from corporate so they can feel like Roman emperors even though, from everything I’ve read in the business papers, the empire is about to crumble.

As I’m watching this game unfold, someone from the Tennessee Water Valley Authority comes up to me and hooks my body to an irrigation system because sweat is pouring off of me like I’m a human waterfall. Someone hits a pop fly ball in the game and because the sun is only 40 feet away from the baseball field it burns away in mid air. While I’m sitting there, I can see through the sweat on my eyeballs that my Regional manager is on the field telling everyone they suck and that only the winners get to eat lunch. His team was losing their game and I swear to god he made the game go 17 innings until they won.

I fucking HATE guys like that. He was like that asshole in high school that made people like me NOT want to play sports. You know the one, the captain that would pick YOU last. Not even pick you, but just make that ‘harrumph’ sound when it was his turn and you were the only one left. Oh my god, I swear that if I’m ever doing a book signing and this dickhead shows up with his ‘I know that guy’ and ‘I used to be his boss’ line like we didn’t have a domination/fear work relationship, I’m gonna pay 4 of the granola eating hippy kids from Barnes and Knoble to take him out back and beat the shit out of him with their Birkenstock sandals and acoustic guitars.

After we’re done waiting for his team to win like a bunch of cookies on a baking sheet waiting for the oven timer to go off, we schlep back to the foodery which is next to where I parked my car. During the hike 4 people melted like Nazis staring at the fucking Ark of the Covenant. When we arrive he graciously let HIS team get in line first and because they won? They got steaks.

I was pissed at first…until I got my hamburger. This thing was barely edible. It was like a charcoal briquette between two pieces of bread. Not to mention that because of the heat there were more fly’s swarming us than an Ethiopian village in one of those Sally Struthers commercials. At one point I was so exhausted I just sat there with a sad look on my face and my hands on my distended belly while flies crawled on my eyeballs.

After fifteen minutes of watching people shove food in their faces like Sloth from the Goonies eating Rocky Road Ice Cream, the Regional manager pops up and starts spewing corporate rhetoric like Hitler addressing the troops. He was so excited that at one point he actually DID break into German and was pounding his fist on his open hand. If he had a balcony I think he would have started a 4^th Reich. The kiss ass throng of empty headed sales lemmings cheered and clapped with that plastic ‘Bob’s Big Boy’ smile plastered on their faces like they’d been injected with Thorazine during lunch. It was like watching Nicolson get all the nuts to chant ‘Baseball’ in Cookoo’s Nest. Then it was one of our wireless sponsors turn to speak. We sat there listening to this moron prattle on about how great his company is and as much as companies don’t like for their employee’s to read? I was unimpressed because I had just read about how his wireless company was tanking and would probably be bought out by one of the GOOD ones during this fiscal year.

After THAT boob was done being impressed with the sound of his own voice we were told that despite the heat, we would retire to the volleyball field, and although the sand in said field had been converted to a bee hive by Mother Nature, we would endure because we have team spirit and company pride. Fuck you.

I get out to this volleyball field which is basically 2 nets in a giant sand trap and I notice that the sand is black and yellow from a distance. As I get closer, I realize that my boss wasn’t kidding. There is LITERALLY about 4 inches of bee’s covering the entire playing field. He says ‘Don’t worry, once you get in the sand they’ll fly away’. Yeah…chasing us to our deaths. Fuck that. I stand a good hundred feet away from the field because I'm allergic to bees. Not only was I a fat loser when I was growing up, but I had to carry around one of those anaphylactic shock kits in case I was stung. This thing was the reason that I would usually get my ass kicked by TWO bullies…one to stomp my face, and the other to grab my kit and run away with it screaming ‘you can have it back if you can catch me’.

I watched in amazement as these people dove head first into the Stinger Dunes. It was like I was in fucking Jonestown, this guy could have told them to dive into a volcano because our company is HOT, and they would have been taking off their shoes, and cannonballing to their dooms. You could see a black cloud of bee’s lift into the air and then form an arrow like in a cartoon pointed right at me. And it wasn’t ONLY bee’s, there were bugs so big that James Cameron was a few hundred feet away with a net from a fucking whaling barge catching them for Avatar 2: Electric Boogaloo. I saw two of these bugs fucking and they were so big I could actually see the guy bugs hairy bug balls slapping into the thorax of the lady bug. One flew up to me and ‘asked’ threateningly if he could ‘borrow’ a cigarette and I gave him the pack. Over at the playground I could see that a swarm had broken off from the main group, formed itself into a human body and was on the swing set. There was a manager standing behind them pushing and crying at the same time with bloody stinger filled palms. People were running around like they were in some horrible Benny Hill sketch. Not only that but because of the heat some of these bugs caught on fire and were dive bombing us like Kamikaze pilots during the battle of Midway. It felt like I was in one of the concentric circles of Dante’s Inferno.

That’s not even the fucked up part! These dumb asses were so intent on kissing ass they actually played volleyball in a swarm of bees. People were dropping from heat exhaustion and bee stings like someone had just cut their Achilles tendon. I FINALLY understood why the chick who greeted us at the gate looked the way she did. She wasn’t ugly from genetics…years of fear and panic from being chased by these super bugs had done that to her.

When my bosses got tired of having to send people to the hospital, they just rented out a portable M.A.S.H. unit and started jeeping people over to Trapper John.

You would think that Human Recourses would step in at some point and put a stop to this. After all, aren’t THEY supposed to be the voice of reason? People were miserable, tired, and panting with their tongues hanging out like a dog; because that was the only way they had left to sweat. Some even asked the human recourse director to put an end to this nightmare and tell the higher ups to let us go home as they were being carried around in golden chairs under tents by the losers of the volleyball games like Pharaohs watching Jews build pyramids. Our human resourse directors course of action?

She had fun corporate GAMES for us to play next! We had to get in lines and run 200 feet with a beach ball between our legs, throw the beach ball back to the next person, get in a hula hoop and hula, then run another 50 feet across hot coals, and chew the bark off of a fucking tree. The team who got the most bark off the tree won! SO FUCKING STUPID!

This chick is one of those broads with the crazy church eyes, who every fucking time you see her she’s pregnant because she HAS to have a kid every time she fucks. She has that glazed over ‘It’s a Small World’ theme attraction animatronics doll look on her fucking face and you just KNOW that she got the idea’s for these games from watching ‘The Office’ because she didn’t get that the writers were being sarcastic about how fucking stupid corporate games are.

It wasn’t until it was all over though, that I realized I had been in the corporate Thunder dome all day. 200 men enter…one man leaves. The winner of the company picnic was simply the guy who hadn’t died at the end of the day. And THAT pre-determined winner was my Regional manager…that’s right, the rest of us are dead. I’m writing this on Micro Hell Word. At least it’s cooler down here.

The drive home was thankfully easier than the drive there. Ruthy and I didn’t talk much, but I think I asked her on a date. Truthfully I THINK she said no, but I don’t remember. To be honest, I’m not good at picking up ‘hints’ anyway. She made fun of guys at work who hit on her, asked questions about ‘guys and girls’ being friends, and told me she doesn’t like meat, but prefers poultry. I don’t know what the fuck any of that means but I usually don’t know if a girl likes me until they have my dork in their hand.

I do remember us bitching about customers together. This is one thing in my life that I rarely do other than here. I try to leave work AT work, but I have to say that having someone in my field to bitch WITH instead of TO or AT gave me a supreme Woodrow Wilson. Unfortunately, I couldn’t masturbate when I got home because the palms of my hands were sunburned.

So, the day after the picnic, I woke up sore, sunburned, and crabby. Every moron with a technical problem more complicated than installing a new telescope lens on the Hubble while it’s in space came in to my store to unburden themselves of their intelligence at me, and to top it all off? My boss called me up to inform me of a great new contest to get into the AUGUST picnic. I wrote every word he said down, because in my mind he was telling me what to do NOT to get that pass. I wanted to ask him were you AT that fucking picnic? Do you think ANYONE wants to go to one in the HOTTEST fucking month of the year? What is WRONG with you people? Why don’t you have a picnic in a dimly lit, air conditioned bar somewhere?’

We had to sell 3 phones and 30 dollars in batteries. I looked down at our progress sheet for the day and we had 40 dollars in batteries, and 2 phones out. I looked over at one of my employees and she was talking to a customer about cell phones. This is how badly I DON’T want to go to this fucking picnic. I walked over and interrupted my employee, saying to the customer ‘I’m sorry ma’am, but it seems that our computer systems will be down for the rest of the day, so if you’d like to come back tomorrow, we’ll be happy to help you with your cellular needs’. That's right, I threw away a fucking 800 dollar sale because the way I see it? I’m now being PUNISHED for doing a good fucking job. FUCK YOU!

And THAT is why I was so fucking crabasstic on my drive home. Believe me, I know that I SOUND like a whiney bitch, but if I entertained you with that little bit of my daily nightmare? I can feel that much better about my job in the morning. I know that there is a finite amount of ‘work’ shit we ALL have to put up with and I’m thankful everyday that I’m not a coal miner in fucking China. But, one thing I got out of this was that you need to find someone with whom you have a common ground to bitch about your job too. You can’t keep that shit bottled up inside you like a shaken 2 liter of Dr. Pepper waiting to explode on the next fat asshole looking to guzzle it down as if it were only the size of a Nyquil cup. Let it out from time to time, customers piss everyone off. If you work in some kind of customer service industry and DON’T occasionally get frustrated by customers? YOU are about to go Dahmer on someone and need to seek psychiatric help my friend.

And to the corporate buffoonery that permeates our service industry I say pay attention to your fucking staff from time to time. Quit being more self involved than Mariah Carrey at a Mirror Warehouse. Open your sphere of influence to the possibility of giving your employee’s an incentive that will actually motivate them. It’s 2010 for fuck’s sake and there are no 16 year old manager’s out there. Take your people to a titty bar, the fucking Japanese do it all the time and they seem to have a pretty good strangle hold on things. Get your heads out of your asses and start treating your employee’s like adults with ideas and individual thoughts. If you give us just THAT much respect and stop gallivanting around like we‘re having an audience with the pope instead of just some jag off with a tie, we’d be motivated enough to give this great country the service industry it fucking deserves. YOU aren’t the only person ON this corporate boat Magellan, you may be steering the ship, but last time I checked, you can’t navigate a squall AND hoist the main sail by yourself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go peel the dead skin off of my palms so I can masturbate furiously and release some of this pent up frustration I have left over from the punishment you inflicted on me for simply doing the job you asked of me. Fuck you.

'Area Fifty Fucking One' OR 'Dwight and the Space Gays'

2011-12-12T00:14:00.005-06:00

I was watching the History Channel today at work…as I am wont to do, rather than deal with customers. They were airing a special on U.F.O’s and Area 51. I’ve seen a lot of History Channel shows that try to disguise a message of bullshit and cheap paranormal theories behind sloppy science, lazy methodology, and hammy fucking acting over the years. I’ve seen the movies, I’ve read the books on Roswell, and I even got my hatred of cats from watching ‘Alf’. Thousands of people have made suppositions, accusations, and come up with theories more convoluted than a stripper’s story of how she came up with her ‘stage’ name. These speculations are based on everything from UFO’s, government cover up’s, and that Bat kid from the cover The National Enquirer. I’ve never seen a U.F.O. myself, but like many of you out there, I’ve always been fascinated by the idea that we’re not alone.

That being said, I’m going to take a Switzerland-esque look at the folk lore, the supposed evidence, my OWN hypothesis, and the fucking facts as I see them. (Rod Sterling Voice) Please…allow me to piss all over your mind in another paranormal episode of: ‘Area Fifty Fucking One’.

When I think about it…I don’t really want to be around PEOPLE most of the fucking time because a majority of earthlings make about as much sense to me as an ape in a gorilla suit. So why would I want to hang out with some lanky grey alien who tries to make me understand how his spaceship bends time by talking to me through my mind? I can barely deal with the douche at the bar who tries to tell me about the time that the bass player from 'Nelson' spackled the dry wall in his den. I mean, WE’RE assholes, what makes these dip shits who try to convince you that aliens exist while living in the aluminum trailer on their Aunt Spidertit’s farm, surrounded by police scanners, ho-ho wrappers, Star Wars light saber replicas, and X-Files posters, think that aliens won’t be?

Most of these guys couldn’t draw you a picture of a vagina, but they seem to think that THEY are the human Rosetta stone when it comes to deciphering the intent of other worldly beings. I guarantee you that if you give them a personal trainer, a new wardrobe and an apartment that’s bigger than my dog’s asshole, when they start docking the skin boat in tuna-ville, they’ll shut the fuck up about aliens.

THAT’S why women have all the fucking power on this rock…because pussy makes us think clear. The crazier a guy seems, the farther away his last skinny dip in Vagina Lake was. They’ve made up imaginary friends to take the place of those who don’t want to be around them because they have the personality of a fucking roof shingle and they smell of bacon, sweat, and car trunk. These guys are fat slobs with boring lonely lives who have nothing better to do than sit around typing about made up shit that’s happened to them…holy shit…they’re ME!

And is it just me? Or does every fucking story you hear of aliens involve an anus at some point? What kind of unseen knowledge of the human condition do you think otherworldly beings can learn by shoving stuff in your ass? I don’t know much about sheep, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to go spread open one’s rectum with a pair of salad tongs and shove a TiVo up its butt. Plus, if there IS something in the human body that’s SO fascinating…don’t you that aliens would have fucking found it by around the 50th person’s rectal exam? These little jag offs just keep doing it though. At SOME point you gotta figure that aliens are the universe’s high school football team, and they are now picking on us just because they fucking can. And more importantly, who wants aliens coming here any fucking way? Look what WE did to the American Indians, and that was just a nation, imagine the same thing but on a global scale. Some shitty green beast giving us all blankets with space small pox on them.

As ‘neat’ as the idea of aliens sounds, and I DO ponder their existence when I’m taking a particularly long shit, I find the notion of them skipping through the galaxy for millennia and making a pit stop in Macon, Georgia, yanking ‘Dwight’ up in a pillar of light, and gleaning ANY information from him regarding human beings, somewhat retarded. DWIGHT is that guy that when you ask him how to get someplace because you’re lost, he tells you that he doesn’t live around that area. Even though when you ASK him, he’s sitting on his rickety porch wearing a straw hat and coveralls with one side unbuttoned, sucking on a fucking straw and strumming his banjo while his sister who’s hair style can only be described as ‘tufts’ creepily strokes his leg. Dwight is his own fucking uncle AND the county asshole.

But somehow, this is the guy that always seems to represent humanity. Bullshit. Let me tell you something…I’ve SPENT some fucking time in the south…It’s more boring than a deaf/mute roast master. When I was a kid, my mother would take me down to my Aunt’s house in southern Illinois. The first night I was there, I sat on the porch with my cousin Tom who looks exactly as I just described Dwight, the only difference being that he had lost a leg in a combine. EVERY family in the south has a relative who has lost a limb in a piece of fucking farm equipment; can’t we get some safety regulations on that shit? We watched the sun go down, and listened to the crickets chirp. I can remember thinking, that night, how it was a nice change from city lights, and the sound of cars and trains blaring at all hours.

The next night I had to be restrained because I was SO fucking bored that I had convinced myself that the crickets were telling me to ‘GO HOME’, my one legged uncle was going to make me his personal crutch, and that my Aunt had sucked the light out of the night sky to keep her oven going 24/7 so she could bake more cookies than a fucking Nabisco factory. I was clawing at the 19th century colonial wallpaper in my ‘guest bedroom’ to get the fuck out. When I finally got enough wits about me to light the oil lamp beside my huge puffy bed filled with more throw pillows than a porn set, I let out a scream because I could see the fingernails of PAST guests stuck in the wall like Katherine in ‘Silence of the Lambs’.

To appease me, the next day my Aunt said she had something special to show me. We walked for an hour down to the barn on her property where she introduced me to a little calf. I pet it for five minutes, and then passed out from boredom like someone spiked my fucking sun tea. I awoke in the back seat of my mother’s car and yawned ‘where are we’. She looked at me angrily in the rearview and snarled ‘We’re going home because of YOU’ and then she swatted at me from the front seat as I ducked and dodged like Neo in the Matrix.

What I’m saying is that the Southern part of this country is SO fucking backwards and boring, those people HAVE to be making shit up just to appease their own sense of loneliness. Other than booze, spinning yarns of ‘alien homo’s playing with their sphincters, is the only way to pass the time. If you think about it, there is NOTHING more frightening to rednecks than gay guys fucking them. ‘Alien abduction’ is the southern version of ‘the hook handed guy’ story the rest of us have heard around the campfire.

If you look at it from the opposing view point, when you put yourself in the shoes of visitors from another planet, the south would actually be the smartest place to start. Think about it, you’re hovering above this big mud ball and what can you see from space? Lights…lots and lots of lights. If you weren’t sure how you would be received by the indigenous people, wouldn’t you try to AVOID those lights and come down to see what you’re in for? Then during the day what can you see from above? Roads. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that roadways are the infrastructure of our species. When you watch those animal planet shows about fish and birds, what is the FIRST thing these scientists talk about? Migration patterns. It makes sense to me that these beings would hover above our roadways at night when they can’t be seen, which is USUALLY when and where they ARE seen.

As I got older and began taking a forced pounding from religion, I learned that the church’s official stance on aliens is that they don’t exist. If that ain’t the pot calling the kettle bullshit. Do you think if there ARE aliens out there who have been studying our culture, they have an ‘official stance’ on Jesus? If you look at it and I’m NOT saying they’re true, but there are more believable stories to corroborate the existence of extra terrestrials than there are to convince me there was a man born of a virgin. Roswell is a pretty convincing story with witnesses, but I STILL can’t wrap my head around why Christians worship a Jew, but BLAME Jews for killing him even though it was a Roman that sentenced him to death. Shouldn’t they hate Italians then? It’s a religious catch 22 that does nothing to help me in my quest for the truth.

When I was young, I was fascinated by the film genre created by men like Spielberg. NOT the Star Wars shit, that was just entertainment, but the stuff that made you think, like ‘Close Encounters’ and ‘E.T.’. Sure E.T. was some sappy shit, but that was the first time I was introduced to the idea of governmental cover up’s and conspiracy. ‘Close Encounters’ may have been above my attention span at that age, but after I saw it? I was CONVINCED that there were other beings out there. Those movies inspired a generation to look up at the night sky for hours trying not to blink lest they miss something otherworldly.

When I got older I saw ‘Fire in the Sky’. Other than the decent acting of this supposedly true story come to the cinema, I was intrigued by the bigger than life dramatizations of what happened on the alien ship, and the ‘proof’ that the movie went on to tell me of. As I was working in a bookstore at the time, I swooped up the novel that the film was based on. It truly stole my imagination, but even then in the back of my mind I couldn’t help but think these guys were full of shit. So I started reading more. I got every book I could on ‘Roswell’, gleaned what little I could on the internet about ‘Area 51’, started having friends over for viewings of ‘The X-Files’, and bought ‘Star Trek’ action figures. I became one of ‘them’.

Luckily, it was at about this time that I met my ex girlfriend Jackie. She waved the smelling salt of pussy under my nose and snapped me out of my delusional trip to No-Ass-Francisco. However, I didn’t stop reading. But instead of just reading the books that were full of shit on the side of the alien argument, I started reading books that were full of shit against the alien argument. One view in particular stuck with me. Albert Einstein.

Einstein said (and I’m paraphrasing because I’m WAY too lazy to look up the actual quote) that it would be impossible for aliens to travel to our solar system. There is no technological means, nor will there be to span that great a distance. Makes sense. And if Al said it? Well that’s good enough for me.

But NOW there are these theories of ‘folding space’ and creating ‘wormholes’ with which to travel great distances in a short amount of time. Theory now, reality later. Shit, that’s how we got the hamburger right? Some numb nuts in a hovel on the English country side said to himself “if I could JUST come up with something to put this putrid dead cow ON…I’d make a fortune”. He probably tried putting the WHOLE cow between two marshmallows first, and then tried a SMALL piece of the cow between two clumps of hair, and then tried to climb INSIDE the cow and eat if from the inside out making himself a part of some human black hole experiment, and THEN someone invented bread! And he would sit in the field throwing it at the cows saying ‘WHY WON’T YOU EAT THAT?’…when BOOM, it hit him…what if the BREAD ate the COW? And then HE ATE THE BREAD?! GENIOUS!

But that’s how invention happens folks…it all goes back to the burger. I’m sure after a few scientific missteps, we’ll eventually get the hang of it but our space travels will produce some kind of side effect that will give us all warts on our balls or something. With great invention, comes great testicular pain.

Another theory that I’ve heard rumblings of in the pot head community, is “what if aliens are NOT aliens, but US from the future coming back to study the past”. O.K. genius, let’s ASSUME that evolution will one day make us look like a stretch Armstrong doll fucked a beef jerky stick, AND let’s assume that technology will GIVE us the ability to time travel in some distant future…don’t you think that by the time that shit rolls around, we’ll have a fucking microchip with EVERY piece of knowledge on it ever? Why the fuck would we need or WANT to study THIS point in history? PLUS the way oil is drying up on this planet, we’ll be lucky if this rock doesn’t end up looking like a close up photo of my asshole in 20 years: Pock marked, dry, wrinkly, and incapable of sustaining life other than that hemorrhoid that looks like Mick Jagger over on the western hemisphere. I think we reached the bell curve of our evolutionary road trip right around the mid eighteenth century when bald guys with big mustaches curled at the tips rode around on those bikes with the oversized front wheel, advertising 'box socials'. We don't have enough Darwin left in us to reach the point where we look like Kip from 'Futurama'.

In my opinion, and maybe it’s a pessimistic one, we’ll all be dust blowing around the upper atmosphere of a planet that’s been sucked dryer than a whiskey bottle at a Kennedy family Christmas party. Sure the earth will bounce back from us fucking with it like a little kid with a magnifying glass fucks with an ant hill, but IF life evolves AGAIN, and the odds on it happening ONCE were worse than the odds of the pope willingly butt fucking a cartoon rabbit, do you really think whatever species evolves from the muck will give two shits about US…in THIS particular time? Why? Because WE ruined the planet and killed ourselves? They won’t know that. For all WE know we’re like the 300^th turn of the dice on this crater.

'The History Channel has another show called ‘Ancient Aliens’, where they theorize that aliens landed on this planet thousands of years ago and helped build the pyramids, Stonehenge, The Lost City of Atlantis, and generally nursed our society like Ashton Kutcher on Demi Moore’s tit . Ain’t that some shit? Give our species some fucking credit guys, will ya? I mean we FINALLY start pulling our heads out of our asses, and we come up with cool architectural designs, a written language, and Hot Pockets and just because YOU guys are jealous that the ONLY thing you’ve contributed to society is to NOT have spread any sexually transmitted diseases, you want to shit all over the achievements of our species.

They’re all gone now, the ancient Egyptians, and the Mesopotamians, and the Inca’s so I’ll act as arbitrator in their stead and say: FUCK YOU. Who the fuck do you think YOU are, we were GOD’S in the eyes of our subjects. We didn’t NEED aliens to help us feel special, we had minions who worshipped at our feet and did our bidding because WE knew how to bullshit through fear, intimidation, and fucking whips. Unlike YOU with your douchebag alien mumbo jumbo which gains you NOTHING but fat lonely spinsters who ONLY watch you because there aren’t any soap operas on at 9P.M.

Then there’s my favorite theory…the coup de grace of the alien conspiracy: Area 51. I saw a special on Fort Knox a few weeks ago, and someone that was interviewed for the show theorized that Fort Knox was empty and the gold was actually stored someplace else. This, in fact, is a tactic that goes back to ‘The Art of War’ by Sun Tzu. You make an enemy BELIEVE that all your gold is in one place. You basically make that place a target. BUT you KEEP your gold someplace else completely unguarded and inconspicuous. Pretty ingenious right? Hide in plain sight.

How fucking stupid are you people? I mean really? There has NEVER been, nor will there EVER be alien spacecraft or reverse engineering of an alien spacecraft at Area fifty fucking one. The government makes this chess move SO fucking obvious for a reason, to KEEP your attention away from the REAL ‘Area 51’: Fort Knox. That’s right, I put it to you that FORT KNOX houses alien spacecraft and Area 51 houses all the gold like Scrooge McDuck’s money vault.

Speaking of reverse engineering; I’ve TALKED to a few scientists about this theory that cell phones and cars and dildos are ALL reverse engineered from the captured alien spacecraft at Roswell. AGAIN, give your forefathers a little fucking credit. The micro chip did NOT come from an alien spaceship. That shit came from the hard work and sweat of some penny less loser who spent HOURS not getting laid so that YOU could one day whack off to ‘midget’s with horsecocks’ porn on your computer. It’s America’s greatest story, rags to riches. We used to LOVE tales of inspiration like that, NOW we try to take away the genius of a landmark in technological wonder by giving the credit away to the fictional delusions of an uninspired dope.

Look, I’m willing to bet that a weather balloon has NEVER been mistaken for a U.F.O….I’ll give you that, there DOES seem to be something fishy going on. When the Roswell thing FIRST happened, it was the GOVERNMENT that said it was a flying disc that crashed and then they changed their mind like a prom date sobering up after getting her hair accidentally caught in the car door. There are a ton of ‘incidents’ that have all caught the public’s imagination: The Battle of L.A., Ghost rockets over Scandinavia, The Mantell Incident, Project Sign (later called ‘Project Blue Book’, and even later called ‘Dancing With the Stars’). All great stories but NONE with a bit of proof or evidence which in MY mind makes them half truths at best.

If you think about it...H.G. Wells might have started ALL the government 'alien cover up' bullshit. When he put on his little radio show called 'War of the Worlds', which was a fictional tale of an alien invasion, people started running around and panicking like the Japanese in a Godzilla movie. Is it ANY wonder that if aliens DID come here, the government would keep that from us?

The origin of these phenomenon have their roots in the 1940’s, so we have to take a look at what the fuck it was that started this shit. First of all, the world had just gotten out of a war where the stakes were as high as global domination. THAT’S some heavy shit. I mean Hitler was trying to wipe an entire race off the planet and frankly we’re lucky that it hasn’t happened again. Vietnam? That was a war over idealism. Even now, we don’t fight a man, we fight a word: terrorism. I’m sure that after WWII the world was more skittish than Rush Limbaugh during a random pee test. We NEEDED something to collectively point that anger and fear at. You know how you see a spider in your house? One of those mother fuckers that’s SO big that you thought it was a grapefruit hanging from your ceiling at first? So you kill it by slamming it between two shoes, and then ALL night long, every time a hair on your body moves, you jump up, scream, and pat yourself down like you’re putting out a fire. Hitler was that spider and U.F.O.s are the imaginary one that makes you more skittish than a cat on an ice rink.

Also, the 40’s brought about some interesting innovations in technology: The Colossus Computer, Radar, Ballistic missiles, Jet aircraft, the jeep, microwave ovens, Velcro, Tupperware, Frisbee’s, and the fucking slinky. Is it any wonder that we started letting our imaginations get the better of us with so much space age shit coming into our lives? Let’s not forget the BIGGEST invention of that time period? Television.

Television gave us the VISUALS to go along with the words we’d heard so often on the radio. NOW we didn’t even need to use our imagination, we could let someone else do it for us. Captain Video, Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon, Space patrol, and Rod Brown of the Rocket Rangers, were all shows that took their ideas from magazines and science fiction writers. If H.G. Wells could scare the shit out of an entire nation in ‘38 with just a radio and a script, these guys must have figured EVERYONE would be fucking glued to that T.V. set like Carol Anne in ‘Poltergeist’. And they were absolutely right.

What happened next? The UFO boom hit. People started seeing flying saucers (Frisbee’s?), Cigar shaped objects in the sky, and strange rocket ships. Why do NONE of the history channel shows make THAT correlation between our visual stories of fictional space adventure and the fact that EVERY UFO supposedly sighted afterwards looked like something from one of those shows? And then the snowball effect came and we went from ‘King of Space’ in the 40’s to the X-Files in the 90’s.

Look, if you WANT to see something bad enough you’ll eventually see it. But much like religions, I ask the SAME thing over and over…show me proof in your hands. Not ONE T.V. show, not ONE newspaper article, and not ONE fake alien autopsy video gives me a shred of evidence. They give me a bunch of REFERENCES, and redacted military files, but nothing I can touch. I’D like to believe it as much as you, but you have to think of the beast whose yolk we live under.

As the U.F.O. craze boomed, and America began the cold war with the Russians, don’t you think that maybe instead of living through a nuclear fucking winter, SOMEONE in the military may have said “Hey, let’s perpetuate these bullshit alien technology stories and let those Ruskies think we have access to advanced weaponry” Then, as the years went by and the nut bags snowballed the bullshit, the government found that it had dug a hole too deep, and couldn’t back out of the story.

Like Oprah said: If you THINK your man is cheating on you…your man is cheating on you and if you THINK your government is full of shit…it’s more full of shit than a diaper at a new born baby taco bell eating contest.

I GET that people WANT to believe we’re not alone, hell: we’d have to be INCREDIBLE narcissists to think that WE are the beginning and the end of intelligence in the universe. There probably IS life, and maybe even INTELLIGENT life on other planets…but they just ain’t getting here. No way, no how.

Today, some gigantic woman waddled into my store, she must have weighed at least 800 pounds. After my associate rubbed sticks of butter around the door way so she could squeeze through it easier making that ‘POP’ sound like when you put your finger in your cheek and snap it out of your mouth, she angrily approached my counter dragging her gunt in front of her like she was pushing a stroller filled with human fat. I asked her how I could help her, and she heavily breathed ‘I NEED A BATTERY FOR MY CD PLAYER’ at me while bits of Twinkie, hamburger, and that pink shit from those Sno-balls treats came spilling out of her head onto my counter like a broken gumball machine.

She was mad at ME because SHE had to be airlifted off of her trailer bed and go out in public to shop. Then, as I turned to get the batteries, she fell forward on my counter like a sea lion jumping out of the water. When she did so, a wind came wafting out of her like Katrina and the smell could bring a dead cat back to life. She then exclaimed as my counter top began to buckle and strain from her weight “I NEED TO LEAN BECAUSE I CAN’T STAND SO GOOD’. Yeah, you don’t can’t not talk so good neither. Fuck you.

She even said THAT angrily to me like I FUCKING MADE her eat with a feed bag 8 times a day. As I was going to the section to get her batteries, I could hear her behind me muttering to herself, and as I came back I could make out what she was saying. She was muttering to a CAT that wasn’t there! She was SO lonely that NOT only did she JUST talk to cats all fucking day, but she EVEN talked to them when they weren’t around.

Well, put you’re nooses away, it was at about his time that I actually started to feel bad for her. Even though she had a bad attitude and she was a miserable human being who had brought her current situation upon herself, I’m not COMPLETELY heartless… I could SEE that the reason she muttered to an imaginary cat was because she was uncomfortable in public, so like when we were kids, she made an imaginary friend to ‘have her back’ as it were. Her anger was a deflection to hide her inner pain and turmoil. She shouted because she thought that was the only way people would look past her bigness and listen to her as a person, NOT as a weight.

The point of this rambling tale is to illustrate to you that we CAN’T be the only things in this universe with a fucking pulse. As a human being, I HAVE to take the side of my fat ass customer in the galactic fight club and think that SOME species out there…somewhere…has to have something worse in the low end of its evolution. Kind of like when you were a kid and your friend would come over and you’d argue over who had the ugliest ‘Garbage Pail Kid’ card.

Although it’s not necessarily a theory, I’d like to think that a logical assumption of alien interaction in our history may have gone something like this, and I’ve actually written a television screenplay that illustrates this theory, so suck my copyright bitches!

At some point in our recent history, aliens approached our government, in peace, and told them that they would like to extend an olive branch to our species in an effort to save us from ourselves. They would take a majority of us to their home planet where we could live our days in peace, and wonder at their technology which they would be only too happy to share with us once there. I would have to assume that they would NOT share it with us down here, as it would cause a shift of power to those who used it.

Also it would be fair to assume that lengthy talks have taken place to determine the new power structure on the alien world. Would our governments have a say? Would they still be able to rule over us with an iron fist? Would they still be in power? Well, since there would be no need for money, there would really BE no power structure. Everyone would be equal in their own right, and live their days working at whatever labors they chose.

No money? No power? Communist Society? Our leaders would have told these beings to fuck off quicker than my last date told ME when I asked her if she wanted to play ‘hide the sausage’ back at my place. Being intelligent beings and understanding that based on the greed of a very few, MANY would die…the aliens tell our governments that they will go to the people directly and let them decide.

At around this time, the government enlists Hollywood to run a fear campaign and anti alien propaganda film fest. ‘Aliens’, ‘ID4’, ‘Predator’, ‘Species’, and ‘Stargate’ along with hundreds of other movies are made to make SURE that if a little green man ever does step off of a fucking flying saucer, YOU’LL begin to throw rocks at it, try to run it down with your car, and call it a ‘space nigger’.

My guess is that this EITHER took place sometime in the late 80’s because you’d have to think that Spielberg would be in on the conspiracy but he made E.T. more lovable than a tubby cat licking his balls with that one leg pointed STRAIGHT up in the air.

The bottom line? Some of us have hypothesis about aliens, and some of us could give a shit. But it’s time we ALL put more energy into what we’re up to down here, and stop concentrating on what’s going on in the fucking sky…I’m talking to you religious zealots out there too. So what if Dwight gets abducted? Maybe getting a few football field goal posts shoved up his ass will teach him some fucking humility so when you DO ask him for directions he’ll at least point with his thimble covered banjo strumming finger in the direction you need to head. And on the likely side Dwight was full of shit about his abduction? Well, ignoring him will just shut him the fuck up faster. There’s a LOT going on down here and we could use some of that NASA, SETI, and Star Trek franchise money to finally find a fucking cure for something. And just in case aliens are reading this right now, I’d like to say to them: Stay the fuck away from my asshole you space pervert, unless you can make yourself look like Sasha Grey. Then you can stick a pinky up my ass while you’re licking my sack. (How diplomatic am I?)

Like most of you out there, I don’t HAVE a viable answer. I’m still on the fence with this one. I’d LIKE to think we’re not alone, but I’d ALSO like to think that if that were so, we’d have something to prove it other than doctored photos and staged video events. To tell you the truth, I’m not entirely convinced that we walked on the moon. As great a story as the moon landing is, I love the idea of our world being duped by a bunch of out of work commercial actors fucking around on a sound stage and pretending to be astronauts even more. We may never know the truth to any questions regarding aliens in our lifetime, but maybe a future generation will have the strength and fortitude to open themselves up to the possibilities, and also have the foresight to prepare for a little anal payback when aliens DO finally come out of the space closet.

Come to think of it...maybe WE'LL be the aliens abducting OTHER beings on THEIR planet...now if you'll excuse me, I have to change the filter on my water bong and score some Doritos.

The One About a Shit I Took

2011-12-11T22:46:00.003-06:00

The other day started out like most others…I woke up and took a shit. I have a very regular cycle when it comes to making a doody, and although the consistency and volume of my dumps may vary, you can pretty much set your watch to their occurrence. This particular morning, however, started a day that would go down in the annals of shit history. After I was done with my relatively moist, but mostly normal morning movement, I reached over for some TP…fuck.

I manage a retail store, and in my position I’m in charge of ordering supplies for my establishment. On a normal basis, I order two 12 packs of toilet paper every week and take ONE home. Why do I go through so much at work AND at home? Well, at work, that much toilet paper gets used because I went and hired 2 fat chicks who shit more than a Taco Bell sponsored football team. I use that much at home because I like to be thorough down there AND because my dog thinks that TP is a toy. She’s even figured out how to open the cabinet under my bathroom sink by smacking it with her paw until the door bounces back open, and then rifling through my ass towels like she’s searching for something in a Watergate hotel room.

Because I’m such a fucking scatterbrain, I forgot to order my latest batch of butt napkins. So there I sat, with no TP. In my head, I ran through the list of OTHER things people will use when they find themselves in this situation, but I STILL came up empty. I didn’t have any paper towels, there were no napkins from last night’s takeout order, I don’t use tissues, I had no notebook paper, and I didn’t even have a fucking bottle of aspirin with cotton at the top I could use. Thank god I have a removable shower head. Usually I ONLY use this devise to gently massage my balls with warm water while I masturbate in the shower, but this time I hobbled into the bathtub, squatted down, and shot a warm burst of cleanliness right up my pooper. AND, since I was down there anyway, I tossed one off for good measure before I went out to start my day.

I drove to my job in shitty stop and go traffic, I did the morning paperwork, I listened in on a mind numbing conference call for 40 minutes, and then I sat in the back room and played ‘Bloons on the computer for most of the day to avoid customers. The only time I would go out onto the sales floor was when my employee had to take a 40 minute shit.

This particular employee is just about one of the most customer friendly individuals a manager could ask to have working for him. She’s patient and kind with everyone who comes into my store, and since she’s worked for me for nearly 3 years now, I almost consider her a sister. My ONLY problem with her is that she takes 40 minute shits at least 3 times in a 6 hour shift. Most women like to make you believe that they NEVER shit. Not this one. She’s SO big, that her dumps are immediately proportionate to whatever she just shoved into her festering gob. If she eats a tic tac? 30 seconds later she makes a shit the size of a tick tack.

To me it’s all very scientific. It reminds me of the Principle of Mass/Matter Conservation, which states: mass cannot be created or destroyed, although it may be rearranged in space, and changed into different types of particles. This implies that for any chemical process in a closed system, in this case my employee’s colon, the mass of the reactants must equal the mass of the products. It’s almost as if her body takes NO nutrients from the food she shovels into her mouth, which comes as no surprise to me because I’ve seen her snack on fucking crayons. As much as I may love her as a person, she realizes that the price she has to pay for being that big is that I’m going to point it out from time to time.

Anyway, this story isn’t about HER shit, it’s about mine, so let’s get back to it.

Before I left work that day, I made sure to grab a few rolls of Cottonelle for the next morning’s sabbatical. As I drove home in the shitty traffic of a Monday on Harlem Avenue, I did something impulsive and incredibly stupid. Because I was hitting the brake, and then the gas intermittently for about an hour, my fucking leg started to hurt. Plus I had to piss the length of the golden gate bridge. Up in the distance, I could see a sign that was not only inviting, but captivated my growing hunger as well. A sanctuary that would let me rest my tired leg, let me shoot out a relieving stream of hot urine, and while I was there? Hell, I may as well grab some dinner: White Castle.

I haven’t had a white castle hamburger in many years, mostly because I know the price one has to pay for eating that crap. You see, I found out that all fast food places have a certain amount of laxative in their recipes. The corporation’s thinking behind this is that you will shit sooner, which will empty your stomach and make you hungry again, and then you’ll buy more of their food. It’s the same reason that they have so much salt in their food; because you’ll get thirsty and buy more pop from them. AND why the straws are so wide you could drive a fucking monster truck through them; you’ll suck that shit down before you know it, and be ready for another one.

I don’t like corporations patronizing me with their conspiracy riddled menus, so I rarely eat that crap. Don’t get me wrong, I eat SHIT, I just don’t eat THEIR shit. This particular day however, I ignored my usual fast food boycott, and got a sack of ten cheeseburgers.

When I got home, I took my dog out for a nice grass poop, cleaned my kitchen, and then sat down to watch the previous evening’s television offerings with dinner. I usually don’t watch shows as they air, but I download them while I’m at work the day after, and then watch them when I get home. This saves me from having to pay for stations like HBO and Showtime. I prepared my evening meal by arranging the White Castle hamburgers in a neat circle on a plate, and then I put hot sauce on each one. I sat down in the living room, turned on True Blood, and began to shovel food in my mouth while hoping that I would see Anna Paquin’s titties in this episode.

I got THREE hamburgers in, when I felt a massive discomfort in my belly. I sat back on the couch with a concerned look on my face as sounds of churning question marks filled the air around me.

UUUUUUUURRR? EEEEEEEERW? OHHHOOOOOOOWR? My dog, lying on the couch next to me, snapped her head up and tilted it to one side. Her right ear sprang to attention and she stared at my belly, half offended, and half shocked. There was a rumbly in my tumbly, and much like Pooh Bear after eating too much honey…I had to GO!

I felt a sudden sense of pressure building up on my sphincter, and while sitting on the couch still, I immediately clenched my cheeks together and squeezed my asshole shut. Going to the bathroom during this kind of ass urgency has to be timed JUST right. The initial build up has to be held in until it subsides a tiny bit, allowing you to get up and do that march to the bathroom where you don’t bend your knees, but you move as fast as you can.

As I waited for the first round of pressure to relax, I had just enough time to ponder ‘what the fuck is going on here?’ I wasn’t sick, I hadn’t eaten anything all day, and I NEVER shit after noon. Finally the buildup subsided just enough to allow me to stand, but as I made my first steps toward the bathroom, the urgency came back and I shuffled along the carpet as quickly as I could while holding my ass cheeks together with enough force to pulverize a diamond.

This was no ordinary wave of a needed release, so understanding the stakes of what was about to happen, I pulled down my pants and underwear as I marched. I knew that time was short. My stomach was making that sound still, and I could feel pain right behind my pubic bone. I cornered the entrance to the bathroom, and slammed my ass down on the toilet seat JUST as the lit fuse hit the dynamite.

I was expecting an explosion; however, what happened felt more like the slow release of a baby through a birth canal. I could feel something cresting my chocolate starfish. It was big, and it wanted out, so I pushed with all my might. The cords in my neck popped out, I noshed my teeth together, and strained like a bodybuilder lifting a car over his head. My face looked like David Banner as he turns into the Hulk.

As this planet came out of the universe of my colon, I could hear the sounds of trapped air being released from pockets imbedded deep inside of its mass. PFFFFFFFFT! PFFFFFFT! PFFFFFFT! It sounded like hundreds of silenced pistols being shot off at once.

It felt as though I were passing a watermelon, and as it reached the bell curve of its circumference, I could only sit there and be relieved that my asshole didn’t tear. As the bottom half of this massive load came out, and I tried to relax my holiest of wholies, my annular muscle went against me and decided to clench up instead. It guillotined the beast at the head, and the ensuing splash sounded like Ted Kennedy’s car dropping into the water. Why doesn’t the poo wreath act in accordance with our wishes?

I knew that I would have to wipe the remnants of this cannonball, out of my chaplet for the next hour or so. But now that the damage was done, I leaned back against the cold porcelain of my toilet, wiped the sweat from my brow, and tried to catch my breath. It was over, or so I thought.

As I sat there breathing deeply, my body limp and relaxed, the dog came prancing into the bathroom without a care in the world. She walked up to me, sniffed around, and then lay on the tile floor and put her paws over her face. Just as I started to laugh and reach for the toilet paper…Round two hit me.

The sound, once again, came first. Followed by the discomfort. I grabbed my stomach in pain, and leaned forward. I could FEEL things moving DOWN inside of me, and the pressure against my winking corona was building. I pushed with all of my might to get this satanic mass out of my body, and the eruption that followed was biblical in its proportions.

My asshole had cut off the first chunk, and left part of it lodged in the back door of my poopenshaft. The volatile nature of the churning ass lava behind it turned it into the cork on a violently shaken champagne bottle. As I pushed with all my might, the cork POPPED and a frothy carbonated liquid mess came shooting out of me like an upside down ‘old faithful’. It was like when you were a kid, and you’d drop an entire pack of ‘Mentos’ into a 2 liter of Coke.

I could hear the spray hitting the back of the porcelain inside of the toilet bowl, and it sounded like someone had pointed a garden hose at a brick wall, put their thumb over the opening, and turned the nozzle to full blast. My dog shot out of the bathroom with her tail between her legs, and I could hear her whimpering from under my bed in the next room.

My back was almost completely horizontal now, as I leaned forward, putting most of my weight on my toes and hovered a quarter of an inch above the seat. The stream continued, and I began to fear that I would shit myself inside out.

Finally the wave subsided and I sat back down on the toilet seat. Directly in front of my toilet is a metal towel rack with 4 shelves made of wire grids. Without knowing I had done it, I had put my fingers through those grids, and squeezed so tight, that they were now broken and mangled.

The smell that came wafting up from underneath me as I sat up can only be described as horrific. It was as if a filthy goat had eaten old leather, pickle juice, and rotted fish, then threw it up, ate it again, and then shit it out a week later.

I took the roll of TP off of the dispenser because I knew that I would need ready access to it. The backsplash from the spray of shit hitting the inside of the bowl meant that I had a shit ring in the shape of the toilet seat opening, completely covering my under carriage. I wiped furiously and quickly until all that was left was my asshole itself. I wrapped paper around my finger, and began cleaning as deep inside as I dared to go without being gay. Then round 3 came.

This one was completely different. There was no pressure build up, there was no warning. Seemingly from out of nowhere, a thick paste of poo came pouring out of my ass like a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine. It had the consistency of hot caramel being poured from a can, and as I looked between my legs, I could see it folding into neat, one inch long squares as it hit the previous shits. It just kept pouring out of me in a continuous, unbroken flow.

This one didn’t hurt, so much as it burned. It was like lava flowing down the side of a mountain. What the fuck could I have eaten to have induced this kind of combustible ass juice? It felt as though I was shitting Tobasco sauce. The burning pain lingered as the flow began to ebb, and I seriously considered going into my freezer, grabbing a Popsicle, and shoving it up my ass to relieve this sensation.

The smell of violence and hatred permeated the air. Like the gun oil from the rifle that assassinated Martin Luther King mixed with angry mosh pit body odor, smoke from the ovens of Dachau, hospital dumpsters, and gassy bloated dead bodies washed up on a beach.

Above the towel rack in my bathroom, a picture of Elvis hangs on the wall in remembrance of a man who rose to the heights of adoration, only to die on the toilet. I put it there to remind me to stay humble, and to never get too narcissistic. Seeing that picture now made me think that maybe THIS is what Elvis experienced as he sat on that bowl in a hotel room, minutes before his colon finally exploded from the buildup caused by 12 pounds of undigested meat, killing him painfully. Is this what Elvis’ bathroom smelled like at the end? Were these pains in my stomach the same pains that The King experienced? I don’t eat fried peanut butter and ‘nana sammiches, NOR do I take Phenobarbital, but is my diet any better?

I had to get out of that bathroom or I would drive myself crazy. I didn’t even bother to wipe, I squatted down in the shower as I had done earlier in the day, and sprayed my ass clean with the removable shower head.

As I went to leave the bathroom, I looked down at the mess inside of my toilet bowl. I forgot to flush. What I saw filled me with horror and wonder. It looked like the Trash Heap from ‘Fraggle Rock’. There was no water. It seemed as though my shit had absorbed all the moisture in the bowl. What was in there looked like the kind of river mud you get your boot stuck in when you’re dumping a body in the rain. And right in the middle of this turbulent mess, sat my initial turd. It looked like a bowling ball covered in chocolate cake icing. Moss had started to grow over it, and vines were slowly creeping their way up to the rim. What came out of my body was forming a new eco system. My ass was like the Genesis Device from ‘Star Trek 2’, it was creating life, from lifelessness. Does that make my ass a god?

I grabbed the plunger because I knew that I would have to fight this one, and pushed down the handle. Water began to cover the top of my mess as it came pouring down from the inside of the bowl. I took the plunger in both hands, and leaned in for some labor. I was afraid that a plunger wouldn’t be enough. I might need a back hoe or a diamond tipped drill bit for this. But before I could even stick the plunger in, an ominous moan came from the depths of my toilet. It sounded as if Satan were making that moan through the very pipes of my building. The moan drew nearer, and a large bubble began to form over the top of my disgusting ass goo. It grew bigger, and bigger, and bigger, as the sound of the moan rose: ‘MMMMMMMWWWWAAAAAAAAAA’. Finally and suddenly the bubble burst, like a deep breathy exhale. Tiny droplets of shit went flying from my toilet and landed on me, the walls, the floor, even reaching the bathroom mirror over my sink. The shit slowly slid down the sides of the bowl, and gurgled into the hole at the bottom, leaving streaks of butt mud half way up to where the water level rose. Beyond that point, above the water, where my second round had splattered on the porcelain, were stalactites of shit dangling precariously like a cave ceiling where gravity has no meaning.

I took another shower, and then cleaned my bathroom from top to bottom like a murderer cleaning the scene of the crime. As I went to the door to leave, I took one final look behind me and hung my head. The last two hours may have been the most harrowing experience I’d ever spent in a John, and leaving it was like leaving an old friend. I had to forget about what just happened and go on with my life as though everything were normal. But it wasn’t…it never would be again. I had experienced something bigger than myself, something that was disgusting and yet profound in its beauty.

I threw out the other seven White Castle hamburgers and made a vow to never eat there again. I still can’t fathom the physics behind the fact that I only ate 3 burgers, yet shit out 37 burgers worth of poop. I never understood those guys who take 40 minutes in the bathroom. They bring a magazine or a book in there with them like they’re going to go lay out on a beach. Normally, I feel the tug, I shit, I wipe, and I’m gone. But NOW I understand it a little better, but if they’re wrestling a shit EVERY time, like I did just that once…I think we might have a serious problem in this country.

Life has pretty much gone back to normal for me since that afternoon. My dog stays away from the bathroom now, but other than that things have drifted back into place. I try not to dwell on that day, but sometimes when the dog makes a steaming pile of carpet cigars, or I see the pile of Triceratops poop in ‘Jurassic Park’, or when I go bowling with my friends…I’ll have ‘Nam-style flashbacks of that event.

I don’t know if I’ll ever truly be able to forget that day, and my eating habits haven’t changed a bit. But one thing I know for certain is this: I haven’t learned a god-damned thing from this experience.

Elvis' Death Certificate; Cause of Death: Impacted Colon

End

It's a Coun'n Hemp'n Thanksgiving!

2011-11-27T05:05:00.000-06:00

Ah…Thanksgiving; A wonderful time of year when we sit around the table with our families and loved ones while watching the football on TV. Well, fuck you Thanksgiving. Yeah, that’s how I’m going to start this chapter and it’s STILL more polite than the holiday kick off has treated me. Thanksgiving has wrapped barbed wire around its fist, stuck up its middle finger, and shoved the whole thing RIGHT up my ass.

So far my holiday has been filled with disappointment, hunger, dog shit, and more unbridled family turmoil than Christmas at The House of Atreus[1]. This year’s Thanksgiving started the way it ALWAYS does for me…with work.

Christmas time is THE most stressful time of the year for a retail manager, and it all starts with Black Friday: the day after Thanksgiving. Although my store is open regular hours that Wednesday, nine to nine, I end up having to work a 16 hour shift in order to ‘prepare’ my establishment for the day after Thanksgiving. It usually takes me until 1 A.M. to set up all the sales, put up all the signage, and prepare for the meeting I have to have with my staff at 4 o’clock on the morning of the biggest sales day of the year.

That Friday morning I have to be up at 2AM in order to drink copious amounts of coffee, go out for a traditional 3AM pre-sale breakfast with my fellow store managers at Denny’s, and then be at my store by 4AM. This gives me a window of 25 hours, not including sleep, to enjoy my last day off until December 25^th. In a normal world, I’d LIKE to be in bed by 7PM at the latest, but that rarely happens.

A Young Cous'n Hemp'n

The plan for this year was that I would go to my Aunt’s apartment for a lovely Thanksgiving dinner with her and my cousin, or as everyone refers to him; Cous’n Hemp’n. My Aunt told me that she would prepare dinner early so that Cous’n Hemp’n and I could see a movie afterwards, and I could still be in bed at a decent time. During the course of the week however, my ex girlfriend T.C. called me to say that she would like to spend the night since her boyfriend was out of town. Even though I had told her to fuck off before my date with the Yoga Instructor last month, I figured that since I haven’t heard from the yoga instructor SINCE our date there was no sense in burning any vaginal bridges. Plus I find that nothing takes the stress out of Black Friday like a good fuck before the day starts. So let’s recap: Dinner with my Aunt, movie with my cousin, sex with my ex…not a bad holiday to look forward to.

Cous'n Hemp'n Now

Well, much like the last three years, my Thanksgiving got fucked like a fist up a Turkey’s ass. So, before I get into the particulars of THIS year’s fist fuck, let me give you some insight into my last three Thanksgivings while introducing you to the most unique and colorful character that you’re likely to ever read about…Cous’n Hemp’n.

My mother passed away three years ago RIGHT before Thanksgiving. She always made a Turkey for the holiday, and it was usually just the two of us for the big dinner. No matter what was going on with work or women, I looked forward to that meal year round because my mother was such a wonderful cook and she prepared a fucking spread on Thanksgiving that made the feast in The Last Supper look like a TV dinner in an old folks home; turkey, rolls, garlic bread, baked potatoes, potatoes au gratin, green bean casserole, 3 different gravies, cranberries, yams, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie, a bowl of nitro glycerin pills, a defibrillator, and…of course…ham.

I can’t eat ham anymore because living with my mother was like living INSIDE of a pork chop. Everything this woman ate was SOME part of a fucking pig. I can’t tell you how many nights I came home drunk and ended up puking on the kitchen floor because I’d open the fridge to grab a tasty leftover or something, only to find a fucking jar of pickled pig eyeballs or pork skrotums staring back at me from the top shelf. She ate bacon, ham, pig ears, those pork rhine potato chips, sausage, pork chops, and seriously…pigs feet. These were the most disgusting things I’d ever seen. They were LITERALLY pig feet in a jar. Fucking ick.

My sister and I haven’t talked since 1987 when we had a falling out brought on by an argument between her and my mother. Debbie is 15 years older than me and since I was young, I wasn’t privy to the particulars of that argument, but because the two of them wouldn’t reconcile, I was made to choose sides. I was a dopey kid fresh out of military school, and a mama’s boy…so I chose my mother. Because of this, my sister decided to hate me and we haven’t talked since then. My Aunt sided with my sister, and the two of them have been very close ever since. But, since my Aunt is awesome, she has chosen NOT to distance herself from me and over the years I’ve spent many holidays, other than Thanksgiving with her and her son…Cous’n Hemp’n. Besides my sister, they are the only family I have left.

Cous’n Hemp’n is the son of my father’s brother. Aunt Jill is unrelated to my mother AND my sister, but since our father’s were assholes and left us both at young ages, Aunt Jill has been a big part of my family dynamic over the years. Cous’n Hemp’n is 3 years older than I am, and although he’s only my cousin, he’s always been more of an older brother to me. He and my Aunt remember my father better than I do because I was so young when he left, so I always love to hear stories about him when I visit for holidays, even though he was an asshole.

Cous’n Hemp’n has a theory that our father’s were involved in a wife swap because HE acts more like MY dad, and I act more like HIS dad. In the grand scheme of things though, all that makes us is two sides of the same asshole.

Before I went away to military school, I can remember spending weekends at my Aunts house. I looked forward to it because every time I went, Cous’n Hemp’n would give me a book. He had hundreds of books, and I loved to read them, look at the pictures, and soak in every part of them. Because I was just a kid, he would give me Garfield books, Gary Larson Far Side books, and even my very first comic books; Vigilante. We’d stay up late on Saturday to watch [2]Son of Svengoolie, we would cross streams as we pee’d together, we’d dig giant holes in the back yard, and I saw my FIRST movie in a theatre with Cous’n Hemp’n and my Uncle Bud…[3]Airplane. I didn’t know WHAT they were, but when the big pair of titties came bouncing in front of the camera as the plane was going down…I knew I liked them.

Cous’n Hemp’n is responsible for a lot of things about me. It was him that inspired my sense of humor, my love of reading, and my love for the only family I have left in the world. I truly dig that cat.

But let’s not forget that The Cuz is 3 years older than me, and in THAT regard? He could be something of a bully at times. Cous’n Hemp’n had 2 friends growing up, JUST two that I know of, and they are STILL the only people he hangs out with to this day, excluding me. Brian and Mike Olendorf; that just SOUNDS like the last name of a bully, don’t it? Brian was more my age, but Mike was older like The Cuz, and the two of them just LOVED to pick on me. With Brian it was more name calling, but Mike would beat the living shit out of me anytime he could while Chris stood back and laughed before breaking it up. It wasn’t kindness that made Cous’n Hemp’n pull Mike off of me, but pure self interests. He knew that if my Aunt or Uncle saw me bleeding, they’d beat the shit out of HIM.

Mike was a skinny kid with black hair and big shoulders. Every time I saw him I just knew I wasn’t going to walk away with anything less than a black eye. At that time, my sister lived with my Aunt and was in high school. So, when I would stay on the weekends, I got to see Debbie as well. One time, while I was riding Cous’n Hemp’n’s bike around the neighborhood, Mike saw me and started to chase me on foot. I pedaled as fast as I could, but I was a fat little bastard and Mike quickly caught me and threw me off the bike. As I was lying on my back crying, Mike began to pummel me in the face. I was scared to death because Chris wasn’t there to get him off of me. Suddenly, I heard a tire screech and I looked up to see a car bumper directly over my head. Mike got off of me and started to back away as I heard a car door slam. It was my sister.

Debbie and I

I watched from the ground, in awe as Debbie went after Mike. She grabbed him by the shirt collar, spun him around and punched him dead in the face. “How does it feel?” she screamed at him. She threw him down on the ground, helped me up and put me in the car. “What about Chris’ bike” I sobbed. “Fuck him, his little dickhead friend can bring it to him” she said still pissed. The Olendorf’s never touched me after that, but they and my cousin CONSTANTLY ridiculed me for ‘having my sister fight for me’. Oofa.

Debbie may be the biggest bitch on the face of the planet, but before our falling out, we always looked after one another.

Now that we’re all older, Cous’n Hemp’n is a tall heavy beast of a man, but make no mistake of it…he has a heart of gold. Mike Olendorf has become my cousin’s hetero life partner and it’s only on the rare occasion that the two of them aren’t together. Mike even moved into the same apartment building as The Cuz. Brian Olendorf got Cous’n Hemp’n a job at the oil delivery warehouse he runs in Manhattan Illinois many years ago, and he still works there to this day. Although I still haven’t seen Brian since we were kids, I DO have the pleasure of seeing Mike every once in a while. He’s become a great guy, but he’s become a very LARGE guy.

The first time I saw Mike when we were adults, I felt the need to lash out at him. Our roles had reversed quite a bit since we were kids. Back then I was the fat one and Mike was the skinny good looking kid. Now? Oofa. I’m still fat, but what happened to Mike is the exact opposite of what happened to [4]Jerry O’Connel. He looks like a small moon. He’s LITERALLY round like a cartoon fat guy. He always looks as if he’s going to explode at any minute. That first night I saw him again, I sat behind him in my cousin’s truck. Because he’s SO fucking big now AND has no hair, I told him that from behind, his head looks like a giant fucking thumb. Cous’n Hemp’n told me that night that Mike was now driving race cars. My response to that was “what? Do they build the fucking cars around him?” But after I started to see Mike more frequently, it became apparent to me that the two of us had grown up and now I consider him a friend.

I didn’t see my sister OR my cousin in all the years I spent in military school. My mother would sometimes tell me stories of how my cousin was getting into more and more trouble as he got older. He would get caught stealing CD players from cars, he would get caught with drugs, and he even got arrested once for shooting his mother with a bb gun. Because my Uncle left my Aunt around the same time that I started going to military school, she had a handful to put up with from a young kid unsure of his identity and confused by his father’s betrayal. It’s a story as old as time.

However, when I got out of military school…Cous’n Hemp’n was involved in a car crash that changed his life. While driving in an SUV with friends, the kid driving the car swerved to avoid a truck and ended up flipping the vehicle 7 times. Some of my cousins’ best friends were killed in that crash, but he survived…barely. He had a massive head injury and road rash on 30 percent of his body because he was thrown from the car and slid about 100 feet down the pavement at breakneck speeds. Because I didn’t have a driver’s license yet, and my mother wouldn’t see my Aunt since she took Debbie’s side, I never got to visit my cousin in the hospital. It wasn’t until I was 20 that Cous’n Hemp’n and I started to hang out together on a more regular basis. When he felt comfortable enough to tell me about the accident in more detail, he told me that because of it, he had lost quite a bit of memory. He didn’t remember anything about me from when he was young. It was like he was meeting me for the first time. That was a big blow to me…spending those weekends at my Aunt’s house were the best memories I had of my youth…and Chris couldn’t share those with me anymore.

Over the last nearly 20 years though, Chris and I have gotten very close. He’s become a big part of my group of friends, and everyone loves Cous’n Hemp’n. The Cuz and I go camping together, we’ve gone to New Orleans for Mardi gras several times, and we took a road trip to Vegas. Because I don’t make as much money as him, Cous’n Hemp’n always pays. Whenever he wants to see titties, he calls me up even though he knows I don’t have discretionary stripper money. We occasionally go out to dinner to his favorite steak place and see a movie on Sunday nights, and the Cuz always foots the bill. He’s bailed me out when my electricity has gotten shut off, he loaned me money when my car got impounded from my DUI, and he’s always been there for me like a fucking brother. What can I say? I love the guy.

Cous’n Hemp’n still picks on me like an older brother, and unlike most people? I take it and don’t say anything back. Why? Well, it’s certainly not because I can’t. The truth is that I feel sorry for my cousin at times. I LET him pick on me because I think he needs too. Chris is a man’s man and that means that he’s not one for showing emotion or expressing feeling. Other than Mike and his brother, I’m his only friend. He NEEDS to feel like he’s a part of something, and when he makes fun of me in front of our friends…he’s important. I can take it. However, there are times when Cous’n Hemp’n's lack of decorum or tack can be detrimental to pending vagina.

There was one time when my girlfriend and I set him up with a one of her friends and the four of us went out to see a movie together. When we were all walking through the lobby on our way to the theatre, Cous’n Hemp’n stuffed chewing tobacco in his cheek and then spit it on the floor and walls while we waited to go in. Then, when we got INTO the theatre, he proceeded to spit on the back of the chair in front of him and even on his dates shoe at one point. Disgusting.

When we were all old enough to go into bars, Cous’n Hemp’n would take my friends and I out and show us the best places. He’d regale us all evening with tales of his work as a bouncer at a strip club AND his girlfriend who was a stripper. One year I threw a Christmas party and Cous’n Hemp’n FINALLY invited his stripper girlfriend to join us. I was beaming with pride and all I talked about for weeks was how my cousin was going to bring a hot stripper to my Christmas party. My friends and I couldn’t wait to be indoctrinated into the stripper world where we might meet some of her friends and get some stripper stank.

When his stripper girlfriend showed up, my first thought was “Yeah, she could be a stripper…for the fucking blind”. This girl was chunky with a face that made Mick Jagger look like Brad Pitt in the MIDDLE of Benjamin Button. It was the yellowed wrinkly saddle bag face of a smoker who suntanned ON the sun. Zits ran across her all-to exposed skin making it look as if War and Peace had been written in brail on the Dead Sea scrolls. Again, disgusting.

Even after TEN years, my best friend’s wife Laura STILL hates me because of something that Cous’n Hemp’n did. Steve met his wife when I saw a girl that I used to work with at a bar. She and Laura agreed to join us at our table. It was Steve, Cous’n Hemp’n, the two girls, and I. Because the Cuz has no governor on his conversational skills, almost immediately after the girls sat down with us, he looked at Laura’s rack and said “so what are you rockin’ there? Double D’s?” Now granted, after having gotten to know Laura quite well, I can tell you that she has the sense of humor of a Lutheran Priest, but after that comment she forced the girl I wanted to fuck out of the booth and told her she wanted to leave.

Now that he’s older, Cous’n Hemp’n has stopped even trying to meet a woman. He simply gets hookers…ALL the time. The Cuz goes on vacation several times a year to Aruba because the hookers there are hot and cheap. He seems happy with this lifestyle, but I have to say that it makes me quite sad. Cous’n Hemp’n is WAY better than that. He deserves more because he can be one of the most generous, earnest, hard working men that a woman could ask for. I’m sure he’s awkward on a first date, but if given HALF the chance, he could be everything that women in Cosmo say they want in a guy.

However, on the other side of Cous’n Hemp’n’s philanthropic nature, lies a mama’s boy. Even though he now has his own apartment and makes good money from his job, he still takes his mother out to dinners, borrows money from her, and argues with her consistently. Aunt Jill dotes on him as if he was a toddler, and that can make Thanksgiving…an unbearable holiday to spend at the Hempens.

So, now that I’ve introduced you all to The Cuz, let’s find out what I’VE had to be thankful for these past three years.

The year that my mother died, my sister decided that it was finally time to let bygones be bygones, and invited ME, along with Aunt Jill and Cous’n Hemp’n over to her mansion for the holiday. My sister is very wealthy. She owns her own State Farm insurance franchise and her husband, John, went on to inherit his father’s business, part of which consists of selling religious themed school supplies in Japan. Debbie is also as good a cook as my mother was, so I was looking forward to a family gathering that I hadn’t been a part of for a long time.

As teens turned into 20’s, I tried several times to come back into my sisters good graces with no luck. I’ve always felt that part of the reason she wouldn’t forgive me, even as I got older, was because I wasn’t as successful as her. A feeling which was substantiated that Thanksgiving. Throughout the evening, Debbie made condescending remarks about my lifestyle, told me how to invest my money, and generally made me feel like a big piece of shit. The problem with my sister, and I hadn’t realized it in my youth, is that she intimidates me because I so desperately WANT her approval. I kept my mouth shut, my head down, and my puppy dog sad eyes pointed at the floor as she berated me all evening. Because Cous’n Hemp’n could give less of a shit about my sister’s approval, he simply laughed, not so much at her jibes, but at my reaction to them. I stood there and took the humiliation from both sides.

As the night drew on, and Debbie kept feeding me glasses of wine from her personal [5]vineyard, I realized that wine seems to do to me what the combination of beer and pot usually do…it makes me feel invincible. As the evening drew on, Debbie began talking shit about my religious beliefs, or lack of religious beliefs…that’s when the REAL fun started, for The Cuz anyway.

When she asked me if I went to church regularly, I told Debbie that I really didn’t want to discuss that subject. We’d JUST rekindled our relationship, and I thought we should take things like that in stride until we got to know each other better as brother and sister. Cous’n Hemp’n then told her, with a bright smile in his face “Mike’s an Atheist”. I shot a ‘shut the fuck up’ look at him, and he just grinned and winked at me like the Cheshire Cat.

Debbie was furious “An ATHIEST? You are SO uneducated Michael”. Ok, now I was starting to get pissed. The Cuz piped up from behind me like a 10 year old “Yea MICHAEL”. Now actually TRYING to keep my cool, I gritted my teeth and said “Debbie, we don’t have to talk about this right now, how’s work going?” It was a flimsy grab at a subject change, but I had to try. “If you want to go to hell that’s your business, you probably learned that from your mother, and that’s probably where SHE is right now”. Cous’n Hemp’n let out a childlike ‘Daaaaaaaaaamn!”, as my Aunt tried to tell my sister that that was uncalled for, but enough was e-fucking-nuff, she had pushed JUST the right button.

“First of all, I’ve forgotten more about religious history than you’ll ever fucking know. I didn’t just wake up one day and DECIDE to be an atheist, and nobody had to TELL me not to believe in what is basically an Aesop’s fucking Fable. I read. That’s it, I just read. Try it sometime, they’re called FACTS…you’ll find them in books. Christianity is a ridiculous grift created by Romans who decided that it was more profitable to take money from religious idiots like YOU, than to kill them. And other than [6]NAMBLA, it’s the only club where fucking boys is not only expected, but well hidden by its leaders. OUR mother Debbie, not MY mother but OURS was a born again Christian who went to Church more in a week than you’ve been in the last year, I never told her MY feelings about it because it seemed to give her comfort. And if YOU’RE such a big fucking believer, maybe you could have forgiven her and not carried a grudge for 20 fucking years so she could have died with some sense of peace knowing that her daughter loved her, instead of sobbing and calling out your name on her death bed. So FUCK you because the ONLY reason YOU believe in God, is because YOU make money off of HIM.”

Cous’n Hemp’n had gone from a giggle at the beginning of my speech to laughing like an idiot at the end. As Debbie and I stared daggers at each other from across the kitchen island, my brother in law came around, grabbed me by my shirt and started to forcibly drag me out of the room while shouting “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE”. As we came to the stairs leading to the living room, I tripped and landed on the hard wood floor, my sister ran over and started kicking me in the ribs with her pointy rich girl shoes as my brother in law started pulling me along the floor by my shirt collar. “FUCK YOU MICHAEL!” she screamed as she furiously kicked me. Behind her, I could see Cous’n Hemp’n doubled over in laughter as Aunt Jill was running to catch up telling my sister to stop. At the door, they stepped back long enough for me to stand up, my fucking ribs were killing me. I just brushed off my shirt, pushed my hair back with my hand and stood up straight. I looked, first at my brother in law, then at my sister and said in a calm even tone “Thank you for a wonderful evening, dinner was lovely. Mighty Christian of you” and turned to leave.

As I walked down the long entrance steps to the parking garage where my car was, my sister screamed after me “FUCK YOU MICHAEL, DON’T EVER TALK TO ME AGAIN!”

And that was the last time I talked to my sister. So there’s THAT to be thankful for.

The next year, I was 9 months into my relationship with T.C. when Thanksgiving rolled around. One of the main steps in ANY relationship is introducing your girlfriend to your family. My Aunt is a sweet lady and a woman can tell a lot about you by how your family members treat them. I knew I was in for a good review, so I asked my Aunt if I could bring T.C. over. She agreed and I looked forward to that evening for over a month.

T.C. was very excited because I rarely talk about my family. So this was like taking our relationship to another level. One of the things I like most about ANY holiday dinner at my Aunt’s apartment is the food. Cous’n Hemp’n is allergic to ANY poultry so my Aunt always makes the most awesome roast beef. Don’t get me wrong, I dig turkey, but I like cow WAY more than I like bird. I kept telling T.C. how amazing this dinner was going to be, and she was salivating at the thought of the spread that she was in store for.

When Thanksgiving came, I spent all morning making a low sugar desert that I knew my Aunt would love. She’s a diabetic and limited as to her dessert choices, but I know she has a fucking sweet tooth. T.C. and I got all gussied up, and made the long trek out to my Aunt’s place. When we got there at around 4, I rang the door bell…for a half fucking hour. Nobody answered. I kept pushing the button, but nothing. I called my Aunt and the phone just rang and rang. I tried calling The Cuz, but he didn’t answer either. I started to get worried and after about an hour of not being able to contact anyone, I began calling hospitals. Nothing. I ended up taking T.C. out to a Chinese Restaurant for dinner like in a [7]Christmas Story. It was embarrassing. I had to be up for work at 2AM, but I couldn’t sleep because I was so fucking worried about my Aunt. Worse, I couldn’t even get a good holiday hard on going to stuff T.C.’s turkey with. I left a ton of frantic messages on the Cuz’ phone, and finally at around midnight he called me back.

It turned out that my Aunt WAS home. Cous’n Hemp’n told me that he had gotten into an argument with her earlier in the day about the amount of money she was giving him for Christmas, and because he upset her so much…she cancelled Thanksgiving dinner and went to bed.

Cous’n Hemp’n’s ALWAYS gets his Christmas gifts on Thanksgiving, and it’s ALWAYS the same fucking thing. Gift cards to Best Buy. The reason my Aunt gives him his Christmas gifts on Thanksgiving is so he can take advantage of the Black Friday deals the next day. Aunt Jill has a sister who is unrelated to me, but is Cous’n Hemp’n’s aunt. She’s very wealthy, and Chris gets his Best Buy gift cards from her on Thanksgiving as well. Because I usually see my Aunt on Thanksgiving, she gives ME a 50 dollar gift card from her, and a 100 dollar gift card from her sister.

Well, about a week after Thanksgiving last year, my Aunt called me to apologize for cancelling dinner. As we talked, she asked me if my cousin had given me my gift cards. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t even thought about it because, since my mother passed I don’t get gifts anymore. Well, it turned out that Cous’n Hemp’n had orchestrated the events of the day JUST so he could leave with MY gift cards…he basically stole Christmas from me and he didn’t even bother to deny it when I asked him. So there’s THAT to be Thankful for.

And then there was this year…

This year’s Thanksgiving started out pretty good at my Aunts. I arrived early in the day, and watched a Clint Eastwood western with the Cuz as Aunt Jill cooked dinner. About an hour before dinner was ready; my Aunt came into the living room and announced that she had just found gifts for us that Santa had left under the Christmas tree in her room. Seriously? What am I? Five? The Cuz got all excited, went down on his knees, hung his tongue out of his mouth and started panting like a dog begging for table scraps. Watching this exchange would TRULY be a psychiatrist’s wet dream. Cous’n Hemp’n is all sugar and nice to my Aunt RIGHT up until she dangles those gift cards over his head and he snatches them from her like a homeless kid stealing a loaf of bread in a Dickens novel. After that? He completely ignores EVERYTHING in the world, as he grabs the black Friday sales ads and starts circling things with the thought and precision of George C. Scott in the War room from ‘Dr. Strangelove’.

This man is NEARLY 40 by the way.

As the Cuz was LITERALLY on his hands and knees, circling things in the Best Buy sales ad on the floor with his ass stuck in the air like a fat porn star with scoliosis, my Aunt came back into the room and asked him to carve the roast beef. This was a tradition for them. “I’m busy” Cous’n Hemp’n flippantly said to my Aunt like a bum had just asked him for a quarter. “You have to cut it now before it gets cold honey” she said back to him. “In a minute! GOD, ma!”.

I was starting to feel uncomfortable so I told my Aunt that I’d be HAPPY to cut the roast beef. She thanked me and said that it was her and my cousin’s tradition, and he would do it because he was a good boy. Jesus.

Suddenly, Cous’n Hemp’n STOMPED up off the floor and shouted “FINE! I’ll cut the god damned roast beef! FUCK!” As doting mothers will often do with their spoiled children, my Aunt simply smiled and said “oh, you’re such a goof Mr. Man” as she followed Cous’n Hemp’n into the kitchen. Oofa.

I went after them to see if I could snatch up an end piece as Cous’n Hemp’n carved the roast beast with the electric knife. He was pouting angrily as he carved, eager to get back to his sales ads. My Aunt and I stood by and made small talk as Cous’n Hemp’n cut into his third slice and shouted: “FUCK MOM! This isn’t even fucking DONE! You are the WORST cook!”

Then, and I’m being quite serious when I say this, he picked up the entire roast beef with his hand, slammed it up against a cabinet door, and threw it across the room where it hit the TV and fell to the floor. I stood there in stark amazement. It was like I was watching a movie in another galaxy. What the fuck just happened? Did I just SERIOUSLY see a 350 pound grown man throw a temper tantrum? Then he angrily stalked into the living room, KICKED the roast beef onto the couch, grabbed his sales ads and gift cards off of the floor, and stomped out of the front door without saying a word. My jaw was on top of my chest. I looked unblinking at my Aunt waiting for her response. I expected her to cry, to get mad, to go after him…SOMETHING. But she just looked back at me, smiled and said “he’s a good boy”. Holy fucking shit. This was a COMPLETE turnaround from the man who NOT 20 minutes earlier was all sunshine and kiss ass before he got his gift cards. I stayed and helped my Aunt clean up. Obviously she wasn’t in the mood for a dinner, so she put half of everything but the roast beef in Tupperware and sent me home with it.

Oofa, do I miss my mom sometimes.

I got home at around six, and when I opened the door to my apartment, I was greeted by a smell that almost knocked me over. I quickly turned on the lights and started to look for its origin. As I went into my bedroom, I looked up and saw my dog lying on the bed. She looked back at me with a ‘fuck, you’re home early’ expression on her face. Apparently, she had decided to redecorate my bedroom with her poop. And I’m not talking about a few chunks, I’m talking she used her ass as a spray paint can and covered my bedroom in a fine quarter inch layer of doggy diarrhea. So much so, that the mist from her spray could even be seen on my TV screen.

I knew that I had to clean EVERYTHING before T.C. came over, so I got to scrubbin’. I had to open every window in the apartment in the hopes that the smell would dissipate by the time she got there at 8. After I was done cleaning every inch of my bedroom, I took a meticulous shower and went into pussy preparation mode. Soft music, candles, low lights, and of course…a quick scrotum bikini wax. Even with ALL the windows open, my apartment STILL smelled…off. I was freezing because the temperature had dropped to 13 degrees and I was still wet from the shower. When 8 o’clock came and went, I sent T.C. a text asking her if she was still coming by. No reply.

I waited until 9 and sent her another text. I had to be up in six hours at that point. 10, nothing. 11, nothing. I still hadn’t been laid since she left me. I was feeling bad for my Aunt, ashamed for my cousin, hungry because I had no holiday dinner, and cold because of my dog’s ass. If I was to endure the tortures of thoughtless holiday shoppers the next day…I was gonna need some pussy. I hadn’t seen T.C. since a few weeks before my yoga instructor date (there has NOT been a second date by the way), and I’d been looking forward to this night more than Bernie Medoff’s clients were looking forward to sentencing day. I even bought her favorite ‘after orgasm’ ice cream. Then I finally got the text.

And I quote (can you ‘quote’ at text?): “Um, my boyfriend went to Arkansas this morning for Thanksgiving, and he wanted me to go with him at the last minute, so I called off of work and that’s where I am now”

You couldn’t have SENT me that text 11 hours ago? What the fuck? I don’t mind a vagina-less holiday, but DON’T leave me fucking hanging like that. I’m SO sick of this bitch not being able to make up her mind. Another sleepless year before dealing with holiday shopping assholes.

So, what have we learned here? Nothing obviously, but there ARE certain truths to be had from my Thanksgiving experiences:

Family can be a mother fucker, but at least that mother fucker is uniquely YOURS. We all have different family members to contend with, but it’s the overall feeling of being a PART of something that’s bigger than just you that drives us into each other’s arms for the holidays. You may not like everyone in your family, and just because you share the same DNA as them, hell, you shouldn’t. But in life we all have to deal with people who are just plain assholes, whether it’s at work, at school, or at family functions. You can’t STOP going to these places just because you don’t like one or two people, so fuck ‘em.

Although I love my cousin dearly, he can be an even bigger asshole than I am at times. But to me, that’s part of what defines him and makes him the character that we’ve all come to love. If he was just a boring ole regular guy? Well, who the fuck wants to know that guy? As for my Aunt, I cherish all of the other holidays I get to spend with her. Thanksgiving has never quite worked out, but thankfully it’s not the only time of the year that she makes a good holiday roast beast.

As much as I’d love to have a relationship with my sister, I just don’t see it happening any time in the future. She’s too absorbed in HER definition of what’s socially acceptable and she’ll always be more judgmental than The Situation at a fat chick bikini contest. But overall? I still love the bitch.

Even though this Thanksgiving was JUST as bad as the last two since my mother passed, I still hold out hopes for next year. In the grand scheme of things, a year may not be that long, but a lot can happen in that time. I know that even if I have a girlfriend, and even if her family invites me over, I’ll still end up trying to eat at my Aunt’s because I’d rather have the fucked up family holiday dinner that I DO know, than the fucked up family holiday dinner that I DON’T know.

Happy Thanksgiving all.

[1] I know I’m pulling out an old one here, but I love this story. This is all Mount Olympus and Zeus shit. So, the House of Atreus. The story goes that Tantalus was invited to have dinner with the gods. While there, he stole a bunch of ‘godly’ stuff and brought it back down to earth, revealing the secrets of the gods. Thas some OLD school white trashery. Ever one to question authority, this mother fucker right here decided that he needed to KNOW if the gods were omniscient. So…he chopped up his son, put him in a stew, and served him to the gods. Zeus got pissed and sent him to the deepest pit in the underworld where he forever stands in a pool of water up to his neck that recedes when he tries to drink. Also, there are low hanging fruit branches that pull away anytime he tries to pluck some dinner. Hence ‘Tantalize’. Dudes other son was forced to burn himself because he wouldn’t pay homage to the gods, and his daughter caused the death of her 14 children by talking shit. Now THAT’S a dysfunctional fucking family.

[2] Svengoolie was originally a character played on Screaming Yellow Theatre from 70 to 73 by Jerry G. Bishop. This was a local show on WFLD Channel 32 in the Chicago land area. A fan who often wrote in with sketch ideas, Rich Koz, eventually took up the moniker in 1979 as The Son of Svengoolie. It was removed from the air in 86 when Rupert Murdock bought the station to become part of the Fox Network. Koz came back in 94 as just ‘Svengoolie’, dropping the ‘son of’ on WCIU Channel 26 in Chicago. The show, which features horror movies and various sketch comedy skits played before and after each segment is still on the air today. Although Koz doesn’t talk during the films like in MST3K, it’s still some funny shit who’s long running gags of screaming ‘BERWYN!’ and rubber chickens being thrown at the host whenever he lets out a particularly corny joke, still crack me up today. Even though they were always shitty B movies, these were the first movies I ever saw.

[3] Airplane was, and quite possibly still is the funniest movie ever made. Released in 1980 with a budget just under 4 million, the film went on to make over 86 million in the US alone. More intelligent and satirical humor you will not find in a movie. Starring Robert Hays, Airplane featured a supporting cast of famous actors known for their dramatic roles, which made the comedy hit home that much better. Lloyd Bridges, father of Jeff Bridges (the Big Lebowski, Iron Man), Leslie Nielson (who would go on to work with the Zucker Brothers again in ‘The Naked Gun’ series), and Barbara Billingsly (June Cleaver from ‘Leave it to Beaver’) were just a few. The film was a spoof of the ‘disaster’ genre of films that were popular at the time, and a direct spoof of the movie ‘Zero Hour!’ If you rent Airplane! And can stomach ever seeing ‘Scary Movie’ again, I’ll suck your cock for you.

[4] Jerry O’Connell played Vern Tessio in Stand by Me when he was 12 years old. You may remember him as ‘The fat kid from Stand by Me’. He went on to star in several TV shows and movies and is currently on the ABC show ‘The Defenders’ which I quite like. O’Connell is also a super fan, and a frequent guest on the Howard Stern Show. His most notable achievement to date is his marriage to the super hot Rebecca Romijn (Formerly married to John Stamos) who just gave birth to the couple’s twin daughters in December of 08. From fat kid to hot guy married to one of the best looking women on the planet; I love the dude, but fuck him. He’s the same age as me and I’m still single and working in retail.

[5] My brother in law actually owns his own wine label called Ron/John. Not to be confused with the California surf shop, Ron/Jon is named after him and a friend who owns the business with him.

[6] This is a club that I was dumbfounded to learn ACTUALLY exists. The North American Man/Boy Love Association is all about fucking kids. I don’t know how this group continues to enjoy its existence, but LET me meet one of these mother fuckers in an ally with no witnesses present. There’s no argument you could give, no excuse you can make, and no explanation you can reason with…you fuck a kid? You die. That’s justice 101.

[7] I doubt if there are many people out there who haven’t seen A Christmas Story, but for the rare few who haven’t, I’ll educate you on MY generation’s it’s a Wonderful Life. Released in 1983, A Christmas Story has gone on to be a holiday classic that’s usually played on Television in back to back 24 hour marathons. It’s a story that’s told through the eyes of a young man growing up in the 40’s and even though few of us can relate to that time, many of us can relate to the situations that Ralphie finds himself in. That’s what makes a timeless classic; the way it relates you as an individual. You know why the Godfather was so great? Because all of us WANT to be part of something like that; a family, an omerta. It didn’t have to be about crime, and a Christmas Story didn’t have to be about Christmas. These movies just struck a chord in the American consciousness and hit on a subject that we are all a part of, or wish to be a part of. Great movie.

Bitches Be CHEATIN'

2011-09-18T08:17:00.001-05:00

Well, it’s an ugly topic, but I feel I have to cover it; Cheating.

Ah, Cheating. It’s a time honored tradition in American culture that’s endured since the dawn of time. I’m sure at some point in our history a female Neanderthal came home to the cave early after a busy day of running for her life from something horrible and scary only to find her Neanderthal husbands big matted hairy Neanderthal ass pumping up and down into the dreadlocked twat of a younger Neanderthal chick while on HER brand new wooly mammoth bed spread.

And if evolution isn’t your thing? Mary cheated on Joseph. That’s right, even if you BELIEVE in Immaculate Conception; God had to have at LEAST shoved a finger up there to get that Jesus ball rolling. I mean BEST case scenario, Mary fucked God, WORST case scenario she banged a guy who sold otter noses and wolf nipple chips down at the marketplace. Either way Joseph had to be one pissed off carpenter. Once the whole Immaculate Conception story started to spread it must have gotten 10 times worse for him. Other carpenters snickering behind his back, God purposely and awkwardly avoiding Joseph’s prayers, and the biggest kick in the ass had to have been putting up with ALL of that and being left out of the holy trinity. That shit must have B.C. sucked.

I’m more of an evolution guy myself, so I have to think that in the days of monkey men, where there wasn’t much to do other than chew tree bark and fuck, men OR women didn’t really know how to deal with the devastation of that moment when time seems to stop and you realize that your partner’s penis is penetrating another vagina, OR that your partner’s vagina is being penetrated by another’s penis. It’s funny how all the years of therapy, all the countless hours of sorrow and self pity that are accrued over that realization…can be attributed to that simple act; my partner’s penis is in another hole, or my partner’s hole has another penis in it. And let’s face it, when we get right down to it THAT’S what really seals our fucking envelopes. When you sit angrily staring at a wall in your apartment at 2 AM, beer in one hand and your other morphed into a fist so tight that your fingernails are poking out the back of your hand, and your girlfriend is not answering your texts STILL, you’re not thinking “Gee, I hope she’s not sharing her lifelong dream of being a cast member on Glee with some other guy”, no you’re stewing about the probability that some beefy construction worker is elbows deep in your cocks special hidey hole (I like to shout “PEEK A BOO” every time I thrust).

Going into a relationship we EXPECT a certain amount of trust from our partners, and we KNOW we’ll have to trust them in turn. But it’s not always that easy, especially when you’ve been betrayed before. The ghosts of relationships past will haunt you making trust a harder commodity to find in your relationship than dignity at a Star Wars convention. I was recently bitten by the ‘bitch be cheatin’ bug, and I can tell you from experience that that mother fucker is poisonous. You break out into a cold sweat, your heart starts beating like a retarded with a new set of bongos, you lose your appetite and you cry while you masturbate.

Look, sometimes we put ourselves in the path of a destructive force like cheating. There are times when men just become so vagina blind that we can’t see the inherent danger that vagina will pull us into. It isn’t until several months after the relationship that we think back to all the warnings from friends, the signs that we chose not to see, and the unbelievable fucking audacity of the lies we chose to believe, that we sit back, look up at the sky, rub our go-tee’s with our thumb and index finger and say with a surprised look on our face; “oooooooh yeah…NOW I get it”. Jesus we can be such a bunch of assholes.

Few things in this world can make you feel shittier than finding out that the person you love or HAD loved has cheated on you. The butterflies in your stomach that once represented a feeling of unrepentant admiration for that person suddenly morph into gorilla bats and start dive bombing your heart with lead-acid battery sized gorilla-bat shit bombs. It is the ONE point in your life where I will accept the term ‘I don’t know what to do’. Because really? You LITTERALY don’t know what the fuck to do. You are lambasted with feelings of disgust, anger, sorrow, revenge, self loathing and the WORST? (And you may NOT want to admit this to yourself), pity for the person who cheated on you.

Why?

Who talked her into this? (Because we STILL think you’re a good person and couldn’t have done this sober and of your own free will). Is she ok? (Because we feel that YOU must feel severe sorrow for making this huge mistake) How will she go on without me? (Because deep down we HAVE to feel like you still need us). It must be my fault for not giving her ALL of me (because in our warped male brain, we think it’s OUR fault for not giving you a reason to stay faithful)

What’s the WORST part of being cheated on? And I’m pretty sure this goes for girls as well as guys…thinking we didn’t fuck well enough so she had to get it someplace else. Oofa. That’s the killer right there. We don’t like to think about it, we don’t like to talk about it, and when we tell our friends? That reason NEVER comes up in the conversation. And let’s face it folks…that’s the lynchpin. That’s the finger in the damn keeping the whole thing together: Fucking.

I have a theory, and feel free to prove me wrong on this one, and I know that I’m sinking my own ship by saying this, but here goes: A woman will DO and put up with ANYTHING a man does…IF he has a big dick. He doesn’t even have to know how to use it as long as it’s big. Here’s the story behind my theory:

I have a friend who looks like a chubby Charlie Sheen. This cat lived with his grandma up to his late twenties when she passed. He is the most irresponsible, slovenly, cloven hoofed womanizer I’ll ever meet in my lifetime. At 40, he spends all of his money and time on Bat Man comic books. I have never once seen him eat anything other than pizza, garlic bread, and French fries. He’s defiled just about every conceivable law of white collar crime and general human decency there is, and gotten away with it. But since I’ve known him…he’s always either had a girlfriend or he’s fucking some girl. It baffles the mind.

For years he wore the SAME shitty black overcoat with black cargo pants and a button down shirt. He had a foot odor problem that could clear a room, he has an animal fetish like a 12 year old and he NEVER cleans up after the things. His last apartment smelled so bad of cat piss that it made HIM reek of cat piss. You could LITERALLY smell him from a block away. Yet even NOW…he has a girlfriend.

He has worked for nothing and has been given everything…always by women. And he’s cheated on every last one of them. Why does he get away with it? Even when he gets caught? (And he always gets caught)…big dick.

He’s got a big dick. Have I seen it? Nope…don’t need to. I’ve had women TELL me that it’s like a baby’s arm with a boxing glove at the end. The old adage: ‘size doesn’t matter’ is bullshit. I eat pussy like an Olympic champ, I’ve made women cum so hard that the Cool Aid guy came crashing through my wall with an ‘OH YEAH!’ Hell, I’ve made women squirt who didn’t know that was even a real thing they could do. But none of that matters because I have an ‘average’ dork.

I’ve had to come to grips with my average-ness and I’ve tried to do everything in a relationship to make up for it, and believe me in my years of dating I’ve come to realize that it’s not ONE thing that keeps a couple together, it’s MANY things. Sometimes when we try to juggle and balance the nights out, the awkward new positions used to ‘spice things up’, the expensive weekend getaways, and the opulent gifts, we tend to forget that it’s the SIMPLE things that keep a woman coming back for more. Treat her right, sometimes that’s all it takes.

And as for women, I can tell you as a man that the way to keep your man from cheating is all about timing. You have to blow him while he’s driving, fuck him when he’s least expecting it and give up that butthole…but not all at once and certainly not all the time. If you give your man everything at the same time, he’ll get bored with it. If you give it to him all the time he’ll get placated. YOU have to know JUST the right times to dole out different parts and positions to keep him interested and wanting to come back for more.

That having been said, the world of internet dating has been such a treacherous road on which to find love for me BECAUSE of those ass clowns who DON’T know how to treat a woman right…and the fucking media isn’t helping me either by plastering these dimwits all over the news.

It seems to me that every day I pick up the paper there’s a story in it about how a man beat the shit out of a woman or did something generally horrible to her. Each story is worse than the last, and since Ed Gein these sadistic bastards have just gotten more ingenious with their fucking brutality. I say that as a human race, we put these assholes down like we would a dog that bit a child. But I’m not here to voice my violent opinion on the euthanizing of men who raise anything other than their voice to a woman.

What I am here to say is simply this: I kinda understand why women DO cheat.

I do NOT understand why a guy would hurt a woman, I do NOT understand why a woman would put up with it after the first time it happened, I do NOT understand the pain and suffering in a family dynamic that this brutality would cause. It would be insulting to you as a woman and ignorant of me as a man to assume that I do. What I DO understand is why it’s been so hard to find a fucking date.

These cowardly ass maggots have been giving men, ALL men a bad name for too long.

I’m not that old, and to be honest I’m not that pretty. But I grew up in a time when men opened doors for women, pulled out their chair, PAID for dinner, and waited patiently for the 3^rd (ok 2^nd) date before trying to round third base and slide on in to home. In the relationships I’ve been in I’ve tried to foster a sense of mutual harmony and trust, and if that didn’t work out? I was outta there. Sure arguments arise from time to time, but I’ve always looked at an argument with a girlfriend the same way I would an argument with my best friend. If Steve and I disagree on a ball game or something, I’m not going to haul off and try to shove a beer bottle into his throat.
I’m a romantic at heart, I love making a woman feel good in OR out of the bed. I have to remind myself that there’s nothing wrong with that, because I keep dating women who seem to think I have the problem for expecting a ONE dick relationship. Now sure, maybe it’s my fault for dating younger women, but dating is simple no matter HOW old you are. There are ONLY three steps: You date, you break up, and you fuck someone else. How hard is that?

Cheating has been a part of my life since the beginning, and to my mind it’s an almost certainty that whatever is IN your life, PERPETUATES in your life. Father was a football star in high school? You’re going to play football and watch sports. Mother was a homemaker? You’re going to be a good cook and know how to treat a man.

As for me? My father cheated on my mother with her best friend, he left her, moved out of state with the woman and never paid alimony or contacted me again. The woman he left her for? Left her man with 3 kids and did the same thing. Dad put the pussy on a pedestal.

An older friend of mine, in his 60’s now, made me complicit in HIS cheating with an 18 year old Polish foreign exchange student. I lived with him and his wife for a time, and in payment for letting me stay there, I had to cart his nagging, narcissistic, accent having Polish princess around to meet him at hotels or take her to work, I was basically her chauffer. I fucking hated it, because to tell the truth, his wife was such a nice lady that it made me feel like Lando selling out Han in Empire. Why? Cause he put the pussy on a pedestal.

Another friend of mine had a wonderful girlfriend, model pretty. They lived together, and apparently she had some issues with the ‘plumbing’ down there so she couldn’t fuck a lot. However, she DID blow him every chance she got. Matt and I would go out constantly with these two lovely young ladies (They’ll probably be reading this on face book, so I’ll be nice). He was cheating. THEN he met another girl (this was the sister of the guy who MY gf at the time ended up cheating on ME with: DRA-ma). I told HIM, do NOT fuck this girl. She had ‘crazy eyes’, she was always crying and carrying on, and I KNEW that was NOT a good idea. He told me he wouldn’t and things went back to normal.

A few weeks passed by and while we were at work (ALL of us worked together), his girl friend, the two chicks we were seeing, AND the new one crazy eyes all learned about Matt’s multiple infidelities at the same time. Turns out he DID fuck crazy eyes against my specific instructions. I don’t know what the conversation the 3 of them had that led to their mutual revelation, but crazy eyes came up to Matt and threw coffee in his face, his girlfriend broke down and had a crying fit in front of everyone, and when the SECOND girl found out? She threw shit in his face as well. He lost THREE pieces of ass in 5 minutes. Plus, because I couldn’t stop laughing and making fun of him, he never talked to ME again…and Matt was my best friend at the time. Why did all of this happen? Cause he put the pussy on a pedestal.

My current best friend was having problems in his relationship with a woman that I really liked. For several years the two of them would come to my apartment once or twice a week and we’d watch TV shows together, drink, or go out to dinner. They went out of their way to not make me feel like a third wheel. Hell sometimes the three of us would rent separate hotel rooms at the same place and then sit up all night watching movies and playing board games. We went to bars together, gone on road trips, and most recently we spent the day in Chinatown during this past Chinese New Year. They seemed like a great couple. In most cases when you’re best friend finds himself in that kind of relationship, you don’t see him again until it’s over, however THIS relationship seemed to make my relationship with him stronger. I really like them together as a couple. So imagine my surprise when I found out he was cheating on her; and not just once OR with one girl. He even had a threesome with another guy and the Canadian Moose (read ‘Mike’s ‘I’m Obviously Not Racist’ Sexually Awkward U.N. Christmas Party for more on the Canadian Moose). Well, they’re broken up now, and my guess is that he’s fucking everything that moves now. But my feeling is that he feels bad for the decisions he made in that relationship and he’s trying to overcompensate in the pain management department by putting the pussy on a pedestal so high that Michael Jordon from 15 years ago couldn’t get it down with a running start and a fucking trampoline.

And these are just SOME of the guy stories I know. I haven’t even delved into the ‘chick’ stories. For some reason, they seem a hundred times worse because chicks cheat ‘meanly’. A woman will think it’s the guys fault if he gets caught cheating, But when a MAN catches his WOMAN cheating? It's automatically HIS fault for some reason.

Where did all of this drama start? I’ll tell you, it started with the disemboweling of the ‘moral line’. Movies, TV shows, and ESPECIALLY reality shows have shown America that you can be a complete asshole with absolutely NO consequences. Hell, Television is SO in love with cheaters that even when there isn't a scandal, I once saw a news clip about ANIMALS who cheat.

I don’t know why, but it seems that in the world of celebrity, ONLY men get caught cheating. Sure there’re a few exceptions like Meg Ryan or Anne Heche, but really, what did you hear about those incidents if you heard anything at all? Now male celebrities? Fuck, it’s hard to open up a newspaper without being poked in the eye by some rich guys wandering cock; Schwarzenegger, Frank Gifford, Jude Law, Clinton, Jesse James, John Edwards, Kobe Bryant, Tiger Woods, Donald Trump, Elliot Spitzer, Eric Benet, Jim Bakker, Hugh Grant, Eddie Murphy, Giuliani; these mother fuckers make up a veritable who’s who of tabloid scandals. But why do rich men get caught?

Simple, cause bitches be talking. In most of these cases the other women decided to make a quick 10 grand by spilling their sexual exploits with the enquirer. They get their money and move on to more stable dick. Men RARELY get caught in the real world because women stand nothing to gain by busting them out. And when men DO get caught down here on planet earth, it’s usually because of their stupidity OR because the woman they’re cheating with is a cunt. However, for SOME reason women in the real world ALWAYS get caught. Always. Why? Because as dumb as we can be as men…we just know.

Now, I’m not advocating that you don’t fall in love. But what I’m saying, especially to the kids, is that it doesn’t last forever. Love stagnates and eventually turns both partners bitter and resentful towards one another. Unfortunately that bitter resentment doesn’t happen on a mutual timeline. That would be the best thing ever if it did. BOTH of you wake up one morning and over a cup of coffee say; I don’t think this is working out’, and then amicably go your separate ways. Imagine how much suffering could be avoided with that.

My theory of fleeting love does NOT affect everyone. I know that some of your parents may have been together for a LONG time, but in MOST cases, not all, but MOST cases…this happened out of convenience OR a squat threshold of options. In fact I’d be willing to bet that in many relationships that last more than 5 years, one of those partners had a wandering private part.

The problem is is that cheating on someone does not necessarily mean you don’t love that person anymore. I know it sucks that I just said that, and I hate to defend the act, but I have to be objective here. Let me explain; certainly there are cases were a person cheats on their partner out of love for the new person. They don’t have the courage or the fortitude to simply break it off with their old lover. They cheat with the same person over and over again, or with different people on multiple occasions sub-consciously hoping that their partner will find out and do the breaking up FOR them…and those people can fuck off. But in some cases, not all, but some, cheating happens in the heat of the moment. Passion comes at us from all angles and we have to know that passion is NOT love. It’s done out of a weak moment in our conscience when opportunity becomes mutually exclusive from fidelity. In most of these cases, when it just happens the one time, not only does the cheater never want their partner to find out, but it actually solidifies their love for that person because they realize what they stand to lose if they DO find out.

What is it about being in love that makes us expect our partner to NEVER fuck anyone ever again? Sure that’s the way it SHOULD be, but it’s not a very realistic expectation. Cheating ruins lives because we let it. Now I’m not saying that you should EXPECT or even ACCEPT your partners cheating ways, but what I am saying is that we need to be more understanding of WHY and HOW cheating happens. We need to recognize that cheating is not always or EVER the fault of the person being cheated on.

I meet a lot of women whose main concern when looking for a man is that he not be a cheater. These women tell me horror stories of past boyfriends who fucked their sisters, best friends, and mutual acquaintances. But whatever their theory of why it happened, there’s always a common thread of self pity. They may not come right out and say it, but these women blame themselves for the dickheadedness of their ex boyfriends.

Let me be perfectly clear to both men AND women; IF YOU WANT TO FUCK SOMEONE ELSE WHILE YOU’RE IN A RELATIONSHIP, BREAK UP WITH THE PERSON YOU’RE WITH FIRST! Then go fuck whoever you want. Believe me, the pain you cause someone by telling them that the relationship is over is a MILLION times less than the pain you’ll cause them when they find out you fucked some hussy that you met at a bar.

Cheating is ALWAYS the fault of the cheater. If that person didn’t break up with you before they went and stuck their filthy pethis in some stringy haired slut, that was a choice THEY made, not because of you, but in spite of you. However, when you as a woman find OUT that your man cheated and you stay with him because he’s hot, or he’s got a big cock? Then every time he cheats forth with IS your fault because YOU didn’t have the confidence or the courage to dump his ass and find someone who respects you and your feelings.

Personally, I’ve NEVER cheated on a woman, and I NEVER will. I don’t understand why you would want to corrupt a relatively pleasant thing like ‘dating’ with the juggling, and the lying, and the what-not. AND, just a side note, I would like to apologize to ALL the women out there who HAVE been cheated on, on behalf of all mankind. I humbly beg your forgiveness, and PLEASE…don’t take it out on me. SOME women seem to think that just because their ex: Rock Deltoid cheated on them, I got it coming to me.

The reason men cheat is simple: We like pussy. The reason women cheat: You may as well ask ‘What’s the meaning of life?’ You’ll get a shit load of philosophical answers, some ‘definitions’, and an eye roll. That’s it. Sometimes I feel like there IS an answer, but there is some secret ‘Masonic’ society that women belong to that prevents them from revealing it to us.

Look, relationships end. That’s life. But what I’m asking you nice women to do is exactly that: END THEM. THEN go fuck someone else. And don’t try to be FRIENDS with us after you dump us. What are we? Evolved? That shit NEVER works out. Unless it’s like 13 years later and you’ve become a fat slob, then it’s ok. But the last thing we need to think about is you out at a fondue restaurant with the key grip from ‘The Jerry Spring Show’ (true story).

I’m not stupid, I know ‘shit happens’, and there are a finite amount of truly trust worthy women out there. What you’ve done BEFORE we date? Out the window. Don’t want to know, don’t have to tell me. Same goes with AFTER we date. So long sister, let the garbage truck of hopelessness back up to my curb and haul these awful feelings away. You need to let us MOVE the fuck on.

How the hell are we supposed to get over you if you constantly call us and say things like ‘I just need to be alone for awhile and figure things out’, and then sporadically send us text messages like: ‘That movie we watched together was just on and it made me think of you’. FUCK YOU with the mixed messages.

How about if I text you: ‘I was just watching some chick getting gang banged by the Minnesota Vikings football team on the internet, and it made me think of you’. If you DON’T want to be with us, then DON’T fucking be with us. If you DO want to be with us? Then fucking be with JUST us.

I’ve done the math on this through years of experience. After a relationship of 2 to 5 years, it takes a guy approximately 1 month to completely stop thinking of you, IF there is NO contact from you. During that 1 month, every time you call or text him, it ADDS an entire month of ‘get over’ time. So if you call him 3 times the month after the break up? It’s going to take him 4 months to get over you (including the initial month). So the formula is: (5y/x) + 1a x b = LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.

Cheating happens at the point when you have to lie or omit the truth from your partner. You could do something as seemingly innocent as having a simple dinner with another person, but when you FEEL that you need to tell your partner that you ‘just went for a drive by yourself’, or you ‘decided to take a Karate class’, or your ‘car broke down’…you cheated asshole. Cheating is NOT a penetrative act, that’s rape. Cheating is an emotional act that forever scars all parties involved. And that scarring can be EASILY avoided by using this simple phrase: “You’re a great person, but I don’t think we should be together anymore.” And then leave. DON’T hang around to watch your partner cry and carry on because as human beings we have empathy and you’ll end up losing your conviction once the waterworks begin. I call this move the ‘dump and go’. You should NEVER break up with someone over the phone or God forbid through a text, but get the fuck out as SOON as those break up words come tumbling out of your mouth. I know it sucks for you too because you’ve had an emotional investment in this person. It’s hard to say goodbye, but if you care about them THAT much? You wouldn’t want to fuck someone else. They’d be enough for you.

Marriage began as a simple land deal. But like many things in life, God has taken the good sense out of evolution. We’re not MEANT to be with the same person forever. As a man we look for a woman to plant our seed in, as a woman you want a man that can give you children. That’s as far as it goes. Love, like everything else has evolved over the years and as we shed our hair in exchange for sweat glands, so too did we shed our desire to fuck everything that moves. However that desire still lingers in our DNA, not as prevalent as it used to be, but it’s still there.

What I’m saying is simply this: Think about it before you do it. Consider not only YOUR feelings, but ours as well. If you’re the type of bitch who thinks she be PREDISPOSED to fucking a LOT of motha fucka’s…then tell us that shit up front. We won’t think you’re a slut or a who-er, hell we might even have a little respect for you for being honest with us.

And hey, this is just ME talking here. I know there are a lot of guys out there who have absolutely NO problem cheating on their woman. But as many times as I’ve seen it, there’s always ONE thing they never learn…you will ALWAYS get caught. How do they get caught? The same way thieves always get caught. They get too damned greedy. Personally, I’m just not built that way. Maybe it’s because I’m a fat guy and I rely on repeat business. I’m not that kind of guy who’s gonna GET a woman to fuck me because I bought her a drink and used the requisite ‘good looking guy’ pick up line: ‘so…uhhhh…you got any gum?’. I need time for a woman to get to know me, usually about 14 hour’s total.

Once I wedge my foot in the door as she slams it shut, I can usually talk her into opening it back up through charm, wit, and fostering a sense of ‘What the fuck is this guy going to say next’ that makes her HAVE to go out on a date with me for the same reason you HAVE to watch ANY MTV reality show. You KNOW it’s horrible, but you GOT to see where it goes.

We have to protect ourselves from the hurt that others cause. No matter what you do in life, cheating will happen in it. Whether you cheat or your partner cheats, it’s just part of the game. And believe me, it IS a game. There’s no such thing as movie love, there’s no walking off into the sunset holding hands together, and there’s no scenario that won’t eventually end up with your partner bent over an already semen stained cushioned chair in a filthy motel room with the heavy curtains drawn and the air conditioning on to high before she wipes off her back and gets under the itchy thin comforter to watch Maury with whatever asshole she met at work, or at a neighbors barbeque, or in an airport lounge, or at a shitty bar in Wriglyville, or even in the waiting room at the abortion clinic before she comes home to you and sais “I was just out with the girls” and gets ignorant with YOU for asking “so what did you do today?” Because you were generally interested in her life.

Or for girls? You’ll never know. Because unless your man is incredibly stupid or a celebrity, you’ll never fucking find out. But I WILL give you this bit of advice that I heard on Oprah: If you THINK your man is cheating on you? That mother fucker is cheating on you.

But I for one am DONE subscribing to ‘Cuckold Dating Monthly’ (look it up). I’m putting it out there, I guess a lot of people do with all the dating sites now, but mostly I just hear about people meeting others to get laid. Me? I’m sick of listening to some dingbat broad drone on and on about how cute her kitty is when he swipes his paw at the television screen while ‘Mother Angelica’ is on. (Fuck you Mother Angelica kitty chick, by the way). There comes a point where it just isn’t worth putting up with that nonsense JUST for some stank on my hang low. So, here’s MY add and I’m gonna be fucking specific so there’s no confusion. Do you have to reach ALL the requirements? Of course not. But you DO have to reach a bare minimum of them, but we can discuss that later:

SWM seeks a ODG (one dick girl), must be able to spell the word ‘sixty’ (and it’s NOT sickstey…yes, I dated a girl who spelled it like that on a check), must NOT drive a pickup truck (especially if you call it a ‘pick-em-up’ truck), Must not live in a trailer home (Those chicks can be hella hot, but it’s like dating Kid Rock with a vagina), must NOT expect to be taken to The Olive Garden (this place is the McDonalds of Italian food, I’ll take you to a REAL restaurant), Must be willing to consider different hairstyles other than pulled back into a pony tail at the top of your head (see ‘trailer home’ rule), Must be able to appreciate film, be it TV or Movies, as an art form and NOT as a bathtub fart for you to giggle at, must be willing to HATE the ‘Twilight’ series (There, I’ve just evaporated the young ones), must not smoke so much that she sounds like she has a broken dinner plate in her voice box, must NOT be able to comfortably fit into MY pants; kids are fine, but I don’t wanna smell milk piss, must be willing to heap loads of adulation on me for my brilliant writing style. Must not be looking for an ‘argument’ partner, Must be at least 3 months out of her last relationship (including last point of contact), must LIKE being with a man who will respect her space, will cook for her, AND doesn’t fall asleep until SHE cums. And most of all? Must have a sense of humor, a sense of self worth, and a playful nature.

The Week in Review: Curtis ‘Horseteeth’ Jackson, Andy Whitfield, and 9/11

2011-09-12T07:51:00.000-05:00

One of the truths I’ve learned in life is that the dumbest most ignorant retards shop on holidays. This isn’t just me spouting angry at the general public, this is a cold hard fact. In society there is a sub-culture of physically and mentally disfigured individuals who YOU only see in Mad Max movies, on TV shows about hoarders, or at the doctor’s office while waiting to get a checkup. These are the 700 pound people whose skin has melded with a couch cushion, or that have a big red birthmark that covers the entire right side of their face, or whose skin has more pot holes in it than Harlem Avenue in the winter. USUALLY the only place you can see these freaks is at a Dunkin’ Doughnuts at 3 AM OR at a comic book convention, but that’s because you have a normal job in which you don’t have to work on holidays. In my world however, these people ONLY shop on holidays because they know that NORMAL people stay home, freeing up retail establishments like mine for their freak parade.

I wouldn’t MIND so much if they were JUST freakish looking, but these people are also a special KIND of entitled asshole. On Labor Day this week I had a tiny Mexican who didn’t have the ability to blink, limp into my store with a powder blue polo shirt on backwards. A polo shirt is a hard thing to put on backwards as it has a collar and 3 buttons opening up the front. Not ONLY was this thing on backwards, but there were soup stains on the back, meaning that he had been wearing it backwards for some time. He yelled and cursed at me in Spanish because we don’t take coupons for the converter boxes any longer….which expired 3 years ago. Next was a 400 pound white woman whose back tits were bigger than her front tits. Her shirt was small and tight, causing her belly to hang out over the top of her pajama pants and she smelled of many, many, many cats. SHE yelled at me because my store doesn’t sell lottery tickets. Seriously...I work at a fucking RadioShack. Next was the old Polish woman who came in with her granddaughter who has Down’s syndrome. These people make me sad, and I try to have a modicum of empathy for their lot in life. However, this girl didn’t stop screaming at the top of her lungs in garbled Polish the entire time she was in my store. Not only that but she kept taking items off the sales floor and throwing them across the store like a gorilla hurling rocks at his trainer. WHILE she’s doing this, her grandmother is asking me for something in Polish and getting incrementally pissed off because I didn’t know what the fuck she was asking for.

My point is that holidays suck for me, so in an effort to calm myself after a day like that I went to see a movie with my cousin after work. Cous’n Hemp’n chose Apollo 18 because he’d seen everything else in the theaters. No shit, he goes to the movies by himself 5 times a week. From the trailers for this movie, I thought it might not be that bad. It had Warren Christie from the SyFy show ‘Alphas’ in it, and I like the show Alphas.

First of all the movie opened up with a trailer for ‘Paranormal Activity 3’, and if you know anything about me…that pissed me off. I yelled ‘FUCK YOU TOO HOLLYWOOD’ at the screen after the trailer ended. Then Apollo 18 started. From the very beginning I knew it was gonna be a piece of shit. The whole movie was nothing but stock footage and shaky camera movements on a black and white moon set. It was the lunar version of the Blair Witch Project. Not only that, but FROM the first time they showed original footage of that 1953 science fiction looking fake set, I knew what the monster was because they throw it in your face. Believe me; I’m not giving anything away when I tell you that the monster is moon rocks. Yes, moon rocks come alive with little teeth and hurl themselves at the astronaut’s helmets causing them to break, which in turn causes them to die. Although during the 2 hours of the movie there are really only 2 actors in the thing so only 2 people really die from this. That’s SOME horror movie. 2 deaths? Caused by self hurling rocks? Again, fuck you too Hollywood. A perfect end to a perfect holiday.

So, on Tuesday I decided to wash that shit out of my mouth with a decent movie. I saw that Bruce Willis was starring in a flick that I’d never heard of called ‘Set up’. Sure it was made by the same guy who did 57 Blocks or whatever that shit movie was that starred Willis and Mos Def, but hey…I’ll usually give anything with Bruce in it a chance.

First of all I gotta ask: Is Bruce Willis broke, Or just desperate to prove to everyone that he isn't racist? Second, the fucking trailer for this movie lied to me like a woman. It didn’t STAR Bruce Willis at all. It STARRED, yes I said STARRED Curtis ‘50 cent’ Jackson and CO-starred Bruce Willis. Now, I KNOW black people are gonna get pissed at me for saying this, but 50 cent is about the toofiest mother fucker I've ever seen. I think those horse teeth aren't even separated, it's just a wall of sheet rock painted a blinding shade of white that doesn’t even exist on our color spectrum. They NEVER move! He talks and talks and talks, and those teefus stay the fuck put. What is that? I feel bad for chicks because making out with him has to be like licking a plaster wall.

But, other than those fucking teeth (get it?); this guy has got to be the worst actor I’ve ever seen. He makes Pauly Shore look like fucking Marlon Brando. His acting is as stiff as his teeth. His expression NEVER changes. There’s a scene in the movie where he’s chasing Ryan Philippe and he gets away (when a bus cuts him off…SO dumb) and 50 cent screams ‘FUCK!’, but all he does is raise his voice. His mouth doesn’t open and his expression doesn’t change AT all. He always has a look on his face like a white blonde woman with big tits.

Another point of contention for me came at the climactic gun fight in which 7 guys are standing in a circle about 2 feet apart and begin shooting at each other for 17 fucking minutes, not once hitting anyone. The only person who gets shot is Bruce Willis, who takes one in the shoulder, and then you NEVER see him again in the flick. After that, 50 cent finally catches up with Ryan Philippe, who killed his best friend. He throws him in a truck, drives him out to a junk yard, throws him on the ground and proceeds to dump a gallon of store bought anti freeze on his head. WHY? What the fuck does that do? Gasoline I could understand, but fucking anti freeze? Then he tosses him a shovel, tells him to dig his own grave, shoots him in the leg, and leaves him there alive. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? He’s been chasing this guy the WHOLE movie! Movies like this should be fucking illegal.

Now granted, I’m a white guy, but I do enjoy the occasional hip hop song, and to be honest with you I haven’t heard a good 50 cent song in about 7 years. Why this guy thinks he can go from rap to acting is beyond me, much less with a mega star like Bruce Willis...oh wait, this all might be Bruce’s fault. Back in the 80’s Bruce put out 2 shitty albums, going from acting to music. He set a horrible precedent that 50 might be emulating. Well I put it upon Bruce to share the fact that his albums flopped and his music sucked with his new co-star.

Did 50 cent stumble upon Bruce Willis fucking a dog or something? How the hell did he coerce that man into being in this piece of shit? Ryan Philippe? For fucking shame man. Aren’t you an Oscar winner? Bottom line is that this may be the worst movie I’ve ever seen and I’m pissed that I was duped into seeing it simply because Bruce Willis is made to look like the star in the trailer. The acting sucked, the story was ludicrous (why wasn’t he in it), the dialogue was dumb, and there were more editing mistakes and story element fuck ups than I could count. Don’t waste your time.

After my epic failures at trying to watch a good movie, I turned to television, and in this entertainment medium I was deluged with more horror. The horror of 9/11.

We live in a world where people who commit horrible crimes cannot be pigeon holed into any other category than ‘bat shit crazy’. I don’t care what their excuse is, be it women, voices in their heads, or the most popular one: Religion.

Welcome to September where our country will not only continue to forget that there are TWO wars going on right now, that our economy is failing partly because of them, and that our boys are dying by the thousands in a middle eastern Vietnam simply because our president doesn’t want to look like that guy at the party who punches out the wrong guy when he heard someone said his wife has nice tits. Instead we’ll have candlelight vigils, magnificent fireworks displays, and half the country will buy and shove an American flag up their ass in an effort to ‘REMEMBER’ the event that was used as a springboard to wage an unnecessary and unwinnable war against a fucking verb.

During WWII, even though we decided not to get involved until the last minute and then take credit for winning it, every aspect of that war was on the cover of every newspaper in the country for MOST of the time it happened. You would go to a movie and get updates on how the war was progressing before the film started. Radios gave daily updates to families as they sat around the dinner table and listened with a reserved sadness and a deep pride at how the war was progressing in our favor. Sure a lot of it was censored and most of it was propaganda, but the point is that the war was forefront on the minds of Americans throughout this great country. We were informed and we were happy to do our part. Women who were used to doing housework now got jobs at factories making weapons, inventors were hard at work coming up with things that could help the war effort, and people everywhere bought war bonds. We were fighting a clear and distinct man whose army was a clear and distinct danger to our world, and we were stimulating our economy as we did it.

Now I don’t know what the fuck is going on. I didn’t even know we were fighting two wars until I watched an episode of ‘It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia’ from last year. You would think that with the amount of media attention this thing gets that there was no war going on at all. I saw a news story the other day about a kitten that saved a dog from a fire and thought to myself “WHO THE FUCK CARES! There are people, younger than me, fighting an enemy who although nasty and smelly, isn’t really worth fighting at all. The only reason we don’t like these people and they don’t like us is because we all don’t believe in the same mythical fables. People are dying in the name of a fucking fiction! And it pisses me off. Plus, let’s not forget the fact that women became more independent and their efforts during the war made them MORE than just something to keep barefoot and pregnant. In THIS war we won’t even let homosexuals fight. WHO GIVES A FUCK WHAT SOMEONE LIKES TO STICK IN THEIR MOUTH AS LONG AS THEY’RE SHOOTING THE ENEMY. Many of these people want to fight and help their country, but our government is more concerned with their marriage rights than putting a fucking rifle in their hand and letting them get their kill on. I don’t give a fuck if some kid wears a pink scarf and ties up his uniform shirt at the bottom as long as he’s on MY side.

The Vietnam War came to an end because people were informed enough to protest that shit. It was college kids that ended that war. This week millions of people gathered to remember how these current wars were started instead of gathering to bring our troops home. I call bullshit on America. STOP the fucking wars, STOP these children from being killed for no other reason than God v. Muhammad, and protest until Obama sais ‘fuck it’ and starts bringing them home HIMSELF in air force one.

And lastly; When I first saw the show Spartacus: Blood and Sand, I was NOT a fan. In fact I hated it. But like most things I hate, I still watched it. Why? Because I’m not going to tell you how horrible something is unless I’ve seen it…which is why I’ve sat through every horrible Twilight movie. However, and this rarely happens, as Spartacus progressed, it made me a fan. Not because of the story or the history, but because of Andy Whitfield who played Spartacus. Whitfield was a good actor; in fact I was surprised I hadn’t seen him in anything before. I learned that this was a first gig for him and he knocked it out of the park. When the first season ended I was happy that the show had won critical acclaim and I was looked forward to seeing Andy reprise the role that he worked so hard at. However, before filming of season 2 started, Andy went to the doctor for a routine checkup and found out that he had cancer. We all learned that he would NOT be coming back to Spartacus and the studio decided to stretch out a 2 episode flashback story arc into an interim 6 episode season while they searched for a new Spartacus. This PREQUEL was pretty good, but it was lacking in a very obvious department…no Andy Whitfield.

Well, it was just announced today that almost a year after finding out he had cancer, Andy Whitfield has died at 39 years old. A promising career snuffed out before it even started. Now THAT deserves a candlelight vigil.

So long Andy, we barely knew ye.

END

Dedicated to Andy Whitfield

1972-2011

10 Things I'd RATHER Do Than See ‘Transformers 3'

2011-07-05T07:25:00.000-05:00

10.) I would rather be slowly and romantically sodomized by the entire 'Oakland Raiders' football team, including the coach, assistant coach, the water boy, ex players, referees, and all of their wives while wearing strap-ons. On the field, stands packed, all TV stations filming.

09.) I would rather watch, while helplessly tied up, as a pack of starving squirrels chew off my scrotum.

08.) I would rather have my asshole sown shut and witness my body slowly fill up with the poisons and diseases caused by not pooping, until I eventually die a horrible, bloated, and painful death.

07.) I would rather listen to Paris Hilton tell me her political views for ONE hour.

06.) I would rather watch an episode of 'American Idol' (oofa, that's the tough one)

05.) I would rather go back in time and pass out K.K.K. pamphlets at The Million Man March

04.) I would rather go to an ‘Off Track Betting’ parlor in Georgia dressed in drag

03.) I would rather stand outside of an 'Americas Next Top Model' audition, naked

02.) I would rather piss on an electric fence

AND the number one thing I would RATHER do than see ‘Transformers 3’? (Drum roll......)

01.) Blow Optimus Prime

America at the movies

The Tony Danza: Dropping Loads all Over America's Face!

2011-06-24T07:07:00.005-05:00

Ron Jeremy OR me in 10 years

I can still remember the first time I saw a porno movie. I was 12 and going through my mother’s dresser drawers looking for money with which to buy a pizza when I came across (no pun intended) a large VHS box with, what I now know to be, Ron Jeremy on the cover in a civil war uniform. I don’t remember the name of the movie, but I liked war films so I figured I’d watch it while I ate the pizza, which I found 14 bucks to buy with.

I’d never seen a porn film before, much less had I ever even heard of one. I’d seen magazines, but only playboy which was just nekkid women. At that age, that’s all I thought sex was…naked women, I didn’t know you were supposed to DO anything with them. My whole sexual goal at that point was just to SEE a naked lady in person and sometimes…sometimes I wish I could go back to that innocence.

But that innocence was shattered as soon as I put the tape into the VCR. As we all know, found porn is NEVER rewound, so the tape started RIGHT where my mother had left off (GROSS!)At first I was disgusted by all the fucking hair in the film. Ron Jeremy’s back, arm, and crotch hair made him look like Chewbacca on Rogaine, the southern belles he was fucking looked like they had buckwheat in a leg lock, and the black slaves that got to fuck their mistresses had afro’s that were the size of hedges in an English garden maze. Every sex scene was just a grainy close up of hairy balls slapping against an even hairier va-j-j. I was sickened by the images that my young mind was being hammered with and at the same time I became aware of my dick as something other than a piss stick.

Growing up in military school, I’d showered with black guys AND white guys. There was a communal shower which was a tiled room with a large mechanical looking device that had 3 shower heads protruding from it. Three of us would shower at a time, and none of us ever even thought about each other’s dick size. But seeing these massive King Kong cocks in that Ron Jeremy movie made me think that maybe mine was too small…which in turn made me ashamed of it. It was like Adam eating the apple for the first time and wanting to put some fucking clothes on. (Yes, I just compared porn to a bible passage. Eat it religion.)

But as I found more of these TYPES of film hidden around my mother’s bedroom like a pornographic Easter egg hunt, that disgusted feeling I had at first turned into a warm feeling in my pants. From watching the guys in these films jerk off their massive wads onto a woman’s accepting face, I learned how to jerk mine off. However when I did it…the warm feeling that took over my body and made my knees buckle when I stood up was the greatest feeling I’d ever had…only nothing came out. I didn’t know it at the time, but you CAN jerk off at that age, but you don’t produce semen yet. So I was LITERALLY shooting blanks. I thought there was something seriously wrong with me. But that fright was not enough to make me stop. As much as I wanted to ask an adult questions, I felt as though I’d discovered a secret in jerking off that ONLY I knew, and I didn’t want to share it with anybody. Then it happened.

I went to bed one wintery night when I was 13 and had my first wet dream. I still remember EVERY fucking detail of that dream to this day. There were 2 rows of about 5 houses in the middle of a cornfield. There was a street in between them which ended at corn on either end. There was nothing but a sea of corn in every direction outside of this tiny Hamlet. A full moon hung low overhead casting its silvery glow on this tiny island of an American Suburb. The weather was hot, and inside one of the houses I sat at a dining room table watching my babysitter looking through kitchen cabinets in a sweaty dago t-shirt and tiny gym shorts.

The lighting in the room was cast by a low hanging ceiling lamp with a small watt light bulb. I don’t know how to explain it…but mixed with the heat and the time of night it made the whole scene sultrier. Seduction and temptation hung in the air with the small glow of that lamp and I could feel sexuality dancing in the air around me like the copper taste of electricity just before a thunderstorm.

I could see this woman’s ample breasts and tiny nipples through the sweat covered shirt in the light of the moon, as she reached up high on her tip toes in front of the kitchen window, and I knew that I shouldn’t be looking at them…but I couldn’t look away. When I asked her what she was looking for, she told me that she couldn’t find her weed. I knew that was wrong, but at that age once a woman makes you complicit in her illegalities; it opens a door in your mind to the possibility of being complicit in OTHER eventualities with her.

She found what she was looking for in a tin coffee can and sat next to me at the round table in the dining room. In the light I could see the sweat glistening on her skin and her silky auburn hair made her look like she’d just gotten out of the shower. She lit her joint and passed it to me. I was in! We talked about things that a 13 year old and a 22 year old shouldn’t talk about, and as the conversation mounted into desire…she kissed me. I could feel her wet hair on my face and the warmth I felt was almost unbearable when mixed with the heat. She threw me down on the cold linoleum floor and climbed on top of me, kissing me the whole time. As our bodies pressed together, the sweat poured off of us and I could feel her reach behind her and grab my dick…

And then I woke up to the screaming of one of my house parents telling us that it was time to get up. SHIT, SO CLOSE! I thought as I stumbled out of bed. When I got up I realized that the front of my pajamas were soaking wet, and my first thought was that I’d pissed myself. I quickly ran to my closet and shoved them deep into my laundry basket along with my underwear. I didn’t realize it…but I’d just had my first wet dream. My penis was becoming a cock.

The thought of that dream stuck with me all day. Not so much the act…as the feeling AROUND the act. The passion brought on by secrets and heat were enough to make me desire that in real life like nothing I ever wanted before. After school I ran back to my cottage to masturbate in a bathroom stall before anybody else got there and I was SHOCKED to find that something finally came out. I came all over the toilet seat and floor and it felt 10 times better than when I’d done it before. A whole new world of desire had opened up to me, and in my young mind...love became my goal. At that age you mistake sexual desire for love because you don’t know any better, and because I was stuck in an all boys military school, my deep desire for that love seemed like an impossible goal to reach.

A man’s first wet dream shapes him into the lover that he will become. For me sex is all about the passion, not the conquest. I’ve found that fucking is 10 times more enjoyable to me when it’s done on a late summer night, where the sweat rolling off of us isn’t an inconvenience but a product of that desire.

I didn’t have my first sexual encounter until I was sixteen, a few years after I was kicked out of military school, but the scenario did NOT play out like I thought it would. The actual fulfillment of our desires rarely meets our expectations

The first time a woman copped my joint happened in the shower at my mother’s condo while she was at work. I was sixteen and one of my three best friends, Grey Jim, sat in the dining room while I was escorted into the bathroom by a heavy set female classmate who proceeded to undress me and guide me into the shower. I don’t think it was because I smelled or anything, I think that because we were young, that’s what we thought we were supposed to do. That or she’d seen ‘Shower Me with Cum 37’.

Because she was so rotund, I was forced into the corner of the shower with my back up against the cold tile wall. As a guy, I can tell you that cold tile on your back is where hard ons go to die. But because I was sixteen it didn’t so much kill my hard on, as my ability to splooge a goopy load in a goodly amount of time. With cold tile on my back and warm water on my chest, we made out while she worked my dork like the gearshift of a 67 Volkswagen bus that she was trying to rock out of a fucking mud hole.

I immediately felt a problem. She wasn’t using any soap, and I couldn’t reach around her to grab the shampoo bottle because she was wedged into the shower like an elephant in a photo booth. It’s like we were in some John Hughes movie version of a Gary Larson ‘Far Side’ cartoon. Because I was so horny and because a woman had never been so kind as to grope my scrote, I was too shy and probably too nervous to force the ‘shampoo’ issue. I don’t know about women, but when a guy feels like he’s getting a good deal, he shuts the fuck up. Fat girl giving’ me a handy in the shower at sixteen? I thought I was getting a better deal than Chumly from ‘Pawn Stars’ buying William Shatners first hairpiece for twenty bucks.

Water does NOT make for a good lubricant and as she was strokin’ my poker, I couldn’t tell if the smoke I was seeing was steam from the shower, or if a garbage fire had broken out on my nut sack because the friction she was causing was like two dry sticks being quickly rubbed together by The Hulk. The worst part was that because of the fucking cold ass tile on my back, I couldn’t cum which just caused her to yank even MORE furiously.

I’ll be honest with you, this was a long time ago, and I don’t even know if I came or not. All I remember of that experience was that my dick felt like it had been polished down with a fucking belt sander for a week afterwards. It was my dick’s version of ‘Vietnam’, and believe me; if it could have skipped town and went to Canada instead, it would have…he was never the same dick I knew after that.

After I turned seventeen, I finally joined the coitus alumni. There was a girl in my neighborhood that’d been fucked by more guys than a ‘Real Doll’ dressed as a Klingon at a comic book convention. .And after my friend Dennis introduced us… it became obvious that it was my turn. I was hanging out at Dennis’ house when she came over to borrow cigarettes and quarters for laundry. (Dear Trailer Park Penthouse Letters, right?) She had blond hair and a body made for sex. At sixteen she was thin and walked with a slow purpose that made her even more desirable. Her eyes were green and when they fixed on you? You almost had to fuck her. There was no mistaking her intention, and passing up that opportunity at that age would have made me regret it my entire life.

After talking while she did her laundry, we went back to my mother’s condo. Mom’s condo was on the second floor and my bedroom window was at the corner of the building. My mother’s parking space was directly below my window. This was good for me because I could hear her come home and know to hurry the fuck up when masturbating. This particular time? Not so good.

I’m sure that all of you are aware that you’re first time? You kinda sucked at it. It’s like trying to be a firefighter without any training. You’re fidgeting with the hose like a midget wrestling an anaconda, you don’t quite know which part of the fire to point it at, and eventually you’re gonna open the wrong door and catch a back draft (Yes, that was an ‘accidental’ anal sex innuendo).

Also, at that age, I had SEEN porn, but I had not yet indoctrinated porn things into any kind of cohesive sexual quilt pattern. So without any kind of fore play, the dick’s among us and she lay on my bed, naked on her back. No leg spreading or anything, she just laid down prone like a corpse on an autopsy table. I don’t know what kind of guys she was fuckin that could slip their dick in with her legs closed, but from the porn I’ve seen later in life, one has to be hung like a fucking table leg to pull this move off. You have to have one of those dicks that’s SO big…you can twist it into various balloon animal shapes. Over the years I’ve come to appreciate the ‘legs pinned behind her head like Bugs fucking Bunny’ move.

I awkwardly climbed on top of her like I was inching up to the edge of a hill before going down the water slide, and started flopping around like a seal with turrets syndrome trying to find that tricky vagina. Finally she helped me out by slightly opening her legs enough to allow me to feel something moist. She reached down and kissing me, guided me into her.

There are no words to describe how incredible this felt. It was like a world of pleasure opening up to me for the first time. I pushed myself into her all the way. She gave out a shaky gasp and…

I heard a car door slam outside of my window. The words ‘oh fuck’ didn’t so much cross my lips as they formed on my face. INSTANT dick death. I jumped off of her and peered over the top of my window sill like a sniper examining the situation. Sure enough…ma Hempen was home.

I knew we had about 40 seconds before she got upstairs and this girl would need at least a minute and a half to get dressed. I grabbed up all of her clothes from the floor and told her “get dressed in the bathroom! Then come out and we’ll act like you just took a pee break while we were studying!” Good plan right?

My mom came upstairs and I frantically tried to cover up my bed because it looked like ‘sex bed’. I heard her hand on the bedroom door and I quickly slammed myself down into my desk chair. The door opened and my mother looked at me quizzically for a moment and then asked: ‘Why are you out of breath?’, ‘why are you sweating?’, ‘why does your bedroom smell like cat food and ass?’

I told her I was trying to quickly clean the house before she came upstairs and that a friend of mine was in the bathroom. As we talked, I found it difficult to look her in the eye. While looking down at the ground, there, out of place like a turd in a swimming pool…lay the fucking condom. All wrinkled and wet like a shed snake skin sitting RIGHT by my foot. Just then the bathroom door opened and my mother turned her head allowing me to quickly place my bare foot on the condom. It was like stepping on, well…like stepping on a used condom. Nothing quite feels the same, so I have no reference for that one. At least it was MY used condom…this time.

I walked her back to her house and never heard from her again. Rightly so. I have to say that recalling these stories makes me really miss that bed. Over the years, I had a lot of sex in it and if it could talk, it would probably have a herpe on its lip.

At eighteen I had my first sexual ‘relationship’, AND my first real heartbreak. I think the first one is the worst. That one came with betrayal as well. It wasn’t love, not that time, but it felt like it. Inexperience sometimes makes us THINK we’re in love and hindsight later tells us the truth.

There was about a two week period of time in my life when I was actually attractive. I was eighteen and I had stumbled onto the perfect balance of good hair, visibly lean triceps, clothes that I ‘worked’, and a relatively healthy body weight. I had gotten a job at the ‘Red Lobster’, or as Action Jim calls it ‘catnip for black people’.

The first thing I ever bought on a credit card was a pair of kick ass boots which I still have to this fucking day. I’ve had them re-soled three times and I’ve worn them on every vacation I’ve ever been on. They have sand on them from the Mohave Desert, water stains from the snows of South Dakota, and puke on them from Mardi gras. But when I first got them I always felt like a fucking Viking with them on.

Apparently some of the waitresses at the Red Lobster had noticed my budding, if fleeting, hotness and the boots helped a lot. On Valentine’s Day, one of the waitresses had dressed up in a very sexy pink ‘heart’ outfit. As I passed her coming into work, I stopped in my tracks and asked her ‘what’s with the outfit? You got a date with a Senator tonight?’ That was all it took.

Diane was a 36 year old red head, and VERY attractive. Like Juliet from ‘Lost’, a hot ‘older’ chick. If I could find a chick my age NOW that looks that good, I’d stop fuckin around with you 22 year olds. I was half her age and she loved those fucking boots.

It was a perfect storm of knee trembling fuck-dom. She was at her sexual peek, I was at MY sexual peek, she wasn’t shy and I was a willing student. I got my first ‘road head’ from her, first ‘back seat of a Buick Regal’ sex, first ‘work’ sex, and first ‘neighbor called the cops’ sex. She taught me a lot.

Diane lived in a trailer and would take in junk yard dogs that the pound was going to put down because they were too mean. She’d leave her bedroom door open and these red eyed, hellish, gnarling, drooling, beasts would froth and growl at me as I was fucking her. I’d ask her to close her door, but in the heat of passion she’d tell me to ignore them. Looking back on it, I think she got off on that somehow. To each her own I guess. My point being that to this day…I can fuck through any distraction.

This incredible and liberating sexcapade lasted almost a year, but like all good things I suppose it burned out. I took Diane to Grey Jim’s apartment for a party one evening, which he was throwing because he was the first of us to get an apartment of his own. Apparently, while I was outside smoking with some other friends, Diane approached Jim and told him that she wanted to fuck him. Jim being the good friend that he is, told her ‘no fucking way’. He explained to her that he wouldn’t touch her because she was dating his best friend. Taking this as a hint, Diane promptly went outside and told me that we were through.

Just like that. It was over. I did EVERY thing you’re NOT supposed to do. I cried. I begged. I pleaded. Nothing. She went back inside and fucked Grey Jim. Grey Jim is a GREAT friend, seriously he’s like a brother to me, but we were young and he was only a man. The worst part of this story was that since I’d already done everything you’re not supposed to do, I went a step further.

Since Grey Jim had JUST moved into his apartment that very day. He had yet to buy curtains. While other friends were outside telling me what was happening, I went to the bedroom window and SAW them fucking. (I don’t even think Jim knows I did that). It felt like my fucking heart Wile E. Coyote’d off a cliff.

One of the unfortunate side effects of a great break up is IMAGINING your ex with another person. This feeling can hit you anytime, anywhere, and when it does it seems like the sun is falling on top of you all over again. Actually SEEING it is about a million times worse. I wish that feeling on nobody.

Interesting post script to this story, Jim eventually moved in with Diane and she got the cancer. He had to spend all of his time taking care of her through her sickness. So in a way…I dodged a bullet there. Gotta find the good in the bad right? (See you all in hell!)

But before, in between, and sometimes DURING these first sexual encounters I could always count on porn. I wasn’t obsessed with it and I certainly didn’t know any of the actor’s names, but when I needed a release? I always turned to porn. As my friends and I became more comfortable talking about it, we learned that we all had different movies…so we began swapping. Before we did though, we came up with 3 simple rules. 1.) You always rewind the tape to the very beginning because I don’t want to know at what point in the movie you exploded and stopped the tape. 2.) You always wash your hands BEFORE the exchange. And 3.) The codeword is ALWAYS…Prono. Yes, prono and believe it or not? Nobody EVER knew what the fuck we were talking about. “Did you see that Prono?” “Yeah, it was great!” and soon people were looking everywhere for ‘prono’. Some thought it was a candy bar they could get at the convenience store, from overhearing our conversations MY mother thought prono was somebody’s cat.

Over the years porn has CERTAINLY grown. However I can’t decide if porn has adapted to OUR desires, or if our desires have grown through porn? Now I’m not a scholar of porn like I am with regular movies and Television, it seems to me that porn USED to just be dudes getting blown and fucking, at least mainstream porn. NOW there’s a WHOLE fucking library of SPECIFIC porn categories from asslicking to midgets pissing on a girls LEFT arm. There are fetishes I have now that I never even considered before and I’M 30 fucking years old. Just when I thought I’d seen it all? I find a WHOLE website ONLY dedicated to older women seducing babysitters. That’s a fetish of mine now…I don’t WANT that as a fetish because that is a fantasy that can NEVER be fulfilled within my lifetime. The whole POINT of a fetish to strive to see that fetish goal reached.

Another fetish that’s been cultivated within me over the past few years is lesbian ass licking porn. WHY DO I LIKE THIS SO MUCH? A hot chick gets herself into the doggy position and another puts her face all up in that shit and licks her bleached asshole. And if an older woman has to talk her babysitter into doing that? Well fuck it; I’m not leaving the house for like a week. But again, this is an unfulfillable fantasy. Even if I COULD get a chick drunk enough to let me lick her asshole, I just KNOW it’s not gonna be all pink, pretty, and smooth like in these movies. It’s gonna SMELL like an asshole and I’m gonna get hair in my teeth and maybe a dingleberry.

But besides the different categories of porn that I’ve been introduced to over the years, the other thing I love about this sub culture is the language. Terms used in porn have brought me hours of laughter over the years including the latest one that I heard on The Howard Stern Show the other day...’The Spider-Man’. Apparently, this is when a man shoots his load into his HAND…and then throws it on the girls face. (It was actually a female porn star explaining the term, so don’t get all uppity and irate at me ladies). I will be adding THAT little gem into the ‘Things I will do to belittle my most recent ex girlfriend when she comes crawling back to me’ rolodex.

Much like the fantasies we see in porn, the terms that it’s brought about are things we are not likely to ever do in real life; The Donkey Punch, The Mexican Avalanche, The Cleveland Steamer, The Boston Steamer, Cumstache, autocunnilingus, mechaphilia, the Woody Woodpecker, and my PERSONAL favorite…The Tony Danza (or ‘The Danza Slap’). What happens is the woman is giving the man oral sex and the man will ask "Who's The Boss?" If the woman says "You Are" the man will forcefully slap her across the face with his dingus and say "Wrong, Bitch! Tony Danza's the boss!" Who the fuck came up with that one? Fucking lunatics out there.

Don’t act like you haven’t heard these terms. Hell, don’t act like you haven’t USED them in a joke or to explain a dream you had to the other ladies at the hair salon. It’s amazing that as a society we will come up with ACTUAL terms for shit we would NEVER do in real life. Oh, sure, we’ll watch it, but DO it. No sir.

We’re ALL guilty of watching this stuff in some form or another. The porn industry is a multi BILLION dollar beast that’s eating up romance and patience like a fat Mexican kid in a chalupa factory. And if you think about it, they wouldn’t MAKE ‘Donkey Punch’ movies if people weren’t BUYING ‘Donkey Punch’ movies. I guarantee you that ONE person you know owns a fucking midget blowing a horse video. In fact, that’s ANOTHER porn term called ‘Rule 34’ which states that ‘if it exists, there IS a porn of it’.

Now I not only know the terms, but I know the names as well. Faye Raegan, Bree Olson, Sasha Grey, and Lexi Belle have made me shoot off more than a firing range in a Michigan Militia compound. Any two of them have even done films together and when I FIND one? I make a whole evening of it. I’ll light some candles, take a bath, make a nice meal, and then watch 30 seconds of Sasha Grey licking Bree Olsons asshole before shooting out the candles and having a better night’s sleep than Obama after he gave the the final order to kill Bin Laden.

And guys…it’s not GAY to know the guys in porn. Peter North not only fucks some to the hottest chicks on the planet but when I see him ‘shoot ropes’, I ‘oooh’ and ‘ahhhh’ more than a fireworks display at a retard home. I saw an interview with Peter North where he said that he eats NOTHING but celery in order to cum the way he does. It LITERALLY looks like fucking ropes. When he comes on a girls face it looks like the deck of a sail boat afterwords. I don’t know whether to hand her a tissue or tie off the main plank.

My other favorite is Nick Manning. Now, if you listen to Howard Stern on Sirius, you know who Nick is because he is the first porn star with a catch phrase. AND he took Robin on a date to the GREAT delight of the listeners. Nicks catch phrase is simple: When he’s cumming on girls face he exclaims “OOOOOOH YEAHHH, dropping FUCKING loads all over your FACE!” I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so fucking hard in my LIFE as I did the first time I saw this. And there’s variations! “dropping loads all over your glasses”, “Dropping fucking loads on your hat”, and “dropping fucking loads on Robin”.

Over the years masturbation has been that friend that Jesus always claimed to be to alcoholics anonymous, with its dickprints in the sand next to me as I walk along the pornographic beach. Sure masturbation isn’t the same as BEING with a woman, but to be honest with you, the end result is the same. In my case there’s not even any environmental damage caused by spillage because I use the ‘squeeze’ technique. This is where RIGHT before I cum, I squeeze my dork at the base. I have an orgasm, but nothing comes out. I might have to stop this though, because recently my nose has started running when I do it. Apparently that shit has to come out SOMEwhere.

And guys? As far as a woman masturbating is concerned, take my advice and DON’T help. I’m not so much intimidated by the ebony Kong vibrator that she has to hook up to seven car batteries, as I am the ‘Bullet’. This little mother fucker will kill a relationship. It’s a vibrator that’s about the size of a pinky, but when she cums, just point her at a burning building and she’ll hose that shit out.

I bought one of these for my recent ex thinking it would be a fun toy for us to play with in the sack. Next thing I know, she’s going out to dinner with the thing, she’s calling it ‘Gary’, and her clit is calloused over like a dermal polar ice cap.

I LIKE eating a woman out, and in fact I have an Olympic gold medal in cunnilingus. As far as ACCEPTABLE fetishes go, this is probably my favorite because I don’t HAVE a huge schlong, however I can ALWAYS make a woman cum through eatal sex. But after my ex started using the bullet while I wasn’t around, she lost all sensation down there and I’d have to put a pillow under my chin, a night stand with a glass of water and a monster energy drink on it next to the end of the bed, call work and tell them I was taking the week off, and put the dog in a fucking kennel.

I don’t know about other guys out there, but when I’m IN a relationship, I rarely if ever, masturbate. This makes sex better because there’s that cool down period between takes. When I’m NOT in a relationship? I beat it every day. This is why I can’t do ‘one night stands’. There have been TWO times in my life when I couldn’t get my twig and berries to work because I jerked off SO much, that when the surprise of pussy was sprung upon me, my dick just yawned and said ‘yeah…whatever’. Besides whiskey and pepper spray, TOO much masturbation makes me softer than ice cream on a sidewalk in June at 3PM in Arizona.

That having been said, porn is the new fast food. It’s easier than cooking dinner, it’s cheap, and it’s open 24 hours. People don’t like to work at things, the less work they have to do for the same result is preferred…so we have porn. What’s easier than that? No hassles, no headaches, nobody bitching about that ‘call me Captain Kirk’ fetish you have. Even PORN itself has gotten easier. Now they have ‘point of view’ porn. You can watch it and imagine that that’s YOUR 14 incher spitting Faye Reagan in two.

In the beginning, porn was considered to be something of a respectable, if not mainstream forum for furry beavers, and grainy close-ups of hairy balls. Hell, in 77 the ONLY movie at the box office to come CLOSE to ‘Star Wars’ moneywise, was ‘Deep Throat’. Yeah, ‘Deep Throat’ was a porn that was released into mainstream theaters and made almost as much money as ‘Star Wars’. It was the beginning of the end of romance.

The problem with porn though is that it RAISES women’s expectations and forces men to try TOO hard because MANY of them don’t realize that porn, like ANY film…is just a fucking movie. It’s edited. Do you really think that guy is fucking those two chicks for 43 minutes without cumming? Most of these porn guys will tell you that they stop between takes like any other movie. THEN they have a ‘fluffer’, which is a cute chick who keeps their dick hard while they wait for the NEXT scene. And to all you women who have dreams of going to Hollywood and becoming the next Angelina Jolie? About 98 percent of chicks who do that end up becoming fluffers in San Jose. Not to mention all the drugs and hormones these guys take. They even use ‘stunt cum’ now. Some guy behind the scenes with a super soaker filled with egg whites hoses these women down for the ‘money shot’. Here’s my favorite fun porn fact though, a lot of the guys in porn are gay! They just do straight porn because it pays more. The dollar wins again!

My friend Mike called me a few weeks ago and told me that he was going out with a girl he’d met and she was bringing a friend. He asked if I’d like to join them at a bar not too far from my place. 10 years ago this would have been a no brainer. I’d throw on some dungarees and Nikes and go charm my way into a night of vaginatopia, but now? I told Mike no. Because in MY mind it’s just easier to stay home and rattle my snake to porn because it’s a SURE thing. No WONDERING if I’m gonna get laid all night, I don’t have to be ON all night, I don’t’ have to drop more money than Trump pays his wig maker, AND I won’t have to deal with her crying in the morning if I DO get laid. The point is that it’s become TOO easy for losers like ME to say no to pussy because I have access to it at home anytime I want.

And that’s NOT the way things should be. Men SHOULD endeavor to get laid because it keeps us on our toes, it keeps us grounded, and when we get shot down? It gives us that sense of humility that we ALL need to get through life. I said earlier that I wanted ‘love’ when I was a kid because I didn’t know any better. Well now I do and I know that love and sex go hand in hand. You can’t have one without the other and THIS is one of the reasons why religion pisses me off so much. SOME women out there think that it’s HEALTHY to not expect a sexual relationship until after a long courtship and marriage. This may have been an acceptable practice in the middle ages because men would marry women for their dowry. If they wanted to get laid? They’d find a nasty who-er. That archaic church law was MADE to screw women over, NOT because God wants you to be chased you fucking dumb assees! You HAVE to know if you are sexually compatible with your mate early in a relationship because if you’re not, you’ve just wasted your time.

But, What has all this porn done to us? It’s taken the mystery out of sex. What happened to the passion? People used to fall in REAL love, not this REALITY SHOW love bullshit. When I was in high school, unless a girl was morbidly obese, you couldn’t TELL what was doing under those clothes until you got them off. So you would romance and woo her until you GOT them off. The standard was 3 dates. The chick kept her respect, and you maybe got some stank on your hang low OR, best case scenario, you ACTUALLY got to know her as a person before you slept with her. And BELIEVE me, this makes the sexual experience that much more enjoyable, when you’re having sex TOGETHER and not just having sex ON her. Call me crazy, but I like to look into a woman’s eyes, NOT that ‘O’ face on a fuck doll.

I know I sound like an old fogey, but this actually wasn’t that long ago. NOW you go to these high schools and invariably you can find two chicks that are hotter than anything you’ll see on TV or in a movie, making out in the hallway while wearing jeans so low that their clits are popping out of the top, they have a camel toe, and thong undies over their hips and riding their ass crack out the back of their pants. Most of them already have implants, and their tits are pushed together like Japanese subway riders at 7AM. Then I get called a PERVERT for watching the seniors play volley ball from across the street with binoculars and a trench coat on.

I say have some fucking dignity for christsake. Make us work for it. How cheap is sex now when all you gotta do is have the same brow line as that kid from ‘Twilight’, throw a couple of burgers down her throat and put a toilet cover on the seat while you bang her in the bathroom stall at Wendy’s? Then women wonder why the guy cheated on them, or left them, and they cry like it’s the end of the fucking world. I’ll tell you why he cheated on you and left you…because he never got to KNOW you. What kind of connection or bond could there have been when you blew him after he said: ‘so…uh…you got any gum?’ You gotta make us WANT that shit. You gotta make us feel like THAT is the best and ONLY pussy in the free world!

‘If we’re all that easy…why aren’t YOU getting laid?’ You might ask. Simple, I’m not trying. Honestly? I’ve been with a lot of women who were goodly enough to have slept with me. The ones that I probably should have stayed with, I didn’t. The ones that I shouldn’t have stayed with, I did. I’ve made some crap decisions concerning women and I’m trying to turn a new leaf. Does that mean that I’ll tone down my sense of humor? Absolutely not. Will I compromise my integrity and go see ‘Twilight’ in the theatre? Nope. Sorry, not gonna happen . But will I give a more concerted effort to get to know a woman before I fuck her? God damned right I will.

I had a beautiful woman in my bed not two months ago. Down to her wonderful thong. Candles going, the whole deal. But I’d only went out with her once, and she wasn’t looking for the same thing I was. I respect that. And I didn’t fuck her. Sure I felt like an ass afterwards, and you better believe that the ‘homo’ jokes flew from my friends. But fuck it. They weren’t there. I actually liked her and would have loved to take her out again, and if it worked out? Great. If not? That’s cool too.

But I wanted the promise of more to come. The hope of something down the line. I wanted to wake up with that sunshine feeling in the morning like I just met someone REALLY fucking awesome and where might it go? That energy shot that only a woman can give you, when all your friends at work notice that you’re smiling JUST a little too much, or your neighbor see’s you do that thing where you jump up in the air and tap your heels together and thinks to himself ‘what the fuck is HE in such a good mood for?’

The bottom line is that I WANT to have a connection with a woman. I WANT a friendship. I want someone who will lie around with me and make up ‘top 10’ lists about people we know, such as ‘Top 10 pet names for Action Jim’s unibrow’. I want someone to GO out to dinner with me, NOT someone to just TAKE to dinner. And I want a woman who will laugh her ass off with me at the ridiculousness of the ‘Donkey Punch’ subcategory of my massive Washington National Archive sized porn collection.

I’d also like to see the younger generation of girls have a little more respect for themselves and realize that their body is NOT the only thing they have to offer a guy. Because believe me, the fucking guys won’t respect you if you don’t. And remember, you’re not always going to HAVE that body. So Tattoo’s? NOT a good idea, cause when you’re older? There’s nothing sadder than a butterfly on a saggy tit, or a tribal tattoo on your lower back that’s melted down into your ass crack.

I’ll leave you ladies with this last bit of wisdom, a quote: “Gravity…she is a harsh mistress” – The Tick

END

The Life and Times of a Jaded Loser Part the 4th

2011-06-19T07:09:00.000-05:00

24: The Predator

Not THAT Predator

Even as I met other people after military school, Aaron and I shared a bond that I could never have with the others because of our time spent together at Glenwood. We shared a common ‘thousand yard stare’ that the others could never know. His home was like a bastion of sanity for me and I spent more time with him than I did anyone else. Aaron never really met Grey Jim or Pete but he, Steve, and I would still hang out together every chance we got.

I would learn that first year out of military school that a teenager’s life revolved around bikes. Everyone had one except me. I was a walking mother fucker and I hated it. My mother could be quite intrusive. I never had a sense of privacy, so I spent all the time I could with my friends. Betcha THAT sounds familiar to a lot of people out there.

After moving back home, one of my constant bothers was the train which ran directly behind my bedroom window. This loud intrusive mother fucker would keep me up until all hours of the night. A freight train would come barreling through about every 15 minutes, and between that and the sound of my mother’s snoring in the next room, I rarely got any sleep that first year.

Even now that SAME fucking train still haunts me. I have to cross tracks on my way to work that, when followed south, end up right behind my mother’s condo. They are a constant reminder of my childhood, and a constant pain in my ass as I can’t remember ONE fucking time in my driving life that I haven’t been stuck waiting for a train on those same tracks.

I can remember putting pennies on the tracks as a kid, and even some of my star wars action figures. I poked my first dead animal with a stick on them, and I would aimlessly wander them up and down in fascination of the places they must lead.

Eventually I learned that I could hop on a freight train and take it to nearly anyone’s house that I knew. Literally. The train tracks behind my mother’s condo ran RIGHT past the mall, they ran about a block away from Steve and Aaron’s places, and also ran about 50 feet from where Grey Jim and Pete lived by our high school. It was dangerous as hell, and sometimes I’d wait for an hour or more for a train to come by, but they ALWAYS stopped for some reason right by my place. Usually for about 15-20 minutes, long enough for me to hop up on the ladder on the side of a freight car and just hang there a few feet off the ground as the train jerked into motion again. It was scary as hell the first couple of times I did it, but it was either that, or walk for hours to my friends homes. For some reason there was always hay in small piles along the tracks, and eventually I started to gather up those smaller piles in order to make big ones at the points where I needed to jump off the train.

Luckily, when the summer of 87 came, I finally got a bike. Not because my mother bought me one, and I didn’t steal it…sorta, but it did come to me under nefarious means. One Saturday at around dusk, I was sitting with Steve and Aaron on Aaron’s porch in front of his house. We had just gotten back from the mall, and Steve was bitching because I had to ride with him on the pegs of his bike. As we sat there in the growing dark, we could hear sirens blaring in the neighborhood, police sirens, and they were getting closer.

Just then, from out of nowhere, an older kid came flying down the street on a sweet ass predator dirt bike. It had front and back pegs, breaks, and it was all black except for the Predator logo on the side. As he came pedaling at TOP speed in our direction, he kept looking behind him and we could see this kid was being chased. He saw us looking at him, and turned in our direction coming to a screeching halt as he squeezed the handlebar breaks, right in front of Aaron’s porch.

Out of breath he said “Can I run through your back yard?” We all looked at each other dumbfounded. And then I piped up “You give me the bike; you can run through the back. You’ll have to hop a fence and then there’s train tracks and another fence, you’ll never get away carrying that bike” The guy, who must have been in his 20’s looked at me in amazement, as did Aaron and Steve.

Without saying a word, he stood up and let the bike fall to the ground and then took off behind Aaron’s house. We stood there for a heartbeat and then Aaron grabbed the bike. We all ran to the garage with it just as the lights from the cop cars started throwing blue and red down the street.

The next morning Aaron let me spray paint over the decal on the bike in his garage, then we filed the serial numbers off of it. I FINALLY had a ride and it was sweet ass ride at that.

Believe it or not, this did NOT curb my railway transgressions in the least. I would STILL hop on the train, only now I would do it while holding my bike out with one arm by the bar that ran from the seat to the handlebars.

However, armed with this ‘Kitt’ from Knight Rider of dirt bikes, I finally felt a sense of freedom. Instead of taking the bus to school, I would ride over to Grey Jim’s and have breakfast with him and his family. My friends and I could go farther and faster while testing the limits of our neighborhoods. We would get lost in the street lights of faraway places and then back track our way home. When you get that first bike, the world is your oyster and we were all too happy to shuck that mother fucker.

25: Heroland Comics

During my years in military school, I would often come home on the weekends with Aaron and his brothers. His mother was nice enough to take me in on these weekends, and during my last year at Glenwood, I learned that there was a comic book store not too far from Aaron’s house. I became a regular customer at Heroland Comics, and although the owner made me uncomfortable, it was his employee Joe Soltas that always had me coming back.

Joe was in his thirties and had a great dead-pan sense of humor. When I would be perusing the store he would often approach me and make back handed comments about his boss, Lee. I was always an outcast in military school. I got no respect from my fellow students OR the adults on campus who would often turn a blind eye to my being picked on. Because of them, and my mother’s bat shit alcoholism, I always had a problem with authority, and adults WERE authority. But Joe was different. Joe talked to me like I was an equal, and when he made fun of other people under his breath so only I could hear him…I felt like one of the guys.

Joe’s boss, and the owner of Heroland comics Lee Tennant, was a different story though. Lee tried selling me everything in that fucking store when I first started going in there. If I wanted a Spider-Man comic? He would make me buy a Spider-Man poster with it, if I wanted an X-Men Comic, I had to buy the X-Men t-shirt as well. He sold things in a way so as to make you feel compelled to buy it. Like you were an asshole if you didn’t. I learned later that Lee was like this with everyone. He was that intimidating pitch man that could sell ice to Eskimos. We weren’t customers; we were ‘marks’. Looking back on it, I almost have to respect Lee in that he WAS the consummate salesman, the guy that every car dealership wishes they had. That being said, you will never come across a bigger dick head in your life…as I did in Lee Tenant.

Lee was in his forties and he was the biggest man I’d ever seen. You’ve seen those TLC specials about the ‘fat hospitals’? That’s Lee. He was a towering man of about 6 foot, and he was just as tall across. He couldn’t have weighed less than 4 hundred pounds, and he always smelled of sweaty meat, body odor, and pop. He was a Jewish man, and he lived up to all the negative stereotypes I would later hear rednecks say about Jews. Lee had coke bottle thick glasses and a constant five o’clock shadow that looked like play dough being squeezed out of that ‘play dough spaghetti maker’ toy. His skin was the color of an old beige leather sofa from the 60’s that had been left out in the sun somewhere. After eating an enormous meal of hamburgers, gyro’s, and hotdogs, while downing an entire 2 liter of soda, Lee would often burp so loud that the ceiling tiles would lift out of their grating and drop white Styrofoam dander on all of us as they settled back into place with a ‘thud’. This was a man who could destabilize the pressure of any room he was in, using only his various bodily functions.

The back room of his store was ALWAYS closed, and this was the tree where his Keebler family worked bagging and boarding comic books, taking phone orders, and putting shipments together. I later learned that Lee’s wife and mother in law worked back there along with a few straggling employees, and the door was kept closed so as to not make customers uncomfortable at viewing Lee’s management style.

Lee’s wife Louisa was literally a midget. Standing at about 3 foot tall, Louisa was an intimidating presence at Heroland. When Lee wasn’t around Louisa liked to make it VERY clear that she was in charge. I think it was her way of dealing with the beatings that Lee would dish out to her in the back room. I Remember always feeling a bit sad for Louisa, not because of her height, but because Lee didn’t treat her all that differently than he treated his customers and other employees. There was a step stool behind the register for her to stand on when she rang people up, and she was always complicit with Lee in ripping people off.

Joe and I would often ponder for hours on end Lee and Louisa’s means of fornication. We came to the conclusion that Lee ONLY married Louisa so that someone could finally clean in between the folds of his ginormous body, like a zoo employee washing a hippo with a giant wet push broom. That theory was soon put to rest though when we remembered that Lee NEVER smelled as though he was washed.

After I was kicked out of military school, I got my first job at a banquet hall called The Glendora House. I was 15 and only worked there on the weekends, but every time I got a check I would take the Pace bus up to Heroland and sign it right over to Lee in exchange for all the comics I could carry home. He was almost certainly overcharging me, and I can even recall him charging me ‘tax’. There have never been taxes on magazines of ANY kind in Illinois. Eventually, as the comic book boom hit in ’88, Lee moved his store to a bigger location and I took this opportunity to offer my services as an employee. I was eager, I was a hard worker, and for Lee the best part was that I would work ONLY for comic books. He didn’t have to pay me a dime.

On Sundays, I would load up Lee’s giant bread truck with all the comics from the store. This disgusting monstrosity spat out black smoke from every orifice and there was no passenger door, so sitting up high on the seat, you could look down and see the pavement zooming past you at breakneck speeds. Joe would drive the truck while Lee followed in his car. I always feared that Joe would take a corner just a little too hard and I’d go flying out the open door.

These comic book conventions were where I learned the bulk of my comic book knowledge. I learned everything from value, to specific events in silver age, golden age, and modern comic books simply because it was my job to cherry pick what would sell at the convention. After unloading Lee’s truck at whatever convention center he had a table at, I would help other comic shop owners unload THEIR product in exchange for more comic books. I never wanted anything overtly expensive, but if I did, they would give me a great discount in trade for my help. Most comic book store owners were fat, smelly, unhygienic loads like Lee. I didn’t mind, because it was their laziness that kept my collection growing. At the bigger comic book shows, I would help various artists and writers with their luggage, get their lunch for them, and do generally menial tasks for them throughout the day in exchange for their autograph on comic books that they worked on. Doing this every weekend for years made me well known in the comic book world. At times Lee would even get phone calls from famous artists before the convention, who were checking to make sure I would be there.

The ONE thing I hated about going to comic cons with Lee was that HE was that annoying salesman who always gives the HARD sell. He would stand in front of his table SCREAMING at the top of his lungs: “My brother just got arrested for stealing all these comics, so now I have to sell them to afford his bail! HELP ME OUT HERE”. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t fun, and it embarrassed the shit out me. He would scream that SAME line at least 20 times EVERY weekend. I just kept telling myself that it was all worth it to feed the beast that my collection was becoming.

It was also Lee’s cheapness that made some of those weekends a nightmare. Not only was his comic book bread truck a fucking death trap on wheels because he wouldn’t pay to get it fixed, but sometimes we had to stay at a convention center for the entire weekend…which meant Lee springing for a hotel room. Yes, ONE fucking hotel room. Lee would take the bed, Louisa would sleep on the floor, and Joe would put two chairs together and sleep on those. If I was lucky there was enough room left over for me to stand behind a curtain and sleep standing up. Cheap fat fuck.

Why did I spend every dime I earned those years on comic books? Well, I lived at home so I didn’t have rent or bills, I didn’t smoke or drink yet, and it wasn’t like I was dating anyone. I had no overhead so Lee got everything I earned in return for the one thing that made me happy. Comics were my heroin, and Lee was content to be my dealer.

Working at Hero comics was probably the best job I ever had. Since Lee rarely came out of the back room, I mostly worked with Joe. Even though Joe was way older than me, we quickly became friends and I discovered that we had a mutual distaste for authority. Joe was funny and patient. He taught me a lot about sales, but it was his friend Paul who would eventually teach me a lot about management. Joe also introduced me to the Patty Melt sandwich at the Worth Diner which was directly across the street from our store, and I STILL go there once or twice a month for that sandwich.

Unfortunately for the staff at Heroland Comics, Joe seemed to be the only one immune to Lee’s outbursts and tantrums. He would often scream at me and berate me in front of customers for not knowing the Silver Surfers real name or some such nonsense, and Joe and I could hear him literally beating the shit out of Louisa and her mother in the back room. Once I even tried to go back there to stop him, but Joe threw an arm around me and told me to stay out of it because Lee had a gun in back and had once pulled it on him for interfering.

Lee mostly left Joe alone, and sometimes it was made obvious as he would go around everyone in the room and yell at us, passing over Joe and not saying shit to him. I asked Joe once why Lee didn’t bother him and he told me that it was because he didn’t give a shit. Joe had told Lee once that if he yelled at him or talked to him like he did everyone else; he’d simply walk out and go work for a competitor. Joe was given many offers over the years to work at other comic book stores because of his extensive knowledge, his loyal customer base, and his friendship with many people in the industry. Joe would often convince writers and artists that he knew in the comic book world to come to Lee’s shop and do signings. This was a huge influx of cash for Lee, so LEE needed Joe a lot more than JOE needed Lee.

During the next 2 years that I busted my ass for Lee, I added another 20 boxes to my collection. I had nearly a complete run of everything from the Amazing Spider Man 1, 15, and 23 up, to the Uncanny X-Men 10 up. I didn’t really read D.C. Comics, but after I collected just about all of the Marvel Comics, I started in on those. D.C. had been around longer, so I knew that collection would take some time. I didn’t mind that at all.

One time Lee told me to come out to his house because he wanted to put all of his personal comic book collection in alphabetical order. I remember imagining that Lee’s house would be this extravagant mansion set high up on hill, and I romanticized his collection being a million times the collection that I had. I was looking forward to seeing the old comics that I didn’t yet have, and seeing the neat rows of boxes lined up on the floor of his basement. That fat stack of cash Lee was so fond of flashing made my imagination flow with the personal wealth I would be introduced to.

However, much like the man himself, Lee’s house was a fucking train wreck. Surrounded by a brown, almost burnt looking and unkempt lawn, it smelled like a desert slaughterhouse before you even walked in. There were no pictures on any of the walls and almost every square inch of floor space was covered in comic books. There were paths, dug out like trenches in World War 1 leading to different areas of the house, and most of the lights were burnt out. It was darker than a vampire’s asshole in that place and the smell almost made being in there unbearable. At one point I had to use the bathroom, and Lee told me it was upstairs on the second floor of the house. The stair case was bowing and nearly caved in from the weight of Lee waddling up and down it. For some reason I imagined the sound of Louisa’s tiny footsteps rumbling quickly down the stairs to greet Lee when he got home, like a circus version of Leave it to Beaver. When I pushed open the bathroom door through the bundles of towels and filthy clothes on the floor, I stepped in and saw that the side of the bathtub had caved in revealing the hollow emptiness of the porcelain. There wasn’t a hint of moisture on the floor, so I immediately assumed that Lee hadn’t showered in at least a week. On the sink, next to the toilet was a Daffy Duck comic book from long ago, with what I hoped were chocolate fingerprints all over the cover, however when I lifted the lid on the toilet to piss…I knew that they weren’t. The shit stains in the toilet climbed up high on the inside of the bowl, and as I lifted the lid to piss, I almost vomited all over myself. The toilet seat was covered in dry crusty poop from front to back. I ran back downstairs and held in my stream until Lee drove me back to the shop.

What kind of person lives like that? The ONLY possessions he had, the only possessions he CARED about were those fucking comic books. It was almost like his house was just a storage unit for that collection. I couldn’t fathom what would drive ANY woman into living there, much less being a cuckold to Lee’s collection. It was nearly enough to put me off comic books all together.

In 1989 when I was only 16, I asked a professional comic book assessor, who was a customer at the store to appraise my books for me. He visited me at my mother’s condo on a Thursday night and after spending about 3 hours going through my collection, grading key issues, and accounting for autographs, he appraised them at 17 THOUSAND dollars. Even I had no idea they were worth THAT much. Today that number would be multiplied by a factor of nearly 10. However, one of the things I learned from Lee is that comic books are ONLY worth what people are willing to pay for them, and in that sense my collection wasn’t worth much at all.

Lee opened up a warehouse in another city that year, and in it he started a mail order business, and his own brand of bags and boards. He spent most of his time there with his employee’s Jim and Liz, who I would come to meet later. Liz was a heavy woman in her mid twenties with long dark curly hair. I could never quite tell if she was attractive or not, but her ass was the size of a giant bean bag. She would sometimes come into the store to drop things off from the warehouse and flirt with Joe, and I’m certain he banged her at some point.

26: The Courtship of Michael’s Father

Sometimes it REALLY pisses me off that my dad was
so good looking and I ended up looking like my mom

By the end of the school year of 1988 I’d met the 3 people who would become my lifelong friends. My brothers. Although Brian was a great friend at first, we’d have a falling out in a few years, and even when I thought his brother Scott would be the best guy I could ever be lucky enough to meet, we had a similar falling out when I turned 20. But Steve, Grey Jim, Pete and I would remain friends up to now. I love those guys, and I realize every day how lucky I am to have such an eclectic and fantastic group of friends to call my family.

My home life was always something of a mess. Although I loved my mother in that way that all boys love their mother’s, I still didn’t feel like her condo was my ‘home’. I felt out of place there because Glenwood was all I knew for so long. I kind of got used to the ‘routine’ of the place, and at home I was finding that there was no routine and little discipline. Sure when I came home late my mother would bitch, but she mostly worked overnight’s and didn’t know what time I got home.

A lot of the things I say about my mother here paint her in a bad light, and I want to be honest. I loved this woman right up until the day she died. She had an alcohol problem, fine, but she owned that and after she got help, she was a different lady. During those first few years out of Glenwood, we argued and yelled at one another because without the consequences that military school had brought upon me for my actions, I frankly became something of an asshole.

As I got older and bigger, my mother’s beatings didn’t hurt so much anymore so I would take one from time to time in the furtherance of my rebellious nature. Eventually her way of dealing with me was to lock me out of the house all together. Making me ‘fend for myself’, as she put it, would make a man out of me.

The few times that we DID have civil conversations, I would ask her questions about my dad, and she would be honest and tell me things about him…about what he did. And then when she would get mad at me, she’d tell me I was JUST like my father. I don’t know why, but this put me into a rage every time she said it. Based on her stories of him, I hated that man and wanted to be nothing like him.

I would see the way my friends interacted with THEIR families, and I hated my mother because we didn’t have the same thing. I know now that it wasn’t her fault and you get back what you put into a relationship with your mother. I spent so much time trying to be a part of my friend’s families that I hardly spent any time trying to foster a relationship with my own.

In a way, I was still mad at her for sending me to military school. Because I was young I never accepted her reasons and I blamed her for every beating I took while I was there. I hated her and I loved her at the same time…so rather than have that constant feeling of being torn apart by those emotions, I spent all the time I could elsewhere. Sometimes my experiences were innocuous, and sometimes I was just up to no damned good. But I always figured if my FATHER was an asshole, maybe I was one too. Even to THIS day, I try not to be like my father…but it’s a hard road not to follow.

27: The Great Myslinski Migration

How 'bout that vest, huh?

As my first high school year ended, I was looking forward to spending the summer with my new friends. However, my jubilation was cut short one night when Aaron’s mother invited Steve and I over to their house for dinner.

Aaron’s Grandmother lived with the Myslinski’s in their house and she was something of a matriarch of the family. She was a spit fire of a woman who had more sense in her old age than most women do in their youth. Whenever you walked into Aaron’s house, you were immediately met by his Grandmother sitting on a couch next to the door in the living room. She always reminded me of Granny from ‘The Beverly Hillbillies’, only not quite as mobile.

Steve took the brunt of her gregarious greetings because she had a crush on him. Every time we came into the house, Granny would beckon Steve over to her under the guise of needing some kind of help…and then grab for his crotch and cackle uncontrollably. You don’t think of a woman of that age as having a crush on high school kids, but this lady had a fucking mouth on her. She would TELL Steve how she was going to ‘make him hers’ one day, and we would all bellow laughter as Steve’s face would light up in embarrassment.

The night Aaron’s mother invited us over just before the summer of 88 however…Granny wasn’t waiting for us in the living room, and as we walked into the house…we could feel that something wasn’t right.

We walked through the living room, and as we passed the basement, we noticed that all the lights were off. It was only 6PM and ever since I’d known Aaron, Mike, and Frank, ONE of them was always down there playing video games, working out, or watching TV. We went on to the kitchen and noticed boxes on the floor with various kitchen equipment in them, and we could hear noises coming from behind the house.

We opened up the patio door and found the entire family sitting in lawn chairs around a blazing fire. The Myslinski’s always had a fire pit in their back yard, but they rarely used it. Everyone was there: Aaron, Frank, Mike, their mother: Tess, Granny, and even their little sister Missy. Missy lived with her father, and as much as I knew Tess loved her, I rarely saw her at the house. They all noticed Steve and I enter the back yard from the porch and a somber silence fell over the group.

As we came closer to the fire, we could see that Tess and Mike had tears in their eyes, and Frank wouldn’t look at me or Steve. We didn’t quite understand what was going on, and then Aaron got up from his chair and silently approached us. He put his arms around us and gave us both a hug. Aaron started weeping, and Steve and I embraced him back and asked him what was wrong with the true concern that youth affords.

Aaron took a step back, and with one hand on each of our shoulders he said “you guys are my best friends…we all love you like family.” Then he hung his head and sniffled. When he raised his eyes to us again, we could see they were red and puffy from crying and before he even said it…Steve and I started crying too. “We’re moving to Florida…this Friday”.

A ton of bricks just landed on my heart. These people were my family. They looked out for me in military school; they took me home with them every time they could. During my eight years at Glenwood, I spent more time in THEIR house than I did at my own mother’s condo. This house, hell this neighborhood was my own, what the hell was I going to do without my family? Without my REAL family?

As I looked around at the people surrounding the campfire through tear filled eyes, I saw them all in a different light. I looked at everyone long and hard and realized that in a few short days…I would never see any of them again. Frank, the older brother that made me proud to know him. A strong and hard future military man who made Aaron and I want to follow in his footsteps. Mike: the responsible smart ass who always had a plan. Because Mike was older than me, at Glenwood he was the NCO of my platoon. In that position he often looked out for me and stopped the other kids from bullying me. Tess: My surrogate mother. Always there to comfort me when I felt the low throbbing heart ache of a mother who didn’t care. Tess knew that my mother was an alcoholic and did her best to make me feel a mother’s love when mine wasn’t there to give it. Granny: the colorful old lady who brought laughter into that house every time we entered it. And finally…Aaron: The brother I never had. My best friend. We shared that friendship that says ‘fuck you’ to uncomfortable silences. We could sit for hours doing nothing and not say a word to each other. We were around each other so much that it was almost like we could feel what the other person was thinking. A kind of ‘twin telepathy’ that best friends share when every corner of their lives is not only compatible…but is also a drug that needs to be taken daily. As Aaron told us the news…I started going through withdrawal immediately.

I’m sure that Steve felt much the same way, and because this was a sad occasion for all of us, neither Steve nor I asked the obvious question: “why”. We simply sat around the fire and talked about the good times we all shared, and I like to think that doing that made the Myslinski’s feel better and more hopeful about their move…and made Steve and I feel closer to them, before they were to travel so far away.

28: The End of an Era

Aaron, Mike, and Frank now

The Myslinski’s rented a U-haul. The plan was that they would move everything into the truck on Friday, and then they would leave first thing on Saturday morning. That Friday night was some of the most fun I’ve ever had with my clothes on…kinda.

After Steve and I helped them move everything into the truck, Tess lit up the bonfire in the back yard and we all began drinking. Now, I’d had alcohol before, but never in the copious amounts that I consumed it that night. We were having a grand send off for my family, and before I knew it I would be drunk for the first time in my life.

We all decided that the fire should be the biggest one any of us had ever seen. We built it up to a grand scale, tee-peeing logs almost as tall as we were. We stuffed the middle with all the kindling and brush we could, and when we lit that son of a bitch, it burned the asses of the gods in heaven. As the night progressed we danced around it, jumped over it, ran through it, and even tossed everything that the Myslinski’s weren’t taking with them into it. The fire jumped high, and coughed out smoke. It hissed it’s embers at us and cracked with defiant laughter. It was like a tough kidnap victim trying to escape, but that fucking fire was OURS, and it wasn’t going anywhere. We stuck our middle fingers up at the elements and dared them to make this anything less than a joyous occasion.

When you’re drunk at a party, people tend to spread out and disappear. You get so engrossed in the conversation you’re having with someone that you don’t even notice when everyone else has gone off to different corners. At some point in the evening, the festivities continued inside while Aaron, Steve and I stayed with the fire.

At around midnight, while we were tossing things into the fire, Frank ran up to us from inside the house, as giddy as I’d ever seen him. He told us Mike had passed out in the basement and we should go fuck with him. We were only too happy to comply. As we tiptoed down the stair trying our hardest to hold in our laughter, we could see mike lying on his side near the couch. His mouth was wide open, and there was a puddle of drool underneath it.

All of us at this point had our hands over our mouths trying unsuccessfully to hold in our snorts and reflexive need to laugh hysterically at what we were about to do. Franks idea was to pull Mike’s pants down enough to reveal his ass. Then we were all to draw on it with Markers that Aaron had in his school bag. Every time Frank would tug on Mike’s pants, he would shift and say something in his sleep. The rest of us were doubling over with internal laughter, we were ready to explode. For the next half hour we Picasso’d Mike from head to toe. Drawing dicks with cum shooting out of their tips on his ass, writing ‘insert dick here’ on his face with an arrow pointing to his mouth, and ‘I like boys’ on his arms.

When the four of us got outside we fucking exploded with laughter, we couldn’t believe how drunk Mike must have been to pass out in THAT deep of a state. Frank was a senior in high school and although he was around Aaron’s house a lot when I was there, he was usually on the phone with a girl, or generally doing things that shouldn’t concern the young such as Steve and me. But that night, we had a moment with Frank that closed any distance there had been before, and he wasn’t done yet.

Because I was young and not well versed in ‘handling my liquor’, eventually I drank myself into a state of depression. It was around 3 AM when the terror of losing my best friend and his family hit me…hard. I don’t recall a lot of what happened because I was so drunk; all I know for sure is that Frank saved my life that night.

I got it into my head that I just didn’t want to live anymore without these people in my life. That’s how strongly I felt about their leaving, and because my mother had told me SO many stories of death in trying to warn me to stay away from the railroad track, I figured that was a good enough place to end my sorrow.

While everyone was in the house ignoring the fire, I hopped the waist high fence of the back yard and mounted the railroad tracks just beyond it. I stood there for a long time with a bottle in my hand waiting to see the single bright eye of death loom at me from the distance. I don’t know how long I stood there, and I truly don’t know if I would have done what I intended to do, but eventually I sat down on one of the wooden cross beams of the track and I guess I passed out.

I was awoken to a furious noise, and I could feel myself falling. I didn’t know what was happening because the deafening sound of fury and rage filled every sense in my body. After that initial jolt of uncompromising loudness, I heard the familiar ‘clickity, clack, clickity, clack’ of the metal wheels of a train. It immediately hit me where I was, and I jumped up wide eyed and scared to death. I was in deep pain all over my body, and my hands were red with blood. I FREAKED the fuck out thinking that a train had just hit me and I somehow survived.

Then I felt a sharp pain in my head and turned around. It was Frank and he just slapped the shit out me from behind. “WHAT THE FUCK?” he shouted incredulously over the noise of the train. I just stared at him. Normally this type of thing would sober you up pretty quick, but I was still buzzing pretty fucking hard and didn’t know what to say.

Apparently, everyone in the house had been looking for me. They even called my mother to see if I’d walked home. Frank came out back to check around the garage and heard a ‘clink’ sound coming from the railroad tracks. I had dropped my bottle on the metal track as I slumped over. Frank looked and saw my silhouette in the light being cast from a back yard on the other side of the tracks and then heard a train coming. Slow at first, but as it grew louder, he knew he had to hurry. He hopped the fence and ran up to the tracks. The light from the train was getting bigger and bigger as the train approached and Frank slapped me and kicked me trying to wake me up. I was as passed out as Mike had been earlier in the basement.

There was no more time to try to wake me up because the train was travelling so fast it would be upon us soon, so he put his hands under my arms and tried to pull me up. Frank always worked out, but even so he had a hard time because I was so fucking fat. With seconds to spare, he put his body into it, and threw us both off the track just as the train came barreling through. We both landed hard on the rocky slope leading up to the tracks and tumbled down to the fence line behind his house.

I actually didn’t find all of that out until AFTER they were in Florida, but fuck did that blow my mind. Frank saved my life like a fucking hero, and I never ever gave him the ‘thank you’ he deserved because I was SO wasted right up until the time they pulled out of their driveway.

As everyone in the house passed out, I sat by the dying embers of the fire until the sun started poking its head out of the east. As the sky went from pitch black to a dark blue, I realized that I was smarter than this. How could I want to kill myself when the answer was so simple? I would just go with them.

Sure it was the delusional thought of a drunken teenager, but my mind worked furiously trying to piece together an argument that I would give to Tess. I had to have a full proof reason if I was going to convince her to take me with them, but every idea I came up with, I easily debunked just as I knew Tess would. Time was fading fast, and it was now less than 2 hours before they would all be awake and getting in that truck to leave forever. Then it hit me: I wouldn’t present an argument at all…I’d simply go with them, without them knowing until we got to Florida.

In the U Haul truck, there was a small metal door that led from the cab of the truck to the back. It slid open, and if there was room, I could probably slip into the back with all their belongings and they’d never know I was there. I climbed into the cab of the truck to see if I could fit through this metal door, and it WAS big enough. However, there was so much furniture and general belongings crammed into the back that it looked like there wouldn’t be enough room. Tess had the key to the padlock that held the back door of the truck secure, so I couldn’t get in that way, so what to do?

I reached into the opening and found that there was JUST enough ‘give’ to move things around a bit. After I adjusted things as best I could, I squeezed into the tiny space I had made. A chair leg lodged itself firmly into my kidney, a lamp bar rested securely under my chin, and my knees were crammed up to my chest, but I had gotten in enough to pull the metal door down and secure myself in uncomfortable darkness. Florida, here I come!

I must have passed out again, because the next thing I knew I awoke with a terrible cramp in my side and bright daylight filling my vision. As my eyes adjusted to the light, the words ‘Insert dick here’ filled my vision. It was Mike, and he was tapping my leg and telling me to wake up. I sleepily said “are we there?”

Mike laughed and helped me out of the hole. Everyone was standing around the truck in amazement that I had squeezed into such a tiny place. Mike told me that when they went to get into the truck, they heard me snoring so loud that they thought a bear was in back.

Tess gave me a teary eyed hug and told me how much she appreciated my dedication to their family that I was willing to journey all the way to Florida in that uncomfortable place. Frank and Mike shook my hand and wished me luck, and then Aaron and I said our goodbyes followed by a hug. They all climbed into the u-haul and drove off, leaving me to fend for myself in a cruel world of family uncertainty, and leaving Steve passed out on the concrete floor of their basement with the words ‘I heart cock’ written on his forehead.

To Be Continued…

The Television Whisperer

2011-06-16T23:42:00.000-05:00

Is television inside ME? Or am I inside television?

One of the criteria I look for in a woman is her Television viewing habits. I don’t ask a lot, and I certainly don’t expect a girl to be into the same things as me, but I DO ask that she OWN a TV. I can’t tell you how many profiles I’ve read in which a woman states ‘I don’t own a TV’. Well fuck you, go buy a TV. If a woman doesn’t own a TV because she’s poor, that I understand. In fact I don’t mind that at all because if she’s poor and doesn’t own a TV, that means she’s more likely to spend her time at my apartment, and I LIKE having a woman around my apartment because it takes the guess work out of when I’ll get my next hand job. Her hand is there, my dork is there, I can get a hand job whenever I want.

But if her TV absentia is some sort of stand like NOT wanting to blow guys because chocking on a cock keeps her from producing carbon dioxide and in turn kills plants? Well that woman is an asshole and she can go ONLY ‘fuck’ the Birkenstock/cargo shorts wearing douchebag who hangs out in trendy coffee bars and sais profound things like ‘I don’t have a kickstand on my bike because it hurts sidewalks’ or ‘I never masturbate’ (SURE you never masturbate).

Watching TV has become not only a hobby for me over the years, but a full blown obsession. I mean really, what the fuck else am I gonna do with my time, go outside and listen to dickheaded birds chirping at one another? I go to work in the morning then come home and watch my stories. It may be a bluray movie on my PS3, it may be teen lesbian asslicking porn on tubesgalore.com, or it may be a program on cable. But anyway you look at it, I’m using my TV. My TV not only acts as a 55 inch computer screen but as a gateway to escapism so I don’t have to think about how much pussy I’m NOT getting.

When I’m trying to meet women online? I’m using my TV to do it. When I’m remodeling my apartment? I’m using my TV to order things off of various websites. And When I throw a party? My TV acts as the DJ. Television has been a prevalent part of my life since I was a little kid and many of the high points IN that life have happened around it. But TV has been around a lot longer than I’ve been watching it.

Believe it or not, Television has actually been around since 1878. The first practical use of Television came from Germany in 1929 when they began the first broadcast Television programming. And if all that isn’t enough to blow your mind, it was actually a Mexican inventor who came up with color TV AND the remote control in 1940. So why do most Americans think that TV was invented in 1948, and color TV was invented in 1966? Simple, because Americans aren’t supposed to know that we didn’t do everything first…that and because most Americans are dumb mother fuckers who watch too much T.V.

The U.K. was selling TV’s from 1928-1934, Germany and France improved on the technology and came up with a TV that showed a slightly better image and sold those from 1933-1938. All though these models were available in the U.S., TV didn’t become a feather in the American cap until the 1939 World’s Fair. Unfortunately, JUST when our imaginations began to take us to the brink of Television insanity, WWII broke out and the war commission forced a halt on ALL TV manufacturing, opting to use those plants for the war effort.

Before the war a 3-8 inch TV set cost anywhere between 125-445 bucks. In today’s market that’s an equivalent to 2000-6500 bucks. Imagine that shit…6 THOUSAND dollars for an 8 inch black and white TV with little to no programming to watch. And these weren’t the cute little 3 inch TV’s you can buy at RadioShack to watch the football on while you’re at work. These were monstrously huge boxes, like your stereo on steroids with a tiny little screen on the front that produced images so convoluted that you couldn’t tell if you were watching a football game or a close up of a man sticking his fist up a pig’s ass.

After the war however, when the manufacturing freeze ended and America had come up with some pretty cool war related technological advances of its own, TV’s came out to the American public with a bang. With increased leisure time, the expansion of Television networks in the west, and lowered prices caused by mass production, Television sets went from being in .05 percent of American homes in 1946 to 55.7 percent in 1954, and NINTY percent in 1962. Between being available at gas pumps, in bars, and in homes, American Television usage is up to 300 percent today.

Initially, television programming was only concerned with filling a few hours each evening. You’d gather around the set with your nuclear family and watch a sporting event for an hour or two and that was it. The rest of your day was spent mowing the lawn or listening to the radio. From the beginning of 1946 Television began to be seen during the day time as well as weekend hours. As air time increased so did the demand for new material. With the exception of sports, variety programs became much more important to primetime viewing.

Televisions began to bring America closer together. People had things to discuss around the water cooler at work, families found that laughing brightened thier days, and news stories from around the globe could be heard days, sometimes hours after they happened instead of weeks or even months. As television made our world seem like a smaller place, it also broadened our veiws of it.

At some point during this time I’m sure that programmers started to become aware of JUST how much influence TV would have on the public and the amount of money they could make by exerting that influence. A whole dictionary of terms came about that YOU’VE never been aware of, but in essence were used to brainwash the public into being more receptive to advertising. These terms included such gems as: Dayparting, theming, stripping, stacking, counterprogramming, bridging, tentpoling, hammocking, crossprogramming and hotswitching.

Since inception in the U.S. in 1940, TV commercials have become one of the most effective, persuasive, and popular method of selling products of many sorts. During the 1940s and into the 1950s, programs were hosted by single advertisers. This, in turn, gave great creative license to the advertisers over the content of the show. Due to the quiz show scandals in the 1950s, networks shifted to the magazine concept introducing commercial breaks with multiple advertisers.

For those of you who don’t know how TV works today, I’ll give you a brief run down. Commercials pay for the programming you watch. Depending on the time and the program, a 30 second block of commercial time will cost an advertiser anywhere from 750 grand to several million dollars. That money is used by producers to fund the shows you watch. It pays for the production of these shows including everything from the writers to the actors. Pay stations such as HBO and Showtime get their money from subscriptions which is why they can show titties and curse. On network TV, since the advertisers are basically paying for the show, they get to determine if you see titties and hear the word ‘fuck’. Apparently most advertisers are afraid that by seeing a tit during a show, it will make you less likely to buy a Gillette razor.

Even though they only have 3 stations in the UK, advertisers are ONLY allowed a total of 9-12 minutes of commercial time per hour. In the US, it’s up to 28 minutes per hour. Another little fact that many people don’t know is that almost every country on the planet EXCEPT the US is not only allowed to curse, show tits, ass, and SOMETIMES even bush in its programs, but in its commercials as well. Part of that reason is because in most other countries viewers’ pay Television tax and programming isn’t so much paid for by advertisers. I like this idea because it takes them the fuck out of the editing room. However this also limits programming. Most series in the UK only run 6 episodes per season, and usually only last 1 or 2 seasons, no matter HOW popular they are. Case in point; the original UK version of The Office. There ARE exceptions to that rule of course like Doctor Who which is the longest running science fiction show ever produced and has been on air in some form or another since 1963.

Watching TV used to be something we did for free to relax after a hard day of installing asbestos or harvesting nuclear power, while we smoked cigarettes on the couch and waited for our wives to finish cooking a roast beast. Commercials were either limited or interwoven into programs that were original, witty, and made us laugh.

Today, Comcast charges me 150 bucks a month for 13 versions of the fucking Style Channel. I try to flip through the limited channel list that I DO have and ANY channel I land on is in the middle of a commercial break about a workout machine shaped like an old man’s walker that can make my abs look like Roman body armor. And if a show IS any good, it gets hamstringed like Achilles because you’ve been thought controlled into thinking that being smart is for losers.

To give you a glimpse of the hypocrisy now devoted to Television, recently the FCC approved a merger between Comcast, universal, and NBC (NBC-U as it's now called). The FCC’s job, besides treating you like an infantile asshole through its mundane and archaic decisions to not allow you to see a tit, is to ensure that mergers like this DON’T happen.

This merger means that cable prices will get higher than Woody Harrelson. Besides COMCAST prices getting higher, satellite prices will spike as well because Comcast now OWNS channels like USA, Bravo, CNBC, MSNBC, Oxygen (who gives a fuck about that one?), syfy, E, Versus, A&E, Biography, The History Channel, The Weather Channel, Lifetime, and 10 sports channels. You either won’t be able to get these on satellite soon OR Comcast will charge Dish and Direct TV an arm and a leg to show them, and in turn Dish and Direct TV will charge YOU an arm and a leg for them. This makes Comcast/NBC/Universal a monopoly, and monopolies are fucking illegal. The FCC has been around since 1934 and their mission statement is as follows: "to make available so far as possible, to all the people of the United States, without discrimination on the basis of race, color, religion, national origin, or sex, rapid, efficient, Nation-wide, and world-wide wire and radio communication services with adequate facilities at reasonable charges." Well fuck you FCC, because you just took a big dump on your mission statement.

Because Television has been around SO long, its influence is taken for granted. We don’t realize or take into consideration the affect TV has on the country, especially now that it’s so prevalent in American homes. This merger will not only harm competition, but diversity of the media marketplace AND even our democracy. The new company will be able to limit the voices you here which will affect your decisions to elect representatives, and it will prioritized NBC shows making it even harder to find alternatives on TV.

Now, that’s all well and good and you’re probably thinking to yourself “Who gives a fuck; I’m watching “The Biggest Loser”. Well, here’s the kicker; Even though the FCC is supposed to safeguard YOUR interests by not letting this happen, a woman named Meredith Attwell Baker decided in March of 2011 that the merger between Comcast/Universal/NBC was taking too long and pushed it through. On June third she quit the FCC and took a job at Comcast as the senior vice president of governmental affairs. Let’s take a moment to pull the dick out of our asses and wipe the poop off of it….

WHAT THE FUCK DID SHE JUST DO?

She pushed through a merger that wouldn’t have happened, BECAUSE IT'S ILLEGAL, less than 30 days before quitting and taking a job with the very company she approved the creation of! Not only did she just FUCK you, but she got paid well to do it! PLUS, this bitch was so excited to be fucking you that she didn’t even wait until AFTER her commission with the FCC was over on June 30th to announce her new job. She just up and fucking quit 27 days before she was done. That’s some bullshit right there. I’m not a politician, but I have to imagine that’s something to be frowned upon, especially since Obama HIMSELF gave her that job. Not only did she make YOU look like an asshole, she made the President look like an asshole, and when you make the President look like an asshole? You make America look like an asshole…which is DOUBLE asshole on you. Why isn’t this bitch being put in front of a firing squad?

Entertainment is a big part of our lives and without TV we wouldn’t have ACCESS to that entertainment. You wouldn’t know what movies are out because there’d be no trailers. Without TV most of us would just say fuck it and commit suicide. Imagine how much life would suck if there was no entertainment in it. You wouldn’t come home from a hard 13 hour day at your shit job and say “I think I’ll go for a spry walk to liven up my day!” No, you’d put a fucking shotgun in your mouth and say “Let’s get this over with”.

The cost of your entertainment has steadily risen over the years making it harder and harder to achieve a good old fashioned escapism boner. So when I see a bitch like Meredith Attwell Baker storm trooping her way to the top by marching her blitzkrieg Nazi ass political and American backstabbing troops up my ass…I get a little miffed. Let me be perfectly clear here: WHAT MEREDITH ATTWELL BAKER DID WAS ILLEAGAL! If she’s not in jail by the end of this fucking year, I’m annexing my apartment from America and going Michigan Militia on this country.

Let me pull out my soapbox for a moment here…when people in Government, not only DO things like this, but get away with it? It takes away from the power of authority of the WHOLE government and makes it a joke. The next time I get pulled over for going 65 in a 20 and the cop wants to give me a ticket? I’m just gonna say ‘Meredith Attwell Baker’ and screech off. The next time I get a letter in the mail saying that I’m under audit by the Department of Internal Revenue? I’m just gonna send them a letter back that says ‘Meredith Attwell Baker’ and continue not paying my taxes. And the next time I ‘accidentally’ put my penis in a girl’s asshole while fucking her doggy style vigorously and she turns around and Sais ‘what the fuck?’…Meredith Attwell Baker.

But as pissed off as I AM, and as YOU should be about Meredith Attwell Baker…when I jump in the ‘way back’ machine with my buddy Mr. Peabody, I can remember a simpler time of Television.

Back in the late 70’s, before I was shipped off to military school and when my mother was at the height of her alcoholism, Television was the only friend I had. Like many parents even today, my mother used our TV set as a babysitter to shut me up and keep me quiet. It didn’t matter how much I screamed, kicked, or acted out…once she dropped me in front of that 22 inch Zenith color TV? My eyes would go saucer wide and my jaw would drop down and rest on my chest.

At first I would ONLY watch cartoons. I couldn’t sit through the one hour dramas like she could, and when she was watching Dallas, I would play with my Star Wars Action Figures. For a time that was fine with her as her main goal was to keep me quiet in the morning so she could sleep in. But as I got older and wouldn’t go to bed at 6 anymore, she tried to spark my interest in shows other than Tom and Jerry and The Flintstones. Much like advertisers, she baited me with brainwashing techniques.

I remember coming home from school one day and finding gifts on the dining room table with my name on them. It wasn’t Christmas, and it wasn’t my birthday so I was a bit confused. My mother came over and told me that she thought I would like them. In the boxes were a Dukes of Hazard lunch box and a General Lee toy car. I introduced the General Lee into my Star Wars playing habits, and the next night I sat in the living room and watched The Dukes of Hazard. She had me. I was hooked, not so much by Daisy Duke but by the fat hammy Boss Hog, the silly and always angry Roscoe P. Coltrane, and the bumbling yet always helpful Ennis, who eventually got a spinoff show of his own, although it was short lived.

After that I started watching The Incredible Hulk, The Fall Guy, and The Greatest American Hero (which I’m currently writing a remake of that I hope to sell to a studio.) The funny thing is that as enthralled as I was in these shows back then, when I try to watch them now? I can barely sit through them. Not because I don’t like them, but because we are guided by the relevance of the time we live in. What was acceptable to the palette in ’77 may leave a bitter taste in our mouths in 2011 because we grow accustomed to the way stories are told within our time. Stories were slower back then and relied on acting OVER special effects and although that was enough for us THEN, now it just makes the old shows seem boring.

As I got older and the 80’s landed on America, my mother got our first PAY cable service which was called ON-TV. ON-TV consisted of TWO channels; a movie channel and Sports vision. Launched in 1977, ON-TV was what they called a ‘scrambled UHF’ service because they broadcasted over normal airwaves. This was what we had before cable. ON-TV introduced me to a whole fucking world of movies that I was A.) Too young to watch and probably fucked me up for life, and B.) I wouldn’t have access to otherwise. On-TV was the first to strike up a deal with George Lucas to show Star Wars on Television and THAT was a big get for me.

When my mother began working the midnight shift at cook county jail, I began staying up as late as I wanted. One night as I was flipping through the TV guide, I noticed that ON-TV was airing an animated program at 11 called Heavy Metal. Since I still liked cartoons, I decided I’d stay up and watch it. I was 10 years old. Everything that YOU hate about me, and everything that you like about me can be traced back to that fateful night in 1983 when my young mind saw things that even as an ADULT…still fuck with my head. Robots fucking flesh and blood hookers, Hero’s made to look like assholes and a burnt and destroyed Starship Enterprise made me have nightmares that STILL haven’t diminished some 30 years later. I would suggest to you that if you’ve never SEEN Heavy Metal? Go get it and imagine being 10 years old and watching it with no adult supervision. After that though? Everything was fair game.

I began watching soft core porn at 2AM (Young Lady Chatterley being my first), Dawn of the Dead, the Scarecrow, and Twilight Zone the Movie. I couldn’t get enough of Television.

But Saturday morning was still my favorite. I would sit in front of the set watching cartoons like The Snorks, Mr. T , and Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends while playing with my legos and He-Man action figures. I had a tall kitchen garbage container FILLED to the top with legos and on Saturday morning? I’d dump that shit out on the carpet waking the sleeping giant that was my mother to the loud crash of thousands of pieces of molded plastic spilling across her floor. She would throw open the door to her cave and come pounding through the apartment at me. ‘WHY DON’T YOU GO OUTSIDE?’ she would ask in a deafeningly loud tone, to which I would answer ‘my leg hurts’, or ‘my tummies upset’, or ‘I just dumped out my legos and it’ll take me 4 hours to clean them up’. She’d yell at me to shut the fuck up then and storm back off to her cancer den to finish sleeping off her drunk from the night before.

The truth was that I had a terrible secret which kept me from going outside…Jennifer Lurch. A monstrous ogre who would kick my ass as soon as I stepped out of my front door. Sometimes I could actually see her breath fogging up the first floor window of our apartment building like some Jurassic Fat Chick in a Spielberg flick. Jennifer Lurch is one of the MANY reasons for my not wanting to date fat chicks now, keeping me ‘free and single’ as hot chicks don’t want to date ME.

Lurch was an oafish woman whose size and stature were not unlike the Kraken in Clash of the Titans mixed with a Jabba the Hutt thyroid problem, add some ‘attitude of Marge Shot’, and a pinch of ‘the smell of dog shit and mayonnaise spread all over a 5 day old corpse in the desert in Arizona in June of a man who dropped dead after running a marathon’ and you’ve got a pretty clear picture of the woman I’m talking about.

Walking to the bus stop when I was 11 was a race to avoid Jennifer Lurch. So I spent most of my non-school activities indoors in front of the TV. Television had become, NOT just a way for my mother to control me, but a way for me to avoid human beings…because even at 11 I didn’t like you that much. Because my mother wasn’t around, the Television had raised me for that past 5 years and I found myself with a NEW family. As I moved from cartoons and the 1 hour drama and then into sitcoms, my TV mom became Meredith Baxter from Family Ties (Turns out mom just came out of the closet), my TV dad became Max Write from Alf, my TV brother became Todd Bridges from Diff’rent Strokes (The show that taught me how to use an apostrophe in a word allowing me to create such gems a ‘cous’n Hemp’n’ and ‘Act’on J’m’) and my TV Butler became Christopher Hewitt of Mr. Belvedere.

Streaks on the China, my ass!

Mr. Belvedere always had a lesson for me. I can remember in one episode Mr. Belvedere taught little Kevin the importance of standing up to the bully (I think EVERY 80’s sitcom dealt with this theme, my fave being Andrew Dice Clay as ‘The Gooch’ on Diff’rent Strokes), and in the end Kevin took Mr. Belvedere’s advice and he and the bully became friends. The episode ended with Mr. Belvedere and the Owen’s family all huddled around Kevin and his bully all smiling that Jag-off 80’s sitcom smile that said ‘See? Everything is always going to be alright.’

The Monday after I saw the ‘bully’ episode of Mr. Belvedere I cautiously stepped outside of my mother’s apartment for school and slowly walked to the bus stop looking from side to side expecting a Jennifer Lurch ambush. Sometimes she’d just drop out of the sky and land on me like a piano. It was winter time and it had snowed the night before, so there was that ‘fresh snow’ quiet going on. Couple that with my fear and I could hear a dog shit from 3 miles away. Up ahead of me to the right, I could see great steam engine puffs of smoke coming from the corner of a brick building from six feet up. As I inched closer I could hear the thunderous breathing of a monster that had a throat full of m&m’s, Hawaiian punch, and the engine of a ’72 Challenger with no muffler.

I stopped and called out to her. ‘JENNY’. The breathing stopped for a moment, and she came out from behind the building. She slowly walked out to the side walk with that ‘bully’ smile and stood in front of me like a typhoon of fat and nasty. I walked up to her, confident in my lesson from the night before, and stood a foot away. I looked up at her and through the fog coming out of her mouth and huge nostrils, stared into those beady dead eyes. “If you want to beat me up every day, I understand. You need to do that in order to feel important. But I can be your friend and make you feel important THAT way too” I said paraphrasing Kevin Owens speech from Mr. Belvedere.

I’ve gotten my ass handed to me often in life, but I can’t remember a pummeling like I received on this particular day. Jennifer, first, punched me in the nose. This not only immediately made me cry (a punch to the nose will do that to anybody), but as white stars filled my vision, I fell backwards on the ground and cracked my skull on the sidewalk. The next thing I remember was feeling my ribs being crushed as she mounted me and started repeatedly punching me in the face. Luckily the bus came along and the driver came running out and pulled her off of me. But after that? I can tell you that I know more about TV and pop culture than most people will FORGET in a lifetime as I didn’t leave the house for 2 fucking years. Fuck you Jenny Lurch. And fuck you Mr. Belvedere for getting my ass kicked with bad advice.

At 13, my mother finally got fed up with me being in her house all the time and shipped me off to military school. As you’ve read in some of my other stories, this was not a pleasant time for me. I was forced into interacting with other human beings, which in most cases just led to me getting my ass kicked by men instead of Jenny Lurch. The only solace I found at Glenwood Military School for Boys was on Sunday mornings. On Saturday morning the bullies had control of the Television so I was forced into watching what THEY wanted to watch, and on weeknights I was made to study while the house parents watched TV. But Sunday morning? I would get up at 5 AM before anyone else in the cottage was up and watch the old black and white Superman show, Underdog, Tennessee Tuxedo, and The Jackson Five. Sure these were the ‘Aldi’ of cartoon blocks and didn’t compare to Saturday morning cartoons, but they were what was on and nobody could tell me not to watch them.

It was during this time that my fascination with movies came into play simply because they were more available to me. Saturdays I was allowed to go off campus to the movie theatre and Friday nights our dean would show movies in the library of the school. But on the rare occasion that I DID go home for the weekend, I would stay up all night on Friday watching British programming on channel 11. This was another huge influence which inspired my love of comedy. Channel 11 would run 2 hour blocks of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, followed by Benny Hill, and finally The Dave Allen Show. John Cleese taught me how to be a smart ass, Benny Hill taught me slapstick, and Dave Allen was just a cool Irish mother fucker who always had a drink in his hand.

It was because of Monty Python that I began getting my ass kicked less and less. I found that by being a smart ass I could confuse bullies. And a confused bully can be manipulated into not beating your ass…or at least his confusion can give you a good head start when running away from him. Some kids would rely on slap stick to entertain themselves, but when it’s not done in front of an audience? Slap stick makes you look like a retard.

TV has been on in the background in every event of my life. The first time I saw someone get arrested, they had spray painted ‘Who shot J.R.’ in huge red letters in the hallway of my mother’s condo. The first time I made out with a girl? Madonna’s Like a Virgin video was playing on MTV (back when MTV played video’s). The first time I went to county jail? These hard ass prisoners, including a guy with a fresh bullet wound watched Smallville like it was a religion. The night before I started my first job, my friend Steve and I watched the pilot episodes of The Simpsons and Married with Children. The first time I cried at a TV show? Monroe had just gotten raped by 2 fat chicks in the back of a van on Too Close for Comfort. That’s not a joke by the way; they did that as a serious episode. The first time I got laid? The fifth season of House had just started. And the first time a TV show TRULY disappointed me? Fucking Sledge Hammer.

Sledge Hammer was a parody of the Dirty Harry movies. A cop with a big gun and a bigger ego who was always on the verge of being suspended. He fucked everything up and his female partner ended up solving all the crime while he got all the glory. The show was so popular that Sledge Hammer even had a guest appearance in a Spider Man comic. Well the second season ended with Sledge blowing up the whole city. Just him standing amid the rubble with a bazooka and tattered clothes and an ‘I can’t believe you caught me fucking a pumpkin’ look on his face. Across the bottom of the screen: To Be Continued. I’m STILL fucking waiting for the third season, and that was 1986.

This wasn't the ONLY show that wholly disappointed me. The last episode of Magnum P.I. did it too. They ended the show with Magnum dying. I thought, even as a kid, that this was truly an inspired ending. It was bold, well written, and it made me cry like Ryan Seacrest getting a bikini wax. Well several months later, pandering to pussified audiences everywhere, they made ANOTHER fucking 'last' episode of Magnum, which started with him waking up from his 'death' and solving his own murder. Fuck you Magnum.

This patronizing to the lowest common denominator forced me to learn some truths about television AND life. People don’t want to watch things that make them think. The droves of masses out there want to be entertained with stupid Americas funniest Home Movies humor which consists of an hour of babies being kicked in the nuts. They want to see reality shows which teach them that not ONLY is it OK to act like an asshole, but there are NO consequences for that assholery. If there were ANY justice on this planet, everyone from The Jersey Shore would get 2 in the back of the head, and every Kardasian would be ordered by a judge to have their uteri removed.

Now with insipid ‘talent’ shows pumping the American audience full of has-been’s trying to make a comeback, never-was’s trying to become famous, and viewers trying to forget how stupid they are, the television landscape looks like a close up photo of my ball sack; a vast and awe inspiring desert landscape with the occasional lilting redwood tree and a giant chocolate covered clear gumdrop, which upon closer inspection is actually a skin tag with a bit of poop on it.

The entertainment value of this programming is NOT in its content but in the lunchboxes, karaoke machines, t-shirts, and albums it sells to you. I don’t mean to sound like an old fogey, but I remember when you ACTUALLY had to be talented to be famous.

When a talented entertainer was admired, that admiration would INSPIRE you to become more than what you were. John Cleese made me want to be funny, Magnum P.I. made me want to be cool and grow a mustache, and Jesse from Full House made me want to get laid. But one thing these shows DIDN’T make me do was sit around and think “Hmmmm, instead of going to college and making something of myself I think I’ll start a comedy troupe, find a black friend who flies a helicopter, and live off of my brother while playing guitar and fucking more women than Olestra while my twin nieces sleep in the room next to me.” As much TV as I watched, I never took it that seriously.

Now some dickhead, who you can barely hear over the ‘house band’ which is LESS talented than the dickhead, screeches out a song from a record that nobody bought in the 70’s and this inspires children to think that THEY have talent. I hate to tell you this…but your children DON’T have talent. In fact they’re just little asshole versions of you that will grow up and work at the Wal-Mart because while THEY were chasing the dream of having a fat Mexican woman, a 75 year old rock star, and a bloated black guy who looks like he lost all of his weight after having a kidney infection tell them that they don’t suck, the kids whose parents actually CARED about them, made them go to college or at LEAST made them watch the History Channel instead of American Idol.

Then there’s the reality shows. A puffy fat midget chick with a voice that sounds like she smokes 17 packs of cigarettes a day with a mouthful of pop rocks while getting arrested for drunkenly stumbling about a beach at 10AM and telling cops to go fuck themselves, and makes more money than religion because of it, gets the admiration of your children and then I have to put up with your over confident 12 year old telling ME to fuck off while YOU sit back and think that’s ‘cute’. Well fuck you AND fuck your 12 year old too. The Jersey Shore is to television what The Challenger was to Space Shuttle launches.

Why do I care about your children? Because YOUR children are the future of this country AND the future of the entertainment industry that I care so much about. It doesn’t MATTER what kind of asshole you are, your children are a canvas and only YOU have control over what gets painted on that canvas. When you don’t teach them that failure is a part of growing up, that fame is something that happens NOT something that is chased, and that there are consequences for acting like an asshole? One of two things will happen; they’ll end up getting cement bruises on their knees from blowing guys in Cook County Jail after trying to rob a liquor store to get enough money to go to the American Idol tryouts in Light My Fart Arkansas because YOU didn’t tell them that they have less talent than a one armed man in a clapping contest OR, they’ll direct the ‘Jersey Shore: The Movie’ film that will inevitably get made. Either eventuality should be UN-fucking-acceptable to you as a parent. So yeah, why the fuck DO I care more than you? Teach your children some fucking humility.

Another reason I care is because while people are watching this stupid, stupid, shit, shows that I watch, which are ACTUALLY intelligent and well written get the axe. ‘Arrested Development’, ‘Deadwood’, ‘Rome’, hell, even ‘The Family Guy’ got cancelled 3 fuckin’ times before ‘The Bachelor’ mentioned in an episode that HE liked it, and suddenly it became acceptable.

Over the years I’ve become something of a Television Whisperer. Not because I talk to my T.V…that would be crazy, but because I listen to it. I can hear the faint chirping of crickets when a show that TRIES to be funny by pouring canned laughter all over your pajama bottoms simply isn’t and will get the axe. I can hear the low moans and deep inhales when a show has captured an audience through intrigue. And I can hear my own heart beat faster as I realize a show that SHOULD be cancelled, won’t be cancelled and vice versa.

I get a lot of shit on my facebook page from people who say that I watch too much TV. The truth is that I don’t really watch all that much TV. There are certain shows that I never miss, but when you consider the AMOUNT of programming available, my viewing habits occupy just a small percentage. This past year however, I have found myself overcompensating for the loss of a particular favorite.

There are times in all of our lives when we tend to overcompensate; especially when we lose someone or something we love. When my mother passed away, I drank myself into a fucking stupor for 2 years and spent every penny she left me. When the love of my life Jackie cheated on me, I fucked everything that moved (and some that didn’t) thinking that I was somehow getting her back. In that case I even LITERALLY fucked a melon. Not a WATER melon, even I wouldn’t give my dick that much credit, but a regular old melon. I cut a hole in it, warmed it in the microwave for 40 seconds, and as I drunkenly throttled it between my crotchel area and the kitchen counter, I sobbed “I’m cheating on YOU Jackie with a melon, I’m cheating on YOU Jackie with a melon” at it while emphasizing the YOU with every thrust. Got a clear picture of that in your head? Good, let’s move on. The point is that the reality of overcompensating didn’t hurt anyone but me, the women I used…and that slut melon.

Now that I’m a bit older, I’ve found myself overcompensating again, at a loss that was at LEAST equal to that of losing my mother or Jackie. Before I tell you what that loss is, let me first preface it by saying that mom and I didn’t get along all that well…and fuck Jackie. Humorless cunt.

Last year the TV show Lost came to an abrupt and somewhat unsatisfying end. In a world of ever shitty, lazy, implausible, and hammy entertainment, Lost stood out as a show that not only knew how to spin a fucking yarn, but it knew how to keep asses in the seats.

There were a lot of ‘theory’ based web sites concerning the show Lost out there, and there were a lot of douche bag back seat drivers and Monday morning quarterbacks pitching in their two cents as to what was going on in the show. Most of these ass clowns had TiVo’s filled with ‘High School Reunion’ and ‘Biggest Loser Couples’ episodes. Frankly, MOST if not all of the retarded ass theories and half assed criticism’s of the show were so far off that they make me want to hook my testicles up to Dale Earnhardt Jr’s car battery while he’s revving up his engine before a race. So to all of you who talked about Lost with the same enthusiasm that a Domino’s delivery driver has when he delivers a ten dollar buy one get one free shit pizza deal to a an apartment in the projects, fuck you.

I’ve watched and studied every episode of Lost on bluray like I’m watching the Zapruder film. Sometimes I wake up at night going ‘back…and to Hurley’s left…back…and to Hurley’s left…back…and to Hurley’s left’. I’ve not only recorded every episode, but I’m such a fucking whack job that I RE-edited them so as to be linear. If you didn’t watch the show, you should know that the story didn’t follow a specific time-line. Every episode was laced with flash backs, flash forwards, and the final season introduced us to what I called ‘the flash fuck-ways’.

If you didn’t watch Lost, I completely understand. It was a huge investment of time and thought. You may have kids, wives, sowing circles, scrapbooking clubs, and ‘How to Hide a Hooker’s Corpse’ learning annex classes and just didn’t have the energy to add one more thing to your day-to-day struggles. But I would suggest to you that the energy you put into the show will be significantly rewarded through it’s thought provoking and well crafted story, it’s excellent cinematography, and it’s well acted/déjà-vu/conspiracy-laced/coincidental/holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-they-killed-Charlie/what-the-hell-is-going-on/fucked-upded-ness. You got a big screen and a bluray player? Get that shit on bluray.

For those of you who didn’t watch the show because you thought it was going to be stupid and you asked sarcastic questions like ‘why is that fat guy so fat after being on an island for 6 years’, and ‘How come nobody rescues them?’. Fuck you, we didn’t want you to watch anyway because you’re stupid…and ugly…and your mother dresses you funny.

Now that Lost has ended, I find myself with a humongous hole in my television viewing catalogue. Other than one or 2 shows, I can’t remember the last time I changed my entire fucking schedule around to make time for a program every week. Fuck TiVo, and fuck DVR, there’s just something about watching a show when it actually AIRS that I like. Maybe it’s the comradery of knowing millions of other fans like me are glued to their sets. Or maybe it’s that feeling I used to get when waiting for Aerosmith concert tickets. I’d always get to Carson Pirie Scott at 3 in the morning, assuring my first place stature in the line and KNOWING that because o f my hard work and diligence I’d be the first to get those tickets. Watching something live gives me a similar feeling because I know that while other people are waiting to read the paper the next day for the reviews…I got that knowledge first.

Whatever the case may be, I loved Lost, I loved the writing, the acting, the production value, the directing, the editing, and the soundtrack. And now that it’s gone I feel like I’ve lost a good friend. (SUCH a fucking loser)

Were all the questions that I’d come to ask over the years answered? No, but enough explanations were given to satisfy me. During the last episode my apartment was filled with about 20 likeminded Lost fans, and I can tell you that when Jack died at the end? We were all crying like Tammy Fay Baker at an Oz fest. Is it just me? Or was Jack and Locke running towards each other on the cliff in the rain enough to satisfy your Lost thirst for closure from ALL 6 seasons? That was the most intense good vs. evil shit I’ve seen since Indiana Jones took on the tank in The Last Crusade.

God knows TV has tried to fill the void that Lost left behind with shit like Fast Forward and The Event, both of which are the failed abortions of a network reaching for past glory. I watched every shitty episode of BOTH of those shows along with a myriad of others in an attempt to gap the empty timeslot that Lost has left in my heart.

However, much like trying to kick a crack addiction, these methadone suppositories might get rid of the fever and night terrors for a little bit, but at the end of the day I still turn off my TV feeling like Jeff Conaway. So, with Lost gone from the schedule, I’ve tried to compensate for my loss by attempting to find SOMETHING new that could inspire me with that same feeling of satisfaction. But most of them just sucked.

The Defenders: James Belushi and the fat kid from Stand By Me played defense attorneys whose clients were ALWAYS innocent, and who fought pharmaceutical companies to win lots and lots of money for retarded kids. Not bad, had some hot chicks in it, but I could FEEL them reaching through my TV, grabbing me by the shoulders, and screaming in my face “WHY WON’T YOU CRY YOU MORON, THIS IS SAPPY, SAPPY STUFF”. The show felt like Matlock 2011. (Cancelled)

The Event: I have a ritual that I’ve been doing since I was in my early 20’s. It started as something that Action Jim and I would do together, but since he doesn’t live in the state anymore, I’ve been doing it myself for a few years. And no, it’s not fucking Action Jim in the butt. Whenever I hear or read that a celebrity has passed away, I stop at a bar on my way home from work, order one drink and toast to his or her career. (I have a reserved ‘floating’ day off scheduled for when Joe Don Baker passes). John Ritter was no exception to this ritual. I genuinely liked that guy. One of the criteria I look for in an actor before I become a fan is whether or not that person seems like someone I’d like to have a drink with at a bar. Not in a gay way, I judge women on this as well, and there were TWO actors that, it always seemed to me, would be fun to have a drink with; Jeff Goldblum (Transylvania 6-5000 Goldblum, NOT Jurassic Park Goldblum) and John Ritter. I’ve probably seen everything Ritter has done at one point or another in my life and although there’s WAY too much filmography to mention here, Three’s Company was always a favorite of mine. His movies No Ordinary Hero, about an actor who plays a super hero and decides to BECOME that super hero in real life (TV movie), Real Men with Jim Belushi, Skin Deep with that awesome glow in the dark condom scene, and Problem Child were some of my favorites as a kid. As my love of movies grew in the 90’s, Ritter starred in some of my favorites of that decade including Stay Tuned which was a shit film, but I still liked it, and Sling Blade. His last movie was Bad Santa which was the best holiday movie released since Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Although I laughed along with his friend Howard Stern at Jimmy Kimmel when he cried while announcing Ritter’s death on his show, I felt his sorrow. So when Lost left the air and NBC announced that there was a NEW show called The Event starring John Ritter’s kid? I decided to give it a shot, and although Jason Ritter WAS good on the show? He picked the wrong show to start out with because this was a monstrous piece of horse shit that tried to be as convoluted as Lost, but without any heart. Thankfully The Event has been cancelled, but I DO hope to see Jason Ritter in something more deserving of his lineage AND personal talent. (Cancelled)

Detroit 1-8-7: First of all, this was NYPD Blue…but in Detroit. Hello, can SOMEONE in Hollywood at least attempt to have an original thought? This was SO much NYPD Blue that the Lieutenant from NYPD Blue, James McDaniel, was even in it. Only he played a detective. I don’t know if a rule like this exists, but it should; if you have played a character that had the rank of Lieutenant for 8 years…you should NOT be allowed to be demoted to detective when you take another role. It’s just fucking off putting. The only good thing about that show was Christopher from the Sopranos. Michael Imperioli was my absolute favorite on the Sopranos, and I predicted great things from him as a director, an actor, AND a writer. He wrote a bunch of YOUR favorite episodes of the Sopranos, and you probably don’t even know it. Hell, he made his bones playing Spider in Goodfellas. You remember Spider; He’s the kid Pesci shot in the foot because he didn’t get his drinks fast enough. Imperioli got his revenge though. He wrote an amazing scene in the Sopranos where he goes into a bakery to get pastries and the kid behind the counter takes too long to wait on him, AND disrespects him…so he shoots him in the foot. Brilliant inside Hollywood writing. Anyway, BIG fan of Imperioli…NOT a big fan of his current career path. (Cancelled)

The Cape: Oofa. This show reminded me of my Cousin Tom. Tom was always the bright one in the family. His parents would always talk about his unlimited potential and the bright future that lay ahead of him. Whenever I fucked up in school or got arrested for fucking Melons (what? I didn’t say that the after Jackie Melon was my first. Sheesh) my mother would throw Tom in my face like a moist jizz towel. “You’re cousin TOM doesn’t get into trouble. You’re cousin TOM doesn’t fuck Melons, You’re cousin TOM doesn’t smoke weed naked while wearing a hockey mask in the teachers’ lounge.” Always with the fucking Tom. Then, one bright morning Tom decided to rob a liquor store. No one to this day has figured out why, he just walked in wearing a blazer and an Izod shirt, pulled a gun on the owner, took the money from the register, and as he walked out…the owner shot him in the spine and now he’s a quadriplegic who spends all of his free time shitting himself every half hour like clockwork and wearing a bib when he eats in a prison hospital. That was The Cape. Full of potential but going nowhere fast. (Cancelled)

Human Target: I’ve never read the comic book, but I don’t see how that show could have BEEN a fucking comic book. There was nothing super heroee about it. Watching Mark Valley smirk for an hour every week was enough to make me shove a 2 liter of Dr. Pepper up my ass. This guy is the Larry Storch of the 2010’s. His acting was stiffer than the blanket I had during the first week that I learned to jerk off. Then there was Chi McBride as Winston, the over angered 80’s cop movie boss who was given the daunting task of being the shows 300 pound black comic relief. His first acting job was in Revenge of the Nerds III…and I don’t think he’s learned a thing about comedy since he did that movie. Finally we round out the cast with the ONLY reason there was to watch this show: Jackie Earl Haley. Haley started off playing bit parts on various TV shows in the early 70’s, including The Partridge Family, before he graduated to films as the tough ass, dirt bike riding, smoking star player in The Bad News Bears. He did a shitload of stuff after that, but I never heard of him until he played Rorschach in The Watchmen…and he was fucking great. Then he played Freddy in the shitty Nightmare on Elmstreet remake, before going on to play Guerero on Human Target. I have to imagine that Haley had something to do with the evolution of his character on that show because none of the other characters ever grew or evolved. Like a 2nd grader in a play, they just rhythmically recited the diatribe that they memorized from the script. But Haley came alive as his character. He continued to grow, he constantly surprised you and you can’t help but love that his character was a KNOWN torturer who was feared by every criminal in the city, you can’t help but relate to the care and attention he put into his Cadillac which he affectionately called ‘The Aldo’, and one of the biggest ‘FUCK YEAH’ moments I’ve seen since Superman II came when Guerrero overheard a CIA agent say that he was going to use Guerro’s kid as leverage. Not only were you surprised to find out that Guerrero HAD a kid, but he then snuck into the building, killed EVERY CIA agent IN it, before torturing the guy he overheard and blowing him up in a car saying “sorry dude…but that’s my kid, you understand” as he walked away. They should have just gotten rid of Valley and McBride and called the show Guererro.

I guess I should also talk about some shows that didn’t suck from the past year:

The Ricky Gervais Show: This is an HBO show which has taken conversations from Ricky Gervais’s British pod cast, and put them to animation. It started off as just 3 animated characters sitting in a room bullshitting for a half hour, and THAT was fucking great. But now, the show has morphed into Gervais and Merchant, who created The Office together, just ridiculing and harassing the 3rd guy…Karl Pilkington. It’s seriously some of the biggest guffaws I’ve ever given over to a TV show. Apparently Pilkington was the producer ON the podcast, much like Bobabooey on Howard Stern. One day Gervais asked him into the studio to get his input on something, and his response was so mortifyingly stupid…he’s been on the air with the other 2 ever since. Gervais even paid for, what he refers to as ‘The most expensive practical joke ever pulled’, when he sent Karl Pilkington on a round the world adventure to the seven wonders. This became a series on the British network Skyy 1 called An Idiot Abroad. It recently aired on an America travel channel, and is seriously one of the most shit yourself funniest things I’ve ever seen. Imagine the person in your life who LEAST deserves a trip to the Seven Wonders of the World. Just a depressive asshole who you KNOW won’t appreciate the beauty, the wonder, and the awe of these amazing places…and then send them on that trip and film the fuck out of it. It is HYSTERICAL. (Ricky Gervais: Renewed, An Idiot Abroad: Renewed)

Californication: I know this one isn’t new, but since Lost AND Deadwood have left the air, this is the most well written show on TV. Dochoveney plays a complete asshole who is in a constant struggle to find a relationship with his ex wife and his daughter, while at the same time living the life of a drunken, high, constantly fucking the hottest girls on the planet teenager. There’s no way for me to properly sum up the show for you, or to paint it in a light that will do the writing justice…but I can’t recommend it enough. (Even though the last season had a completely satisfying SERIES finale, the show has once again been picked up and will continue with a 6th season)

Justified: There are a few actors whose movie careers I’ve followed simply because they stood out to me in the television series they starred in. First was Will Arnett. I fucking loved this guy as the ‘always seeking approval’ magician brother on Arrested Development. After Fox cancelled that show (idiots), I can remember making my cousin go see Arnett’s first feature film with me; Let’s Go To Prison. Jesus, what a shit movie. Nothing pisses me off more than when a GREAT actor does a shit role. Arnett continued that trend with The Brothers Solomon and his latest television flop; Running Wilde (cancelled). However, he HAS redeemed himself in an IFC original show with fellow Arrested Development cast member David Cross, called The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Todd Margaret. I think Arnett does best when he can curse. The OTHER actor whose career I’ve followed closely since he starred in my all time favorite Television show Deadwood is Timothy Olyphant. Much like Arnett, Tim’s first film out of the gate was a huge piece of shit; Hitman. His next one though is one of my favorites of the 2000’s as the bad guy in Die Hard 4. Now Olyphant headlines a new show on FX called Justified. I wasn’t so sure about this one at first, but the second season got me. A United States Marshal with too many kills is sent to work in the small Kentucky town he grew up in where old feuds between his family and others still pepper the landscape. Also starring two actors from old favorites of mine, including Walton Goggins (Shane from The Shield) and Jeremy Davies (Faraday from Lost) I highly recommend this one.

Breaking Bad: And finally there’s my current favorite, the one that grabs me by the throat every week it’s on and doesn’t let go. Breaking Bad. I’m not going to tell you how wholly gripping this show is. I’m not going to tell you about the superior acting and the cliffhangers that leave you wanting to time travel into the fucking future for their resolutions. I’m not even going to tell you why EVERY episode is an instant classic…instead, I’m going to bitch for a moment about cable television channels...again. AMC has some great shows, and HBO has NEVER made an original program that wasn’t an INSTANT favorite of mine (excluding Sex and the City, but I DO understand its relevance to the television landscape) but what I DON’T understand about these networks, is why the fuck they can ONLY make 8-12 episodes of a show, which is about 2 to three months of airtime, and then make me wait a fucking year before I get new episodes? If you want to do that? FINE! But don’t have season finale cliffhangers so fucking big that Wile E. Coyote would actually DIE when he hit the bottom of the ravine after falling off of them! AMC REALLY fucked us with The Walking Dead. Everyone LOVED that show, yet they only made SIX fucking episodes and they tell me that I have to wait a FULL year before the new ones come out on October 31st 2011. Breaking Bad ended last June with a cliffhanger that makes me feel like I just caught the love of my life fucking a basketball team, and then they pushed back the premiere of the NEW season to July of THIS year! What the fuck? I know these actors are genius, I know the shows are ALL critically acclaimed, they all win awards, they all make money from the commercials, so wouldn’t it behoove the production company to, I don’t know…get off their asses? I mean, really…how fucking hard is it to film these shows? A week, maybe two per episode? Network television does it, Why can’t you? 24 was one of the most action packed and story driven shows ever made, but Fox managed to get that shit started after a 4 month summer hiatus…and that was 24 fucking episodes, sometimes with a MOVIE in between. They should change the name of the show to Waiting Bad.

These cable channels get away with this because YOU let them. If your girlfriend said that she wanted to NOT see you for a year…would you stand for that shit? No, you’d tell her to fuck off. So I have a proposal. Mad Men has announced that instead of coming back this July (which would be about a year since the last episode) they will be coming back MAYBE in March of 2012. Assholes. I know this show is a cult favorite, and it has a following, but I suggest to you that we, the American public, don’t watch a single fucking episode when it comes back on the air. I want Mad Men to have lower ratings than Cop Rock, I want the new season to be the Ishtar of television shows, and I want us to wipe that fucking smirk off of John Hamm’s face and ruin that two year vacation tan his lazy ass got while making YOU wait. If we ruin just ONE program and show these fuckers we’ll get some television ass elsewhere? The rest of our favorite cable channel shows will fall into line.

Anyway, there’re a million shows I didn’t mention here because I know I’m rambling. Suffice it to say that only TWO of my top 5 are still on the air; Deadwood, Californication, Lost, Arrested Development, and Breaking Bad. This list is more of a list of number one’s than a top 5, but still.

Much like The Movie Snob, you may have read this and thought to yourself “what a loser, this guy will never get laid”, and you may be right. But my relationship with entertainment has never hindered my ability to meet women, if anything it’s only helped it. I don’t NOT get laid because of entertainment simply because I dictate the entertainment I watch, not the other way around. I rarely, if ever watch LIVE TV. I download all of the shows you’ve read about here and watch them at my leisure, with NO commercials, because I fucking HATE commercials. If I want a pickle, I’ll go BUY a fucking jar of pickles. I don’t need some cartoon stork interrupting a show right when a major plot point is about to be revealed, to TELL me to go buy a jar of pickles. Much like voting, you may be asking yourself “well then don’t you contribute to the cancellation of your favorite shows by not watching them on TV?” No, because I don’t have a Nielson Box, which is how networks determine what is being watched.

I contribute a great deal of the man I am today to Television. And although many of you are loathe to admit it, the same can be said of you. Television has not only contributed to our culture as human beings, but it has helped cultivate and shape our society since WWII. Sure that cultivation has turned to shit in the last decade, but YOU ultimately have the choice to change that. STOP watching shitty reality shows that have less value than a Tiffany Lamp in an Amish community. Send a letter to your congressman demanding the imprisonment of Meredith Attwell Baker. And KNOW that Dr. fucking Drew cannot cure Drug use and Alcoholism in 11 weeks while forcing his patients to pander to a camera. Television belongs to YOU, not the advertisers, not the cable companies, not the FCC, and NOT the production companies. Demand a tit for Christ’s sake.

END

Big Tits Donna: A Tale of New Year's Past

2011-06-03T22:23:00.000-05:00

Me at the beginning of any New Years Celebration

New Year’s Eve. Julius Caesar established January 1st as New Year's Day in 46 BC. The Romans dedicated this day to Janus, the god of gates, doors, and beginnings. The month of January was named after Janus, who had two faces - one looking forward and the other looking backward.

Pick a lane, wouldja Janus? What an asshole.

These Roman’s would worship a hard cock with a stripe on it if someone drew a picture of one a wall. But what REALLY amazes me is that all these fucking years later; nobody has had the balls to say “you know what? The Romans may have built some nice shit, but they were still a bunch of backwards kid fuckers who got together to watch each other puke”

I say fuck ‘em, let’s name the days and months after the stupid shit that WE worship like ‘Playstationember 7th’ or ‘Cocktober 13th’ I don’t know about you? But from now on when someone asks me when my birthday is, I’m saying Titsember 24th. If our society is so proud of its shitheadedness, then hell…let’s bask in it!

But it’s not so much our celebration of stupid shit that makes us gather around dickheads like Ryan Seacrest to watch a giant nut sack drop in observance of the New Year; it’s our lack of focus. Does anybody out there actually write out a list of accomplishments and failures from the past year, in hopes of learning from your successes and shortcomings? No you don’t. Well, what do we all do then? We make feeble pledges to quit smoking, eat better, and stop shoving things up our asses…pledges that we rarely if ever follow through on. Many of you have something shoved up your ass right now despite your resolution from the past year. The bottom line is that like most holidays, the point of the New Year holiday has been lost over the years in its observance. In other words; it’s just another excuse to get wasted.

I, for one, will NOT be getting drunk this year. Not from any stuck up sense of being better than the rest of America, but because nobody really likes me. So I’m going to try to do what the Roman’s intended and look back on my past New Years follies, my failures from THIS year, and see if I can learn anything from all of it that will help me put a game plan into place for the year to come.

2011 began with a promising start. I had a girlfriend, I’d been at my apartment for a few years, and I just bought a TV so big that you could hide a fucking Winnebago behind it. Then the shit storm hit. My dog broke the TV, my thermostat stopped working which made my apartment colder than a penguin’s dick, and my girlfriend dumped me by leaving a note on my Air Hockey table. After that, I picked myself up and challenged myself into finding a woman that I could connect with, only to be riddled with a non-stop gaggle of internet dates consisting of fatties, liars, and narcissists.

Be that as it may, I don’t know any more whether to be more depressed on my birthday, or on New Years. Which one TRULY signifies the closing of another year caked in mediocrity? Every Titsember 24th just makes me realize how close I am to having to let a doctor shove a camera up my ass when I turn 40. And every Drunk-cember 31st just serves to remind me that I’ve added another year to my time in retail hell, with another one looming ahead of me and NO end in sight.

Sometimes though I can squash that feeling of New Years gloom by getting incredibly drunk with my friends and maybe making out with a fat chick on someone’s couch before puking down the front of her dress. This is not one of those years. Much like the New Year’s Eves of my youth, I sit here in a darkened living room, by myself, playing music so depressing that it would make Joel Osteen Jump off a fucking bridge, affording me time to lament. What I’ve come to realize is that 2011 sucked and I’m not entirely optimistic that 2012 will be any better.

Some of my earliest memories of New Year’s Eve are of sitting up late into the night watching Dick Clarks New Years Rockin’ Eve on the TV, in an empty cottage, on a deserted military school campus. I never watched the show all the way until midnight though, because I’ve always had a general disdain, even then, for watching other people have fun while my thumb is placed squarely up my ass.

In hindsight, I know that having to spend every holiday alone, holed up on that campus because my mother wouldn’t take me home, was really a blessing in disguise…although it didn’t seem like it at the time. But what was the alternative? Sitting on the couch and waiting nervously to see what kind of drunk my mother would have on when she came stumbling through the condo door after work? Would it be one of the ‘beating’ drunks? Or the kind where she would just stand in the darkened doorway of my bedroom, naked, staring at me for hours? I could see the silhouette of her varicose veins, her gunt, and her big floppy fat woman titties outlined from the kitchen light casting its glow behind her. I would stare back at her from the darkness with one eye, barley open, not letting on that I could feel her evil drunken glare, and ready to fight if she came in. Sometimes the outline of her hideous body would play tricks on my mind as I stared back, like that painting of the cowboy where you can’t tell if he’s coming or going. I felt like the old man in ‘The Telltale Heart’, and I would sometimes be afraid that my mother could hear my heart beat and see my one eye open in a sliver of light. It wasn’t a sexual thing, never that, and I never felt threatened in that way; it was just a drunk thing, but the horror I felt on those nights was all too real.

Any psychologist worth his salt will tell you that the origin of my general lack of interest in dating a gravitationally challenged woman, lies at the feet of those memories…so stop being all shitty to me because I don’t want to date a fat chick.

After my unceremonious expulsion from military school, I found myself at home on New Year’s Eve for a couple of years. My mother worked at the jail during the night shift on those evenings, so it wasn’t too different from being stuck on campus. I sat up and watched TV late into the night. I’d made some friends during that time, and I even had a few jobs, but the constraints of a ‘legal age limit’ and not having a driver’s license yet kept me firmly glued to the boob tube.

During my second year of high school, way the fuck back in 1989, I met a girl in the mall. High school was a bit nerve racking because I’d went to an all boys school for 5 years, and now I was thrust upon a world of women. I had no experience with the fairer sex, and what was worse was that I had no guidance in how to deal with them now that I was among them. There was no father figure then to teach me, I had no rules or theories in place, and as horny as I was…it seemed as though my dick was forever doomed to stay shackled under my zipper.

Rather than go home after school to deal with whatever kind of drunken tomfoolery my mother was up to, most days I would go straight to the mall. Other than the midget with a clipboard who always tried to get me to take surveys, I loved that place. I could window shop, see a movie, have a taco, and because there were so many people meandering about, I rarely got caught eye-groping the endless parade of sweater puppies that made my dick so hard that it could cut diamonds.

One of my favorite places to visit was the photo shop. I had a fascination with cameras and the manager there was a nice guy who would teach me about f-stops, apertures, and developing. One day, as I went to go into the store, I noticed a young girl working behind the counter. My heart nearly stopped. I’d never seen a girl that looked like this, other than maybe in Madonna videos. She had short blond hair, tight black clothes, and tig ole biddies. I’d never thought of myself as a tit man but the thought of rubbing my face all up in those things gave me the vapors. I could feel the sweat forming on my forehead and I felt as though my legs would give out from underneath me. It wasn’t love that was making my knees go all akimbo, but the pure sexual desire of a 16 year old boy. I walked to the food court, sat down, and tried to collect myself.

Fuck. What was I going to do? I didn’t want to stop learning about cameras, but at the same time I couldn’t face this girl. She was beautiful, we obviously had a common interest, but my inexperience with women made her seem like an impossibility. I sat in the food court for about an hour, contemplating my assholedness, when the girl from the camera store sat down at a table next to me with her lunch. Shit…it was now or fucking never. I knew if I thought about what I was going to do…I’d never go through with it, so I stood up, walked over to her table, and sat down across from her. Keep in mind…we were 16, and back then a move like that wasn’t considered creepy. I introduced myself to her and she told me that her name was Donna. I was surprised to find myself confident and charming, and I was even more surprised when Donna gave me her phone number before heading back to work.

I called her later that week and we went out on a date. I still hadn’t developed an opening sex move yet, so I never fucked her. We kept in touch over the next few months, and I came to find out that a lot of guys my age DID fuck Donna. Even though she went to a different school than me, I heard that guys in MY school knew her too…only they knew her as Big Tits Donna. I felt bad that Big Tits Donna had earned this reputation, but I still wanted to fuck her. I think that my genetic makeup makes me predisposed to being attracted to that punk look. On New Year’s Eve that year, I would finally have my chance to see those titties in all of their glory…but I had to decide if releasing them from their sweater prison was worth the price I’d have to pay.

Sometimes life will surprise you by putting opportunities in your path that you never even considered were possible, and then it will show you the folly of your ways by saying ‘Did you really think it would be that fucking easy you moron?’

Directly across the hall from my mother’s condo, there lived an older Greek woman and her daughter Damarius, who was my age. I later found out that ‘Damarius’ means ‘heifer’ in Greek, which was appropriate because this girl looked like a baby cow. I don’t know if it was the tube like clothing she wore that only accentuated her heaviness giving her a sausage look, the giant Harey Carey glasses, or the short curly hair cut that she sculpted into a mushroom cloud on top of her head, but I can’t remember ever being less attracted to a woman in my life.

Keep in mind that at that age I was spanking my dick more often than Fox cancels good TV shows. I experimented with fucking inanimate objects like couch cushions, the rug, and I even tried fucking one of those big mouth ketchup bottles. I would have fucked a barbed wire fence if someone put one in front of me, but Damarius was like a sexual negative zone. Whenever she was around, my dick would deflate and a ketchup bottle that once looked like an inviting red vagina to me, just looked like a ketchup bottle again.

However, Damarius made her intentions clear to me from the moment she moved in by hitting on me daily, bringing over Greek pastries for me, and even talking my mother into making me take her on a date. Her nagging was incessant, and nothing could have made her goal harder to obtain than enlisting the help of my mother. But, like most fat, hairy, Greek chicks…Damarius was cunning, and while chatting with me one day, we learned that we had a mutual acquaintance…Donna. Small fucking world. I had NO inkling that these two knew each other, but Damarius told me with great enthusiasm that she and Donna were the best of friends. I couldn’t very well tell her of my crush on Donna, but the fact that I was actually paying attention to the words that were coming out of her mouth kind of gave it away. She had something that I wanted, and she was going to use it against me to get what SHE wanted.

After my mother left for work at 8PM on December 31st 1989, I ordered a pizza and sat down on the couch for an evening of televised New Year’s Eve revelry. The few friends that I had acquired since I was thrown out of military school were busy with family celebrations, and I’ve never felt like one to intrude on holiday gatherings. I was always invited someplace, but I’ve always felt as if it’s not the responsibility of others to entertain me because of my lack of any viable family. At around 10PM, after I was well fed and while I was being deeply entertained by a Video Countdown on the MTV, there came a knock on the door.

It was Damarius. She told me that her mother was spending the night at a family member’s home, and she asked if I would like to come over and watch the Time’s Square countdown with her and a friend. I politely told her that I wasn’t feeling well, and that I’d probably be going to sleep in bit. A harmless lie that I hoped would get her to throw in the towel for the evening. Then she told me that the friend who was bringing in the new year with her…was Donna.

I’d been to Damrius’ condo before, and it smelled of old ladies and Baklava. As much as my hormones told me to go, just to see Donna, I knew that Damarius would only cock block me and the brunt of any sexual advances would come from her, not her friend. I thanked her, but told her that I would just be staying in for the night. She told me that they had alcohol, and if I changed my mind, I was welcome to join them.

At around 11:40 as I was sitting on the couch whistling the Globe Trotter’s theme and masturbating to Paula Abdul in her ‘Cold Hearted Snake’ video with the sound turned all the way down; there came another knock on the door. I hate being interrupted mid-jerk. I opened the door and said with a heavy sigh “what is it Damarius?” Damarius gazed at me with a sly look in her eyes, put her hand on my chest, and pushed me inside the condo, closing the door behind her. I could smell the booze on her breath, and she moved her hand down my torso to just above my dingus. I was a little stunned and still horny as hell because I hadn’t yet spewed a goopy load.

“What the hell are you…?” Damarius interrupted me with her best ‘come hither’ voice, and said “You should come over…Donna wants to fuck you…I want to fuck you.”

Ignoring the latter part of her statement, I said “Bullshit, Donna does NOT want to fuck me.”

“Oh, she does, but you have to fuck us both”

The gravity of the situation started to weigh on me…holy shit, is she for real? No way. I was horny as hell, and even though I found Damarius disgusting, she was breathing heavily on my neck and touching me just above my dork. I was hard, I wasn’t thinking clearly, but I was still skeptical. “Why didn’t Donna come over here with you?” I asked her incredulously. Damarius looked up at me with a crafty smile, and opened my door. There, across the hall from my mother’s condo, stood Donna in Damarius’ doorway…topless. I was speechless. Damarius knew that she had me, and started to pull me towards her door. I pulled my door shut behind me and walked the five steps across the hall. Donna took my other hand and the two of them led me into the condo.

I’d fooled around with women before, but it was always a quick grope here, or a sloppy teenage kiss there. I’d seen naked women in magazines, but I hadn’t yet been familiarized with porn. This was my first set of real live in your face titties, and I couldn’t stop staring at them.

Donna offered me a beer which I gladly drank. My mouth was dry from the excitement of what was about to happen. I slammed 2 more down as she flirted with me in the kitchen. Even though by entering her condo, I’d made an unspoken pact to fuck Damarius…she may as well have been in another galaxy because all of my attention was focused on that perfect rack. They were big and beautiful with medium sized areolas that seemed to be in perfect proportion to the breasts they were on. Her nipples were hard and pointed at a 45 degree angle towards the ceiling, like little pencil erasers. These tits had to have been bigger than a double D, and they seemed almost out of place on her tiny frame. Her skin was milky white in stark contrast to her black dyed hair. Her blue eyes saw my nervous glare, and she comforted me by taking my hand and putting it on her left tit. Then she leaned in close and said “it’s OK, everyone has a first time” and she kissed me. Oofa.

I felt her rubbing my hard-on through my jeans as we stood there in Damarius’ kitchen making out. My hand shook like a frightened puppy as it fumbled about her boobs. My eyes were closed when Donna leaned back and told me that I was a great kisser. I heard her pop open another beer as my head swam with the warm glow of booze and impending penetration. When she started kissing me again, it didn’t feel quite the same. As I reached up to grab her breast again, I quickly opened my eyes when I felt hair. In front of me, with her tongue in my mouth, stood Damarius. Oh. My. God.

I thought at first that Damarius was wearing a sweater, but when I pushed her back, pretending that I needed another drink, I saw that she had taken her shirt off. Unlike Donna, Damarius had flat pancake titties that hung down and rested on her vast belly. Then I saw something that almost made me vomit…something that still haunts me to this day…she had hair on her nipples. Not like a few strands of peach fuzz either. It looked like she had Buckwheat in her tittie and he was being milked out of her head first. Her breasts looked like the hairy teets of an orangutan who has just given birth. I didn’t think that Damarius could be LESS attractive, but it just goes to show you that life can always surprise the shit out of you.

Donna suggested that we all go into the bedroom, and I didn’t mind that at all. My dick had deflated again after seeing those hairy spider nipples, and Donnas’ voice had sprung it back into action. Damarius announced that she was going to the bathroom to freshen up, and that the two of us should start without her. That was the best thing I’d ever heard. With any luck I’d be done in about 30 seconds.

Donna and I kissed down the hallway, and when we got into the bedroom, she threw me down on the bed, and turned off the light. The kitchen light was still shining through the doorway, which was more than enough to keep my eyes focused on those gazoongas. Damarius’ condo was the exact same lay out as mine, and her bedroom was in the same location at the end of the hall. The slight buzz I had gotten from the 3 beers I slammed made it seem as though I was in my own bedroom.

Donna climbed on top of me, and leaned down to kiss me as she unbuckled my belt. I thought my dick was going to explode. I could feel the heat from her pussy on my crotch, I could feel her breasts as they hung down and rested on my chest, and I could feel her tongue rolling around in my mouth. The countdown had started on the television in the living room, and the condo seemed to be alive with the sound of thousands of people in Times Square counting backwards from 10.

TEN!

Donna climbed off of me, and pulled down my zipper as she snuggled next to me.

NINE!

She kissed me as her hand continued to tease my prick beneath my pants.

EIGHT!

She pushed her body up and rubbed her breast on my face. I ravenously lapped at it like a thirsty dog.

SEVEN!

She rolled off of the bed and looked me in the eyes as she pulled her pants down revealing a tiny black thong.

SIX!

She walked to the front of the bed and pulled my pants off, still hungrily looking me in the eye.

FIVE!

She tiger crawled between my legs, up to the raging hard on that was tenting my underwear, nearly bursting through it like Superman through a brick wall.

FOUR!

She put her face against my cock, and breathed heavily on it through my drawers

THREE!

She reached behind her and pulled her panties off, from my position I couldn’t see her vagina, but this was the closest I’d ever been to one. I was only separated from it by 2 feet and a thin layer of Haines.

TWO!

My excitement reached its pinnacle as she grabbed my underwear at the waist band and started to pull them down. I felt like I was at the peak of a roller coaster about to drop.

ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

As the crowd began to cheer from the living room, I looked up and saw the silhouette of my mother standing naked in the doorway of my bedroom. Only this wasn’t MY bedroom, and it couldn’t have been my mother! Confused and frightened, I screamed and shot up out of the bed, accidentally kneeing Donna in the face as I did. My dick went from full on hard, to turtling up and hiding itself somewhere in my lower intestine. Terrified, I backed up against the wall, knocking over a lamp as I did. As my mother entered my room (can’t be my mother, not my room), she turned on the light, and I realized that it wasn’t my mother at all…but Damarius. Her fat body and lengthy low hanging titties resembled my mother so much, that I found myself cowering like a frightened child against a wall with my pants around my ankles, while Donna mother fucked me on the bed with a bloody lip.

I quickly pulled up my pants, apologized to Donna, and stepped the fuck out. What a fucking mind job. I would have been more pissed, but truth be told, I came twice before Donna even got my pants off.

I never saw Donna again after that night, but three years later I would meet the man who would become my very best of friends throughout my twenties…Action Jim. Once again, I found out what a small fucking world it is, because as I was telling Action Jim of my adventure with Big Tits Donna (sans the part about my mother of course), Jim confessed that HE had in fact fucked Donna while they went to the same high school together. This has long been a topic of debate between Action Jim and me, as I continue to believe that he’s full of shit, and he continues to profess his accuracy in describing his fuckery of Big Tits Donna.

After that New Year’s Eve, the next several would find me at various parties, drinking myself into a stupor. I would always start out the night in my best suit and tie, confident that I would keep my cool and meet a young lady so that I could bring in the New Year mid thrust. However, by the end of the night I was usually topless with booze spilled all over me and dancing like an idiot to the cheers of drunken party goers.

I spent the last three New Year’s celebrations with T.C., and I enjoyed having a girlfriend to bring 2011 in with this past January. But truth be told I knew that shit wasn’t gonna last forever. I like dating girls that are above my pay grade, but unfortunately they never last. Through my experience with the younger generation of women, I came up with a rule quite a few years back, and I broke that rule to be with my most recent ex. Dating rule number 3: Never date a girl between the ages of 20 and 22. 18-19 is fine and 23 and up is ideal, but those first three years in a woman’s twenties? Fugetaboutit. I’ve dubbed this dating phenomenon: The Relationship Countdown Clock. The clock starts ticking about 3 months before the woman you’re dating turns 21.

Tick – She starts making plans to have an extravagant ‘girls night out’ on her birthday.

Tock – She goes out and buys a new outfit for her birthday bash with the ladies, and it’s sexy as hell.

Tick – as the big day draws nearer, her friends who have already turned 21, start telling her about the cute guys they’ve met at the bar.

Tock – Because YOU’RE older, the allure of bars has burnt out long ago. So you tell her that you’ll take her to a nice restaurant or a bar that YOU used to go to when you liked going to bars. Unfortunately, that place has become a sad hang out where ex club kids now go to die.

DING DING DING – The relationship countdown clock strikes midnight on her birthday, and she goes out and discovers ‘bar dick’. Hot guys wearing tight vertically striped ‘Express for Men’ button down shirts, who buy her drinks and subdue her with pick up lines SO old that they could vote.

The magic is gone, and your dick turns back into a pumpkin. It’s an age old story. Losing a younger woman is like getting your brand new 2012 Mustang convertible stolen. If it was an ’89 Chevy shitbox, you wouldn’t really give a fuck, but because that pussy was right off the showroom floor? You cry yourself to sleep every night wondering who’s driving it, where it’s being driven, and what position it’s being driven in.

When her birthday came in February, I took her to one of those expensive Brazilian steak places where the Puerto Ricans run around cutting meat off of sticks for you. I spent copious amounts of money on the dinner, the alcohol, and I even bought her a necklace. All stuff that ANY self respecting thirty something year old should do when dating a hot blond 21 year old with big tits. The next day when I came home from work I found a note. A NOTE! Like a ‘dear John’ letter or some shit. In it she wrote: “I’m breaking up with you because I don’t like that you joke around that I’m going to break up with you now that I’m 21”

Really?

NOBODY…is above ‘the relationship countdown clock’. Deal with it.

I dried up, vagina-wise, for a few months after she left, mostly because I was depressed. She strung me along during that time, telling me that she ‘just needs some time’. I knew what that meant, it meant “I don’t have the balls to just break up with you all at once, so I’m going to make it as long and brutal for YOU as I can, in order to make MYSELF feel better in the process.” I finally nutted up and told her to get to steppin, and with my new found sense of self adulation; I went on a whisker hunt.

I got in touch with an old girlfriend, and we started fucking again. That’s how us men like to dip our toes in the ‘dating waters’ in order to get our courage up to jump in after a breakup: We fuck an ex.

During the time we were having ex-sex; I put out my plea on the Craigslist, announcing my return to the dating world. The next several months found me going on dates with women so warped that they made Mariah Carrey seem stable. Every one of them, and I mean EVERY one lied about SOME thing. The most recent one was the Canadian Moose who lied about her weight.

The thing that sucks about a woman who lies about her weight is the fact that I’m NOT an asshole. Because of this, I have to pretend I’m not disappointed and try to keep her eating so she won’t try to have sex with me. Most people buy food for a prospective girlfriend as a Greek god type offer of sacrifice so they CAN get laid. I’ve bought a bear trapper amount of food this year for women just to NOT get laid.

A few months before the Canadian Moose, I met the Mom Chick. This girl seemed perfect on paper. She was romantic, she had a wit, and she seemed very intelligent. Over the course of a few weeks, our conversations turned sexual in nature, and I finally invited her over for dinner. I’m a pretty good cook, and she all but told me that I was going to be clit diving into the snatch shallows that night.

When the big night came, I had spent all day preparing our meal. We would be having Crawfish Etouffee over rice, homemade corn bread, Poor man’s Jambalaya, and I made a special desert of Alcoholic Bread Pudding with Lemon Sauce and Chantilly Cream. Because I always like to be prepared, I put a condom in my nightstand, amyl nitrate under my pillow, furry handcuffs on the bedpost, and a bottle of Johnsons baby oil with the cap half unscrewed for easy access when it came time to give the patented Hempen back massage, on top of my dresser. I made sure that the romance playlist was queued up on my iPod; I dimmed all the lights, set the table, and lit some candles. The wind was just right for fucking.

A knock came to my door, and I checked myself in the mirror one last time. I was neatly quaffed, and I went to answer that knock with confidence. And there she stood, as beautiful as she was in the pictures she sent me…but with two fucking kids. She NEVER told me that she was bringing 2 kids, hell, she never told me that she HAD two kids! This was a date, and she led me to believe that ass would ensue.

I had to turn on all the lights, put SpongeBob on the TV, pack up the meal I spent all day cooking, and BUY them all a fucking pizza. Then these fucking monsters started throwing my shit around like a couple of monkeys on uppers, followed by having a sword fight with my Guitar Hero guitars. At one point, she and I went on my balcony to have a cigarette, yes I had to LEAVE my own apartment to smoke, and when we came back in, we heard a ruckus coming from my bedroom. It turned out that her kids had drank half of the Chantilly Cream, which is loaded with alcohol, and when we followed the noise down the hallway, we found her kids in the midst of being kid drunk. One of them was handcuffed to my bed while the other was spraying’ him down with baby oil and wearing a purple condom on his head. Yes, I have purple condoms.

As I’ve written about some of my other opposite sex encounters this past year, I won’t bore you with them again. Needless to say and I’m sure you’re thinking it: I have got to stop meeting women on the internet.

So what have I learned from this trip down memory lane that can help me change the course of my luck in the new year? Well, absolutely nothing really.

My life seems to have been an endless barrage of things keeping me from getting laid more often than I’d like. I know that I should stop putting so much faith in my search for a decent woman on the internet, but frankly it’s just not that easy for me to meet women in bars any longer. Most of my friends are married or have moved away, so meeting girls through them is out the window. And as far as work goes? The ONLY hot chick where I work is also a whack-a-doo. She’s that kind of person who begins every statement with “my HUSBAND and I” and never uses the term “We”. I thought of seducing her at one time JUST to get her to cheat on her husband because she annoys the living shit out of me, but she has that glazed over, Chuckey Cheese Robot Mouse, religious zealot, crazy eyes look and I just know that at night, those eyes are looking at catalogues to find the right colored cardigan sweater for her husband. Gives me the douche-chills.

So, I’m not really left with many options outside of internet dating, and as shitty as those experiences have been so far, its brought me back to my creative side with all the writing I do about them. That’s a checkmark in the ‘positive’ column for 2011, right? A few friends have had beautiful children, a few friends have gotten married or engaged, and I got a great dog to replace my ex. She’s more loyal and cheaper to feed too. And the best part of 2011, is that it will end with a Three Stooges marathon on the AMC. So maybe this past year hasn’t been all bad.

There’ve been regrets, heartbreaks, indecision, shitty movies, and just plain bad luck in 2009. But if we can put our heads up and look the coming year in the eye, I’m certain we can bend it to our will. And although I’ve made sex on top of many women since 1989, my New Year’s resolution is to find another Big Tits Donna and motor boat those things until I pass out.

My advice to you is to stand tall and put your fist up the ass of life. Elbows deep, people! So Bend over 2012, I’ve got some amyl nitrate left over, and 365 days of payback coming to me…take it like a man!

Me at the END of any New Years Celebration

Happy New Year Everyone!

Chapter 1: Dominus Nobiscus Hippotomus

2011-06-01T23:12:00.001-05:00

Yabba-Dabba-Don't!

In 2007 I put up my first post on craigslist, advertising that I m
ight be in the market for some strange. Nothing big, I couldn’t tell you what the content of that post was but I’m sure that there were spelling errors, poorly executed film references, and dialogue that reeked of desperation. In other words, it was no different than any other ‘I am a man seeking a woman’ post on Craigslist.

It took me a long time to get up the courage to put up that first post on an internet dating website because I felt that if I DID it…I was admitting to myself that I no longer had the ability to meet women while out and about. I’ve been in a lot of relationships in my life with girls that I met at work, girls that I approached at the mall, girls that my friends set me up with, and I even dated a girl that my mother pushed on me. THAT didn’t work out because WHILE I was fucking her, I couldn’t get the image out of my head of my mother patting me on the back and saying ‘I’m glad WE really like this girl Michael’.

A few months after my mother passed in 2005, I got my own apartment and decided that I would be a spinster for a while. This was a tough decision to make because my inner voice kept telling me that it wasn’t MY decision, but the decision of all the girls that wouldn’t date me. However, there WERE some real factors that led to this choice. Dealing with my mother’s passing was a difficult thing to do because it drudged up memories of being an unwanted child. Growing up I was pawned off on family members and neighbors, eventually shipped off to military school, and then legally emancipated and thrown out on the streets at 16. On top of that, I have an abrasive older sister whose contact with our mother was even more unaffectionate than my own. Because of their relationship, and my poor decisions, my sister wouldn’t throw a glass of water on me if I was on fire. So, from the beginning, I’ve never had much luck with chicks.

After dealing with family chicks, I went on into the dating world. My first sexual relationship ended with me WATCHING my best friend fuck my girlfriend through his bedroom window, in my 20’s my fiancé left me for a 300 pound bald bass player in a Rush cover band, and the girl I was dating when my mother died left me for a four foot tall Bohemian DJ soon after the insurance, inheritance, and real estate money from selling her condo was gone.

Besides my own female exploits, I watched as my best friend settled into a marriage with the first girl that fucked him, I listened for hours as another friend droned on and on about how the mother of his children was spending money faster than he could make it, and I stood by as my good friend Action Jim’s girlfriend was duped by him time and time again like a cartoon cat.

It seemed that the drama that women created in MY life and the lives around me was endless. So I took a vaginal sabbatical.

Well, after a year of living like a vaginal hermit, in 2007…it was time for some much needed pussy. The problem was that all of my former ‘wingmen’ had either gotten married or moved out of the state. I was on my own in the vagina world, and walking those streets by yourself can be a scary experience. Plus, I just didn’t KNOW how to approach women anymore. When I went to the bars, it seemed that I got older, but the chicks there didn’t. I’ll admit…I was a tad intimidated.

So, after talking with a few people who had success in the world of internet dating, I sat down in front of my keyboard and started to think of what I could say to make me stand out from the crowd of perverts, scumbags, and hammy pick up post artists who make it difficult for an honest man to get some descent tang.

After 3 months of inner turmoil, and using my dog as a sounding board by saying things like “Ok, I’ll say THIS…” and watching her cock her head to one side and look at me like I just stuck my thumb up her ass, I finally decided to man up and just say SOMETHING on Craigslist to let the single women of the Chicago land area know that I existed. After all, there HAD to be at least ONE dateable girl on the internet…right?

RIGHT?

Because I was new to posting on Craigslist, I didn’t realize yet that no matter WHAT you write…you WILL get about 500 responses routed to your email through your anonymous Craigslist account…the problem is that 499 of them are fake. Because Craigslist is a public site, these spammy dickheads send you a dreamy response telling you that they want your cock in so many words, and then when you reply to them with “OH YEAH? You wanna meet at the World of War Craft convention at my local comic book store?”, well now you’ve just given some creep your email address and THAT’S why you get 500 spam emails offering you 2-3 more inches on your rama lama ding dong. (I have 14 inches coming in the mail by the way)

It didn’t take me long to figure out this scam because the FAKE responses are usually form emails that either sound like a retarded Pollack trying to recite Casablanca OR Yoda rewriting the Kama Sutra. “Interesting cock looking for I am”, “Boyfriend town out of, come bed to my”, and “I am just move to city, special penis hook up for me”. Not to mention that the NAMES in the ‘from’ field are the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard. Tits McGee, Jenna Talwarts, Anita Rimjob, Lou Stool, Kimmie Head, Nick Gers, Mike Oxsmall, Olive Blackok, Sofonda Cocks, Eileen Ulick, Willy Fistergash, Hue Jassole, and, my PERSONAL favorite…Eton Twats. (Say them each very quickly…see? I knew you’d get it.)

In MY mind, these people wouldn’t DO this if they didn’t GET something out of it. I just picture one of those fat guys whose keyboard is worn down like a pencil that’s been sharpened to the point where it’s just a tip and an eraser, sitting in front of a monitor that’s surrounded by action figures and has a thin sheen of jism on it because it’s taken so much semen shrapnel over the years, posting on Craigslist that he’s a millionaire software developer who lives in a loft by the lake, when the REALITY is that he lives in his mother’s basement, not because he can’t afford his own place, but because he’s SO fucking fat that he HAS to live in a basement because if he moved into a TOP floor apartment, he’d pancake the fucking building, also he’s SO rotund that he has to use a scooter to go from his computer desk to his bathroom where he hooks himself into an elevator type pulley system to lift his ass over the toilet seat, he has a growing bald spot, NOT in the middle of his head but slightly to the left and a pony tail that his mother ‘braids’ for him on Sundays, when he finally DOES get a response to his post that reads “I am spice up my marriage your cock on the side”, he gets airlifted out of the basement, sells his WWE wrestling action figure collection and buys a 32 dollar wedding ring at the flea market, and then emails Comonya Cocknballs back with a wedding proposal, only to get a reply email directing him to a ‘midgets peeing on horses’ website, because he STILL believes this chick wants him, he steals his mother’s credit card and signs up.

Guys like THAT…are the reason these ‘fake’ replies exist.

However, ONE of the responses I received from my alpha post seemed genuine. She said that her name was Tiffany and that she really liked my post. She went on to tell me that it seemed genuine and it truly spoke to her. The FIRST thing that I look for in a reply is some kind of reference to a specific statement or question FROM my post. In fact, I usually ASK a specific question and tell the reader to answer it or I will think that their reply is fake. Tiffany answered the question and just for your edification? Her favorite bird IS the ‘swallow’.

Again, at the time I wasn’t too familiar with the etiquette of meeting someone on the internet. NOW I know that things need to move along on a designated time frame. You email back and forth and get a sense of the other person’s personality. THEN you move on to the IM’ing for some quicker banter to see if they can keep up with you mind-wise, next it’s time for the phone call to make sure they don’t sound like Ned from South Park, and then you make plans to meet. All told you SHOULD be meeting for a date in about 2 weeks. It’s defiantly an unwritten etiquette, but it’s an appropriate process that I’ve since come to learn. I didn’t quite follow that process with my first internet sweetie.

I moved us directly from the email part to the phone part, and I should have known something was up because she went right along with it. Back then I never expected that 98 percent of the women on the internet are super sized, so I didn’t even think to ask for a picture. I didn’t have a face book account at the time either, so when she asked for MINE? All I could do was send her some phone pics. I must have spent an hour taking pictures of myself, looking at them to see if they were ok, deleting them and starting over until I realized that the ONLY way I was going to look good in a phone picture was if I draped myself in hundred dollar bills. I finally sent her one that I deemed ‘seeable’, and she reciprocated with one of herself. Oofa, nice. Her hair was a little big, but she was defiantly fuckable.

During our talks, I learned that she lived about an hour and a half away from me, but I didn’t have a problem with that. I was a tad nervous about meeting her in HER territory because I usually run the date. I know the places to go, I know the things to do, and I know the people to meet. That’s all well and good as long as my date lives near me. However, she’d have to be the director of this movie and I would be the lowly PA.

I guess we were both kind of nervous about meeting because we talked on the phone for 3 months. Another indication that something wasn’t quite right, but I went along with it and we formed a telephone bond that ran pretty deep. I got to know her very well in that time, and after about a week…the dirty talk started. It seemed that my voice turned HER on, and using the picture that she sent me in a stand-in role for my massive imaginary capabilities…I pumped off to her naughty talk like a young man discovering his dick for the first time. The combination of her personality and her sexuality, albeit over the phone, was a huge turn on and I became quite fond of her. However, when I would broach the subject of the two of us meeting for a date and possible sexual encounter…she would still shy away. Fucking hindsight.

It was truly a telephone romance and after some time, our desire for one another got the better of us. Three months into our talks, she finally agreed to meet me. I was stoked. It had been awhile since I’d been laid, and even though it would be a long drive…I was looking forward to being in an ACTUAL relationship again. I excitedly told all of my friends and co workers about my impending meet, and they were all happy for me as well…apparently ‘Dating Mike’ is easier to get along with than ‘Alone Mike’.

We decided that we would play it by ear. I would drive out to her apartment that Saturday night, and if we didn’t jump each other’s bones as soon as we met, we’d go to a local bar or diner. The important thing was the actual ‘meet’. The rest would follow. When Saturday came, I went out and bought myself new clothes, I got her a dozen roses, and then it was on to my car.

If you’re picking someone up for a first date, they can tell a lot about you by your car and the car I had back then was a TOTAL pimp ride that I inherited from my mother after she passed. I loved that car and I coveted it for the 10 years that my mother drove it. She always had big cars, and even though she was a cop? This one was truly the car of a pimp. It was a 1993 PURPLE Lincoln Continental FULLY loaded with all leather seats, lumbar control, cruise control, moon roof, ashtrays, and a big ass back bench seat. But the BEST part of that car, and the part that was eventually the reason why I had to give it up after this date? Had to be the Air Shocks. Every time you put the key in the ignition, the shocks would lift the front end up. When you drove you couldn’t feel a fucking thing, it was like driving a cloud. Then, when you turned the car off, the front end would lower. It was amazing and every time I was behind the wheel of this boat, my ego inflated like a hot air balloon.

The problem was that I hadn’t been on a date in a while so I wasn’t keeping it clean like I should have. My friends will tell you that if my mother saw what that car looked like after I had it for 2 years? You could have lit an entire city by hooking up copper wire to her as she spun like a fucking turbine engine in her grave. She had it washed and waxed weekly, inside and out, she had the engine checked once a month, and she had it detailed twice a year. That car was her baby and since I had it? Oofa. Don’t ask. I hit a deer one night while driving from one bar to another, I smashed into a parked car when I passed out behind the wheel on another night, and there were about 75 fish filet boxes on the floor and seats along with 400 Dr. Pepper bottles and various trash.

So, that Saturday morning I took the Lincoln to a detailing shop that my mother had always gone to and handed the keys over to the attendant who just shook his head and looked at me like I was an asshole. He remembered that car and the care that went into it, and even though he was disappointed in the way it looked now, he was happy to work on it again. I waited for about 2 hours and when I went out to see what they had done, I was blown the fuck away. It looked like it just rolled off of the assembly line. I DID have the damage fixed after I had my accidents, but there had still been scratches in the paint. I have never seen a car that was the color purple of that Lincoln, and when I would find a place that could order the paint, it cost a fucking arm and a leg. But this guy STILL had leftover paint from when my mother would bring the car in for detailing years before and he touched up every scratch on it. It looked shiny and factory new.

So, with flowers on the front seat and a fresh glint shining off of my clean ass, I drove my brand new looking Lincoln out to pick up my lady friend. I was all excited and giddy like a little girl in a chocolate factory. I couldn’t wait.

After driving for about an hour and following the directions from map quest, I came to a street that was about 2 blocks from her apartment. As we had discussed earlier in the evening, I called her up and told her where I was. You could hear the anticipation in both of our voices, and in a jovial spirit, I started to fuck with her as she told me to turn right and then left and then led me down a long parking lot behind a row of apartment buildings.

We’d often discussed that we BOTH could be lying about the pictures we had sent, so as I drove toward her building at the end of the lot, I pretended that everything I saw was her: “OH MY GOD! There’s a squirrel on top of that garbage can! That’s you isn’t it? You’re really a squirrel! Why didn’t you just tell me?” and she would respond with a giggle “No, no silly *hee-hee* I’m not a squirrel”. I’d drive past the next apartment building and see a man walking out of the back door “OH MY GOD! You’re that guy walking out of that building, aren’t you!? I KNEW it. Couldn’t you have at least shaved your beard?” another giggly response “No silly *hee hee* I’m not a man”. At the next building, an old woman was walking her dog on the sidewalk “OH MY GOD! You’re old AND you have a dog? I TOLD you I don’t like granny porn” Now she was positively livid with laughter “Stoppit, you’re SO silly hehehehhehehe”. At the next building I said “OH MY GOD! There’s a great big fat chick on her phone! WHY couldn’t you…”

And then the fat chick waved at my car.

Let me be clear here…this was NO ordinary fat lady. This was Spaceship Earth from The Epcot Theme Park…with legs. My first thought was that someone had left a sea cow on the front lawn, until I saw it holding the phone to its ear with one of its mammoth flippers. The realization washed over me like vomit on a floor mat. I was obliterated.

“tee hee hee, what did you say, I was laughing so hard! Here I am silly” and then another wave confirming my horrifying realization. I almost didn’t want to hang up with the girl on the phone. It felt like I would be saying good bye forever to what I THOUGHT was Tiffany…as I went on to meet the REALITY of Tiffany.

Yeah, I’m an asshole, but I’m NOT that big of an asshole. I pulled up and faked a happy smile as I got out of my car to give her a hug. However, in a HUG you usually wrap your arms AROUND something…this was more like being pushed up against a wall. I swear, as my face was pressed up against her sweaty boob, I could see a sun coming up over the horizon of her right flank. I took the flowers from the back seat and handed them to her, then I opened the car door for her and put her scooter in the trunk. What was I gonna do? Say “so long hippo!” and screech out of there?

What happened next STILL haunts me to this day. A 1993 Lincoln Continental is a BIG fucking car, but she STILL had trouble squeezing through the door into the seat. Luckily there was butter left over on her hips from when she popped herself out of the door way of her apartment building. When she sat down, a deep moan came from the front of the car as it started to lilt to the right like a sinking pirate ship. It was like that part in the opening credits of The Flintstones when they put the big ass ribs on the side of Fred’s car and it tips over. As my car adopted a ‘gangsta lean’, the front end started to sound like an old man carrying a refrigerator upstairs. Finally, the right side of the air shocks gave way and the wheel well slammed down ONTOP of the tire. She just sat there staring forward and eating the flowers I had given her as if that didn’t just happen.

Because my car was now leaning at a near 45 degree angle, I climbed up into the driver’s side to TRY and balance things out. But it was too little too late. I looked over at her, and in ALL seriousness she said in a sexy tone, with a rose petal on her lip; “It’s really nice to finally meet you Michael, I’m glad that you’re not disappointed that I sent you a picture of my friend.” Iwah, Iwah, Iwah…whawhawhawha-whaaa? I was dumbfounded. She acted like she didn’t just break my car! SHE ACTED AS IF SHE MANIPULATED ME AND I FELL FOR IT! There was no apology, there was no explanation, and there was no fucking WAY that she would EVER meet Cap’n Spanky in person.

It wasn’t so much her gargantuan proportions that bothered me as it was her complete disregard for the truth. Sure I don’t like fat chicks, but I don’t mind going on a date with one. I may not be sexually attracted to her, but SOMETIMES they can be cool to talk with. Ok, maybe THAT’S a lie, if I’m being honest; I was truly disgusted by her looks. She had one of those fat chick ‘piggy’ faces with the big pumpkin sized cheeks and pushed up nose. Her hair would best be described as ‘stringy’ and you could see sweat on the inner tube that formed under her chin which most people would call a neck. But the worst part? She had no fucking lap. It was like looking at a mountain side. Her chin was engulfed by her neck which melted into her tits, which flowed down into her belly, which mounded into a gunt that dropped over her knees and hung there like a huge muffin top over her redwood sized cankles. If that weren’t bad enough? She must have dumped a vat of Liz Taylor’s “Enough” perfume over her head to cover up the odors that were going on in those folds, because she smelled like a hooker’s asshole.

All I could think about was that I had masturbated under false pretenses. I was fucking my hand to what I THOUGHT was Jessica Alba, when in reality I was jerkin’ my gerkin’ to Jabba the Hutt. I felt violated. I wanted to tell someone but I KNEW they’d just say ‘you were asking for it’. I was Jodie Foster on the pinball machine, I was a ten year old boy at Neverland ranch, I was Monroe from Too Close for Comfort when he got raped by the two fat chicks in the back of a van. She telephone sexually abused me and I was STILL going to take her out for drinks, so I don’t want to hear any shit from you women’s libbers out there.

Whenever I’ve told this story to my friends, it’s at THIS point where the various differences between men and women become apparent. MEN will say “So you squealed out to there and never talked to her again, right?” and women will say “That’s a horrible thing to say Michael”. The truth is this:

I don’t lie to women for the simple fact that they ALWAYS find out the truth. I TOLD her that I didn’t like fat chicks; I made that QUITE clear several times over the previous 3 months. So, like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth“. The truth was that she fucking lied to me in a big way. Not only that, but she thought that I was so stupid that I wouldn’t notice her rotundiness.

The plan was for us to go out and eat, I wasn’t sure that I had enough money…EVER to feed this woman, but I decided that I’d take her out, drop her off, and then never think of her again. To be honest, I felt a little bit bad for her. I wasn’t familiar with the world of internet dating, but it hit me just then that she’d probably TOLD people what she looked like and they didn’t bother talking to her anymore, so she adopted the persona that I came to know on the phone in order to lead unsuspecting prey into her

maw. She was like a fat chick version of Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. She tricked me into helping her move a giant hamburger into her van, and then she was going to sap me over the head with vagina. She was a serial chubber.

I asked her what she’d like to do, and to my surprise it wasn’t ‘to eat’. She said that she’d like to go to her favorite bar which was several miles away. When I put the car into gear and pressed the gas pedal, the MOST horrendous noise came from my front end. The tire was scraping against the wheel well on the right side of the car. When I looked over at her, she was STILL looking ahead and smiling as if she didn’t notice ANYthing wrong. Then she said “this is a really nice car.” Yeah, it WAS.

I drove slowly back through the parking lot, but when I came out onto the street, the sound grew. Then, as I hit about 10 miles per hour, I noticed a light coming from the front right side of my car. I thought nothing of it until I hit 20, and saw the sparks. Because the tire was scraping the wheel well, SPARKS were shooting out of it! I asked her if there was a CLOSER bar because I was afraid that my tire would pop and the right front end would start digging into the pavement like a ship running aground. She STILL acted as if NONE of this was happening! “Are you sure you want to go someplace else, I really like this place, they make great Buffalo wings”. YES I was fucking sure I wanted to go someplace else! My car was leaving fire tracks like the Delorian in Back to the Future! I was starting to get pissed. “Yes, I’m SURE I’d like to go to the CLOSEST bar to where we are now.” Then SHE got an attitude with ME! “FINE! There’s one right over there.” She said with a ‘harrumph’ at the end like a child.

I parked the car at this bar, and when she got out, the car teeter tottered sending me flying back and forth in the front seat like I was in a dryer. Finally, I stumbled out of my door and followed her in. I couldn’t tell you WHERE this place was, but I’ve spent the last 5 years and great fortunes trying to find it. I’ve never SEEN such hot ass all grouped together in one place. EVERY chick in this bar was a fucking ten, and it was bar none, hands down THE best vagina/penis ratio I’d ever seen. There were FIVE hot chicks to every ONE guy. Unbelievable. If you were a single man? The odds were in YOUR favor. I STILL, to THIS day have never seen the like. I would have been a kid in a candy store…but I just walked in with a grumpy sumo wrestler. Oofa.

She sat, lapless, on a stool at the bar looking like The Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock, and I took the stool next to her, but one of the satellites orbiting her crashed into my arm so I moved one seat down. There was obvious tension now, she was pissy because she couldn’t have her chicken wings, and I was pissy because I couldn’t hit on ANY of this ass. Then, something that will NEVER happen to me again…happened. The bartender approached me and my jaw nearly hit the bar top. THIS was the HOTTEST chick I’d ever seen. THE HOTTEST! She looked like a hotter Scarlet Johansson if you can imagine such a thing. I ordered 2 shots of Jack Daniels, and then asked the pouty hippo what she wanted. The bartender TOUCHED my hand, looked me DEAD in the eye, and then came in close to me and said “coming right up handsome”.

I have a whole LIST of rules, but rule number nine CLEARLY states: You don’t hit on bartenders or waitresses. NOTHING they say can be trusted because they want a tip. But that? I’ve flirted with a LOT of women, and THAT was a penile flirt…NOT a tip flirt.

Well, Tiffany just sat there in her stool with her face turned up because she had so much neck fat that that’s just how her head sat on it. Every time I tried to start a conversation with her, she’d just ignore me or say something quickly to shut me up, and then she’d shake her head sending a fat ripple across her mass like a rhino about to charge. I kept trying to talk to her and every once in a while I’d order more drinks. When the bartender would come around, I’d make some clever comment or observation and she’d laugh while the big chick just sat there with a puss on her all too big face. Occasionally I would notice the bartender looking at me with a smile, but I thought NOTHING of it.

I FREELY admit that I’m no prize. I’ve picked up girls in all kinds of places, but NEVER in a bar and bartenders and waitresses were simply out of the question. And I CERTAINLY wasn’t going to hit on someone in FRONT of a date, no matter how atrocious that date might have been.

After 30 minutes of her not talking and generally being a fucking tubby brat, I’d had e-fucking-nough. I mean how are YOU going to go around looking like THAT…AND have an obnoxious personality. If someone is unfortunate looking, it’s incumbent upon them to at LEAST have a pleasant demeanor. Could she have BEEN more unattractive? I excused myself and went to the bathroom, trying not to drool at the unbelievable talent in that place as I went.

Now, what I did next, I’ve NEVER done before. Like I said, I try to keep it real when I’m on a date, and after all, even though she lied to me, it was my own fault that I was in that situation because I WANTED to believe that she was someone that I could have some kind of a relationship with. I didn’t do my due diligence and because of that? I found myself out on the town with a woman who was so big that her heart must have been the size of a fucking VW bug in order to pump blood through that planetary mass.

When I got to the bathroom, I immediately called my friend Action Jim. I told him that I didn’t have time to explain everything, but that I wanted him to call me in FIVE minutes. He agreed and I went back out into the bar. As I left the bathroom, the bartender was waiting by the door. I averted my eyes because she was JUST so beautiful that I could barely look at her, and tried to walk past. She put her hand on my shoulder and said “Um, hi, I would normally never do this, but I noticed that you’re having a difficult time with your friend…is she your girlfriend?”

What the fuck was happening? Hot chicks never talk to me.

“GOD NO” I said in the cracked voice of a nervous teenager. “We ARE on a first AND last date, but I met her on the internet and she lied to me about her looks” The bartender looked down at the ground like a shy school girl and then back up at me. We made eye contact and she said with a cocked smile “Good, then I won’t have to feel bad for doing this…” Then she put a piece of paper in my shirt pocket, leaned in close to me and said “my names Crystal by the way” and started to walk back towards the bar. “Of course it is” I said at her. She half turned and shot me a smile.

What the fuck? SERIOUSLY? Look, that has NEVER happened to me before. I couldn’t believe it. Well, at least SOMETHING good came out of the evening. Or so I thought.

When I got back to the bar, there was a man in my seat…TALKING to Tiffany. She was all smiles and involved in a deep conversation with this guy as I approached them. She ignored me when I grabbed my drink, so I introduced myself to him and sat down in a bar stool at a table just across from them. At first I thought that this was a guy she knew, but as I listened to them talk, it became apparent that this guy was HITTING on her! HOLY HELL! This was, MAYBE the hottest guy in that bar. HE was so cute that I wanted to fuck him, and I’m not even gay. He looked like Johnny Depp without the go-tee.

That was it; I was officially in the fucking Twilight Zone. After ten minutes went by, the guy excused himself and went back to his friends table. I was getting nervous because Jim hadn’t called and while I was gone Tiffany ordered 3 more meals, on MY tab I might add. Without that phone call I didn’t know how I was going to get out of this, and I didn’t know how much more money I had on my credit card. NOW she wanted to talk.

“He was really nice, we went to the same school together and he gave me his phone number.” She bragged. Are you kidding me? She was trying to make me jealous. “That’s awesome, he’s a good looking guy” I said in a ‘good for you’ tone. Hopefully he drove a fucking dump truck. And then, thankfully…my phone rang.

One thing I’ve learned over the years is that the BEST lies, the most believable lies are the ones based in truth. Action Jim was dating a girl whose father owned a restaurant and because of this, he had been given a job as the book keeper there. When I answered my phone, I pretended to have the following conversation with him in front of Tiffany.

“Hey Jim, how are you doing? …What? …So what happened? …You’re there NOW? …Holy shit, are you OK? …no, no, I can be there in 2 hours. Dude, I’m sorry”

Tiffany was looking at me during the entire exchange, and like I planned, she heard every word. “What was that” she asked with a mouth full of hamburger. Then I told her the truth…only the story I told her happened two weeks before.

“Oh man, I am SO sorry, but I have to go. My best friend works in a restaurant that his girlfriend’s family owns. He has his own office there with a big aquarium by his desk. Well, his girlfriend found out tonight that he’s been fucking one of the waitresses and she pushed the aquarium over on his knees. He’s in the hospital right now getting stitches from the broken glass and the doctors think that one of his knees might be broke. I HAVE to go over there” All absolutely true.

“Aw, c’mon, we just got here” she said spitting bits of food across the bar. Her mood suddenly did a 360. NOW she wanted me to stay. Fat chicks are SO unpredictable because they can be prone to mood swings brought on by hunger, sugar high’s wearing off, and the satisfaction of eating. It really is quite disgusting. I apologized profusely, but was insistent that I had to leave. I called Crystal over and asked for the bill. She handed me my tab and winked at me with a smile and when I looked at it, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had 3 shots of whiskey, 4 beers, and Tiffany had six beers, 2 appetizers, and LITERALLY 3 hamburgers. The bill was for 12 dollars. All she charged me for was ONE hamburger and TWO beers. If this chick was as into me as it was looking, I wanted to get that shit PREGNANT.

We left the bar and I made sure to get into my car FIRST this time. During the scrape back to her place, Tiffany kept insisting that I come up for a nightcap. I told her that I would some other time (another bold faced lie) but that I HAD to leave to be with my friend. She became increasingly more agitated as we got closer to her apartment because she realized that I wasn’t going to fuck her. When we pulled up to her door, her mood did ANOTHER 360. In a pouty voice she insisted “You just wanna go see that bartender bitch again. I saw her talking to you by the bathroom” I told her that SHE was just going to the bathroom herself and asked me if I’d like another drink when she got back to the bar. It was nothing. Then she did the unthinkable…

She reached over with her sausage fingers and pulled the piece of paper from my shirt pocket while shouting “THAN WHAT’S THIS!” I was shocked at how fast she was. I tried grabbing the paper and said “the fuck are you doing?”

“I SAW her put this in your pocket! You think your slick!” I tried grabbing for the paper but I couldn’t quite grasp the physics involved in trying to snatch something so small from something that big. Then, she stuffed the paper into her mouth and swallowed it. I couldn’t believe it. She looked at me with a triumphant smile and tried for a dramatic exit. The only problem was that it took her 15 minutes to squeeze out of the car door. I contemplated laying her out on the side walk and pulling everything from her stomach like Richard Dreyfus in Jaws, but I was just happy that it was over. After all, I could drive

back to the bar and get Crystals number again.

I must have searched for that bar for 3 fucking hours, driving around as my tire scraped inside of the wheel well. It wasn’t as bad as when she was in the car, but you could defiantly hear it. What the fuck? It had only been like 5 minutes away from Tiffany’s apartment. It was like one of those ‘roaming’ clubs in the beginning of Blade. I thought that I’d eventually find the place, but open the door to find a meat packing plant or something.

All told the evening was a complete and utter failure for me. I felt humiliated, used, lied to, degraded, and sad because the best looking woman I’ve ever seen WANTED me…and she slipped through my fingers. Also, a few weeks later I ended up having to get rid of my pimp ass car because it would have cost two grand to get the air ride fixed. So that was it. NEVER, and I mean NEVER would I do the internet dating thing again, and what had been a nominal disinterest in fat chicks before, was now cemented as a furious disdain for them.

A few months after the events of that evening I met another girl. She was everything that I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to find anymore. She was beautiful, intelligent, 10 years younger than me, and I actually met her in person and NOT online. That relationship lasted for 2 years and ended the day after her birthday last month. So back to the internet I crawl.

To be honest with you, I just don’t have much fight left in me to go out and try to meet women on the street. I contemplated taking ANOTHER year on the labia wagon, but I’m past thinking that ALL girls are some form of evil. The truth is that every relationship is different. I’ve loved every woman that I’ve dated in my life at SOME point in our relationship and even though things would always go south, the good times we spent together ALWAYS outweighed the bad.

And THAT’S what I’m looking for now. A relationship based on mutual trust, affection, and honesty. I’m not here saying that I want to marry someone, and I’m not saying that I’m looking for love necessarily. I’m not even sure if I’m mature enough to really know what that word means. But I know that I’m getting to a point in my life where the past is starting to seem longer than the future, and I don’t want to waste any more time trying to figure out what I’ve been doing wrong while fear keeps me at an arms distance from happiness.

Now that I’m back, I’ve come prepared. I have a Face book account with a ton of picture’s of me on it wearing a t-shirt with a picture of the pope on the front that says ‘Dominus Nobiscus Hipotomus’ underneath it, and the translation from Latin on the back that says ‘No Fat Chicks’. I’ve learned more about the pitfalls of internet dating which will make me a more prepared participant. I won’t pay for a dating site because I still think I can do this without any outside help. But, that’s up to YOU, isn’t it?

My goal, or mission statement is simply this: Finding a monogamous relationship which allows me the opportunity to share laughter and mutual good times with a woman whose company I enjoy, and who isn’t so big that Japanese people run from her in fear while shouting “AHHHHHHH, Gozirra!’

So, consider this my ‘introduction’ onto the stage of internet dating. Hopefully I’ll leave you wanting more. And HOPEFULLY Crystal is out there somewhere reading this.

End

Resignation from a Dating Site

2011-05-29T10:21:00.002-05:00

First of all, I’m going to say something to ALL of you okcupid ladies, and it’s not going to be very nice. I apologize in advance, and I ask that when you READ the words that are about to be spewed at you from my profile, know that I’m saying it in the NICEST possible fashion. Imagine me in a tuxedo with a rose on my lapel, my hair’s all combed back and parted as if by a tree saw, I have a big smile on my face and I just said something that made you all feel very beautiful…ok, ready?

WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP?!?!? Oh…my…god…You have to be about the most narcissistic, childish, self absorbed, judgmental, aggrandizing, passive aggressive, TALKY bitches I’ve ever seen on a damned dating website. Save some for the conversation will ya?

I mean let me get to KNOW you a little one on one so I can come to the conclusion that you’re IN-FUCKING-SANE after we’ve actually communicated. Most of these profiles read like doctor’s notes from a mental ward. I half expect that all of you fit in the time to WRITE these profiles in between wearing plastic slippers and playing tic-tac-throw before a group therapy session.

If you wear glasses, ride a bike to the vegetable stand, have 17 cats, and ONLY listen to vinyl? Go fuck some guy who wears Birkenstocks and cargo shorts in the trendy vegetarian coffee bar of the upscale neighborhood you live in. Why are you wasting my time HERE? This site is for guys like ME who want to meet women who I ACTUALLY have a shot with. The only way most of you would date me is if I rescued kittens on a unicycle while listening to shitty bands that nobody but YOU has ever heard of on my iPod. I can’t afford an IPod, so go fuck yourself.

I’m sorry, but I DON’T ride a fucking bike…EVER! I’m a grown ass man and drive a car. Cats are disgusting because they poop IN a box IN your home, and vegetables? Vegetables are what my food eats. I just got out of a relationship recently and I gotta tell ya…if THIS is what the dating scene is like now? I’m taking the first bus off this planet. I’ll go fuck a green chick like Kirk.

I think the MOST common ‘trait’ I’ve seen in ALL of your profiles is “I like to be sarcastic so you better be able to handle that” No, you DON’T like to be sarcastic. Here’s a test of your sarcasm: If you are not laughing your ass off RIGHT now while reading this? You don’t have a sarcastic bone in your body. You TOLD me in your profile that I ‘better be able to handle your sarcasm’…THIS is sarcasm and if your face is red from anger right now? You don’t know the definition of sarcasm and should be editing your profile instead of sending ME scathing retorts about what an asshole I am.

Another thing I’ve noticed about the women here is that if I’m not into EVERYTHING you are 100 percent? You want nothing to do with me. I’m sorry, but I’ve never HEARD of ‘Penny Derby Roller Ball Curmdgeoning’ and frankly it sounds silly and ignorant. If you meet a guy in a bar and you OPEN with that? He’ll tell you to go fuck yourself, no matter HOW hot you are.

Dating sites used to be simple; you put a brief blurb about yourself and then TALKED to someone! Now it’s a CIA biographical study complete with DNA sequencing compatibility. I may as well go back to trying my luck at the bar where I would inevitably end up talking to some viper nest haired chick whose only ambition in life is to be the hot girl at the bar that every guy wants to fuck. I’d have to listen to this dingbat stoner drone on and on and on about what Pink Floyd meant on the Dark Side of the Moon album cover, or how she should raise money to buy little coats for Penguins because it must be cold all the way up in the Attic (yes, I talked to a girl in a bar once who thought the Arctic was called the Attic). And she could get away with blathering on like that because she KNEW that whoever she was ear raping with her nonsense wanted to fuck her…YOU DON’T HAVE THAT LUXURY! Because, as a guy on a dating website, I’m not allowed to want to fuck you.

It’s bullshit. I have to be sweeter and kinder and gentler on these sites because without the gift of verbal inflection, YOU take everything I say as ME being an asshole. But on the other side of that I’m supposed to read YOUR shitty profile and be impressed because you have a flat stomach…fuck you, this is radio NOT tv.

Say something interesting about yourself. I’m GLAD that you like your job and you make more money than Jesus headlining on a cruise ship, but don’t get all judgmental and say I can only respond to you if I like my job. I HATE my fucking job. HATE IT! Most people DO hate their jobs. I’m GLAD that you travelled across the globe by the age of 12, but I could give a shit about your stories of sleeping under the stars outside of the Parthenon. Those stories are for people who are ALREADY dating, when you tell me that up front it makes you sound like an asshole. I’m SO excited for you that you have 12 cats, and I’m SURE they’re ALL really cute…but that’s something you should keep to yourself for now. Let me find that out for myself after I’ve put in the necessary care and effort to get invited to your place. When you tell me that NOW? The first thought that comes to MY mind is “great, her pussy probably smells like ammonia”, and I hate to apologize again, but I’m sorry…I like a pussy to NOT smell of ammonia.

Look, I’m sure all of your profiles would be great if you were ALL lesbians. I imagine that kind of insanity and brain farting is what a woman looks for in another woman. But for those of you looking to meet a man? Tell us why your last boyfriend was a dick, give us a REALISTIC view of what you want from a man, and tell us something just awful and shitty about yourself. You DON’T have to make yourself sound like Mother Theresa for Christ’s sake. Have some humility, we’ve ALL done something shitty in life, to ourselves OR to someone else, but I LIKE it when a woman is self aware enough to, not only REALIZE she did something shitty, but be honest enough with herself AND me to admit it. Guys don’t like a woman who’s having a PERFECT life, not because we’re mean, but because we like to feel that we can contribute or affect your life in a positive way. When you say everything is perfect? There’s nothing for us to fix, and we fix things…that’s what we do.

And I know a lot of you are thinking that I’m ‘sexist’ for saying that, and I get it. I heard someone say recently “Women are the new men”, and when I thought about it? That is an absolutely true statement which is WHY I feel like a fucking dinosaour. I LIKE tou

Am I honest enough to point that high powered laser scoped inflection rifle at myself? Sure. My last girlfriend was a dick because she cheated on me twice. It was my fault for dating a 20 year old and expecting her NOT to cheat on me. My REALISTIC view of what I want in a woman? Someone who doesn’t cheat on me. Something shitty I’ve done? After my mother died in 2005 she left me some money which I spent the next two years drinking away at high end clubs downtown. At the end of my 2 year binge I got a dui for going 47 in a 40 which ruined my life for the NEXT 2 years. Out of fear, I won’t even eat a fucking potato before I get behind the wheel now which means I rarely drink anymore.

Another thing? I don’t mind if you have a kid or 2, but I just read a young ladies profile that stated ‘I’m a 22 year old mother of 4, looking for a husband’. WHAT? Are you kidding me? Twenty two? What are the odds that all those kids have the same father? CALM fucking DOWN. What happened to just ‘I’d like to go on a date and see what happens’. When you tell me that you want someone to take care of your caravan of children, what’s my incentive? Basically what you’ve conveyed to me is that some guy got to fuck you FOUR times, that we know of, while you were hot, and now you’re looking for someone to deal with his leavings. Fuck you. You keep spawning like a tribble and you're gonna break your vagina bone.

Just by that profile, I know everything I need to know about her. She doesn’t have enough self confidence to tell someone to put a Jim hat on. She doesn’t think about consequences, and she doesn’t consider solutions. Not to mention the fact that I don’t want to put my dork in a moist hole that 8 tiny eyeballs have passed through like a watermelon in a mudslide. It's a vagina, not a clown car for chrissake.

Even the women who are NOT moms have profiles like ‘looking for someone to spend my life with’. WHAT? I just want to throw a few burgers down your throat, listen to some music, and maybe make out on my couch for an hour hon, how bout we get through that and we’ll see what happens. Don’t put so much expectation on what could be a generally pleasant experience for the both of us. I mean, who goes on a date and sais to themselves ‘I’m going to spend the rest of my life with this guy’. Ridiculous.

I was complaining to my friend Mike the other day about how I can’t catch a break with all the internet dating. Every girl I’ve met in the past six months has been ‘broken’ somehow. They’re all drug/alcohol/Twinkie addicted women who live in apartments so small that if we order a large pizza, we have to eat it outside. Hell, I have a shitty apartment, but it looks like fucking Xanadu compared to some of the places I’ve been recently.

One girl I dated was impossibly beautiful, smart, and well educated. Problem? Narcissistic, corrected my spelling ALL the time, and fucked random married men as a sport. Next was the vegetarian hippie, she had an awesome energy, great in the sack, just fucking fun to be around. Problem? Wanted to stay single, alcoholic, and closed off. The last girl was a beautiful 20 year old CAN, problem? She cheated on me so much that the guys she fucked while we were dating could have formed their own softball league. Then there was the Peruvian voodoo dancer…although in retrospect, that one may have been my fault as curiosity got the best of me. If anyone out there knows a voodoo chant to get rid of a prehensile tail and ass warts, please let me know.

Mike’s response to me was incredulous to say the least: “BUT YOU’RE GETTING LAID! Why the fuck are you so miserable?” Simple, I’m not TRYING to just get laid. Every one of those women, with the exception of the Peruvian Voodoo chick, was of general interest to me at the time. I’m trying to foster a one dick relationship based on mutual trust and common interests. Just fucking someone is easy, spending time with someone is the difficult part, but for me that’s the part that makes the whole thing worthwhile.

The point is that I’m just looking to get to know someone who can laugh, who can joke, and who can enjoy the occasionally ill timed fart. Why must you women tax me so?

To be honest, I don’t think this woman exists. That’s why you’re reading this right now and saying to yourself “How does THIS guy expect to get laid”. I don’t. I give up, consider this profile my letter of resignation from the rollercoaster ride of dating. Off to the convent with me. But if what you’ve read here can help YOU update your profile and not sound like such a pain in the ass? So be it.

So, bottom line? Don’t be 22 and tell us that Goddard is your favorite director; you’re too young to be that pretentious. Don’t tell us not to respond if we’re looking for sex…we’re ALL looking for sex. Even you. It’s not something I expect on the first or even the second date, but it IS something that I’d like to have on a continuous basis with the same woman…but that end must justify the means. And most importantly? Don’t tell us you want us to be funny and then get all offended when you read this. Laugh a little, at others AND yourself. Life’s a joke…sometimes it’s not so bad to be the punch line.

‘Suck it Retail’ or ‘I’m not Racist, I Hate Everyone Equally’

2011-05-18T23:05:00.001-05:00

Let’s face it; Work sucks. We all have ignorant bosses whose jobs we KNOW we could do better, we all have to occasionally eat shit from whiney customers, and from time to time we feel that the blatant repetition of our jobs is slowly sucking the life from our souls.

I’ve found that in the course of trying to find that special someone online, my job has played a hand in hamstringing my efforts. It’s easy to be a happy go lucky moron who women find charming and charismatic when you already have money, or even when you don’t have a lot of money, but love what you do. However, when you have a shit job and your station in life makes you want to suck on the end of a shotgun, that cynicism tends to leak out in conversations with potential bed mates. The worst part is knowing that there is nobody to blame other than myself for working in the field I currently do.

The truth is that I hate my fucking job, but to be honest with you in this economy I’m actually grateful to HAVE a job. I do however find it hard to explain my vocation to prospective dates. I try not to bring up where I work in conversations with women, and invariably if I HAVE to? I lie about it. Not because I’m trying to impress anybody, but because I’m embarrassed that I’m about to turn ‘Face book’ thirty and I still wear a fucking name tag. Maybe it’s the atmosphere of fear that my bosses invoke, the shit hours for shit pay, or the lack of any viable women for me to bang in the work place, but the fact is that there are so many reasons for me to be unhappy at work, there just isn’t any ONE I can put my finger on. The one thing I DO know? Most of my misery comes from the endless barrage of idiots, thieves, and just plain douche bags that frequent my place of business daily. Yeah…I’m talkin’ about you.

As I write this, I’m currently working at a corporate electronics store which shall remain nameless. I’ve been in retail, in some form or another for almost 16 years now and I’ve learned that when you work with the public, you gain a little insight into how certain types of people act. I wouldn’t call it ‘stereotyping’ or ‘profiling’, but I’ve become something of a retail psychic. This is a super hero type ability which holds no discernable use in the super human community, like Cypher from the ‘New Mutants’ or Aqua man from ‘The Justice League’. I carry the albatross around my neck of, not ONLY having this ineffective super power…but also in knowing that its origin lies in the fact that I’ve been sucking on the corporate teet for far too fucking long. And when you’ve been doing this shit for TOO long, one of two things happens…you die alone and downtrodden at an early age from the stress brought on by the corporate whip, or you snap and start building a hut in a forest preserve out of Oberweiss milk jugs filled with urine.

So in an effort to try to avoid either of those eventualities, and to try to calm my nerves when talking to women, I’ve decided to vent. Since it would be inappropriate and unprofitable for me to unload a barrage of fuck you's at the random assholes that frequent my place of business, I’ll do HERE, what millions of people across the country would LIKE to do…and bitch about customers, bosses, and fellow employees.

One of my rules in life is to NOT think about my job outside of work. I learned a long time ago that this will drive you crazy. When I’m at work, I concentrate on work, when I‘m not at work? I concentrate on everything else. In this chapter however, I’ll forgo my usual trepidations of mixing work and pleasure in an effort to entertain you, and to let off some fucking steam. As usual, you may relate to some of the things I’m about to say, and you may disagree with some of the things I say, but either way? Feel free to shoot me an email if YOU’D like to vent. I don’t mind hearing about your job, I just don’t like talking about mine. And if you DO disagree with some of the shit I say? As always, I would like to cordially invite you to PLEASE…go fuck yourself.

I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years and even though my current one will most certainly not be my last, because I’ll put a fucking bullet in my heart if I feel that it’s coming to that, it may be the worst. I’ll be honest with you here; in my teens I was fired from a few jobs for lying, stealing, or cursing out my boss in a store full of customers. But when I was 22, I got my first REAL job, the one that started me down the retail path that I have travelled but a short distance on. Not in a timeline kind of way, I’ve been doing this shit for a LONG time, but in a promotional way. I’ve only moved up ONE fucking job code in all that time.

My first real girlfriend Jackie, made a big impact on me by clearing out the cobwebs from the corners of my life. She made me get my GED, she made me get new clothes, and she made me get a ‘real’ job. That job was at Waldenbooks. I was hired as the assistant manager, and between my original store in the Chicago Ridge Mall, my promotion without raise to the Ford City location, and my eventual lateral movement to a better environment at Borders Books and Music in Orland Park, I worked for the company for 11 years total. Waldenbooks was always there and deep pivotal moments in my life took place within the confines of my responsibilities to it.

While I was in her employ, I suffered the heartbreaking end of my relationship with Jackie, I met people who I still consider to be some of my best friends to this day, I went to college around my work duties, my appreciation for Howard Stern was developed, and I fucked a lot…and I mean a LOT of co-workers. However, my downfall came through the death of my mother. As she became increasingly ill before the end, I started drinking more and more. When I eventually told my bosses that I needed a day off for her funeral, they reluctantly gave it to me. To my surprise, my boss ACTUALLY showed up to the funeral under the auspice of delivering his condolence, but I had a feeling that he was only there to see if I was lying about the event. That feeling festered in me like a bulging neck boil. When I came back to work after a week or so, I began showing up late or If I wasn’t late, I would be in the extreme throws of a hangover. When my boss took me to the side one day to talk about my ‘lack of enthusiasm’ in the work place…I called him a crop eared midget fuck and told him that I’d taken shits bigger than him. Then I walked out and never looked back.

I took a few years away from working at all in order to spend every dime that my mother left me on booze and cheap floozies. When the dough ran out, I applied for a job with my current employer. I was hired there in 2004 as an assistant manager and was promoted to manager 2 months later. I’ve busted my ass for this company over the past 5 years, and it’s coming to a point where I feel a change is needed. Not that I feel the need to work at another retail joint, but that I need to get the fuck out all together. These days I can barely plaster on a fake smile and make my customers feel welcome. However, I’ve noticed that it’s not only my customer service that’s changed…but the customers themselves. People have become increasingly stupid over the years and even though my opinion is that current pop culture is the lead suspect in the murder of intelligence, I can’t help but think that maybe retail’s code of ‘The Customer is Always Right’ is part of the problem as well.

Corporations have given every whiney person on the planet a way out of taking responsibility for their own inept choices and their general desire to NOT fucking read. People bitch at me daily because they can’t complete simple tasks on their own and they don’t want to learn how to help themselves.

There are the crotchety old people who curse like sailors because I can’t program their new television remote control for them. It doesn’t seem to matter HOW politely you try to explain to them that they have to be IN FRONT of their television set to do it. Even when I highlight the 8 word passage in the instruction manual that shows them how to EASILY do it themselves, they STILL come back complaining that it’s too hard. These people all but say “I’m too dumb to figure this out”

There are the twit nipples that get an attitude with ME because the electronic signature capture devices elude their fucking faculties when they pay with a credit card. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS SIGN THE FUCKING THING! IT’S THE SAME AS SIGNING ON A PIECE OF FUCKING PAPER! Jesus.

And don’t get me started with the minutes for pre-paid phones. I get customers who ACTUALLY get pissy with me because THEY don’t know what their own phone number is. How the FUCK do you expect ME to put minutes into a phone without the fucking phone number? When I put minutes on a phone, I do it as a fucking courtesy by going to the SAME god damned website that they could go to themselves, putting the phone number into the ‘top up’ box, and the code that prints on their receipt into the ‘pin number’ box. Go to 7-11 or Wal-Mart and see if they’ll put your fucking minutes on the phone for you. They’ll tell you to go fuck yourself. I tried to be nice for a long time, and do for them what they so moronically couldn’t do for themselves, but after a year of putting up with their blathering, self entitled, bitchiness, I tell every fucking one of them now that the stores internet connection is down so they’ll have to put the minutes on themselves. When they walk out cursing and flipping me the bird behind their backs saying “I’ll never shop HERE again”…GOOD FUCKING RIDDANCE! And don’t slip in the parking lot and get your head run over by a pickup truck. My store, my staff, AND my company make absolutely NO profit from pre paid minutes. Fuck ‘em.

And then there’s the rest. The deluge of moronic imbeciles I deal with daily would make a mental hospital look like a fucking Mensa hospital. Over the years I’ve learned to deal with the pressure of a corporate boot on my neck, but the thing that I’ve found increasingly difficult to bear is my customers. Maybe it’s the neighborhood that my store is in or maybe I’m just getting old and can’t deal with nonsense like I could when I was young, but I think that I now know WHY retail pays so poorly; it’s so we can’t afford guns.

There are times when I’ll fantasize about what it would be like to just have a gun at work. Take today for example. A customer came in and asked if we carried digital voice recorders. I gladly showed him to the section that they were in, and asked him what he would be using it for. He looked me in the eye, put his pointer finger to his lips and went “Cht-cht-cht-cht”, and then he inspected the packages. My heart began to race “did this mother fucker just ‘shush’ me?” I thought to myself. After about five minutes of LOOKING at the pictures on the package, and not READING the words…he looked up at me and said “where do the tapes go in these?” A DIGITAL voice recorder is about the size of a pack of gum. They don’t TAKE fucking tapes because they record digitally. I politely told the guy this and he asked me “Do you have any digital voice recorders that take tapes?” I told him that we have TAPE recorders that take tapes, but DIGITAL means that it does NOT take tapes. He looked at the TAPE recorder, which is about the size of a cassette tape and said “That’s too big”

BOOM! It’s at this point when I would simply take out my gun and calmly shoot him in the temple. Let’s see him “cht-cht-cht-cht” me with his fucking brains all over the ‘home/office’ section of my store.

As dumb as that imbecile was however, he is NOT the biggest piece of shit I have to deal with on a daily basis. I have a cast of moronic characters that frequents the stage of my retail theatre. In no particular order, they are as follows:

First up is The fucking Pollack’s: These people come into my store with an attitude of smugness plastered on their all too big heads and REEK of some knock off cologne called ‘Repel’ that they bought from a kiosk in the mall. They smell like a man eating gorgonzola cheese, while getting a perm in the septic tank of a slaughter house. Now, I’m not talking about every Pollack out there, just the ones with accents. Not only are they cheaper than George Costanza at a charity auction, but they return EVERY fucking thing they buy. I don’t even know why they shop, it’s like retail masturbation. Even when you TELL them “look, sir…you cannot plug a candy bar into ANY thing”, they get mad at YOU for telling them it won’t work and then buy it anyway. An hour later, I hear the door open and turn to see fucking Sven, all attitude, wearing camouflage cargo shorts who gives me the hairy eyeball and says: “Why you no tell me this not work?”, while holding a melted ass cigarette lighter with fucking chocolate all over it. And every god damned one of them thinks that if they buy a remote control, a pie tin, and some fucking paprika…they’ll get every cable station on the planet. But try to suggest an antenna? And explain to them the interference caused by the airport they live underneath? You may as well be explaining nuclear physics to a fucking chiwawa with one kidney that has to take a leak really bad. LOOK, Stash…it’s not my fault that your country got annexed OK? Now put the fucking J. Crew catalogue down and go read an instruction manual.

Old ass ladies: these dingbats are fucking time vampires who cannot figure out how to press a button on their phone. You have to spend 3 hours with them because they don’t know what a number 2 looks like on the 10 dollar pre paid phone that their grandson bought them 8 fucking years ago. While you’re helping this extra from the thriller video, 10 people who want ACTUAL cell phones, that I can make money on, are walking out the door pissed. LOOK Aunt Bee…it’s the SAME fucking configuration as on the HOUSE phone you have. You know the one that Alexander Graham Bell autographed for you back when you were only 147 years old? I should invent a fucking rotary cell phone.

Fat white women: These bitches are the WORST. They think that just because NOBODY wants to deal with them on a personal level that gives them the right to come and fuck with someone on a professional level. Every time I see one of these big bitches with their ‘chick mullet’ and their purple Grimace sweatshirt trying to take the 3 inch step up on the side walk in front of my store with the same expression on their face as an Olympic runner taking a hurdle, I want to dive into my back room and hide Anne Frank style. Just their greeting is full of hatred and bile and special sauce. They HAVE to know when they come in that we don’t carry what they’re looking for, so it’s OBVIOUSLY a front perpetrated JUST so they have an excuse to be vicious. ‘What do you mean you don’t carry a front bumper for an 87 Cadillac?’ Ma’am, this is an electronics store. ‘Don’t call me ‘ma’am’, you don’t KNOW me’. AHHHH! LOOK, NOBODY wants to know you, you waste of fucking oxygen! Why don’t you put a piece of coal on your fat person scooter seat so you can make yourself a diamond when you sit down on it? That way you can afford to shoot yourself into outer space where you’ll have a better chance of running into SOME kind of mid level intelligent life form that has the probing technology to find your twat in that double gunt you carry around in front of you that looks like a fucking tent filled with chewed bubblegum! FUCK YOU!

Old white men: these guys are the most common of the lot. They either want batteries for something so old that Moses borrowed it once, or they want a police scanner. First of all Colonel Hogan, what kind of creep sits around eating porridge and listening to the awful shit going down in their hood all night? No wonder you people look so fucking scared all the time. This is the old man equivalent of a 35 year old going to fucking star trek conventions. Secondly, I do everything in my power to convince these crypt keepers NOT to buy the fucking thing because, much like the Pollack’s, they return it every time. Why? Because this thing comes with an instruction book that's thicker than a stack of James Michener novels, and these coffin stuffers think that: A.) if they just press a button the fucking thing will magically read there feeble minds, or B.) I have 6 years to read the manual TO them. LOOK Ed Asner, you've been alive long enough to have carved your initials into the pyramids as you were building them, SURELY you know how to fucking read, so quit sitting around with the other mummies reminiscing about the fucking civil war and learn to rely on yourself to complete a simple task.

Homeless people: God fucking forbid it rains because every house less fuck with a shopping cart piles into my store like a college fraternity trying to win the world record for how many dickheads you can squeeze into a phone booth. “did you need any help today sir?’ is invariably answered with “gobba duke dish monger” or some other garbled nonsense followed by a wet spot appearing and spreading on the front of their tattered bugle boy jeans. Even on a sunny day, I don’t want to step outside of my fucking store for a cigarette break because the minute I light up, I get soapaphobics repelling off the roof like a dirty, mop headed, swat team and asking if they can ‘borrow a cigarette’. Yeah, you can ‘borrow’ a cigarette at 18.5% compounded interest per annum over the next 3 years. FUCK YOU, Look, if you have an addiction? Get a fucking job to support that habit! I may not work hard, but at least I had the good sense to put some deodorant on, bring my sorry ass to work, and earn enough money to pay for cigarettes which now cost more than most monthly mortgages. You may as well ask if you could ‘borrow’ my house.

I know it seems stingy, but I won’t give ANYone a fucking cigarette. I’ve had everyone from cops to super hot women ask if they could ‘borrow a smoke’ and my answer is always the same; ‘No’. Then they always want to know ‘why’. Where most of you would lie and say “I’m out” or “I left them inside the office”, I don’t even bother with that any fucking more. I simply say “because I don’t care about you or your addiction.” I’ve been homeless twice in my life, and I would have rather stuck a fork in my fucking eye than ask someone for a cigarette. I busted my ass and worked hard to support that habit and build my lower middle class empire up from the ground with little to no help from others. Although some people’s tales of woe are truly heartbreaking, most ‘homeless’ people got that way from their own addictions, failures, and general stupidity. I know that because that’s how I got homeless. Now, go down to the ‘Y’, take a shower, and fill out some fucking job applications. Even if you have to work at ‘7-11’, that’s better than pandering outside of one.

Hispanic people (English speaking): Minutes for the boost phone.

Hispanic people (Non English Speaking): I have no fucking clue, but I get to listen to them yell at me from ‘lack of communication’ frustration like Ricky cursing out Lucy, but mustachioed. Most times if I just casually utter the letters I.N.S., they’ll at least head for the door as they yell gibberish at me.

African American Postal Employee: Bluetooth. Everytime.

Black guys: I am not trying to be racist here, but I DO have a simple line that I like to use at work; ‘Not ALL black people steal…but ONLY black people steal. I truly mean no offence by this, but if a black guy comes into my store? I know there’s credit card fraud or some kind of theft afoot. I’ve had to call the cops for SOME kind of shoplifting incident at least twice a month for 3 years and EVERY fucking time? It’s an ‘African American gentleman’. Every shoplifter warning sent out in our company emails? ‘African American gentleman’. Every call I get warning me about cell phone fraud to look out for? ‘African America gentleman’. Just ONCE I’d love to see someone be HONEST when they send out these ‘warning’ emails to the stores: “A customer came in, immediately went to the back of the store, shoved a bunch of items into his ‘Shaft’ fro, and when I approached him he ran out of the front door. Description: Big nigger with an afro”. Look, I tend to see the racial divide much like Chris Rock: “There are niggers, and there are black people”. In my store? The black people are the postal employees who buy blue tooth, the niggers are the thieves.

I also love the fact that they just assume they're criminal masterminds and I’m a bumbling moron. Like I’m the ‘token’ idiotic white guy in a ‘blaxploitation’ flick. They’ll come in, walk RIGHT up to the counter looking like an extra from ‘Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo’, with shitty clothes, nappy ass hair all backed up like rush hour traffic, and say in a comedic 'black accent' circa 1983, that I'D be called racist for mimicking: ‘hmmmm...I sure am would like 6 TV’th and foe laptop computerth…and why don’t you throw in a few iPodth with that?’. THEN, one of two things happens. You go in the back to get that shit and they steal everything they can fit in their fucking I.O.U. jacket OR you ring them up and they hand you a credit card with the name ‘Howard Whiteman Finnius Thronbrecker III esquire’ on it. When it doesn’t go through? They TELL you ‘oh, I am got the approval code for that right here’. Am I wearing an 'I'm an asshole' t-shirt? FUCK YOU! IT DOESN’T WORK ON ME!!! As sad as it sounds? I’ve been doing this for over 20 fucking years now! Go try that shit at the barbershop you fucking ‘Sugar Hill Gang’ reject.

Oh, sweet zombie Jesus, I almost forgot...the phone. I don't know why the fuck it is that I.Q.'s drop from 20 to negative fucking 20 whenever people put the receiver to their ear, but I won’t even answer the fucking thing anymore for fear I’ll go bat shit crazy. Some of these people want to stay on the phone longer than the drum solo in ‘In-A-Godda-Da-Vida’. I don’t stay on the phone that long with friends who are contemplating suicide for fucks sake. A typical retail phone conversation usually goes like this: Me: “Thank you for calling Patio Tack, how can I help you?” customer “do u have any iphone 4s?” Me: “no, I’m sorry we don't” Customer: “is this Patio Tack?” Me: “yes” Customer “so you don’t have any iphone 4s?”

AHHHHHH! What the FUCK did I just SAY? How do u not know who you just called?!? Especially when I just TOLD you who you called? Do you think that you accidentally called your molester uncle Ronbo and he just HAPPENED to say 'thank you for calling Patio Tack? And NOBODY HAS THE FUCKING IPHONE 4!!! Put the fucking phone down and pick up a newspaper, over a hundred thousand people around the world waited in line when they came out this week, sometimes for 48 hours before the launch, who the fuck do you think you are that YOU'LL be the one to get a good night sleep and lazily saunter into a random store like I've been holding one for a 'special' customer, and YOU happen to be him?

Then there are the ones who call up and give me a list longer than a donkey’s cock of shit to find. When I finally get back to the phone after tracking down their items like Richard Kimble trying to find the one armed man, and tell them what we have...they say 'how much are all those?' now I got to go back and find the prices. FUCK YOU! You wanna shop? Wade through your swarm of fucking cats and piles of old Sally Jesse Raphael show transcripts, leave your hovel, and fucking SHOP! I don’t get paid enough to be YOUR personal shopper just because you only leave the house when fucking McDonalds is having the 2 for 3 Big Mac sale. THAT’S why your ass gets put on what I call ‘forever hold’. I put you on hold, and NEVER pick up again.

Just starting my day off with the drive to work is an exercise in patience. I spend so much time driving to and from work that I make Jack Kerouac look like a fucking agoraphobic. It seems that the EARLIER I leave every morning, the MORE construction they start on my route. Just yesterday I left my house at 10 P.M. and STILL showed up 15 minutes late at 9:15 A.M. And it’s ALWAYS ridiculous shit too, they’ll have the LEFT lane closed off for the Sheriff’s Work Alternative Program so they can plant daisies on the fucking median because the jails are overcrowded, then the RIGHT lane is closed because the city is building a side walk outside of a trailer park in the hopes that the multi colored Mountain Dew bottle covered fence line surrounding it will be less noticeable, then BOTH lanes are closed with an arrow pointing ‘up’ like I’m supposed to ‘ Duke’s of Hazard’ the big concrete barriers blocking the fucking street.

Then when I finally DO manage to get through this psychotic level of ‘paperboy’, I end up at train tracks with a train so long that it must stretch from New York to San Francisco like a big smiley face across America dropping off cars, one at a time, on either end. It stops, you wait 10 minutes and it moves FORWARD one train car length, then it stops for another 10 minutes, and moves BACK one train car length, and repeats the process until I’m ready to speed down to the engine and drive my fucking car up the conductors ass. FUCK YOU TRAINS!

And if ONE drop of rain falls from the sky? Forget it, I may as well just keep a tent in my car and sleep on the side of the road because every moron behind the wheel suddenly forgets where their fucking accelerator pedal is. Usually Sunday is the only day when I have NO obstructions blocking my path to work, it takes me 21 minutes. Every other day? An Hour to get to work, almost 2 hours to get home. And do we get paid for that shit? No, I find it laughable that the taxes we pay, and that get taken from our checks, pays for the shit that makes us sit in traffic for hours on end with NO pay.

Even considering my vast list of endless hatred…I have to give a shout out to a job that I thankfully have never had. The service job that has to have the most miserable, tedious, hateful, sophomoric, idiotic, winey bitch ass customers of the lot…I’m talking, of course, about waitressing. I’ve dated a lot of waitresses in my time and the ONE common thread they all have? Nice on the outside with a steaming ball of hatred toward their fellow man, the size of Venus, inside of them. It’s like a dog shit cake. It LOOKS really good because there’s this nice white vanilla frosting all around it, but then when you take a bite? Your face contorts to the point that it almost turns inside out, and you have dog shit stains on your teeth.

And really? It’s not their fault. They have to deal with assholes on a daily basis that if MOST of us had to put up with? We’d end up in jail for stabbing them in the eye with a fork. But they HAVE to deal with it. Why? Because they live off the tips, and even when Gus, the used car sales man says that his steak is over cooked and lobs it at the waitress like he’s pitching in a softball game, SHE has to plaster a smile on her face and suppress her rage to the point that I end up in the ‘friction burn groin’ ward at Christ hospital because her vagina is dryer than a used dust store in the Mohave desert, JUST on the off chance that this cheap prick who bought a 4 dollar steak at a ‘Red Bull and Steak’ shit truck stop will tip her enough to buy a 99 cent bag of Doritos for her and her hamster to eat that night. FUCK YOU GUS! Be patient, DON’T yell at your waitress, all she’s doing is BRINGING you the fucking food; she’s not COOKING the fucking food. And don’t take out your job related angst on some poor girl JUST because you don’t have the balls to tell your boss, Todd Dickstripe, down at the dealership to go fuck himself after he asked you to grease the axels on his Mercedes when YOU still take the bus to work.

Then, on the OTHER side of the customer service door? Dealing with management. Do you know why the British lost the war against us? It was because they had TOO many fucking people in charge. They had generals, and sub generals, and fucking admirals and panda captains, and infantry superior generals, and pasta sauce supervisors, and it got to the point that there were SO many people in charge, nobody knew who the fuck to listen to. The corporate retail world is much the same way. I have to deal with MY boss, district managers, regional managers, continental managers, global managers, solar system managers, universal managers, and all the way up the suck ass corporate food chain until you get to whom? Our British CEO.

That’s right, they may have lost to us back then, but the Brits are taking it all back folks, watch out because if you truly want to kiss ass in this job market? You better learn to NOT stare at those fucked up teefus, learn to measure your heroin in kilo’s, and learn to NOT laugh at that jag off tie. This guy came into my store once and he was either SO drunk on power that he couldn’t think clearly, or he just smoked a joint and had a pint of lager. He told us in a cartoony British butler accent to ‘turn the windows around so that the INSIDE window is facing the outside, hang up posters of Peirce Brosnan everywhere, and ONLY flush the toilets on Tuesdays’. Then he called my retarded employee a ‘cheeky monkey’, threw his bowler hat at an old lady like Odd Job from 'Goldfinger', and skipped out the front door singing Sgt. Pepper.

Then we have the Regional boss. The last guy who had this job was about as pleasant as a gorilla after you smash his big toe with a hammer. I’ve HEARD the expression ‘puss on your face’ before, but this guy ACTUALLY had a cat stuck to his face, claws all dug in to his cheeks and forehead. Outside of my ex girlfriend Jackie, I’ve never met anyone with NO sense of humor. This is the kind of guy whom I imagine only snickers at the occasional Gallagher bit. HE got transferred for fucking a DISTRICT manager. I love the irony behind that. This guy nearly fired me for having a fucking balloon up in my store because he said that it ‘presents familiarity to the employees’, but he can drop fuck his ass kiss underling behind his wife’s back. Fuck him.

So NOW I’m stuck with the new guy. We can’t figure out yet if the new guy is Mexican or Asian. So we’ve dubbed him a Masian. All I know about him is that he’s JUST as mean as the last guy, but with the bonus of being passive aggressive on top of it. Every email he sends out is just dripping with intent to fire everyone. Multiple exclamation points and fear propaganda are the norm for his regime. He came into my store last week with my District manager, and walked around my sales floor with his arms behind his back like Hitler inspecting the troops. He’d occasionally say something to me in a low monotone voice similar to a serial killer talking to himself just before he starts fucking his victims belly button, but mostly would only talk to MY boss who was writing every word down like a frightened lackey. You could see the sweat dripping from my bosses brow, and his hands shaking as he furiously wrote everything out into an epic tome that he eventually sent in an email titled ‘why my boss thinks you are all assholes’.

My boss is actually kind of O.K. I’m sure that he buffers a lot of the shit from us that he gets, and if I’d met him outside of the job? I wouldn’t mind having a beer with him occasionally.

Which brings me to my employees. I heard a long time ago that managers hire themselves. Based on that saying? I have the best employee’s ever. They may not be the most handsome, but I constantly get compliments on them. Occasionally they’ll work at other stores, and I have to deal with THOSE managers trying to lure them away from me with promises of candy and rub downs…but they always come back. Why? Well, despite what you’ve read here? I think I’m a pretty decent boss. I have the distinction of having the only store, probably in my region that has had the SAME employees for almost 3 years. No ‘retail’ turnaround. Three of them are consistently on the companies list of top five employees for sales. They work hard and I try to foster an atmosphere of fun in the workplace. Hell retail is a shitty enough job without having a douche bag boss to put up with. The ONLY problem I have is that I’ve never hired anyone at my current job that I’d like to sleep with, just big women and Nigerian guys (I’m also the ONLY store that has had THREE Nigerians promoted from within, I fucking LOVE those dudes). My tip to those of you out there that DO have to hire people? Just know that when you hire big women? They shit more than guys. From my experience with the girlfriends I’ve had, I didn’t even know that women DID shit. Hell, I LIVED with a girl for 7 years and ‘shitting’ never came up once. These employees of mine though ‘tag team’ shit throughout the fucking day. I have to have TWO of them work at a time so there’s at least ONE person on my sales floor while the other one is dropping a deuce.

The main thing I hate about retail though is the fucking roboticness of it. I have a mind to foster relationships with my customers, but I have to spew out this corporate bullshit from the beginning to the end of EVERY interaction with EVERY fucking customer. ‘Welcome to my store, did you know that we have the iphone now? (We HAVE to say that EVEN though we DON’T have the fucking iPhone!) What can I help you find, did you need any batteries for around the house? Can I have your email so we can send you coupons? Who is your cell phone provider? Would you like to upgrade or get a new line of service? These are the items you’ll need to buy with that. We have a service plan that can protect your item. Just so you know you can fill out a survey online. Would you like a magazine subscription? Do you want fries with that? Can I suck your cock for you?’ WHERE DOES IT FUCKING END! What happened to just ‘How can I help you today?’ and ‘thanks for shopping with us’. THAT’S IT! Dude came in to get a fucking battery for his camera so he could take pictures of the most important day of his life, and I just made him miss his daughter’s birth with my Billy Mays sales pitch for a fucking hour because I can get fired for NOT going through that rhetoric in EVERY customer situation. Maybe the reason the economy is falling apart is because there’s nothing personal in these interactions any more. It all sounds corporate from the top to the bottom.

Another frustrating thing about my job is the lack of ass. Either customer wise or employee wise. In my youth, I had a vast unlimited resource for meeting women; Work.

The first time I got laid? 38 year old waitress at Red Lobster when I was working there as a bus boy at 17. Later, when I worked for Walden books in the mall, there were more loose women passing through it than a Metallica concert at the end of a pub crawl. The little ‘let me tell ya somethin’s would roam through that place all day, and if you could do a mall cop lean on a kiosk counter? You were going to be taking a trip to an abortion clinic in about 3 weeks (fist bump). Sometimes I’d even find myself hiring these same girls and banging them on the bargain book table in the back of the store after it closed. I LOVED that job. If you've never had 'work sex'? I highly recommend it. Nothing sends a silent 'fuck you' to the higher ups quite like my big white elephant ass pumping up and down on some 22 year old, over the same counter I sold 'Weekends With Morrie' to their gramma on.

Then I moved on to Borders. Let me tell you, that place was like catnip for pussy. Hot, spectacled, intellectual broads looking for YOUR opinion on Kurt Vonnegut or Niche over a cup a Joe with a dick twist. Hell, I dated my first girl with fake boobies while I was there.

Those jobs even brought some great names into my life who I STILL consider to be some of my best friends. Ian, Smart Jim, even Action Jim who I met at my comic book store job over 20 years ago. I feel the same bond with the job I have now, even though there’s only ONE good looking girl in my whole district (and she’s not interested in me), I’ve still fostered many friendships and people look forward to coming to my parties. In many ways I’m a middle child because I was in ONE district for a few years and now I’m in another. Occasionally I bring the districts together at my place along with my old friends and meld all the worlds together.

Look, I get it, the old days were the old days, but sometimes I feel like the product of a bygone age. A dinosaur looking for, I don’t know…whatever kind of food dinosaurs eat. Some kind of big leaves I guess…or other dinosaurs. The point being that all my food is extinct, and without it…or a really smart scientist with unlimited resources and funds, I’m not going to make it. I know that bitching about work isn’t going to help anything, but to be honest, I feel SO much better doing it that I’ll probably be a better salesman when I’m done writing this. To me this is therapy without the expense. I know what you’re saying: “if you’re that miserable, do something else.” Well, I’m trying and you’re fucking reading it.

There are things at all of our jobs that we don’t like, but the truth is that JUST getting through life is a hard job. Keeping a marriage together, raising children, maintaining friendships…it’s ALL work. But it’s something that we HAVE to do in order to feel like we’re making a difference, even in our own sphere of existence.

Some people tend to take work WAY to seriously, work is life and vice versa, you have to enjoy what you do people. If your job sucks? Find a way to make it more interesting. Otherwise you’ll end up single and miserable…like me! Life is a random series of events that culminated in YOU being the chick that manually masturbates chimps for artificial insemination…if you can’t laugh at THAT? Well I hear my company is looking for a new Regional Manager.

Just do all of us who work in the service industry a favor and be a better customer. KNOW what the fuck you need before you shop someplace. Don’t come in and say I need that thingy with a hook on it. Do some fucking research for chrissake. I’ve been shopping for YEARS, and I NEVER talk to anybody but the checkout clerk when I ‘m telling her that I don’t want to give her my fucking DNA sequence so I can get a free Best Buy soap dispenser. And DON’T shop on holidays. Do you know why people have to work ‘til 7PM on the fucking Fourth of July? Because some jag off is going to be sitting drunk in his lawn chair with bruised knuckles from hitting his wife because he thought it would be a great fireworks joke to make her see stars after she didn’t bring him his beer fast enough, and remember at 6:45 that he needs a fuse for the floor mat light in his 92 Buick Popeye. Then next year my company is going to say “well, we’d let you leave at 5…but last year you had a sale at 6:59.” Fuck you.

Look, I come into my jag off existence at work every day and I do the dance because I don’t own the company, I probably don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, but mostly because they pay me to do their bidding. But I’ll tell you this much…thank god for freedom of speech because I will defend YOUR right to talk shit about your job to my death.

End

The Life and Times of a Jaded Loser Part the 3rd: Life After Glenwood

2011-05-05T08:22:00.000-05:00

16: “Ooooh, You Make Me Live”

Making friends was never an easy thing for me. In fact, I’m just as picky about the friends I make as I am about the women I date. Most people get on my nerves, but sometimes I’ll meet someone who doesn’t bore me. I had a few friends in military school, and sure that group grew over the years that I was there, but growing up in a world without cell phones or the internet, made staying in touch with them impossibility after my expulsion.

I still had Aaron and his brothers, but throughout my teens I would meet 4 friends whose influence would change me a profound way. The times we spent together made me feel like a part of a family that I never had. I don’t know what impact if any, I made on their lives but it was their humor, their realism, and their families that kept me grounded and sane in world of an unavailable single mother. I may talk some shit about them from time to time, and I may even talk some shit about them here. But I think that they all know me well enough to see that it’s with the respect of a brother that I do it.

These four friends made up the core of a larger group that I would come to know, an extended family if you will. I only wanted to know people who could mesh with my existing friends. And when I would meet someone new, I always felt like I accomplished something when they would become fast friends with the original four, and I felt a sense of pride when they would hang out with them individually without me around. I had, not only made a friend, but I had MADE friends. I put people in the path of one another who might not have met otherwise.

Even though we’re all older now, and have gone our separate ways, the fact that I know these people makes each day a gift. If I had never known Steve, Grey Jim, Pete, and Brian this book would have been a whole different story. They make me remember a past that could have been filled with heartbreak and turmoil, with reverence and humility. They are the pillars upon which this life was built and I love them all deeply.

Now, let’s get on with the funny.

17: Looking Back

As I started writing ‘The Life and Times of a Jaded Loser: Part the 3rd’, I quickly realized just how old I am. While I was writing the outline for this third part of my life story, I could remember all of the events from my past, however, I couldn’t quite remember the order they happened in.

As I said in The Life and Times Part the 2nd, I used to be pretty good at drawing. All of those drawings are in a worn down briefcase with broken latches on my closet shelf right now. My regret is that I didn’t keep the memories of youth in a similar time capsule. I suggest to the younger generation out there reading this to write shit down. Keep a Hello Kitty diary, leather bound journal, or a fucking captain’s log…SOMETHING to help you remember your youth when the fulcrum of life starts to teeter in the opposite direction. You never know how things that have happened to you will translate into the written word, and relying on other people to help you remember later in life…can be a fucking chore.

I knew that before I started writing all this shit down that I’d have to contact the friends that were there with me as these events unfolded. I tried to reach my best friend Steve to ask him if I could come by his place and interview him for about a half hour, but he was busy with his kids. I tried to get in touch with my old crony Grey Jim to ask him some questions about our youth, but he was sleeping because he works nights. I was GOING to try Scott…but then I remembered that Scott has neither a phone, NOR a car. In today’s world that makes it seem as though Scott is still trying to figure out the fucking wheel. My last hope? Pete.

Pete is one of my oldest friends and I had lost touch with him about 15 years ago. What I’ve heard from him recently is that he’s bounced back and forth from Florida for the past year due to difficulties with his wife. His phone is shut off due to non pay more than it’s on so when I dialed his number I wasn’t really expecting much, however…and I LOVE when life does this…I got more than I expected.

Pete answered and to my surprise, he was living back home with his mother a few miles away from my apartment. I asked him if I could come by and chat with him a bit about our youth and he said that it would be great to see me.

I pulled up to Pete’s house and rang the door bell. A young man of 14 answered the door and begrudgingly let me in. I didn’t know who this kid was, but it seems that I interrupted his Wii game. He told me, without looking up from the TV, that Pete was in the kitchen.

I walked to the back of the house and Pete came out of the Laundry room. Other than a bit of a pot belly, he looked almost exactly the same as he did some fifteen years before. Same Harley Davidson bandana, same fucking go-tee, and that same handsome Italian face that women always fell for. I shook his hand and asked him if he’d like to come over to my apartment. I told him that I’d cook us some breakfast and then I’d interview him about some things I wanted to use in the book.

As we left his mother’s house, Pete introduced me to the boy playing video games in the living room. He was Pete’s fourteen year old son Tyler. FUCK, did that blow me away. Pete, the kid that I spent some of the best and worst times of my life with, had a FOURTEEN year old son. THAT made me feel old as hell.

For the next several hours Pete told me about his marriage, his kids, and all of the problems he was having. I made us biscuits and gravy with sausage and bacon for breakfast and then I tried to interview him. Pete’s memory was not only wholly inaccurate, but much of it was just made up. When we were teenagers, we always had to take whatever Pete told us with a grain of salt. But after the tale of bullshit and woe he had just unfolded about how fucked up his life was and that NONE of it was HIS fault…I realized that I had maybe asked the wrong person for answers to the past. It was like Bill Curtis trying to interview Paris Hilton about the middle ages.

After a few hours of shooting the shit, I drove Pete home. I was glad to see that his mother was there, because she played an intricate role in my early years and I had some questions for her as well. Much like she was in my youth however…Nancy was less than forthcoming and only wanted money from me when I told her I was writing a book. Then Pete’s brother Danny came out of his bedroom with the SAME fucking girlfriend he had when I had last seen him 15 years ago. Apparently they had broken up about 14 years before my visit, and had just rekindled their relationship recently. Oofa. The circle was complete. It seemed that NOTHING in Pete’s life had changed from when we were teenagers.

He and his brother, BOTH nearly forty now, were living with his mother. Pete’s mother was like the queen bee of their clan. There was nothing that Pete or Danny could do that their mother couldn’t forgive, or ignore, so they always came crawling back to her. Danny not only made me glad that I’m single for the simple reason that I never settled, but he also made me IMMEDIATELY call my dentists office after I left to schedule an appointment.

His girlfriend has scoliosis so she’s all twisted up like a tree in a J.R. Tolkien novel. She walks with a disgusting limp and her face looks like a retarded person carved it on a pumpkin head with a sharpened rock. As she came stumbling out of Danny’s bedroom behind him, I almost thought that she was a monster about to attack us all. Then Danny came over to give me a hug and when he smiled, the top row of his teeth was missing. It gave him that look on his face where his upper lip just kind of hangs there and dangles, and his lower lip is puffed out making it seem as though he’s constantly pouting. He had the sunken face of a toothless old man.

The thing that amazed me the MOST was that all of these people had fucking children. Pete had 3, the oldest of which was 14. Danny, who himself is a slow adult has one that’s now 17 and living in a ‘special needs’ home because he stabbed Nancy with a knife. Misty, the monster with scoliosis has a 17 year old as well who lives in Georgia. Do the math; that means that not ONLY did Danny settle for this thing 17 years ago, but it cheated on him as well.

What the FUCK? This band of CARNIES has children spread out all over the god damned country, and I can’t even find a woman to go on a SECOND date with me! Bullshit! I call ‘shenanigans’ on life. I haven’t felt this ripped off since the series finale of The Sopranos.

The point is that although Nancy, Pete and Danny are still great people whom I love (you’ll find out in the following chapters that Nancy is ACTUALLY my LEGAL mother), no matter how bad life may have treated THEM, in comparison it’s STILL treated me worse. Why? Simple, because THEY get to find a semblance of happiness in the shit pile, and I still just get shit. They have each other and all I have is my fucking dog.

As I drove home, riddled with jealousy over the Wilson clan’s togetherness like a trailer park version of Family Ties, it dawned on me that maybe fate had put Pete in my path once again. Although they couldn’t help me with my timeline concerns, just seeing them brought back so many old memories that I DO have a better grasp of the past now. Although this third part of my life’s story turned out to be a bit longer than I anticipated, at least I can go to bed at night knowing that I didn’t leave anything out. So thank you Pete, thank you Nancy, and thank you Danny (even if you ARE going to come after me now for talking shit about your girlfriend.)

18: The Glenwood Aftermath

After my mother informed me, rather obtrusively, that I was kicked out of military school, she told me that she had to go back to the campus to collect my effects. I thought it would be a great opportunity for me to say my farewells to the only people that I knew for so many years. However, this was not meant to be. My mother told me that even though the school year was only half over, because of my high grades, they decided to let me pass eighth grade…but I wasn’t allowed to come back on campus, even for the graduation ceremony.

This was a huge regret in my life because I never got to give a tearful goodbye to the few Glenwood souls that I DID consider my very close friends. It was the first in a long line of disappointments and under dramatic ‘endings’ which led me to be the thoughtless ape that I am now. I can walk away from any situation with neither regret nor nostalgia. I’m sure this isn’t healthy at all, but I’ve just lost so much in my life that I know dwelling on it, won’t bring it back. When you let yourself get attached to anything or anyone it can only lead to disappointment. I’ve become the very opposite of a stalker.

One of my true strengths, AND my greatest weakness is my ability to adapt to any situation. Nothing surprises me anymore. In my hubris, I’ve often thought that if the end of the world were to come, and I was somehow able to survive it, I would become one of the people that band others together through an inherent ability to simply not look back. It’s a skill I’ve acquired through years of practice. I’ve learned that one simply does not have a choice but to trudge on in this cruel world and take things as they come. Sure, you can listen to Anthony Robbins, and preachers, and poets, and romantics, and they’ll tell you that everything is going to be alright. Every time life throws shit at you, it’s just an opportunity. It’s all a big ‘Hang in there Kitty’ poster to them. Well fuck them.

Sometimes shit is just shit, YOUR part in it is simply trying to keep your head above the shit so that when the next shit wave crests and drags you down, you don’t come up sucking shit. Blows, don’t it? Damn right it blows, but there’s still happiness to be found out there. Just don’t drown in the shit. How do you do that? Ignore it. Don’t look back. Move on. Get a ‘Dave Matthews’ surf board and hang 10 on that shit.

The time I spent at home and abroad, so to speak, after military school was a mixed blessing. I met new friends, had new adventures, slept in new cars and got the occasional handy. The funny thing is that it all seems like it took place over such a long time period of time…but it didn’t. So much happened to me between the ages of 14 and 20 that I find it hard to believe that it was only 6 years. Maybe that’s youth though? You spend your early years wasting time and your older years hoarding what you can of it.

As I continue my tale of losery here, I’m going to introduce you to heroes, to villains, and tales that are sure to astonish. Some of this you’ll be able to relate to, some of it you won’t, but I think we can all agree on one thing and it’s a lesson I learned in my teens…nothing lasts forever…hell, most things don’t last more than a few years.

19: Steve

Except Steve. Aaron introduced Steve and I on Halloween of ’86 and several weeks later I was kicked out of Glenwood. Because I had 8 months until I was to start High School, I had plenty of time to get to know Steve. Steve introduced me to a ton of things that I didn’t have access to in Military School. He introduced me to music like The Police and Billy Joel, and showed me how to get to Pharmore, where we could buy music cheap. He showed me where we could rent video games, and even got me a membership card at the mom and pop video store by his house. As my budding interest in Television sprouted, Steve was there with me for some landmark TV events. I can remember us both laughing our asses off together on the Sunday night that The Simpsons and Married with Children premiered.

Steve was a tall awkward looking boy, and even in our youth, he was the hairiest fucker I’d ever seen. Whenever we played baseball with his friends, he would take his shirt off to the astonishment of the crowd. Later in life, Cous’n Hemp’n gave him the nickname: ‘The Steve Pelt Rug’ because you just wanted to lay him down in front of a fireplace. His attention to detail and adherence to schedules always bordered on O.C.D. He was and still is the most responsible man I’ve ever known. Even as children I would have to give Steve a 2 day notice before I came to his house because he was always working on something: A bird house, a picnic bench, or a haunted house for his garage.

Steve had the most impeccable hand writing I’d ever seen and I would often ask him to make me mix tapes JUST for the hand written play list that would accompany them. His speech pattern was slow and deep, as if he were always thinking about what he was going to say before he said it. Another nickname we were fond of calling Steve was ‘Snuffalufagus’ because he sounded like that character from Sesame Street. Don’t get me wrong here, although this description might be one given of a ‘slow adult’, Steve was most certainly not that.

He was very smart, and very witty. He would grow out of his awkward look soon after I met him and as I became enamored of photography later in life it became apparent that Steve was one handsome mother fucker on film.

Unfortunately for Steve, he was never a ladies’ man. In my opinion, women missed out on one of the best bachelors ever available. As is often the case though, because Steve was smart and responsible, instead of dumb and tough…women would often over look him. In our twenties I always hoped that Steve would ‘hook up’ with some girl at one of the bars we frequented, and although it never happened quite the way I expected, he DID eventually meet his wife at a bar because she was with a girl that I wanted to bang. Lucky woman, her.

I spent a lot of my youth staying over at my friend’s places and Steve was no exception. And when he, Aaron, and I would sleep over together there was pizza and video games galore.

One of the earliest things I learned about Steve was his family dynamic. As I became a member of the Lipkie clan, I was fascinated by their interactions. I had never had a proper family, so it was all new to me.

Steve’s family was very Irish catholic, and I as I was a practicing catholic at the time, I used to go to church with them on Sundays. Steve went to Grammar School at the local Church ‘Our Lady of the Ridge’, so most of the friends that he introduced me to were Irish Catholic as well. Although the beliefs of their youth stuck with many of them, you find yourself growing more and more distant from the church as you get older, because you realize that faith has hardly anything to do with the normal concerns of life.

Steve had 2 sisters. Trish, the oldest was a fiery redhead who listened to classic rock and was out all the time partying with her friends. Sue was the youngest, and had posters of ‘The New Kids’, and other cute young boys she’d cut out of ‘Teen Beat’ magazine or some such all over her wall. As I grew up, I learned that this was a VERY typical family dynamic…except for one thing.

Steve and his sister’s didn’t refer to their parents as ‘mom’ or ‘dad’. They were called ‘THE mother’ and ‘THE father’. Steve referred to his sisters as ‘The Sister’, and they referred to Steve as ‘The Brother’. Every family member from ‘The Grandmother’ to ‘The dog’ was tagged with the definite article ‘The’. I fuckin’ liked it, and STILL do to this day. I refer to Steve’s daughter as ‘The kid’, and his wife as ‘The Bitch’. (Kidding Laura, take a joke)

Steve’s father, Fred was and IS a very nice, quiet, and hard working man. An American everyman and a perfect role model for a young boy. I see a lot of Fred in Steve, and I don’t think that any man could be more proud of his son.

Steve’s mother? Well…that’s another story. Steve’s mother, or ‘The mother’, when I first met her was a typical doting Irish mom. She liked me because I went to church with them, and she was always very pleasant to me. She even gave me my own Lipkie family title: ‘The boy who smiles a lot’

However, as I started to hang out with ‘The Family’ more and more, I became privy to the Lipkie family secret. It seemed that the mother had a chemical imbalance, not unlike Jeffery Dahmer, and she would have ‘good weeks’, and ‘bad weeks’. The first time I came across one of her ‘bad weeks’ freaked me the fuck out.

One weekend, while I was spending the night at Steve’s, we were up all night playing Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom on the Nintendo. Steve would make ‘mix tapes’ to blast on his boom box as we played through each level of a Nintendo game . We had realized that the accompanying score of any given video game sucked, so whenever we got a new one, we’d play if for a little bit to get the feel for what kind of music SHOULD go with it. For Indy? It was Running down a Dream by Tom Petty. We eventually learned that song could go with ANY video game: Mega Man, Punch Out, Contra, and Castlevania to name a few.

On this particular night, at around 9PM, I had to use the bathroom. I asked Steve if it was OK, and he said that I didn’t need to ask. The bathroom was right across the hall from Steve’s room and as I walked into the hallway, I could see that the door was slightly ajar and the light was off, so I knew that it wasn’t occupied by one of Steve’s sisters as it often was. The toilet in the bathroom was right next to the door, and as I pushed the door open to go in, someone shrieked a defiant ‘WAAAAAAAA!” and slammed the door shut. Scared the shit out of me.

I went back into Steve’s room and said “what the fuck was that?” in a frightened tone. Steve told me without looking up from his game in that Snufulufugus voice “Well, y’knooooow, that’s just the mother…she get’s like that sometimes, just ignore her and you’ll be fine” I didn’t know what to think, and Steve offered no other explanation, so I went out and used the bathroom by the kitchen.

A few hours passed and I asked Steve if he could get me a glass of ice water. Steve told me to go ahead and get it myself. I told him that I wasn’t comfortable going into his freezer to get ice, and he assured me that I shouldn’t worry about it. I went out into the kitchen and passed by the mother watching TV in the living room. I said ‘hi’ to her, and she grumbled something under her breath. I thought nothing of it.

I went into the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the counter top, and opened the freezer to get ice. When I closed the freezer door, the mother’s face loomed out of the dark from where the freezer door had been. Her look of stark hatred filled my vision and she snatched the glass from my hand. She began yelling at me “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE MISTER? GOING INTO OTHER PEOPLE’S FREEZERS? WAHHHHHHH!”

I cautiously stepped back and started to call out for Steve, I tried to explain to her that Steve had TOLD me to get the ice, but she wouldn’t listen. I was frightened out of my mind as she inched closer to me in the dark kitchen; I kept calling out for Steve, without YELLING for him as I didn’t want to invoke MORE hatred from her.

As I backed up against the sink, the mother SLAMMED the glass she took from me down on the counter and Steve appeared behind her. Steve, even then, has NEVER been ‘over emotional’. He calmly said “Well, y’knoooooow, just ignore her and come on”. I slinked around the mother and went back to the room with Steve.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked him. He told me “Y’knooooow , The mother gets like that sometimes, we’re all used to it, just ignore her until she goes back to normal”. OK, what the fuck did I know? Even when she was in a GOOD mood after that night, the mother never liked me again. Instead of ‘The boy who smiles a lot”, I was called ‘The bold one’.

Whenever I slept over at Steve’s, I would sleep on the floor next to his bed. I would bring a pillow from home, and Steve would give me a blanket. In youth, we have no sense of embarrassment about our bodies, so I would sleep in my underwear. One night I was awoken to the sound of Steve’s bedroom door being kicked open and the lights suddenly coming on. As my vision cleared, I could see Steve’s mother standing in the doorway staring at me with cold dead eyes like a shark. I furiously whispered for Steve, but as I looked over at his bed he was lying on his side facing the wall. No movement.

The mother stalked into the room, never taking her eyes off of me, and ripped the blanket I was under off of me. “STEVE, STEVE”, I yelled in a frightened whisper. The mother just stood over me staring at my underwear clad body. I felt trapped and exposed. “STEEEEVE”.

Finally without moving or turning over, I heard Steve’s voice. “Well, y’knooooow, she does this sometimes, just ignore her and she’ll go away”. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? This was the line. I could handle the ‘sitting in the dark in the bathroom’, I could handle her ‘flying off the cuff’ because I got ice, but now she was looming over my exposed body and just staring at me. I didn’t know what frightened me more, the mother, or Steve’s indifference towards this situation. After 10 minutes had passed, the mother gave a defiant ‘WAAAAAA!’ and slunk out of Steve’s room. It was three o’clock in the morning and I just lied there staring at the ceiling in fright until the sun came up.

Over the next several years I would have creepier and creepier run ins with the mother, but it always turned out that Steve was right. If you just ignored her, you were fine. She was never violent, so even though you’d get a scare from time to time, you’d be ok. My fear, however grew as we got older. What if it DID turn violent one day? But the family always tried to get the mother psychiatric help over the years and when she refused time after time; Steve even took psychology classes at the local community college. That’s one of the things I’ve always respected and loved about Steve; his commitment to his family.

As time passed, I grew to love the mother more and more. I watched as her children grew into fine, responsible, decent adults and leave her house one by one. It always made me feel bad for her because she and the father had done such a good job raising them. The children have always taken care of the parents and often return home for dinners and birthday parties. The family is truly the best family I know of, and although I get a tad jealous from time to time, it warms my heart that they STILL include me in their events and I love them all from the core of the family, to the extended family of in-laws and cousins.

20: Brian Marinko

Steve and I grew closer in the months I had to wait between eighth grade and high school, but when I was thrust into the public school system as a freshman, we found out to our dismay that we would not be attending the same school.

All I’d known for 5 fucking years was boys and although I masturbated furiously at the thought of girls in military school, I had no experience with them. Going from a situation with NO girls and being placed into a world full of women, strangers, and high school clicks that I didn’t belong to was something of a culture shock to me.

Since Steve was going to a different school, I literally knew NO body in my neighborhood other than Aaron and his brothers who ALSO went to a different high school. There was a dividing line which separated school districts, and apparently I lived JUST on the other side of the street from that line.

I don’t quite know when it happened, but as I became more comfortable outside of the world of Glenwood, I started to come out of my shell. Maybe it was because I no longer felt oppressed, or maybe it was because I lived with the same people for so long. I now had an opportunity to give people I met an impression of me. I was a kid they never heard of. I wasn’t ‘that fat kid that blew the male nurse at camp Glenwood’, I wasn’t that troublemaker who was on restriction all time, and I was no longer The Shit Master General who drowned a cottage in poop. I was just Mike.

The first friend I made in high school was Brian Marinko. Brian was that good looking kid with long hair who played lead guitar in a band. He looked like Bon Jovi and the high school chicks fucking loved him. In an era of glam rock and guitar solos, he was on the top of the Billboard most popular kid’s chart. This was way before homos like Justin Beiber and Robert Pattison, Brian was a true man in a young man’s body. It took actual talent and charisma back then to be popular, actual good looks and a natural way with women…not one created by a P.R. firm.

I first met Brian in the cafeteria at H.L. Richards Community High School. It was my first or second day and I had just been wondering from class to class in a daze of confusion and fear. I watched all of my fellow students laughing about inside jokes and discussing plans with each other for the weekend because they had all gone to junior high together. I was a complete outsider and it showed. That Doors song People are Strange kept playing over in my head, which I tried to keep facing the ground for fear of making eye contact.

I had been given so many beatings in military school that my natural assumption was to think THESE new kids would just beat the shit out of me if I made any waves, so my intention was to get through 4 years of high school with my head down. Even now my intention is always to stay off the radar. At my current job I try to never be the best OR the worst…if you stay right in the middle, nobody fucks with you.

Brian was sitting by himself at a table waiting for his friends to arrive, when I asked him if I could sit with him because all the other tables in the cafeteria were full. Classic story, right? All he had to do was say ‘fuck off’ and my high school days may have gone much differently. But Brian was one of those rare good looking guys who doesn’t ACT like he’s a good looking guy, and he invited me to join him. We struck up a conversation and became fast friends. It turned out that Brian only lived 2 buildings away from my mother’s condo with his mom, her husband, and his brother Scott. I’ll get into Scott in a bit.

I think that Brian and I got along so well at first simply because I didn’t treat him like he was hot shit. I don’t know when I got that conversational gift, but even now I have an ability to make people feel instantly comfortable with me. I try to treat everyone the same because hell, unless you’re immortal we all have the same fucking weakness…we’re gonna die eventually. I don’t care how powerful you are, how much money you have, or how popular you are…death is the great equalizer, so unless you’re 500 years old, there’s not much you can say to impress or surprise me.

After school I would often go to Brian’s place to watch him practice guitar, play video games, and sometimes he’d even try to hook my awkward ass up with chicks. The problem was that although his heart was in the right place…the chicks dug HIM, not me. But it was always nice of him to try and it felt good to have a popular kid have my back in a way that nobody ever got my back in military school.

Many would say that Brian was a bad influence on me, and I’m sure that when I’m dying of lung cancer finally…I’ll say the same thing. But Brian introduced me to my first alcoholic beverage, cigarettes, and my first earring…given to me by a girl in Brian’s bedroom. She put a potato behind my ear and shoved a needle through my lobe. Ouch.

We lived near railroad tracks which were the gateway to pretty much everything in our town. We’d often hop on a stopped train, wait for it to start, and then jump off in designated huge piles of hay that we had set up on the side of the tracks for our various destinations. Sometimes it was the mall, sometimes it was by our high school, and sometimes it was by the park. But our favorite place along the tracks? We called it ‘The Green Grasshopper’.

To this day I’m still not sure of the purpose of the Green Grasshopper, but it was some type of big green thing with a conveyer belt on it that led up about 3 stories. We’d hop a fence to gain access to the property it sat on, and then we’d climb to the top on either the conveyer belt if we were feeling froggy, or the staircase which surrounded it. Once at the peak, we would proceed to drink copious amounts of Southern Comfort, which Brian had his brother Scott get for us, smoke cigarettes, and talk of our dreams for the future.

Brian worked at a banquet hall as a bus boy on the weekends and he eventually got me a job there as well. He told me to meet him there at 7AM on Saturday morning and as the owner walked up to the door to let the staff in to set up, Brian just said ‘This is Mike, he needs a job’ and I was hired on the spot. I loved working at that place and I would eventually get my new friends jobs there as well, much the same way that Brian did for me.

21: James DeStafano Jr.

A few months after I met Brian, I was walking through a hallway at Richards to my locker. At the row of lockers across the hall from mine, I noticed a couple of the thick necked football dicks giving someone shit. The kid that was getting the business end of a bullying was a bit of an oddball. Hell, in the grand scheme of high school douchebaggery, he probably deserved it for being different. But being picked on myself for many years, I felt obligated to step in.

As I approached the situation, I noticed that the boy they were picking on had grey hair. He wore an army coat and was kind of built, he looked like he could take care of himself, but as they kept calling him ‘old man’, and ‘grampa’, he shied away and just went about his business in his locker. Just as I was about to say something, the football kids walked away. NOT because they were afraid of me, hell, they probably didn’t even notice me, but because they were done and moving on, probably to bolster their egos by making someone else feel less than.

I asked the grey haired kid if he was O.K., to which he replied ‘I don’t let that shit get to me, I’m used to it by now.’ I introduced myself to the kid that would become one of my closest and most adored friends: Grey Jim. We didn’t call him that then, back then he was just Jim. He eventually earned that title in my circle of friends, when it became clear that there were TOO many Jim’s in it.

Jim lived with his mother, her husband (not his father), and his 2 half brothers. He lived right across the street from H.L. Richard High school. I learned that his grey hair was a genetic trait that he earned from his father who also had grey hair as a kid. One time, in an effort to fit in more, Jim dyed his hair brown…it looked ridiculous and we all learned that Jim just looked better with grey hair. It was uniquely him.

I also came to find out that Jim was a workout nut. He’d spend hours a day pumping iron in an effort to look like the guys on the cover of muscle magazines. Over the years Jim would try to turn me over to the dark side of health, but I always managed to avoid its grasp and just have a fucking Twinkie.

One year when we were in our twenties, for my birthday, Jim bought me a membership to his gym, which has since been turned into our neighborhood titty bar called Polkatz. I would meet Jim there at 4 A.M. every morning for months, and I actually liked it. This wasn’t one of those ‘Bally’s’ where people go to get ‘toned’, this was a place filled with huge muscle bound Schwarzenegger types and I was completely intimidated that first week. However, as Jim introduced me around, I found that all of these huge guys were very nice and helpful. They took me in like a mascot and helped me form a workout routine that I could endure. I would listen to Howard Stern on my walkman as I used the treadmill, and I would bask in the steam room with Jim for an hour before we showered and left for our jobs. I think I enjoyed the routine more than the actual working out, but eventually Jim moved away and I stopped going. It just wasn’t the same without him.

Unlike Steve’s mother, Jim’s mom was as sane and down to earth a lady as you could find. Sweet, polite, caring, and you could just tell that she was good at raising kids. Two years later in ‘89, Jim’s mom convinced MY mother to let me go to Florida with him and stay at his father’s place for the summer. I’d never been out of Illinois, much less on a plane, so I was stoked. I don’t know what she SAID to my mother to get her to agree to this, but later I learned that it didn’t take much to convince ma Hempen to get me to go away.

I felt a bond between Jim and I that I didn’t share with Steve or Brian. Sure those two were like brothers to me, but Jim was more of a ‘doer’, and I fucking liked doing things. Steve had to be given a three week written request in triplicate before he would agree to go to a fucking movie, and Brian liked to sit around his bedroom, play guitar and smoke weed. So having a friend to just go outdoors with was nice.

Jim was Italian, and his father was a chef. His father was also a body builder with grey hair named Jim. Looking at Jim’s dad was like looking into the future…or the past depending on which way you looked at it. This man was Jim in 30 years. The two of them were very much into the whole ‘Italian honor’ thing, and if the Jim’s weren’t the most honest men I knew…they would have made great mobsters.

It was from them that I gained my love of fine dining over the years. Jim and his dad taught me the various nuances to eating at nice places, and I love having that knowledge. In that episode of ‘The Sopranos’, when Tony goes up to the kid in the restaurant and tells him to ‘take his fucking hat off’, all I could think was that was TOTALLY something Jim’s dad would do.

Most people know the basic rule of ‘tipping’ when going out to eat. 15% of the bill or you double the tax. I learned from the Jims that there are a LOT of variations on that rule. One time, Jim and I went to ‘Pizzeria Uno’ in downtown Chicago. It’s a small place, but it’s the BEST pizza in Illinois. Now, Jim and I were young, so it wasn’t like we were wearing fancy suits or anything, I can imagine how a waitress must feel when two guys like us walk in.

However, we had every intention of leaving a decent tip after we ate, never judge a book and all that. This waitress just completely ignored us for about 40 minutes. We kept going to the bar to get our drinks, and eventually she took our order. After that, we STILL had to go to the bar for drinks and when she haphazardly dropped off our pizza, she didn’t stick around long enough for us to ask for tobasco or anything else.

After we were done eating, the waitress came by and threw our bill on the table without even looking at us. Jim and I put money down for the bill, and then Jim did something odd. He threw about 37 cents of change on the table. We had talked earlier about the service and decided to NOT leave a tip of any kind. Jim explained to me that if the service is THAT shitty, you always leave some change on the table, because if you leave NOTHING, the waitress can think that you just forgot. If you leave change, she KNOWS you just fucked her. Then, as we left, Jim went to the bar and leaned over to have a private conversation with the bar tender. As we walked out, I asked him what he had said. He told me that when you have bad service, you ALWAYS tell the bartender, NOT the manager because the waitress just might be having a bad night. That is some AWSOME shit to know.

Over the years I would come to know Jim’s half brothers very well. Jim’s step dad wasn’t the greatest role model for those kids, so even after Jim moved out on his own, he would take his brothers, Danny and Jeff in on the weekends and try his best to instill that sense of honor in them that he grew up with. Even to this day, I still maintain that those kids were the BEST behaved children I’ve ever met. It wasn’t through fear and intimidation either, it was because Jim’s mother was a kind and caring woman, and because Jim WAS a perfect role model for any kid. When I see his own children now, it brings a tear to my eye knowing that I’ll never have that sense of pride that Jim must feel, because even if I DID have kids, I could never be half the father that he is.

22: Pete Wilson

And then there was Pete. A few weeks after I started hanging out with Grey Jim, he introduced me to another Italian kid, but one with a very different set of moral values than himself…Pete. Pete was a very handsome kid with full, black hair and an average build. Whenever Pete smiled, the ladies swooned.

The problem with Pete was that as beautiful as he was on the outside, he was the reverse of that on the inside. Don’t get me wrong, I love Pete, and I’m not saying that Pete was a bad guy…It’s just that Pete? He wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box.

Everyone I’ve ever met is motivated by something. There is something that they are all about. When I first met Steve? His motivations were family, and the outdoors. Brian? Pot and guitar. Grey Jim? Working out. Pete’s motivations were cigarettes, lying, and pussy. There is NO lie that Pete wouldn’t tell in furtherance of the other two. DUMB lies too. I mean this kid would just say anything, and because he was cute? Chicks would more often than not believe that shit. And because the women would buy it? He’d try it on us. The effect was a little different.

Over the next several years Pete would spin yarns as fantastical as they were stupid. He told us that he went to grammar school in Egypt where he found a mummies treasure, he told us that his mother had put 5 million dollars into a trust fund that he couldn’t touch until he was 21, and he told us that he was the prince of a country in Europe. First of all, as rich as Pete always claimed to be…our first salvo against this lie was “Then why don’t you have money to buy your own fucking cigarettes?”

Even though WE knew Pete was full of shit, we still kept him around because he wasn’t an inherently bad guy, just dumb as a box of rocks. He made us laugh and he was a great guy to have around. Pete may have been a liar, but I’ll give him this…he was a consistent fucking liar. This kid NEVER backed down from a story, no matter HOW full of shit we told him he was. When Pete turned 21, we asked him about his 5 million dollar trust fund. His reply? Its 10 million now, but I have to wait until I’m 22 to claim it. The next year? We’d ask him again, and he’d say there was a stipulation in a clause that sais he has to wait until his 23rd b-day. I think that Pete hoped we would just forget that one, but EVERY year we asked him and EVERY year he’d say ‘Oh, no…I’ll get it next year now’.

In those first 4 years that I knew Pete, I don’t think I ever saw him pay for a single pack of cigarettes. And because Steve, and Grey Jim didn’t smoke? Guess who supported his habit? It got to the point where I would actually be able to spontaneously quit smoking whenever I knew I would be around Pete. I would leave my smoke’s at home, and go out Jonesing. Then when he’d come up to me and say ‘can I bum a smoke?’ I’d just lie and tell him that I’d quit.

Another thing I tried in order to get him to stop asking that insufferable question was ‘Cigarette Loads’. I used to go to a place called ‘Riley’s Trick Shop’, which was the local Halloween costume and magic store, and I’d buy these things that looked like little match tips. You put one in the tip of a cigarette, and when the other person would go to light it, it would explode. Funny shit, but as always, to prove my point I took it to the extreme.

I would hollow out a cigarette completely, and put a load at the bottom, I’d put some tobacco back in, and drop in another load, more tobacco, another load, I’d repeat this until the cigarette had six loads in it at various points. I would do this to about 6 cigarettes’ and then place them back in the pack. Pete would ask for a smoke, and it would explode upon his lighting it. THEN, he’d light it again, and again, and again. This is how dumb Pete could be. He would just keep taking a few drags, the cigarette would explode, and then he’d relight it, after ‘borrowing’ a lighter of course.

Pete’s family was on the ‘motorcycle’ gang side of the Italian thing. They represented the exact OPPOSITE of Grey Jim and his brood in my eyes, but to a young man like myself, I always admired the way they stuck together. I found less admiration for them as I grew older, but when I first met them, I found them more exciting than sad and ignorant.

Pete’s mother was a short fat woman who was caustic and reflexive to say the fucking least. She looked like a female Danny Devito with the personality of Carla from Cheers…only not funny. Even though she was at least 2 feet shorter than Pete, she would constantly berate him and hit him in front of anybody who was around. I think she had a female Napoleonic Complex.

Nancy was the kind of woman who adorned the walls of her apartment with Wolf blankets, Harley Davidson bandanas, and eagles and American flags everywhere else. She drove a van, and always wore black spandex while shopping at the local flea market every weekend. Pete and his brother never really stood a chance in life with this monstrously over nurturing whack job of a mother.

Pete’s mom was so money hungry that she would let strange truck drivers sleep on the floor in her living room for cash. Like a low-rent leather vest bed and breakfast. She used Pete and Danny’s social security numbers on her bills until things were going to be shut off and then put them in someone else’s name.

Although Nancy was meaner than a rattlesnake and yelled at her boys constantly, it seemed that there was nothing they could do wrong in her eyes. Every time Pete or his brother Danny got in any kind of trouble, Nancy would spit and kick dirt at the person blaming them until the problem went away, and then she’d beat the shit out of Pete and Danny afterwards. This dynamic made Pete and Danny the biggest mama’s boys since Elvis and I doubt they could ever survive in a universe without Nancy, as you read in part 16 of The Life and Times.

Pete’s brother Danny was also a good looking kid, but Danny had a whole other problem…Danny was a slow adult. Pete tried explaining to me once when I asked him why Danny was the way that he is, that Danny suffers from seizures. It’s hard for me to buy that.

Where Pete is just plain stupid, Danny is just slow and violent. After the film came out, Danny reminded me of Sloth from ‘The Goonies’ only handsome. A big dim witted oaf who did his mother’s bidding, but turned out to be a sweet gentle person in the end. MY interactions with Danny were always brief, as he wasn’t in my circle of friends, but every time Pete brought him up it was to tell us how Danny had just stabbed someone in a fit of rage, or punched a hole in a wall of their apartment, or tipped over a car while saying ‘HULK MAD!’. Frankly, when you MEET Danny, you don’t get that vibe from him. Talking to him, you KNOW you’re talking to a slow adult, but he was always very child like.

Even so, I was afraid to have Danny around in case he hulked out on us. From what we’d heard, Danny had that retard strength and an inability to know when enough was enough. A bad combination in any human being. Luckily for us, Danny had his own unique band of whack packers that he hung around with, so we were never guilted into making him one of our own.

When I first brought Pete and Grey Jim around Steve and Brian, they instantly bonded. We all got along perfectly, and even though over the years we’ve all gone our separate ways, or even had tiffs…we still get together every once in a while to talk about old times. The past might not have been dull, but it was never as bright as our future’s would become.

To Be Continued…

The Life and Times of a Jaded Loser Part the 2nd: Glenwood Continued...

2011-05-04T07:56:00.000-05:00

7: Glenwood Education

The one thing I enjoyed about Glenwood was going to school. That building was old and creepy, but I learned a lot there. Whenever I was on restriction, I didn’t mind it so much as long as I was made to work after hours in the school. The only part that I wasn’t very happy about visiting was the basement.

The basement of the school was dark and damp. When you went down the stairs, it almost seemed like you were entering a different world. At the bottom there was a long hallway with a bathroom on the left, an empty room with a barber chair on the right, and an abandoned music room at the end. Every kid in Glenwood had to have his hair cut once a month, and that barber chair was like a nightmare. The barber was an old Polish guy who didn’t speak any English. He wore the traditional white barber frock, and you could see his yellowed teeth in the light cast down from the one overhead lamp which hung from the ceiling on a chain above the big green chair. You couldn’t see any part of that room other than where the low hanging light cast its ominous glow, and I always imagined big hairy spiders waiting in the corners just outside of its reach, ready to move in and consume me if that light should go out. As creepy as it was, I thought that it was the only thing keeping them at bay. The barber would cut everyone’s hair the same way, by placing a plastic Tupperware bowl on our heads and cutting around it. As he did this, he would talk to us angrily in Polish as if he were cursing someone who had robbed him.

Other than the basement though, I quite enjoyed my classes. Every day in history class I could imagine being out of Glenwood and on the battle field of some Civil War conflict, becoming a hero of the Northern Army. My teacher was a Civil War buff and even did reenacting on the weekends. He would always bring in antiques and show them to the class, and holding those old swords and trying on those old jackets always seemed to transport me to another place.

There was nothing special about my Math class, but I loved going there because my teacher, who looked like Carl Weathers, hated little Mikey from my Rathje cottage as much as I did. I think that he knew that Mikey enjoyed special privileges, sometimes at the expense of others, so he took the opportunity to belittle that fucker since we could not. One time, when the teacher was talking about evolution and how the places that societies come from dictate the color of their skin, Mikey raised his hand with a question. He asked Carl Weathers; “So, if Michael Jackson walked from Africa to Russia, would he turn white?” Everyone in the class just looked at Mikey with a dumbfounded expression on their faces. Without missing a beat, the teacher whipped an eraser at Mikey, which beaned him in the head, knocked him off of his chair, and left a Mohawk eraser mark on his head. That may have been the funniest thing I ever saw at Glenwood.

I also loved my typing class, and even though I wasn’t so sure about the computers that replaced our typewriters, I got used to them pretty quickly. I got up to 70 words per minute with few to no errors, and my teacher would let me use the computer after school sometimes to write stories for my writing class.

But my favorite class had to be Art. I was the best student in my art class and it was the one thing I could do that would earn me praise from both my teacher and other students. In that class, I learned that I have that special ability to draw whatever I see in my mind, and mimic real life in pencil. After it became apparent that I was good at it, I started getting special requests to draw comic book heroes, naked chicks from playboys, and fantasy pictures. Those talents made me want to draw comic books for a long time, until I met some actual comic book artists who set me straight.

Our teachers were not military people, so they were more understanding, and in a lot of ways more human. They were adults that I could relate too, and because of that I rarely got into trouble while I was in school. The ONE time I did get busted, was when a dean heard me call another kid a bastard after he had punched me in the eye. He asked me if I knew what that word meant, and when I told him that I didn’t he made me look it up. He wanted me to write out the definition 50 times, but it was too short. So instead he made me write out The Raven by Poe…50 fucking times. I don’t know if you know this? But that’s a long fucking poem, and I can still recite every line of it to this day because of that.

8: Full Metal Ass Beatings

Although the military side of Glenwood was a pain in the ass, like most things that suck in life…I got used to it. However, as is usually the case, those in charge fucked up the small bit of enjoyment I got from that.

I came to like the repetitive nature of our everyday military drills which consisted of formations, marching, saluting, presentation, and standing at attention. However, it felt as though the officers and NCO’s were treating us like medical experiments in a concentration camp, just to appease their own sense of humor. It seemed like they were constantly testing the limits of what we would be willing to put up, and how much shit THEY could get away with. Keep in mind; these were NOT professional military drill sergeants. These were high school boys who LIVED to force shit down the throats of kids that were smaller than them.

One of their tortures was to make us stand at attention in two rows of six and face each other. Then our officer would walk through the ranks, randomly punching us in the stomach. Sometimes he’d throw a fake punch, and if you flinched? You got punched for flinching.

In the winter time, they would line us up in front of the double barred railing that stood outside of the mess hall. Then they would make us take our gloves off, and get down into push up position with our hands in the snow. NEXT? We would have to put our feet up on the SECOND bar, which was about waist high when we were standing, and do pushups. And if you couldn’t do 5? You’d get a kick in the ribs with those hard ass patent leather military boots.

And my PERSONAL favorite? I would be made to stand with my arms stretched out in front of me, and everyone in the platoon had to place their coats on them. Try this. Try this with ONE fucking coat and see how long you can do it. When I could no longer endure the pain in my shoulders and the coats would fall? Everyone in the platoon got to beat the shit out me for dropping their coat on the ground.

The few times that I stood up to this military bullying, left me in serious pain.

Whenever it rained out, we formed ranks in the basement of our mess hall instead of outside of it. One morning, the high school NCO of our platoon decided that it would be fun to pick on me in front of the other platoons. He told me that because my shoes were wet, I would have to do 20 push ups. Everyone’s shoes were fucking wet…it was raining outside. I did the push ups, and when I stood up he told me that I would have to hold everyone’s coats on my arms because I was out of breath. I knew that this meant an ass beating later in the day, so I refused. I didn’t say anything, but I wouldn’t raise my arms. Our NCO towered over me and screamed in my face to comply. Finally, frustrated and emberassed from being humiliated in front of the whole school, he grabbed my head and slammed it into the concrte wall. I had to be carried to the nurses office with a concussion.

Every year we would have an olymipic event where our cottages were made to compete against one another in various challenges. Our NCO’s were the team captains, and the only sport that I looked forward to was swimming. Each cottage lined up, and one by one we would have to swim the length of the pool. In my cottage, I made the best time. After the event was over, and we lost, my NCO scolded me for not having done better. I asked him why he didn’t yell at the other boys since I made the best time, and he told me to do push ups for talking back to him. My arms were on fire still from swimming, so I got down in the position next to the pool, and did five push ups before falling to my knees. The NCO kicked me in the ribs and I fell into the pool. When I tried climbing out to the echoing laugher of the pool house, he pushed my head back under the water. I scraped and clawed at the pools edge, fighting for air and I could see his smiling face through the water above me. I gasped for air and painfully filled my lungs with water. When I awoke, I was coughing furiously after having been given CPR by the gym teacher. That was the closest I’ve ever come to death in my life, and although I still like to swim, I don’t like to do it when other people are around.

In the summer time, the end of the school year was marked by ‘Flag Day’. June 14th. All the parents got to come out and we would put on a show of marching, doing drills, and some of us even got to twirl fake rifles around like fucking batons. I’d eagerly look out into the crowd from my platoon as we passed by the stands, scanning the crowd for a mother that wasn’t there.

But the thing I remember most of Flag Day was the got damned uniforms. These 40 pound wool death coats were the equivalent of wearing a fucking fur coat on the sun. 103 degrees outside, and we were bundled up in these things like we were about to go on a climbing expedition of Mt. Everest. They had tents set up to put the kids in who passed out from heat exhaustion.

Any given school year at Glenwood was a nightmare come true for me. My time was spent homesick, despondent, irritated, self loathing, and just plain sad. The only communication I could have to the outside world was through a pay phone in the foyer of the dean’s office. Every day after school I would call my mother and leave pleading messages on her answering machine, begging her to take me home. I would promise everything from complete and utter obedience, to cleaning her house from top to bottom daily. I never got a response.

9: Camp Glenwood

Then there was Camp Glenwood in the summertime. Camp Glenwood was in Wisconsin on a lake. For the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the lake or where it was located. If military school was a nightmare, camp Glenwood was where nightmare’s go to die. Since I wasn’t needed at home during the summers, I was bussed off to a wilderness hell not unlike the camp in Friday the 13th (the original), but without the girls.

Instead of cottages, we had cabins at Camp Glenwood. There was a lake, and depending on which side of the campus you were on, there were 2 bathrooms. The bathrooms were ‘open air’. They consisted of a roof held up by two by fours, hard plastic all around the middle, and chicken wire fences along the bottom. The bathrooms were set back in the tree line, I assume to keep the smell away from the main campus. The bears didn’t seem to mind the smell at all.

During the day, the COOL kids got to hang out with the hippie ‘counselors’ and smoke pot, then they’d all come back to the cabin and make my life fucking miserable. One time, I was so desperate and stupid to BE one of the cool kids; I took them up on a dare.

Tom Padgett told me that if I ran from the cabin TO the bathrooms naked, and back again, they’d let me hang out with them. It was two in the morning, there was a frigid chill in the air that comes with nighttime by a lake, and I did it. I stripped and ran out of the cabin like a fat little greased pig. I got to the bathroom, which was about 500 feet from the cabin, and my feet were killing me because I was barefoot and the cold dirt path was riddled with stones. When I got back to the cabin, winded from the run, and my feet bleeding from the path, I was filled with joyful pride because my days as the ‘outcast’ were finally over. There was a triumphant smile on my fat little red face, despite the pain I was in…

And they’d locked the fuckin’ door.

Hails of derisive laughter could be heard coming from inside as I pounded on the door and plead for mercy. My glee of what was supposed to be ‘acceptance’ turned to stark horror as I saw female counselors coming out of other cabins to see what the commotion was. This may be why to this day; I don’t believe much of anything people say to me. ALSO, ladies…I fuck with my shirt on. Deal with it.

Then there were the bears sniffing around your ankles while you were trying to move a morning deuce, the leeches so big they could suck out your soul, and making caramel from scratch over a camp fire while surrounded by the most hateful, bile-filled, horrible shits since ‘Children of the Corn’. I STILL have scars from having hot fucking caramel whipped at me.

My favorite CAMP nightmare though? It has to be when I got stung by a bee and had to spend the night in the infirmary because I’m allergic to them. I blew up to TWICE my normal size, which was probably like 8 times the NORMAL kids size, and the ‘cool’ kids started a rumor that I spent the night blowing the Lou Ferrigno-esque male nurse. That one stuck with me for probably two years.

Camp Glenwood was NO ‘Meatballs’, but I did enjoy it more than the regular school year. It seemed, as fat as I was, I had a natural affinity for swimming, and did so every chance I got. One counselor would take us to the quarries or the garbage dump outside of the campus, where we could see hundreds of bears foraging around the refuse. That was kind of cool. Also, if we caught Crawfish in the lake, the cooks would boil them up for us. I learned about the outdoors, and camping, and how to build a fire, so it wasn’t all bad.

10: The Myslinskis

The only truly good thing that the whole ‘military school’ experience gave me can be summed up in 3 words; Aaron, Mike, and Frank. They were brothers who went to Glenwood with me AND whose home was walking distance from my mother’s house. So, on the weekends when my mother wouldn’t take me home, their mother would. Tess was one of the sweetest women I’ll ever meet. Their house was like a home away from home for me. Every time I was there with them I was safe and they made me feel like family. I remember playing my first video games there: Tyson Punch Out, Commando, and Zelda…I think I just ‘dated’ myself, and meeting my now best friend Steve through them.

Aaron was my age, and was the first of the Myslinskis that I met because we shared classes together in Glenwood. His brother Mike was a few years ahead of us, and eventually became the NCO of my platoon. Aaron’s other brother, Frank, was in high school, so I never had too much interaction with him on campus.

As Aaron and I became close friends, we realized that his mother’s house was very near to MY mother’s condo, so after having met me, his mother would take me home on the weekends with them because my mother wouldn’t. Those weekends were the only thing that kept me going throughout the week when I was on campus. I looked forward to playing ‘Tyson’s Punch Out’ in Aaron’s basement while Frank talked about going into the military after high school, and Mike bragged about whatever chick he was banging at the time.

I got drunk for the first time the night they moved away. I couldn’t have been more than 16 and I stayed with them all the way through the night leading up to their departure for Florida the next morning. I even passed out in the U-Haul truck they were using, hoping they wouldn’t notice and take me with them.

11: Introductions

A month before I was kicked out of military school, Aaron introduced me to Steve. It was October 31st, 1986. Aaron and I were home for the weekend and there was a crisp autumn chill in the air. Aaron knew Steve because his aunt lived in the house just across from Steve’s backyard. When they were younger they would play whiffle ball together and get up to other little kid hijinks.

Aaron told me that Steve always built a haunted house in his garage for Halloween and the two of us jumped on his ‘Predator’ dirt bike and went over to see if we could help. As Aaron pointed to Steve’s house, I noticed a tall lanky figure in a monk’s robe with a rope belt and a hood on, going to the side of the garage behind some bushes. We pulled up in the driveway and dismounted our bikes. When we walked around to where the hooded figure was going, it seemed he had disappeared into the garage door. We approached to go in, when suddenly this tall monk jumped at us from the dark of the garage wearing an Alf mask, and yelled ‘BOO!’

After feigning fright in a barrage of sarcasm directed at this boy…Aaron introduced me to Steve. Over the years, Steve and I would have many adventures together, and it seems that no matter WHAT circle of friends I travel in…Steve is always one of them. Not to say that he is a follower, Steve is most assuredly his own man, he just knows a good time when he sees it.

Soon after I got kicked out of military school and Aaron left for Florida, it became apparent that STEVE would be the only person I knew who lived somewhat close to me. We formed a bond of friendship that I like to think has made us both stronger as individuals. It’s a hard thing, forming a true friendship. Sometimes people we THINK are our friends betray us, and sometimes when you’re down and out the people you THOUGHT were your friends abandon you. But Steve has been there for me through every piece of shit that life has flung in my face like a monkey on red bull. And if it wasn’t for Glenwood? I might not have ever met him.

12: The End of Glenwood

A week before we were to go on our Thanksgiving break in 1986, my houseparent Mr. Pros, took his family on vacation. While he was gone, our cottage was given a ‘relief’ house parent.

Mr. Pros lived in our cottage with his wife and his young son. They were all very nice people who were kind, patient, and smart. Every year when we would return from camp Glenwood, we were assigned to different cottages, with different house parents, and different kids. I was always stoked to be in Mr. Pros cottage.

Our cottages were filled with boys, not men, but boys. As boys we would often sit in the living room before bed time and watch T.V. in our underwear, or play board games. It never occurred to any of us to NOT be in our underwear, and you have to remember that in the 80’s, people only wore pajamas on fucking T.V. We were kids; it wasn’t like we were marching about the cottage with our dicks hanging out, so sitting on the couch in our boxers never bothered anyone. Not Mr. Pros, not Mrs. Pros, and certainly none of the other house parents I’d been with over the years.

The weekend that Mr. Pros and his family left, my friends and I went out and played ‘army’ by the river that ran through the outskirts of our school. Running around in the mud and dirt, we made quite a mess of ourselves, so we went back to the cottage to clean up.

In our dorm rooms we all had numbered laundry bags, and on Saturday’s, the laundry maid would come and pick them up. Sunday morning our laundry was dropped back off at our cottage before church so we could have fresh clothes for god.

After we got back to our cottage from playing army this particular Saturday, we cleaned up, and then went out into the living room to watch T.V. Our relief house parent, Ms. Watson glanced up from doing her outrageously oversized nails (even in the 80’s black women did this), and started to yell at us saying that it was rude to ‘wea yo’ unda-wea’s aroun’ a lady’.

So we all went to put some clothes on. Because all of my clothes were at the laundry, all I had was a house coat, which I put on and then I went back out into the living room. I plopped my ass down on the couch when a salt shaker hit the back of my head shooting stars into my vision. I jumped up to see who the fuck had just hit me in the head, and I saw that it was Ms. Watson. She, once again, yelled at me, saying: “its 5 o’clock in the aft noon! You don’t wea yo house coat in the day time, now go put some PROPA clothes on!”

Ok, NOW I was pissed. I JUST met this bitch and she’s throwing shit at my head and yelling at me. Fine, she wants clothes on? She’ll fucking get it. I went back to my room and put the only clothes I had on. The wet, mud covered ones from earlier in the day. I casually walked back down the long hallway of the cottage, dripping filth and muddy water on the carpet as I went. I sat on the couch and left a nice big wet human body mud stain in my wake.

About 15 minutes passed by, and I assume that Ms. Watson didn’t notice me because she was too busy putting glitter on her fingernails and reading ‘Ebony’ magazine. The OTHER kids in the living room noticed and they just stared at me in stark disbelief as I watched T.V. You could FEEL the tension in that room as everyone just waited for the inevitable confrontation. Ms. Watson was a new authority figure and the waters had to be tested. I was in the right after all, who the fuck did she think she was? Well, I found that out.

From out of nowhere I suddenly felt a sharp pain on my scalp as I was lifted up from the couch by my hair. Tears immediately filled my vision and I was thrown up against the wall. Lying on my back, I could see Ms. Watson looming over me with her hands on her giant hips. She barked at me while swiveling her head back and forth on her neck and snapping her fingers “Who the fuck you think you is little man? Ain’t NO white boy gonna disrespec’ Ms. Watson! Uh-HUNH! Now you go put PROPA muh fuckin clothes on!”

In all my time at military school, I had NEVER heard a house parent cuss. All the other kids in the living room were now leaning over the back of the couch watching this exchange more closely than ANYthing they ever watched on the TV. I was embarrassed, humiliated, and in pain. I got up crying and said “Fuck you, you fat bitch! I’m going to the dean’s office to find out WHY I can’t wear a goddamned house coat in my own fucking cottage!”

The silence that filled the room was deafening. I’d been in a lot of shit during my time at Glenwood, but NEVER, and I mean NEVER, had I talked to an authority like THAT. Ms. Watson stormed off saying ‘I’m goin to get the paddle! NO white boy gonna talk to ME like that!” As she left the room, there was a brief moment where my peers and I just stared at each other in silence…and then I broke the fuck out and ran to the dean’s office in my filthy clothes.

I ran as fast as I could to get to the dean’s office before Ms. Watson could call him. I KNEW if I could explain to him what happened FIRST, I’d be vindicated. I also knew that if Ms. Watson gave HER side first, nothing I said would matter. I dove down the stairs leading to the office and slammed through the door just in time to notice the dean on duty, Mr. Borgia, hanging up the phone. FUCK! I just threw myself to the lions.

Mr. Borgia was an older man of about 50, but he had a barrel shaped muscular figure. His time in the REAL military was apparent by his authoritative, take no shit, way of taking to us kids. Out of breath, and stammering, I tried to speak, but Mr. Borgia cut me off. “I have a cottage full of kids who say you just cussed at Ms. Watson, she says that you got mud all over the cottage and when she politely asked you to clean it up, you called her names and curse words”

My reply was “but…huh….huh…what had ….huh…huh…happened”. Mr. Borgia stood up from his desk with the furrowed brows of a predator stalking his prey, and walked around standing RIGHT in front of me. With his pointer and middle fingers he began poking me in the chest…hard. “YOU’VE DONE IT NOW HEMPEN” POKE, POKE “YOU’LL BE ON RESTRICTION FOR A YEAR FOR THIS ONE” POKE, POKE “AFTER I CALL YOUR MOTHER AND TELL HER WHAT YOU JUST DID” POKE, POKE

Each poke pushed me back a foot until I was up against the back wall of his office, my chest, where he was poking me was on fire and felt like I was being stabbed. It seemed like for the past hour I had been crying, and in pain, simply because I wore a fucking robe in my own home! I couldn’t take it anymore; I was on the verge of exploding….then I took my LAST poke. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MOTHER WILL DO TO YOU WHEN SHE HEARS YOU’RE BEING SUSPENDED…AGAIN?” POKE, PO…..

THAT got my attention. I could still feel the welts on my body from the belt beatings my mother inflicted on me the year before after the ‘shit incident’ at Rathje. Fear and panic seeped into my mind and mixed with the anger and injustice already there.

All my years of being punched by my commanding officers in the same place finally came in handy; I put all my fat little strength behind me, and punched Mr. Borgia in the solar plexus as hard as I could. The wind rushed out of him like Katrina, his breath smelled like tuna, old spice, and mustache. He made a hateful ‘O’ face, and fell to his knees directly in front of me. I stood there for about a quarter of a second in amazement as our eyes locked. That quarter second felt like 10 years, I came back to myself and took off like Paris Hilton accidentally walking into an AA meeting. I KNEW that if I were to stay, Mr. Borgia would beat the living shit out of me, and I’d had enough pain for one day. My scalp was throbbing from Ms. Watson pulling my hair, my shoulder felt dislocated from being thrown up against a wall, and my chest was on fire from that barrage of finger bangs in the same place.

The next day, I was called down to the Administration building to speak with the head dean, Mr. Martin. Mr. Martin was a tall round black man who wore glasses as big and thick as above ground swimming pools. He told me that I was to immediately write a letter of apology to Ms. Watson and Mr. Borgia. He also informed me that I would be placed on restriction for the incident with Ms. Watson. It seemed that Mr. Borgia did not want to introduce the fact that I punched him into public record, so I would not be punished for my ‘rash’, and ‘obviously foolish mistake’.

Relief washed over me and that very morning during breakfast in the mess hall, I wrote BOTH apology letters. I had never been so glad to be done with a situation. All of the fantasies of horror that I imagined would ensue…were just that: fantasies. Mr. Martin was a fair and decent man, and he promised me that my mother did NOT need to know of this incident. He knew what her reaction would be, and so he told me that once I had apologized, we would put the whole thing behind us.

What a fucking moron I was to believe him.

13: Thanksgiving Throwdown

That Wednesday morning, I went home with the Myslinski’s for Thanksgiving. I wanted the whole mess to be put behind me, and having Turkey with them the next day was the perfect way to do it. After we got back to their place on Wednesday, Steve met with Aaron and I, and we all rode our bikes up to the movie theatre and saw a flick together. After wards we went and listened to some music at the record store in the mall, and then we all went back to Aarons to play video games.

It was a fantastic day. Back at Aaron’s, the house already smelled of food being prepared for the next day. I was filled with anticipation for that meal, I was filled with joy at having my good friends with me, and I was thankful that my dread over the events from the past weekend had finally dissipated.

One thing I’ve learned in life is that there are ALWAYS consequences for your actions. Good or bad. There are just so many people on this fucking planet that it’s almost impossible for you to do ANYTHING unnoticed. There’s always someone willing to tattle, someone whose thoughtless comments will get you into trouble, someone to break a promise, or someone with something to gain, be it personal or financial, from your downfall.

After Steve left that night, we all went to bed in Aaron’s basement. The basement of the Myslinski house was a large carpeted room with wood panel walls, and an open stair case that was about 7 stairs long with no door. There was a bunk bed in the left corner near the stairs, and several couches around a T.V. set. Although Aaron, Frank, and Mike all had their own rooms, whenever I was over they would all crash in the basement. Mike and Frank slept on two different couches, Aaron on the lower bunk, and I on the top bunk.

We would always pass out watching something on T.V., and that night was no different. Whoever woke up first in the middle of the night would be the one to turn the set off while the rest of us slept. Back then, after midnight, most stations just played dead air, or static like in Poltergeist.

At three o’clock in the morning I awoke to the sound of a terrible pounding coming from somewhere in the house. POUND, POUND, POUND! Continuous pounding. Angry pounding. The kind of pounding that you just KNOW isn’t going to turn out good, like the F.B.I., or a pimp, or an ex girlfriend from 2 years ago with a 1 year old baby in her arms. POUND, POUND, POUND.

I could see from the light that the static on the TV threw across the room, and assumed at first that the T.V. was making that noise. I sat up and looked at the static for a long minute. POUND, POUND, POUND. Creepy. Now I was getting a little scared. Mike SHOT up into a sitting position on the couch, wide eyed and confused. I whispered to him “I think it’s the T.V. Shut it off”. POUND, POUND, POUND!

From below me, Aaron said “I don’t think that’s the T.V.” Mike still just sat there on the couch with the same expression of ‘sleepy’ wide eyed ‘what the fuck’ on his face, and I noticed Frank roll off the couch next to him. POUND, POUND, POUND! Without saying a word, Frank lazily crawled over to the TV and shut it off.

We were all awake now, and there was an eerie silence in the room as we all waited to see if it WAS the T.V. We were listening for NO sound. ..POUND, POUND, POUND!

We could hear their mother now, in the hallway just above the basement cursing and muttering under her breath. Aaron shouted up the stairs in the dark “mom, what is that?” She told us “someone’s at the door. Are Mike and Frank down there?” Mike and Frank both responded that they were.

We heard the deadbolt clack on the front door as Tess unlocked it, and then we heard a loud crash and an angry voice as Aaron’s mother was forcefully thrown aside by MY mother. She was drunk off her ass, and in her police uniform, which made her even more intimidating. From the basement, Mike, Aaron, Frank, and I could hear a commotion up stairs, but we still didn’t quite understand what was going on.

Suddenly the basement light turned on filling our vision with stars as our eyes tried to adjust to the bright light, my mother came stumbling down the stairs and burst angrily into the room. From the top bunk I could start to make out her form. I was groggy, and I still didn’t know what exactly was happening. My mother shrieked: “WHERE’S MY SON?” It would be impossible for me to describe to you the horror that I felt at that moment.

I was fourteen at that point and had a bit of a lip on me, so I started yelling “what the hell are you doing here? What do you want?” She locked eyes on me like The Terminator, stumbled over to the bunk bed, grabbed me by the hair, angrily pulled me out of the top bunk, and forcefully dragged me up the stairs and out of the house.

I was in so much pain at this point that I didn’t know what to cry about. My neck and ass hurt from being pulled out of the top bunk and dragged UP a flight of stairs by my hair, and she wouldn’t answer me when I asked “WHY?” That was the MOST frightening part…just that scary look that drunks get when they’re mad, but don’t say anything. I can honestly say that from everything I’d been through up to that point in my life, and everything I’ve been through up to NOW…that was the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me.

Well, it turned out that earlier that night my mother had gotten a call from the principal of Glenwood. They’d decided to expel me. I was not allowed back on campus. Which meant I couldn’t even say goodbye to the few friends I DID have there; they would pass me through eighth grade, but I couldn’t go to eighth grade graduation, nothing. Cut off. I didn’t know HOW to feel, I was miserable because it was all I knew, and now I’d have to deal with my mother, yet at the same time I felt as though I’d been freed from a prison. Steve McQueen on the motorcycle finally making it to the Swiss border…but like that great scene…the feeling wouldn’t last.

You’d think that now my mother would have to deal with me, but not quite. That’s a longer story which ends with my sister hating my guts and my mother having me legally emancipated, meaning that I’m an adult at 16 rather than 18, and she can legally kick me out. This led to my FIRST stint at homelessness. Nothing like sleeping under a train bridge or behind a bus company when you’re sixteen to really boost the ole ego.

14: Ma Hempen Mea Culpa

Now I know what you’re saying; WHHAAAAAA! Well, I’m not here to tell a sob story…just a story. To be honest with you later in life I got the opportunity to help my mother defeat her alcoholic demons through AA. She was born again, and although we had opposing views on religion, I always respected what it did for her.

If you saw a picture of her when she WAS drinking and one right before she died, you might think that there IS some kind of demon in booze. In her later years she devoted her time to helping addicts as a drug counselor. When she passed away, there were so many people at the funeral home; I thought I was going to have to rent another room there. All of these people told stories of how they had hit rock bottom and my mother was the one to pull them up and in some cases make them the success they were at that moment. I never realized what an impact my mother had on people’s lives until that day.

While at the wake, a sobbing man approached me. He could barely speak through his grief. I had never met this man before in my life. (I’m actually tearing up just recalling this). He handed me an envelope and told me that he had been a crack addict. For YEARS. It destroyed his life. He lost his wife, he’d lost any rights to see his kids, and he’d performed unspeakable acts and done horrendous things in order to feed his addiction.

Then he met my mother. He told me that she was an angel sent by god to help him. She did everything for him. Helped him through his withdrawals, counseled him, yelled at him, at times even HIT him so that he would not just hear her…but LISTEN to her. Then he told me that she got him a job on a construction site years ago. He now owned his own construction company and is a multi millionaire. When he walked away, I was thinking the same thing you are; yeah, right. Then I opened the envelope. Not only did he foot the entire bill for the funeral, but he paid for the banquet after.

THAT…that was the proudest moment of my life.

One of the harsh lessons I’ve had to learn in life is that as a man, you will never meet a woman who loves you more than your mother. There is a special bond between a boy and his mother that exists nowhere else in nature. If you take anything away from this story, it’s to spend all the time you can with your mother, ask her questions, let her teach you how to cook, and don’t waste one minute being mad at her. After all, she’s only human.

15: Keep Your Hands and Face Away from the Monkey

Look, I certainly didn’t have it worse than anybody else, and I think the fact that I can laugh about it now makes me somewhat of a (sort of) well adjusted individual. Sometimes when I look back on my youth with sadness or regret, I remember that I have all my appendages and a relatively steady speech pattern, and hell…at least I still have my clit. Have you SEEN that thing on HBO about what they do to women in Nigeria?

My life has been strippers, midgets, and balloons compared to what those poor women have to endure. FUCK the middle east, we need to send those troops to Nigeria and introduce some arcane ‘Spanish Inquisition’ justice to those cowardly, monstrous, inhuman fuckwads that would chop off a woman’s who-ha after shunning their sister for being raped, RIGHT before they go and rape someone. Makes me want to take the first bus off this shithole planet.

And that, at least in part, is my point. Why do some people walk around LOOKING for a plate of fucking misery when there is plenty on the buffet table? Calm down, relax. As shitty as some of the things we have to endure in life are; work, school, not being able to find a way out of a co-dependant relationship, getting into an accident without insurance, testing positive for Chlamydia (none of that has happened to me by the way). Just remember, at least YOU didn’t get your face and hands eaten off by a fucking monkey.

Bottom line? I’m sure Glenwood WAS a positive influence in some people’s lives. Youth can be an amazing time. My youth may not have been so great, but at least I’m at a point now where I can look back on it with a grain of salt. I’m happy and well adjusted as an adult, so maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. When I look at it, it seems that those who reflect on that time in their life do it fondly. Most of them have wives and children now, and I have nothing but good thoughts for their continued success. Except Tom Padgett…fuck you Tom Padgett.

My only hope for Glenwood is that they change the slogan: “Where a man is what happens to a boy” I think that you can find that saying embroidered on a pillow in the lobby of a N.A.M.B.L.A. club house.

To Be Continued…

Chapter 2: The Life and Times of a Jaded Loser Part the 1st: Glenwood

2011-05-03T23:56:00.001-05:00

Since I started my quest to find a relationship online, I’ve found it difficult to tell women who respond to my profile on various sites, things about me that paint my life in a flattering tone. It seems that no matter what detail I divulge about my past, when taken out of context it sounds like a biographical exert from the diary of a serial killer.

Because knowing what a person is all about BEFORE getting to know them is so important to the internet dating process, I’ve decided to spill my guts in a series of auto biographical chapters that will hopefully illustrate the reason that I’ve become the vulgar, caustic, reprehensible twit that I am, while at the same time demonstrating my harmlessness.

Although I’m not that old, I’ve been through a lot in my life. No more than any other, and certainly no worse than most have had it, but some might find my exploits entertaining. In the other chapters of this book I talk about the correlation between past events and current situations, however ‘The Life and Times of a Jaded Loser’ will serve as a much more comprehensive look into my youth and will give you a better understanding of what makes me tick.

This idea came to me a few months ago when I finally made a Face book profile which gave me the opportunity to re-connect with old friends, make new friends, and even ignore ex-girlfriends, spiraling them further down the toilet bowl of hatred towards me. Some of those ‘old friends’ that I have ‘friended’ on Face book include classmates from a time in my life long in memory, but whose influences still haunt me to this day…military school.

Glenwood Military School for Boys. I attended Glenwood for five years, but because they were the developmental years of my young life, they’ve stuck with me like peanut butter on the roof of a dog’s mouth.

Now, first off; wipe that “what did you do? Press your dork up against a bus window so the judge sent you to military school?” look off your face. It wasn’t necessarily a school for ‘misbehaved’ children. I’m sure that every parent had good intentions for sending their kid there. It just so happened that my mother’s intentions were a bit more…selfish than most. But we’ll get into that later.

My friend Mike, who I haven’t seen in years, said some very nice things about Glenwood Military School on his Face book wall. I quote: “I look over these pictures of myself when I was younger in Glenwood and everything seems to fade away. I can do nothing but smile and remember the incredible times I’ve had at this school. I can’t explain the elation within myself. Thank You Glenwood”.

For years when someone would ask me about my childhood I’d either lie so I wouldn’t seem hateful, or I would subtly change the subject so as not to talk about it at all. Glenwood has always been a source of pain for me, and in my selfishness, it never occurred to me to think of the ‘good’ it might have done some boys.

So, after reading Mike’s blurb about Glenwood, I grabbed Mr. Peabody and jumped in the ‘way back’ machine to try to come up with some reasons of my own to gloat about my childhood in military school. Other than the few friends and acquaintances I made there, I couldn’t think of ONE fucking positive thing other than the fact that you can STILL bounce a quarter off my bed which I make every morning. Fuckin' corners all tight, bedspread folded back a palms width and no wrinkles in the pillow. Hell, a girl jumped on my bed once and almost shot herself into space like Wile E. Coyote. This bitch is wound like a trampoline.

Far be it for me to think of someone’s thoughts or feelings as ‘disingenuous’. I have no reason NOT to believe that Mike had a great childhood at Glenwood. I consider Mike to be something of a brother. Hell, we used to crash weddings in Florida WAY before that stupid ass movie came out. I’m sure that his time at Glenwood WAS productive in many ways. Some of us hit the ‘pick 6’ in life’s lottery, and some of us end up standing BEHIND the old ass lady who gives the checkout clerk at the gas station her lottery numbers like she’s reading off launch codes for a nuclear fucking submarine, when all you want to do is hand the girl behind the counter a ten spot for gas and move on with your life. Just when you think she’s done, you realize that she was only catching her breath and she again starts spitting out numbers like ‘Rain Man’ at a bingo parlor. Then she takes more time to pick out ‘instant’ tickets than “John the Stutterer’ from Howard Stern reading a James Michener novel out loud to an ADD class. By the time she IS finished, you’re 3 days late for work and now have a full fucking beard. Fuck you lottery lady.

Glenwood School for Boys is a 150 acre campus on 187th and Halsted near Harvey in Glenwood IL. At any one point around 150 children would be housed there in various facilities in age groups ranging from 2nd graders to seniors in high school. The living quarters, referred to as ‘cottages’ were spread out around the campus and each one would hold approximately 12 kids at any given time, with 3 kids to each dorm room within the cottage. We lived on the campus, and a majority of kids got picked up by their parents and taken home on the weekends. Campus was generally closed on holidays meaning that EVERY one went home then.

On the weekdays, we would wake up early in the morning, and every cottage would form ranks in two lines of 6 and march to ‘Butler Hall’, which was our dining area. After a brief time of being yelled at by whoever was our commanding officer at that moment, we’d file in for breakfast. The food was horrible at best and included such delicacies as: ‘cream beef on toast’ which to this day I don’t know what the fuck that was, ‘fish sticks’ which I imagine were made from fish caught in ‘Lake Biohazard’, and ‘Mashed potatoes that were more paste than potato. In the 6 years I was at Glenwood, the menu NEVER changed. I ate the same shit week after miserable week.

After breakfast, we’d head off to school. Formation was repeated for lunch time, and again at dinner time. We wore dress clothes every day, and on Wednesdays we would wear our military uniform, which consisted of a light blazer with the school emblem embroidered on it.

In the months that proceeded my being shipped off to Glenwood, my mother would tell me that the reason I was going there was because she worked ‘midnights’ as a guard at Cook County Jail. I found out later in life that the actual reasons ran a bit deeper, but all I knew at the time was that she was a single mother, a cop, and a hopeless alcoholic. Between working full time as a police officer, and spending her nights drunker than Hemmingway at an Oktoberfest, I just didn’t fit into her lifestyle. So off to military school I went.

The very first night I spent at Glenwood I was accused of doing something that I didn’t do. I’m sure you can all relate, you’re ten years old and sitting on the couch one evening enjoying a bomb pop and watching ‘ The Secret of NIMH’ for the 47th time, when your dad busts in the room, and starts yelling at you because there’s money missing from his wallet or some other domestic bitch that parents are fond of throwing in your face. Later he realizes that it was actually your MOM who took the money to get the dog a new set of ‘neuticals’ because she felt bad that your pet Schnauzer ‘Spanky’ had nothing to lick anymore after being fixed. You scream back, or you get frightened and cry, hell you’re a kid…how the hell do you know how to come up with a reasonable defense to this kind of accusation? Same thing.

My mother dropped me off haphazardly, ignoring my cries of ‘please don’t mommy!’ early in the day. I had been set up in a cottage and two boys were assigned to show me around the campus. It was dead of winter and I can remember freezing my little kid balls off walking around in the snow looking at buildings older than religion. Later in the evening, after showing me the gym, where we watched the high schoolers play basketball for a bit, we headed back to the cottage. It was around eight o’clock and the campus had a silvery glow about it from a full moon reflecting off the snow. My crying earlier in the day had dissipated and I now found myself full of hope for what was to come.

I’d just made new friends in the way that only kids can be friends. Innocence, light hearted joking around, and a feeling of utter invincibility. You don’t think about being old like you do now. We spend all of our time as adults wondering what’s going to happen to us when we get older: Where am I going to be in 10 years? What’s my plan for college? Marriage? Kids? What underwear should I wear when I go get my first prostate exam at 40? Why does she have freckles on her ass?

When you’re a kid, all you have to think about is how much fun you’re going to have tomorrow. The world is just one big set of tits waiting to be bromskied. Well all those romantic fantasies of childhood wonder died on that night for me and set me down the path of rebelling against authority and learning to bullshit better than Kurt Russell in ‘ Used Cars’. Which is good, because I work in sales now.

We had gotten a few yards away from the gym on our way to the cottage, when seemingly from out of nowhere, a crazy black man ran up to us and started accusing us of throwing snow balls at his car on Halsted. He was waving his arms around, stomping, and spitting as he talked. I was so scared, I thought his face was going to split in two and reveal a fiery skull. As children, we had no recourse but to proclaim our innocence and politely start throwing snowballs at him to get him the fuck away from us. After 10 minutes of enduring this stupidity he stomped off and left us to walk home. Our innocence afforded us the luxury of laughing off our crazy accuser.

When we got back to the cottage, our supervisor or ‘house parent’ was waiting for us. Think of Barbara Bush only older and uglier…and a guy. THAT was our house parent. She told us that we were wanted at the dean’s office right away.

The dean’s office was a bear cave dug into the side of this enormous brick building that sat at the front of the school’s campus, called ‘The Administration Building’. A dean was stationed in this den 24/7 to deal with just the type of situation I was about to find myself in.

As so ordered, so did we do. We walked to the dean’s office without a care in the world; we would tell him “we didn’t do it” and be on with our night. Again…the mistakes of youth.

When we arrived at the dean’s office, we were greeted by a short thin black man who looked like a cross between Erkle and Prince (It was the 80’s mind you). He immediately began yelling and accusing us without asking any questions. In this fashion, he was much like our original accuser, only I would find out…THIS guy could touch us. He kept screaming for us to admit what we had done. I’m sure we cried. We were scared shitless, it didn’t seem to matter WHAT we told him, he simply would not listen to the reason of a ten year old.

Now that I’m older and understand authority a little better, I realize that he didn’t really care if we did it or not. We were going to get the blame because someone complained about kids on HIS watch, and blaming us was easier than going out to find who ACTUALLY did it. Not knowing that at the time we kept claiming our innocence.

Then he started with the ‘Spanish Inquisition’ techniques. He told us, with a sneer on his face that would seem comical to me today, that he would interview us one at a time while the other two sat in the foyer outside of his office. The first boy went in and us other two were left in foyer. We could hear the beating being delivered on the other side of that door and it still haunts me to this day. Every loud ‘THUD’ of a hand hitting that kid was followed by the sound of a frightened and confused child wailing into the dead, empty, fake wood, panel board and flickering overhead ‘ Joe vs. The Volcano’ neon lights.

The two of us in the hallway, clutching our green pleather bound chairs with tiny white hands, looked at each other with both fear and understanding. We knew what we had to do lest we suffer that humiliating fate, and we’d have to do it in order to STOP it from happening to our friend any longer. In a slow steady motion, we hesitantly stood up in unison; we cautiously walked to the door and pushed it open. Our eyes were saucer wide and filled with tears. We didn’t know it at the time, but what we were about to do was compromise a basic principle of life: innocent until proven guilty. We walked in and told the dean what he wanted to hear. The consequences don’t much matter now, I can hardly remember them. I think we got a week of ‘restriction’ which meant that we had to shovel snow, clean bathrooms, and do generally menial labor.

After that night I developed a philosophy that “If I’m going to get blamed for something I didn’t do, I may as well do it”, from then on I got myself into trouble at every opportunity. I was constantly on restriction. This is a philosophy that sadly has followed me into adult life. I think that understanding its origins helps me to make better decisions. But to be honest with you? Self discovery can be a mother fucker.

Well folks…THAT was just the first fucking day. Through the years I suffered daily beatings from high school kids because I was such a fat, clumsy, retard. I weighed as much in fifth grade, as I do right now. I looked like the fat kid from ‘Bad Santa’. I was constantly ridiculed because my mom would either forget or refuse to pick me up on weekends when all the other kids got to leave. There were holidays when I was the ONLY kid on that campus because everyone but me was taken home by loving family members.

Another source of ridicule came from the fact that my mother would never give me new clothes or shoes, so I was always wearing second hand shit from the ‘clothing room’ which was where old clothes and shoes were housed. That place smelled like linen and piss and I still remember the humiliating shame I felt whenever I had to go in there. I don’t think I had a pair of shoes that fit me properly for 2 years, which is probably why I ALWAYS buy shoes that are at least 1 size too big on me now.

But the clothing room was nothing compared to the humiliation one felt if they pissed the bed. One of the worst things a kid could do in Glenwood…was to be a bed wetter. Being a bed wetter in our cottages made you more of a target and an outcast than a pedophile in prison. These poor bastards would face nightly ‘blanket parties’ like Private Pyle in ‘ Full Metal Jacket’. Luckily, pissing the bed was ONE thing that I did NOT do. However…I DID have a different take on the ‘uncontrollable pissing’ genre.

During that first winter at Glenwood, about three or four nights of the week, I would wake up in the morning with my feet soaking wet. Much like YOU’RE thinking now, I assumed someone was pissing on my feet as I slept. I’d seen the ‘blanket parties’, and the ‘dipping someone’s hand in warm water’ bit a million times, but I’d never yet heard of pissing ON someone. I assumed that it was the kid in the bed next to me because he was one of the bullies that picked on me from the moment I woke up to the time we went to bed at night. He would laugh uncontrollably at my wet feet in the morning and feign ignorance as to how it could have happened. After a few instances of this occurrence, I went to my house parent, Mr. Pros and told him that this kid was pissing on me while I slept. Mr. Pros didn’t even look away from the TV as I tattled on this shitheal and his indifference made me feel alone and isolated. I started to fear that these mother fuckers could get away with ANY thing if ‘pissing on someone while they slept’ didn’t herald an immediate response from those in charge.

Several weeks after I had first brought this phenomenon to Mr. Pros attention, I found myself being shaken awake from a deep sleep. It was Mr. Pros. He was yelling at me, and in my state of awakening confusion, I realized that I was standing up. When I gathered enough of my wits to see my surroundings, I realized that I was standing in front of the water fountain at the entrance to our cottage…and I was pissing on it.

After he made me clean up the mess I had made, he sat me down in the living room and told me why my feet were wet all those mornings, and why he had been so lackadaisical in finding the culprit. It seems that several weeks before, I began sleep walking. I would walk outside in the snow and piss on the tree in front of our cottage. Then I’d walk back to my bed and lay down. He never stopped me, because you’re NOT supposed to wake a sleep walker, and since I wasn’t doing anything particularly damaging…he just never bothered. THAT’S why me feet were wet, because I was going outside into the snow barefoot while I slept.

This was the FIRST time that I had done it indoors, so he HAD to stop me. The next night, I came up with a plan to stop myself from doing it ever again. I tied a piece of twine around my wrist and to the bedpost in the hopes this would wake me up if I were to leave the bed. That night, I DID wake up as I tried to sleep walk and piss on something…the only problem was that I had tied the twine in a sailor’s knot and couldn’t get it off of me. I had to piss so bad that I thought my eyes were going to pop out with geysers of urine, and I KNEW that I couldn’t piss on my bed or I’d get beaten worse than Clubber Lange in Rocky III. So I did the only thing I COULD do…I aimed my dick at the bully in the bed next to me while he slept…and pissed all over him.

How’s THAT for fucking irony? After that night? He never bullied anyone again. I EVEN got to be part of the blanket party that was thrown for him the next night by his, supposed, bully friends. It seems that no matter what OUR differences were…at least I didn’t piss the bed.

The first time I was suspended from military school came during 6th grade. I was staying in a cottage called ‘Rathje’, and my house parent was a HUGE white whale piece of shit woman named Ms. Forbes. She would lie around in her quarters watching soap operas all day while I was getting my ass kicked. She had a hierarchy of 6th grade throngs who kissed her ass daily in order to be in her good favors. I was NOT in her good favor.

The bullies in our cottage were called upon by her to buy Twinkies from the 7-11, to clean her quarters, or any menial task she could ask them to do in order to further her quest to be the most enormous behemoth possible by never leaving her fucking couch cushion. I would constantly ask her to step in and stop the other kids from beating the shit out of me, or stealing my stuff, and her only response would be for me to ‘grow up’.

One of her favorites was a little nerd, named Mikey, who looked like a midget Harry Potter. She doted on him like a rich woman with a little dog. I think she even carried him around with his head sticking out of her purse. This kid was fucking annoying because he got whatever he wanted from Ms. Forbes and he KNEW he could get away with anything. ALL the bullies knew to leave him the fuck alone, lest they get an ass pounding from this mega woman.

Our cottage, which was called Rathje, was one of the bigger ones on campus and therefore held more kids than most. It was 3 stories high, with 5 dorms per floor. This meant that it normally held around 45 kids like a juvenile detention center. I found it ironic even then, that this mean bitch who had the attention span of an end table, would be in charge of the most kids.

Ms. Forbes quarters were located on the first floor directly below the bathroom on the second. The bathroom consisted of 3 urinals, 3 toilet stalls, a shower, and a drain in the middle of the tiled floor.

One afternoon when I got out of school, I hightailed it back to my cottage because I had a particularly nasty shit brewing. I could feel it in my lower intestine gurgling like a volcano about to erupt. Between the pasty mashed potatoes, the brick-like meatloaf, and the creamed beef on toast, one’s digestive track would back up like a traffic jam slowly building over the course of a few weeks until it was finally ready to explode out of you in a mountainous boulder like-shit. After the 3 o’clock bell rang at school, I promptly stood up from my desk, clenched my ass cheeks together and did that incredibly retarded ‘poo march’ where you walk all fast while trying not to move any part of your body but your legs.

Luckily my cottage was just across the road from the schoolhouse and I quickly closed the distance. I burst through the cottage door and hobbled up the stairs as quickly as I could. As I slammed my ass down onto the toilet seat, the beast within exited me, sending a goose bump inducing feeling of relief throughout my body. I sat there for a minute and just let the joy wash over me.

I wiped myself, and then got up to flush the toilet. I looked down at my sphintoric endeavor and marveled at how much shit had been inside me. It seemed that there must have been at least 14 pounds of waste in that porcelain bowl, and its passing filled me with regret. After all…this was a giant piece of ME that was having a burial at sea. I stood at attention and saluted my fallen comrades.

When I pushed the lever down…that feeling of fear and panic that we’ve ALL faced gripped me, as the water in the bowl began to rise. In this situation, you KNOW you have about 3 seconds to find a plunger, and I darted through the bathroom HOPING upon hope that one would be available. As I was looking in the third stall…I heard it. That sound of water slapping the tile below the toilet.

Panic once again gripped me because as I ran back to the toilet, I could see my dookies bobbing precariously on the edge of the overflow. Just then, Ms. Forbes’ pet Mikey came strolling into the bathroom. As much as I hated him, I KNEW that he would know where a plunger was. He sized up my situation, and looked at me with wide eyed surprise. “DON’T JUST STAND THERE, GET ME A PLUNGER” I yelled at him. And without missing a beat, he turned and with the glee of a tiny tattle tale, ran down the stairs yelling “Ms. Forbes! Ms. Forbes! Mike overflowed the toilet!”

Shit! This is exactly what I did NOT want. I wanted to clean this mess up without her ever having known, because I KNEW it would only lead to more jibes from the house bullies. As the water from the overflowed toilet began to spread out on the floor, I could hear Mikey downstairs rattling off his tattling followed by the bellowing of orders by Ms. Forbes. In the six months I had been in the Rathje cottage, Mr. Forbes had never once stepped foot on the stair case leading upstairs, so she was giving Mikey directions on what to do next.

I heard the sound of tiny footsteps running up the stairs at top speed and Mikey burst into the bathroom, out of breath, saying “you’re in troooooooouble!” At this point I was quite fed up with little Mikey and said “Get me a fucking plunger you little shit!” Mikey looked at me with a dumbfounded expression on his face. He’d never been ‘ordered’ to do ANYTHING, other than by Ms. Forbes, much less had he been cussed at.

Once again, he pivoted on his tiny feet, and ran down the stairs screaming “Ms. Forbes! Ms. Forbes! Mike said a curse word!” FUCK! Now I was in trouble. Cursing in military school meant that you had a bar of soap shoved in your mouth, and soap tastes nasty. I just hung my head and stood there as water creeped around my shoes.

Because the building was SO old, the water KEPT coming out of the toilet. I know NOW that if the water keeps flowing in a toilet, you just jiggle the handle, but I was in sixth grade for fucks sake. At this point, the damage had been done, I knew that I would have a mess to clean, but it would be minimal because there was a drain on the floor a few feet in front of the stall. However, as the water hit the drain…it became apparent that it was clogged because the water just passed over it and kept rising on the floor.

Mikey once again ran up the stairs and said “Ms. Forbes sais to keep flushing the toilet!” What did I know? I flushed the fucking toilet. The water began flowing more furiously from the bowl, and NOW my turds were cliff diving into the ever rising bathroom lake being formed on the floor. I told Mikey again to get a plunger, and he told ME that Ms. Forbes said we didn’t have one.

At this point about 2 inches of water had filled the bathroom and was starting to flow out into the hallway, we could HEAR the floor creaking from the weight of all the water, and suddenly we heard a loud crash. From downstairs Mikey and I heard Ms. Forbes scream like an infant, and he ran back down to see what had happened. As he did, I reached into the water and pulled up the grate from the floor drain. I stuck my hand in and yanked out the most disgusting tangle of toothbrushes, hair, and goopy mess I’d ever felt. However, the water still wasn’t going down.

I ran out into the hallway to grab a hanger from one of the closets so I could snake the drain, and I could see that the water was now flowing down the stairs like a waterfall. I could see pieces of my shit everywhere. After I grabbed a hanger from the hall closet, I ran back towards the bathroom just in time to see Mikey running back up the stairs at top speed, as he got about 4 steps from the top, he slipped and landed face first in one of the bigger chunks of shit floating around like a life boat from the Titanic.

He got up, soaking wet, with MY shit smeared on his face and said “The ceiling in Ms. Forbes room cracked, there’s water and poo all over her…you’re in BIG trouble”. Even in my youth, I always had a comeback. I told him: “yeah? Well I may be in trouble, but at least I don’t have shit all over me.”

It’s a shame that I didn’t have the same sense of humor THEN that I have now, because I would LOVE to go back in time and enjoy that moment for ALL it was worth. I basically shit on TWO people I hated without ever having meant too. Sometimes life puts you at the front of the line for the ‘payback’ concession booth.

A plumber had to be called out to snake the floor drain professionally. The plumbing in all the toilets had to be changed, and the ceiling in Ms. Forbes room had to be replaced. All in all, my shit caused about ten thousand dollars worth of damage, and because they couldn’t MAKE my mother pay for it? I got suspended…for taking a shit.

Even though I was filled with prideful joy at having had unintentional revenge on Ms. Forbes lazy fat ass, these stories rarely end on a happy note. The week that I spent on suspension, my mother had to take off of work, during which time I was not allowed to leave the house. From morning until night she took her OWN form of revenge on ME by drinking and beating the shit out of me with her belt daily. You would think that her ‘mad on’ would have dissipated after a few days, but it lasted right up until the time she drove me back to school the following Sunday night.

That Monday, after school, I was transferred to another cottage. Ms. Forbes didn’t want to see me, so I was whisked off to live with a smaller, more manageable group of boys. I didn’t mind that at all.

After my first six months at Glenwood, I finally stood up for myself and earned a reputation of ‘leave that mother fucker alone’ from my classmates. The problem was that this only made the OLDER kids pick on me more because it made THEM look cool to pick on the ‘tough guy’. I was NO tough guy.

One Sunday afternoon, I was taking a nap in my cottage. I used to LOVE catching those z’s because my bed was RIGHT by the window in our dorm room, and I could stretch out like a lazy cat in the afternoon sun. As I slept, my world slowly began to fill with laughter…a low mumble of it at first, but as it grew louder, I sleepily awoke to a room full of laughing kids. I was lying on my stomach and as I came out of my dream state, I could feel something cold and wet on my back side. I LEAPED out of bed and was horrified to find that the leader of this pack of bullies, who haunted me daily, had put a dildo he had found in the river by our campus down the crack of my ass.

Have you ever been SO full of rage that you don’t quite remember what happened while you were in that state? I awoke from this rage state as my house parent; Mr. Pros was dragging me off of this ass magnet while I was beating the living shit out of him by a tree outside of our cottage. I don’t remember HOW I got there; I don’t remember how the fight had led us outside. All I know is that I was crying, I felt like my body temperature had gone up to 110 degrees, and this kid’s gaggle of bullies were standing around him with stunned expressions as he lay up against that tree with blood all over his face.

I was later told that after I had flown into a rage, I tussled with him all through the cottage until we ended up outside. Apparently, as is often the case with bullies, he didn’t put up much of a fight. Once I got him up against the tree, I started punching him in the face until he fell down. When he hit the ground, I jumped on top of him and continued to pummel him until Mr. Pros came and dragged me away, with my fists still punching at the air.

After that? Those kids left me the fuck alone. I found out later in life from my cousin, that my father had much the same kind of temper. Luckily, this was the only time in my life where I ‘hulked’ out. Mr. Pros just told me to clean up and calm down, and after about two hours of ‘cool down’ time, he came to talk to me. I was frightened because I thought I was going to be in some deep shit, but he only told me that he was proud of me for finally sticking up for myself.

That was one of the best lessons I learned in military school, because in life people, politicians, bosses, significant others, family, and even strangers will pick on you and make you feel like a loser, but when you finally walk up to the car and George McFly Biff in the face, you will ultimately get some fucking respect. It’s fucked up that it has to come to that, but I’m sure that’s ONE step in our evolutionary chain that’s never been skipped.

To Be Continued…

Dinsdale McPethis: Master Cocksmith

2011-05-03T06:37:00.000-05:00

I recently decided on a change of dating tactics. My usual deployment of penile troops onto the shores of Craigslist hasn’t been garnering the results that I was hoping for at this point in my vaginal campaign against the tyranny of abstinence. Although 2010 brought me some interesting dates, most of the women I met were simply whack-a-dos.

I know that I’ve said in past blogs that I’m just not ready to plunk down money in the pursuit of a girlfriend, but I’m beginning to realize that it may be my unwillingness to change that’s holding me back from the relationship that I’m looking for. I felt that maybe it was time to nut up and make my profile and my intentions known to a wider audience. After all, it’s kind of selfish of me to keep myself away from some women simply because they paid for my email address, right? Fucking wrong. My adventure into paid dating, although brief, left me more unsure of myself than anything I’ve gone through on Craigslist.

My story of paid internet dating begins as I was reading ‘Tubby Kitten’ magazine this past week, a monthly periodical which depicts overweight kitties in various positions of laziness (my favorite being a 40 pound tabby cat asleep on the face of an obese clown)…when I received an instant message from a friend of mine that I hadn’t heard from in a long time; Smart Jim.

Smart Jim was a stock boy at Waldenbooks when we first met in 1994. I had just been hired on as the assistant manager, and Jim had been there for nearly a year. Even though he was only part time because he was still in high school, the manager of Waldenbooks counted on Jim more than any other part timer. He had a strong work ethic and he did his job well. Although I was 21 at the time and Jim was only 17, I quickly found that he was more mature, responsible, and defiantly smarter than I could hope to be. Instead of feeling jealous of him, I felt that I had to know this kid better.

Over the years that we worked together, Jim’s bitterness and general disdain for the stupidity of our customers rubbed off on me and eventually festered and boiled to the point where it now stands. I’m happy that Jim got out and went on to the career he wanted, however I miss bitching about customers with him as I think that it calmed my nerves a great deal to have someone to vent with.

Aside from being smart, Jim was also funny as hell. He had a ‘take no prisoners’ attitude toward humor that I related to, and I found him easy to get along with. During our time together at Walden books, Jim and I saw a lot together, and I eventually introduced him to my group of friends. Everyone loved this kid, including Cous’n Hemp’n, although Jim thought he was pretty nasty, and rightfully so.

Jim introduced me to one of my biggest comedy influences; Dennis Miller. Over the years we would see Dennis Miller perform live in Chicago, among other live shows. We saw a live taping of The Jerry Springer show with Grey Jim and Action Jim (the first and last Jimboree) and Jim even scored us tickets to see a screening of Rumble in the Bronx at the Chicago Art Museum, followed by a live question and answer segment with Jackie Chan after the film was over. This was when Chan’s movies first started being released in America, and he had to have an interpreter. I had a lot of great times with Jim, but the influences and impact he made on my life went far beyond a simple co-worker relationship. He became another brother in the ever growing group that I found myself a part of.

Jim was also an Atheist, and after many debates, he turned me over to his point of view. Up until I met Jim, I just assumed that you HAD to believe in God because it had been drilled into my head from birth. But one afternoon Jim put The Demon Haunted World by Carl Sagan in my hand and opened a whole new universe of thought to me.

Over the years I watched as Jim worked his way through college until he finally became a PHD of Physics and a PHD of Mathematics. He began work at a Government facility where he made diamonds for nano technology and worked on perfecting the bluray format long before it was available to the public. I’m sure that a lot of us know scientists or doctors, but we’re reticent to ask them questions lest we sound stupid, but Jim and I would sit around for hours pondering ridiculous scientific theories. There was no question that I could ask about time travel, UFO’s, or radioactive spiders that Jim wouldn’t attempt to answer.

A favorite of ours that still sparks debate to this day is: ‘if you were to go back in time to FIVE minutes ago and give your OTHER self a handy…would that be homosexual or masturbation?’ This question has yet to be answered to our satisfaction, but it did bring about a wealth of interesting conversations with friends and co-workers. Rules were even set up in the unlikely event that this hypothesis came to be. It was decided that if any insertion was to take place, THAT would be homosexual…however a handy would just be like having a third hand or or giving yourself ‘the stranger’ (for the layman, that’s when you sit on your hand until it falls asleep and then you whack off)

In all the time that I’ve known Jim, he’s never been a drinker. When I was out getting wasted through most of my twenties, Jim was studying or working. I think that we were both at opposite extremes and if I needed to calm down, Smart Jim probably needed to loosen up. I was an alcoholic and Jim was a workaholic, however, in the late 90’s I saw something on television that would introduce a new hobby to both of us. One that would satisfy Jim’s love of study while getting him out of the house, and that would give me something to do other than drink.

One night, I was in the living room of my mother’s condo flipping through TV channels, when I came across the local cable access channel. They were broadcasting a Greek fashion show that had been filmed at a restaurant that I was familiar with not too far from where I lived. These were some of the ugliest women I’d ever seen, and I found myself glued to the set as the announcer would call one to the stage and ask her imbecilic questions. After the woman with the least visible unibrow had won, there was a karaoke segment where audience members were invited up to sing songs of their choice. I’ll never forget the first guys name…Steve Kursing.

A man in the audience, in his late 40’s to early 50’s raised his hand and was called to the stage. He wore a beige leisure suit with thick glasses. He was balding on top of his head and had the ridiculous comb over that you would think men would stay away from at that point in life. He was nervous and jittery, and I found it odd that he volunteered for this event. However, you could tell by his demeanor that he was drunk, and by the fat woman at his table that cheered him on, it was obvious that he had been pushed into it. He told the announcer that his name was Steve Kursing and that he worked as an insurance agent. Of course he did. He requested to sing the song ‘In the Jungle’ and the announcer left the stage as the lights dimmed. The room went silent as the opening of the song began to play.

What happened next had me rolling around on the floor with laughter. I’ve been a student of comedy since I was very young. Before military school I used to listen to my mother’s Steve Martin 8 track tapes, while IN military school I listened to Bill Cosby records and Dr. Demento on Sunday nights, after military school I found Eddie Murphy and Monty Python, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING compared to the hilarity I found in Steve Kursing, the 40 something year old insurance salesman, singing In the Jungle. It would be impossible for me to explain it to you, but every key was wrong, he lightly bounced back and forth completely out of step with the music, and when the chorus would hit, he would bounce faster COMPLETELY missing the rhythm. His voice was high and unsure, and he rarely if ever sang the words of the song to the right part of the music. But the best and I mean the fucking best was when he would try to sing along to ‘aweembaway, aweembaway, aweembaway’. It was unbelievable.

After the show ended, there was a commercial advertising that the general public could participate in classes in order to receive a legitimate cable production license and then produce shows on this very channel. The address given was only about ten minutes away. I wellspring of television show ideas jumped into my head. If I could make a TV show where I could humiliate people HALF as much as Steve Kursing was humiliated in my eyes, it could be picked up by a real network giving me the fame and fortune that I so richly deserved! I was a tad narcissistic in my twenties.

One of my favorite TV shows at the time was Mystery Science Theater 3000, and I knew that that show had started off as a cable access show and then got picked up by comedy central. But my first thought was that Jim and I could make a movie review show where we actually talked shit about movies. The two of us were very much into film, and we would often get large groups of our friends to go see a movie every Friday night, however we both hated most movies that we saw. Sure we may have been overcritical, but we didn’t like it when Hollywood pandered to the lowest common denominator and most movies of the 90’s did just that. However, what we hated even more were the critics that would kiss Hollywood’s ass. You never saw a critic just flat out say that a movie sucked and that you shouldn’t see it…but now we could.

The way that cable access works is that if a cable company is available in a community, they have to, by law, offer that community one channel to use as their own. I’m not quite sure how censorship works because in New York there is cussing on cable access; however we were not allowed that luxury in Chicago.

I immediately called Smart Jim and told him what I saw and the next day we went down to the cable access studio. We began classes that week, and soon found ourselves working behind the scenes on other people’s programs. We both became good friends with the Producer of the channel who was also our teacher. Bill was a great guy, and he was the only one in the studio that actually got paid to be there. Bill liked his job and we loved him because, like us, he had a natural ability to pick on the flaws of others. During our time working with Bill, Jim and I met some characters that inspired us with hilarity and who often served to remind us of the ridiculous nature of life.

There was Ed Clay, the 62 year old Oak Lawn City Councilman who did a show called Community Voice. Ed was one of those old white men who was racist, but didn’t even realize it. If you asked him flat out, he’d say that he wasn’t. However, one night while filming his show, Ed said something that nearly had us all dying of laughter. Jim and I were working camera’s one and two, while Bill was working as director in the producer’s booth. Jim and I wore headphones so that we could communicate with Bill and he could tell us if he wanted a wide shot, a close up, etc., Ed was interviewing an African American guy who was a high ranking member of the Chicago Public School system. To be honest with you, as a camera man, you don’t really pay attention to what the people on stage are saying, but at one point we did.

As we were taking directions from Bill, there was a pause in his dialogue when we heard Ed say “So…do you find that there are a lot of shines in the public school system”.

SHINES!??!? Ed was looking at his guest as if he didn’t just say that. His guest was obviously taken aback, but I have to think he realized that Ed just didn’t know any better. Jim and I looked at each other from across the room, and then there was an uproar of laughter in our headphones. Bill was laughing his ass off, but WE couldn’t laugh because the microphones on the stage would pick it up. I wanted to laugh SO badly. ‘Shine’? Who says ‘shine’? I mean, that is OLD school racist from when people used words like jigaboo and porch monkey. I felt bad for Ed’s guest, and we were defiantly not laughing WITH Ed but his unintentional racism was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen.

Another cook that frequented the cable access studio was Paul Morgan. This fucking guy right here. Paul was one of those assholes in his 40’s who announced lottery numbers on WGN one weekend and somehow had that fact spread out into a 14 page resume describing his work in television. He was also a religious nut and the biggest homophobe we’d ever encounter in our lives. Our time with Paul was spent mostly making hints about his homosexual tendencies just to get a rise out of him. He would scream and shout in protest that he was NOT GAY! This only made him seem gayer.

Paul would go nuts at the slightest provocation, often embarrassing himself in front of his own guests. One afternoon, Jim and I accompanied Paul as he went to interview a producer at a music studio in the city. As we were carrying the equipment downstairs after the interview, Jim asked Paul to grab one of the bags. The producer that Paul had just interviewed, was standing next to Paul, and Paul felt he needed to seem like our boss, so he told Jim “That’s your job”. Paul was never our boss. None of us got paid for this work, including Paul, and Jim and I had volunteered to help him. I said “It’s ok Jim, I’ll get it, Paul probably can’t lift it”. Just that, nothing more. Paul began screaming at the top of his lungs “DAMMIT HEMPEN, I’M NOT GAY! HOW DARE YOU SAY THAT I’M GAY IN FRONT OF MY GUEST!” The producer took a step back and said “Paul, he never said you were gay…But I am” Paul threw his hands in the air and said “Great, they’re everywhere” and stormed out of the studio. Jim and I apologized to the producer and went to meet Paul by his car. He refused to give Bill the tape of his interview and blamed us for making his guest gay. Seriously, he said that it was because we intimated that HE was gay, that made his guest gay. Jim and I laughed at him all the way home.

Another time, Paul interviewed a nun in the studio. Bill produced while Jim and I worked the cameras. During the interview Paul mainly discussed homosexuality in a negative light without making much sense at all. That poor nun only wanted to show everyone the paintings that she had done. However, as cameramen, it wasn’t Jim and I’s place to cast aspersions on Paul’s show. It was cable access, a forum even for nuts like Paul to spout out their unreasonable hatred of those they don’t understand. Even though Jim and I are Atheists, after the interview, we politely helped the nun carry her things to her car and wished her a good evening. After the nun had left, Paul went on and on about how wonderful his interview went. I told him it would have gone better if he would have helped his guest carry her things out to her car. Paul, once again, professed his heterosexuality even though it was never called into question.

Paul refused to work with Jim and I after that, but we really could care less. Bill told us that nobody wanted to work with Paul because of his flagrant homophobia which HE often brought up himself without any provocation. Paul sent me an email relating his displeasure at working with me and I still have it saved to this day, along with my response:

Hey Mike,

This hurts me to write, because I did think of you as the little brother I never had, but after your sarcastic remarks the other day at the shoot in front of my guest, I’ve had enough. I don’t care to work with you on any of my show projects anymore. Take care and good luck, and with that attitude and mouth of yours, you’ll need it.

Paul Morgan, Heterosexual and all around good man

I almost felt bad until he wrote ‘Heterosexual and all around good man’. Here was my response:

Hey Paul,

Take it down a notch there buddy. Nobody thinks (or for that matter, said) you’re gay. Plus, and I think Bill will attest to this, I made absolutely NO untoward comments about you or generally inappropriate comments whatsoever in front of that nun. I was nothing but polite. I complemented her on her work, helped her pack up her gear, and then carried her shit out to her car. Now if you consider that inappropriate behavior let me suggest to you that psychiatrists are doing wonderful things these days. IF anyone made that poor woman feel uncomfortable it was you. All that bride of God wanted to do was show people her paintings and you kept bringing up homosexuality. The comment I made to you about not helping was simply a joke that I made to YOU, after the nun had left, not in front of her.

Now, if you find it that hard to 'turn the other cheek' as your good book suggests, or to 'love thy neighbor' then perhaps it’s time for you to find another religion to practice. I get sick of you religious zealots thinking that you’re better than everyone else. Its guys like you that make being an Atheist easy.

And as for your obsession with having to convince everybody that you’re NOT homo sexual...calm the fuck down. NOBODY THINKS YOU ARE GAY!! Well, that’s not entirely true. The more you protest the fact, the gayer you sound. However, your rantings on the subject are FAR MORE inappropriate than ANYTHING I have ever said. And as for you being a 'good man'. Not with an email like that. That email was the MOST arrogant, insensitive, self serving, pompous, whining, racist (yes Paul, being a homo phobe, at least at your level of homo phobe, is considered racist), bullshit I have ever been subjected to. Maybe when you’re done sending out hate mail, you can go round up a couple of homos and throw them in an oven. OH WAIT, that’s been done hasn’t it? who did that? I know the guy was arrogant, insensitive, self serving, pompous, whiney...Oh yeah...FUCKING HITLER!!!

You ARE, at least, as good a guy as Hitler, Paul, I'll give you that.

You can’t cover up the fact that you can be an asshole with a blanket of religion. Especially with a blanket as sheer as the one you use.

That having been said, I like you, I enjoy working with you, but we ARE two different people, with two different sets of views. I think of you as a brother at times too. That’s why I break your balls so much. Believe it or not, I respect you and I respect what you do, However, you are neither my boss, nor my father. I have never, NEVER, said anything that would make you look bad in front of your guests, because I respect what you do. I have never judged you as you do me, because it’s not my place to do so. However, if I were to judge you, I would find you guilty...of being a babe. See, that was a joke. I’m not actually gay, and I don’t want to put my cock in your asshole. Although if I were going to do it to anybody…

All right, well, that was my manifesto. I’m sure I will see you at the offices or in passing, and I hope we can be civil. I don’t feel any ill will toward you, so if you decide you can stand me and need me for a shoot, I’ll be around. That's what friends do, Paul. Friends are there for each other, you fucking faggot.

Mike 'Ahhhhhh!' Hempen

Bill actually forwarded both Paul’s letter and my response to everyone who worked at the cable access studio and I received a round of applause one evening when Bill was teaching a class.

After we received our licenses, Jim and I made a few cable access programs of our own, called ‘The Movie Snobs’ where we would talk about how shitty films were at that time, and compare them to older films. Jim was passionate when it came to film, and it didn’t take much to piss him off. During our show he did a segment in which he talked about the ridiculous science of a new movie and why it made the movie suck. The most memorable for me was when he bitched and complained about the movie Spider Man because the world’s biggest electron microscope is in San Francisco, NOT New York City.

As the 90’s drew on, Jim brought me into his world of Dungeons and Dragons and introduced me to Bloodbowl, which is a football board game from Europe in which you make teams consisting of mummies, vampires, and other mythological creatures. I wasn’t so much into the D&D, but I was enamored of the Bloodbowl. For my birthday one year he pitched in with our friend Ian and got me a Bloodbowl board from England. I fucking loved playing it, but unfortunately it caused a rift between Jim and I. My fault really, I’m a bit of a narcissist when I’m winning and a bit of a whiney bitch when I’m losing. But that’s as maybe; because of my dickheadedness during a game in 2003, we had a falling out, and I hadn’t talked to Jim for several years.

The time I spent with Smart Jim in my twenties was educational and sometimes sophomoric, but I loved that kid. It truly is the friends that we have who shape us into the people that we become.

Most of the time that I knew Jim I was dating the one that got away; Jackie. We were together from 1994 to 2001. During that time, I know Jim dated a few girls, but I always felt they were beneath a guy of his potential…not unlike Steve, I felt that a lot of women were missing out on Smart Jim.

One of the sad truths in life, and no matter what movies tell you…it IS true, is that if you’re a smart guy? Odds are that women won’t be knocking at your door. Most women now require you to provide copies of your release papers from Cook County Jail as proof that you’re tough, and copies of the letter that your mom got informing her that you were being kicked out of high school in the 10th grade for filling your teachers purse with bong water and continuously pronouncing ‘focus’ as ‘fuck us’, as proof that you’re a dumb ass. So, Smart Jim was never that much of a ladies’ man. Unfortunately for him, his moniker and his intelligence were something of a liability in the D.V.C.S.

However, as we conversed through the wonders of the internet this week, I was excited to hear that Jim is now engaged, and as happens so often these days, he met his future spouse online. I couldn’t be happier for him. I’ve watched him work his ass off to get to the position in life that he now holds, and I’m glad that he’s met a woman worthy of his intellect, his humor, and his incredible thighs. I can honestly say that nobody deserves it more.

However, THIS time I did get a tad jealous. Jim was the last holdout. Everyone that I know now is married, getting married, or getting a divorce. So, after hearing about his pending nuptials, Smart Jim did something that he hadn’t done in a long time…he inspired me yet again. Since I started my search for love on the internet, I haven’t had much luck. But after hearing Jim’s story, I realized that there were several factors that I hadn’t considered. For one thing, I’ve mainly been looking for a connection on Craigslist which is the internet equivalent of McDonalds; Fast food dating. Another thing is that maybe I haven’t been putting my heart into the search like I should have been doing. I went on a lot of dates last year, but I haven’t been on one since my nefarious douchebaggery with the Yoga Instructor on our Christmas Eve date. I haven’t heard from her since that night, and I’m pretty sure she changed her zip code the next day.

Part of the reason for my lack of will has been from outside forces. My district manager just got fired on New Year’s Day and I’m pretty sure that I’m next because the regional manager hates me. Back in November when we had our Christmas manager meeting, I got myself into a ‘Three’s Company’ type situation in which I made a comment about the regional manager in a room full of people, and he was standing, unbeknownst to me, RIGHT behind me. I was written up and shunned by him as if I had been accused of being a witch in Salem. Although I WILL say that I got quite a Nelson Mandella-esque outpouring of support from my fellow managers crying ‘Shenanigans’ to him about that write up…which probably saved my job at the time. It won’t this time.

Needless to say, I’m wound so tight right now that if you put a piece of coal in my ass it would turn into a diamond in about a week. My back and neck are so tense that bullets could bounce off of me. I’m almost AFRAID to get laid right now because my orgasm might injure some poor girl like a mortar round in Kandahar, aaaaaaand I’m pretty sure my apartment insurance won’t cover that, but it would be fun to ask my landlord if they cover accidental injury by intensely focused penile discharge.

But my feelings of both happiness for Smart Jim and jealousy over his new found love have put me in a Rocky Balboa state of mind. So I put down my ‘Tubby Kitty’ magazine and decided to take the whole ‘internet dating’ thing a bit more seriously. E-harmony away! (Cue Rocky music)

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve never been interested in going on ‘pay sites’ to meet a woman because it feels a little too much like going to a pimp, but without the awesome pimp clothes. I’ve tried non-pay sites like Plenty of Fish, but the women there seem to be more critical about looks than I am. Plus, if I meet someone on a pay site, you are forever cemented into that as the story of how you first met. I don’t want to tell people that a random computer test matched us and now we’re together. How unromantic is that?

I’ve always believed that the cooler your meeting story is, the better your relationship will be. Some people meet their spouse when he is buying roses for his ailing mother at the flower shop that she works at, or sometimes a girl will meet a man after he throws a Snapple bottle filled with Vodka at a movie screen while shouting “FUCK YOU AFFLECK!”, then there’s the first date where his car gets towed and she has to lend him the money to get it out of the impound, or the magical first kiss which is interrupted by him having to go bail a friend out of jail. There are a million interesting scenarios which don’t start with “I paid a stranger 50 bucks to find a girl with the correct breast specifications”.

I know that I’ve been dancing around that possibility, but I figure that if I meet someone on a non-pay site, then the date itself will take over as our first meeting story, NOT the website that hooked us up.

However, sometimes in life you have to make compromises. It was time to put away my childish fears and go for the gold. I went on E-Harmony and it seemed as though fate were intervening because they were having a free sign up weekend. I cracked my knuckles and dug in.

First of all, it took me a little over 3 hours to fill out the questionnaire. I didn’t know if they were trying to find out if I was compatible with anybody, or if they were secretly trying to recruit me for the CIA. The questions were not unlike the ones you’d find on a supplement job application. ‘If your family was dying of starvation, would you steal a loaf of bread to feed them?’ And then you HAVE to answer ‘of course not’ otherwise you’d never get the job even though EVERY one WANTS to say ‘fuck yes I’d steal a loaf of bread…are you an idiot?’

Their screening covered everything from foot fetishes to your interpretation of the molecular structure of a sub atomic particle, which is probably why Smart Jim did so fucking well. At one point I had to write a dissertation on the movie ‘The Human Centipede’. Half way through it, an e-harmony tech showed up at my door to take blood samples, do a ‘male pattern baldness’ test, and scrape skin flakes from inside my nose. I don’t divulge this much information to get laid when I meet a woman in real life. Hell, in real life a woman is lucky if I tell her my real name instead of my ‘nom de fuck’: Dinsdale McPethis – Master Cocksmith. I actually have a business card with that name on it.

Even though the form was more complicated than Chinese arithmetic, I was honest throughout the whole thing. Why lie if I’m REALLY looking, right? I basically said that I’m looking for a less slutty, Harvard Educated, Brittany Spears, who doesn’t mind that I look like Richard Kiel and Joe Don Baker had a kid, while earning less than the retarded ‘cart corral’ kid at Jewel. I accurately filled out all of the multiple choice questions that have answers like: ‘Big Time, No more than anyone else, somewhat, not at all, and are you fucking kidding me?’ Is it just me? Or would you like to expound on some of your answers there? I mean don’t just ASK me ‘do you like anal’ and give me ‘yes or no’ options for answers…I’d like a chance to explain WHY I like anal. Otherwise girls could interpret that the wrong way and think that I was molested by a priest in my youth and now I like ‘giving back the pain’ or some shit. And if you’re curious? The line I USUALLY use to garner compliance in this request is “C’mon baby…I just want to be somewhere that nobody else has been…because you’re special”; so don’t fall for that.

When I finally came to the end of this intricate dick I.Q. test, I was out of breath. I felt emotionally and physically drained. But my hope sprang eternal. I had accomplished something that would finally end my search for that elusive long term relationship. I was honest and forthcoming in every category, and surely there would be several women for me to choose from. I waited anxiously for my results to finish calculating with a smile on my face.

Finally, after about ten minutes of excruciating anxiety, a message appeared in my e-mail box with the heading ‘Welcome to e-harmony! Your matches enclosed.’ I moved the cursor over the email and right clicked…

No shit, it was a rejection letter! In it, e-harmony told me that there was NOBODY compatible with me, and although it happens to less than TEN percent of their customers…they’ll keep me on file in case anything pops up. What the fuck? How much of a LOSER am I that I got rejected by a PAY dating service? To put this in perspective, I wasn’t rejected by A woman…I was rejected by a whole COMMUNITY of women! They didn’t even give me the phone number to a ‘suicide prevention’ hotline. I can’t say I got fucked ON e-harmony, but I can say I got fucked BY e-harmony.

So it’s back to the non-pay sites. It seems that, in this case Smart Jim’s intelligence was NOT a liability because he was smart enough to answer their questions with not only HONESTY…but decorum as well. I don’t have that decorum reflex, shit just spews out of me like a vulgar volcano but I’ve always thought of that as my biggest asset. Women know what to expect from me because I’m always honest, I’m always going to say what’s on my mind, and I’m ALWAYS going to try to talk them into anal sex.

The inspiration that Jim presented me with is still there, however I’ll just have to keep plugging away on different sites until I find a relationship-worthy woman. I’m beginning to realize that Craigslist is not the way to go because I’ve noticed that as soon as I post something there, 60 zipper heads post right after me, plunging MY post to the bottom faster than a lead turd in the bathtub. Even when I DO get lucky enough to have a woman read my post, it’s hard for me to take her seriously because 99 percent of the stuff up there is from fucking lunatics. And if she’s even PARTIALLY normal…what the fuck was she doing trying to meet a guy Craigslist? You have to KNOW that the damn has broken and the ‘crazy’ river has flooded out the cape of good dick when the only option left is fucking Craig’s List.

Not only that, but I was reading through some of the ‘men seeking women’ posts, and I’m surprised that the police haven’t used this site JUST to arrest one serial killer a night. Some of these guys are more frightening than a ‘New Kids on The Block’ reunion tour. Women have told me some of the wacked out things that men from Craigslist have said to them and then they justify it by saying ‘oh, he’s just being silly’. No, he’s NOT just being silly. He’s fucking crazy…RUN.

There is a FINE line between funny…and ape shit, hide the piano wire, buffalo bill, v-boy in front of a mirror crazy. And I’m not getting a ‘comedic genius’ vibe from any of those ass clowns. Some of these guys couldn’t get laid if they were standing in the middle of a mattress ware house with five thousand dollars in their pockets while a bus load of hookers crashed into it. Hell, I doubt they could even get laid by my ex T.C., and she fucks EVERYBODY. So much so that I was thinking of writing a ‘Jeff Foxworthy’ type book about her “If you are a high school, college, and or professional FOOTBALL team…youmighthavefuckedMikesex”.

But my failure at meeting a woman online is at least equal to my failure at meeting one in real life. Meeting a woman has never been easy for me, and even though e-harmony refused to give me a chance, it’s not the first OR the last place to look. I’ve seen so many derivations on the theme of meeting a woman that I know not to let my failure at ONE get me down.

When I was a teenager, you simply met girls at school. It was awkward and often times humiliating because you could no more control your mouth than you could your cock, but there seemed to be an endless supply of honeys to choose from. There was the hot chick who only put out to football players, there was the smart chick who only put out if you were depressive and dressed like Robert Smith from the Cure, and there was the fat chick who would put out for everyone else. There was pussy for everyone!

I didn’t go to college until I was in my late twenties, but that’s the place where everyone fucks everyone. Teachers fuck students, students fuck each other, and there’s no end to sexual experimentation. Guys can fuck guys, women can fuck goats, and horses can fuck chickens. It doesn’t really matter because you can always use that word as a ‘get out of humiliation free’ card: Experimentation.

Now, hopefully by the time you’ve finished college, you’ve got all that fucking out of your system and you’re ready to settle down and become a joint tax paying member of civilized marital society. However… for guys like me who DID’NT get laid until I was 18, and who DID’NT go to college until later in life, where does the relationship road take us?

After college, if you still haven’t met anyone, you have to meet women through friends. Sisters, Cousins, Grandma’s; you’ll take whatever is lying around. If you have good friends, they’ll even set you up with a family member or that ugly chick they met at space camp. And if that doesn’t pan out, it’s off to the wonderful world of bars.

In my case meeting a woman at the bar wasn’t always easy, but I went into it with a good attitude. Most chicks at bars automatically dismiss you if you don’t look like a fucking football player OR they talk down to you like you’re a retard who just picked up their cigarette butt off the ground and asked them if they’re ‘going to eat this’. Then, if you ARE lucky enough to get a conversation started with a cute chick, her fat ass friend would inevitably come by and start ‘harrumphing’ and making passive aggressive comments about your Z. Cavaricci/wrestling shoe combination ensemble. You wanna know why I don’t date behemoths? It’s because of YOU whaley. I think I saw Geppetto starting a fire in your mouth.

But sometimes in a bar you come across a woman that life has shit on JUST enough for her to say ‘fuck it, I’ll do ya’. Now you’re getting laid, but you’re still no closer to finding that relationship, so you have to switch it up and try something new. The problem is that after bars, there really wasn’t anywhere else to go. There were singles bars, but all the women there were so old that they were classified as ancestors. I used to hear that the supermarket was a great place to meet women, but when I tried that, I realized that hot single chicks don’t HAVE to shop for themselves, only fat chicks do.

I even tried speed dating. This was an event where instead of listening to ONE ding-bat drone on about how ‘instead of feeding the homeless, we should put that money to more important uses like buying sweaters for penguins because they must be cold in the Arctic’ or ‘teaching baby Panda’s to play with yarn because it’s ‘cute’’, you get to listen to 15 of them until your mind is eventually turned into some kind of paste and your nose starts dripping brain.

Now there’s the internet. Where one can indulge in the fantasy of meeting someone online who is NOTHING like they are in real life. I’ve met women on the internet who have lied about their looks, lied about how ‘stable’ they are, and have actually tried to have me meet them at the Cook County Clerk’s office so they could trick me into signing a marriage certificate in order to glom child support from me to feed their kids because they have so many children they could start a fucking baseball franchise with them.

But once in a while a sparkling ray of sunshine descends on an unwitting vaginally deprived individual. Smart Jim has not only inspired me to keep looking, but he’s shown me that there is hope in the digital age of relationships. So, I’ll just keep tapping away on my keyboard and perhaps my mindless rambling will score me a woman who’s NOT more unstable than a nuclear reactor at a clown college, who DOESN’T have more back issues than my ‘Tubby Kitty’ magazine (est. 1905), and who DOESN’T brag in her profile that she can use her clit as a cork screw.

OR, I could just bide my time until the NEXT big dating craze springs up like a ‘pussy’ whack-a-mole. Virtual reality dating. I can see the ads for that now: “it’s fucking but without the diseases, guilt, and inhibitions caused by taking some else’s feelings into consideration”. Yeah, and without the fucking too. They’re already using test subjects to screen the effects of digital fucking, and let me tell you, the line to get into THAT building is longer than the fucking directors cut of ‘ Das Boot’.

The bottom Line? I’m not gonna give up yet. There’re millions of women online and at least one of them has to have the qualities that I’m looking for in a relationship. After all, Smart Jim may have DESERVED to be in a loving relationship, but I fucking well NEED a loving relationship. Like Clint Eastwood said to Gene Hackman at the end of Unforgiven; “Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it”

END

Unhirable: A Look at an HONEST Resume

2011-04-28T08:44:00.001-05:00

Michael Allen Hempen

Cell (---) --- 2054

Work (---) --- 1403

Job Goals:

Searching for that rare position where I don’t have to deal with assholes while allowing me to go home at night knowing that I did a good job and earned my pay, which is enough to afford me the luxury of an occasional date.

Education:

Lewis University – Romeoville, Il 1998 – 2000

Majored in Aviation/Flight Management with a minor in religious history

Received a full scholarship but had to pay for my flight time which became too expensive after my instructor quit and my NEW instructor was over 300 pounds, forcing me to train in a larger aircraft, which cost more money

Learned a great deal about irony as being a pilot brings a certain amount of respect and pussy, but I now work 2 blocks away from an airport as a retail manager which affords me NO respect or pussy

Took out a student loan to pay for my flight time which I’ll be paying off until I fucking die

Morainne Valley Community College

Received a top score on the GED and Super high scores on the ACT.

Learned that my I.Q. is so high that Woody Harrelson and Willie Nelson are eating Doritos and playing video games with it right now

Oak Lawn High School

Dropped out because I have no ambition

Richards High School

Failed Drivers Ed…twice

Previous Employment:

• Electronics Store – Store Manager - 10/2005 – Apparently until I die

Responsible for not earning enough money to live like a human fucking being

An ability to be stupid enough to reach for the fucking carrot of a quarterly bonus that is dangled in front of me even though that bonus can only be earned by exponentially achieving 22%, year over year, in gross profit sales gain which is less likely to happen than getting a foot massage from Uma Thurman

Responsible for hiring stupid kids who have no ambition or thought patterns that would allow me to trust them alone in my store for more than 20 minutes

An innate ability to tell customers that we don’t have what they’re looking for simply because I don’t want to explain to them how it works

Able to piss customers off by feigning ignorance at how to perform complicated register tasks such as service plan replacements, multiple return receipts, and adding minutes to pre-paid phones

Responsible for working 50 hours, 6 days a week, even when I earn a 5 day work week, for less money than a McDonalds employee makes and with more responsibility than an air traffic controller, because my District Manager is a control freak

Taught me the value of semi-racism by showing me that Pollacks return EVERY fucking thing they buy, black people will steal the fucking ceiling tiles if you leave them alone for 30 seconds, and fat white women are cunts

• Not working – 2004 – 10/2005

After my mother passed away in 2004, I spent a year drinking, getting laid, going out, and generally pissing away every penny that she left me in her inheritance

• Borders – Merchandising Manager - 2001-2004

Responsible for not caring how much money I made because I lived at home with my mother

Able to get drunk with fellow department managers at Hooters during our lunch break and then go back to the store and hit on hot spectacled female customers

An ability to live a Soap Opera life style by fucking fellow employees, talking about which OTHER employees were fucking each other, and advising new employees WHICH employees not to fuck

Having the most awesome employee discount of 30% off of anything in the store, a 50 dollar a month per diem to use towards anything in the store, and an ability to check out books like a library

An ability to meet some of the most awesome people I’ll ever meet such as Gordon, Derek, Suzzy, Matt, and Erica

• Waldenbooks – Assistant Manager – 1993 – 1995, Store Manager 1995 – 2001

The ability to work for a sexless troll named Mara

Learned how to hire employees and then sleep with them

Gained insight into the human condition as I watched Action Jim sleep with my fellow employees that were too whacky for me to want to bang

Held constant discussions with Smart Jim and Ian regarding the effects of time travel on masturbation

Responsible for shitting multiple times in the toilet at night without flushing so my idiot manager would get a surprise when she opened in the morning

An ability to sleep at my desk all day on Sunday because I was out drinking until 4 am on Saturday night

• Hero Land Comics – multiple titles all meaning nothing – 1987 – 1993

Responsible for being a kid and not knowing shit about shit

Responsible for hauling my boss’s Polish mistress from place to place behind his wife’s back

Learned how to rip people off from my fat ass boss who eventually ripped ME off by stealing over 15 thousand dollars of my comic books

Learned of the ridiculous nature of life by meeting and observing Action Jim in his daily skullduggery

Part time jobs

• Always Open Convenience Store 1989

Fired for stealing scratch off lottery tickets

• Clark Gas Station 1991

Fired for stealing cigarettes

• Kay Be Toys 1996

Violently quit by throwing a chair across the store during peak Christmas time hours and mother fucking Action Jim, who was my boss at the time, in front of a multitude of rich moms and their asshole kids because he didn’t show up for work when he was scheduled leaving me in the store alone on a Saturday before Christmas for 6 hours.

• Toys R Us 2006

Quit with no notice because I began fucking a semi-hot 22 year old and no longer had the energy to work overnights there AND at the Electronics Store during the day

• Thornton’s Gas Station 2007

Quit with no notice because I began fucking a hot 19 year old and no longer had the energy to work overnights there AND at the Electronics Store during the day

The Yoga Instructor Part 1: Date Nuts

2011-04-16T07:57:00.000-05:00

In the months since I started my internet quest for a girlfriend who meets my exacting standards, I haven’t met with too much success. In that time I’ve gone on a few dates, I’ve had some penile success, and I’ve met some interesting ladies. However there hasn’t been much worth writing about. Although I may not be Rocky, I still hold out hope that I’ll find an Adrian. One of the things that’s been holding me back from putting more of an effort into my search, is my ex girlfriend. I’ve been a tad reticent about actually MEETING some of the women that I’ve talked to thus far. I haven’t really felt…the spirit of cold calling potential penile clientele, mostly because my ex hasn’t really shut the fuck up and given me a chance to get COMPLETELY over her yet.

But this past week, I talked with a woman who was…well, unbelievably attractive in an all around way. Not only is she a yoga instructor, but she’s also a 22 year old art history major. Oofa, body AND brains…so, why am I so lucky? Well, apparently she enjoyed my ramblings on one particular site and wanted to find out more. Join the fucking club; I’d like to find out more about me too.

Talking with women from the internet has been easier than I initially thought it would be. A woman will respond to my post or profile, we’ll do the email tango, followed by a waltz across the phone lines, and then my ex will not-so politely tap me on the shoulder and ask to cut in. I guess instead of taking a chance with unknown pussy, my dick has been staying in the shallow end of the pussy it already knows. And believe me, the SHALLOW end of that pussy runs deep. I’d been through a lot with my ex, good and bad…mostly horrifyingly bad. But, because she’s WAY younger than me, not illegally younger mind you, and she was there during some particularly shit points in my life, it’s hard to sever that bond that probably shouldn’t exist. This past Sweetest day however I found myself at the precipice of new pussy mountain, and at the same time…the ex pissed me off enough to take that leap and FINALLY cut the bungee cord before it could whip me back up into her twat.

Since I came up with my mission statement to find the perfect woman on the internet to, not only prove that it CAN be done, but to satisfy my selfish need for a relationship grounded in mutual harmony, my ex has taken every opportunity to derail my love train. She keeps shoving her mound in my face and well, how does one pass up on a moist, young, fresh smelling mound? I was forced to retire from my full time job at my ex’s company; Pussy Corporation Ltd. Inc., but she’s been keeping me on in a strictly ‘freelance’ capacity. Although I was a spiteful mess when the relationship came to an end…I now find myself wondering why it lasted as long as it did. The ex was 19 when we met, and although I broke several of my dating ‘rules’ to be with her, I enjoyed her company quite a bit.

I’m ‘eh-HEH-hem’ years old, but since most of my friends, who are my own age, are married at this point…I don’t have any ‘wingmen’. My best friend Mike, whom I met several years ago at my job, is 23 years old. He’s introduced me to his friends, who have now become MY friends. I enjoy their company a great deal, and although I’m ‘on my own’ in the struggle to meet a woman at a bar…they make the struggle that much easier.

Mike’s one of those good looking guys who doesn’t ACT like he’s a good looking guy. That’s probably the reason why we’ve gotten along so well. I’m fat, older, and unattractive but Mike and I are like brothers who have known each other all of our lives. We like the same TV shows, we like the same restaurants, we hang out nearly every night, and we’ve even gone on a vacation road trip together. Hanging out with Mike has been like being in MY early 20’s again. Yes, I know; it all sounds very gay, but I promise you…it’s not.

Mike and I shared something else, and I’m going to explain to you WHY that was such a huge misstep on my part, why Mike dodged a bullet, AND why I finally decided to get my 1973 Dodge Dick polished at a different mouth wash this past Halloween.

Soon after Mike and I started hanging out 2 years ago, he went to a party with a friend of his and ended up making out with a girl there. He told me about it the next day, and said that he made the mistake of giving her his phone number, and now she wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone. He wasn’t all that interested in her, but she invited him to go bowling with her and her friends that evening and he wanted me to tag along. Well there’s nothing I like better than drinking white Russians in a bowling alley bar. [1]Where’s the money Lebowski?

Since Mike wasn’t interested in this girl, I figured she must have been a hot mess. But, she was bringing girlfriends, and ugly chicks always seem to have hot friends. So that night we drove to the bowling alley together. On the entire ride there he kept telling me that he REALLY didn’t want to date this girl. He said that she wasn’t his type, and he had a rule that he wouldn’t date ANY girl who lived in a trailer park. Silly rule, if you asked me at the time, now its number 8 on MY list.

We went inside of the bowling alley and because it was a Friday night, the joint was packed. Teenagers played video games, adult leagues bowled on the main lanes, drunks stumbled about the bar area, and the 20 something’s bowled on the secondary lanes. Mike spotted the girl from across the room, and I followed him to her.

When he introduced me, my jaw nearly hit the floor. This was the exact opposite of what I expected. This chick was a knockout from top to bottom. A thin tall blonde with large breasts, and she was even wearing glasses…one of my favorite accessories on a woman besides a ball gag. However, her 3 friends all looked like they asked people for toll money before they crossed the bridge that they lived under. We later dubbed them: The Troll Brigade. As far as the trailer chick was concerned? Other than a bit of teenage acne on her face, I didn’t see what the fuck Mike’s problem was.

Later on that night, as he drove me home, he kept insisting that he COULDN’T date a girl who lived in a trailer park. I protested and told him that he was crazy, this chick was gorgeous. I WANTED Mike to date this girl. She was fun, she was intelligent, she was just about to start college, and she wanted out of that trailer park. SURE you don’t date a chick that voluntarily MOVES into a trailer park, but she lived with her mother and was working to get out. He told me that you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl. I didn’t know it at the time, but I came to find out that Mike is wise beyond his years. Those trailer park chicks might be hella hot, but it’s like dating Kid Rock with a vagina.

Over the next week, Mike told me that the trailer chick was calling him daily. She even showed up at his house one afternoon. He felt stalked. I told him that having a hot girl pursue YOU is a rarity in life, and that he should take full advantage of it. But he said that if he fucked her, he’d never be able to get rid of her, so he ‘ducked and dodged’ as much as he could.

Finally, I got fed up with his indecision. I told him to quit being allergic to pussy, and invite her out on a date. He did, and they went to a restaurant in downtown Chicago. Mike knew where the evening was headed, so rather than take her home, he brought her over to my place to watch a movie.

During the movie, T.C. (or ‘trailer chick’) got up to use the bathroom, and Mike and I took the opportunity to whisper furiously at each other. “Why would you bring her back here!?” I asked. “Because if I took her anywhere else, I’d fuck her, and I just know I’ll never get rid of her!” he exclaimed. “So FUCK her! Do I have to stick it in FOR you?” I asked incredulously. “I don’t WANT too!” he insisted. “YOU’RE FUCKING HER!” I angrily whispered at him as T.C. came back into the room.

This was no longer a point of living vicariously through Mike, this was now a mission. What I didn’t realize in MY twenties, when I was dating the hottest chick ever, is that they don’t come around all that often. Sometimes, it’s a fucking one-shot. These good looking guys think that every chick they bang is going to be a fucking ten, and it happens less than they think. I’ll bet you, that before ‘[2]No Way Out’, Brad Pitt was fucking chubby flat chested waitresses in Oklahoma. SURE looks enter into it, but it’s not ONLY good looking girls that want to fuck you when you’re hot. Good looking chicks can pick and choose which hot guys to fuck, if an ugly chick sets her sights on you, she’s gonna dig in like she’s getting ready for trench warfare.

Shiiiiiit….I just realized…I’M an ugly chick. Fuck you self discovery.

So, knowing that Mike is Irish, I made a beer run. 2 hours later, Mike and T.C. were both drunk, and I left them to ‘talk’ in my bedroom. I was asleep in the living room when they left in the morning, but later on that day Mike called to tell me that he was going to kill me. It seems that, not only did he fuck her, but he’d received 37 texts and phone calls from her after he dropped her off. Oofa.

As the week went on, T.C. showed up at Mike’s work, she called him and left him pleading text messages asking when they would go out again. She even tried to get him to have dinner at her mother’s trailer. He was livid, and telling her that they shouldn’t see each other anymore wasn’t working at all. It seems that I’d Frankenstein’d a stalk monster, and Mike was coming after me like an angry villager. I could see that my attempt at a ‘love connection’ was a complete failure, and I finally got it through my head that Mike just wasn’t interested.

He told me that since I, using alcohol, basically DID put it in for him, it was my responsibility to get him out of it. So, ALWAYS willing to be all up in other people’s bid-nass, I invited T.C. out to try and talk some sense into her.

We met up at the bowling alley again and sat in the bar. Even though she wasn’t old enough to drink yet, I ordered myself a beer and told her that Mike JUST wasn’t ever going to be interested in her. I told her that sleeping with her was a shitty thing for him to have done (yeah, I know), and I placated her in any way I could. I comforted her as she cried and carried on like it was the end of the world. Oofa, that teen drama. After about an hour, I apologized to her again, and told her that she would have NO problem finding another man because she was so beautiful…that’s the thing about women who live in trailer parks; Nobody ever tells them that they’re beautiful, just hot, cute, or fuckable.

As the month carried on, T.C. started to seek my counsel concerning relationships. She wasn’t in one, and she said she wasn’t looking, but she started staying over at my place until 4 or 5 in the morning telling me about her past exploits with men. One of the most annoying things about teens is the fact that they talk like they aren’t JUST 19. Jesus. She would say things like ‘I’ve been through a lot in my life’, and ‘I’ve been through so much with men’. FUCK, you wanna strangle a bitch and say “ARE YOU KIDDNG ME? YOU’VE BEEN ALIVE FOR 19 YEARS, COGNICENT FOR 12 AND ABLE TO UNDERSTAND THINGS FOR MAYBE 6! YOU HAVEN’T BEEN THROUGH OR SEEN SHIT YET!” It’s frustrating, but a guy will sit through nearly any thing for a chance to play whack a mole with a hot chick’s what now.

But, to be honest with you, I never in a million years thought that this girl would be interested in me in THAT way. However, I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t want to fuck her with all the youth and stamina of a man half my age.

I told Mike that this was going on, and I told him that if I had the chance…I was going to bang her. He said if that made me happy, I should go for it. So one morning, as the sun started to creep up over the horizon, I walked T.C. to the front door. She had school in a couple of hours, and she needed to get some sleep. I don’t quite know what came over me, maybe it was that tired sense of unreasoning we get from being up all night, maybe it was the way she looked as the first darts of sunrise came through the kitchen window and lit up her golden hair like an angel, or maybe it was just ‘the moment’ that I could feel dangling in the air like a ripe apple waiting to be plucked.

You know ‘the moment’. It’s that point in time that transcends any age difference, when you’ve done NOTHING sexual with a woman, and one night, as she’s going to leave…she lingers JUST a second too long. Maybe she shuffles her foot, maybe she brushes her hair back with her hand, but as she’s standing in front of the door making uncomfortable small talk with you, it’s JUST enough time for YOU to think: “well, if she DIDN’T want me to kiss her, she would have left by now”. You reason with yourself to make a move, and make a move I did.

I leaned in and kissed her, and to my surprise she kissed me back. It was the ‘gentle’ first kiss of two people who were just getting to know one another. And after 5 minutes or so, we stumbled like people who had been up all night, to find the words to explain ourselves. She left, and I spent the rest of the day unsure of my action.

The next night, I broke my FIRST rule. Rule number ONE, the MOST important rule of them all: You NEVER, EVER, under ANY circumstance, fuck someone that a friend has fucked, no matter how much time has passed, EVEN with permission FROM that friend. This is NOT a gender specific rule, and I suggest that all who wish to lead a drama free life adopt it.

I have to tell you, the next two years found me having the best sex that I’ve ever had in my life. Each time was new, romantic, and thrilling. We did everything together, and I was that guy that a young woman finds her sexual core with. Sure she’d been with other dude’s, but it was a grope here, missionary position there and always quick. I introduced her to her first orgasm, her first multiple orgasm and I even got her to squirt…ONCE.

I don’t say that to brag, I don’t claim to be proficient in the sack and lord knows I only gave a woman a ‘dick in’ orgasm once, and that was because she was playing with herself while I was inside of her. But, I was the first person to lick T.C.’s twat, and THAT I am good at. I only tell you this to illustrate the fact that I woke a sleeping giant.

Those first few months were filled with sexually charged energy. It seemed that we couldn’t get enough of each other’s company, and even though I’m older, and should know better…I fell in love.

Mike started dating an awesome girl, but because of his…dislike of T.C., I saw less and less of him as the months went by. It was frustrating because I like the ‘double date’, but because Mike told his new girl of T.C.’s ‘stalky’ tendencies months earlier, WITHOUT telling her that he banged her (a secret I STILL keep for him to this day) she wanted nothing to do with her as well. DrAaAaAaMa!

During my field trip to the young twattery, I was living with another friend of mine…John. John had bought a house earlier in the year, and circumstances soon found me renting a room from him. Since he was an alcoholic, John was either at work making money so he could go out drinking, or he was out drinking. He was rarely home, which is probably why we got along so well as roommates. So because we had the privacy and because of her dislike of the trailer, T.C. spent many a night at my place.

I was only supposed to stay at John’s for a few months while I saved money to get another apartment. However, after I started dating T.C., you could forget about me saving money. I’d never dated anyone that much younger than me, so I did what I thought I needed to in order to make her happy and fell down a hole that MANY an older gentleman has fallen down while dating a younger chick. We went out to dinner all of the time, we saw movies, went to roller rinks, bowled, and I bought her expensive gifts including a pair of sugar gliders with a cage and everything you need to make them comfortable, for her birthday, simply because she saw some on TV and said they were cute. I think a fucking diamond tiara would have been cheaper.

Part of my payment for John letting me stay there, was that I had to drive him to work every weekday morning at 5 AM. It was about an hour drive to his job, and one particular December morning, I decided to go into work myself right after I drove him. Usually I’d drop him off, and then drive an hour back to the house for some nice loud morning sex with T.C. However, she hadn’t stayed over the night before, so I just said fuck it and went into work early. That turned out to be a HUGE mistake.

When I got back to Johns that evening at about 530, I didn’t quite know what the fuck was going on. I could see a mess of shit from inside the house on the curb, some mine and some Johns. My first thought was that John had thrown me out, but I couldn’t quite wrap my head around that because we hadn’t argued or anything when I drove him to work that morning. When I saw some of John’s things out there as well, I thought that this had to be a prank. Then I went to go into the house and saw the eviction notice on the door. WTF?

The neighbor’s kid who always mowed our lawn came over and told me what happened. He said that the Sherriff’s police had been to the house at around 7 AM, and threw everything out on the curb. Throughout the day, everyone in the neighborhood had come by and taken stuff from the pile. Everything I owned was gone, except my bed. I was stunned. John had NEVER told me that he was on the verge of eviction. But apparently he had been spending all of the money he made, AND the money that I’d given him on booze. Now THAT’S a good alcoholic.

These fucking white people who posed as good Christians, the kind who call the cops if the music is too loud because it offends the sensibilities of what society has deemed acceptable to the pallet of good, clean, honest, hard working Americans…had stolen everything I owned including my pets, my ball gag collection, AND my Thunder Spank magazines. FUCK white people.

EVERYTHING was gone: my autographed comic books, drawings that I had made since 5th grade, my writing, my TV, my computer, and all of my clothes. I was back to square fucking one in life. Everything that I’d accumulated over the years was taken. I felt violated, I was angry, and I didn’t know what to do. All I could think was that if I’d just gone home instead of to work, I might have been able to save my stuff. That night I parked my truck in the parking lot of my job and slept, prone, in the front seat.

The next day I told T.C. about what had happened. I was homeless and more than anything else, I was fucking ashamed. My only saving grace was that I, at least, still had a job. So, instead of saving money like I should have, I started renting hotel rooms whenever she and I were together. I couldn’t stay at her place, and I couldn’t afford a hotel every night, so when she had to work or study for school, I just slept in my truck.

Soon after I found myself amongst the structurally deprived, T.C. cheated on me…the first time. I was lost, and she was the only thing keeping me sane at the time. Without her, I felt like my last semblance of sanity was slipping away. It’s one thing to be homeless; it’s a WHOLE other thing to be homeless and alone. I convinced her to take me back, but things were always different after that. There were things that I never really saw because I was so caught up in my own shame. T.C. had never really gotten over Mike, and even though our time together was amazing, I always felt that in the back of my mind.

After I caught her cheating on me the second time, Mike could see that I was devastated and invited me out to dinner to try and cheer me up. While we were at one of our favorite restaurants, he told me that he wanted to show me something that was pretty horrible. He said that I wasn’t going to like it all, but he felt I NEEDED to see it in order to move on. Mike proceeded to show me a series of text messages that he had saved on his phone.

Apparently, on that past Saturday, T.C. had sent Mike some messages NOT only proclaiming her love for him, but mother fucking me in the process. What T.C. didn’t know, was that Mike had been at a bar with his girlfriend at the time, and the TWO of them decided to fuck with her. So, WHILE T.C. was spewing and gushing her heart out, Mike and Jess were instigating her to continue by making her think that he might fuck her. I just pictured Mike and his girlfriend laughing together like the couple in that [3]Tom and Jerry cartoon, when Tom has to go to that island to relax, and the people in the room next door are just laughing and carrying on the whole time. To be honest with you? I kind of felt bad for her. It was like I had a case of pussy Stockholm syndrome.

I confronted her and made her feel like a piece of shit by telling her the truth behind her textual outburst with Mike, and then I took her back…again. After about a year of living like an asshole in the name of love, I finally got my shit together and got an apartment. T.C. moved in briefly and cheated on me a third time…and then a fourth. She finally left me back in February, under false pretenses claiming that it was my fault, when in reality she just wanted to fuck another guy. Whatever. I’m straight now. Since I have my own place and a more stable situation in life, my confidence is finally up to where I don’t need her shit. The IRONY of that is that because of my new found confidence and ‘I don’t give a shit about you’ attitude….NOW she wants to cheat on her current boyfriend with ME. Fucking young chicks. Oofa.

Recently, Mike told me that the reason he hadn’t seen me much over the past year was because he kind of felt odd about my situation with T.C. In a way that men don’t like to admit, he was a little pissed that I banged her. He KNOWS that he shouldn’t feel that way because I did everything that a man is SUPPOSED to do in that situation. I asked permission and I did nothing behind his back. However, THIS is the reason why rule number 1 is in place. Sometimes we can’t help the way we feel; even when we know it’s wrong. Like me being in love with T.C. I’m glad that Mike confronted me with that, and his honesty was not only brave, but it made me feel closer to him as a friend. Even though he constantly reminds me NOW of the SECOND reason that rule number one exists: Because I don’t wanna hear the ‘how does my dick taste’ jokes. Anyway, after T.C. left, I made it my mission to find a decent woman. However, because of a D.U.I. that I incurred while living at John’s place I won’t go to bars anymore. I find that drinking and driving now, makes me more nervous that [4]Upton Sinclair at a steak house. So I’ve been doing the internet fandango for the past 8 months.

The problem has been that every time I’ve started getting a good vibe from a girl, T.C. ends up popping back up and wanting to fuck. After all, I’m only a gentleman…how can I refuse the request of a lady? That is, until this past Sweetest day.

I’d started talking to the yoga instructor a few weeks ago online and then on the phone. We had JUST made plans to go on a date this Halloween, when I got a text from T.C. “Happy Sweetest Day” she blathered. I hadn’t heard from her in a few weeks, and my life had trundled on just fine. I’d been talking to a girl who I was very excited to meet, now…with ONE fucking text, I started to doubt myself again. See as a guy, you have to make the decision; do I take my chances with NEW pussy, or do I go with pussy that I know I already like? Yes, we’re stupid like that.

Well, she soon took the decision out of my hands. “How have you been? I was just driving over to my new boyfriends place, and I thought I’d stop over to see you when I leave” What the fuck makes you women think that we want to hear something like that? ‘My new boyfriend’? Fuck you. NOW I gotta sit here and think about some beefy construction worker sticking his filthy pethis inside of her and drilling her like a Texas Oil rig RIGHT before she wants me to go twelve rounds with her who ha. I text her back and said “look, it’s nice to hear from you, but ‘how have you been’ conversations lead to YOU talking about your new man. I don’t wanna deal. Have a nice life.” I was polite, right? Well, after that I got the most hateful fucking texts from her all weekend long. I didn’t respond because I KNOW she’s only trying to get a reaction out of me, but I have to say; you bitches is crazy!

So, with T.C. finally off of my mind, I put all of my effort into my Halloween date. The Yoga instructor and I were going to meet a bar, and because I won’t drive drunk but KNOW I’ll need to drink when meeting an internet date, Mike and his girlfriend agreed to give me a lift. Before I dive in to my own inadequacies ON this date, let me tell you about my pre-date stress induced spiral into low self esteem hell. I, like most of you, consider myself to be something of an individual. I don’t submit to some of the more standard societal doctrines of political correctness, piety, and general skullduggery (yeah, I said it, I’m bringin’ it back). Now this doesn’t mean that I’m some performance artist who wipes self filled diapers on a canvas, I’m not some dick knob who brings 37 boxes of pudding pops into the 10 items or less lane at the supermarket, and I don’t give myself a scrotal cancer exam in the buffet line. What it DOES mean is that I’m my OWN kind of asshole.

Imagine a guy who lives on his own, a requisite bachelor, if you must. He has his own apartment, he’s clean, he has a steady job, he’s an excellent cook, he has a big screen T.V., a PS3, and a couch that’s so big you could land a fucking Boeing Double Body jumbo jet on it. PLUS, his bank account isn’t more overdrawn than M.C. Escher’s doodle pad. Not too bad right?Wrong. I also have a dog that greets people by doing a cannonball into their crotchal area and Star Wars curtains because THIS shithole apartment has more windows than my LAST shithole apartment, so I ran out of drapes and had to pull these out of a dusty old box from 1975. I’ve been here TWO years now. How unbelievably lazy am I that I can’t go down to the B, B, and B and just drape this bitch? Plus, I masturbate so much that I could have filled the warehouse at the end of ‘Raiders’ with oil drums full of sperm. If I haven’t painted a good enough picture of myself, since I haven’t had an interesting interaction with a woman since T.C. left, getting me to take a shower these days, is about as likely as getting your fucking cat to swim the English Channel.

Now that I have a place of my own, I’m pretty fine with how I live. I don’t answer to anybody, I watch what I want, I eat what I want, I don’t have to listen to the shrieking cacophony of a menstruating woman, and I don’t have to have a Vietnamese ‘rat’ tunnel dug into the side of a hill to stash my ‘Washington National Archives’ sized porn collection in. However, when you meet a new woman, especially one who’s obviously better than you…you start to question your lifestyle choices. When the yoga instructor and I began chatting a few weeks ago, I found myself impressed by her intelligence. I found her to be engrossing, charming, and ambitious. After some playful ‘you first’ talk, we exchanged photo’s. Now, on this point, I will admit to a bit of cheating.

I sent her pictures of me that are so old; you can see ‘[5]Manimal’ playing on the T.V. in the background. Then she sent me pictures of a woman SO attractive that I literally had to study them like a Hasidic diamond merchant looking for flaws in a freshly cut diamond. Well, I told her flat out that she was so far out of my league that she being seen in public with me would be about as appropriate as framing a fart, and putting it on display at the Louvre. So, just to avoid the ‘Oh no’ look that I’ve encountered on women’s faces when meeting them for a blind date; I sent her the real deal. A full on body, and head shot. Then SHE asked ME out. I immediately started running scenarios through my mind. We have a lot in common, AND she’s a fucking knockout to boot. My luck is NOT this good.

Maybe she’s actually a guy in the Russian Mafia and when I go to meet, what I think will be a woman, he’ll sap me over the head and take my car. OR, maybe she’s in a sorority, and part of her ‘hell week’ is that she has to do a treasure hunt. Y’know? She has to find the bumper for an 87 Capri, a green wig, and go on a date with a fat, vulgar, ignoramus who’s 10 years her senior. OR, it was one of those things that cops do to get YOU to come to THEM when you owe a bunch of money on tickets. Whatever, I played the game and we made a date. Now, I’ve gone on a lot of dates. Usually after meeting someone at the mall, or through a friend, or at work. The point being, that ‘How does he look’ is not the foremost question on her mind. So this is a new experience for me. I know that if she sees me and heads for ZE hills, I’ll have to take it on the chin and get right back up on the social pummel bar.

I would normally NEVER put this kind of pressure on myself, but I actually wanted to impress this girl. I don’t have any delusions as to what it is. I have no wants or expectations, at this point; my only hope is that she doesn’t bolt for the door like Rosie O’Donnell when she hears the ice cream man driving by. I don’t know if women know this, but men will go OVER board when they want to impress you. Keeping in mind that I have NO expectations, I went out and bought gum, binaca, Listerine, a new wash cloth, fucking baby wipes to make SURE my ass was clean, took my car to the car wash, which I haven’t done since Clinton was in office, I scrubbed my apartment down like a Hispanic maid, washed my dog, spot cleaned the clouds above my neighborhood, vacuumed the planets in my solar system, and dusted the corners of the milky way galaxy for cobwebs. Overboard. I pretty much prepared for EVERY scenario. So unless her face split in two and revealed a flaming skull…wait…actually I bought a fire extinguisher for that one too.

Date night came. I get home, hosed myself down like Stallone in ‘Rambo’, and danced around my apartment listening to the ‘Rocky’ soundtrack to pump myself up. Yes, Sly is a big part of my pre-vaginal ceremony. I even wrote out individual discussion threads on 3x5 cards in case I got stuck. I was bringing crib notes to a date. SUCHafuckingloser.

Mike drove me to the bar, and tried to calm me down. Because I’m a romantic at heart, after the date was over, I completely romanticized its content. I really can’t tell you how it was on her end, and out of respect, I won’t speculate. But even though I know that this will come off as being more pretentious than the diary of a fifteen year old girl on her first trip to Paris, here’s a novelized version of the date from my point of view. Also, what would a romance novel be without a cover? Enjoy:

"The Gentleman Wore Pants"

“The sky was covered in a dark cloak of deep clouds. Like a special effect in a black and white horror movie, foreboding. If it was an indication of how the night would proceed, my thoughts filled with terror. But, for Halloween eve, the scene played perfectly to a captured audience.

Sitting in the restaurant, my anticipation was visible. I stood at the end of the bar by the door waiting for her. Left foot on the brass kicker, my leg shook like a frightened dog. I ordered a shot to calm my nerves and immediately regretted slamming it down. Christ, what if I got drunk before she showed? A thousand scenarios flashed across my consciousness. What if I said something stupid? What if I began to sweat? What if….

And then the door opened. The cool night air rushed in to greet me like a slow dance. I purposely didn’t look up, giving myself a brief reprieve from my own hangman’s noose. She entered the doorway, outlined with red velvet curtains. My heart stood still and all of those feelings of dread were washed away like water leaving a clean swept beach. A slow motion moment. Time stood still and I ravenously drank in what I saw like a man dying of thirst.

Imagine that you lived in darkness your entire life and the sun suddenly appeared in front of you. Do you fear it? Do you worship it? Do you bask in its glow? She possessed the kind of beauty that one only reads about in renaissance love sonnets. She owned it and carried it like she knew it. Her clothes hung off of her perfect frame, hiding the body underneath like a treasure chest at the oceans bottom. Her confidence overflowed like wine pouring from a bottomless cravat. A lump formed in my throat and terror filled my mind with the thought that I might not be able to speak. She approached me with the walk of Aphrodite descending the steps of Mt. Olympus. No fear, would she see mine?

It didn’t matter as I was instantly put at ease by the sound of her voice. It hypnotized me and I found myself feeding off of her self confidence like a hungry vampire. Everything she said was interesting. We ordered a drink and asked for a table.

As we walked down the corridor from the bar to the restaurant, I watched as women looked at her with disdain. Men, heads down, trying not to be noticed by their prospective dates, glanced up with a look of shame and lust. She drew these glances to her like a Venus Fly Trap draws in its prey. Watching her do this, with no effort, was a sight to behold.

As we were sat in the darkened room, lit by candles and gold lights, my eyes were drawn to the way her hair sat on her shoulders. Hiding just enough of her neck to make me want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted. The candlelight drifted in and out of her eyes as if it didn’t know how to compete for the natural brilliance in them. My soul entered those eyes and even now has not found a way out. Like in a dream, where one comes upon doors that won’t open, or drawers that won’t shut, trapped in a feeling of sexual longing. What must it be like to look into those eyes while making love? I had a feeling that the way she looked was not intentional. That’s just the way the universe put her together. A perfect shade of unyielding beauty.

We talked for hours, flippantly ordering appetizers, dancing around painful subjects, laughing at each other’s jokes, the night drifted by like a satin bed-sheet blown from a rooftop clothesline on a windy day. After hours of flirtatious talk she told me that she needed to leave, that she had things to do in the morning. But we both agreed that our first date had been a complete success and made plans for a second. I offered to walk her out to her car, and as I did, we could both feel the tension mounting. We knew what we wanted, but things like 'decency' and 'propriety' stood in our way. She offered me her hand and leaned in to kiss my cheek...as I reached around to give her hug, we were briefly caught in a moment of time. A split second that lasted for hours...

Her lips brushed past my cheek and her warm breath glazed my neck sending goose bumps crawling up my arm. The hairs on my neck reached out and stretched as if awakening from a long nap. My hand lightly made its way up from the small of her back to the nape of her neck, and as she leaned away, our eyes locked. We saw so many things in that look…acceptance of what was to come; longing for what was to come, anticipation of what was to come…we told ‘decency’ and propriety to go fuck themselves and kissed. Gentle, at first, not sure how the other liked to be kissed. It was the shy exchange of a first embrace. But then as our breath quickened and our bodies warmed and the world evaporated around us like icicles hanging from the eaves of a burning house, our passion took over our thought and our kiss became, not the awkward first kiss of fledgling lovers, but the passionate kiss of two lost souls.

She left me with a desire for her that would make Poe envious. When I look up at the night sky, I find myself seeing her silhouette painted in the stars. How does one release the image of that body? Of that smile? Will there be a second date? A third? Time will tell. What I do know is this: One can FEAR the sun, one can WORSHIP the sun, but one can never HOLD the sun. “

Yeah, I know, it’s gay but like [6]Hemmingway said…A writer writes.

So, after all that fuss I put myself through, I actually had a great time. It turned out that she was as charming in person as she was on the internet, and even more beautiful than the pictures she had sent. I found her to be disarming and charismatic. We carried on a conversation that, I’m proud to say, was both relaxed and informative. Whatta woman. We ate; we laughed, we kissed and we genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.

And at the end of the day what else can we ask for? A pleasant exchange of ideas, thoughts, hopes and dreams. There’s a ton of people in this world for us to date, and occasionally we’ll get lucky and find one that isn’t a filthy godless who-er like my ex T.C. Some chicks, hell MOST chicks thrive on drama, but that’s not what it’s about for me. I’ll have to wait and see where things go with the yoga instructor, and who knows? I may have to make up another rule after seeing her a few times. But at least I know that I’ve learned something about myself with each woman I date. Sometimes it takes me a little while longer to realize just what the fuck that is, but if I keep chipping away at the stone, eventually I’ll come up with a [7]David. (And, I meant that metaphorically…I’m not gay…not that there’s anything wrong with that.) End

[1] The Big Lebowski is a 1998 film which was written and directed by the Coen brothers. Jeff Bridges stars as Jeff Lebowski, an unemployed Los Angeles and avid bowler, who is referred to (and also refers to himself) as "The Dude". I don’t even know where to begin to tell you all the reasons WHY you AND many shitty directors out there should see this flick. The writing is amazing, the cinematography is amazing, Steve Buscemi and John Goodman are amazing, and Jeff fucking Bridges is amazing as always. I can guarantee you TWO things that will happen to you after you see this flick; 1. You will have an incredible desire to have a white Russian, and 2. You will play ‘What Condition My Condition Was In’ by Kenny Rogers EVERY time you see a juke box in a bar. And don’t just rent it, buy it cause it’s one of those movies that you’ll want to see over and over again like ‘The Godfather II’ or ‘Aurora Snow’s Head Down Ass Up #52’

[2] No Way Out is a 1987 movie about a U.S. Naval officer investigating a murder in Washington D.C. The film stars Kevin Costner, Gene Hackman, and Sean Young who was quite the piece of ass in her day. I remember seeing this flick in the theatre, and even though I didn’t yet know shit about movies, I loved the intrigue that Costner and Hackman provoked. Although he only appeared for several seconds as a naval officer laughing at a party, this was the first movie that Brad Pitt was ever in. [3] I’ve looked EVERY fucking where, but I can’t find anything that confirms this episode of Tom and Jerry exists. I have a vague memory of it from when I was a kid. Tom is told that he needs a break from the stress of trying to catch Jerry, so he goes on a vacation to an island or something. In the room right next to his, the man and woman are carrying on and laughing the whole time. You never see them, but every time Tom tries to stop them, they thwart his efforts and continue laughing hysterically. At the end, you find out that the neighboring vacationers are the psychiatrist who told Tom to take a break and his wife. I know this wasn’t a Tex Avery episode because the animation was less fluid, but can anyone out there confirm that this episode exists and prove that I’m not imagining it?

[4] Upton Sinclair, Jr. (10/20/1878 – 11/25/1968), was a Pulitzer Prize winning author who wrote over 90 books including The Jungle which exposed conditions in the meat packing industry. Sinclair actually went undercover in Chicago in order to make his book more authentic. His intention was to simply lampoon a capitalist enterprise, but what he did was bring domestic and foreign sales of American meat to its fucking knees. And if you read the book, you’ll see why. This is some of the nastiest shit I’ve ever read and what makes it even nastier is knowing that it’s all true. Let me tell you something, if you’re THINKING about becoming a vegetarian and just need a little push? This book’ll have you eating nothing but celery for the rest of your life. The book was SO nasty, that it forced the government to put into effect the Pure Food and Drug Act AND the Meat Inspection Act not even a year after it was published in 1906. Thank you Chicago. [5] Manimal was a shitty show that ran for only 8 episodes from Sept 1983 to Dec 1983. It was an hour long action show on NBC that had the AUDACITY to run against Dallas back when people actually watched CBS. The show was about a dude who could shape shift into any animal he chose, and would use this power to help the police solve crimes. Oofa. The special effects were as bad as you can get and even though the opening narration promised that Dr. Jonathon Chase could turn into ANY animal…he ONLY turned into a hawk or a panther in nearly every one. Although the creator of the show Glen A. Larson worked on some of my favorite shows as a kid (The Fall Guy, Automan, Knight Rider, Magnum P.I., Buck Rogers, and the list goes on and on) He really took a shit on my TV set with this one.

[6] The most quotable alcoholic writer to ever put pen to paper…next to Oscar Wilde of course

[7] The Statue of David is a masterpiece of Renaissance sculpture created by Michelangelo between 1501 and 1504. Whereas most sculptors of the time depicted David after his biblical battle with Goliath, Michelangelo’s marble rendition showed him, ready for battle, before the fight. Nekkid as the day he was born, David looks off into the distance with a ‘yeah, mother fucker? Bring it.’ expression on his face. You gotta respect a man who can fight nekkid, especially when they fight a giant. Oofa.

Getcher Pussy Off My Foot

2011-04-15T03:38:00.001-05:00

Blu

Today I took my dog Blu to the lake behind my apartment. I’ve lived in this apartment for almost three years now, and although my place is small, it offers a great view. I have a walk up balcony on the second floor of my building, and from it you can see a spacious yard which is enclosed on 3 sides by other buildings. The fourth side of the yard ends at a fence. Just beyond the fence there’s a stream. On the other side of the stream is a path that goes around a lake. All told the lake is about 100 feet from my balcony. You can hear the ducks out there in the early morning, you can see the sun glistening off of the shimmering water in the afternoon, and in the wintertime you can see families ice skating on it like a Norman Rockwell painting. For all of these reasons, I find it hard to move on to a bigger apartment.

Because the stream cuts a long jagged path through my city, the only way to get to the lake is to drive about 2 miles in a circle around my neighborhood. Because of this, I’ve never actually GONE to the lake...until last week. Usually I take Blu to a forest preserve that’s 25 miles from my place. But last weekend my car was at the mechanics, so I figured we’d FINALLY give this place a shot, and it was great. First of all, there was nobody there but us. I don’t usually like going outside because I eventually have to interact with other human beings…and let’s be honest here, most of you are assholes. So I was pretty stoked to find no cars in the parking lot when we arrived. There were woodchip paths that took us through thick groves of beautiful trees, there were benches set up along the shoreline, and there was even a long wooden bridge with no rails that snaked through the marsh land on one side. I can’t wait to walk around this place after a fresh snow fall.

Today’s trip to Lake Pleasant ended a bit differently than last weekend however. Remember how I called you all assholes before? Well, I wasn’t the only person there this time, and society didn’t let my view of it down. Usually I listen to Howard Stern on my headphones when I take Blu to the forest preserve so I can drown out the annoying sounds of wind rustling through trees, dickheaded birds cawing at one another, and distant, muffled, selfish cries for ‘help’ that always make me feel like a pussy for not responding too. But this morning I didn’t. I can’t help but think that maybe if I did? Things would have gone down a bit differently. As it turned out, my day consisted of violating someone’s civil rights in a way I never thought I would, and an afternoon visit from the police. But that’s a story for the end of this blog.

Dogs in general have played an integral role in my development as an asshole, and today’s Lake Pleasant debacle is the impetus for the stories I’m about to unfold. I’ve had many dogs in my life, but what I’ve noticed is that most of the articles you read concerning man’s best friend tell you of the smart Golden Retriever who dialed 911 when his owner had a heart attack, or the brave Alaskan Husky that pulled a man out of a burning plane wreck, or even the fearless German Shepherd who saved a baby from a nuclear explosion. But, what about the dumb ones?

Well, I’m going to tell you about some of the exploits I’ve had as a dog owner, and as you may know from reading some of my other rants, THIS one is unlikely to be turned into a Disney movie. These aren’t stories of evil dogs who bite children, or dogs that helped the Nazi’s round up Jews, or even tales of Scooby Doo’s dickhead hillbilly cousin who wore that fucking hat, but REAL stories of the dogs in my life. Stories that tell you how, much like humans, dogs can be assholes too.

Don’t get me wrong here, I love dogs. Duh, who doesn’t right? Well, maybe Ellen…and Paris Hilton…OOH! And Mel Gibson…betcha he hates dogs. But I fucking love ‘em. I’ve had dogs my entire life, starting with a black schnauzer named ‘Pepper’ when I was a kid. Growing up, I always had the kind of dog that my mother wanted: schnauzers, poodles, Pomeranians. You’d think that with that kind of animal influence as a child, I might have grown up a little gay. Well, I DO like to look at the occasional penis, but I DON’T have a desire to touch one. Sue me.

The kid from Witness and Pepper

The sad thing was that as soon as I would really begin to bond with whatever gay dog my mother had gotten us, she’d give it away. First, there was Pepper, she was given away on my 7th birthday because we were going to move and my mother thought it would be easier to find an apartment if we didn’t have a dog. The irony of that was we were the only people without a dog in the apartment building we moved into. There was the poodle named ‘Cammie’. One day she ran away and when the animal welfare called us to say they had found her, my mother wouldn’t pay the 25 dollar fee to get her out of the kennel. We had a Rottweiler named ‘Maddie’ that my mother gave away while I was in Florida one summer because she was pregnant and mom didn’t want to deal with puppies. There was the Pomeranian named ‘Twig’ that she gave to a co-worker for no particular reason. There was Bacchus the Dachshund, given to another family while I was in school because her bark sounded weird. And finally there was mom’s last dog: a poodle named ‘Princess’. (How original)

Princess: The Gayest Dog Ever

Princess was my mother’s favorite and she was there until the bitter end. When my mother got the Cancer and had to go live in a Hospice, I kept Princess around so that I could bring her there to lift mom’s spirits. To be honest with you, at that age I didn’t really have much need of a fucking poodle. I always felt weird walking this incredibly gay dog, who wore a pink bandana around her neck, through the neighborhood. I probably didn’t help things by wearing a matching bandana and pink shorty shorts, but that’s a manly look on its own! Right? RIGHT?

Even though my mother wasn’t THAT old, the other people in the hospice were. Her roommate, Gladys was about 97 and she loved getting a visit from Princess just as much as my mother did.

One day, I took Princess to the groomers to get her that fresh clean pompous look that poodles should have. This place was the doggy equivalent of ‘Glamour Shots’ and they were the ones who got Princess accustomed to wearing that fucking pink bandana. After the groomer was sure that I would look like a complete homo with her, I brought Princess to the hospice to visit my mother. I carried her in, as I always did, so that the old people could pet her and coo at her as we walked to my mother’s room. When we got there, mom and her roommate were watching TV. I closed the door behind me and set Princess down on the floor. She immediately ran up to my mother who doted on her with love, affection, and a treat. Gladys shuffled over to where Princess was and leaned down to pet her. As she did, her glass eye fell out of her head, hit the floor with a loud ‘CLINK’, and began to roll away. Princess, thinking that the eyeball was a toy, immediately began to chase after it.

I stood there with a look of stark terror on my face. My first thought was that Gladys’ REAL eye had fallen out of her head. I didn’t know she HAD a glass eye. As the eyeball rolled towards my feet, Princess snatched it up off the ground and began prancing around the room and shaking her head back and forth like an alligator with a chicken in its maw. MY next reaction was to dry heave. I STILL thought the eyeball was real, and I had just watched a dog pick it up off the ground and play with it. This was some Hannibal Lector shit right here.

Being as old as she was, Gladys didn’t even realize that her eyeball had fallen out at first, but my mother kept calling Princess to her. This only made Princess think she was being played with, which made her run around more, while dropping the eye and chasing after it as it rolled around on the floor like a gay white soccer player. My mother, not being able to get around very well because of her condition, told me to get Gladys’s eye. “I’m not touchin’ that thing, call a nurse”. I told her wide eyed and still in shock. “It’s a GLASS eye Michael” she said, talking down to me as if I were still a child.

Fuck that, I thought. That thing was inside of a human beings skull. But I did as I was asked and gave Gladys back her eye. She didn’t even wash it off before popping it back into her head. As she came up to thank me, I could SEE drool and dog hair on that Sammy Davis Jr. eye as it stared out at me. After that event, I never put Princess on the floor in that Hospice.

After my mother passed, I vowed that I would never be put into a situation where I would lose a dog again. I gave Princess away to the groomer because I knew she would be better suited to take care of a poodle. I liked Princess, but she really wasn’t MY dog. I sold my mother’s condo and got an apartment that allowed pets. After doing research for a few months, I decided that I would get the dog that I always wanted: a Bloodhound. I found a woman in Indiana who bred this type of dog, and when a new litter was born, she invited me over to pick out the one I wanted. They were ALL so fucking cute, but one was even more adorable than the rest. Most bloodhounds are black and tan, but this one was a very unique rust color with NO black. The breeder told me that a bloodhound of this particular color is only born MAYBE once in 5 or 6 generations. She was a hundred dollars more than the rest, but she was beautiful, so I paid.

Because she was a new born when I picked her out, I had to wait several weeks before I could take her home. During that time, I thought long and hard about a name for my new companion. Because I’m a huge Elvis fan, I wanted to give her a unique name, and one that had meaning to me. I couldn’t very well name her Elvis because she was a bitch. Pricilla seemed too gay…so I decided on ‘Presley’. I bought everything I’d need for a new dog: Collar with a name tag, food and water bowls, toys, leashes, and a cage for her when I was at work. I was finally going to have a manly dog, and I wanted my first stint at LONE dog ownership to go well.

Presley

Presley was fantastic. As she grew, I started going to dog training classes with her at the park district, and eventually I paid a woman 600 bucks to train her properly for 2 weeks. I don’t know what that chick did, but when I got Presley back? She was the most well behaved dog I’d ever seen. She walked right next to me when we went out, she rarely had accidents in the house, and if a kid came up to her? She sat her ass right on the ground and let that kid pet her. Her one problem was that she was always incredibly protective of her food dish. That was a big problem.

My friend Action Jim worked as the book keeper at a restaurant and one afternoon he called to tell me that a waitress was giving away kittens. He told me that he was keeping one, and asked if I’d like one. Since Presley had always gotten along with other animals, I thought having a cat around the house to keep her company while I was at work would be a good idea. I went over to Jim’s place of business and picked up a kitten. On the way home, I stopped and got the cat food, dishes, toys, and litter box.

DIS-gusting

I should tell you here, that I fucking hate cats. Every time I’ve helped cat owners move there’s a disgusting amount of cat hair and poop under their couches. People who OWN cats, smell like fucking cats, and don’t even TRY to own any black clothes if you have a cat because you become a fucking human lint roller. I simply got the cat so that my dog wouldn’t be lonely when I was at work.

When I got home, I set the kitty on the floor, and cautiously let Presley out of her cage, holding her by the collar as she walked up to sniff it. She seemed to like the kitten very much. She even laid down next to it and let it snuggle against her. It was so fucking sweet I thought I would become a diabetic just watching. I had left the cat food down in the car, so I ran down to grab it, leaving Presley and the kitty lying on the floor together. THAT turned out to be a huge mistake.

I was gone for all of 40 seconds, and when I came back into the apartment…there was blood and fur all over my kitchen floor. Apparently the kitten had gone sniffing around Presley’s food dish…aaaaaand Presley ate it. I totally FREAKED out. I was frightened because I thought that if a dog tasted blood, you had to put it down. I didn’t wanna put my fucking dog down, but at the same time I figured this wasn’t something I could hide! What if the next time a kid came up to her, she bit his face off? Plus I couldn’t believe that a cute ass kitten was just EATEN in my apartment! I basically FED my dog a cat! I might not LIKE cats, but shit, I didn’t get it as a Scooby snack for Presley.

I called the vet, and excitedly told him what had happened. “DO WE HAVE PUT HER DOWN?” I asked him almost in tears. There was a long pause….”Mike, calm the fuck down. Dogs have been killing cats since the dawn of time. Haven’t you ever seen ‘Tom and Jerry’? Just give her a bath, clean the blood out of her mouth, and take her for a nice long walk. She’s probably going to have to shit a kitten in a little while.”

Presley's Dad

Well, that was a relief, but I never tried to get another pet after that. Presley’s only interaction with other dogs was when I would take her out to Indiana to visit her mother, father, and siblings at the breeder’s house. The breeder had a dog run, and Presley loved visiting with her family there.

Over the 3 years that Presley lived with me, my friends came to love her as well. We would often all go out to different forest preserves with her, and she was a welcome addition to any party that I threw. She had quirks as any dog may have, but I loved her even if she drove me crazy sometimes. I think that everyone who’s owned a bloodhound will agree with me that, because of their loose skin, they can be the cutest god damned dogs to pet. However, they are also about the droolinest mother fuckers on the planet. Every time Presley would drink from her water bowl, she’d shake her head back and forth sending streams of drool flying all over my apartment and anyone in it. Although THIS happened daily, there were mishaps that were just as disgusting, but happened less frequently.

One night I locked Presley up in her cage while I went out on a date with a particularly beautiful secretary. As the evening progressed and it seemed that we were hitting it off, SHE asked me if we could go back to my place and watch a movie. First date? Back to my place? Uh, oh! Mikesgonnagetsomepussy! I didn’t eat a lot, partly for the leftovers I could bring home to Presley, and partly because I hate fucking on a full stomach. After a few more drinks, I convinced her to tell me some juicy secrets about her boss, and then we went back to my place. I turned the key in the knob, pushed open the door, and my date immediately threw up all over my back.

It seemed that Presley had a bit of the doggy diarrhea, and had sprayed shit all over her cage, all over the wall next to her cage, all over the floor around her cage, on the dust particles floating in the air, and had herself, rolled around in her mess after doing it. The smell was so terrifying, so extreme, that it made my date puke up the dinner I had just bought her. I was more offended that she just wasted my 20 dollar meal, than the fact that it was all over my back. Obviously she went home, and obviously I never heard from her again, but hell…having a dog is like having a kid, only you don’t have to pay to put it through private school…wait…I DID put her in a private school. Shit, there really is NO difference between having a kid and having a dog is there? Well, I guess there’s one…a kid would NEVER do what I’m about to tell you next.

A few nights after the diarrhea incident, while I was drying my hair after a nice long hot shower, I felt a slight tingle on my nut sack. I don’t know why, but when a woman licks your balls, it’s a better feeling than penile insertion. For a SPLIT second, my mind enjoyed that feeling, until it realized that there was no woman in my apartment. I removed the towel from my head and saw Presley looking up at me and licking her chops. She had just licked water off my scrote! AHHHHHHHHH! Much like in the situation with the kitty, I freaked out. Did this make me like one of those creepy British guys who ‘make’s love’ to their horse? I could come to grips with it if it had JUST been an accident and I quickly shooed Presley away RIGHT after she did it. But there was that SPLIT second where I enjoyed it! Sure I didn’t comprehend what was happening, but what were the philosophical repercussions of enjoyment garnered from a doggy ball lick? Like with the kitty…I once again called my vet. “Doc! Presley just licked my balls while I was coming out of the shower…and I liked it! What do I do?” I screamed at him frantically. He let out a long sigh and said “PLEASE stop calling me at home. It’s 2A.M. How did you get this number anyway?”

I told him that I was dating his secretary until she threw up on my back, but that wasn’t important right now! He hung up on me and changed his number…AND his secretary.

Presley was a great dog, but unfortunately after 3 years of being together, it was time for me to get a nicer apartment. Because my lease came up before I found another one, I ended up moving in with Action Jim while I looked. Presley went to stay with her family on the breeder’s farm while I continued my search for a nicer place for both of us.

Action Jim with ANY animal

Unfortunately, there are some people on this planet who should NOT have pets. Action Jim is one of these people. Jim LOVES animals, but he only understands that they’re cute and cuddly…NOT that they need to eat and shit occasionally. His affection towards animals always reminded me of that Daffy Duck cartoon where the monster would give Daffy a big bear hug and say: “I will love him and pet him and squeeze him and call him George”. It’s like Jim morphs into a retard around animals.

Well, Jim still had the cat that the waitress had given to him, and when I moved into his apartment…I was stunned beyond belief. Action Jim was being VERY kind by letting me crash with him, but if I had a choice to have been anywhere else in the world, I would have. This place smelled like 30 football players who ate nothing but asparagus and Gatorade pissed over every square inch of a slaughterhouse that was dipped in bleach. You could smell it as you crept up the stairs to get to his door like something lingering behind a corner waiting to jump out and get you. The minute you came into contact with that smell, your eyes would immediately start to water and your nose would say “Fuck this” and walk off of your face.

Jim HAD a litter box, but he never trained his fucking cat to use it. Apparently, whatever instinct the cat DID have in deference towards its sand trap, was wiped out when it realized Jim would never clean the fucking thing. There was a mountain of clumpy piss cakes and turds that reached almost 3 feet. It looked like the model of ‘Devil’s Peak’ that Richard Dreyfus built in his living room in ‘Close Encounters’. You could see piss stains on everything in his apartment including the fucking curtains. There were wet spots on the counter tops, on top of his TV, the couch pillows, the kitchen table, EVERY fucking where. The smell of Jim’s apartment followed him wherever he went. And now that I was there, I could see why. The cat had pissed on his clothes, on his coat, on his socks and in his shoes. When he put his shoes on? You could hear that squishy sound like his foot was stuck in mud. It was UNbelievably disgusting. His place looked like one of those shows on Animal Planet about the ‘Hoarders’. I saw one episode where this chick had like 70 cats that just tore up everything and pissed everywhere. It got to the point where she LITERALLY just started throwing raw hamburger meat at the walls for the cats to eat. Only Jim just had ONE fucking cat. His apartment smelled like FIFTY cats living in a homeless person’s asshole. After ONE night though…the ultimate thing happened. The thing that made me screech out of there like Tony Stewart squealing his tires at the beginning of a race.

The next morning, I awoke from the LEAST pissy corner of the apartments floor that I could find to sleep on and wiped the tears from my eyes because your eyes would even water in that smell while you slept. I made a pot of coffee and turned the heat up a tad. It was winter time and it was fucking cold in that place. Jim never turned the heat up too much because it would make the apartment smell even worse. Like dead bodies boiling in a vat of urine. After a few minutes, Jim came out of his bedroom and poured himself a cup of coffee. The cat followed after him with that ‘I’m better than you’ walk that cats have. As Jim sat down at the kitchen table, I noticed that he was incredibly sweaty. His hair was soaking wet, and he had sweat drops running down his face. I asked him if he had a bad dream or something. He said no and asked me why I would ask that. I told him it was because he was all sweaty. He went to look in the mirror in the bathroom, and when he came out he said: “that’s not sweat…its piss. The cat pissed on my head. I’m gonna take a shower”.

WHAT?!?! That’s it? You’re gonna take a shower? If an animal pissed ANY where on my body, I’d make a fucking steak out it. I told him he needed to get rid of the fucking thing, or at LEAST have it fixed. He’d had it for over a year at that point and ALL he had to do was pay 25 bucks down at the animal welfare to get its nuts tied down and he wouldn’t have this problem. That was enough for me; I started sleeping in my truck after that. If a homeless person would RATHER sleep in a fucking car than in your apartment DURING the winter…shouldn’t that TELL you something?

Soon after that I moved in with my friend John who had NO pets. While I was there, the breeder ended up having her farm foreclosed upon, and she gave Presley to a nice family in Indianapolis with a big back yard. I was happy that she went someplace nice, but I was devastated that I would never see her again.

I eventually got that ‘nicer’ apartment that I was looking for, and even though they didn’t allow dogs when I moved in, I convinced my landlord to let me get one after I was there for a year. I paid my rent on time during my first lease, and he could see that I kept my place clean whenever he came over. He jacked up my rent by 20 bucks and told me to ‘go nuts’. So nuts I went.

Instead of going to a breeder, I decided to rescue a dog at the animal welfare. This wasn’t an easy decision to make because I’ve had difficulties with them in the past. I’ve always viewed the animal welfare league as a pet mafia. They call what they do ‘rescuing’ animals, but it’s more like ‘ransoming’ animals. And much like kidnap victims, if you don’t pay the ransom, they kill the fucking dog. Their ‘pet adoption’ forms are filled with more unnecessary personal questions than a REAL adoption form. Sure not all people should have fucking pets, but why do they need to know if my belly button is an innie or an outie?

And the people who work there? Forget about it. The men are usually meth heads working off a community service sentence for domestic abuse, and the women are either old hags who got kicked out of a nursing home for biting someone’s grandkids, or angst ridden teenagers wearing headphones with their iPod’s turned up so loud that their teeth have vibrated out of their heads. You wouldn’t let ONE of these people work around human fucking beings, so why do we let them work with helpless animals?

My feud with the Animal Welfare League started at around the time my mother first went into the hospital. Princess had gotten off of her leash while I was walking her and apparently had run RIGHT into the arms of a patrolling Animal Mafia truck. After looking for her for all of five minutes, I called the Animal Welfare and gave them a description of Princess. Since she snaked out of her collar, she didn’t have her name tag on. They told me that one of their animal catchers had JUST brought a dog in fitting that description, so I got in my car and headed up to get her. By the time I got there, mind you, FIFTEEN minutes had passed since Princess escaped. FIFTEEN. I approached the crotchety old lady who looked like a Far Side drawing that Gary Larson had crumpled up and tossed into a garbage can, and told her that I was there to claim my dog.

Without looking up at me, she said in a cigarette stained voice: “That’ll be 75 dollars”. I stood there for a moment thinking about that and said apologetically “oh, no no no, that must be someone else. They just brought my dog in? I’m just here to pick her up. I just called a few minutes ago? She’s a poodle named Princess?” The woman behind the counter looked up at me with her old lady glasses at the end of her nose and said condescendingly: “yeah…that’ll be 75 dollars” and then she went back to looking at the papers on the desk.

“75 dollars for what?” I inquired. “For boarding and food” she said without looking up at me. “Boarding and food? Did you give her a fucking dry aged filet minon in the 4 minutes she’s been here? C’mon lady, gimme my fucking dog.” I said half laughing.

She looked up at me again, and like a school teacher scolding a student said “Sir, you can either pay the 75 dollars and leave with your dog, or I can call the cops and you can leave with them”

Now I was pissed. “So…what you’re telling me is that you’re holding my dog for ransom? She’s been here for 7 minutes now, and you’re trying to jack me for 75 bucks? Her name’s Princess NOT Lindberg. Fuck you lady, where’s my dog?”

At ‘Fuck you’ the old woman angrily picked up the phone and started dialing the police. I stormed through the double doors leading into the kennel. I could barely hear the shouts and protests of the volunteer workers over the deafening barks of frightened dogs. I walked up and down the rows of cages, and finally came to the one with my mother’s poodle in it. Princess was curled up in a ball on the floor and she was shivering furiously. She looked like a prisoner in a Nazi death camp. I opened the cage, picked her up, and headed back out the way I came. My head was held high and my chest was puffed out as I carried this poodle with a pink bandana in the crux of my arm, DARING someone to fuck with me.

I was going to make it. I would walk out carrying my dog like Richard Gere and Debra Winger at the end of ‘An Officer and a Gentleman’. Instead I walked outside into the waiting arms of a police officer. Luckily for us, he knew my mom and sent Princess and I on our way. But I never stepped foot in that Animal Welfare League building after that.

Until the afternoon that I met Blu. Howard Stern’s wife works for the North shore Animal League. You may have seen her on Good Morning America or The View, or some other non-sencical boring morning program talking about pet adoption. Well, her arguments regarding RESCUING a dog, rather buying a puppy from a Breeder swayed me. After all, I’d done the ‘breeder’ thing; maybe it was time that I tried doing something not completely selfish. Plus, who has time OR money to train a puppy at this age? (Still 30).

I wasn’t sure quite what to expect, but I figured there was no harm in looking around the kennel. I filled out their ‘pre-screening’ forms until I felt like I just had a fucking animal enema. I spent over an hour with these forms, and then another 30 minutes taking eye exams and having my nut sack checked for polyps. THAT was just to LOOK at the fucking dogs. I hadn’t even picked one out. It felt like I was going over Paul McCartney’s FUTURE pre-nup.

A volunteer led me into the kennel. When you go into this place, ALL of your senses are immediately attacked. Your ears start bleeding from the deafening sound of wailing dogs. Your nose crumples up against your face like a beer can being smashed on your forehead, from the smell of desperation, fear, and dog shit. Your eyes begin to water because there’s so much cat dander floating around that when you leave, you end up coughing up a fur ball and licking your nut sack with one leg sticking straight up in the air. And the place reeks so bad of piss that you can FEEL it on your skin.

I made it THIS far, so I figured I may as well look around. The room looked like the warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. It stretched on for miles in every direction and was filled with rows upon rows of discarded or unwanted pets. I understand that SOME of the dogs are there because their owners died, or were evicted. But a lot of them were there because they were abused, or their owners decided that drugs were more important than loyalty. When I think of these people I want to line them all up and give them a collective Three Stooges slap while wearing Freddy Kruger’s mitt.

Most of the dogs there were Pit Bulls or Mutts. Everyone I saw barked furiously as I went past their cage…until I came across something unusual. In one cage, there sat a dog. She wasn’t barking, she wasn’t lying down; she was just sitting there watching as I walked by. Because I did a lot of research on hound dogs before I got Presley, I could tell right away that this dog was a Blue Tick Coon Hound. Now, from what I read, this was a rare breed that was mostly bred in the South for hunting. And I could tell from looking at her that she was pure bred. I walked 40 miles back to the front desk and inquired about her.

The lady told me that this dog WAS from the south. She was raised in a Kentucky Hunting Club. Unfortunatly, what happens in these hunting clubs is that IF a dog runs away, the club has so many others that they don’t bother looking for it. This dog was caught by the Animal Welfare in Kentucky, but because of overcrowding was shipped up north to a bigger facility. That’s how she ended up there.

That was enough for me. I paid for Blu right then. Hound dogs are my favorite, and finding a rare pure bred Kentucky Coon Hound at the Animal Welfare was too much like fate. Because she needed to be fixed, I had to wait a few days before I could pick her up. While I waited, I read everything I could about Coon hounds, and got all the necessary doggy equipment.

Much like Bloodhounds, Blue Ticks are hunting dogs. However there IS a difference. A Bloodhound is called a ‘trail dog’ because they chase an animal, or an inmate, by following the trail of their smell along the ground. A Blue Tick however, is called a ‘tree dog’. They follow an animal’s scent through the air, usually raccoons, and chase it up into a tree where the hunter will shoot it down. It didn’t take long for me to learn just how proficiently Blu had been trained to do this.

When she finally came home with me, she was perfect. You could tell that she was well trained to heel, sit, and the most important one? Whenever she had to go outside, she’d sit by the door and stare at the knob. PERFECT! Her only problem was that she was a bit lax in her manners. Whenever people would come over she’d jump about 6 feet in the air. She was like a doggy Michael Jordan. I never saw a dog jump so high. Not in a mean way, mind you, but in an ‘OHMYGOD, ITS ANOTHER FUCKIN’ HUMAN BEING’ excited kind of way. However, because she weighs almost 90 pounds, this can be a bit of an annoyance.

Blue has been with me for nearly two years now, and during that time, I’ve had to adjust myself to her quirks. I’ve had to make a list of rules, like in the movie ‘Gremlins’, for owning a Blu Tick Coon hound. Rule number one? Don’t take her outside after dark.

Because I live in a mostly wooded area, there are more fucking raccoons around here than people. These little bandit mother fuckers come out after sunset and immediately set up shop in the dumpster outside my building, on top of cars in my parking lot, and I shit you not…sometimes they’ll sit on your window ledge and peer into your living room to watch TV with you. Blue can smell them in the fucking air, and goes ape shit whenever there’s one within 100 feet of her.

Soon after she first came home with me, Blu got out of her collar and began a raccoon rampage through my neighborhood. My building is at the end of a dead end street, and just across from it is a 7 foot fence that separates my street from a trucking company. JUST on the other side of this fence is a clump of tree’s that I’ve dubbed Raccoon City. You can hear the mother fuckers in those trees day and night, and often when you walk past it, they’ll throw chicken bones and soda cans down on you.

When I took Blu for a walk that night, she saw a group of Raccoons on the garbage can and started going bonkers. She pulled and yanked at the end of her leash until she managed to pop her head out of her collar. She chased the raccoons to the fence line, and JUMPED up OVER a seven foot fence. I stopped screaming for her to come back because I was so dumbfounded at what I had just seen. I couldn’t climb that fucking fence, and Blu, in one fucking leap managed to get over it and into the truck yard. I had to go all the way around the block to get into the entrance of the yard, and then I walked back to where Blu had hopped the fence. It was like a horror movie back there. It was pitch black, and as I called out for Blu, all I could see was an occasional flash of white as she ran by in the distance, JUST out of eyesight, chasing a raccoon. After about 3 hours of searching for her, I called the cops and gave them a description of her just in case they happened to see her, and went back to my apartment.

20 minutes later there was a knock on my door. It was my neighbors. They had just returned home from a White Sox game and saw Blu sniffing around the dumpster outside. When they called out for her, she immediately jumped into their car and that’s where she was at the moment. Incredible. THIS means that Blu EITHER jumped the fence to get BACK to our place, OR she walked all the way around the truck yard. Either way, she was a smart mother fucker in finding her way back.

After that, I adopted rule number two: Blu wears a harness from now on. However, this proved to be just as useless as the collar. One day, while I was bending down to pick up Blu’s shit; I felt a tug on the leash. I jumped up and saw that Blu had backed up until the leash was pulled taught, stood up on her hind legs, dislocated her shoulders, and pulled backwards until she was out of the harness. Fuckin Houdini over here.

After Blu had been with me for a while, I decide that since she was older, and well trained, perhaps I could give her the run of the apartment while I was at work instead of locking her up. I realize the importance of ‘caging’ dogs, but I don’t really like it. After all, how would you like to sit in a fucking cage for 8 hours a day? Well, after ONE day, I adopted rule 3: NEVER give Blu the run of the house.

When I came home from work, I put my key in the door and turned the knob…the door wouldn’t open. There was something blocking it on the other side. I pushed as hard as I could, but it wouldn’t budge. I went around to my walk up balcony and came into the back door. My first thought was that I had been robbed. Everything in my living room was knocked over. My wooden book case which held my gaming systems, stereo, blu ray movies, and cable equipment was lying on the floor and wedged against the front door. My 42 inch TV and the stand it was on were knocked over and the screen was shattered. There were shards of glass, paper from torn up books, and chewed toilet paper rolls lying all over the apartment. And RIGHT in the middle of it all? There was a big fucking steamy pile of dog turd. Aaaaand that was the end of Blu’s afternoon freedoms.

As in all doggy/master relationships, Blu and I have grown quite fond of one another. Don’t get me wrong here, I know that she only loves me because I put food in her dish and take her on long walks, but that’s the same reason that any woman I’ve dated has loved me. The only difference is that Blu is way more loyal than the women I’ve gone out with. So when I took her out to Lake Pleasant behind my apartment today and someone kicked her RIGHT the fuck in front of me? Brother, it was on like the break of fucking dawn.

When we first pulled into the parking lot at Lake Pleasant this morning, I noticed that there were several cars there this time. I was hoping that nobody else had brought a dog, because Blu still gets excited around other animals. We walked down the trail that led to the lake, and I could hear a muffled voice through the trees up in the distance. As we continued walking, we followed the path around a corner where we could see the entire lake stretched out in front of us. I could see a few people walking in various directions around the lake, but NOW I could hear that voice much more clearly.

On the other side of the lake, almost directly across from us, I could see someone holding their hand up against their ear. He was talking on his cell phone, and he was talking loud. I don’t know about you, but I fucking HATE people who talk on that phone as if the rest of the world wants to hear one side of their conversation. Even though he was on the other side of the lake, I could hear him quite clearly. He was one of these uneducated ass clowns who has the vocabulary of a 3rd grader, and because of this, every 3rd word out of his mouth is some variation of the word: fuck. “So I fuckin’ walked up to the fuckin store and this fuckin broad was fuckin hot. So I asked her if she fuckin wanted my fuckin tongue up her fuckin snatch”.

Look, I’m all about freedom of speech. And I’m old enough to know the score. There’s a plethora of assholes on this planet and you just have to deal with that. Until I become Czar of the United States and can initiate my program of mandatory I.Q. tests and marching death squads to deal with those who score below an 80, the assholes get a pass…for now.

The guy on his phone was walking south along the East side of the lake. Blu and I began walking south along the WEST side of the lake. As we continued on, it was hard to ignore this dickheads conversation. He was even more of misogynist than I am. Saying things like “Yeah, I was at this fuckin party and she was fuckin passed out, but she was fuckin askin for it before I found her in that fucking room”.

Ok, now he was basically saying that he raped some chick. He had to be joking with whoever he was talking to, right? Blu and I continued along the path and as we rounded a cluster of trees, we came upon a man hurrying along in the opposite direction with his 2 little girls. You didn’t have to be a genius to see that he was getting his girls the fuck out there because of this guy on his phone. Usually, I don’t give a fuck about kids, they’re YOUR problem, but in this instance I actually felt embarrassed for them. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand up.

The guy on the other side of the lake had stopped and sat down on a bench. “Yeah, I fuckin had too. Who the fuck did he fuckin think he fuckin was?”

I came to the end of the lake and began to round it to the East side. This is where the marsh land is. There’s a long wooden bridge with no rails that snakes through a bunch of chest high weeds growing out of the water. It’s pretty fucking cool actually. As I got about halfway across the bridge, two nuns came walking from around the corner. I couldn’t see them before because of the tall weeds, but they were talking to one another and trying hard to ignore the asshole, which you could STILL here talking on his phone. I nodded my head to them and said good morning. They looked at me with pained expressions of shame on their faces and said ‘good morning’. In the distance: “Fuck that fucking cunt. I fuckin told her cunty fuck of a fuck to fuckin suck my fuckin cock”.

Look, I’m an atheist. But just because I don’t share these ladies beliefs, DON’T think that I don’t have a great deal of respect for them. They’ve chosen a tough path of piety and marriage to god. On a daily basis they devote themselves to helping others. To see that look on their face? It made my blood begin to boil.

As Blu and I came out on the other side of the marsh, we were now walking north along the East side of the lake. On this side, the path was on higher ground. There was a 4 foot drop down to a 10 foot wide embankment that ran the entire length of the lake. Along the embankment there were picnic tables and benches. The cell phone dick was now standing on the edge of the path about 200 feet ahead of us. Below him was that 4 foot drop. I could now see that he was waving his arms and making gregarious gestures as he was completely involved in his conversation. “My mom doesn’t know WHERE the fuck I fucking am let her fucking worry about me. Fuck her fuckin ass”

Blu and I kept walking towards him. I looked out over the lake and saw the nuns coming out of the marsh going north towards the parking lot. I could see the guy with his two girls coming towards the end of the lake to the path that would lead them to their car. ”fuck that fuckin bitch fuck”

As we approached numb nuts, I could see now that he was about 25. He wore a baseball cap and he made me think of ‘The Situation’ from The Jersey Shore…I fucking HATE ‘The Situation’ from The Jersey Shore. As Blu and I walked behind him, I called out: “hey, buddy. You mind keeping it down? There are other people here that don’t wanna hear your conversation”.

He turned his head and said condescendingly “yeah, I’ll keep it down”. And then he started talking louder. “NAW, SOME FUCK JUST TOLD ME TO KEEP IT DOWN” and then he started laughing into the phone. Just then, Blu started sniffing at the ground around this guys feet. She sniffs EVERYTHING when we go out for walks, and because I was standing about 5 feet from him, she wanted to see what was doin with those shoes I suppose. I pulled the leash tight, and just as she was coming back towards me, the guy on his cell phone turned his head, looked down at Blu, and kicked his foot back into her body. “HEY, keep that fuckin dog away from me”. Like Popeye, that’s all I could stand, and I can’t stands no more.

I closed the distance between us quickly and snatched the cell phone out of his hand, and before he knew what happened, I wound back and threw it in the lake with all my strength. Because I was facing the West side of the lake, I could SEE the guy with his kids AND the nuns stop to look at this exchange. The cell phone guy turned his entire body around now. His eyes furrowed into anger and as he said “WHAT THE FU…’ I put my hand on his chest, leaned in close to him, and pushed with everything I had. His feet went up into the air and his body went prone. He landed flat on his back at the bottom of the embankment. You could HEAR the wind rush out his lungs. He lay there gasping for air. “Don’t EVER…touch a man’s dog”.

As he tried sitting up, Blu began to growl at him. In the two years Blu has lived with me, I’ve never once heard her growl at anything in anger. I pulled out my wallet and took one of my business cards out. I threw it with two fingers down on him, and said: “I can get you a good deal on a new cell phone, come see me anytime you want…bitch”. I actually had TWO reasons for giving this douchebag my business card, ONE was as a threat and the other I’ll explain to you in a minute.

As I began to walk away, I could hear a noise coming from the other side of the lake. It was the guy AND his two little girls clapping. Then I heard another sound and looked over to see the NUNS joining in. It was the first time in a LONG time that I felt proud of myself. Blu and I continued our walk back to the car. I never looked behind me to see what this guy was doing. If he came after me? Blu would let me know.

After we got home, Blu and I ate and then lie down for a nappy poo. A few hours later, there was a knock on my front door. I looked through the peep hole and saw that it was the police. I opened the door and invited them in; after all, I had nothing to hide. I offered them a cup of coffee and asked them what I could do for them. They told me that they got a complaint from a gentleman saying that I assaulted him and threw his phone into the lake. Then they asked me if I’d been to Lake Pleasant earlier in the day.

I told them that my dog and I had indeed been to the lake, but I didn’t ‘assault’ anybody. They described the asshole in question. “OH YEAH, I did see that guy. He had dropped his phone in the water, and when I saw him pulling it out dripping wet; I gave him my card because I work for a cell phone company.”

The officers looked at each other and then back to me. “We’re sorry to have bothered you Mr. Hempen, but we have to follow up on these complaints. We figured that you wouldn’t give your business card to someone you just assaulted (THERE’S the second reason) and there were two nuns from the church next to the lake who said they saw you and your dog the entire time you were up there, and you didn’t assault this gentleman in any way. His mother is actually the one who called us. He was probably just lying to get out of trouble from ruining his phone.”

“Well, that’s kind of understandable, but I’m sorry he wasted your time with this.” I told them. “Yeah, we’ll have to teach him a lesson and bring him in for filing a false report, just to scare him”

“Don’t be TOO hard on him, he’s still a kid and his mom’s probably a bitch” I said laughing. The officers laughed with me, thanked me for my time, and left.

FIRST of all…how fucking awesome is it that TWO nuns lied to the police for me? Secondly, there’s a moral to ALL of these stories. A man can put up with a LOT from his dogs, but you have to respect that THEY put up with a lot from us too. Most people are more tolerant of their pets than they are of other human beings, and that’s fine because like I said at the beginning? Most of us are assholes anyway. As much as I like violence in film, I don’t condone it in real life. Mostly because I’m a huge pussy, but also because where does it get you? I’ve always been able to TALK my way out of most fights, so bullshitting has become a second language for me. I try to think 3 steps ahead of the other guy, which is why I gave that dipshit my business card. I knew he would call the cops. Guys like that can’t help but call in backup so they don’t have to deal with their inadequacies as human beings by themselves.

As for Blu and I? Well, I hope that she’ll be with me for a few more years. If you’ve noticed from reading these stories, I’ve had a lot of dogs, but I’ve never had one die while it was in my care. I’m not looking forward to going through that with Blu, but she’s 4 now and it’s gonna happen eventually. Dogs are great though, and they’ve given me a lot of love and material to write about. Even if these aren’t the kind of stories you’re likely to find at the Westminster Dog Show, animals can inspire us in many ways. Blu inspired the title for this article earlier this morning when she jumped up on my bed and sat down at the end of my leg prompting me to say 6 words that I never thought I would ever hear strung together in a sentence: “Blu, Getcher pussy off my foot”

Blu's Pussy

‘Mike’s Sexually Awkward United Nations Christmas Party’ or ‘The Canadian Moose’

2011-04-03T07:45:00.000-05:00

Christmas time is here again, and I recently had my annual Christmas party. I’m not a very religious man, and I’ve never claimed to be. If anything, I’m a devout Atheist. So why all the pomp and circumstance of a Christmas party? Well, I love the feel of this time of year. People coming together in a spirit of friendship, snow on the window sill, multicolored lights hung on balconies, good holiday movies, secret Santa’s at work, and shopping for something that will FINALLY convince your girlfriend that you’re a good enough guy for her to give up that butt hole. Nothing quite like some holiday anal to celebrate the birth of a deity. To me, Christmas isn’t about religious politics; it’s just about that feeling of togetherness.

I thought my date with the yoga instructor went pretty well back on Halloween, alas I haven’t heard from her since then. So in November, I went back to the drawing board in my search for a significant other, and I found one. We talked on Skype for about a month and decided that we would meet at my Christmas party this year, instead of on a normal date type situation. Although my party would have a wholly religious theme, I can tell you that nothing religious happened that night. I’ve LONG since hung up my Jesus sandals, and now I bask in the light of science. What can I say? Dinosaurs are easier to believe in than an old dude in the sky who says he LOVES me…yet threatens to make me burn for eternity if I don’t beg his forgiveness because I accidentally farted in the confessional booth. Sorry Father Touchakid, but sometimes my ass needs to confess too.

But I didn’t always have this jaded view of religion. Before I went to military school, I was baptized by the youngest ordained minister in Illinois. If memory serves, the kid was 12 and I couldn’t have been more than 5 myself. It was in all the newspapers at the time. (Shit, I don’t remember much from that time, but is it illegal if I got molested by a twelve year old? I think the church finally found its fucking loophole. Diabolical bastards.)

When we’re kids we don’t have much of a choice but to believe the religious stuff that our parents force down our throats. Not only do we believe it, we accept it. It’s just the way things are. Over the years, our religious beliefs become so ingrained in our psyches that a lot of us don’t even question it. I think that’s WHY so many people, including myself grow up to be fucking whack jobs. As a child, you can SEE the hypocrisy, hell you can FEEL it. But you don’t yet know the word, and searching for the definition of a term you don’t know, can cause an internal uproar. As you grow up, you learn about religious inspired horrors, but the simple lesson of common sense is sidestepped by your parents in favor of cultish excuses. Priests are fucking kids, and your parents just say: They lost their way. Abortion Doctors are shot and your parents say: God will forgive the shooter. Someone commits suicide, and your parents say that he’ll burn in hell.

Fuck that. I’m older now, and able to deduce things on my own. However, I KNOW that common sense SHOULD prevail, but invariably it does not. That’s the way it IS, but that’s NOT the way it should be. ANYONE who molests a child deserves to be publicly executed. A woman’s body is her own to do with what she will, and if someone wants to commit suicide? Let ‘em, just so long as they don’t jump out of a window or off of a roof…because they might end up landing on me OR my car. And I don’t know if you know this or not? But your FULL coverage insurance will NOT cover that.

But like most of you, when I was young, religion was shoved on me like a ham sammich down [1]Mama Cass’ throat. In military school I had church every Sunday and every year for the Christmas services, I was made to memorize and sing a hymn in its entirety, and NOT just the first verse that everyone knows, but the whole fucking thing. Every Wednesday I went to CCD classes where I had to memorize a part of the bible, and when I could recite the particular passage verbatim, I was given a candy treat. Talk about[2]Pavlov’s dog.

I didn’t quite understand the complexities of other religions, and my own was often a source of confusion to me. Church was a part of my life 3 days a week, and when I wasn’t there I was busy memorizing the Bible so that I could score more candy in my next CCD class. The initial reason I began to question my faith was because the people who PUSHED it on me seemed to live far below the standards that were being imposed.

However, as a good Catholic, I endeavored to ‘have faith’ as I was told, so I spent every single night, for the five years that I was in that military school, PRAYING that God would deliver me from its clutches, help my mother get sober, and send me home to her loving arms. All I saw when I went down on my knees and closed my eyes at the foot of my bed was a big middle finger in the clouds…it was God’s silent ‘fuck you’.

Well, now that I’m older I say ‘fuck you’ RIGHT back at him. I don’t mean that literally of course, because I don’t believe there IS a God. Although the fables of the bible are still entrenched in my head, I now know the truths behind them that people of faith don’t bother to read, or simply dismiss as lies if they do.

I don’t say that to be an asshole. I think that whatever religion YOU decide to practice is fantastic because it helps you through your day and in some cases, your life in general. The problem comes when you take it too seriously. I just ask that you don’t push it on me. I don’t need to be set up on a blind date with a God I have nothing in common with. Whatever you decide to share with your God is between YOU and HIM…leave me the fuck out of it.

Just because I don’t have faith in any one particular myth though, doesn’t mean that I’m evil. Some zealots out there have called me a Satanist because I don’t believe in God. Well here’s an obvious truth, if I don’t believe in God, then I don’t believe in Satan you moron. I have my own ethical code that I live by, and my own set of values. I believe in love, kindness, and finding inner peace through orgasm. I also know that there is a depraved world full of disgusting, sick, depraved individuals who would just as soon pray on old ladies as help them with their groceries. These people only seem to find God after they get caught, and the church is only too willing to envelop them within its fold. Fuck that.

Justice is the true God and if some guy gets drunk and beats the shit out of his wife and kids? Well the only religion he needs to find is at the end of a baseball bat as he’s being throttled in an arena full of spectators. I don’t need to believe in a story about an old man with a long white beard coming down off of a mountain top after some dude in a cloud handed him a five hundred pound marble headstone that said; Don’t kill people. I have a fucked up way of looking at things, and I HAVE to believe that if that story WERE true, after Moses read the commandments to the people, ONE of those sheep shit smelling guys must have screamed out “DUH! But what do we do if some dude DOES kill someone?”

Where do I get off? I’ll tell you where I get off; I could recite the bible to you backwards and forwards, both the New Testament AND the Old. Working in a bookstore for 7 years, I had the chance to read every book I could, pro AND con, about religion and every science book I could get my hands on. I’ve familiarized myself with a lot of OTHER religions as well; I’ve read the Quran, I’ve studied Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, Cabbalism, and Judaism. They ALL fascinate me and they all have one thing in common…it all goes pretty good RIGHT up until people start to IMPOSE their beliefs on others. Hello, 9-11 is on the phone; he wants to talk to you.

Also, I’m a registered minister with the Universal Life Church, which is a non-denominational institution that believes that people WITHOUT certain religious beliefs should be afforded the same rights given to the devout. This means that I can LEGALLY perform any ceremony that a priest can perform. And NO, smartass that does NOT mean that I diddle kids, although apparently, priests CAN do that legally. I also went to a Christian college where I majored in Aviation and minored in religious history.

I could sit here and tell you all the scientific AND historical reasons why I don’t believe, but frankly, I’m not here to try to change your views. You don’t push your shit on me; I won’t push mine on you. Plus, I don’t need some lunatic flying a Cessna into my bedroom window. My point is that because I was brought up Catholic, Christmas still holds meaning for me, even if I don’t subscribe to the literal point of its message.

When I was very young, I remember being filled with joy on Christmas morning. I would wake up before the sun and watch cartoons while inspecting my beautifully wrapped presents under the tree. Because my mother would work on Christmas Eve, or be out drinking until all hours, she wouldn’t wake up until noon. I was allowed to open ONE present on Christmas Eve before she left, but Christmas morning I had to wait for her to wake up. The sound of her snoring filled the apartment on those mornings and seemed to go on forever, but the anticipation was always worth the reward.

Christmas time seemed to lift my mother’s spirits and put her in a better mood than the rest of the year. I get a great deal of joy from seeing the smiling face of someone when they open a gift from me, and I like to believe that I get that feeling from my mother. Although, like most children, I’d be disappointed when I’d open the gift with socks, or underwear, or school supplies, I DID receive 2 of the best gifts that I’ve ever gotten when I was a kid; A Castle Greyskull play set from the [3]He-Man, and an [4]Atari 5200. Hell’s yeah!

As time went on and her alcoholism began to take a deeper hold of her life, Christmas in military school became an unwelcome change to my early childhood experiences. Being left alone on that campus on Christmas day during my first year there was one of the most frightening things I’ve ever had to deal with. I was in 3rd grade, and a lonely old woman who ran one of the cottages on campus was the only person left there with me. She was a nice enough lady, but the whole day I cried and asked where my mother was. What could she say? There were no gifts that Christmas or the 5 that followed.

However, it became easier the next year, and more so the year after that. By the time I was in sixth grade, I almost preferred being alone on Christmas. I would walk around the empty, snow covered 180 acre campus, admire the frosted over window panes of the old brick buildings, the moon shining off of the snow covered trees, and the isolated feeling that fresh snow affords as it sucks all of the sound from the air.

After military school, I spent a few gift less Christmases alone because my mother would work double shifts at the jail for extra booze money. I still didn’t mind, and because I was older, I had a deeper appreciation for the feeling of solitude that a holiday spent by yourself can produce. After all, it was what it was. But sometimes I would watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, or ‘A Christmas Carol’, and wish that my mother would have that kind of holiday catharsis. Thankfully, she eventually would.

In my twenties I began going to Christmas parties that my friends would throw. They were grand occasions of gift exchanging, drinking, and laughing into the early morning hours. Those events meant more to me than most others because I knew that Christmas Day itself would be spent alone. On Christmas night I would stare out of my bedroom window into the parking lot and the highway beyond and wonder where all of those people were driving to. Were they going to a family member’s house? Or were they headed home from one? What gifts would they receive? Were they looking forward to it? Or was it an obligation that needed to be fulfilled? Then I’d catch my reflection in the window. The Mike that looked back at me seemed sad and distant, trapped in that square piece of glass with dull Christmas lights hanging on the transparent wall behind him…and then I met my first REAL girlfriend when I was 22.

Spending Christmas morning with Jackie and her family warmed my heart in places that I didn’t know existed. I think the reason that I didn’t mind spending all of those holidays alone was because I truly didn’t know what I was missing out on.

Jackie was the love of my life, but I was young…and didn’t know what I had. We dated for 7 years and every holiday during that time was the best holiday of my life. Her family’s home was warm and inviting during Christmas time, offering the feeling of stepping into a Dickens novel. A fireplace blazed on Christmas Eve with stockings hung over it and her sister would make hot chocolate while her mother began preparations for the next day’s meal. The sound of laughter filled the house as Jackie, her brother Chris, his girlfriend Nicole, and I would speculate as to the gifts we might be getting, and sometimes her intimidating father would hand me a beer and talk to me about current events, sports, or cars.

After he stopped hating me, Jackie’s father and I would set up the Christmas tree every year and decorate it with tinsel, lights, ornaments, an angel on top…and one year? He handed me a box and told ME to put what was inside on the tree. It was a small picture of his daughter and me holding each other next to the tree from the year before. The picture was in a tiny frame and there was a small hook coming from the top. In that moment I felt something other than love for Jackie, something that was in many ways more important than love…I felt like I was a part of her family. But like most things in my life, that was a feeling that was destined to be taken from me through my own ineptitude.

After our relationship ended, I started spending Christmas at home again. During the next several years, as I started the process of getting to know my mother, I would have Christmas parties at her condo where her presence was always welcomed by my friends. She had long since stopped drinking by that time, and I could tell that she enjoyed having everyone over for the holiday. But even though those were good times, there was always a hole in my heart from the loss of, not only Jackie, but her family as well.

The old saying ‘time heals all wounds’ is mostly true. Now that I’m older, I don’t think about Jackie as much, at all really, but the pain hasn’t completely dissipated. It’s like when someone loses an arm and they get what’s called a ‘ghost pain’. Although the pain of losing her and her family has stopped being a throbbing, blood spurting, loss…sometimes I still feel the dull ache.

In a lot of ways, Jackie is the standard by which I hold other women too in my search for a girlfriend. NOT just any woman, I know I joke around a lot about ‘getting pussy’, but the truth is that I’m trying to find a woman with a sense of humor AND a sense of fidelity. I know it doesn’t SOUND like I’m asking for a lot, but it’s been harder to find than a good review of ‘[5]Highlander II: The Quickening’. I’m not necessarily trying to recreate the relationship that I shared with Jackie because that would be disrespectful to the memory of it, and rude to the girl that I meet. But, I want someone to wake up with on holiday mornings, I want someone to buy presents for, I want someone to kiss under the mistletoe…in effect, I want someone to make NEW memories with. THESE are the things that Christmas inspires in me now, and for those reasons it’s a time of hope for me.

So, when I met a woman last month who contacted me after reading one of my articles, that hope sprung up inside me once again. She said that she shared in my search for love and asked if we could talk further. We exchanged pictures and I have to say, I was impressed with what I saw. Over the next couple of weeks we began talking on the phone, and I found out that she had recently moved to Chicago from Canada. As our fondness for one another grew, she asked me if I would like to ‘Skype’ with her and we could have our conversations over the internet while being able to see each other on a webcam. The next day I went out and bought the equipment, and that night we had a video conversation that brought our talks to a new level.

Because I work so much this time of year, it was hard to for us to pin down a day that we could actually meet. She was 22 and going to college, but she got out of her classes early in the day. The problem was that I was working mostly nights at my retail job, and my store was open later during the holiday season. Finally, after telling her about all of the preparation going into it, she agreed to come to my Christmas party on Saturday December 7th. I was excited because like MOST men, I had CLAIMED to have fucked a Canadian chick when I was a virgin, but I had never ACTUALLY fucked a Canadian chick. Another reason to love this time of year!

However, there was SOME cause for concern. One of the things that I noticed about her was that whenever we talked via the webcam, her face was nearly pressed up against her web cam. She always said that it was because she was lying on her bed while she talked to me, but I started to get suspicious and asked her to take a step back. I had told her the story of Tubby Tiffany, and made it quite clear, as I always do, that I’m not a chubby chaser. She assured me that the pictures I’d seen of her were really her, and the only reason she didn’t step away from the camera was because she was topless. I believed her because there MAY have been a nipple slip at one point. With my fears put to rest, I could concentrate on preparing for the party. My Christmas miracle would soon come in the form of a new girlfriend who I would be warming with my Yule log by Saturday night. I GOTTA stop getting excited to meet these internet chicks.

The big day finally came and everyone showed up. It was a joyous occasion of which was filled with copious amounts of alcohol and friends. I felt more comfy than [6]Ed Bagley in an electric car on his way to a recycling center with a trunk full of empties and a solar powered auto suck. There were Christmas rap songs playing on the stereo, the TV’s played ‘Friday after Next’, ‘Christmas Vacation’, and ‘Bad Santa’. There were lights hung throughout my apartment, tinsel hanging from my cabinets, mistletoe in the doorways, and egg nog full of rum.

I like mixing people together from different parts of my life, and then shaking them up like a martini at a Kennedy family event. There were people from past jobs and my present one, old friends, dear friends, neighbors, family, and even cartoon characters (although they may have shown up after my 17th beer or so.)

It was truly a United Nations event because there were people from all over the world there. There was Gordon from Scotland, Babatunde and Olyanka from Nigeria, Anny from Puerto Rico, Tenice and Neecy from the ghetto, Martha and Ruthie from Mexico, Mike and Joe are Irish, a Muslim named Ali, I’M native American, and there was even a Cous’n Hemp’n in attendance. Once my new female Canadian friend showed up, the circle would be complete. I was convinced that if I could have found a Jew and a North Korean, we all could have hashed out world peace over a few white Russians and the occasional beer bong.

Parties aren’t successful because of your decorations, all you can do is deck the place out, throw some hors devours on a table, and hope that the right people come. People make the party, and this was the best group of people I’ve had at a party in a long time. I figure if someone gets laid (preferably me, but NEVER me), someone bleeds (accidentally of course), someone passes out and gets drawn on, and a woman leaves crying, it’s been a successful party. By THOSE standards? This was my most successful party ever.

I woke up at around noon the next day, and went out to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. The place was a disaster area, but I expect that’s going to happen when I throw a party. When I looked down at the tile of the kitchen floor, I saw a pool of blood there. Not a murderous amount, but enough to make me go ‘hmmmmm?’ My dog was lying on the couch, wrapped in silver tinsel, and when I went to make my bed, I found a bra from, what I can only assume is an entirely NEW class of heavy set woman, LITERALLY strapped AROUND my queen sized bed, mimicking the size of its owner.

When I looked at my phone to see if I had gotten any text messages, I saw that I had 42 missed calls that occurred between 6 and 9 AM. I shook the cobwebs from my memory and tried to recall JUST what took place the previous evening.

People started to show up around 9PM. First, as always were Mike and Joe. Mike is my best friend and Joe is his friend that we both know from our job at the Electronics Boutique. Then came Matt and Rob from my old job at the book store. We’ve all kept in touch since I left that job in 2005, and Matt and I had even taken a trip to California together. However, Rob has always seemed a bit shady to me. Rob has the tendency to be a pathological liar. Not in a harmful way, but in a way that makes him hard to take at times. For one thing, he brags about getting laid in instances when we can easily discover the truth. He’s like the boy who cried ‘pussy’. His problem is that he tries TOO hard to get laid and comes off VERY creepy to chicks. Then after he creeps a girl out, he’ll tell us that he fucked her, someone ASKS her, she denies it, and Rob moves on to the next chick. It’s a little sad, but he really is a nice guy.

Soon after Matt and Rob, other people started to arrive. By ten o’clock my apartment was packed. The Canadian chick lives on the North side of Chicago and doesn’t drive. She told me earlier that she would be at the train staition by my apartment at around 10. I planned on being drunk by then so since Babatunde and Olyanka were driving together and going past the train station on their way to the party, I asked them to pick her up. I sent Tunde a text at 10:30 and asked if they found her. He replied saying that he had, and that I was in for a big surprise. I didn’t know what he meant by that, but by that point I was feeling no pain.

When Tunde and Oly came into the party without the Canadian chick, I asked them where she was. Tunde told me that she wanted to talk to me outside before she came in and met everyone. He and Oly giggled at one another and went on to the kitchen to commiserate with the others and get a drink. I didn’t mind that at all because it meant I could kiss her under the mistletoe as we came in together. I went downstairs with the beginnings of a good buzz to meet the woman of my dreams…and she turned out to be a fucking line backer for the New York Jets.

Why must women tell such bold faced fucking lies? I TOLD her, from the start that I don’t like big chicks. I even cited a SPECIFIC example of a fat chick that lied to me on the internet and she ASSURED me that SHE wasn’t lying. But she DID lie. Even so, with my beer goggles firmly in place, I decided that maybe she wasn’t THAT bad. At least she wasn’t a fucking mess. She was about six foot two, with broad shoulders, large breasts, and bit of a belly. But it wasn’t a HUGE belly. However, I got the feeling that SHE was disappointed in MY looks when I went out to greet her. Who da fuck is YOU?

We talked outside for about ten minutes, and I made her comfortable enough to come meet my friends. The friends you have say a lot about the person you are, so I was convinced that introducing her around the party only made me look good. I wanted to rid her of that feeling of disappointment I caught on to when I first met her outside. I wasn’t sure if anything would come of this, but I was getting drunk enough to know that I wanted to fuck her. After all, she came all the way out to my place expecting to spend the night so I knew the INTENT to fuck me was there, I just had to provide her with a REASON to fuck me.

After having met everyone, I gave her the grand tour of my apartment. I was starting to get a little bit PAST buzzed, so I felt the need to cement my intentions for the evening, and make an awkward pass at her in my bedroom. She DID kiss me, but after that initial kiss she rejected me like [7]Peter O’Toole at the Oscars. After we left the bedroom, we both went our separate ways into the party and began to drink more.

Mike approached me and asked what happened in the bedroom and I told him that nothing happened; I didn’t think she was into me. I can own that because I know that I’m not an attractive man. Even to fat chicks. Mike said ‘fuck that Canadian moose’ and the name stuck.

As the party continued and more people came, Mike and I heard a ruckus coming from the kitchen and went to investigate. Everyone was crowded around the window that looked out onto my balcony. Cous’n Hemp’n was laughing hysterically and told Mike and I that we HAD to see something. We crowded up to the window with everyone else and looked onto the dark balcony outside. Over to the left, we could see the Canadian Moose seemingly making out with an imaginary man. Her arms were held around thin air, and her face was pressed up against nothing at all. “Is she a mime or something? I know those French people are into that shit” Mike said as everyone else snickered like they were in on a joke that we didn’t know. And then Cous’n Hemp’n flipped on the balcony lights.

Holy shit. The Canadian Moose was making out with Olyanka! But because he’s blacker than Wesley Snipes in a coal mine, we couldn’t see him against the back drop of the night. It was like an optical illusion. Everyone burst into laughter as Cous’n Hemp’n flipped the switch on and off while saying “he’s there! He’s NOT there. He’s THERE. He’s NOT there.” And then he turned to me and said “Wasn’t that supposed to be YOU out there with her Casanova?” and he burst into another fit of hysterical laugher.

Well merry fucking Christmas to me. He was right. I had no comeback. That WAS supposed to be me out there with her. She CAME here to meet with ME. Sure I’d only known her for less than a month, but she JUST met Oly an hour ago. Fucking internet. At least when I would meet chicks at a bar, it would be a few years before I would catch them making out with a black guy on my balcony. I was disappointed, but fuck it…another bullet dodged. However, Oly would NOT be the recipient of her favors that night.

As I continued to drink, time seemed to slip away until I realized that it was five AM. Only a few stragglers remained, and the Canadian moose came to say goodbye. I asked her how she was getting home, and told her that I would sleep on the couch while she slept on my bed if she wanted to crash. Then she told me that Rob was going to give her a lift. Shit.

I tried to convince her that that wasn’t a good idea. First of all, Rob is the WORST driver when he’s sober, and right now he was drunk off of his ass. Second, although Rob DID live in the city, he drove Matt to the party. He would have to drive Matt home which was in Naperville, the EXACT opposite direction of where she needed to go. Third, I told her that Rob was going to try to fuck her, and in her state she MIGHT do something that she regretted. She ignored ALL of my warnings and all but told me to fuck off.

By then everyone was gone but her, Matt and Rob. As the three of them stumbled out of my apartment and left me standing drunk in the living room with Blue Christmas playing on the stereo, I found myself worried about a girl who I didn’t even find attractive, and who didn’t want anything to do with me. Ho, ho, fucking ho.

By the time I discovered the 42 missed calls on my phone the next day, it was 1PM. Every call was from the Canadian moose. I tried calling her back but she didn’t answer. I figured it must have been important for her to call so many times, so I tried calling Matt and Rob as well. No answer. I tried throughout the day to get a hold of all three of them, but none of them were answering their phones. It was frustrating to say the least.

Finally at around 8PM, the Canadian moose called me back. She told me that after they left the night before, Rob drove Matt home and the three of them went into his apartment. Matt soon fell asleep and she asked Rob to take her home like he promised. Rob told her that he wanted to sleep as well, and would take her when he woke up. That didn’t sound unreasonable to me. THEN she told me that Rob said he would ONLY give her a ride home if she blew him. WHAT?

She fumbled around her words as she spun this tale, and apparently after she refused, Rob led her to the doorway and threw her out of Matt’s apartment. She tried calling me as she walked FIVE miles to the train station at 6 AM in the rain. When she got there, she realized that the Metra train doesn’t run on Sunday, and in a fit of tears she kept trying to call ANYONE who could give her a lift home. Finally at around 9AM she got a hold of a friend who came and picked her up.

That didn’t SOUND like something Rob would do. He was full of shit, but he was always harmless. Granted I didn’t know him that well, but I DO know Matt well enough to know that he wouldn’t hang out with someone who would do such a thing. However, if this were true…I’d have to kill Rob. There was nothing for it. Even though things hadn’t worked out between her and I, when I throw a party I take responsibility for the people there. This happened on my watch and it would have to be dealt with.

Matt returned my calls later that evening and when I asked him what happened, I got a completely different story. He said that he DIDN’T pass out and that he was awake the entire time. The Canadian Moose DID ask Rob to drive her home, but he was entirely too drunk and tired to take her all the way back to the north side of the city just then. They offered her Matt’s bed to crash on, and the two of them would sleep on the couches. She refused, and although she WAS upset, she walked out of the front door on her own steam, and NO sexual overtures were ever made. What the fuck? I was starting to feel like a detective. SOMEONE was fucking lying to me, and before I could make any accusations, I had to have the truth. So I called Moosey back.

When I told her of the conflicting story, she said that she didn’t want to talk to me ever again. She said that she wasn’t attracted to me, so it wasn’t worth wasting her time. I told her that I understood, but I was no longer interested in who’s attracted to whom. I had to get to the bottom of this mystery. If I was ever to trust Rob again, I had to know the truth. Then she dropped the bomb and I got a THIRD story. She assured me that everything she relayed to me was true; only she left something out…she fucked Matt. C’MON! She said that she used to fuck a lot of guys when she lived in Canada, and she was trying to change her ways. Getting drunk at MY party put her back into her old mindset, and speaking with me would only remind her of what she did the night before. So I was being put on the ‘no call’ list.

Who gives a shit? I was now affected by this story. I HAD to discover the truth. I’m not gay, but I can tell when a guy is good looking. Matt is VERY good looking. Chicks often approach him in bars, and although his girlfriend is the hottest redhead ever, he’s cheated on her with EVEN hotter chicks. He’s been with Sarah for almost three years now, and I’ve come to know her pretty well during that time. The three of us sometimes hang out together, and although they have their problems, as any couple does…Matt hasn’t cheated on her since they first started dating and I can’t see him doing it now, ESPECIALLY with a Canadian Moose. It would be like Brad Pitt fucking the wrestler China.

Well, of course Matt denied it and said that the Canadian moose was fucking crazy. I had nowhere else to go for answers, so even though it pained me to do so…I dropped it. And then two weeks later it resurfaced and the REAL story finally came out.

I was at Hollywood Blvd. with Matt and Rob. Hollywood Blvd. is a fantastic movie theatre that serves alcohol and dinner while you watch your flick. The three of us were sitting at a table in the lobby and sharing a bucket of Blue Moon. Matt had just broken up with Sarah, again, and we were all discussing our past conquests, as men will do when they drink. Matt told us of his love of ‘fidgets’, which are very tiny hot chicks. I lamented on the yoga instructor and told them how I would have liked that to go somewhere. THEN, Rob said “I haven’t been laid since the Canadian moose.”

WHAT? Matt shot Rob a ‘shut the fuck up’ look, but my previous curiosity regarding that situation forced me into a full court press. “What? Matt told me she just left after you passed out?” Rob gave Matt an apologetic look and then said “Fuck it dude, you’re not with Sarah anymore.” Matt sighed, looked at me, and said “Dude, I didn’t want to tell you because I was still seeing her and I thought you’d be disappointed in me.” The wheels were turning in my head now “In YOU? Rob just said that HE fucked her, why would I be disappointed in YOU?” And then I finally got the truth.

It seems that, as I was standing in my living room listening to Blue Christmas, the three of them stumbled down to Rob’s Capri. Rob got in the driver’s seat, Matt got into the back, and instead of sitting up front with Rob, the Canadian moose climbed in with Matt. Before Rob even put the key in the ignition, The Canadian moose was blowing Matt in the back seat. As Rob drove towards Matt’s house, watching creepily in the rear view mirror, he announced that he was feeling left out…so the Canadian moose snaked her hand into the front, and started giving him a handy WHILE she was blowing Matt. Oofa.

Matt said that he never ASKED for a blow job, he wasn’t EXPECTING a blow job, and in all honesty he didn’t really WANT a blow job from this chick. However, how can you turn down a free mouth fuck? My reply to that was “So, in the scenario you just described, it would have been just as acceptable if ROB went down on you?” The two of them winced and told me not to be gross, and then they went on with the story.

When the three of them got back to Matt’s apartment, they all went into his bedroom. Matt has a tiny bedroom with only a twin sized bed and a TV. Rob sat on the end of the bed watching, as Matt fucked the Canadian Moose. I have to say at this point, that the image this brings into my head is creepy as fuck. I just imagine ROB sitting Indian style on the end of the bed, leaning in ever so slightly for optimum viewing, and watching with a sinister smile on his face as Matt’s white pimply ass was pumping up and down into the twat of a Moose. Ewwww, the horror.

At this point, the questions flew out of me “Rob, what the fuck do you SAY while you’re watching this? Because if you just stared silently, that seems even creepier.” Rob said that he KNEW he could get some of that too, because she didn’t seem to mind that he was in the room, so he got up and started taking his pants off. “Let me get this straight, because you were in the ROOM, you suddenly jumped to the conclusion that she would fuck you too?” his reply was simply “well, she DID give me a handy in the car” Fair enough.

Then I asked Matt “So you were on top of her in a missionary position while Rob was behind you? Doesn’t that make for an uncomfortable fuck?” Matt said “I wasn’t really thinking about Rob…until he slapped me on the back.” WHAT? This was just getting worse. I ALMOST didn’t want to hear anymore. “Are you telling me that he tapped you out?” Rob grinned like an idiot, and Matt just hung his head in shame “yeah”.

Matt didn’t stop fucking so Rob went around in front of him. When he did, the Canadian moose grabbed his dork and started pulling it toward her mouth. Rob put his knee on the corner of the bed and leaned in for the blowy. “Wait, wait, wait” I said putting a halt to their story of madness “She’s on her BACK, you’re on TOP of her, and now ROB is leaning in for the blowy? You realize that without SAYING it, I KNOW that your face was in the immediate vicinity of Rob’s junk?”

Matt told me that as soon as he REALIZED that Rob’s ‘who dat’ was in his neighborhood, that’s when he got off of her and sat out for a breather. The Canadian moose then guided Rob on top of her as if Matt had never left, and 18 seconds later, Rob was asleep on the floor while Matt bent her over and power washed her back. They BOTH got the distinct feeling that they were NOT her first threesome.

Well…let’s just all take a minute to soak this story in.

Disgusting.

After Matt was done, the Canadian Moose insisted that he drive her home. When he told her that he was WAY too tired right then, she got pissed and walked out. He pleaded with her to stay, he offered her his bed, and he even tried to call her a cab, but my guess is that as she sobered up, she became so full of shame that she just needed to get out of there. This is why she didn’t want to talk to ME anymore. Whatever. I’ve been more wasted than Hunter S. Thompson in a Canadian pharmacy during a half off sale, but I’ve NEVER given someone a handy WHILE giving someone else a blowy. Any feeling of pity I might have had for her died when I realized that I DID warn her not to leave with Rob. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.

Look, I’m HARDLY one to judge another person’s sexual activities, but watching a chick get DP’d in a porno, is WAY different than hearing about two of your friends doing it. It seems that Matt AND Rob got their Christmas Goose early, and once again, I was left holding the bag that it came in. (That’s what she said).

The bottom line is that I may not be a religious man, but the faith I have in my friends is all the faith I’ll ever need. And for that reason, I’ll always love Christmas time, I’ll ALWAYS have a Christmas party, and I’ll keep hope alive that one year I’ll have a girlfriend to show my friends off too at that party. They may do some seriously fucked up shit from time to time, but the stories they give me make life worth living.

So to all of you out there, friend AND stranger, I say: Merry Whatever and Happy Something! May your holiday be filled with whatever the thing is that YOU want it to be filled with. Even if that thing is two dicks. In Loving Memory of Lois Anne ‘Penny’ Hempen Or Simply: ‘Ma Hempen’ The End

[1] Cass Elliot (10/19/41 – 07/29/74), born Ellen Naomi Cohen also known as ‘Mama Cass’ was a singer in the group ‘The Mamas and the Papas’ and later a solo artist who released 5 successful albums. Mama Cass was a heavy set woman who was found dead in her London hotel room from, what reporters were told, was a ham sandwich. When asked what the cause of death was, a police officer on the scene pointed at a half eaten ham sandwich and said ‘There’s the culprit’. Even though it was later proven in an autopsy that Mama Cass had passed due to a massive heart attack, the urban myth had been created and is still perpetuated to this day. Although that PARTICULAR ham sandwich did NOT kill mama Cass, I’m sure that years of downing similar sammiches contributed to her death.

[2] Classical conditioning, also known as Pavlovian or Respondent conditioning, is a form of associative learning that was first demonstrated by Ivan Pavlov in 1927. In his first experiment with conditioning, Pavlov predicted that if a particular stimulus in a dog’s surroundings were present when the dog was given food, then this stimulus would become associated with food and cause the dog to salivate on its own. In his initial experiment, Pavlov used a bell to call the dogs to their food and, after a few repetitions, the dogs started to salivate in response to the bell. The bible was my bell and candy was my food. Religion is SUCH a mind fuck. [3] He-Man is a character featured in the Masters of the Universe franchise. The character first appeared in mini comics, and then in 1983 in a cartoon show. He-Man and his friends defend Eternina and the secrets of Castle Grayskull from the evil forces of Skeletor. He man was my favorite cartoon as a kid, and it wasn’t until I was older that I realized the true nature of cartoons such as it. Master of the Universe was basically a 22 minute commercial used to sell action figures, Just like Star Wars Episode’s 1-3 were 2 hour movies made for the same purpose. Whatever its advertising campaign was, that shit worked on me. I cried and whined for my mother to buy me every god damned He-Man action figure and playset I could get her too. On Christmas morning in 1984, she finally got me the one that I’d wanted all along, the coup de grace of childhood toys…The Castle Grayskull playset. My interest in the character would soon die however, with the release of the 1987 movie ‘Masters of the Universe’ starring Dolph Lundgren as He-Man. Even though I didn’t know shit about film yet, I knew that was a huge pile of ass.

[4] The Atari 5200 is a video game console that was introduced in 1982 as a higher end console that could replace the Atari 2600 which was released in 1977. My only contact with video games before I got this Christmas gift in 83, was ‘Pong’. Going from ‘Pong’ to the ‘5200’ was the equivelant of going from handgliding to flying the space shuttle. Although by today’s standard of video gaming, the 5200 was like a wooden cart with square wheels, I spent hours playing that mother fucker. [5] Released in 91, Highlander II ACTUALLY made 3 times more money than the original. However, both fans and critics alike consider it to be one of the worst science fiction movies ever made. The movie was SO bad that the third film in the series just acted like the second one never happened. The director blamed everyone from Argentina where the movie was made, to the fucking key grip. But to me this movie represents the thing that I find MOST annoying in a film; bad fucking editing. Sure the actual story sucked donkey balls, but the way the movie was put together made it incomprehensible. Highlander II: The Quickening makes Plan 9 From Outer Space look like Citizen Cane. I know I said it’s horrendous, but you almost HAVE to rent it just to appreciate its badness. The irony of this movie is that the FIRST one with its great soundtrack by Queen, its original concept, and its well told story, was maybe the best action film of the 80’s.

[6] Begley Jr. is one of those actor who doesn’t get enough credit. Although he’s a pompous environmentalist freak at times, he’s appeared in some of your favorite movies, although you might not know it. A few of note: Superdad (with Bob Crane, Kurt Russel, and Bruno Kirby in his first role), Elvis (the 1979 John Carpenter film starring Kurt Russel as Elvis), An Officer and a Gentleman (he was just a voice in that one, but still), Spinal Tap, Transylvania 6-500 (an awesome flick starring Jeff Goldblum), Best in Show, Auto Focus (Which was about Bob Crane who Begley Jr. worked with in Superdad), A Mighty Wind, and Pineapple Express. He’s also appeared in a ton of TV shows including my personal favorite comedy…Arrested Development. I say: If you’re gonna be that prolific in film? Go ahead and drive around in an electric golf cart. Good for you Ed.

[7] Peter O’Toole was nominated 8 times for a Best Actor Academy Award, making him the most nominated actor to never win. He was nominated for Lawrence of Arabia but was bested by Burt Lancaster in To Kill a Mockingbird, In Goodbye, Mr. Chips he was tackled at the end zone by John Wayne in True Grit, in The Ruling Class he got outclassed by Brando for The Godfather, In The Stunt Man he was stunted by Deniro in Raging Bull, for his role in My Favorite Year he got his ass kicked by Ben Kingsley in Ghandi, and most recently he lost the award from his role in the movie Venus to Forrest Whittaker in The Last King of Scotland. I gotta say…that’s some bad fucking luck. Those were some tough movies to go up against.

You Tweet Like a Dickhead (07/19/09)

2011-03-14T23:14:00.000-05:00

The internet has been pretty good to me over the years, and although I’m old enough to remember pecking away at my first keyboard when my typing class upgraded to Tandy computers way back in the 80’s, I consider myself pretty proficient at navigating the world wide web now.

I still recall walking into my typing class to find that all the typewriters had been replaced by Tandy Computers. They were big grey monitors with a keyboard attached to them, and we would type out green letters on a black screen. All they were really good for was typing and printing. To me it seemed like a lot of hardware just to get the same result as a typewriter. Sure it saved you the trouble of having to use white out, but without the internet, that was their only advantage.

Although the reality of what computers could do at the time wasn’t as exciting as the imagination of Hollywood, they still represented a future of unparalleled possibilities. Tron, War Games, and The Terminator all showed us what could happen if we let ourselves rely too much on technology. It’s been almost 30 years since those movies prophesized the future world of computers, and instead of destroying humanity, they now let me pay my bills online, buy stupid shit on e-bay, meet women on Craigslist, and find a job on Monster all while watching midgets pee on hamsters. I think that those movies had it backwards; Computers will not usher in the destruction of humanity, but the world WITHOUT computers will.

There was a time when I didn’t know shit about computers, and frankly having a home computer was a frightening prospect. They seemed slow, expensive, and time consuming. Now I can take a computer apart and put it back together, I find myself constantly upgrading my hardware, I’ve taught myself how to use program after program, and even after some trepidations about online dating, I now find myself addicted to social networking. Whenever somebody starts a new social networking site, I’m there. I dig it, hell women don’t really want to talk to me when they SEE me, so what better way for me to get my foot in the door to vagina-ville?

And let’s face it: I’m not the only one. Social networking has become America’s cup of Joe in the morning. It gives us hope in an otherwise hopeless world. Hope of meeting a friend…hope of meeting a partner…and hope that someone out there will simply care enough to listen. But however you choose to use it, the internet is a great forum for one to express their feelings about any topic they choose: its freedom of speech at its extreme. Some people will like what I have to say, some people would just as soon put me in a burlap sack with a few aerobics weights and toss me into the [1]Cal Sag. But, the point is that if I said the shit I say on the internet to a stranger in a bar, or to a co-worker at my job, I’d probably end up being put in a straight jacket and hauled off to the funny farm to spend my days playing ‘tick tack throw’ in plastic shoes.

But through all these years of watching the internet grow, I’ve noticed a sharp decline in civil human interaction. Can you remember the last time that you stopped to look at a movie poster and struck up a conversation with a complete stranger who would go on to become one of your closest friends? Or the last time you went to your neighborhood basketball court and just played a pickup game with some guy who would eventually introduce you to your greatest love? That’s how society USED to work, that’s how REAL networking was done in the world. Now we’ve become a culture of closed doors, headphones, and Bluetooth headsets. Personal space has gone from an arm’s length, to everything within your fucking eyesight.

Today’s world is full of so much mistrust and uncaring hypocrisy that it makes George Orwell’s [2]1984 look like a fucking [3]Highlights magazine. Fear mongering and a violence obsessed news media have made you think that most people would just as soon stab you in the eye as shake your hand. If I was a conspiracy theorist, I would think that e-harmony has paid off the media in an effort to get more people to just meet online.

The sad thing is that this decline in social etiquette DIDN’T just start with cell phones and iPods. Back before there were cars, society was polite because you’d ride around on a ridiculous looking bike, or you’d walk down the boulevard because your house was like a fucking sauna in the heat with no a/c, or you’d take a carriage ride and tip your hat to people and be generally available for conversation with the rogue passerby. Now you drive around with your windows rolled up and the baseline to 'Hammer time' so loud that people think a sonic fucking boom just passed them by. OR, you sit in your house with the a/c on and the windows up, going outside less frequently than [4]J.D. Salinger. As great as our technological advances have been over the years, it seems that every one of them has slowly killed our societal infrastructure.

But are cars, air conditioning and Al Gore truly to blame for our lack of societal propriety? Not really. It’s our general need to be lazy that has given over our collective personality to the internet. Instead of getting all gussied up to go spend copious amounts of money in a bar on the off chance that I’ll meet a woman drunk enough to fondle my scrote for a few minutes, now I can lie in bed and meet someone while alternating between scratching myself and farting. It truly is a wonderful world we live in.

Is the internet better than the real world though? Well, let’s see. Do you find yourself bragging that you have over 2000 friends on face book, when you only have THREE in real life? That may be an indication that you need to get out of the house [5]Brian Wilson.

Even though our day to day human contact consists solely of whiney co-workers or violent drunks that we end up fighting in bars, I think we should make more of an effort to meet people in real life. But at the same time I love the fact that I have this forum with which to bitch and moan. Social networking sites don’t seem to be THAT social, but the ‘networking’ part HAS gotten me closer to finding a girlfriend. So when [6]Ashton Kutcher tells me to check out a new site? You can bet your ass I’ll be profiling like a mother fucker there because that guy knows how to get pussy.

Case in point: Twitter. As douche baggy as it sounded to me at the time, I loved the idea of signing up for this site. As you may know, I’m something of an asshole, and I like letting people know what I’m doing throughout the day in that vein. “Michael Hempen is: masturbating furiously” or “Michael Hempen is: thinking of ways to better hide your body”. Things that make ME laugh, not particularly for anyone else’s sake. THAT’S how people should view these websites. A way for YOU to say something creative that makes YOU laugh, helps you through your day, and if other people read it…so fucking be it. Quit taking it so seriously. As [7]John Wayne said to a group of college students “It’s gettin’ to be re-goddamned-diculous”

MOST people who ‘post up’ on these sites can be more pretentious than that guy who dresses up as ‘Darth Maul’ at a Star Wars convention. He says he’s ‘just doing it for fun’, but he’s got more to prove and a bigger chip on his shoulder than a white midget playing for the Lakers. He couldn’t tell you who the bad guys were in WWII, but he can tell you the sub atomic structure of a fucking midichlorian. He’ll also be all too happy to tell you about the time he had a girl in his moms basement, but what he won’t tell you is that it was when the dryer broke, and the Maytag repair ‘man’ just happened to be a chick. Fuck you ‘Darth Maul’ guy.

So does ANYBODY really care that ‘Sandra Titmouse is: eating an Oreo cookie’ or that ‘Chip McBuffnuts is: just finishing 200 crunchies’ or that ‘Miley Cirus is: Not tweeting anymore’ and then ‘Miley Cirus is: tweeting again’, and then ‘Miley Cirus is: not tweeting again’ AHHHHHHHHH! How about ‘Miley Cirus is: putting a shotgun under her chin’ THAT I wanna read.

That being said, Twitter made me wonder with the joy that ‘what ifs’ can sometimes give you way down in that place that makes you smile to yourself, what would have happened if it had been around when the great writers were? Hemmingway, Burroughs, Hunter S. Thompson, hell even Dickens, Chaucer, Dostoyevsky. People who were famous for actually DOING something, creating something, innovating an idea, and opening people’s eyes to an intelligent intellectual viewpoint…what might they have ‘Tweeted’? “Hunter S. Thompson is: savagely strumming a banjo”, “Fyodor Dostoyevsky is: getting existential on yo ass!”, or “Anthony Burgess is: hating Stanley Kubrick”.

Sometimes I just need to entertain myself because I don’t always feel like watching a movie, reading a hefty tome, or playing the PS3. So in order to occupy my time, I LOVE trying new things. My latest ‘new thing’ is Face book. Several months ago, I gleefully filled out every part of the profile and started throwing shit at my ‘wall’ like a performance artist after a White Castle enema. At first I didn’t care about, nor did I look up any friends. It was just a way for me to release pent up creative energy, which eventually led me to do what you are now reading.
After I put up a few short stories in my notes section, I realized that it was pointless if nobody was going to read them. Like the old question ‘If a tree falls in the woods and nobody is around…who gives a fuck?’ So I started looking people up. As soon as I got a few responses and I started perusing some other people’s walls, I realized just what a fucking loser I was. Everyone had over 200 ‘friends’…I had 3. And one was Tom from MySpace…That little mother fucker is EVERY where. He’s like the ‘Where’s Waldo’ of insipid internet bullshit.

So, now I ‘care’. This sucks for me because when I CARE about something, I’m like [8]Elvis when he died on the toilet. I follow that shit through to the bitter end. So I started pandering for friends. I even started calling people, who DON’T have Face book, and telling them they should sign up. I’m sure that this is the ULTIMATE goal of the Face book team, to eventually dominate the universe through word of mouth. If that’s the case, I put on the Nike’s, donned the black sweats, threw some Phenobarbital in the applesauce and started shepherding people aboard the Face book [9]Hale bop.

I’m up to 27 friends now (yeah, me!), most of whom I know. The nice thing I’ve found is that I now have an opportunity to communicate with old friends whom I’d lost contact with, grade school buddies, High school friends, really good friends who’ve moved on in life, and ex girlfriends who no longer hold a grudge because I had a ‘ball gag’ fetish in my early twenties after seeing Pulp Fiction…don’t ask.

After I started my Facebook page, I began my quest to find a girlfriend on the web, and although I haven’t quite found my internet sweetie yet in the 4 months since I started this online experiment, I keep getting closer. I’ve been on a few dates now, and I even made out with one girl. The shocking thing to me is that I haven’t been rejected yet. I have a specific girl in mind that I’m looking for and none of the women I’ve met have been her, but the internet has put me closer to the playing field than I’d ever thought I’d be with it.

All of my ex girlfriends were girls that I met at the supermarket, work, or the Laundromat. Meeting a woman is the hardest part in the timeline of a relationship, for me anyway. Most women I’ve met in the real world would rather try to tell you their entire life story before you get up to take a leak, than listen to a god damned thing you have to say. Fuckin’ talky bitches. At least if I read a profile first I can take in what a woman has to say about herself, in my own time. The internet affords us that luxury and as long as you don’t bullshit your prospective date about what you look like, the end results can be sextactular.

As I said in the first chapter, at one point I was dead set against meeting women on the internet because it seemed as though I was admitting to my own failure at meeting them in real life. You’d think that after my initial foray into online dating with the larger than life Tiffany, my position would have only been cemented. I was lucky enough to have met a woman soon after that debacle and for the past 2 years I really only needed the internet to check movie show times and occasionally beat off when my girl friend was out of town. But after that relationship ended a few months ago, enough time had passed for me to give online dating another whirl. Even though my ex was great in a lot of ways, and a shitty girlfriend in some: the end of our relationship made me remember that thing most men forget about after a prolonged period of time with a significant other, that thing that makes the world go around and can start or end wars…New Pussy.

There’s nothing quite like a first kiss, is there? Your heart races, you get goose bumps, and an indescribable feeling washes over you and makes you feel indestructible. A swagger returns to your step, you’re nicer to people, and your whole outlook towards life changes. Sure it only lasts until the girl pulls the rug out from underneath you, but in that short time you are a king. THAT’S new pussy. To me, love is a woman that gives you that feeling all of the time; Every kiss is a first kiss, every touch gives you butterflies, and every nut you bust on her belly, back, or face if she’s a trooper, feels like it did the first time. And I’ve yet to find her. My search could have ended many times over if I just wanted to settle on some fat chick who professed her love for me, but I’m stubborn. I know what I want, and the internet allows me to expand on that search.

However, I’m finding that there are women out there who abuse the unspoken online trust, and all that does is bitter me the fuck up to the whole process. The internet isn’t too different from driving a car. It’s a privilege, not a right, and sometimes people abuse that privilege. Much like people who drive like dickheads, there are people who tweet like dickheads. Just like there are assholes who roll through stop signs, there are assholes who listen to music without paying for it. And just like the mother fuckers who drive on suspended licenses, there are mother fuckers who bullshit about everything from their job to their weight, and I gotta say; I’m getting pretty fucking sick of it.

I would never suggest that freedom of speech be taken away from anyone, especially on a forum like the internet. Your opinion is just as valid as mine, and you should be able to go online and bitch about what you choose, worship who you choose, and voice your masturbational preferences. However, saying that you weigh 118 pounds, when you really weigh 318 pounds is NOT an opinion…it’s a fucking lie and it serves no other purpose other than wasting my god damned time.

People lie about all kinds of things when they meet in the real world, but the ONE thing you can’t lie about face to face is what you look like. Sure you can tell me you have a thyroid problem, but then I can counter that lie with the fact that I have a disorder called FCI: Fat Chick Impotence.
When I start talking to women on the internet, I tell them from the git-go that I’m one ugly bastard. I show them the most unflattering pictures of myself that I have. I describe myself as looking like the love child of Herman Munster and Meatloaf. Most times, I find myself lying in the OTHER direction. I tell chicks that I’m uglier than I am so that there is NO chance of them being disappointed when we meet. Why? Because of the 6 dates I’ve gone on since March, I’ve had to disguise an ‘oh-no’ face from 3 of them. Women who blatantly lied about their looks in the hope that I wouldn’t notice or care. Well I did notice, and I DO care.

I don’t consider my honesty as a detriment to the cause. Sure I’ll meet more women, and hotter women if I tell them all that I look like Brad Pitt, but what the fuck is the point? When they meet me they’ll see the harsh reality. All I’m gonna do by lying is make it that much harder for the NEXT guy to gain that girls trust. Then nobody gets laid, and I refuse to be an unseen cockblock. If I cockblock? I’ll be standing RIGHT next to the cockblockee.

But women, especially heavy women, don’t seem to understand that basic premise. When they lie they fuck it up for the next chick. Women who lie about their looks on the internet piss me off, but the other day I came across something that pissed me off even more. I was reading the posts in the ‘women seeking men’ section of Craigslist, when I came across one where a woman was lying FOR her friend. This post, with its patronizing tone and passive aggressive rambling, made me want to beat the shit out of Craig for listing it.

The post was titled ‘come on guys’, and started with a woman telling us that she’s married, but doesn’t understand why the men seeking women on CL haven’t hooked up with her friend. She went on to tell us, without spelling 2 words correctly, what a nice person her friend was (fat), how she loves going out to dinner (fat), and that she’s available 24/7 to meet the right guy (fat).
The body of her post went on to harp on ME, as a man, for being too shallow and narrow minded to find the lovely person trapped inside the body of a whale. Then she scolded men for asking to see a picture of their potential date. She wrapped up her little ‘hook up’ fantasy by trying to guilt me into giving this big bitch a chance. Well, FUCK YOU!

So I wrote this little response to her, and I hope that you enjoy it:

“Dear, you fucking dirt bag, listening to you ramble incoherently makes me want to staple bagels to my face. That poor husband of yours...what he must endure. Are certain keys missing from your keyboard or are you missing fingers? I haven’t seen spelling like this since [10]Tarzan came back to Greystoke Castle. At first I thought I was reading a third graders homework. I imagine that you’re the type of person who is more comfortable writing their ‘R’s backwards in crayon. How does a legally retarded person get a marriage license, anyway?

I assume that at this point in your marriage, 'doggy style' to your husband means whimpering at the bedroom door and peeing on himself a little when you scold him, because if he were a real man, he'd have taught you how to shut the fuck up by now.

Look, in response to your post, it's obvious that your friend doesn't want to do this and you’re pushing her into it so that you can live some kind of sick fantasy THROUGH her. The problem is that...IT’S AN INTERNET FANTASY!! At least, push her into something less humiliating that you can live through, like midnight bowling, or ordering IN at a fast food place instead of using the drive through.

So here you are shoving this fatty on us and laying a guilt trip out that Shatner couldn’t sell on ‘Priceline’. Why is it so wrong to ask for a picture? What you need to realize talky, is that men are generally 'visual' creatures and women are 'mental' creatures. If you haven't figured this out by now, maybe you should seriously reconsider giving advice to anybody. It sounds to me like you have sour grapes up your ass because you couldn’t get [11]The Grimace over there a date.

And what kind of friend ARE you anyway? They recently prosecuted a man who shot a woman in the face, a woman who went to meet him because she answered a post on Craigslist!!! Is this whole thing some passive aggressive way of trying to get rid of your friend? Are you just jealous that she might be enjoying her single life while you’re stuck in a loveless dead relationship where church shoes are now more important than rim jobs? Fuck you. You're a horrible person. I say get over YOURSELF, and leave your friend alone. The reason she's not meeting anyone is because 'good intentioned' friends like YOU, give her low self esteem by putting her on this site like a fucking worm on a hook. Let the bitch be. She'll meet someone when she’s ready, SHE will put herself out there and find the man that’s right for her. Hopefully she’s smart enough to realize that it won’t happen on fucking Craigslist…mainly because bitches like YOU screw it up for the ones who are deserving of a GOOD date by pissing off guys like me who can give one.

Look, I don’t mind that your friend is a fucking fatty, but if you’re too stupid to just come out and admit that in the body of your post, DON’T treat me like I’m a drooling idiot who can’t figure it out through simple deductive reasoning. You can’t say things like ‘men are assholes for wanting to see a picture of my friend’, and expect me NOT to think that this woman is a fucking hippo.

You should thank your fucking stars that you found a man stupid enough to put up with your douchebaggery. I can ONLY hope that you haven’t bred, because between HIS block-headed idiocy of not being able to see through your transparent harpy cuntish demeanor, and YOUR general lack of intelligence (you spelled ‘the’ wrong, for chrissake: it’s not ‘te’), those kids don’t stand a fucking chance.

Now go do some serious shutting the fuck up.”Now, I know that response may have seemed harsh, but fuck her. The only thing that pisses me off MORE than a nagging, self entitled bitch is one who can’t fucking spell.

I have nothing against her friend, and I wish her the best, but I only hope that she ‘nuts’ up and tells this lunatic hag to mind her own fucking business. If you’re going to have someone try to ‘hook you up’, have them do it in a bar, NOT on the internet. You should be able to navigate the internet by yourself.

My point is that if you’re honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. My Facebook profile may not be pretty, but it DOES have the distinction of being wholly honest. Although, I don’t tell ANYone in real life or otherwise, my real age. I DO however tell a woman how old I really am RIGHT before we fuck. JUST at the ‘point of no return’ so she doesn’t have time to think about it.

But believe it or not, the internet has actually given me a desire to grow up a little. Not in a [12]Billy Joel sucks because he stopped drinking, or [13]NIN isn’t as good anymore since Trent got married kinda way, but in a way that makes me see the parts of life that are passing me by. I have friends on Face book that I haven’t seen or heard from in 20 years. They have children, and wives, and careers, and houses. It actually makes me a tad jealous.

Jealous in a way that I hope will push me towards achieving these things for myself. As of now, I have a car that runs, a shit job, a bottle of Jergens, and an apartment with a mouse in it that my dog chases around knocking shit over like in a Tom and Jerry cartoon; One of the GOOD episodes before they changed the maid’s voice from sounding like Mammy in Gone with the Wind to Edie McClurg in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I came home the other day to find my dog hiding around the corner from the stove with a broom in her hands and a French resistance uniform on. Suddenly, a mouse wearing a black and white striped long sleeve shirt with a red bandana around his neck poked his head out from under my stove, looked cautiously in both directions, and then ran across the kitchen floor at top speed while carrying a tiny loaf of French bread tucked under his arm. My dog gave chase and a ruckus ensued.

Anyway, I’m kind of cool with things just as they are. I occasionally date someone and they either dig me for who I am, or they don’t. Most times they don’t. I’d rather do it that way then be with someone JUST for the sake of being with someone. But there has to be a line. I’m WAY too critical and I have a childish Rated ‘R’ (R-uh if you’re African American) sense of humor. I’d no more wish to get rid of that part of me than I’d like to give up my Lost Bluray collection. I just have to find a way to sell that part of me in a better light. Like P.T. Barnum said: “Without promotion something terrible happens….Nothing!” So the internet seems like a great way to promote myself.

There’s a girl out there SOME where for me, of that I’m sure. The internet can help me find her, but it’s up to me to be a better man when I get into a relationship. I know I talk a lot of shit here, but let’s face it; It’s my OWN fault that I’m driving down a one way dead end street that leads to masturbationilvania. (Maybe it’s because I say things like ‘masturbationilvainia’?)

One of my biggest problems is that I ‘think’ too much in a relationship. I’m always looking at ways it could end. She’s gonna cheat, I’m gonna cheat, she’s gonna leave the box open on my ‘Fruity Pebbles’ and that’s gonna lead to a fight, her mom’s not gonna like me. All things that are purely in my head.

I think that instead of prosthelytizing the future like the computer movies of the 80’s, I should just let the future unfold. I’m sure that my friend ‘Smart’ Jim could give you a better definition of it, but I know there is a scientific principle which states that you CHANGE something simply by observing it. And that’s EXACTLY what I’ve been doing. I’ve been stepping outside of the relationship and viewing it from a third person point of view, instead of just being IN the relationship.

Bottom Line? It was getting in touch with people I respect on Face book that ultimately now drives my desire for something more from life. We learn a lot from other people, especially people we care about. My life of late has been pretty stagnant when it comes to making new friends. Now that I have a chance to re-kindle old friendships, make new ones, and keep in touch with those who I might not have otherwise, I find my views softening, and my jaded view of ‘what HAS to be’, becoming a more hopeful view of ‘what COULD be’. So thank you Face book. Thank you the internet and Thank you Ashton Kutcher.

But still….Fuck you Darth Maul guy.

END

[1] The Cal-Sag is a canal used for barge traffic and a conduit used for waste water in southern Cook County Illinois. It’s also a disgusting, smelly, murky waterway that snakes its way RIGHT behind my fucking apartment. Over the years, numerous dead bodies have been discovered dumped in this sewer, and there’s nothing quite like sitting on my balcony and watching the sun rise in the morning with a hot cup of delicious Brazilian Coffee…and seeing a turd the size of a full grown anaconda float by underneath me. Fuck you Cook County.

[2] 1984 is a novel that was published in 1949 by George Orwell. I cannot recommend it enough. The book depicts the future world of 1984 as one of perpetual war, pervasive government surveillance, and incessant public mind control. The individual is always subordinated to the state, and it is in part this philosophy which allows the Party to manipulate and control humanity. Holy shit, I just realized…1984 is about Jerry Bruckheimer. DAMN YOU BRUCKHEIMER!!!

[3] ‘Highlights’ magazine is a children’s magazine that’s been around since 1946 and has surpassed a billion copies in print. I can vaguely remember getting all excited as a child when the mail man would drop off the new issue. Much the same as when I drunkenly wait for the mailman to bring me the new Victoria Secret catalogue now.

[4] Salinger was best known for his novel ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ which was an immediate popular success when published in 1951. His depiction of adolescent alienation and loss of innocence in the protagonist Holden Caulfield was influential, especially among adolescent readers and serial killers. He is also well known for being a helluva recluse. He gave his last interview in 1980, and hasn’t left his house since.

[5] Brian Wilson is the lead vocalist and (mainly) songwriter of ‘The Beach Boys’. Over the years he has suffered a crippling bout of agoraphobia and once stayed in bed for THREE years while chain smoking, doing the pot, and sleeping. The rumor that I heard is that it was the Blues Brothers; Dan Ackroyd and John Belushi that finally got him off his ass and back to reality, but I can’t find any information confirming that. It’s probably one of those half truths, where they visited him, but just snorted some powder and left.

[6] Ashton Kutcher was one of the stars of ‘That 70’s Show’ which ran from 1998 to 2006. I have to say that when the show first aired, I didn’t think much of Kutcher, and as it continued on I fucking hated the kid. Too me, it didn’t seem like he was acting. I imagined that he was just as much of a narcissistic prick in real life, as his character was on the show. BUT, that’s the sign of a GOOD actor, isn’t it? The first movie I saw of his was ‘Dude, Where’s My Car?’ and nobody was more shocked than me, that I fucking loved that flick. But it wasn’t enough to make me think any better of Kutcher. I simply chalked it up to the writing. Over the years he’s been in a myriad of mostly shitty flicks, but THIS year he completely won me over. ‘Spread’ is a sexual comedy where, much like That 70’s Show, it was easy to imagine that Kutcher would act like the character he plays, in real life. But the story was great, the acting was superb, and Kutcher put his own money behind the film to make sure it got made. It was a good decision that won him a fan. ‘Spread’…rent that shit up TONIGHT, watch it with your girlfriend and I guarantee that you’ll be getting a handy halfway through the flick.

[7] Marion Mitchell ‘Duke’ Morrison, better known as John Wayne was mostly known as a tough as nails action western movie star. He lived from 1907-1979 and during his film career made 171 films. Most of the movies he made were shit flicks, but consider that he was most prolific during the 30’s when movies were still trying to find their way. As his career AND the movie industry grew, Wayne would become America’s father figure. Some of his best work can be found in movies directed by John Ford such as Stagecoach, The Searchers, and The Man Who Shot Liberty Vallance. His last film and my personal favorite of Wayne’s was The Shootist in 1976 where he starred opposite a teenaged Ron Howard and Jimmy Stewart. Wayne portrayed an aging gunman dying of cancer who must deal with the prejudices brought on by his fame, his illness, and being a role model to a young boy. In the end he decided to pick a fight so he could go out with a gun in his hand. In the movie Wayne utters one of my favorite lines of all time;” I won't be wronged. I won't be insulted. I won't be laid a-hand on. I don't do these things to other people, and I require the same from them.” Wayne was well known for giving controversial interviews and not really giving a fuck. He was also a fantastic drunk who would troll for pussy with The Tonight Show’s sidekick Ed McMahon. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and join those two in a bar…oofa.

[8] Although everyone, at this point, knows WHO Elvis was…nobody seems to know what he did other than sing and star in a bunch of shit flicks. Elvis was a practical joker who would toss a monkey into a bedroom while his friends were trying to get laid, he was a momma’s boy, an honorary police officer who would ACTUALLY pull people over and give them tickets, he was a philanthropist who would hand out Cadillac’s like they were nothing, he was a Monty Python fan, a black belt, and he once pulled a gun on Alice Cooper. However, as he aged he got addicted to prescription drugs and became a bad joke in comparison to his former glory. The use of these drugs when combined with his diet of Meatloaf and Fried Peanut Butter and ‘Nana sammiches only brought on more medical complications with in him. On August 16th, 1977, twenty one days after my fourth birthday, Elvis’ 21 year old fiancé found him dead on the floor of the bathroom. Most people assume that his death was caused by a drug overdose, but the coroner’s report states that he died of an impacted colon. He had 32 pounds of undigested meat in that mother fucker and it exploded inside of him, which MORE than explains why he was on the toilet when he collapsed.

[9] IN 1997 Marshal Applewhite, leader of a cult called ‘Heaven’s Gate’, convinced 39 of his followers that they needed to commit mass suicide in order to board a spaceship that he believed was hidden in the trail of the Hale Bopp comet. Personally? If ANYONE is THAT gullible, I say ‘so fucking long’. 39 more parking spaces in the world.

[10] Tarzan is a fictional character created by Edgar Rice Burroughs in 1912. Many see Tarzan as homage to Kipling’s character Mowgli from ‘The Jungle Book’ which was released in 1894. Tarzan was born to a British lord and lady who were marooned on the West coast of Africa by Mutineers. After his mother died of natural causes, his father was killed by a great ape whose tribe would go on to raise Tarzan from an infant and make him one of their own. Because of his upbringing, Tarzan would go on to learn how to communicate with all the animals of the jungle and he would possess superior strength, agility, and often intelligence over his enemies. In his adult years, Tarzan was found by family members who didn’t know that he even existed, and taken back to England where he received a classical education. However the stuffy dipshittery of noble society soon led Tarzan back to the Jungle where he went on to help others and fight crime. Good shit right? Well, in my opinion, the best incarnation of this tale which has included innumerable remakes, retellings, and sequels has to be ‘Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes’ The movie featured Christopher Lambert (Highlander) in his acting debut and even though it has the stink of 1984 special effects on it, it was still a well acted and engrossing story to behold. Rent it.

[11] Although McDonalds features many characters which make one think of the various foods they sell, I STILL don’t know what the fuck The Grimace is other than a fat purple monster. Someone once suggested to me that Grimace represents milk shakes, but I have yet to see a purple milkshake. Also, The WORD grimace means ‘a contorted twisting of the face that expresses disgust or pain’ and yet The Grimace always has a fucking smile on his face! Fuck you Grimace for antagonizing me with your lack of resemblance to any food stuff and confusing me with your name.

[12] Yes, I like Billy Joel…suck it. Billy was an ugly kid who tried his hand at boxing before going on to become the best song writer of our time. Yeah, I know the argument, I’ve had them many times…’But Mike, isn’t Springstien the best song writer of our time?’ No. Springstien IS a great writer, IF you live in fucking New Joisy, ok? Joel bends the ear of the entire world and his music speaks to me more directly than any other. Maybe I relate so well because I’M an ugly fuck and it warms my heart that this man married the hottest fucking super model of the 80’s. Sure it didn’t work out, but Joel stuck his foot in the door of super model pussy, and maybe he propped it open JUST enough that a douche like me can squeeze through. Thanks Billy, who loves ya? And fuck you Springstein, you STILL seem like any asshole I went to high school with that laughed at nothing, had no personality, but STILL got all the pussy because you played a fucking six string and rambled on about ‘azure skies’ and ‘hometown twat’.

[13] Ah, Nine Inch Nails, my SECOND concert. I sat so fucking far away from the stage; I may as well have watched it with binoculars from my roof. I remember the first time I heard ‘Pretty Hate Machine’…I was dumbfounded. Nothing I’d ever listened to sounded like that, and when an older friend got me into my first bar when I was 18, the punk chicks with pink hair were dancing to the words and industrial beat of Trent Reznor. I’ve never looked back. Those are still my kind of women, and that album enjoys a permanent residence at the TOP of my iPod ‘fuck’ list whenever a young lady deems me fit to be in the presence of her open legs.

The Hempenary

2011-03-13T05:29:00.000-05:00

I feel like I should give a little explanation to the Hempenary for those of you who are not my friend on the Facebook. The Hempenary is a work in progress. What you read here is not a complete Hempenary, nor do I think it will EVER be fully complete.

I'm writing a book called 'General Douchebaggery: Pontifications of an Idiot" and The Hempenary will act as a glossary of terms used in the book. I have 33 chapters written and what you are about to read only encompasses words used in the first 14 chapters. It has been suggested to me that I make 'The Hempenary' it's own book because it promices to be so fucking long, but I believe it to be a neccessary addition to General Douchebaggery. I don't claim that ALL of the terms were coined by me, but some of them were. Others are words I've simply heard in life that Webster won't dignify, and there are also those that friends have given me.

As I said, it's still a work in progress, so if you have any words that you don't see hear, and you think they would make an appropriate addition to the Hempenary, please feel free to post them in the comments section.

By the way, my last name is Hempen if you didn't catch that.

The Hempenary

1973 Dodge Dick (noun) – 1. A classic vehicle built in 1973 whose durable chassis and high powered engine was made to race at the Cuntingham Speedway 2. Other models of the same year include the ’73 Chevy Impenis, The ’73 Ford Puntang, and The ’73 Mercedes Bone

3 wheels all day (phrase) – 1. The point at which a woman weighs up to or over 300 pounds and whose weight never fluctuates 2. A woman’s perpetual state of being over 300 pounds

Allergic to Pussy (adjective) – a man who has a strong aversion to a particular vagina, and whose friends cannot figure out why that aversion exists

Alterna-chick (noun) – a super hot thin girl with short black, red, or pink hair who wears tight black clothes, some sort of high soled shoe, and is oft times VERY disinterested in fucking ME

Assholedness (adjective) – a man who is acting with, resulting from, or characteristic of the thoughtless, impetuous behavior of an asshole

Ass Piss (verb) – 1. An explosive discharge of diarrhea from one’s anus which is lacking of any solid chunks 2. A yellowish geyser which will erupt from one’s asshole when sick 3. The name of my band in high school

ATM (noun) – 1. an Automated teller machine 2. (verb) in porn, this is the term used to describe when a man removes his penis from a woman’s asshole and into the waiting mouth of a another woman i.e. ass to mouth

Bar Accident (noun) – an infant product created by the coupling of two drunken assholes that have neither means nor desire to see to its proper upbringing

Bar Dick (noun) – cute guys between the ages of 21 and 25 who don’t have to work at getting laid while at bars because women of that age see them in the same light that a retarded sees something shiney

Beer Goggles (plural noun) - the organ of sight or light sensitivity in men which is responsible for converting fat chicks into fuckable chicks after a certain amount of beer has been ingested

Bicok (noun)– A misspelled word meaning any number of things, my first guess is ‘big cock’
Big bitch (noun) – 1. A frighteningly monstrous woman who is not only tall but round as well 2. A woman whose bad attitude is only outweighed by her ass fat

Bi partisan ship (?) – I still have NO idea and I STILL don’t care to learn

Biscuits (noun) – An 80’s term used when someone has been proven wrong, by shouting it at the end of the statement which has outted their mistake example: BISCUITS! This term has since been replaced with DAAAAAAAAAAAYMN!

Blackstravaganza (noun) – a large group of African Americans

Blanket Party (noun) – 1. A gathering of men in which four hold the intended target down with a blanket while the others repeatedly bash his torso with bars of soap swung in towels or socks 2. A very violent and somewhat gay gathering of men

The Boy Who Cried Pussy (A Hempen Fable) - any lonely man who tricks his friends into thinking he got some stank on his hang low

Bra (noun) – a Hawaiian term used by douchebags to address what they perceive to be a close male Hawaiian friend

Bride-Grooming (noun) – the upkeeping of a woman’s crotchal area in which the pubic hair is shaved completely or left in the small shape of a heart, antelope, or landing strip

Bro (noun) – a term often misused in which a complete douchebag addresses what he perceives to be a close male friend

Bro-ham (noun) – A term used by an even BIGGER douchebag to address what he perceives to be a close male friend

A Bromsky (noun) – the act of placing ones mouth in a woman’s ample cleavage and making a zurbert while shaking one’s head back and forth; See also ‘A Motorboat’

Brovah (noun) – a term used by Desmond on ‘Lost’ to address close friends

Cankles (noun) – the part of a heavy set womans leg where the leg fat morphs into the foot fat creating a Redwood Tree circumference where a normal person’s ankle would be

Cat Food and Ass (smell) – 1. An odor that is created when a man and a woman have vaginal intercourse 2. Cat food and ass is not detected immediately, however when one partner leaves the room and comes back, the odor is prevalent

Catnip for Black People (noun) – A restaurant or diner of whose clientele mainly consists of black people i.e. Red Lobster

Catnip for Pussy (noun) – an establishment or penis that draws women to it i.e. Vision Nightclub in Chicago or Scott Baio

Celtic Curse (noun) – A curse which afflicts the peni of Irish men to be below average in length
Cheap floozy (noun) – 1. A thin yet wholly unattractive woman who frequents karaoke bars and other less savory joints in search of booze and dick 2. A vulgar and promiscuous woman who’s handy will only come at the cost of a mimosa

The Chick Mullet (noun) – 1. A woman’s haircut that conveys her general lack of interest in the way that she looks 2. Cropped short on the top and sides, but with lengthy flowing locks in back, this is the typical hairdo of a butch lesbian

A Christmas Shit (noun) – A truly smelly gift that wafts about the house on Christmas morning

Cock Block (verb) – the act of one male impeding another’s trip to Vagina-Ville

Chubby Chaser (noun) – 1. a gentleman who prefers the company of large women 2. A tubby vagina, taken with or after one of a smaller and more aesthetically pleasing nature e.g. fucking Rosanne Barr after Scarlett Johanson

Clit diving (verb) – to jump or throw yourself into a clitoris, usually head first, with the intention of performing some back arching cunnilingus

A Clitoral Bonanza (noun) – 1. a nightclub or other such establishment which yields great vaginal success 2. An extremely desirable, perfectly proportioned, and often rare clit found while on a whisker hunt

Cooter (noun) - 1. The county mechanic and an honorary Duke on the TV show ‘The Dukes of Hazzard’ 2. Although I can’t imagine ANY scenario in which I might use this expression, cooter refers to a woman’s naughty bit

Cracker Parade (noun) – a large group of cracker ass crackers

Craptacular (adjective) – 1. A shit that is impressive or dramatic to look at or watch 2. A remarkably large, great, or speedy poop 3. A lavish dookey or fartistic production

Crazy-eyes (noun) – the creepy gaze of a whack-a-do

Creamed beef on toast (noun) – 1. Some sort of grayish gravy with chunks of what I assume is meat in it poured over toasted white bread 2. I really have no fucking clue; also referred to as ‘Shit on a Shingle’

Creeper (noun) – a quaint female term used to describe a man who does odd things, not necessarily TOWARDS them but around them, in a social setting i.e. a man who stares intently at an inanimate object while tugging on his earlobe or who flicks peanuts at an animal while grasping his package

Crossing Streams (verb) – The undertaking of two males, in the act of close quarter urination, in which they cross their pee streams

Cuntish Demeanor (noun) – The disposition of a woman in which she acts like a cunt

Cunty (adjective) – a man who is in the throes of a womanly temper tantrum example: Don’t be cunty

D.C.F.S. S.W.A.T Team (proper noun) – The Department of Children and Family Services Special Weapons and Tactics Team is a specialized branch of the DCFS that is called out to euthanize parents who are unfit and irresponsible in the care of children Examples: parents who bring children to a midnight showing of a rated R film, mothers who leave infants in cars to ‘run in’ and buy cigarettes, and father’s who spend more time beating their boys than teaching them to conduct themselves like men

D.P. (noun) – 1. Director of Photography 2. Double penetration

Dick Assumption (noun) 1. a dick that a woman believes is hers without proof 2. The act of a woman to take a dick upon herself without previous consent

Dick-vertising (noun) the public promotions of one’s penis in order to attract or increase interest in it

Dimwit (noun) – A woman of diminished intelligence who’s only form of discussion is through confrontational anger

Dingus (noun) – a very abrasive and often intellectually inferior penis

Dooky (poo noun) – a pasty shit that lies somewhere between a solid and a liquid but still falls in the form of tiny chunks or pellets 2. A poop whose tremendous odor belies its tiny mass; see also ‘The Snoopy Sno-Cone Shit’

Double Gunt – (noun) a mammoth amount of fatty tissue that protrudes OVER the first gunt resembling two large fluffy couch cushions on top of one another also known as a lard sandwich

Douchebaggery (noun) – A general lack of all things sensible

Douche-chill (verb) – a sudden shuddering feeling of coldeness caused by fear, anxiety, or excitement brought on by a douchbag

Drop-Fuck (verb) – An illegal move in the world of fuckery in which one sexual partner attacks the others genitals by leaping into the air and striking their partners private parts with their own

Dropping a Deuce (verb) – A shit made of more length than girth that breaks in the middle due to weight or an unexpected sphincter clench, the second half of which is produced through some forceful pushing and contorted facial expressions

Emoticons (noun) – annoying little fucking smiley face things used by individuals who lack a coherent vocabulary

Ex-sex (noun) – an often hot and passionate sexual encounter with an ex lover

Eye-groping (noun) – a loving glance made at a womans breasts or buttocks that turns creepy when it goes on past 30 seconds

Face book thirty (noun) – The age at which a man turns on the internet when people start to notice that he’s been 29 for 7 years

Fat Chick (noun) – 1. A woman having a body weight greater than is considered desirable or advisable 2. A woman who is somewhere north of ‘heavy’ 3. 98% of the women who post on dating websites

Fat friend (noun) – 1. The beastly, ever present, and stalwart companion of a hot chick whose only goal is to slam the door of pussy on your genitalia 2. A girthy woman whose jealousy seeks to deprive her beautiful companion of the evening’s dick

Fat ripple (verb) – a convulsive wave of flesh that runs down the course of a fat woman’s body when displeased, much like a when a rhino stomps it’s foot before charging.

Feeling Froggy (verb) – the act of an over-testosteroned male in which he feels the need to jump violently at the smallest provocation

Florida (noun) 1. the name of the actress who played the mother on ‘Good Times’ 2. A section of skin shaped like the handle of a cast iron cooking pan that extends away from the body it belongs to i.e. a dick

Forever hold (verb) – An aggressive act often made by a disgruntled retail employee, in which a person calling to ask dumb questions such as ‘what is your phone number there?’ is told to wait a moment and then is placed on hold never to be talked to again

Friskies (noun) – 1. A gathering of hot legal teenage girls, usually in a mall, who cavort and carry on in a spirited manner 2. A group of young ladies whose tight jeans are so low that one can see their who-ha popping out of the top

Fuckable (adjective) – 1. Not HOT, but not grotesque either 2. Will do in a pinch

Fucking one’s hand (masturbatory phrase) – 1. Masturbation at a quick steady pace 2. Masturbation wherein the masturbator keeps his fist at a fixed position while thrusting his penis into it repeatedly 3. Masturbation intended more for speed than comfort

Fugetaboutit (verb) – A term used mostly by Gumbahs meaning ‘don’t worry about it’ or ‘don’t give it another thought’.

The Friend zone (noun) – 1. a place that men sometimes find themselves in with women, that is mysterious and cannot easily be explained 2. A destination in the female psyche of which a man can easily founder into by not giving a woman any reason to consider him a potential sexual partner i.e. not even trying to kiss her by the end of the second date

Gangsta Lean (verb) – 1. Intransitive verb when a car is in or moves to a position that is at an angle to the vertical due to the weight of a passenger or driver

Gazoongas (noun) – comically oversized titties often implanted when a woman’s attractiveness has hit the wall making her feel the need to draw a man’s gaze from her crows feet and laugh lines

Getting the Card Stamped (Phrase) – a term meaning that a man has been rejected by a woman, like a traveling salesman who gets his passport stamped at many airports without success of selling his product example: DAMN! She stamped the SHIT outta your card!

Getting the Christmas Goose Early (phrase) – Pinching someone’s ass during the holiday season is considered giving them their Christmas goose early

Getting some Stank on your Hang-low (verb) – the act made when a man’s penis is placed inside of a woman’s vagina

Getting some strange (phrase) – 1. A random sexual encounter with a hot chick met in a bar 2. Not to be confused with ‘Poking some peculiar’

Getting Tapped Out (verb) – the act of one man, in the throes of an MMF threesome, hitting the other lightly more than once, informing him of his desire for imminent sloppy seconds

Ghetto pass (noun) – a very rare declaration made by a black man or woman giving permission to a specific white man to use the word nigger when he has proven beyond doubt that he is not oppressive or racist in any way

Glowering Cow (noun) –a fat chick who looks at somebody or something with sullen anger or strong resentment

The Gooch (noun) – 1. A bully who occasionally picked on Arnold Jackson 2. The skin between one’s balls and asshole; see also ‘taint’

Goopey load (noun) – a semiliquid sticky or messy ejaculate which often muddily splashes from a penis rather than squirts in a fine spray

Gravitationally Challenged (noun) – a politically correct term used to describe very fat women

Grumpy Sumo Wrestler (noun) – An argumentative fat chick; See also ‘Pouty Hippo’

Gunt (noun) – 1. The surface of the body of a woman where the stomach dips down past her genitals 2. A pants covered region on a woman’s Netherlands wherein there is no distinct separation of gut and cunt 3. Disgusting

The Hairy Eyeball (verb) – 1. A look that a woman will give a man whom she does not wish to be approached by 2. A condescending glare

Hammy Shit (noun) – A poorly acted movie i.e. ‘Manhunter'

The Hempen Back Massage (noun) – a completely uneducated fumbling about the naked back of a woman where in the act of human contact, not proficient at massage, is enough to spark a woman’s vagina to moisten

The Hempennis (noun) – My Cock

Hetero life partner (noun) – The person with whom a straight man has decided to spend the rest of his life with in a non sexual relationship because pussy eludes him at every turn

Holiday Anal (noun) – a form of sexual intercourse in which a man puts his penis into the anus of a man or woman on a nationally recognized holiday i.e. Canadian Boxing Day

The Holiday Hard On (noun) – a rock solid hard-on traditionally placed inside of a vagina on Christmas Eve

A Hooker’s Asshole (noun) – 1. A highly offensive sphincter that perpetually smells of mud butt 2. A vile hole of treachery that vomits partially digested gummed chunks of fast food

A Hot Mess (noun) – A woman in a dirty or untidy state usually while smelling like she just sucked a cigarette’s dick

A Huge White Whale Piece of Shit (noun) – A fat white woman whose gross neglect and unfair treatment of those weaker than her causes harm to others

Hulking Out (verb) – the act of a retarded to exhibit great strength when angered

Human Beingary (verb) – The simple act of acting like a god-damned civilized human fucking being

The I’m not a fag seat (noun) – A seat, usually in a movie theater, that remains unoccupied between two heterosexual men

Inner Asshole (existential noun) – 1. The inner asshole is a part that lies deep within the core of all those that YOU consider to be ‘nice’ people Example; when a church mom stubs her toe on an end table and lashes out at her child who simply asks if she’s ‘ok’ 2. The inner asshole should not be confused with the inner cunt, which helps in your beautiful and kind wife’s decision to bury another’s cock in her penile cemetery plot

Inner Nigger (noun) – 1. Even though I agree with the argument of Chris Rock that there are ‘niggers’, and there are ‘black people’, the inner nigger is well suppressed, but ever present within the latter. This is the inner voice that makes even the most well mannered, well educated, and well intentioned of African Americans curse and scream when they don’t get their way instead of trying to discuss a solution Example: Everything that Whoopi Goldberg does on the View 2. This phenomenon is not ONLY specific to black people and can be seen in fat white women, drunken white men, Asians in traffic school, and Hispanics when their Boost Mobile minutes run out in the middle of a conversation

The Internet Fandango (noun) – A vigorous internet chat laced with double entendres and sexual overtones traditionally performed by a man and a woman as a courtship ritual

Jerkin’ one’s Gherkin’ (masturbatory phrase) – A form of masturbation wherein the masturbator smiles delightfully to himself

The Jimboree (noun) – a gathering of 3 or more persons who have the first name Jim

A Jimjam (noun) – a gathering of no more or less than 2 persons who have the first name Jim

Jism (noun) – semen

Jumping on the Fat bomb (verb) – 1. an act usually performed by a wingman, in which he throws himself in front of a fat chick while you make good your escape with her hot friend 2. In the case of a REALLY good wingman, he will actually FUCK the fat chick in furtherance of YOUR effort to bag the hotty, earning himself a Vaginal Medal of Valor in the process

Junk (noun) – a formidable, yet sloppily combed private area

The Kemo-Hempy (noun) a coat worn, for more than 7 years by Michael Hempen which resembles a jacket that may have been sown together by pioneers of the old west

Kid drunk (verb) – the hilarious stumbling about of children after they have accidentally drinken a beer that has been left out

Kid Fucker (noun) – Although this term should always follow the preamble ‘dead’, as in ‘dead kid fucker’, our society still hasn’t gotten the balls to shoot these vile pieces of dog shit upon conviction, but instead continues to relinquish to the notion of ‘justice’ by sending them to a nice comfortable prison. There is no justice when a kid is fucked…kill the kid fucker where they stand. If my book sells, I offer a 10000 dollar bounty for every kid fucker scalp you bring me. see also 'soap box'

Kitten Ass (noun) – 1. A man in complete and utter thrall to his woman 2. A man who submissively shows favoritism to his woman over his friends on a consistent basis see also; pussy whipped

Knuckleville Junction (proper noun) – 1. A stop along the railways that cross the harsh terrain between Vagina-ville and Masturbationilvainia 2. Knuckleville Junction will oft times find multiple men in various stages of penile manipulation

Let-me-tell-YOU-something’s (noun) – a gathering of hot Hispanic or African American legal teenagers usually in a mall, who although dressed wildly inappropriate and sexually explicit, tell any man who approaches them to fuck off not to be confused with; Friskies

Losery (noun) – a state in which I find myself on most days

Lunatic hag (noun) – An older woman whom should know better than to act like a twit, but whom

The Magnificent Seven Inches (noun) – a nickname used for the Hempennis

The Mall Cop Lean (verb) – The act of mall security officers in which they move to a position that is at an angle to the vertical, usually on a calendar or watch kiosk counter, while hitting on hot teenage employee’s of said establishment who want nothing to do with their 8 dollar an hour, go-tee’d, distended belly having, 40 year old still living with mom, real cop wanna-be asses

Man-Scaping (noun) The enhancemet of the appearance of a mans pubic area, especially around the penis, by altering the countours of pubic hair and shaving the balls completely

Masian (noun) – a rare and odd looking individual whose heritage cannot be clearly discerned as Asian or Mexican

Master Cocksmith (noun) – A man who, although his cock may not be mighty, wields it as though it were

Masturbationilvania (proper noun) – 1. A lonely township which lies in the foothills of the Flogginit mountain range 2. Masturbationilvainia is exactly on the opposite side of the globe from Vagina-ville

Mega Woman (noun) – A seemingly normal human female in all respects save one; she weighs 500 pounds.

Mexicans in Frickin’ Dance Clubs (noun) - a term, used ONLY by Jessica Smith in which she voices her general lack of interest in dancing Hispanics

Mexiganza (noun) – a large group of Hispanic Americans

Mid-jerk (verb) – the act of being half way or more into a self stimulating stroke a thon

A Mouth Wash (noun) – a female aperture which cleans a penis with a revolving tongue and jets of spittle, usually to orgasm if done correctly

Nekkid (adjective) – an unattractively naked man whose in-the-buffery is often considered to be threatening or disturbing to those within eyesight of it

Neuticals (noun) – Testicular prosthetic implants for neutered pets

New Pussy (noun) – a thrilling and exciting new vagina which stimulates a man for the first time in a long time when the previous and often current vagina has become ho-hum and commonplace

The No Call List (noun) – a mental list created by a woman, on which men she has no desire to bang are penciled in

Nouveau Riche (adjective) – a fancy way for assholes like me to say ‘new’

Nutting up (noun) – the act of a man to take responsability for his actions

On the labia wagon (phrase) – Taking time off from the perils of vagina; see also ‘spinster’

Pandora’s Vagina (noun) – 1. A vagina that a man KNOWS he shouldn’t fuck because his pennis sense is tingling, but which he cannot resist 2. Opening Pandora’s vagina means to unleash an evil upon the world which cannot be undone 3. A vagina which, although beautiful and wondrous, brings with it misfortune and lies

Pants tent (noun) – a denim, courdoroy, or gabardine fabric held up by a man’s pethis when it is in a state of excitement while its owner is fully clothed

Passive Aggressive Rambling (adjective) – The speech of a talky bitch which seeks to manipulate others indirectly and belittle people to their face whom she thinks are too dumb to notice that she’s doing it

Pending vagina (adjective) – 1. A vagina that is about to happen or come into effect for a man 2. A vagina not yet dealt with, decided upon, or settled into

Peni (noun) – The correct plural form of ‘penis’, it is NOT penises

Penile Clientele (noun) – 1. The female clients or customers of a professional penis proficient in the world of dick-vertising 2. Any lady shopping for dick

A Penile Distance(noun) – the length of space at which a woman keeps a man when she wants him to THINK there will be insertion even though her objectives are less than scrutable

Penile flirt (verb) – 1. When a cute female server actually wants some dick 2. An EXTREMLY rare occurrence except where celebrity is involved

Pennis (noun) pronounced like ‘tennis’ 1. A substitute used when one finds the hard ‘E’ in penis to be too firm 2. To lighten the tone of one’s junk by giving it a soft ‘e’

Pethis (noun) – A penis which, although not great in length or girth, has the distinction of being very pleasing and impressive to look at, listen to, touch , smell or taste

Pimp ride (noun) – Any car that one is not embarrassed to hand the keys of to the valet.

The Planet Pussiter (noun) – A planetary body within the twat nebula where mysteries abound

Poking some Peculiar (verb) - a random sexual encounter with a NOT so hot chick met in a bar

Poo March (verb) – 1. An incredibly ludicrous walk in which the none of the bodies extremities are moved save the legs at the hip joint 2. A quick zombie-like amble brought on by one’s need to shit furiously

Pouty Hippo (noun) – The point at which a heavy woman shows displeasure; See also; Glowering Cow

Pre-vaginal ceremony (noun) - 1. the work or planning involved in making ones penis ready in advance of pending vagina 2. A state of pre-vaginal readiness

Pumping off (verb) – an angry form of masturbation which is often accompanied by the gritting of teeth

Pussy boner (noun) – a vagina whose state of sexual excitement makes its owner forceful like a man

Pussy Corporation Ltd. Inc. (noun) – 1. A vagina recognized by law as a single pussy with its own powers and liabilities, separate from those of honest, thoughtful, and dignified women. Pussy Corporation Ltd. Inc. performs many of the functions of a private vagina, only on a far more grand scale 2. A group of vaginas acting as a single entity

The pussy express (noun) – a penis that travels direct to its intended vagina, making few or no stops on the way

Pussy preparation mode (noun) – 1. The work or planning involved in making a penis or scrotum ready for pending vagina 2. A way, manner, or form of putting a dork in a state of readiness 3. Manscaping done in advance in order for one’s crotchal area to be ready for a future vagina

The Pussy Process (noun) – 1. a series of actions directed toward bedding a specific vagina 2. A series of natural occurrences that produce change or development in a vagina i.e. divorce, recurring small peni, horrible sex

Pussy Stockholm Syndrome (noun) – 1. A condition experienced by some men who have been held at vagina-point for an extended time in which they begin to identify with and feel sympathetic toward their girlfriend whose done just horrible shit to them 2. When a man stays with a woman whom he knows that he should not because of her extracurricular vaginal exploits

Quick Pussy (noun) – a vigorous one night stand

Rack (noun) – a substantial bosom which when revealed unteathered from clothing restrictions, stands at attention and is able to hold a full glass of water without dropping it

Rama Lama Ding Dong (genital noun) – 1. A penis in the midst of minding its own business 2. Not to be confused with Rama Lama, Rama Lama Lama Ding Dong which is a narcissistic penis who likes his presence to be known.

A Rapey Vibe (noun) – 1. a particular kind of feeling or ambience that some men exude when they are not clear in meaning or intention while alone with a woman 2. a creepy feeling that some women get in regards to a potential date which should NOT be overlooked

A Real Trooper (noun) – a woman who will not only let, but often insist that a man releases his seminal load on her face

The Relationship Countdown Clock (noun) – a metaphorical clock which countsdown the time left in a relationship as a mans girlfriend approaches 21 years of age

The Re-Shirt (noun) – A T-shirt with a picture of a retarded on it

Retail Masturbation (verb) – 1. The act of an individual customer to consistently buy things and then return them soon after purchase for no discernable gratification 2. An act usually carried out by people of a low intelligence

Retail Psychic (noun) – a loser, whose time spent in the same position for more than 10 years, garners him a profound insight into the behavior of prospective clientele before they enter his place of business

Rim Job (verb) – 1. Getting the rims of one’s car replaced or cleaned 2. The act of licking another’s taint or anus with the tongue

Ripe vagina (noun) – 1. a female sexual organ or ‘HEY NOW!’ that has matured or aged enough to have developed the best flavor and body 2. A vagina at the most suitable stage of preparation or development 3. A pussy, usually in its early to mid twenties that is mature and ready to be plucked and eaten

The Robot (verb) – the most awesomest dance ever

Roofie Cookies (secret noun) – Shhhhhhhhh!

Rotundiness (noun) – The point on a mostly circular woman at which the head begins to resemble a large thumb

Ruckus (noun) – a noisy and unpleasant disturbance, usually caused by a fat chick
Sausage fingers (noun) – the thick fingers of an extra large person that can barely bend at the knuckle

Schedenfreud (noun) – a German word which has no LITERAL English translation, but loosely means ‘taking pleasure in the misfortune of others’

Semen Shrapnel (noun) – A geyser which sometimes spurts free JUST before one has the presence of mind to cover one’s dick hole with a tissue

Serial Chubber (noun) – 1. A chubby woman who tries to seduce a number of men on the internet using subversive and false methods over a period of time, especially one who uses the same method each time 2. A woman who has never known ‘thin’ and from birth was a sizable individual i.e.; a habitual fatty

Sextacular (noun) – a sexual marathon between two partners that often lasts a weekend or more

Shitheadedness (noun) – rash or thoughtless behavior made by a shithead

Shooting Ropes (verb) – A stringy ejaculation of semen brought about from eating certain foods such as large amounts of celery example: ANY Peter North movie

Sitting bitch (verb) – 1. the act of a male in which he is forced to sit in the passenger seat of a car, or behind the driver of a motorcycle 2. The occupant of a vehicle of which he is not in control is said to be sitting bitch see also; bitch seat

Skullduggery (noun) – 1. An awesome word which means ‘unfair and dishonest practices carried out in a secretive way in order to trick other people’ 2. If this word were a vagina, I would fuck it

Slacks-capade (verb) – 1. The act of a man shopping for pants 2. A hetero adventure to a mall in which a man shops for hours searching out a new pair of dungarees

Sloppy seconds (adjective) – a humping that is additional to and less important than the first or main hump

Snaggle-tooth (noun) – a person whose teeth look like an M.C. Escher drawing

The Snatch Shallows (noun) – a bay in the Gulf of Clitoria where the vagina is more beautiful, but displays little intellectual or emotional complexity or value

Soapaphobic (noun) – an individual whose lack of hygiene causes them to smell of ass

Spaghetti unibrow (noun) – A thin unibrow made of pasta

Sphintoric Endeavor (verb) – The need of one’s anus to make a serious and sincere effort to achieve a shit

Spictacular (adjective) – a lavish Hispanic celebration or production

Spider Nipples (noun) – hairy nipples that resemble a large furry spider squashed between knarled toes

Spinster (noun) – 1. An offensive term for a woman who has remained unmarried beyond a certain age 2. A man who acts like a woman and whines about not getting laid

The Squeeze Technique (masturbatory noun) –1. A procedure wherein a man squeezes the base of his cock JUST before orgasm, withholding the wonders of his semen 2. A modus operandi which should only to be used in EXTREME circumstances where tissue is not present i.e. police station interrogation rooms

Stalkerazzi (noun) – All of the men in a bar who hit on one particular woman, usually the most beautiful one in the establishment, without success

Stalk Monster (noun) – 1. An undesirable female who will follow or try to get close to a man who has already expressed his disinterest in her 2. A woman whose perceived rotundiness or vicious behavior terrifies and disgusts the subject of her affections

Steppin’ (verb) – 1. some sort of dance of which elderly African American couples are frequently involved 2. A source of great humor for Mike Hempen and Action Jim as Mike’s mother would practice ‘steppin’ with video tapes

Stripper stank (noun) – the vaginal secretions left on a penis after a stripper has dismounted it

The Structurally Deprived (noun) a politically correct term for homeless people who wear newpaper underwear

Super Sized (noun) – 1. A woman whose girth is greater than what is normal 2. A woman who is large to or in a high or extreme degree 3. A big bitch; see also ‘Fat Chick’
The Swallow (noun) – a favorite bird of 18-25 year old girls who don’t know any better
Sweater prison (noun) a secure garment made of cotton or synthetic fiber in which breasts are confined as punishment for being beautiful or while waiting to be unleashed upon a lucky gentleman

Sweater-Puppies (noun) – a pair of aestetically pleasing breasts, made even more so by the tight sweater that houses them

Sword Fight (verb) – a very homosexual act, usually performed by 2 males who claim to NOT be homosexual wherein they mock a contest of phallus with their peni

Taint Bait (noun) – a hot chick with a long narrow tongue

Tang (noun) – 1. A drink used by astronauts 2. A derivative of the French word ‘pun tang’ which means ‘female genitalia’

Talent (noun) – 1. Multiple hot ass woman, usually meandering about a bar 2. An unusual natural ability within a group of extremely beautiful women to look amazing, especially in the ass area

Talky bitches (noun) – Women who drone on and on and on, only pausing to let you talk long enough to order them another drink

Teefus (noun) – 1. A person’s teeth which are in a state of upheaval or rebellion from the gums 2. Teeth which protrude in all directions see also; snaggle-tooth

Thas how I Roll (Phrase) – A term meaning ‘that’s how I do things’ example: Eating chocolate covered dove peni? Thas just how I roll

Tig ole Biddies (noun) – 1. A very large set of bazooms i.e. big ole titties

The Time Machine (noun) a term used to describe an ATM machine when one spends all of their time there i.e. the ATM at a strip club

Tip flirt (verb) – 1. Vaginal verb When a cute female server behaves in a playfully alluring way in furtherance of pandering to your lack of sex in search of a bigger tip 2. Penile verb When a man is in the presence of a woman or women and the tip of his penis precariously pokes its head out of the hole in the front of his boxer shorts unbeknownst to him

Tit Man (noun) – a man whose first priority when sizing up a woman, is her ta-tas

Titsember (noun) – The 7th month of the Hempenian Calendar

Tomfoolery (noun) – silly behavior

The Troll Brigade (noun) – a group of hideously ugly women organized to achieve a particular goal such as scoring dick from drunken guys or characterized by a common trait such as attitude, weight, vulgarity, or smell

Trooper (noun) – a woman who will let a man shoot his ropes on her face example; she’s a real trooper

Tubby Brat (noun) – a fat woman in the throes of a quiet temper tantrum

Turtling (verb) – the act of a penis to retract itself entirely inside the pubic area, usually when frightened or extremely cold

Uber-horny (adjective) – 1. a person who is extremely sexually excited, or very easily aroused sexually 2. A state of being in men in which the slightest breeze can make them fuck the most inanimate of objects i.e. fucking a gourd after cutting a hole in it and slightly warming it in the microwave

Unknown Pussy (adjective) – 1. Undetermined or undiscovered vagina 2. A pussy that is not known to, or recognized by, my penis

The Vagimazon (noun) – Also known as ‘Vagimazonia’ is an unkempt, moist, tropical, pussy forest that covers all of a woman’s pubic area and may never have seen a razor, clippers, or have had any bride grooming done in its lifetime e.g. All Greek women

Vaginal sabbatical (adjective) – a voluntary vacation from the happenstance of vagina

The Vagina Corps (proper noun) – Sometimes referred to as G.I. G-Spot, the Vagina Corps is a rag tag group of every straight man on the planet who would like to get laid slogans include: A pussy of one, Vagina Strong, Today's Vagina Wants to Join YOU, and Be All The Vagina You Can Be

Vaginamite (noun) – 1. An explosive vagina whose unstable nature will cause catastrophic ripples in a man’s psyche 2. A woman who will cause a man to act in ways that he normally wouldn’t because the sex is better than what he’s used to

The Vagina/Penis ratio (noun) – 1. The proportional relationship between private parts in a bar 2. The point at which is reached more of one than the other

Vaginatown (proper noun) – A rustic jungle village set deep in the heart of Twattica whose chief exports include wigs, tree stumps, razor burns, and a deep sadness. Founded in the 70’s,
Vaginatown enjoyed being nestled in the moist tropical forests until the land was laid bare by the Gillette Company’s ‘depubization’ project in the late 90’s. The only evidence left of its existence is a landing strip which occasionally haunts the barren waste of what was once a fertile bush.

The Vigina Triangle (noun) – An area on an extremely beautiful female between her thighs where peni and testicles have disappeared and not been seen again

Vagina-ville (proper noun) – 1. A fishing village whose borders caress the Gulf of Clitoria 2. Vagina-Ville is a place of infinite wonder where night time is ever present and secrets are kept from the prying ears of visitors from Cockifornia

Vagit Nam (noun) – a harsh and unyielding province where guerilla STD warfare is often used against invading and unsuspecting peni

Va-J-J (noun) a pussy that is dy-NO-mite!

The Vapors (noun) – A condition in which a man swoons like a woman

Whack-a-do (noun) – a woman, usually of a deeply religious or spiritual nature, whose overzealous and potentially dangerous belief system makes them a fucking loony

What-now (noun) – The private sector of a woman’s crotchal region that is used in a direct or indirect way to gather information about the identity or nature of its penile quarry at the present time

Where Club Kids Go to Die (noun) – A shitty nightclub whose D.J. moonlights as a bagger at Jewel and still plays ‘Copacabana’ and ‘Walk the Dinosaur’ to the sad ears of middle aged, over dressed, heavily perfumed, divoree’s whose sadness lies NOT in their wanting to get laid, but wanting to get laid by people in THAT nightclub

Where Hard-on’s Go to Die (noun) – A magical place where a penis is taken by a woman who, while sending out all the silent signals such as body language, alluring clothes, and the occasional touch, talks of mundane things such as laundry, children, or parents . This mindless blathering does not coincide with her sex pottery, and is wont to send a full on robot chub into a quarter flaccid state of penile depression

Whisker Hunt (transitive and intransitive verb)- 1. To persue a vagina with the intention of making the sweetest of loves on top of it 2. To engage in a sport involving the pursuit of consensual sex, usually with the aid of wingmen 3. To search persistently for a who-ha that’s difficult to find

White Trashery (verb) White people or a group of white people considered as possessing the stereotypical characteristics of a lower-income group in society, in the act of being white trash i.e. white people drinking mountain dew in a trailer park or disheveled white women hitting on men in return for their buying them a drink in a karaoke bar

Who-Dat (noun) – A womans clitoris

Who-er (noun) one of the best terms offered to the English Language from the Italians, who-er is a term used for somebody regarded as being sexually indiscriminate such as a wife or goomata

Who-Ha (noun) a woman’s man cave

Wingman (noun) – a friend whose job it is to help you get laid, usually in a bar, by introducing you to women or jumping on a fat bomb if necessary

Work Sex (verb) – the act of making the sweetest of loves in the place where one is employed

Wrestling The Cock (masturbatory verb) – the act of masturbation in which a man grips his penis using special holds while rolling around on the floor or in his bed

Yentering it up (verb) – 1. The act of 2 or more women clucking at each other like hens, often speaking over one another to the great annoyance of men

The Young Twattery (noun) – The young twattery is a wonderous place where a twat that has fermented for 18 years is ready to be tasted by a twat master