Ugliness Follows Me
I'm at that point where there's really no reason to wake up. Let me take it a step further: it's a clinical embarrassment to wake up and realize I'm Matt Eckert.
Good God! It's like a fuzzy span of three weeks where I feel like I'm waking up to the exact same day and I'm obligated to repeat it.
From an email:
hungover...sick...what's the diff?
i get in here and people are already pissing me off. big red is arguing a point with me that i made and i have no idea how to respond to someone trying to argue my own point. then, there's this movie-making guy who's sending me scripts that i don't want to read and demanding that i have coffee with him. weisberg calls me three times last night, in succession, and i think he's bombing my work phone now when i explicitly told him to email me cuz i didn't feel like dealing with him on the phone. i just found out i have to put in for some wedding gift that i don't even want to be present to deliver. some dirty yank from a credit card company keeps hounding me for money. i have no money. i could pull 5 grand from my 401K, but i don't have the 230 to pay off the previous loan. i keep waking up at 5 cuz the sun hits my apt like a flood light and i can't figure out how to work my blinds that are now all kaliwampus cuz i nearly yanked them down in anger. i'm friggin tired, don't have any idea how i'm going to kill 8 more hours here...that about sums it up right now.
The blind thing is really bothering me. It's like the right side is some jilted lover of the left side and wants nothing to do with going down with its ex-love. So, it looks like my window is winking at Seattle.
I called in and used a vacation day due to "the Godfather."
The Godfather is a drink: Scotch and Amaretto. This bartender I know decided I might like it.
Deciding an alcoholic might like a drink? Man, years of school must have formed that intuition.
Anyway, I got drunk on this ugly drink on Tuesday and ended up staying at this bar until I went through the 20 in my pocket. That 20 was "earned" from selling CDs earlier so that I would have gas money for the rest of the week.
Do I have no shame?
At some point in the evening I met a retired comedian who told me about the biz. Apparently he'd been on TV and such and has met Jerry Seinfeld and has opened for Ellen Degeneress.
Which one can believe when one is drunk and in a bar.
I have no reason to believe he was lying, but I wouldn't make a bet either way.
So, we're talking and it's interesting hearing about the biz and such, but then it turns to politics and I realize I have a Republican on my hands.
I hate talking politics, but once it comes up it's like this ugly sore you can't look away from. So, we continue and I do what I usually do with opposing opinions: give no ground, but don't force any strong opinions.
This is because once I get into the horror that is the President I get mad and then I'm reduced to a bleating drunk and a fight ensues.
Man, just thinking about having those conversations gives me the creeps. In fact, just thinking about that night makes me sick.
Have you had that? Just thinking about some really drunk night makes you feel just as sick as you were when you were there?
Anyway, so this guy wants a ride home and I'm hopping drunk and drive him nine blocks to a bus stop or something. The whole thing was shady and I shouldn't have been driving.
The guy gave me the willies a bit, too. Like maybe he was a closet cornholer or something? I'm not sure. Am I so homophobic I can't give a guy a ride home? Well, I don't think that's it. Sometimes you just sense something is amiss with someone.
Like that time I went to some bar with that couple I met and got that feeling they were bad luck and we were shortly pulled over and she was exposed as an underager drinking on a fake ID. Meanwhile I had a gram of coke on me. Ugliness.
This is why I don't go to bars alone and shouldn't have on Tuesday: alone, I attract weirdos.
Safety in numbers, man. Safety in numbers.
Ah, well, I'm bored.
Pleace,
Matt
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Uday Hussein on...
Uday Hussein on...
Raindrops
Sometimes, in the morning, it would rain as we ate breakfast. I would look out the window and think about each rain drop and how long it had taken to come from the Gulf to my breakfast table.
Each rain drop seemed to symbolize how isolated I was from the rest of the world.
After breakfast on those days, I would walk the compound and let the rain fall on my head and think about them as enemy bullets beating my brains into my spinal cord as I felt them, like blood, venture down my body and I would cry...I would cry...you know?
It doesn't rain often in the desert, so that is where I would go to relax; out of the way of the palace and its confines. I would breathe easier out there.
It would just be me and the thorazine. I would shoot up and go running out into the horizon screaming out old Bee Gee songs and scratching at my chest till I bled.
I would imagine I was a Viking running onto a coastal shore and I would make love to the sand as I writhed in withdrawals.
Back at home, I would say nothing about my travels. Father was very....uh....see no evil when it came to me. So, when I would come in twitching and shaking, bleeding from the chest down he would tell me that I was "a fine soldier" and move on to his daily duties.
When it would rain at night, I would imagine the rain as shrapnel coming from a mosque that had exploded nearby. I would run out into the yard and praise Allah for showering me with the bits and pieces of his temple and the worshippers inside.
I would then return to my room and masturbate to Archie comics. I was young, very young at the time and I would paint myself in Technicolor and pretend I was Archie banging Veronica over the lion statues in the courtyard.
Then I'd play Zaxxon and fall asleep....under the rain drops.
That has been another edition of Uday Hussein on....
Join us next week for more yucks and laughs!
For further reading on the history of Iraq:
http://www.mnftiu.cc/mnftiu.cc/fanblog1.html
Raindrops
Sometimes, in the morning, it would rain as we ate breakfast. I would look out the window and think about each rain drop and how long it had taken to come from the Gulf to my breakfast table.
Each rain drop seemed to symbolize how isolated I was from the rest of the world.
After breakfast on those days, I would walk the compound and let the rain fall on my head and think about them as enemy bullets beating my brains into my spinal cord as I felt them, like blood, venture down my body and I would cry...I would cry...you know?
It doesn't rain often in the desert, so that is where I would go to relax; out of the way of the palace and its confines. I would breathe easier out there.
It would just be me and the thorazine. I would shoot up and go running out into the horizon screaming out old Bee Gee songs and scratching at my chest till I bled.
I would imagine I was a Viking running onto a coastal shore and I would make love to the sand as I writhed in withdrawals.
Back at home, I would say nothing about my travels. Father was very....uh....see no evil when it came to me. So, when I would come in twitching and shaking, bleeding from the chest down he would tell me that I was "a fine soldier" and move on to his daily duties.
When it would rain at night, I would imagine the rain as shrapnel coming from a mosque that had exploded nearby. I would run out into the yard and praise Allah for showering me with the bits and pieces of his temple and the worshippers inside.
I would then return to my room and masturbate to Archie comics. I was young, very young at the time and I would paint myself in Technicolor and pretend I was Archie banging Veronica over the lion statues in the courtyard.
Then I'd play Zaxxon and fall asleep....under the rain drops.
That has been another edition of Uday Hussein on....
Join us next week for more yucks and laughs!
For further reading on the history of Iraq:
http://www.mnftiu.cc/mnftiu.cc/fanblog1.html
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
MOUSE!
A Mouse in My Midst
I haven't written in awhile, and I'll tell you why.
I had a mouse.
Well, I didn't have a mouse – not in the biblical sense, but a mouse was in my house.
Stop laughing, I'm being serious.
It might not have been a mouse; it could have been a baby rat, I don't know. Let me explain.
It was January, I had smoked a bunch of weed and treated myself to an omelet. I know, I probably deserve mice having said that – but nonetheless…Around four in the morning I heard a rustling noise under my sink (I live in a studio apartment, I can hear people passing gas in front of my front door from my "bedroom"). I knew exactly what it was right away – aliens.
So, I woke up and got my alien gear on – a ski jacket and a hunting cap, and made my way to the kitchen. I opened the cupboard and there, chewing on the bag the takeout food came in, was my mouse.
It stared at me. It's eyes seemed to say "Yeah, I'm a mouse, so what?" I processed the stare as language and replied "So, get out." He just continued to stare at me.
At this point, I had to toss the alien batons I had created in sixth grade to ward off monsters to get a more practical weapon.
Now, I vote Democrat, hate that we're in two wars, and think professional wrestling is a gateway drug to rape – but all that changed when I realized I had a mouse.
I very quickly threw any notion of respect for mother nature and grabbed a can of Raid.
Yes, Raid.
Raid is a insect repellent, but at the time (4 in the morning), I had little to no choices. A knife? Really? Could you shank a mouse like a prisoner? Probably not. Mice are wiley. A pair of scissors? As we'll later find out, I don't even have the stomach to see a mouse stuck to a piece of glue paper. No, Raid was the only answer.
I grabbed the Raid and opened the cupboard. The mouse was like "Yeah, still here, dude. WTF?"
I sprayed it.
The mouse shot out of the cupboard and onto the kitchen floor. I let out a shriek somewhere between a deaf person yelling and Pat Robertson being grazed by a penis.
After my initial shock, I realized I had no idea where the mouse went. I opened my front door and began chanting "Here mousey, mousey, mousey." But this did little good.
The next hour I walked the apartment with the Raid looking under furniture and occasionally crouching in the fetal position and shaking.
Finally, I went to bed. But I got 0.0 sleep as I tortured myself with thoughts of the mouse climbing on me and say, taking a nap, or trying on shoes.
Eventually I became convinced that the mouse would try to murder me in my sleep with a tiny mouse shank.
Mice are crafty.
The next day I called the maintenance line at my apartment complex.
"What can we help you with?"
"I have a mouse."
"OK."
"A mouse."
"Alright, we'll have the maintenance man come by and check it out. What apartment are you in?"
"The one with the mouse."
"Do you have any alarms or pets?"
"Just the mouse."
I went to work and returned home to find a note from the maintenance man.
- Put steel wool over hole.
The problem with this is that the mouse got into the cupboard from the kitchen through that hole. So, basically, the maintenance man just made sure that the cupboard under my sink was secure. That's like locking a robber up in, oh, say the entire Earth except for one bank.
So, I went to the store for mice weapons.
The mice weapons section or "Pest Deterrent" section consists of traps, sonar, and poison.
Traps: glue (the mouse walks on the glue dance floor and never walks away – with its feet), and spring (the mouse gets it's neck crushed in a brutal Saw like episode that will ruin every meal I have for days to come).
Sonar: these are small speakers that emit a brutal noise that sends mice running (well, that's what the cartoon on the box seemed to infer).
Poison: the single from Bel Biv Devoe.
I got the poison and went home.
I had to think like a mouse as I placed the small trays of deaths around my house. I hate that this all rhymes.
Obviously, one tray would go in the cupboard, but the others needed special mouse thinking.
I got out a piece of cheese and began eating it as I took to all fours and began to "mouse" around my apartment.
The fireplace, the coat closet, and the bookcase. Yes, because as I saw it mice like to be warm, they occasionally wear rain slickers (as seen in Tom and Jerry), and they are avid readers.
To be quite honest, I have no idea how I came up with the placement.
Next, I put a fan in my room and set it to high blast as I figured this would shield me from any mouse noises that would ruin my sleep (basically any noise was now a mouse noise).
For the next week my sleep got better and better and no mouse was found and the poison traps lay undisturbed.
Then I noticed gnawing marks on the inside of my closet – in my "bedroom".
I quickly ran to get a poison trap to move to the closet. That's when I realized I had never checked the poison in the coat closet.
There, in the coat closet, was the empty (comfuckingpletely) poison tray.
I called the manager and explained in my freaked out guy from the last song on Lateralus voice.
Now, it could have been from a previous messy owner – or that owner's cat or…pet rat…there were no signs of broken bits of drywall. But just to be sure, I freaked out. And I freaked out enough that I scared the manager into calling Orkin. I believe what sent her over the edge were the words "It practicing for my brains!"
Which isn't fair. The average rat or mouse wouldn't go all zombie on you unless you were already dead. That's the difference between mice and zombies. But that's the only difference.
Another day passed and I found another note from a mouse specialist.
The night before I had created a dynamic map exploring the areas where I had seen mouse activity – the gnawing, the empty poison trap, the tiny chest of drawers - and had left it for the Orkin man.
The note the Orkin man left completely ignored all my mappings and the CD ROM I created was left unexplored.
- Put down glue traps.
That was it. According to the maintenance man, this Orkin guy didn't come cheap and all he did was put down glue traps. Glue traps will catch a mouse and then the mouse either dies from heart failure (trying to mouse out of the trap) or gnaws off it's appendages.
I was livid and impotent to do anything about it – yet, I needed closure. I needed to talk to the Orkin man and have him tell me
1) It's a mouse not a rat
2) The gnawing was from a previous tenant
3) Somehow, magically, now that the Orkin man came, the mouse or rat would disappear.
For three days I called the apartment manager begging for some sort of report and none came.
Through all this, I hadn't once seen the rodent and it was going on a month.
Finally, the Orkin guy called me.
"You Robert?"
"Yes!"
"What the hell do you want?"
"The report! I was promised a report!"
"Well, you had a mouse. I put down traps. What else do you want to know?"
"Was it a mouse or rat?"
"Looked to me like a mouse from the droppings."
"Will it come back?"
"Well, your side of the building gets (I'm not joking here) hit pretty hard with mice – we have traps outside. You're by the stream and forest and all."
"Jesus."
"It's just a mouse."
"Jesus."
"Are you whacko?"
"Look, it ate the poison again (the poison tray was gone again after he had come), doesn't that mean that some hole (he covered some holes up in the closet, I left that out, I'm in a hurry now to go borrow money from a friend) was left unplugged?"
"Nah, it just means that mouse is probably living in your house."
"Jesus Christ, stop rhyming."
"Yeah, they can get under the floors or into the sofas or box springs."
I dropped the phone and fell to the ground on my knees.
Have you ever seen Sophie's Choice?
For the next month, I learned to live with the fact that I may or may not be living with a fact AND a mouse. I bought the sonar thingys just in case, but had to throw them away when I freaked myself out by hearing them - apparently I have mouse DNA.
The couch went. The bedding went. Everything was cleaned and doused in alcohol. There was a fire. I spent some time in an asylum.
And still, no mouse and yet…no no mouse…..
I haven't written in awhile, and I'll tell you why.
I had a mouse.
Well, I didn't have a mouse – not in the biblical sense, but a mouse was in my house.
Stop laughing, I'm being serious.
It might not have been a mouse; it could have been a baby rat, I don't know. Let me explain.
It was January, I had smoked a bunch of weed and treated myself to an omelet. I know, I probably deserve mice having said that – but nonetheless…Around four in the morning I heard a rustling noise under my sink (I live in a studio apartment, I can hear people passing gas in front of my front door from my "bedroom"). I knew exactly what it was right away – aliens.
So, I woke up and got my alien gear on – a ski jacket and a hunting cap, and made my way to the kitchen. I opened the cupboard and there, chewing on the bag the takeout food came in, was my mouse.
It stared at me. It's eyes seemed to say "Yeah, I'm a mouse, so what?" I processed the stare as language and replied "So, get out." He just continued to stare at me.
At this point, I had to toss the alien batons I had created in sixth grade to ward off monsters to get a more practical weapon.
Now, I vote Democrat, hate that we're in two wars, and think professional wrestling is a gateway drug to rape – but all that changed when I realized I had a mouse.
I very quickly threw any notion of respect for mother nature and grabbed a can of Raid.
Yes, Raid.
Raid is a insect repellent, but at the time (4 in the morning), I had little to no choices. A knife? Really? Could you shank a mouse like a prisoner? Probably not. Mice are wiley. A pair of scissors? As we'll later find out, I don't even have the stomach to see a mouse stuck to a piece of glue paper. No, Raid was the only answer.
I grabbed the Raid and opened the cupboard. The mouse was like "Yeah, still here, dude. WTF?"
I sprayed it.
The mouse shot out of the cupboard and onto the kitchen floor. I let out a shriek somewhere between a deaf person yelling and Pat Robertson being grazed by a penis.
After my initial shock, I realized I had no idea where the mouse went. I opened my front door and began chanting "Here mousey, mousey, mousey." But this did little good.
The next hour I walked the apartment with the Raid looking under furniture and occasionally crouching in the fetal position and shaking.
Finally, I went to bed. But I got 0.0 sleep as I tortured myself with thoughts of the mouse climbing on me and say, taking a nap, or trying on shoes.
Eventually I became convinced that the mouse would try to murder me in my sleep with a tiny mouse shank.
Mice are crafty.
The next day I called the maintenance line at my apartment complex.
"What can we help you with?"
"I have a mouse."
"OK."
"A mouse."
"Alright, we'll have the maintenance man come by and check it out. What apartment are you in?"
"The one with the mouse."
"Do you have any alarms or pets?"
"Just the mouse."
I went to work and returned home to find a note from the maintenance man.
- Put steel wool over hole.
The problem with this is that the mouse got into the cupboard from the kitchen through that hole. So, basically, the maintenance man just made sure that the cupboard under my sink was secure. That's like locking a robber up in, oh, say the entire Earth except for one bank.
So, I went to the store for mice weapons.
The mice weapons section or "Pest Deterrent" section consists of traps, sonar, and poison.
Traps: glue (the mouse walks on the glue dance floor and never walks away – with its feet), and spring (the mouse gets it's neck crushed in a brutal Saw like episode that will ruin every meal I have for days to come).
Sonar: these are small speakers that emit a brutal noise that sends mice running (well, that's what the cartoon on the box seemed to infer).
Poison: the single from Bel Biv Devoe.
I got the poison and went home.
I had to think like a mouse as I placed the small trays of deaths around my house. I hate that this all rhymes.
Obviously, one tray would go in the cupboard, but the others needed special mouse thinking.
I got out a piece of cheese and began eating it as I took to all fours and began to "mouse" around my apartment.
The fireplace, the coat closet, and the bookcase. Yes, because as I saw it mice like to be warm, they occasionally wear rain slickers (as seen in Tom and Jerry), and they are avid readers.
To be quite honest, I have no idea how I came up with the placement.
Next, I put a fan in my room and set it to high blast as I figured this would shield me from any mouse noises that would ruin my sleep (basically any noise was now a mouse noise).
For the next week my sleep got better and better and no mouse was found and the poison traps lay undisturbed.
Then I noticed gnawing marks on the inside of my closet – in my "bedroom".
I quickly ran to get a poison trap to move to the closet. That's when I realized I had never checked the poison in the coat closet.
There, in the coat closet, was the empty (comfuckingpletely) poison tray.
I called the manager and explained in my freaked out guy from the last song on Lateralus voice.
Now, it could have been from a previous messy owner – or that owner's cat or…pet rat…there were no signs of broken bits of drywall. But just to be sure, I freaked out. And I freaked out enough that I scared the manager into calling Orkin. I believe what sent her over the edge were the words "It practicing for my brains!"
Which isn't fair. The average rat or mouse wouldn't go all zombie on you unless you were already dead. That's the difference between mice and zombies. But that's the only difference.
Another day passed and I found another note from a mouse specialist.
The night before I had created a dynamic map exploring the areas where I had seen mouse activity – the gnawing, the empty poison trap, the tiny chest of drawers - and had left it for the Orkin man.
The note the Orkin man left completely ignored all my mappings and the CD ROM I created was left unexplored.
- Put down glue traps.
That was it. According to the maintenance man, this Orkin guy didn't come cheap and all he did was put down glue traps. Glue traps will catch a mouse and then the mouse either dies from heart failure (trying to mouse out of the trap) or gnaws off it's appendages.
I was livid and impotent to do anything about it – yet, I needed closure. I needed to talk to the Orkin man and have him tell me
1) It's a mouse not a rat
2) The gnawing was from a previous tenant
3) Somehow, magically, now that the Orkin man came, the mouse or rat would disappear.
For three days I called the apartment manager begging for some sort of report and none came.
Through all this, I hadn't once seen the rodent and it was going on a month.
Finally, the Orkin guy called me.
"You Robert?"
"Yes!"
"What the hell do you want?"
"The report! I was promised a report!"
"Well, you had a mouse. I put down traps. What else do you want to know?"
"Was it a mouse or rat?"
"Looked to me like a mouse from the droppings."
"Will it come back?"
"Well, your side of the building gets (I'm not joking here) hit pretty hard with mice – we have traps outside. You're by the stream and forest and all."
"Jesus."
"It's just a mouse."
"Jesus."
"Are you whacko?"
"Look, it ate the poison again (the poison tray was gone again after he had come), doesn't that mean that some hole (he covered some holes up in the closet, I left that out, I'm in a hurry now to go borrow money from a friend) was left unplugged?"
"Nah, it just means that mouse is probably living in your house."
"Jesus Christ, stop rhyming."
"Yeah, they can get under the floors or into the sofas or box springs."
I dropped the phone and fell to the ground on my knees.
Have you ever seen Sophie's Choice?
For the next month, I learned to live with the fact that I may or may not be living with a fact AND a mouse. I bought the sonar thingys just in case, but had to throw them away when I freaked myself out by hearing them - apparently I have mouse DNA.
The couch went. The bedding went. Everything was cleaned and doused in alcohol. There was a fire. I spent some time in an asylum.
And still, no mouse and yet…no no mouse…..
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Flo the Greay
You are All Owed a Standing Ovation
Every last one of you.
Anyone who survives long enough to eventually die is owed it.
When we get to wherever we're going, there better be a standing ovation. All the dead from before, all the saints, Gods, Suns, Shamans, Eagle Spirits, and magicians better be on their fucking feet applauding each and every one of you just for making it through this shit.
Each of you deserves a trophy for putting up with your own chemicals, others and their chemicals, tsunamis, earthquakes, war, famine, dead voices in your head, school teachers, cops, robbers, cyclones, double-parked cars, disease, ugly one-night-stands, shitty Star Wars movies, shitty TV, shitty music, shitty toilet stalls, bad food, ex's, so on and so on.
Fuck heaven and hell. Whatever God you have should be thanking YOU for exploring this pit of shit and having to put up with it.
I don't remember choosing to be down here. How dare a preacher, pope, or politician tell me I'm going to burn for this, that or the other thing.
And those who have it really bad – they should be made Gods.
I have no idea how I've lived this long with all the bullshit. Coupled with an angry self-hatred this has made out to be a really great time. Thanks again.
Yep, I've been watching depressing documentaries and staying up late listening to music again.
I saw Dark Days last night and you really have to wonder how come life isn't a lot nicer when you know you don't have to set up rat traps, fend off crack heads, and brush your teeth in a bucket.
Life should feel grand.
Good God!
Get a job? I know I wouldn't work in a McDonald's, why would I expect them to.
I also saw American Pimp and if this isn't a study in self-flagellation, I don't know what is.
Here you have every woman who has low self esteem exponentially modified to the point where she answers to "bitch," gets beaten, gives away all her money, and let's her body and mind be raped on a daily basis.
Man is an extraordinary creature.
And the clown that is the pimp? How do these people take themselves seriously? It's almost like some kind of mind fuck; cuz when you look at these guys you can't help but laugh. And yet, they have a hold over humans tighter than most religions. And that's just the street pimps.
The "legit" ones are almost worse in their smug belief that they are somehow above the Willie Ds out there.
What else?
I have a feeling you'll be seeing part two of "Shitty Review" on Monday, as I'm having my mid-year on Friday.
You get the chance to grade yourself on how you feel you did and I just shot through the entire review giving myself "3's" (average) just to show my boss that her review is for shit.
In short/long term goals I wrote "To get another job."
The review process is a joke and the managers, VPs, SVPs, CEO, et al must know it. Or are they so smug that they really think they're making a difference by asking employees to honestly judge themselves and their bosses, even though telling the truth would land you in so much hot water they'd need pot holders to remove your fired ass from the building.
"What are your biggest strengths?"
Well, I guess one of my biggest strengths is answering vague questions about myself that could only be answered by God or whoever is watching me from the spy camera you've set up in the elevator, cafeteria, etc.
"Where do you see yourself in five years?"
Um, I'm sorry, you must have me confused with H.G. Wells.
What kinda question is that? Five years ago I would've answered "dead." And, yet, to my amazement, I'm answering this stupid fucking question again.
I have no idea how a guy like me even exists in the same universe as a job like this.
Fucking corporations – full of mental savages.
Which brings us back to the pimps. If you work for a corporation and think you're not being pimped like Jasmine the hotpants hooker, you're brain dead enough to...work in a corporation.
So, this Friday, my friends, I'll lay on the KY and spread em' so my boss can put on a strap on and rape me for an hour.
Pleace,
Matt
Every last one of you.
Anyone who survives long enough to eventually die is owed it.
When we get to wherever we're going, there better be a standing ovation. All the dead from before, all the saints, Gods, Suns, Shamans, Eagle Spirits, and magicians better be on their fucking feet applauding each and every one of you just for making it through this shit.
Each of you deserves a trophy for putting up with your own chemicals, others and their chemicals, tsunamis, earthquakes, war, famine, dead voices in your head, school teachers, cops, robbers, cyclones, double-parked cars, disease, ugly one-night-stands, shitty Star Wars movies, shitty TV, shitty music, shitty toilet stalls, bad food, ex's, so on and so on.
Fuck heaven and hell. Whatever God you have should be thanking YOU for exploring this pit of shit and having to put up with it.
I don't remember choosing to be down here. How dare a preacher, pope, or politician tell me I'm going to burn for this, that or the other thing.
And those who have it really bad – they should be made Gods.
I have no idea how I've lived this long with all the bullshit. Coupled with an angry self-hatred this has made out to be a really great time. Thanks again.
Yep, I've been watching depressing documentaries and staying up late listening to music again.
I saw Dark Days last night and you really have to wonder how come life isn't a lot nicer when you know you don't have to set up rat traps, fend off crack heads, and brush your teeth in a bucket.
Life should feel grand.
Good God!
Get a job? I know I wouldn't work in a McDonald's, why would I expect them to.
I also saw American Pimp and if this isn't a study in self-flagellation, I don't know what is.
Here you have every woman who has low self esteem exponentially modified to the point where she answers to "bitch," gets beaten, gives away all her money, and let's her body and mind be raped on a daily basis.
Man is an extraordinary creature.
And the clown that is the pimp? How do these people take themselves seriously? It's almost like some kind of mind fuck; cuz when you look at these guys you can't help but laugh. And yet, they have a hold over humans tighter than most religions. And that's just the street pimps.
The "legit" ones are almost worse in their smug belief that they are somehow above the Willie Ds out there.
What else?
I have a feeling you'll be seeing part two of "Shitty Review" on Monday, as I'm having my mid-year on Friday.
You get the chance to grade yourself on how you feel you did and I just shot through the entire review giving myself "3's" (average) just to show my boss that her review is for shit.
In short/long term goals I wrote "To get another job."
The review process is a joke and the managers, VPs, SVPs, CEO, et al must know it. Or are they so smug that they really think they're making a difference by asking employees to honestly judge themselves and their bosses, even though telling the truth would land you in so much hot water they'd need pot holders to remove your fired ass from the building.
"What are your biggest strengths?"
Well, I guess one of my biggest strengths is answering vague questions about myself that could only be answered by God or whoever is watching me from the spy camera you've set up in the elevator, cafeteria, etc.
"Where do you see yourself in five years?"
Um, I'm sorry, you must have me confused with H.G. Wells.
What kinda question is that? Five years ago I would've answered "dead." And, yet, to my amazement, I'm answering this stupid fucking question again.
I have no idea how a guy like me even exists in the same universe as a job like this.
Fucking corporations – full of mental savages.
Which brings us back to the pimps. If you work for a corporation and think you're not being pimped like Jasmine the hotpants hooker, you're brain dead enough to...work in a corporation.
So, this Friday, my friends, I'll lay on the KY and spread em' so my boss can put on a strap on and rape me for an hour.
Pleace,
Matt
Monday, March 8, 2010
From My Early Twenties
TIME KILL
Women
I'm beginning to realize the only women who are interested in me live on the other side of the continent.
And that's a safe distance for them.
It's like teasing a tiger in a cage.
One day I'll surprise you all by showing up at your door with a case of beer and a snarl on my face and demand love.
That'd be something.
Something to ponder: is there a woman alive, under the age of 40, that doesn't have a tattoo? Seriously, they're as rampant as earrings.
I've never been a big fan. You want a woman to look innocent on the outside, so that you can pretend to be the first man to defile her.
Crack Story
Believe it or not, I've used crack.
Stop being surprised.
It was the oddest thing. I went with my ex to her friends place and the boyfriend had it – sort of.
It was this super trendy, nice, expensive apartment with a view of Seattle: the whole bit. Definitely not the sort of place you would associate with crack.
They were professionals. She was a programmer and he was an advertising exec or something.
Now, I had met the guy a few times and he always seemed off. He drank more than me (amazing) and directly after shaking his hand for the first time he launched into a story about seeing ancient Egypt on mushrooms.
So, I wasn't totally taken aback, but I'm sure people's idea of a crackhead is some black dude in a gutter.
And you are so racist for thinking that!
Moving right along the land of stereotypes, this guy was Jewish. Now, I've watched enough TV to believe everything it tells me and I don't think of Jewish Advertising execs smoking crack.
So, I'm at this nice apartment and the girls are downstairs and I'm upstairs with him looking for his pot pipe when he asks me to act like we need to go to the store for beer.
See, his girlfriend didn't like the idea of him smoking crack.
Wonder why?
I understood his dilemma; see the other facet of this story is that his girlfriend beat him.
I shit you not. She was verbally and physically abusive to him, in front of us. Not only that, the guy wasn't skin in bones either, he could've beat back. Hell, he coulda kicked my ass.
Anyway, so I make like we need to go get beer and...I find myself buying crack with this guy.
He hits a cash machine and we walk into this park in Pioneer Square and I'm a part of what folklore likes to call "The Drug Deal."
Good Christ!
See what I mean? I may be the prophet of the freaks. They keep coming to me and wanting me to be a part of the circus that is freakdom.
So, we give Huggybear some money and he tells us to meet him at another location, where Pookie comes out and gives us our crack.
We head back, and I'm pretty much certain I will be arrested with every step.
Back at the place, he acts like we're going to go smoke pot and there I am up on this balcony of this awesome loft smoking crack with a gibbering ad man.
The sensation was better than coke, and almost felt like a combo of weed and coke with Viagra. Yes, it hits you in the genitals.
Luckily I had a girlfriend at the time.
So, anytime you see some successful CEO, or some doctor or lawyer: they could be smoking crack.
Anyway, that's my crack story. Talk amongst yourselves.
Pleace,
Matt
Women
I'm beginning to realize the only women who are interested in me live on the other side of the continent.
And that's a safe distance for them.
It's like teasing a tiger in a cage.
One day I'll surprise you all by showing up at your door with a case of beer and a snarl on my face and demand love.
That'd be something.
Something to ponder: is there a woman alive, under the age of 40, that doesn't have a tattoo? Seriously, they're as rampant as earrings.
I've never been a big fan. You want a woman to look innocent on the outside, so that you can pretend to be the first man to defile her.
Crack Story
Believe it or not, I've used crack.
Stop being surprised.
It was the oddest thing. I went with my ex to her friends place and the boyfriend had it – sort of.
It was this super trendy, nice, expensive apartment with a view of Seattle: the whole bit. Definitely not the sort of place you would associate with crack.
They were professionals. She was a programmer and he was an advertising exec or something.
Now, I had met the guy a few times and he always seemed off. He drank more than me (amazing) and directly after shaking his hand for the first time he launched into a story about seeing ancient Egypt on mushrooms.
So, I wasn't totally taken aback, but I'm sure people's idea of a crackhead is some black dude in a gutter.
And you are so racist for thinking that!
Moving right along the land of stereotypes, this guy was Jewish. Now, I've watched enough TV to believe everything it tells me and I don't think of Jewish Advertising execs smoking crack.
So, I'm at this nice apartment and the girls are downstairs and I'm upstairs with him looking for his pot pipe when he asks me to act like we need to go to the store for beer.
See, his girlfriend didn't like the idea of him smoking crack.
Wonder why?
I understood his dilemma; see the other facet of this story is that his girlfriend beat him.
I shit you not. She was verbally and physically abusive to him, in front of us. Not only that, the guy wasn't skin in bones either, he could've beat back. Hell, he coulda kicked my ass.
Anyway, so I make like we need to go get beer and...I find myself buying crack with this guy.
He hits a cash machine and we walk into this park in Pioneer Square and I'm a part of what folklore likes to call "The Drug Deal."
Good Christ!
See what I mean? I may be the prophet of the freaks. They keep coming to me and wanting me to be a part of the circus that is freakdom.
So, we give Huggybear some money and he tells us to meet him at another location, where Pookie comes out and gives us our crack.
We head back, and I'm pretty much certain I will be arrested with every step.
Back at the place, he acts like we're going to go smoke pot and there I am up on this balcony of this awesome loft smoking crack with a gibbering ad man.
The sensation was better than coke, and almost felt like a combo of weed and coke with Viagra. Yes, it hits you in the genitals.
Luckily I had a girlfriend at the time.
So, anytime you see some successful CEO, or some doctor or lawyer: they could be smoking crack.
Anyway, that's my crack story. Talk amongst yourselves.
Pleace,
Matt
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Shadow Gov't
Shadow Government
(Editor's Note: apparently the word "Nazi" cannot be used in the subject line of a post. So, if Nazis decide to take over the planet, we'll never be able to communicate it and warn the others.)
It's no secret that the President is a fan of mass murder. Sure, we can all swallow mass murder when it's thousands of miles away and is done in the name of some grandiose principle.
But, what is unknown to Earthlings everywhere is the President's massive lust for a good Snuff film.
It was on a vacation in Belize when I came upon one Tony Gosh. Tony is a flesh trader in South America and an associate introduced me to him in an attempt to write a story on the American flesh trade.
But, what I wouldn't have expected was the White House's involvement in the practice. Not only were they involved; they were key principles in the consumption of flesh.
After drinks and some of the finest Columbian white powder, Tony and myself drove to his villa in Belize City.
"Look at this." Tony said as he pulled on an urn and revealed an old-style fireplace secret passage. I watched as the fireplace, still lit, revolved to reveal a staircase.
At the bottom of the staircase was a large movie screen with theater seating. Tony and I sat in the middle and he called an attendant on a walkie-talkie to bring us drinks.
Within minutes a young blonde girl came with the three beers I had ordered. Tony took his Daiquiri from the young girl and kissed her on the neck.
My moral compass was spinning towards anger, but I am a professional and I don't play games with my emotions while on assignment.
Especially when I have a stab at taking down the most powerful man in history.
After more cocaine and light talk about the drug trading he played with on the side, he cued the lights and the movie began.
The first participant on the screen was a large brutish man with a chain saw. A voice off camera was giving the man directions to start the chain saw. The man couldn't seem to get it to work and the director cursed in disgust.
The camera must have been placed on a bookshelf or something, as the director came around to help the savage.
Low and behold, Carl Rove was in the middle of the room in black leather with a chain swinging from his neck. He grunted at the savage and pointed at the primer and made jerking motions at the starter. The savage seemed unable to comprehend, and Rove bit the man on the check, drawing blood.
The animal-man screamed in agony and Rove began to foam at the mouth, beating his chest in anger.
Next, Rove went into a crying jag and squatted on the floor, moaning "I've been so bad."
The animal-man bent down and consoled the thumb sucking Rove and whispered something in his ear.
I don't know if it was acknowledgement of the instructions of the chainsaw, but it seem to get the Snuff film back in gear.
The monster started the chainsaw and I could no longer hear a word over the buzz of the blade.
Next out was a young woman in a wedding dress. Hands pushed her from a hallway and...
You get the picture.
After the movie was over I asked Tony how far into the White House this went and he explained that it went to the top and has for years.
He then went on to explain a secret cabal of power that has existed on this Earth for thousands of years.
All of a sudden every black ops or shadow government theory became a reality. Every conspiracy was now true. The devil had a physical lineage and they have controlled the world since their arrival and slaughter of the early Mayans.
"The White House is actually built on a portal to the other side that has been sealed and will not open until the return of the ancient people, when Satan himself will be set free to battle HORSIES!
HORSIES!
HORSIES!
HORSIES!
Bet you didn't see that ending coming.
(Editor's Note: apparently the word "Nazi" cannot be used in the subject line of a post. So, if Nazis decide to take over the planet, we'll never be able to communicate it and warn the others.)
It's no secret that the President is a fan of mass murder. Sure, we can all swallow mass murder when it's thousands of miles away and is done in the name of some grandiose principle.
But, what is unknown to Earthlings everywhere is the President's massive lust for a good Snuff film.
It was on a vacation in Belize when I came upon one Tony Gosh. Tony is a flesh trader in South America and an associate introduced me to him in an attempt to write a story on the American flesh trade.
But, what I wouldn't have expected was the White House's involvement in the practice. Not only were they involved; they were key principles in the consumption of flesh.
After drinks and some of the finest Columbian white powder, Tony and myself drove to his villa in Belize City.
"Look at this." Tony said as he pulled on an urn and revealed an old-style fireplace secret passage. I watched as the fireplace, still lit, revolved to reveal a staircase.
At the bottom of the staircase was a large movie screen with theater seating. Tony and I sat in the middle and he called an attendant on a walkie-talkie to bring us drinks.
Within minutes a young blonde girl came with the three beers I had ordered. Tony took his Daiquiri from the young girl and kissed her on the neck.
My moral compass was spinning towards anger, but I am a professional and I don't play games with my emotions while on assignment.
Especially when I have a stab at taking down the most powerful man in history.
After more cocaine and light talk about the drug trading he played with on the side, he cued the lights and the movie began.
The first participant on the screen was a large brutish man with a chain saw. A voice off camera was giving the man directions to start the chain saw. The man couldn't seem to get it to work and the director cursed in disgust.
The camera must have been placed on a bookshelf or something, as the director came around to help the savage.
Low and behold, Carl Rove was in the middle of the room in black leather with a chain swinging from his neck. He grunted at the savage and pointed at the primer and made jerking motions at the starter. The savage seemed unable to comprehend, and Rove bit the man on the check, drawing blood.
The animal-man screamed in agony and Rove began to foam at the mouth, beating his chest in anger.
Next, Rove went into a crying jag and squatted on the floor, moaning "I've been so bad."
The animal-man bent down and consoled the thumb sucking Rove and whispered something in his ear.
I don't know if it was acknowledgement of the instructions of the chainsaw, but it seem to get the Snuff film back in gear.
The monster started the chainsaw and I could no longer hear a word over the buzz of the blade.
Next out was a young woman in a wedding dress. Hands pushed her from a hallway and...
You get the picture.
After the movie was over I asked Tony how far into the White House this went and he explained that it went to the top and has for years.
He then went on to explain a secret cabal of power that has existed on this Earth for thousands of years.
All of a sudden every black ops or shadow government theory became a reality. Every conspiracy was now true. The devil had a physical lineage and they have controlled the world since their arrival and slaughter of the early Mayans.
"The White House is actually built on a portal to the other side that has been sealed and will not open until the return of the ancient people, when Satan himself will be set free to battle HORSIES!
HORSIES!
HORSIES!
HORSIES!
Bet you didn't see that ending coming.
Monday, March 1, 2010
I get Mad
NETFLIX SUCKS
- Most discs show up scratched, broken, or basically unplayable.
- I purchase a gift subscription, so that I wouldn't have to worry
about paying on my VISA for the service for awhile. The gift
subscription was completely paid for and I now find that I
cannot redeem it because VISA doesn't CURRENTLY have any money
on it. Keep in mind: I already paid for the subscription. So,
because I don't have money in my account, I cannot receive the
service that was paid for. So, what they want is to make sure
that once the paid for service is up, they have access to your
account to keep the service going passed the gift subscription.
It's basically a con.
Avoid Netflix. Terrible service and overall a con. I would go with
the new Blockbuster system as I have heard it is much better with
- Most discs show up scratched, broken, or basically unplayable.
- I purchase a gift subscription, so that I wouldn't have to worry
about paying on my VISA for the service for awhile. The gift
subscription was completely paid for and I now find that I
cannot redeem it because VISA doesn't CURRENTLY have any money
on it. Keep in mind: I already paid for the subscription. So,
because I don't have money in my account, I cannot receive the
service that was paid for. So, what they want is to make sure
that once the paid for service is up, they have access to your
account to keep the service going passed the gift subscription.
It's basically a con.
Avoid Netflix. Terrible service and overall a con. I would go with
the new Blockbuster system as I have heard it is much better with
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