Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Underwater Petting Zoo

Underwater Petting Zoo Idea

So, I have this idea about this underwater petting zoo.
You take the kids down in a submarine and have all these gloves that are attached to the submarine that hang off the sides, but are accessible from the inside: like in a nuclear lab.
So, you take the kids down, underwater-likes, and they all put their hands in the gloves and get to pet any of the aquatic organisms that pass by.
Also, there'd be, like, some windows so the kids could see what they were petting.
But, it doesn't stop there.
You see, kids are stupid and no matter what kind of environment you're in, they're going to expect goats at a petting zoo.
Kids are idiots.
So, I'd hook a swarm of goats up to oxygen tanks and send them down with the sub on ropes and stuff. When the sub finally settles on the sea floor the goats would settle as well and fall slowly to the seabed.
On the seabed, they'd try to gallop or whatever, but they'd be all aquatic now, so they'd just look like retards. But, the kids are all stupid and would get a kick out of petting them anyway.
Then, I'd advertise a wild card event.
You see, sharks crave goat flesh, so, maybe a swarm of sharks would come by and devour the goats in a horror show the likes of which you haven't seen since Cambodia. The kids would be all freaked out, but it would teach them about ecosystems.

Man, my good ideas are so fucking awesome.

Homo shit

Dead Animal Farm Idea

So, I have this other idea about animals.

This time it's about dead ones.

See, kids these days don't know anything about deadness. Deadness is all around us. It's in the plants, the oceans, and in convenient stores.

What kid's need to understand is that they, one day, will be dead too. But, even further, they need to know that when they die maggots will eat their flesh and they will smell even worse than they do now. Taking it another step further, kids need to know that their friends and family will also decompose and puss and look like bloody shit one day and there's nothing they can do about it.

That's why I have this idea about this dead animal farm.

On the dead animal farm, all the animals are dead and decomposing. So, the children walk in and immediately are hit with the tangiest death stank in the world and they're all like "mom, what's that smell?"

Mom will respond, that's what it's going to smell like when my bloated stomach explodes due to methane gases that need to escape mommy's body, as is God's plan.

The kid's will love it, once they get over the stench. If they don't – fuck em', they deserve little more.

So, I bet you're asking "Matt, how will we keep the animals in a constant state of decomposition?"

Simple, my ass knuckling friend – we'll continually replenish the dead animals.

See, the forest and streets of our lands are JAM PACKED with animals for the slaughter. Like, right now, I could get a raccoon, a deer, a possum, a cat, my neighbor's dog – all of them! Then, I break their necks and let nature do her work – in front of the wee children.

It's just that simple.You can get a hotdog and a coke and watch as "Terry" the cocker spaniel, gives birth to a swarm of maggots that eat her from the inside out. Your kids will love it – and learn!

What could be better?

Damn, I'm smart.

We Just...

K, Dead Animals aren't Funny Hey, I know what you're thinking – how come I don't get an erection when I look at cantaloupe anymore. Hey, I hear you.

But, what I want to talk to you about is the previous article "Dead Animal Farm." I want to make sure my readers know that I find nothing funny or enjoyable about "breaking animal neck" or "beating young kittens senseless."

My aim in the previous story was to show my readers just how fragile life really is. Like when you're beating a hen savagely and its head pops off.

I really wanted to display a softer side of myself. I didn't want to nurture any deep seated feelings regarding the brutal final solution for all ox and ox-like animals.

Animals are fun meat puppets for us all to play with – not to beat or harm. Children should never witness the brutal realities of animal decomposition.

No, children should be sheltered and nurtured like small French fries that cannot be eaten because they are so small.

Look, hey, you can cast your barbs and angry letters at me – I can take it.

But, please don't take this out on the innocent dead animals that line my fence, rammed onto each fence post in a manner so offensive the FCC fined me.


I've Changed my Mind – Dead Animals ARE Funny

Look, there's a lot of life lessons, and one of them is that you'll change your mind now and again. Like, when you think that dead animals are no longer funny.
See, for me, it all came down to the "ha ha", if you will. Dead animals are not clever or ironic, no. But, they are "ha ha" funny. Like if you witness a horse run through traffic and just get annihilated by a dump truck. There's nothing clever there; it's just a cheap joke.
So, therefore, I retract my last statement and amend it to:

Horses Getting Hit by Dump Trucks are a Prescription for HA HA

There, I said it.
I do not, however, condone the wholesale slaughter of horses by dump trucks. That would not be funny. In order for a horse being hit by a dump truck to be funny, you must see it at random and only once.
Put it this way: imagine a horse being hit by a dump truck. JUST FUCKING DO IT!!!! OK, now, imagine that same thing once again.
I bet you didn't laugh the second time, did you?
Look, we are all made from the same primordial goop, except people from Texas, and we all find different things funny. I, myself, may find dead horses funny and you may not. But, damnit, we need to celebrate the differences! So what if I want to rob banks and dress up like Al Roker on Thanksgiving – are those crimes?
Nay, they are expressions of the human will to just be. Now, you've gone and made me cry. I hope you are happy.


Birch is the Shittiest of Trees

No lie. If you ever see a Birch tree, shake your head in disgust. These trees are rotten. They stand all tall and act like they're so great. Don't believe it. Birch trees are for shit. No one needs them. You sure don't. Tell the world! Shout it loud!
If you are French, climb the Eiffel Tower and yell "Birch sucks" in your own language.
If you are English, climb Big Ben and yell "Birch sucks" in your own language.
If you are Norwegian, go visit some popular attraction in Norway and yell "Birch sucks" in your own language.
How do you like them apples?
Fucking Birch trees never learn.
For instance: I'm at Burger King and I order this Whopper and onion ring meal and this Birch tree comes up, behind the register, and goes "May I take your order." This is after I had already ordered.

Or, this other time, I'm at the local grocery store and I'm looking at the expiration date on milk and this Birch tree comes up and says "Hey, you gonna buy that?" Like I'm some petty crook. Fucking obnoxious Birch trees.
Oh, and then I'm driving on the highway and this Birch tree pulls up right by me and guns his engines, like he's some hot shot.
Dude, Birch trees suck.
If you meet a Birch tree on the street, keep your money close; the Birch trees will totally rob you with no provocation.
Look, I think I made my point here. If you don't believe me, go into the forest some day (that's where they're from) and see if you can find one descent Birch tree.
I bet you can't.

Except for Morris the Birch tree. Morris is my main man. I love you Morris!


I'm a tire


They have ascended on my place of bidness.
Every year, my company holds a crafts fair. I guess it wouldn't bother me if it wasn't taking place in EVERY FUCKING HALLWAY IN MY BUILDING.
I went down to the cafeteria (some people call it a deli, I call it a cafeteria) and it took me a half hour to get down three flights of stairs.
On every corner there is a group of moppets and their parents selling plausibly useful crap. Like, pins, buttons, flags, quilts, wreaths, and homemade dogs.
It's enough to make me retch.
When I was a wee toddler, my mom got into this "craft" thing and I had to go to these craft sales; sometimes hosted by my own mother. She made Cabbage Patch clothes for dolls. Others made confections or wreaths.
So, walking the hallways brought back a lot of memories. Like the one where I worried that my mom might be poor and destitute enough to sell homemade clothing for dolls.
Another thing that bothers me is how overpriced this shit is. It's like you can get a wreath at Kmart for six bucks, but the same wreath made by Charlotte is now fifty. I'm not saying Chris' mom is ripping people off, no there are far more personal afflictions to her soul that surpass this. What I am saying is that when you break a wreath down, acorn by acorn, you find that making one yourself is FUCKING EXPENSIVE.

Sadly, I have been to Michael's and have seen some of the price tags on this shit. One acorn, to make to a nine acorn wreath probably runs a good two bucks. So, you're already in the red with just the fucking acorns.
The sad part is walking by the tables that aren't getting any bidness. There's this family hocking ski caps, or some shit, and they're twirling them around and no one's paying attention and they got their kids there and they just look like complete losers. It's fucking sad. I feel for them. But, I'm sure as shit not going to buy some shitty ski cap.
But, the basic reason this sucks is that all of this crap is completely useless. Who the fuck needs an American flag potholder? A joker ski cap that went out in 94? A pin with a duck taped to it? Salad tongs made out of a duck's rib cage?
Fucking garbage. I wouldn't regift this shit.
Oh, and I will tell you right now – if anyone gives me a wreath with nine acorns on it for Christmas I'm going to find a really warm place for it.
What the fuck is a wreath anyway? I mean, when you think about it, it's like nailing the shit from your gutters on your fucking door.
Christ, it's like a third world nation just collapsed inside my building.
Luckily I'm a straight male, and therefore, no one expects me to buy this shit.
No one needs to see children knitting what may pay for their only meal of the day. And even if they are learning a trade, it's not like people buy this rotten shit more than once a year – so they're fucked anyway.

Look, everyone agrees – craft fairs are abominations.

In the neck

Free Burritos Anybody who's interested – free burritos in my cube!!! Come one, come all.But! You will have to get into my building – passed the flying dogs and the killer bees. No man has yet entered the building without a plausible badge.Notice I said "man?" That's right, once, a fortnight ago a woman of great virtue was able to wrastle the flying dogs to the ground and tame the killer bees. That was a glorious day to be Helen BonCarter, I can tell you that much my friend.She strode in and beat the security unmercifully and vanquished the lunch lady. She was a true artist in her deadly art and found her way to my cube where she scorched her tongue on free burritos.Quite a tale, huh?Quite. She had luscious legs that ran all the way up to her chin and a striking chest of huge milk jugs that bounced when sh –Oh, but I have become vulgar. Anyway, so basically, the moral of this story is that there was free burritos in my cube, but I think they are all gone now. There are, however, beverages left for those that have a fancy to be struck.Oh, plus this one dude stunk up the bathroom. Hmmmm......maybe it was from the burrito-ee goodness?Maybe so!

Eight is not enough

Eight is NOT Enough

Dear Tom Bradford,

For fuck sakes, man! What the hell is this "eight is enough" shit? You think eight is enough? Buddy, I mean, I know your wife died and all, but you're back in the saddle, you got a new hoe and the whole bit.
So, Tom, what the fuck? Eight? No, Tom, you gotta keep FUCKING!
Look, Tom, good Christians know that birth control is the spawn of Satan – but, goddamn, Tom, you got to bone your wife some more!
I mean, the proof is in the pudding: Mary, David, Joanie, Nancy, Elizabeth, Tommy, and Nicholas. What more could you ask?
Another fucking eight!
Tom, take a good look at Abby. She's your second bitch up in there and she's just asking to be taken from behind. Tom, you need to get another eight Hitler Youth-esque drone children into the world.
Tom, take it from me: there is far too little feathered haired, blonde, Hitler Youth children in the world today. Hell, some of them are all mixed up into all sorts of weird colors.
Tom, we need you. You and your precious seed.
So, Tom, please, for the love of God – you need to give Abby a trouser full of beef and put some more little toeheads into the mix that is Mother Earth.


Win Big Money

Keno tickets.
Soon, we were back at Battleship, where we summarily lost another twenty apiece.
It was looking grim, and we had only wasted an hour. Which sucks, cuz unless you want to blow another fifty, you're going to have to leave. And leaving after only an hour doesn't justify the trip out to Auburn.
So, I bit the bullet and pulled another forty bucks. I was on my third beer, and figured I had another two left in me before I would have to leave.
I decided it was time to start thinking strategically. What machine gives me the chance to pick my own way of losing?
And then, staring me in the face was a Keno ticket I had just lost on.
"Of course!" I shouted to my fellow patrons. "It was Keno all along!"
But, not the regular Keno, no, it was the slot machine version.
I quickly shoved twenty bucks into the machine, picked some numbers and awaited destiny.
With ten credits left out of forty, I began sinking further into the vinyl chair. I had smoked three cigarettes and the beer was tasting like bitter defeat.
I began rallying myself for the inevitable departure. I did not want to repeat the New Year's episode of 2001, where I lost a grand in some horrible carnival, circus-land casino at Baker.
No, I was ready to leave, 70 down. Josh came by and showed me the Sympathy card the Keno woman had handed him, the drunk next to me was eyeing my machine like a vulture, and the beer was almost drunk.
It was endgame.
I sighed, and bet another credit, just to get rid of them.
I just kept blindly smacking the "spin" button, hoping that this would soon be over.
Then, on credit seven, I hit.
I cashed out and I quickly gave Josh $50 (when you gamble, it's you against the casino. If you're with friends, it's both of you. You need to establish a system where one guy wins and you all win.) Then, I instructed him to order us two beers, and two ten-dollar tickets.
I won another fifty on that ticket and promptly left.
It was an amazing day, and I thank the lord for his providence.
Blessed art the machines that dispense gems and gold, for they are the machines that keep us occupied as we continue to lose.

But, not that day, my friend.

So, that's my heroic story of courage in the face of immense obstacles. Some would call me a survivor, a hero. But, you can just call me Matt.
Feel free to pass this story of inspiration on to others. For, the world is yours if you just learn to work for it.

God bless,Horace

Killing Machine

We need not ever get up again. We need not wake up from dreams that hit you in the head like a shotgun.

Man, woke up to sarcasm and a cigarette. There's this plastic mask of rope and rectangles that I pull a string on and I'm looking at this landscape full of concrete and brick and metal and tremendous amusement.

Last night I listened to doors slam for hours on end and watched a documentary about the returning to earth of two organisms that used their vocal cords to make tradable ideas of product.

I became so absorbed in the door slamming that I poured myself a bathtub full of egg fu yun and sat and soaked in it's warmth.

My neighvors are degenerates and have no patience to let a door close slowly.


And I'm awake again to the shotgun. Dreamt of big fire that explodes into us as we retreat into more wood.

I lay in bed and wonder if I should have laughed at Pauly Shore. Maybe, it was me that was wrong? I run to the kitchen and spread peanut butter all over my body and open and slam my door.

I'm back in bed and it's extremely hard to get back to sleep with all this peanut butter all over my body. I toss and roll and think about how I'm staining more and more fabric that's sewn together to make plausible patterns so that I know my bed from a hole in the ground.

I keep thinking about how I can't get to sleep and how there's no time to shower; or I might as well wake up.

I take out a small pipe and opium dreams fill my bed as the covers become a small tsunami and I'm rolling around in it, thinking about all the small packets of peanut butter protein I'm destroying.

Kill the body and the head will die. I'm chanting this as purple waves roll over me and break into brown smudges of peanut butter.

I'm on a roll.

I quickly discover the great sea ship Meteron. It's sailing over my chest and floating down my legs and once it hits the edge of the bed, it goes over a great waterfall and I'm suddenly on the ship.

The captain yells at me to get into the cabin, and I follow orders like a good pirate.

Once in the cabin I realize the captain is smuggling white slaves to work on sex farms in my bread cupboard.

"Have a go at em', my boy." He gestures to twelve beautiful 18 year old blondes who cringe at the captain, whom I slowly realize is Yosemite Sam.

The women become giddy and begin undressing, but before I can do anything about it, the captain pulls out his revolvers and begins shooting out the window at the coming rocks at the bottom of the waterfall.

Another shotgun blast and the ship explodes in splinters of wood and I'm staring up at my ceiling, smelling a lit cigarette burn my couch.

I take a drag off the cigarette and look out the glass that's being held together by brick and plaster.

Outside, the opium dream is over and I'm looking at strips of black that run up blocks of metal, concrete, brick, and timber.

They feed a large giant that is metropolis and with every black wire there is an appliance: Amana, Whirlpool, Phillips, Hitachi....we go on and on like this forever, following wires into these shiny toys that make food hot, clothes clean, and women scream in orgasm.

Oh, wires, wires everywhere to be found.

Oh, wires, wires we are forever bound.

I smell another cigarette cooking my couch and another shotgun door slam and I look up and see a shiny figure entering my studio apartment that's made of plaster and brick and glass.

It says "I am Mothra, king of the wirelands. Join me in my quest for nubile virgins and dollar bills the size of marmots."

I laugh and go back to bed and think to myself "Mothra is no machine."


Jonathon Robert Smith-Barney


How About a Night of Sparkling Romance, Bitch?

You know, you have beautiful eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?
I was looking at you from afar and I found my heart breaking all over again, seeing someone as lovely as Maryln Monroe – I must be with you, if only for one night!
Listen to me, you fawn, you spirit of love: I want to take you out tonight.
How does Canlis sound? Good? I will buy you the most delicious meal available, and shower you in Champagne. The appetizers will be succulent truffles, and the dessert, a fine Baked Alaska or Cherries Jubilee. The main course, however, is a surprise.
After dinner, I will take you to the most eloquent dance club in town and we'll dance to the Big Band and drink the most expensive of wines.
Then, maybe, we'll just travel around the city in my Lincoln Towncar and see what the night brings.

Later that evening....

You fucking bitch! What do you mean you want to go home? What the fuck? It's ten, for Christ's Sakes? You think that meal was free? You could at least accompany me to the fucking club!
Christ, I don't believe this shit. I mean, I didn't think you'd put out or anything, I wasn't expecting that; but, I didn't expect nothing. I mean, at least a kiss, but now you're leaving after just dinner?
I bet you do this to all the guy's: get a free meal, get liquored up and then go fuck your ex-boyfriend and laugh about what a tool I am! Huh!
Fucking bitch!
I don't fucking believe this. Fine, fine, I'll take you home, your majesty. Shit. What a fucking joke.


I Completely Screwed up my Lunch

Man, what a crappy start to the middle of my day.
So, it all started with the first big mistake: following what the Guy Who Sits Behind Me did.
See, the Guy Who Sits Behind Me ordered a burger and fries. Well, I thought, fries seem like a good idea – I'll go get some fries. So, I go over to the other cafeteria (some people call it a deli, I call it a cafeteria) and I decide to get a burger with my fries. Well, the douche (and I knew he was going to be a douche just by how inanely friendly he was) forgets to take my burger out of the cheese melter. Then, they throw another on, and I realize that they are burgers that they made beforehand and just warm up. Then, I get the burger and the fries are nasty looking – they have that frozen-too-long look of Burger King fries. THEN, I'm dumb enough to put relish on my burger, not realizing that it's hot dog relish, not burger relish.
There is a difference.
So, this meal of garbage cost me 4.10. Then, I get back to my building and find that some meeting had a bunch of pizza leftovers. So, I coulda eaten for free.
See, just when I try to be reasonable and think that everything the Guy Who Sits Behind Me does isn't all annoying, I get fucked again.
Damn him!
Oh, here's a top ten list of phrases the Guy Who Sits Behind Me uses that make me want to rip his lungs out:

10. It's all good
9. Outstanding
8. How does that grab you?
7. No, thank you.
6. Check this out.
5. I caught a bug! (computer bug. But it's normally just a typo in a program)
4. I'm passionate, hyphens, bon jovi, etc.)
3. Presumably
2. I'm a huge fag and I like to eat other men's buttholes (not really, but I'm sure he thinks that a lot)
1. Sorry (with a Canadian accent. He's not Canadian. He's just an asshole)

Well, that's it for now.


Jacking for Blogs

Hello, again. It's about time we delve into the minds of bloggers world round and see what's afoot.
This is from a woman in Ohio:

We have heard it mentioned as a paradigm shift, Youth Ministers partnering with Christian parents. Walk into your local Christian bookstore and you will see books, magazine articles and video series devoted to this very topic. Youth Ministers have become all too aware: if the Christian parent is not behind their child's spiritual development, the Youth Minister is in for an uphill battle.

It's amazing to me, still, even after the election, how many people are into organized religion. It's mind blowing that anyone would have a full weekend to themselves and blow a good three hours having someone else tell them what to do. Are you so unstable that you need a constant moral and social reminder of what not to do? Has the S and M spirit of corporations and government left a hole in your life that you need to fill with another whip? I have a feeling God is going to be annoyed when these people end up in heaven and keep asking "What do I do now? What do I do now?"

K, I just found the following. It's just a profile, but maybe I'm wrong about people not needing additional direction in their lives:

My name is NAME WITHHELD. I'm 19 and I've lived in Manhattan my whole life. I just got back from Germany and Amsterdam. I'm taking a year off from school cause I had bad depression and almost OD'd on speed. My girlfriend's a DJ and I'm bi-sexual. My parents got divorced when I was 9 and my Dad just bought me a Saab. I live in a town house my parents bought me on Fifth Avenue right by the park. My brother died of AIDS when I was 16. I'm a writer and I work out and do a lot of cocaine. This is my story.

Good lord! If there was a reason for Jesus, that could be it. Or maybe not. Let's keep looking.

Welcome to Da' Lounge. This is a team effort by a group of physicians who spend time in the surgeon's lounge of a major medical center. We discuss everything from the best western ever made to religion to politics. There are no rules of PC in da' lounge. The only rule is civility. Here in da' lounge, if you get too full of yourself, someone will put you in your place every time.The members range from Fundamental Christian to Conservative Atheist to Prairie Liberal and everything in between. We get along. You should too.

Hmmm....a bunch of conservatives disagreeing about when a woman goes from "loose" to "a slut." Another ding against Jesus. Here's another:

PUBLIC NOTICE. I find it interesting that anyone may anonymously register a domain name (i.e. BELIZEA .COM) and continue to lie to investors, but if someone wishes to create a BLOG and/or respond, they are required to identify themselves. It is unfortunate that the cowardly vermin who are behind WSF/BELIZEA do not have the courage or integrity to stop this SCAM even after the courts have concluded that it is not a legitimate business. And, it is unlikely that Gerhart Walch “CEO” will do so since he obviously is not prepared to accept the responsibility and the consequences of his actions, should he do so. The fact is he is an unmitigated liar. Not a single statement made in the WSF.COM (no long an active URL -see below) or the BELIZEA.COM website is true. There is no doubt that he and the major shareholders are unscrupulous cowards with greedy motivations.

Well, nothing to yay or nay the big man in this one. In fact, it's rather boring. But, I guess I won't use the Belize branch of my credit union. Let's continue to hunt:

Voici l'emplacement de tous les articles, chroniques, brèves et dossiers du Populaire.Ici, vous trouverez toute l'oeuvre du Populaire au travers de sujets comme l'antisémitisme, le national-socialisme, la dékoulakisation en URSS, la collaboration des communistes français avec l'union soviétique, etc.Tenez-vous prêts camarades, ce tiroir va bientôt être inauguré !

No fucking clue. I think it has something to do with socialism or communism. Still no Jesus. Let's move on:

This term you have two homework tasks1- The whole school task of designing a Christmas Card.2- A project on Pilgrimage.Your project should be about the city of Jerusalem in Israel.You must explain why the city is an important pilgrimage site to 3 major world religions.Which sites would Muslims, Jews & Christians visit and why?Find photos or pictures of the sites if you can.(use the internet & travel agents or the library)Explain something about the history of the city and the struggle for control of it from the 3 different religious groups.Try to find out how much it would cost to visit Jerusalem.This project must be handed in during the second week of December 2004.

K, here's a point against Jesus: making kids do homework and shit. (Stilted clapping) Way to go, Jesus. Also, the reminder of the schism between Muslims, Jews, and Christians is another mark against him. Let's do one more:

Areaserver - Dedicated Server
... Choose your server. Build your Dedicated Server, 99 euro/month, VAT not included, All Areaserver Dedicated Servers include basic functionality below: ...

Well, I guess if everyone were a Christian and such, computers and all this server crap wouldn't have been invented, as they are practical science. So, I'll give this point to Jesus.
So, Jesus loses by a point.
Man, Jesus is going to pissed off at me.

Tia Tequila

Let's Check out Some More Bloggs

Today is a drwosy and rainy day for me. It is cold and rainy. I am kinda upset because it is raining outside and I just washed my hair. I missed my nine o'clock class today and I shouldn't have because this is the third time I have missed it. I cannot miss it any more because I need to pull off a C in that class and I do not know how easy that is going to be for me to do. Other than that my day has been good. I did not have any hard work in my 2:00 or 3:30. We pretty much discussed notes and past assignments. So...I am logging off now to finish my day! Good-Bye.

Ah..that brings back memories of skipping classes. I would verbally abuse this woman for throwing away an education that other's don't even have the chance of...but, I pretty much skipped a whole quarter at UW and only showed up to get a descent meal in the U district a couple of times. Man, UW was a waste of time. I hate that place. Man, just thinking about it pisses me off. Oh well. Here's another:

It rained all weekend, which is good for the garden and not so good for the humans. I spent the weekend working on my nanowrimo novel which I have entitled The Novel About Absolutely Nothing With Annotated Recipes- I anticipate that if I ever edit the novel, the recipes, which will include cooking ,dyeing, printing, and whatever requires a recipe, will make up the bulk of the book!As I wandered around my garden this morning all the pinks struck me. Normally I do not like pink as a colour to work with, but just about every flower in my garden is pink or red. This morning the droplets of rain sat like crystal treasures on the leaves and petals of the flowers, but I am ready for some warmer weather so I can work outside!

More Rain. Well, she has a good idea with the book title. But, it would be cool if it was a fiction novel and for no reason she inserted recipes. Like, when the main character finds a dead body in his bathroom, she inserts a recipe for brownies or enchiladas. That would be awesome. Think of your favorite book, then think about inserting recipes for shit in it. That would be so fucking awesome. Maybe, I'll do it. Here's another:

K, the next blog, I can't display cuz it was dirty and I'm at work. The title of the first entry was "Anal Sex Tips." Now, I can't imagine having a whole post about anal sex. All you need to know about anal sex is this: lube, lube, and more lube. Ask your mom, she'll tell ya. Burn. One last one.

finally feeling "girl power" at thirty(cough)something; mom to two awesome girls who already know how to flex their "girl power" muscles; aunt to the sweetest, most beautiful boy in the world; wife to the only man in the world I want to be married to; sister; friend; daughter; creative writing instructor; scrapbooker; writer... not necessarily in this order - it fluctuates!

K, I hate this chick, just by her profile. Well, I'm gonna go have a cigarette.

All that is needed with this homemade enchilada casserole recipes is some refried beans, and perhaps a bowl of salad.


1 pound ground beef
16 ounce can diced tomatoes
6 ounce can tomato paste
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup chopped onion
1 tablespoon chili powder
salt and pepper to taste
8 ounce package soft tortillas
8 ounces shredded cheddar cheese

Brown and drain meat. Add tomatoes, tomato paste, water, onion, and seasonings and simmer for 10 minutes. Fry tortillas in hot oil just until softened, and drain.
Place rounded tablespoon-full of meat sauce and cheese on each tortilla and roll up. Place seam side down in pan.
Top with remaining sauce and cheese. Cover with foil and bake at 375 degrees for 25 minutes.


One Theory

Why don't you speak English?
I am speaking English.
No, you are not. Where are you from?
Where are you from?
New Hampshire.
Why did you lie?
I didn't lie. I'm from New Hampshire, Belgrade.
There is no such place.
There is here.
Where is here?
We're here.
No, we're not.
Where did we meet?
We haven't yet met.
Why are we conversing?
Because we're trying to figure out where is here.
Where is here?
Belgrade, New Hampshire.
Are we alone?
No, we are not.
Who is here?
No one, but ourselves, but we are not alone.
Will anyone else come?
I don't know. Can you see anything?
No, I'm blind or this place is blank.
It's blank.
How do you know?
Because I don't feel anything.
How do you know you have senses?
I can talk to you.
But, how are we talking.
Let's hope civilly.
I don't like this.
I don't either.
Is there a way out.
There's always a way out.
I'm not sure.
Here is where we want to leave.
I'm scared.
So am I.
I want to see light.
There's only a void.
Where is the light.
It may be the void.
I'm scared.
So am I.



The rain comes down slowly and I look up at another customer. He's upset about the conditioner he bought for his hair and I'm having trouble concentrating on what he's saying.
Something about how he's late to work and how this is the third time something has happened. My nose starts bleeding and I'm now...I'm floating away.
I'm in college and I need a C average to graduate. I start playing this video game and I lose track of time, but I miss my test.
It's 2.30, and I'm coming to. I'm in the break room and I say "what a good day," because I'm happy to not be missing my test from the dream.
I'm discussing what happened now with my boss and he seems concerned.
"You just logged off." He says.
"Good bye." I say back and I feel it come on again.
It's raining in my dream and I'm gardening out in this English green house. I begin thinking about a recipe I once had to make in high school. It was something with mustard and my boyfriend at the time kept calling me Ms. Mustard.
I stop gardening and pause to read a book, but none of the letters make any sense, like I'm dyslexic.
"You can't work with pink roses!" I'm shouting as I wake up.
The rain is still dropping outside, but I'm in a car. There's a sticker on the back window that says "Girl Power."
"Are you OK?" Someone asks me. I think I'm OK.
We pass by my dead brother. He's standing in the middle of the street and I wave.
"What is Tom doing in the middle of the road?"
"Whose Tom?" I realize now that it's Patty from Bakery.
"It's in a dream, I think." My nose starts bleeding again, but I don't pass out.
"What's in a dream?"
"I think we're in a dream."
"Honey, I'm taking you to the hospital."
"Not until I finish my book!" I can't seem to understand what I need to tell Patty, but it keeps coming out all wrong. I'm passing out again and I don't think I'm going to wake up.


ODB – We Hardly Knew Ya As many of you may know, ODB has died. Old Dirty Bastard, we'll miss you.

To be quite honest, I'm not even sure what songs he's sung or rapped. In fact, it was news to me that he was in the Wu Tang Clan.

But, one thing I'm convinced of is this: he had a great name. Dana Carvey once made fun of Sting for naming himself "Sting." And Dana was right. But, naming yourself Old Dirty Bastard is different. I'm not even sure he named himself, but if he did, I'm sure some thought went into it. Whereas Sting wore some yellow suit and was dubbed "Sting," imagine what ODB did to deserve that name. I bet it would make for an interesting story.

So, I started wondering – how did the name come about? Was he shower-phobic? Was his favorite Peanuts character Pig Pen? Did he keep a messy house? Or was he dirty in that other way – the Rick James way? Which then lead me to speculate, it's not just the good that die young, no it's the dirty as well.

I guess James wasn't all that young, but he died before he could collect social security. And you know that was a big theme in his music – social security. With ODB, on the other hand – he was young. Very young. 35, in fact. Imagine all the nasty things he packed into those 35 years....and then think of all that could have been.

I bet if ODB is up in heaven, right now, he's treating himself to some REALLY ROTTEN sex. Like stuff that involves peeing and pooping on people. That's just the way ODB would want it, though. Would you disagree?

Is this seat taken?

Have I Mentioned

Is this seat taken?
Oh, no I don't smoke.
Excuse me?
Have I mentioned to you before that I'm an avid diver?
Excuse me? Have we met?
No, not until now – on this bus. Look, I just want to make certain that you know that I'm an avid diver.
Uh, yes. Of course. Look, I'm just trying to read this newspaper, so if you could –
Diving is a lot of fun if you have the right equipment. Did you know that if you pack a large amount of pecans with you, your chances of survival are greatly increased?
No. No, I didn't know that. Why would that be?
I don't know, it's just what I read in the People magazine. Look, do you want to talk about fly-fishing or not?
I thought you wanted to talk about diving?
No, I distinctly remember telling you that I wanted to – oh, wait, no, you're right. I just remembered now – it was diving. Well, anyway, now that that's behind us, why don't we talk about fly-fishing? I'm an avid fly-fisherman.
Excuse me; I don't want to be rude, but I really would prefer it if you just left me alone.
Yeah, fly-fishing is more of a sport to me, than it is a hobby. I remember my grandfather telling me when I was young that if I could fly fish good enough I could turn pro. Of course, there is no pro league for fly-fishing, but just the same, he had a lot of heart.
Your grandfather?
Yes. Oh, and he was a helluva drunk, too. Man, I remember one time, we went out fly-fishing and he was so drunk he tried to bait his hook with my ear. I can still feel my ear sting when someone mentions it.
Mentions what? Fly-fishing?
Ow. That hurt. What are you trying to do to me over here?
Listen, please –
It's all right, I'm used to it now. Fly-fishing is an often-tossed around term.
Wait – how come it doesn't hurt your ear when you say it?
Say what?
Ow! Damn! Will you knock it off? Geesh. Look, mister, if you want to go giving me an ear ache, why don't you save yourself some time and just punch my clock.
Punch your wha – what are you talking about?
Ha, that was a good one. See, I knew you wouldn't punch me. We're good like that, aren't we, Al?
My name is Leonard.
Well, Al, let's not jump to conclusions.
About my name? I think I know my own name.
I wouldn't be so sure. There's a lot of hypotheses in this crazy world and a lot of them haven't been proven. Like the one about milking owls.
What? Who the hell milks owls?
Wouldn't you like to know?
No, no, I don't think I would.
Well, you should try it sometime.
What? Milking owls?
No, that's crazy talk, you can't milk an owl.
But, you just said –
Hey, buddy, I told you not to jump to conclusions.

Smoking is the coolest

Smoking is the Coolest

So, I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before, but I've been waiting on $100 from for weeks now. You see, and this is a good tip if you're moving, will give you $100 for telling your new residency that you heard about them on
Now, whether is fucked or my mailman is a criminal, I don't know. Mail has been a large problem at the Sevi and because of a recent robbery, we're going to have a new security guard or some shit. Look, bottom line is: I haven't received my reward.
But, in the meantime, I have received a bunch of other rewards that I didn't expect: a refund from Puget Sound Energy, another refund from Puget Sound energy, a refund from the Department of Licensing, and last night: a reward card from Marlboro.
Yes, the good folks at Marlboro know that I'm risking lung, heart, dick, throat, tongue, colon, etc. cancer just to keep them in business and they know how to pay a bruther – $10.
That's right, not only that, but if I smoke 25 packs of cigarettes – another $25 is added to my card.
Isn't that SUPER!
But, this is only the most recent boon in my smoking career.
I'm pretty sure they do this in bars across the nation, but I know they do in Seattle.
If you're smoking a cigarette, a Marlboro rep will come up to you and ask you a bunch of smoking-related questions and give you a free Zippo. In return, you give them your marketing info. It's a sweet deal and so far I have received:
$1 off coupons
More lighters



Other shit I don't remember off the top of my head.
But, there is a scary part to it: once Marlboro found out I was moving weeks before I moved. All of a sudden I received a "So, we hear you're moving" card in the mail. I thought, "Great Christ! They know my every move now." And they probably do. But, in a world where the tobacco companies pay for the most annoying anti-smoking commercials and help you to quit smoking, while encouraging you to as well – well, that's godlike.

Well, we can start with Subway

Well, we can Start with Subway

So, I'm at Subway, eating a sandwich. And, yes, my stomach hurts again. Well, I overhear the following:

"No, no tomato, no lettuce; I can't eat anything fresh."

What the fuck? What disorder requires you to avoid all fresh food?
Then, she chimes in with:

"Oh, well, maybe a little cheese."

So, basically, meat is the only thing that was OK on the non-fresh diet? I guess it would make sense if it were jerked meat or something really not fresh. Maybe pepperoni would count. I think it's cured or something.

And now for a new item...

What would I do if I were a Republican.

So, I'm at Subway and one of the staff runs out to his car to do something.

Now, if I were a Republican I would have told the manager that
1) he parked his car in customer parking.
2) that he walked off the job during his working hours.

Man, that was fun.

Yes, these are the things I think of when I'm eating a sandwich.

So, I've decided that salt and pepper Kettle Chips taste like pure canola oil. It's fucking sick. I bought these damn things for a party and I can't get rid of them. I have them at my desk and force myself to have two or three a day in the hopes they'll finally go away. Something in me says I can't just toss them. Wait – yes I can. I'm going to toss them right now.
Holy shit! I just tossed them, along with the sunflower seeds I never wanted to eat. Hell, that was liberating. I think I'm going to go home and toss a bunch of other shit food I have. Like:
That medley of crackers I bought for that damn party.
That plate of fries that I took home from work, cuz I couldn't finish.
That awful sandwich I made with 234 grain bread.
That bread that sits in my fridge, but won't mold so that I can throw it out.
Oh, it's going to be a garbage to-do tonight! I can't wait!

Tits and Treats

More Tips on Writing a Suicide Note

1. Write for a reason: If you're not REALLY going to off yourself, don't waste your time writing a suicide note. Sure, it might be therapeutic, but there's no way you can get into the mindset of a person bent on downing Clorox through feeling sorry for yourself. You're better off writing a self help book.

2. Always make a rough draft: time and time again I see lousy suicide notes that all have one thing in common – no rough or working draft. Think about it – this is your last transmission before you leave this world; don't you think some thought should be put into it? Sketch out your outline and follow with a rough draft. In many cases, good suicide note authors will then devour the rough draft and let their bitter stomach acids devour it poetically.

3. Keep it concise: look, you don't need to recount your life's story. Every one knows why you lost the game of life – we don't need the primer. Look, stick to the three Fs: failure, f-bombs, fragility, and fault. You're not going to find a successful suicide note that starts: Thirty years ago, in Wisconsin I was born to Doug and Mandy Kleppen.

4. Research, research, research! Look, Hemmingway didn't write about bullfighting from just watching Wild Kingdom; if you want to write a descent suicide note, do the research. Visit people that are in pain: the homeless, a children's hospital, or your local DNC branch. Most of the time, it will probably make it so you don't feel you have it that bad. And if that happens, think about the fact that you failed to commit suicide and I'm sure it will get you back into the swing of things. Also, do a Google launch on suicide, rock stars, poets, authors, alcoholics, Kurt Cobain, and so on. You'll find a good amount of info.
Alright, in researching that last tip, I just found that someone else has done this bit. It shouldn't surprise me, but GODDAMN! OK, I'm done.

The Goat Man

The Goat Man

Let's go back in time, to a day before the Gingrich revolution, a day when the Downward Spiral was brand new, a day when I was a senior at Kentridge highschool.
It was 1994 and I was passing Steve Galassi's locker when he grabbed me and told me to "Look at this!" while snickering.
Steve and Chris Weisberg shared a locker and in it they would post stories from the Police Blotter section of the South King County Journal. That day, the story was about a man and a goat.
It seems a man in Auburn (or one of the SoCo towns) had been serially raping a farmer's goat. Well, the farmer had been fed up and he stayed up late, to catch the rapists who would be dubbed the Goat Man.
Well, sure enough, the Goat Man arrived at the farm and proceeded to dip his throbbing tool into the farmer's goat meat. Well, the farmer had a twelve gauge (I really don't know the gauge, but 12 sounds cool) shotgun and blasted buckshot into the Goat Man.
The Goat Man screeched in agony and beat his chest at the moon and....just joking, the article wasn't that in-depth.
Well, we got a good laugh at the article and that was that.
Or was it.
A year and a few months later, I decided to get the ninth job I had had in two years at a recycling plant. A friend (dead to me after she made the mistake of sending me inspirational pro-Bush emails) had gotten her uncle (could be a mafia guy; I've never been sure) to get us a job at this recycling plant he owned along with his trucking business (yeah, probably in the mafia).
Well, the first morning, as she's driving me in with her, we hear on the radio that the Goat Man case will soon be heard.
It seems that brutal night turned into a bit of a legal battle, as the Goat Man countered that the farmer had shot him. And, of course the original legal action was the rape of a goat and trespassing.
So, it was a big to-do, and my friend and I had a good laugh as I recounted the story of Steve's locker to her.
Well, let me preface by saying that the recycling job was the worst one I had ever had. We arrived and learned that our job would be to pick out cans and cardboard from trash that came by on a conveyer belt.
Not a hard job, if it wasn't for the fact that it stunk and some sort of creosote funk would get in your mouth and stay with you all day. Oh, and did I mention we were basically picking through trash like hobos? Also, as an added bonus, we would be working alongside work-release prisoners from the local prison.
One of the prisoners, I remember taking a conscience to. He was scruffier than the rest, and his clothes looked to be something that fell off a set from Grapes of Wrath. He was on crutches and I remembered thinking "Man, not only is this guy poor, he's ugly as sin, in jail, and maimed." I'm sure my naïve 19-year-old self put it more PC, but I felt for this guy.
Well, it got worse. There was a rule that you could keep anything you find on the belt. Well, a whole lot of, believe it or not, porn would come by. Well, the work-release boys just ate that up. And as a token of friendship or premeditated rape, they were kind enough to open a centerfold up, direct it at my female friend, and send it down the belt for her to see.
Now if that isn't code for "I would rape you if I could," I don't know what is.
It was around that time (and we're talking about the first two hours) that the guy I had sympathy for took a box of Hot Pockets off the conveyer belt.
Now, let me remind you that this was a garbage plant. Also, let me say that it was one of the hottest days of the year and those Hot Pockets had been sitting in trash for, at least, a week. Sympathy boy had retrieved them and decided that they would make a good meal.
My sympathy turned to disgust and I asked this friend of my friend's, who also worked there, "What the fuck?"
She answered "I've seen him take a piece of cheese off that belt and eat it."
"Good lord!" I was about to vomit.
"Don't you know who that guy is?"
"No." I certainly didn't put the radio broadcast, Steve's locker and this guy into any sort of mix.
"That's the Goat Man."
"Goat Man?" I still didn't get it.
The woman then told me that the Goat Man was the Goat Man from the newspaper, from the radio broadcast.
I was working with a man who ate cheese out of garbage cans and raped goats.
The next morning, my friend and I decided to quit before college started. Then, by the first break, we decided we'd quit at the end of the month. At lunch we quit. My friend feigned a soccer injury and I told the boss that she was my ride.
So, there you are, that's the Goat Man story.
It makes you think doesn't it? I mean...wait, no, it doesn't make you think. There's nothing to learn from this story.
Well, wait – yes! Don't feel sympathy for anyone. Because, no matter how down-trodden they are, they could be raping goat flesh.

No pain, no gain


I remember thinking "It had to happen sometime."
Just joking. I was way too canned to have a clear thought I could remember now.
It was 1997, the weekend Princess Di and Mother Theresa died; and for some reason the Princess Di story got more coverage and sympathy.
So, basically, it was a bad weekend for cars and drunks.
Not that Mother Theresa was a drunk.
You see, I was to meet a friend (no longer a friend, he drove his flag waving, G.W. pickup passed my mom's Kerry-adorned house the other month and failed to ever call me again.) in Ellensburg.
He was a dropout from Central University (joke on its own) and spent his college years taking bowling and engine repair courses (I'm not joking).
I hate Ellensburg. I hated it before the DUI, and I hate it now. It's a dump of a town and is probably one of many Eastern Washington towns that should form their own state and get the hell out of my beautiful Washington.
The air in Ellensburg is permanently polluted with the smell of a rendering plant. The town, itself, is thick with horseshoe and stirrup casting shops and leather emporiums for the cowboys that come to Ellensburg from the sticks in the Seattle-area.
Picture your high school. Now, picture all those rich kids that dressed up like cowboys and listened to Garth Brooks with their souped-up Chevy LUVs. Those douchebags who would put MOPAR stickers on their rides and blast Clint Black from Rockford Fossgate speakers and amps they bought to play DJ Magic Mike when they were going through their rap phase.
These toolsheds are the soul populace of Central University in such a great number that they have driven any real Earth and Land cowboys out into the hills.
Yes, the real locals are smart enough to live up in the brush where they can't be seen. Then, at night, during college parties, they come down and rape your 16-year-old little sister that came to visit from Renton and got so drunk on Everclear that she vomitted Taco Bell out of her nose and into her lap.
The town is also home to the longest fence in the world and the bleakest view of nothing you will find this side of the Mojave.
With this in mind, let me explain to you why I was so drunk.
Wait, I think I just did.
Well, let's explain why I went up.
You see, life for me at that time was rather boring. I was living in Seattle and all my friends still lived in Kent. I was enrolled at UW, where I successfully skipped every last credit I took.
I had just turned 21 and needed to be turned loose. But, where?
My friends were all older than me and had tired of the bar scene. They wanted to settle down into shitty relationships with sluts in the spins of pregnancy and abortion cycles.
Am I bitter? Yes. It was a shitty time to be yours truly.
I lived in this run down studio in Northgate that my father was paying for and spent most of my weekends down in Kent.
Now, if your life is so lame that you need to drive to Kent for a good time – you have problems.
So, I decided to take my friend (socalled) up on his offer to meet him in Ellensburg.
Now, I don't remember much from the weekend, but when I arrived the hicks up there were drinking whiskey and vodka straight out of the bottle in the looking forwards to of the Rodeo the following day.
These were serious drinkers, and who wouldn't be when you live in a town as close to hell as Ellensburg. They were drinking to forget that they not only flunked out of a shitty college, but they stayed in the town working in rendering plants so that they could keep alive their legacy of bowling, riding bulls for two seconds, and drinking their weight in Ranier Ice.
Hell, in a way, I can't blame them for wanting to spend their lives porking 18-year-olds that are drunk enough to think Taco Bell is a date.
So, when I arrived, I followed suit, like the ass that I am.
I'm a stranger to hard alcohol. I never really liked it and I don't now. So, when I tried to fit in, I had no idea what was too much and proceeded to get wasted beyond all belief. Most of the night was a black out.
Then, at some point in time, this whore I fucked for a week or two showed up and I got it in my mind that I was going to drive back to Kent, just so I wouldn't have to be reminded of the genital fungus I might have contracted from sleeping with her.
As you can see, I don't take rejection well. It wasn't that I ever had a big thing for this chick, but she dumped me – and therefore, I was the loser.
I don't lose well. Look at my life.
So, she shows up and I get in my car and decide that it's wise to take a two-hour drive across the mountains to Seattle at 3 in the morning, liquored beyond all belief.
The next thing I remember, a cop is behind me. He pulls me over and comes up to the driver's window.
He does the regular cop routine (license, registration) and then asks me to take a field sobriety test.
"Don't even bother, I'm wasted." I shit you not, those were my words.
He made me take it anyway.
Of course I flunked, in what I can only imagine was the world's worst recitation of the ABCs and vaudeville stumbling.
He then breathalyzed me: 2.2. That's REALLY, REALLY, REALLY drunk.
In the cop car I learned that you
a) can't smoke
b) can't have the officer loosen cuffs that are biting flesh
c) are free to have the officer change the radio channel to something you like
So, he drives me to some underground jail and I'm stripped and searched.
The next thing I remember, I'm in an empty holding cell. These cells are as big as a cubicle and have a toilet and a concrete bed. I pass out and wake to the worst hangover ever and an incredible need for a smoke.
I learn more:
a) you can't smoke in jail
b) you can have as many collect phone calls in jail as you like if you're in the holding cell
c) some dude flushed his food down the toilet and I find that I can summon the strength to fish out the nastiest shit in the world in order to poop.
Foul? Yes. But, this was a foul offense and I deserved every bit.
Soon, I learned my options:
a) stay in the holding cell until 24 hours are up at which time I would be forced into -
b) go up in to "population" (meaning where all the other criminals were)
I chose "A."
I was then told how I may leave the jail:
a) wait until the following Tuesday (this was Labor Day weekend Saturday) for my arraignment and see how that goes
b) call someone for bail (I couldn't reach anyone in town and these ass holes weren't breaking their backs to find me. Just thinking about that makes me want to use the fucker's name – Matt Oien. Total prick. Didn't even lift a finger to figure out if I was dead or not. Fucking mutt. I hate that tool.)
c) get a bail bondsmen
So, I opted for "C." Which meant that I had to call my mother, have her drive to Tacoma to pay the bondsman company and then wait for the bondsman.
16 hours in jail later, the bondsmen showed up. He looked exactly like the bondsmen in Jackie Brown. He was sleazy as hell and wore jewelry.
As I left the cops were polite enough to let me know "Those bondsmen don't work like us. If you leave the state, they won't hesitate to put you down."
So, basically, if I decided to go to Oregon for shopping or something, one of these fuckers could kill me.
Let the good times begin.
At the time, Drinking and Driving carried a maximum penalty of a year in jail and all sorts of fines. Of course, no one ever gets the year (I'm sure there are some circumstances). But, of course, over the time between getting busted and the time of my trial (five months), I was positive that I would do a year.
I couldn't sleep, I damn sure wasn't going to drink and I had bailsmen money to work off at this Sign Company that I worked at.
I had to ditch the apartment and school, as I couldn't afford either and any money from my parents would go to help with the fines.
Soon, the sentence came down: deferred prosecution. This meant all sorts of things.
First, a fine of 5 grand, then two years of drunk classes, two years of AA, two years of probation, and a victims panel thingy.
Drunk classes: you pay a man 150 a month to cure you of the alcoholism you admitted to in order to get out of jail. These classes are 3 two-hour sessions a week for three months, then it goes down to once a week for three months, then it goes down to every other week, then once a month. They get to test you for drugs, force you to go to AA. If you blow any of this, you're back in court.
AA: You get to listen to the biggest "poor me" bastards in the world slapping themselves on the back for not drinking in two months and finally getting their GED. If they're not doing that, they're coming close to punching each other in sugar/caffeine rages.
Probation: You have to call a P.O. every two weeks and check in.
Victim's Panel: This is where they show you a bunch of videos of DUI accidents. Then, they have survivors, victim's families and such tell you what a piece of shit you are because you could, theoretically, have killed. The main speaker, I shit you not, was drunk. He was talking about how his son was killed by drinking and driving. He was smashed out of his mind, as he shouted at us for being drunks. Then, he went into a litany about how the Budweiser Frogs were responsible.
Take it from me, drinking and driving is not worth it.
Unless you're trying to impress your friends. Then, it's cool.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Dead Like Me

Excuse Me Ms. – Is this your Douchebag?

Excuse me! Excuse me! Ms.!
Please, wait! I'm sorry. Oh, lord, let me catch my breath.
All right. Whoooo...OK. All better.
Madame, I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm afraid you may have left an item on the subway.
I was sitting across from you and I noticed that you are a woman of refined taste. A woman who shops and eats at all the best establishments, a woman of pure blood. Now, I understand that it must be reproachful to talk to a lowly proletariat, like myself, but it's with urgent haste that I bring you this item I believe you left on the subway.
You see, as you left, I noticed the item on the ground, where you had been sitting. And, it occurred to me that it may be yours. Now, far from a sleuth, am I, but I put two and two together and –
Madame! Is this your douchebag!?
Here, I hold it up before you like a prized pig, as I know the bodily fluids mixed with the appropriate cleaners is but nectar in my hand.
Please, don't run from me, for I need to return your precious douchebag.
Madame, thank you. Now then, I will now hand the douchebag over to you and be done with it. It's not my place to make a woman accept such an item, but seeing as you have not denied the ownership, please, let me return this beautiful sack of womanliness to you.
What's that? It's not yours? Oh, heaven for fed! Then, who's douche bag is it?
You don't know?

The plot thickens!
Young lady, would you be so kind as to help me track down the owner? We've all lost douchebags in our day, but this has to be the most magnificent douchebag I have set my eyes on. Look at the golden trim on it! The effervescent aura of womanly bubbles! The silver piping! This, my dear lady, is an extraordinary douchebag!
Errands? You have errands to run? Well, young lady, what errand could be more important than finding the owner of this douchebag?!
I see. Well, I guess I'll be off. Just me and this douchebag. I'm sure someone will claim it. Well, thank you for your efforts on my grand errand.
Dear lady, I shall not forget you.

Born Again

Born Again Fat Ass

So, this fat ass in my cube is losing weight.
Congratulations. Being a fat ass, myself, I really admire the work she had done to increase the metabolic breakdown of foodstuffs, while reducing the foodstuffs she plants in her fat fuck face.
Look, it's not easy to lose weight. I've never tried, but from what I've seen people go through, it looks like a bitch.
The thought of not eating pizza everyday or walking further than to my car makes me shudder.
With all that said, there's still no reason I need to hear about what a guru she is.
Look, you lost weight, babe, but you're still the size of Titan.
And, although my coworker is not a moon in our solar system, it would still take a rocket to get from her navel to her face in our lifetime.
That really has nothing to do with any of this, but I might as well say it.
No, she's still fat.
So, therefore, I don't need to hear about how she has "done it." Most of these diets work for a month or two and then bounce on the walrus like a rubber band. In two months she's not going to just weigh her old 300 LBS, no, she will most likely tack on another 50.
Oh well.
So, it's with great annoyance that I have to hear about how she's moderating fats and proteins and carbs and shit like a Maury Povich in a McDonalds.
Why the hell is it that when someone does something "good" for themselves, they think they are the expert.
This on the heels of hearing the Guy Who Sits Behind Me say that he has to take it "one day at a time" with his recent capitulation concerning smoking.
Or, they try to run the "it takes a lot of work" shit on you. Like, you should feel guilty for even suggesting that they did a good thing.
"Hey, looking good. Great job with the weight loss."
"Well, it wasn't easy."
Shit, I didn't say "Hey, way to rip those calories off your diet, maybe I'll give it a shot over the weekend."
Fucking dumbasses. Why must everyone act like Jesus when they do something good?
So, now my coworker is preaching her diet and wearing clothes that still don't fit her. It's an uneasy feeling to see a 250 pound ham hock in a school girl outfit.
The fat hangs out the sides and becomes a liquid that isn't quit fluid enough to drop, rather it hangs in tear drops off the sides of the big game.
The downfall is when they attempt to fit into spandex and the fat becomes a gas and most of their kidneys, stomach and intestines evaporate like civil liberties in 2002.
I'm tired of hearing about other's healing. If you want to be interesting, you talk about pain. Like, what it's like to have to wipe you ass on a scratching post because you can't reach behind yourself.
I'm tired of hearing about ergonomical correctitude and how it's helping your phantom joints. I have a coworker who thinks she has joints in the pores of her skin. Something is always aching.
The other day she got real serious with us and said she needed to have a group discussion. So, we all hunker in and she begins telling us how she's starting to take insulin shots and that if she acts like a fruit loop, that's the reason.
What the fuck? You're either a fruit loop or not. If you're all fucked up in the first place and need some sort of medication, then you were FUCKED UP IN THE FIRST PLACE. Don't blame your hissy fits on the shit that's supposed to make you better.
Oh, hey everybody, I'm fucking certifiable, so I'm going to be taking some anti-psychotic drugs for awhile. So, if I shoot one of you mother fuckers or rape your ear canal – hey, it's just the drugs that are helping me along.
Lord, Jesus. This is from the same woman who said "I can't believe Pop Tarts are so bad for you." This is after taking the holiday to read the caloric values. "They're a breakfast food." She says.
So, apparently, in the world of insulin hallucinations, all breakfast foods are macro nutritional breakthroughs of science.
"So, doc, I've been trying to lose some weight – what's a good diet?"
"Bacon – and lots of it. Try sprinkling it with Golden Grahams, they're breakfast foods after all."
This is the same woman who goes on a diet and says she's cheating when she eats some fatty food. The problem is, I hear "I'm cheating" three times a day at every meal.
Fuck, I could say I'm on a diet and eat nothing but Dick's Deluxes and tell people I'm "cheating." But, when I blow out into a 300 pound celulitic abscess, I guess it will be hard to carry on the facade.
Once again, my coworkers suck ass.

Ohio Recount

Ohio Recount

There has been tremendous speculation in the underground news recently that vast numbers of votes were either over counted or undercounted. Some say it's voter fraud, others feel the E-voting was rigged by Republican company Diebold, still others feel that the machines and systems are just plain faulty.
In a democracy that relies on elections to preserve said democracy, it's important that we have a fair and balanced recount.
That's why I've started my own grassroots recount.
Here it is. I took a sample of the population and I plan on basing my statistics off them. I have taken a plumber, a CEO, a hairdresser, and a retired teacher.
Let's look at the results.

Arnold Plumber, Plumber
Arnold recounts: "It was raining and very cold most of the day, and I had just left the Denny's. I had a Swiss and olive omelet. It was delicious. I think I had coffee or coke with it. After that, I left and drove to the polls. On the way I shotgunned a beer and honked at these kids that were skateboarding in the street. I remember thinking the kids looked like real bastards. Anyway, so I got to the polling place and stood in line. I drank two more beers while standing there. I think they were Olympias. I'm not sure. I wasn't smashed or anything. Then, an hour later, I voted."

Blaine Davey, CEO of big company
Blaine recounts: "I had left the office early. I was extremely pissed off that I had to go to a polling place in the first place. I had lost my absentee ballot, and I was very passionate about the election. Although, I almost didn't go at all. I heard about the lines and all and the thought of standing around like a homeless person wasn't very appealing. In line, there was this terrible man drinking beer. He kept raving about some kids on skateboards or some such drivel. I shot him a look, but he wouldn't shut up. I think he might have been a plumber, seeing as he had a plunger strapped to his back and this sweatshirt that said 'I'm a plumber and I vote.'"

Linda Evans, hairdresser
Linda recounts: "Well, I had just gotten off work. I was giving this total lame-o a haircut and dye, when I remembered that our pastor had encouraged us to vote. I'm a very religious woman and I try to abide by the lord's word. So, I got off work and drove down to the polling place. When I got there, there was this man drinking beer and I remember asking him for one, when this guy in a suit shot me this mean look. I think he was a CEO of some big company, because he was on a cell phone. Anyway, so, the beer guy gave me a beer and we talked about how much we loved drinking beer. Well, long story short, me and Arnold are now dating! I'm so excited!"

Gary Indiana, retired teacher
Gary recounts: "Well, it was sunny as hell out. Man, that was a hot day. I had just gotten done sniffing model glue. I do that now that there's nothing left for me to do in life. You see, the old lady left me and the teaching is all over since I molested that skank in my 5th period. Lord, was I ripped that day – the voting day, not the day I banged that 17-year-old. So, I got in my car and tried to kill myself, but the car wouldn't start, so I went back in the house and started doing line after line of meth. Well, the TV was on and I saw that it was voting day or whatever. So, I killed the rest of the Smirnoff in the liquor cabinet and got on my bike to go vote. I don't know why, really. I'm not big into politics or anything...I guess I'm just lonely. So, I bike down to the polls and there's these skateboarders and for no reason at all, I tackle one of them and began beating him unmercifully. So, his friends pull me off and I bite one on the neck hard enough to break skin and he's all bleeding all over me. So, I run down the street yelling like a banshee 'Lordy! Lordy!' Well, this cop sees me and I run a little faster. By the time I get to the polling place I'm out of my mind hungry and I ask this woman if she has any tick tacs. She doesn't, but she gives me the rest of her beer. I down it in one slug and find it hard to wait in line. I'm totally antsy. So, I shove my way to the front of the line and before I know it, I'm voting G.W! G.W.! That's right, Gordon Wright, the best parole officer a man has ever had. Fuck, I was wasted that day."

Gay Sex with a Stem Cell

Gay Sex with a Stem Cell

Hey, I saw you over there in your test tube. I thought you looked pretty cute.
You know, I was thinking, maybe you and me could go into the men's room and...well, you know....
OH YEAH! YEAH! URRRRRRR!!!!! Do it to me stem cell! Do it to me!!!!!!



So, I'm on two hours of sleep. I couldn't get to sleep last night. Ugliness.
It all started Saturday, when I went to go watch the Apple Cup at Galassi's.
During my night, I drank beer, whiskey, beer, martinis, beer on an empty stomach....Weisberg ended up throwing up all day – I simply laid in bed till 2, catatonic.
So, when it was time to fall asleep last night, I failed miserably.
It was that ugly insomnia, when the thought of when you have to wake up for work actually wakes you up. It's like you'll get really close to falling asleep and then "k, I got four hours till" and then you're back awake.
I tried to form stories and thoughts that might be dreamlike in order to fall over into the other side of wakefulness.
I conjured up an inverse tower that juts down into the Earth. Then, I tried to figure out what it would be used for. This bored me. So, I thought about this one dream I had where I visited a mining complex on the planet Mercury. This bored me too. Finally, I settled on giant spiders that were mistakenly brought to Earth on alien ships, whose eggs were attached to the hull of said ships.
Then I thought, maybe these spiders attack people and stuff, but their venom gave you supernatural powers in the right doses and......I fell asleep around 5.
I got in bed at eleven.
So, then I wake up and go out for a cup of coffee and there's this bum sitting in the middle of the 7-11 parking lot, screeching like a banshee.
The clerk at 7-11 goes "I mop up the floor, and some guy spills a coke on it seconds later, now I gotta deal with this."
As I left, he shouted "Get out of here!" to the man.
He could've been screaming about the meal of Chinese I presume he ate, because it was all over the sidewalk. This was eight in the morning, and I'm sure spicy food didn't agree with him.
At work I debated whether to try to leave early. After realizing I pulled that only two weeks ago, I decided not to pursue it.
So, I'm stuck work. Three hours to go!
Oh, and I got free pizza from a meeting down the hall. It furthered my tiredness. It was a bad move, man, a bad move.
NIN.COM has detailed info on the deluxe edition of The Downward Spiral, with additional artwork, sound bites, the whole magill. It comes out tomorrow, along with the Nirvana box set and the Seinfeld seasons one thru three.
I'm supposed to go with my father and sister and stepmother to dinner tonight. I want to just pass out, but I'm obliged, because my father thinks the world revolves around him.
I received two angry phone calls today, where my father learned that I don't get off until six, and since this doesn't fit his agenda, he decided to angrily tell me that I should get off early.
My dad is an asshole if you want to know the truth. Sure, I love the guy, but this losing his mind when things don't go his way if for the birds.
And, yes, I meant to sound Catcherintheryeish.
I finally got my 100 dollar reward from, three months later. Man, I blew that quick. Never give a drunk a substantial amount of money on a weekend. Hell, don't ever give it to him.
Of course, I had to pick up the reward with the rest of my mail at the post office because my apartment mailboxes were burgled.
Yeah, so we get this letter from the Mgr. stating what happened and he writes "...and I was appalled to see that some of you hadn't picked up your mail from the day before..."
Dude, the guy seemed cool, but I'm getting the suspicion that he's a toolshed.
Oh well.
So, I better get back to looking up burt bacharach in google.
I love you all, so much,

Monday, August 9, 2010

Tips On Writing a Suicide Note

Tips on Writing a Good Suicide Note

1. Think about your audience. What do they want to hear? Now, write the exact opposite in a way that implicates them all.

2. An outline is a sure fire way to make sure your message comes across. Between shots of bourbon and Alice in Chains records, make sure that you have something like this:

I. My pain

a) Drug addiction

b) Ex-girlfriend

c) Phantom sexual abuse

II. Who's at fault

a) Drug dealer

b) Ex-girlfriend

c) Clown from 3rd grade birthday party

3. Write about what you know. There's no reason to make up a bunch of silly problems or conspiracies if you don't know what you're talking about. A writer from Cleveland Ohio sent me the following note before jumping off a bridge:

Everything is just too much to handle. Maria left me, the Paperworks is laying off another 25% of our workforce, and I think I have AIDS.

See, here the writer misrepresented the layoffs, which were actually more like 12% and he stated that he thought he might have AIDS – even though he has been monogamous and isn't an intravenous drug user. It's just poor writing and it leaves the reader questioning the truth and beauty behind the "tragic" suicide itself.

4. If you're going to blame yourself, don't passively/aggressively blame others. Time and time again you see the suicide letter that starts off with "It's all my fault...blah, blah, blah." But, then, midway through it jumps into a tantrum about how it's actually other people's faults. This is misleading, irresponsible, and just bad writing. If you want to put a plot twist in the letter, use the old standbys: mysterious bank numbers, names, and governmental implications.

5. Always keep them hanging. It's important to leave a line or two in about what could have been. For example "If Maria would have just accepted me instead of rejecting me, maybe I would have been able to go on." This leaves the reader on the very edge of their seats, wondering if they could have prevented your death. All the true geniuses of the suicide note left an abyss of confused, chaotic emotions behind. And the VERY best sparked additional suicides among loved ones. Look, your suicide note is not going to write itself – you have to make it work for you! I'll be back with more tips later in the week.

Smell My Can of Coke

There's Nothing Special about Thanksgiving

Boy, I hate this holiday. I've never, ever, ever had a good Thanksgiving.
Family gatherings are only fun when they're impromptu. The second anyone plans anything, my mother has a week-long hissy fit and my older sister decides to take out all of her issues and put them on the dinner table.
My little sister is usually depressed about something, and my brother-in-law and nephew know to keep their mouths shut. I, on the other hand, try to intervene in whatever stupid argument erupts and end up taking the wrath from all involved. My cousin, who is mentally disabled, usually bugs the living crap out of my mom for acting like a person who is mentally disabled.
In recent years, my older sister, brother-in-law, and nephew have been taking off to see my aunt in Chicago. This is a wise move, and I applaud it.
This year, my younger sister is going as well. So, basically, I'm stuck with my mom's poor-me-shit and my cousin asking my mom for more "caffeine free" that will usually send my mom into a rage for no reason.
So, I was smart this year: I made sure and planned to have breakfast with ma and Glenna, instead of dinner. Why? You give my mom a good enough amount of time and she'll find someone who's fucking her over for every minute.
Don't get me wrong, I love my family and understand they're all fucked up just like everyone else, but you have to be realistic about them.
If it's pizza and beer on a Sunday in the middle of September, chances are they're going to be the funnest people to be around in the world. Now, if it's Mother's Day, Christmas, Halloween, President's Day, etc...they're going to be nuttier than a can of....well, nuts.
Another reason I hate Thanksgiving is the food. Not that I don't normally drink my dinner anyway. But, man, fucking turkey is just plain nasty looking. You put out this large, dead animal and you stuff it full of shit it would probably eat while alive and then you put it in an oven and bake it (or whatever) in its own juices. Soon, it's out on the table and some savage takes out a small chain saw and cuts it into smaller bits of flesh so that it can be easily devoured with mayo on rye the next day.
Mashed potatoes are good, but not with gravy. Thanks, I'll skip the dead animal runoff. And, what's the deal with the black box? Why don't they make the whole plane out of....
I hate Thanksgiving. But, this year could be different.
Just joking, it's going to suck, whether I get there at 10 or five. My mom will be in the kitchen cooking quiche for breakfast, then something along the lines of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, salad, donuts, candied apples, pizza, tacos, ice cream cake, regular cake, bread, etc...
She'll try to "prepare" all of her angst away in what will amount to nine weeks of food for my cousin to eat.
This is why her freezer will erupt in an avalanche of food when you open it. For every pork roast or turkey/chick 3/11, there's some sort of bastard who has helped to ruin her life.
I remember my brother-in-law was hit with turkey/chick 3/11 one year and he responded "3/11? But, what year?! What year?!"
Yeah, he can be funny sometimes.
So, it'll be me drinking coffee and asking if she's heard from the girls. I'll ask Glenna what she had for breakfast, if she had been coloring in her coloring books, and whether she's excited for Christmas.
At some point in time, my mom will lose it on my cousin.
Now, my mom is not a demon. When she "loses it" on my mentally handicapped cousin, it's in the form of scrunching her face up until her eyebrows make a "V" while her eyes pop out of her head. This will be accompanied by a sigh or an under-the-breath utterance.
I completely understand it to. My cousin is great in small doses, but the three-year-old nature of her condition can be a bit of a burden. Like, when she fakes coughing, falls on her knees, or goes batshit for no other reason than the fact that we haven't been paying attention to her for more than two minutes.
This is the kind of thing that I understand, but if I had to live with it everyday, I think I'd take to stuffing my freezer full of my problems as well.
I'm just hoping my mom doesn't go into some crying jag that I'm forced to try to talk her out of (never works) or starts blaming me for ruining her life. These are rarities, but without anyone around, you never know.
Look, it could be worse: I could be having Thanksgiving with my dad, who has been known to throw a temper tantrum when my little sister and I start laughing at something.
I remember one year the old man tried to make something with beets and it tasted like crayon. Trust me, I know what a crayon tastes like.
He fucking lost it and we had to sit through a speechless dinner after he went batshit and started telling us what rotten kids we were.
Yeah, the good times begin and end in my family.
Again, don't get me wrong, all of these people are awesome, but being awesome makes for sappy writing. So, let me continue to rip them apart.
Back in the day, my dad would take us to the Keg for Thanksgiving. It was lame as shit, cuz I was too young to drink and the only thing I wanted to eat was salad. Going out there was so depressing as well. When you're a kid, no kids go out on Thanksgiving and "play." So, you only have TV to rely on, and by the time I would get back there'd be a Hallmark Family Sapathon on every channel. Some shit about a white family that's kind enough to condescend to give a poor black dude some food for a night. I think every channel had the same black guy on it and he may have really been homeless. Just going from set to set, playing broke and taking Ivy league douchebags for all they're worth.
That would be an awesome Thanksgiving special "generic homeless person sticks it to the man in this special edition of Hallmark Portrait of a Family."
It writes itself.
At the Keg, my father would act like a jackass because of the fact that he knew most of the wait staff from the bar. He would know them all, and he'd introduce us and I couldn't help but wonder if they thought he was a complete jackass, putz, or asshole.
You could never tell, and this was before I knew that my dad didn't go to the Keg and have just one beer. For some reason, it never occurred to me that my dad would go to a bar to drink. I don't know why. It wasn't denial either, because, I don't think I would've really cared.
Well, that's my story about Thanksgiving and how it sucks ass. If you actually like Thanksgiving, well, by all means, celebrate.
But, if not, drop me a comment about a silly Thanksgiving you had and maybe, if you're lucky, I'll give you a free membership in my fan club. It comes with a promotional CD ROM for three months free internet. Also, a carrot will be shipped to some homeless black dude in your name.
Bless you all on this shitty fucking holiday.
Marjorie Simpson

I'll Tell You About My Father

An Evening with my Father

Yesterday, I had plans to see my father. I was to meet him, his wife, my stepsister, and my sister somewhere in the Seattle area.
They were vague plans, but he did let me know that he'd appreciate it if I got off early.
Well, because of a night of insomnia, I didn't get in early, and knew I wouldn't be getting off early.
For a normal father, this would be no big deal. But..
I received two, separate phone calls, on separate phones informing me that he had heard from my little sister that I would be late – and he was pissed.
It's not like it would be that big of a deal. It's not like I wouldn't be able to meet them at a restaurant only a half hour later. Well, I called him back and let his wife know that I would be late.
Well, because of traffic being a breeze, I was able to get home around 6.15. This would have been only 15 minutes late. No big deal.
Well, they weren't ready anyway, so his angry phone calls were for shit.

Like I said, I didn't get any sleep the night before, so I wasn't really in the mood for anything, much less my dad.
I did some round about cleaning and got a six-pack for anyone (my dad) who would want a beer.
A knock on the door later, and enter my dad – in rare form.
It's not that he was hamskied, it was more a case of some sort of chemical imbalance that lets loose when he has a beer. Trust me I'm blood; I know the feeling. But, I don't want to be the helpless, innocent around it.
The first thing to consider in this situation is that the old man tends to act plain, straight up batshit. Everything is an exclamation. "Son! How the hell are ya!"
Good lord, I thought.
Soon, he was remarking about nearly everything in the apartment and making a general ass out of himself. I feel for my friends - that they have to see me act this way, when I get like this.
It's like watching Jack Nicholson overact – it's entertaining, but if you're related to it, it's fucking obnoxious.
After making sure that every fixture, wall, painting, tabletop, etc. was sufficiently made fun of, we decided to go across the street for a beer.
This is after a long bit of me explaining that the food is not great across the street. See, my sister, stepmother and stepsister were hungry and wanted to get food, so I explained that the food was small fare and not very good.
This is at the Great Nabob, where everything is cooked on a Foreman grill. It's not that the place sucks; it's actually one of the coolest bars around. But, the food consists of:
Quesadillas – Not terrible, but like eating old tortillas with cheese. Like you could make yourself.
Edemane – I probably didn't even spell it right, but it's like soybeans or something. I've never tried it, but a soybean is a soybean, is a....
Hummus – I'm not fucking joking – I love hummus, but the stuff here tastes like chlorine. I have no idea how you could make hummus taste like chlorine without mixing in chlorine, but...
Pannini – Much like the quesadilla, it's descent, but tastes like it was made in five minutes at someone's home after smoking a bunch of dope and not having anything but cheese and bread around.
The other bad factors about the Nabob are that there's no smoking and no Budweiser. Yes, I'm a loser who drinks domestic. It goes down smooth, and gets you where you want to go. The other choices are all the nine-dollar brews, then Pabst, Miller Lite, and Miller High Life.
I always settle with the Pabst. Miller tastes like wine.
And, last of all – no smizoking. Dizamn.
But, the place is super-trendy-cool inside and there's free pool.
Now, as far as my dad going in there, it simply came down to this: I go there quite a bit. I mean, it's across the street for Christsakes. So, knowing the bartenders a bit, I didn't want my dad to go in there and make it law that I couldn't return if their business depended on it.
Now, being as stupid as I wanna be, I decided the best way to defuse this situation would be to tell the truth: "Well, I don't know, the food over there isn't really that good. I know everyone wants to eat."
Now, this was stupid for two reasons:

1. If I tell my dad I don't want to do something, he'll then REALLY want to do it.
2. Now, I've got the very good chance that my dad will go there and mention to the bartenders that I think their food sucks.

So, I fucked myself over.
Now, dad's all over me to go to that bar. "C'mon, I want to go over there! Why don't you want to go! Is there a reason you don't want me to go over there?!"
I explain that the reason is the food and the fact that he'll probably embarrass me at a neighborhood bar.
"No, what's the reason? Why don't you want me to go over there?"
See, this brings up something I've suspected for awhile:

1. I think my dad thinks I'm gay.
2. I think my dad thinks I'm a heavy drug user.

Now, neither statements are true, regardless of fictitious drug use in this blog, and same sex sex with a stem cell in one of the previous posts. But, it's been awhile since I've had a steady girlfriend and I'm pretty fucking deranged to begin with...well, I guess I did go through a year of drug experimentation, but that was...two years ago....

So, now I'm just irritated.
I explain to dad that I have no problem going over there, and reiterate that the food sucks and he better not make an ass of me.
Then he brings up the time that he yelled, upon entering my apartment complex, after I had signed an anti-discrimination policy, "It smells like fags in here!"
My dad isn't a racist or homophobe. Just take my word on this.
What my dad is is simply this: a jackass.
He doesn't hate or look down on homosexuals. No, my dad just likes to say whatever is the most shocking an asinine in the most awkward of moments.
So, now my dad brings up "Why? You think I'm going to embarrass you in front of the village people?" So, now, it's not that I'm hiding something, it's that I'm a jerk and I just assume he's going to act like a jackass.
Basically, the whole thing is fucked. I finish my beer and say "Let's go."

Outside, I ask if we're going to take a car – therefore, flanking dad out of walking across the street.
"No, no, we're going across the street for a beer!"
"Bob, he says the food's bad, let's just go where he wants." This is my stepmother, who, god bless her, I don't know how she puts up with this day-to-day.
So, we end up in the bar and I'm waiting for my dad to:

1. Tell the bartender I think the food sucks.
2. Use the word fag, and defend himself with "free speech"
3. Get into a fight for reasons I can't even fathom.

Luckily, the bar scene goes smoothly. Well, except the part where he would zone out anytime anyone else was talking or cut them off into his own story, question, postulation.
Soon, he's talking about buying a condo out here for the "neighborhood atmosphere" and I'm imagining picking his drunk and bloodied body out of some bar fight at the Five Point.

After a beer, we take off without incident. Everyone is ignoring the old man, as he's only prone to converse about random observations that aren't for anything but attention.
Now, with a drinker, you have to understand, and especially the drinker who craves attention, if they don't get the attention they want, they turn angry.
So, now I'm talking to my dad about god knows what to ease his self esteem and wondering what will be next.
Well, next was the very audible "Isn't that the Lesbian bar?"
This is a bar that he swears his friends saw more than one lesbian couple in, so now it's a lesbian bar.
It's fucking McMennimans.
I try to tell him that gay bars are rarely chain Irish pubs, but he begs to differ.
All of this in earshot of anyone passing by.
I think what brings this on is his thinking that Seattle, and especially certain parts, are lifestyle freedom type places...i don't know how else to put it: gay towns.
Pretty much any part of the city that looks clean and descent is probably gay to him.
Now, with this in mind, he feels that that's what will be the running joke: whatever is different about it.
If we were in Leavenworth, I'm sure he'd be making Nazi jokes left and right: anything that's totally inappropriate and guaranteed to bring attention.
We make it to Jabu's (and I hold my breathe waiting for the name of the bar to result in an ethnic slur of a different color) and everything is fine.
Except the music.
Apparently, the music is too loud for the old man.
It's loud, but nothing you wouldn't expect in a sports bar. The waitress takes our orders and dad orders "A pitcher of Bud Light and turn the music down, damn!"
Everyone at the table scolds the old bastard, but he keeps it up as she's walking away. Joke after joke about the music comes peeling out of the old man's face.
His last one is when she takes the dinner order and he orders "A double cheeseburger and a side of the music down."
If it wasn't for how apologetic the rest of us looked, I'm positive the waitress would have 86'd him or told him to fuck off.
Well, that's it. Not really as eventful as it felt. Maybe that's a sign of bad writing. But, it's hard for me to put into words the annoyance of a man who acts like your normal gang of immature friends, but he happens to be your father.
But, it's not just that. With the old man, it's he acts that way, and at the same time you know if you really call him on it, and you're not joking around, he'll lose his tits and tear you a new one.
Look, it would suck to have most of my friend's fathers: starched bags of shit who sit in front of TVs and wear Haggar slacks and buy time shares and give pens as gift and talk about everything vaguely get me.
Aarron Neville

Go with Your Gut

I'm Huge in Finland and Sweden

Like the Onanist that I am, I frequent my stat site.
This is where I can see how many visitors have been to my site, what country they live in, and how they found my site.
Well, all those from the United States I can't really distinguish from people I'm friends with, and therefore aren't really "fans" in the sense that I'm known outside my small pocket of drunks that I hang out with.
And before I reach stardom for short stories about Ozzie Smith and dinosaurs that rape, I must gather an international audience.
So, it was kind of odd to find that a number of my visitors are from Sweden and Finland (2), and that they didn't just come across the site, they bookmarked it.
What does this mean? Well, considering I hate myself and want to die, I would guess that it's web spiders.
My understanding of web spiders is that they are these science fictionesque Internet arachnids that digitally "crawl" through the pipes of the worldwide webbing and find all the different sites, so that search engines, like Google, can find information for users.
So, when you type in "man eats Jackie Chan's fecal matter" my site will pop up as relevant.
Otherwise, this means that the Finish and Swedes find this site amusing.
I doubt it, but with my limited knowledge of any piece of land barring Kent, Washington, I have this idea that it's pretty cold and dark in both Finland and Sweden.
And I guess having sex with a stem cell, milking Lionel Ritchie, and sending swarms of drunk drivers to Afghanistan to win the war over there is pretty cold and dark.
So, if it's true, that these are not web crawlers and actually "fans" or passerbyers at a car wreck (this site is strewn with the dead and decapitated arms and legs of terrible writing), then WELCOME, SALUTATIONS, GOOD EVENING!
I too live in a dark and cold climate – Seattle.
Facts about Seattle:

We have a festival every October where we burn effigies of Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix and sacrifice a computer to our Rock god in the sky. It's called The Milking of Magnesia.

Nine out of ten Seattleites have to spell check Seattleites.

We have the largest bust of Rick James in the nation.

We boast the infamous Organic Egyptian Crossing Bird. A piece of poultry from the 19th century that was made into a chicken sandwich and then whipped and deep fried in avocado and served in microscopic portions. So far, we've eaten 3/4ths of it since its discovery in 1828.

Our primary source of income is apples. We trade them for other foodstuffs with the modest men and women of Tacoma. Tacoma specializes in gang rape and assisted suicide.

There are nine ways to alternate dimensions outside my doorstep and I've been too depressed to ever be excited enough about them to walk through. This is common in this city.

Our Mayor is a goat named Earl and he will soon have to commit sodomy with Francis Farmer's dead corpse in order to run for another term.

We sell seashells on the seashore and play riddle games with trees.

The average IQ is somewhere between 90 and 250.

Our official seal is a Whopper and a Big Mac with a boxing glove in the background. No one knows why.

Well, I hope this has been helpful. And if you are a digital web crawler, I offer you this: hey, don't enslave me and make me a part of a large matrix-like video game, because you know, I've never treated an Atari badly. Sure, there was that time I enslaved my Nintendo and forced it to have ritual sex with my ex-girlfriend, but that was just a sex thing; it wasn't a slavery thing.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving, or national equivalent.
Roasting in a two by four box of Otter Pops,
Dis Elle Xick

Neural Interference

The New Nirvana Box Set Totally Reminded me of Wanting to Kill Myself in High School

God, this new box set is really great. I totally didn't think it would be this good. Seriously. I'm not one to really get into live stuff or demo crud – but, this rawked the house, ya'll.
I bought it yesterday at Costco. I shop there a lot now. I'm 28, a technical writer, and rent a pretty nice studio in Seattle. Most of my day consists of writing technical documents for computers and "thinking out of the box" and having group meetings where we discuss standards for our documents and how best to apply them. I enjoy visiting my sister and brother-in-law and their son, my nephew. I spend a great deal of time reading about politics and have been reading more and more about philosophy. Lately, I listen to a lot of rave or dance music – nothing with lyrics. A good day for me is when I can complete a document or two, send updates to programmers, and make it home in time to make dinner, do laundry, take a shower and watch the news.
So, it was with great amazement to find that I wanted to kill myself yesterday.
You see, I'm not really in the angst ridden time of my life anymore where the idea of cutting my jugular and hoping my middle finger will rigor into one last "fuck you" to each and everyone is an idea that sounds pretty cool.
But, after the second listen to the second disc in the new Nirvana box set, I totally reverted to my age 18 id and found myself reading old love notes from girlfriends, staring at their pictures, and even thinking about calling them, one last time to say "goodbye."
I knew what was going on – all the old angst and depression of the Nirvana catalogue totally rekindled how cool it was to be 18, depressed and suicidal.
I get kinda misty-eyed just thinking about.
Like the time I listened to "Milk It" over and over and drank five beers in the attempt to become a cool drug-addled misfit.
Of course beer isn't really a hard drug, but in 1994, in Kent, Washington, that's all we had around.
I did, however, weigh 130 pounds at 6 ft – so, I resembled a heroin addict. So, that was cool.
I remember most of the time I couldn't eat because I was still in love with this girl who broke up with me in 1993.
Man, I totally remember all that now. The pain, the anger, the depression – man, what ever happened to those days?
Well, they're still there. I just needed the right key.
Last night, after listening to disc 3 a few times, I called my ex-girlfriend and hung up. Then, I wrote a love poem to her and burned it immediately – just to crush all the beauty that was left in my life.
It's really weird, cuz a couple of days ago that would've seem really childish, lame, and pathetic. Not to mention the whole ego trip thing that goes along with anyone who wants to be an artist and has no talent.
Geesh, life's funny like that.
So, I've either got to start listening to more rave music, or I better start getting used to taking long walks on Piers at 2 in the morning full of wine and ugly poetry.
Man, this really is a good box set, though.
Christ, I wish I were dead.

Georgia O' Kweef