At Last

So it’s been a full year since My woman and I have been able to see each other, and just when I’m starting to worry the internet has run out of porn, she flies down for a ten day vacation. Besides the sheer fact that I finally get to knock boots again, which was kind of blowing my mind, but on top of that I haven’t had ten whole consecutive days of not-working for many many years. It was really nice, to say the least. By the end of the first weekend I was all rested up and ready to go back to work, and I figured by the end of another week I would be going stark raving mad from boredom. As it turns out though, by the end of my vacation I was ready for another vacation to rest up from the first vacation, and cursing every minute of work all day Monday. Apparently I get spoiled easy. I hope I can retire one day because laying around all the time doing whatever you feel like is fucking awesome. It was like if a damn Jimmy Buffet song mated with a Bob Marley song.

I deserved a break though, because I had been working fourteen hour days for the last few weeks, coming home from my daytime manual labor duties and spending the evening working on my brother’s house until ten or eleven every night. I want a new place to live so I decided to build one with him. We’re closing in his carport and making it into a big ass bedroom and a new laundry room. And let me tell you, nobody loves playing around with power tools more than me, but even I get burned out when I work too much. (more on the project in the next post)

So we rented a hotel for the first few nights, so we could have plenty of privacy for the explicit section of our time together, and let me tell you, I friggin love Hotels. The only thing that would have made it better would have been if I was off probation and could toke up on some of the dank ass ganja we had, and if they had smoking rooms, because trooping my lazy ass downstairs and outside every time I wanted a stoagie was kind of lame. I had to put on pants and everything. We also discovered that boobs do float in water, as long as they are natural.

Why is it that people on vacation always eat the most unhealthy shit ever?

I gave Emerald some of the good old southern treatment, making sure some of our activities exposed her to life in the dirty south. I took her grocery shopping at the Super Walmart, the Mecca of white trash. I absolutely love Walmart, it’s like heaven but with more fat people, but she’s not such a big fan. In fact she hates Walmart. But with me as her sherpa she didn’t hate it so much, and even had a little bit of fun. I guess America really does have more fat people than other countries, cause she was a little shocked by this whale of a woman we saw with her two Fatty McFatfat offspring in IHOP. I told her southern people are fat cause we have so much good food it’s damn near impossible to stay in shape. Besides, I love a little extra cushion for the pushin’. That and we have a lot of buffets. I guess buffets are another American thing, cause she told me they don’t have that many in Toronto. WTF?!! That’s one of the coolest things a restaurant can do. It’s cool as hell to be able to eat all you can, and it’s common practice that if you pay for all you can eat, you have to eat as much as you possibly can until you feel like shitting and ralphing at the same time, and you waddle out of the store like some engorged mongoloid.

I didn't know they even served rolls at IHOP.

So in general we had a real blast. I took her out for an official date night, with dinner and a movie. We went to a Japanese steak house, you know the kind with the crazy knife wielding chefs and the fireballs. It was pretty cool, except for the huge black family the got seated next to us and were on their phones the entire time, except when they were interrupting our conversations with a bunch of stupid ass bull shit. If you insist on being a pain in the ass, at least do it on your side of the table. It was kind of funny too cause I’m pretty sure our chef was Mexican, which I found amusing. We also saw the Hangover which is fall down hilarious. My only gripe about the whole movie was that Heather Graham played a hooker and didn’t show her tits, which is complete bullshit, you all know how I feel about boobies. Still though, go watch it, it is worth every penny, unless you are some kind of douchebag who thinks grown men who make infants pantomime masturbation isn’t funny.

Seriously, I fricking love bosoms.

Fire inside is cool. Almost cool enough for me to skip the little black Sambo joke this picture makes me think of every time I see it. (Ooooh lawd! Eeessa fiyah suh!)

The other big event we had that week was Going on my favorite morning radio talk show, Bob and the Showgram. Every Friday they have the free-for-all, which is where they have the studio audience in to tell stories and play games and such. I’ve wanted to go on the Showgram for years, and I may not have another chance before I move to Toronto, so this was a real treat for me. We got there super early in the morning, and waited for the interns to come down and take us up to the studio. Then Sweetness, the gay intern came out and helped us through the whole waiver process, making sure none of us can sue the station if we end up losing our jobs or families over anything we say on air. Sweetness by the way, was fun as hell in real life. And they fed us all free Bojangles, which for those of you who aren’t from dixieland is a fried chicken and biscuit place with fucking delicious food. And of course Em is a vegetarian, and there was another gay dude there who was also a vegetarian, so I ended up with a triple meat biscuit, with ham, fried chicken, and sausage all slammed together in a triple meat spectacle. They should have that on the menu, cause it was awesome. Sweetness was even getting a little excited with all that meat pressed together, and wanted a triple meat sandwich of his own, but like a true gentleman I stayed faithful to Emerald.

They took us back to the studio after a little while, and I was of course the very first one in the door, so I got seated right next to the big man himself, Bob Dumas. I never ended up on the air to tell any stories, which kind of bummed me out, but I was so high on everything else that I didn’t really care. It was weird though, because all these other people had stories that sounded like they would be interesting as hell, but they kept being soooooo boring. How do you make a story about being knocked into a coma because lightning hit you on a jet ski uninteresting? How do you take a story about banging a chick in a porta-john at a Nascar race boring? It was like these people were trying to suck extra! And I’m there next to Bob practically jumping out of my seat like, “Pick me! Pick me! I have a story about skinny dipping with a bunch of Mexicans and some fat chicks we met at a gas station!” I did however get to shock Weird Creep John with a cattle prod in the armpit. He was an annoying little pussy in real life though.

I met Sinbad. That was pretty cool, cause I’ve never met a celebrity before except for at signings after shows. It was cool, I shook his hand and we talked about how cool iPhones are. He’s a pretty big dude in person. Em however did make it on the Showgram, they pulled her up to play a game called horseshoes and hand grenades, which is basically just a bunch of random ass trivia questions with cool prizes. She CREAMED Mike, with a landslide victory. I was worried for her because Mike is usually pretty good, but the score ended up five to two, and one of his two was only because they both guessed the same number. I’ll try and ge the audio from the show and edit it together in a sound clip you can listen to, but not right now, cause I’m ass tired from working all weekend.

Bob Dumas on the left, Mike Morris in the middle, and my sexy, sexy woman, Emerald, on the right.

All in all it was a really great vacation, and I can’t wait to see her again. I’ll leave you with a few more pictures. For now I’m going the hell to sleep, cause I have to keep myself alive long enough to move up there so I can live like this every week.

Em making breakfast, french toast and coconut battered fried plantains, with a side of white trash bra showing.

Photobombed by my brother Nate. It would have been a really cute picture asshole. Go die in a fire.

Putting the ass back in classy.

Her words say no but her eyes say hell yes. Sloppy wet time sugar!

Just so you all know, there are pictures of her filling out a very sexy rebel flag bikini, but she won't let me put them up, so you get this crap instead.

Flying skateboards and stuff

If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that most of the funnest things available in life are only available when you put absolutely no consideration into how they will affect your future and completely forget any lessons you may have learned in the past.

For instance, building a surfboard to ski behind a forklift at work. This is an incredibly fun activity, on my cool list of things to do right in between fireworks-gunfights and eating that really good looking food you forgot to put in the fridge, two days ago. And despite all my mothers warnings, I have never killed myself. I’ve never even lost an eye. (but don’t count me out yet, I’d look fucking awesome in an eye-patch) Any kind of forethought would point out that combining extreme sports with heavy machinery could be dangerous, but who gives a crap, because surfing on gravel is fun, especially when you’re getting paid to do it. Unfortunately we live in a day and age where people like my boss have a hard time grasping that concept, and expressly forbid people like me from ever attaching anything to the forklift to ride again.

This is why I’ve decided to time travel. I think the present is limiting my options, and fuck that. Nobody limits my options and gets away with it. Whole wheat bread tried to limit my flavor options once, so I drop kicked it into the sun, and that is why whole wheat bread no longer exists.

But since I’ve decided to travel through time, I’ve been considering some of the more complicated moral consequences. I mean it could be dangerous in a bad way. And before you get started, no I do not mean changing the past and erasing yourself by altering history. That’s impossible, trust me, I did the math. (my apologies to Back To The Future, which although now disproven was still an entertaining series of movies)

First off, if I travel back in time and get it on with myself, is that gay sex or masturbation? I’ve asked a number of people now and the general consensus is that anal and oral would constitute gay sex, because either way at some point in time you either have to gobble some meat or get your shit pushed in. However, traveling back in time and giving yourself a handjob would be ok, because that’s really just a complicated version of the stranger. Finger up the ass during a handjob would be pushing it, but that really just depends on how you feel about prostate stimulation, which isn’t a time dilemma, just a moral dilemma.

Honestly, I could probably just travel back in time and ask Jesus what he thought. Except, he made a lot of really bad decisions on a survival scale, so I’d probably just go back to see him turn water into wine. I have drank a lot of booze, but I’ve never had any magic booze. And then I could get a shirt that said “WWJD – What Would Jesus Drink”, and it would have a picture of me and him taking some wicked wine bongs at that wedding. It would be cool. Except, I imagine that magic wine is extra potent, so I might get too smashed and end up traveling back even farther in time and banging Mary. And they didn’t have birth control back then, so with my luck I’d end up being Mary’s babies daddy, and honestly I’m just not responsible enough to be God. On second thought maybe I should just avoid all those Bible times.

I think it would be cool to go back in time with a tank and screw up other peoples wars. Like the civil war! Fuck the north, the south will rise again bitches! Plus it would be cool to live in South America. (please don’t correct me on this one, I know the south didn’t name themselves south America, just go with it) Would I use my powers for good and try to stop wars? Hells no, I would go win them in rampant orgies of blood and death rained down by yours truly! Not only would that be fun, but i would have the added advantage of getting to battle the inevitable time cops, and I’ve always wanted to kill a cop.

You may be asking yourself, “Now I know he solved the whole time space continuum thing, but how in the world did he afford a tank?” I’m glad you asked. I would also travel both forwards and backwards in time stealing from the government and the rich, and making amazing investments. I don’t think I would give to the poor, because I like poor people just the way they are, but I would give to myself. And depending on how much spare time I had, I would either start the worlds first completely realistic and artificially intelligent sex doll company using robot slaves from the future, or I would cure world hunger.

Which leads me to another moral time dilemma. If I can travel through time can I live forever? Would I continue aging in the past and future having only eighty or so years of life to experience in whatever order I want, or could I find a way to cheat death? At the very least I’m pretty sure I could get some bad ass medicine from the future to keep me alive longer.

And lastly, if I travel back in time and bang hot chicks, does that count as cheating? Because technically if I go far enough from the present date my woman will either be dead or not born yet, and I’m kind of thinking Uschi Digart would be fun.

Uschi Digart: the Sistine Chapel of tits

The Cure

Writers note: This is a short story I wrote that started out as a zombie horror story, and ended up as more of a religious family feud. Once again everything I try to write ends up writing itself. I try to explore the seemingly endless clash between Christianity and science, an argument which has certainly taken place in my own home more than once. And I try to show how both sides can be wrong at the same time, and how mindlessly devoting yourself to something without considering the bigger picture almost always leads to corruption and evil. I guess you could say it is a metaphor for my own search for spirituality and an understanding of the world around me. (except I haven’t died … yet)

This is my first attempt at any kind of fiction writing, at least for many, many years, and certainly the first attempt I’ve ever made on this blog. So don’t expect too much out of it, and of course feel free to offer any advice or criticism you have about the story. But most of all don’t take it seriously, it’s just a story I wrote so I could get the damn thing out of my head and maybe stop thinking about it and get some sleep.

The sun’s fading golden light was filtering gently in the window as I stuck yet another needle into Benjamin’s arm. He didn’t even wince any more, so used to the jabs of pain he’d endured for the last five years. I put this blood sample in with the rest to be taken back to my lab and lit a cigarette.

“You know those things are going to kill you one day Pete. For heaven’s sake, what kind of doctor smokes anyway?” he said.

“Everyone needs a vice Ben,” I said, “even you. Besides I research cures, I don’t treat hypochondriac housewives and sick children who need FDA approved air. I smoke to calm down, and you believe in fairy tales to feel better about being sick.”

Benjamin raised an eyebrow, shooting me a look I had seen a thousand times before. “The Lord has a place for everyone in His kingdom brother, if you would just be willing to look past your proven facts and scientific limitations. Surely you can look at the world around you and see endless miracles that cannot be explained by science. He has a plan for everyone, and in my case He has given me the peace of understanding, that I will live forever in His glory. Nobody lives in this world forever Peter, but I believe that my life is meant to serve as an example of the love and forgiveness He can offer to even the worst sinners, and the most hopeless in life.”

“You aren’t hopeless Ben, you’re just sick. I’ve been working on your cure for a long time now, but it hasn’t been long enough, I need more time, so don’t go resigning to a death by AIDS. And you and I both know that you never deserved the punishment they gave you. You’ve paid a thousand times over for your alleged “crimes”. You aren’t even close to the worst sinner, hell, you’ve never even been a little bad. You’re practically a god damned saint. Can’t you see that the drug laws in our country are remnants of the control your own religion still has on our unjust law system? You never needed forgiveness, you needed a just world, which your faith can never and will never give you. Your only hope is through science and it’s ability to cure sickness, so for Christ’s sake, give me a break with the holy roller bull shit. Let’s just focus on what you’re here for Ben, how have you been feeling?”

“Despite my ongoing worry about your salvation Pete, I’ve been doing just fine. I keep telling you, the Lord will save me if it fits into his plan. But for now, he’s giving me the grace I need to get through this. I only feel the slightest bit sick from time to time, and even you tell me I have years left to live. Now let’s quit arguing and go get some pizza, unless you hate that too. I haven’t really seen you much since you got out of college. If I hadn’t grown up in the same room as you I wouldn’t even believe we’re brothers some times. Let’s catch up on everything, tell me about that DNA thing you were working on last time I saw you.”

We kept on talking as I cleaned up the office. Sometimes I felt bad for how our relationship had turned since his contraction of the virus. It seemed like a huge rift had grown between us, and I missed the close bond we had shared growing up as much as he did, even if I was less prone to admit it. All I wanted in life was to find a way, a real way to save him from his certain death. But no matter how hard I tried, or how much I focused on my goal, he seemed to be steadily letting go of his will to live. His insistence on believing in these foolish fantasies of God and an afterlife excused him in his mind from needing to hold on. And as much as I loved him and wanted him to be happy no matter what, I couldn’t help but feel a stab of anger and resentment that he would so willingly give up on my chance at saving him. That he would choose his invisible friend over his brother, me, who had dedicated my life to curing him.

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Two years had passed since the last time I had seen Benjamin. His fellow believers had convinced him he should put his trust in “the lord” and that placating me and my godless tampering with the holy plan was not only a sign of weak faith, but a defiance of his god. And in that time his fellow believers had become his followers. His faith had become his obsession. I had kept up with him though, tracking his moves in my spare time, and making do without his blood samples. I had to bend a few laws perhaps, but it would all be worth it for me, for everyone. I knew. I knew I could do this. This master plan. This ultimate breakthrough in medicine. I never wanted the accolades, or the money. I never wanted anything but to save him, that ungrateful, deluded brother of mine.

The time had flown past as I assume it does for all those who completely immerse themselves in their studies. Society had ceased to have a hold on me. What did I need them for anyway, those idiots. They were the ones who allowed all this to happen. They were the ones who put these ideas in his head, and tried at every turn to stop my work. My perfect work. If only they knew, but they couldn’t. I never let them in anymore.

Lindsay had been the last. She was a nice enough girl, but too foolish for my tastes. Too preoccupied with the unimportant things in the world. The fashion. The trends. All she seemed to want was to talk, to interact with no goal in her life. She had tried just like the rest to take me away from my studies. But it wasn’t her fault, she could never understand what I was accomplishing here. She could never fully grasp the full scale of what I was doing. So I had to make her leave. Too bad for her she was just like the others, she was a nice enough girl. She could never understand. I was so close, so close to doing what nobody thought was possible. Now it was just my work and me.

I could do it though, if I worked hard enough. Who needed a god when you could cure death itself. Who needed to cure one disease when you could cure them all. No, Lindsay was wrong about me. I have never lost sight of the good things in life. In fact, I’m the only one left who still sees what good can be done. Ben has his obsession and I have mine.

I am so close. So close. And that’s why I came here today. To this church Ben built. I kept up with him, I know what he’s been doing. He’s been busy too, but unfortunately he’s been busy trying to kill himself.

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“Hello Peter, I have missed you dearly. The Lord has put you on my heart these last few weeks, please come sit with me. Would you like to see our Temple?”

“No Ben, I would not like to see your temple, which by the way is clearly unhealthy for you. Much like the things I’ve been hearing from your doctor. You know you should be taking your pills. You know I had your doctor prescribe them so you could stay stable Ben. Your PTSD needs to be addressed, not to mention the fact that without those pills you don’t take the ones keeping you alive. You need this medicine! You have to see you aren’t thinking clearly anymore!”

“I’m sorry Pete, but it’s been a long time since I stopped listening to the doctors. And I say this with love, but you are the one who is not thinking clearly. The Lord has blessed me many times over, my cup runneth over Peter, but you dear brother have lost the way. My Children tell me that you hardly leave your lab. They tell me that you are unstable. I know you’ve been watching me, because I have been watching you too. I love you Peter, but your obsession with this disease is driving you mad. You need social interaction. You need the never ending love and understanding of our Lord. You need to let go of your fear for this mortal life and give yourself to the salvation of your eternal soul. Why can’t you see this? Can’t you see the love and brotherhood that I have built here with the Children of the Lord?”

“What I see is a bunch of whacked out psychos Ben. You talk about social interaction, but you’ve isolated yourself with these religious fanatics! How exactly did you persuade all these people to follow you anyway? These beliefs in the unprovable are getting ridiculous, even dangerous. It was bad enough when you just believed that some invisible Rabi was going to save you when you died, but now … Look at what your’ doing! Your so called “children” picket through town protesting every other belief. You terrorize people with your barrage of hate and bigotry. Look Ben, I can understand why you would hate homosexuals. I can only imagine what you went through … back then. But I don’t think …”

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING!” He screamed. His jaw clenched so hard I could see the pulse in his neck. Then slowly he looked around at his followers, seeing their reaction, and calmed himself down. “You could never understand what I went through, and you may never understand what it is like to find the forgiveness and salvation of our Lord. I love you Peter, but you’ve given your life to godlessness and evil. You spit in the face of the Almighty with you defiance of his plan for mankind. You not only defend the sinners who are clearly an abomination to the Lord, but you go so far as to set yourself up as a false God yourself. You can not understand what you have done, but we know all about it. Your unholy experiments, sacrificing animals and human organs to your God of science. You will see us again Peter, and you will have to come to judgment in front of the holy Lord for the sins you have committed in the name of science.”

I felt my pulse quicken as the anger built up inside of me. The tick. The damn tick I had tried so hard to get rid of was nipping again on the edge of my eye. This idiot, this damn fool couldn’t see the truth. I exploded, “There is no god! Everything you believe is lies Ben! Your so called god has done nothing for you but deceive you and turn you against your fellow man. He’s condemned you to death and offered no hope of healing. So fuck your god, and fuck your cult! I’m bigger than any god you’ve ever believed in. I’m creating life from death, I’m mastering the very principals of consciousness as you understand them. I can give you eternal life Ben! And only I can do it it. That’s why I came here to see you again.” I was breathing heavily, angry and passionate, trying to get through to him. “Give me two more weeks Ben, and I can save your life. I only have a few more problems to fix and I can save you forever, save everyone! Just two more weeks, and then I’ll show them all. They will all have to understand.”

But I saw then in Benjamin’s eyes that he had no interest in my cure. His eyes saw through me in his religious fog of faith and misconceptions. He seemed to stare at the wall behind me, pausing for a long moment before at last he spoke so quietly it was almost a whisper. “Judgment day is soon brother. Sooner than you think.” And he turned his back to me and walked slowly out of the room.

As he went I saw for the first time how feeble he looked. His body had become frail and he appeared to be no more than a skeleton, a walking corpse. How had I not seen it before. Ben was dieing. My brother was succumbing to his sickness, and I may have taken too long to save him. Ashamed and angry I watched him exit, holding back my sudden tears. I hardly noticed the men escorting me out of his church, my mind far away, already thinking of what I could do to speed up the research for the cure. I had no time to lose if I was going to defeat death and save Ben.

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I was asleep at my computer when they broke into the lab. Twelve men wearing all black, unarmed, but too many to fight off. Before I had time to try and defend myself they had me cuffed to my chair, and pushed against a wall.

I felt the pain first in my face, and second in my body. The cuts stung as the cold water splashed me. I could tell I had been beaten, and as more water splashed me I heard Ben’s voice yelling at them to wake me up. The darkness turned to dim light, cleared slightly as I began to see what they were doing around me. It all happened so fast, too fast for me to process. They had my serum out, and had filled a number of syringes when I tried to tell them. I tried to explain that it wasn’t ready. It’s all so confusing now, getting hard to remember.

He kept saying something about judgment. His lord required judgment on the sinners who defied him. I was a sinner, all sinners. A land of heathens, deserving only of god’s wrath. But I tried to explain it to him. There was no eternal life serum. No cure yet. I hadn’t finished. He didn’t care.

I had worked out almost everything. I had made a marvel of science, a virus that altered human DNA. I made everything work better, every organ last longer, every muscle stronger, every reaction faster. I would have cured his AIDS, making the immune system hundreds, possibly thousands of time more resistant to disease. But I hadn’t finished. I made every instinct stronger. Every base instinct to hunt, to defend, to kill. I made the brain fire faster, so fast that it destroyed higher cognitive thought, burnt it out leaving only an animal mind behind. An animal mind in a body that healed instantly, that was faster and stronger than any normal human on earth. A predator that felt no pain or cold or heat, only hunger and rage. I hadn’t finished.

I tried to tell them it would kill them all, that it was contagious, but they didn’t care. Benjamin didn’t care. He wanted judgment. He got it.

None of them would listen. They all injected themselves. And soon, just as I had said, they attacked and infected me. their teeth ripping chunks from my bleeding body as I strained to fight back, strained to survive. They were screaming so loud. Maybe I was screaming. I remember choking on blood, biting back at the thrashing bodies around me, feeling a new strength coursing through my injured body. An impossible strength. At least that’s how I think it went.

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It seemed like a lifetime had passed since I had a human thought. On second thought, maybe it was only a moment. The screams and growls were coming through in the distance, although the blows and movement still seemed very close, probably all around what was left of my body. I could feel the darkness closing in on my mind, numbing my body, erasing my feeling, my soul. I felt death taking me, even as my body revived itself. I could feel some dark fire kindling in the corners of my mind, unleashing itself. After a lifetime of arguing with benjamin I wondered which of our truths would await me on the other side of death. I could be right and there’s nothing. Or even worse, he could be right, and his god could be pissed. Although, something tells me God would get a sick laugh out of the irony in my final moments. Benjamin had worshiped a creator, and then twisted his creator into a perverse mockery of itself. Had turned it into a force for hate and suffering in the world. In the end I had become a divine creator myself, birthing a creature both terrible and perfect, subhuman and superhuman. And now it was destroying me and turning me into a force of suffering and evil. Both of us had been wrong. I wondered if there had even been a right path to choose in the first place. But it doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. The only thing that matters now is my hunger. The unending hunger.

Call me Bob

I’m not an easily bummed out guy. While there have certainly been a few roller coaster moments in my alcoholic life experience when it comes to self image, for the most part I feel fairly confident with who and what I am. I’m certainly not dreaming about inventing a time machine so I can jump back and forth through the time continuum making love to myself (don’t think I haven’t thought about it though) but I don’t normally get too down on my appearances either.

I have bad skin, and I’ve made my peace with that. I have an average dick, and you know what, average is good enough for me. I brandish that mediocre dick like I’m Zorro, and if you don’t believe me ask you mom. (Ooooooh, lame burn!) I completely gave up on styling my hair in any sort of way and just cut it short so it dries and styles itself with absolutely zero effort on my part. I never match my socks, I get dressed in the dark, and almost all of my pants have paint all over them. Zoolander I am not.

But the other day I had one of those moments where you see something new about yourself and it freaks you the fuck out. I was changing clothes at work, and I just happened to glance at the mirror as I was bending over to drop trough, and I saw the sight. It stopped me in my tracks and I had to go back for a second look. The second look was certainly no more encouraging than the first glance, in fact it was even worse than I had originally surmised. I’m sorry to say ladies and gentlemen, I have moobs.

I have big, sagging, gross ass man boobs, and I am not the least bit happy about it. When the fuck did my once tight pecks turn into moobs? More importantly, how the fuck am I going to turn them back into pecks before the middle of June when my woman comes down to visit and I have to be seen neked a lot. (that is to say, I have to be seen neked a lot by a woman, seeing as I weekly endure correctional officers conducting strip searches on my person) I am ok with having a gut, I am ok with the bad skin, and the farmers tan, and the stretch marks on my cracker ass. But moobs cross the fucking line.

So now I’m on a working mans diet, and am trying real hard to do push ups and maybe even lift a weight or two so I won’t have tits the next time I have sex. A working man’s diet consists of changing nothing about my diet except I put one less spoon full of sugar in every mug of coffee, I stop eating candy, and I skip breakfast. Also I will try working harder while I am actually getting paid, that way I not only get in better shape and get a free gym, but I also impress my boss for the non existent raise my company would have given me if they had not frozen all raises indefinitely because of our cock gobbling economy. (legalize pot Obama, you know you want to make sure the first black president not only spends more money than any president ever, but also pays for it with weed)

For now I am estimating myself at a solid B cup. Wish me and my tits luck.

PS – I have named them Brutus and Hagar, (left and right respectively) please address them as such in your prayers.

Much Adieu About Nothing

I feel drained. Not in that fun masturbatory way either. I feel as if somehow I’m stuck in some boring rut and have lost all ability to be creative or offer any kind of insight into the world. For weeks I’ve been thinking about a blog post, and for weeks, I’ve come up with jack shit. What’s new in my life? Nothing, and nobody really enjoys update posts about people they don’t know anyway. What’s new with work? Not shit, we’re simultaneously slow and fast, and I still hate that cocksucker from New Jersey. Nothing to write about. The summer is here, but so what, that’s boring. Pollen season came and went, but writing about tree sperm is boring.

Blah

And on and on it goes, repeating in my head like some sick whirlpool of boredom. I feel like the narrator from Fight Club, or possibly Wanted. I have felt this way in almost every aspect of my life, not just this blog either. Do I want to make a chicken and egg bagel, toasted with garlic, cheddar, and bacon bits? Fuck it, I’ll just pour some cereal. In fact, fuck that, I’ll just skip a meal, I can always eat a mug of coffee tomorrow morning. Would I like to kill zombies on Wii? Nah, I’ll just sit it out and pet the dog. Should I go wild with some bondage and crazy machines, or keep it clean with some good old fashioned girl on girl fisting? Screw porn, I’ll just go to bed.

Can you see my predicament here? My dick never gets bored. NEVER! When I start feeling so complacent about every day life that my reproductive system gets bored, I could be in serious trouble. What next? My circulatory system? Could my asshole get tired and just stop taking craps one day? If I don’t do something quick I could wake up dead tomorrow, some mindless corpse wandering the planet, boring the living shit out of people like Ben Stein, or Frasier.

I’ve been in desperate need of some motivation defribulation. I need a fat rail of (metaphorical) coke to get my interest in life and my creativity back in the game drinking booze and sniffing while it plays spades. (or whatever you people do when you snort coke)

I tried watching movies to get me excited again. Trailer Park of Terror was basically awesome, as long as you like hookers, demolition derbies, electric guitar, and zombie gore, but there weren’t enough titties. Poor White Trash was funny as hell, and nailed the whole white trash atmosphere, but the characters were such terrible criminals that I was worried they would go to prison the entire movie long, and my vicarious paranoia for their safety from the pigs half way ruined the experience. Zombie Strippers was amazing, and had more tits than any non-pornographic movie I’ve ever seen, but I never really dug Jenna Jameson cause porn stars wear their make up in an annoying barbie-like fashion. (I like lots of make up, but not porn star make up) Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter was looking to be craptastic in the best kind of way, but the damn movie link crapped out on me fifteen minutes in. I haven’t been able to find One Eyed Monster, a comedy/horror flick about Ron Jeremy being struck by an alien comet, getting killed, and having his possessed cock jump off his body and run around killing everyone else in town. And believe it or not, despite having amazing titles, both Cheerleader Ninjas and Inbred Redneck Alien Abductions were terrible movies. How can you mess up a combination of cheerleaders and ninjas? That would almost take effort, the movie practically writes itself.

FUCK!

But then it happened. I was sitting at my computer, reading about other peoples crappy lives on Fmylife.com, and I happened to stumble across one of my old school web favorites.

DOCTOR McNINJA

There was a ton of new material for me to read, one page at a time, and I eagerly sucked it up, like he was spit and I was one of those weird tiny shop-vacs they stick in your mouth at the dentist. (side note: am I the only person who constantly plays with those things, opening and closing your mouth so it makes that weird sound like clearing a bong, and pulls your cheeks in?) I had forgotten how much I loved Dr. McNinja.

The story line basically goes that Dr. McNinja is an Irish-American ninja who lives in Maryland. His father is a ninja who’s only discerning feature is his mustache which through ninja tricks is able to grow directly through his mask. His brother is a wigger ninja, and his mother is the typical overbearing ninja matron, who tries to kill him every time he comes home to keep him on his feet. His sidekick, Gordito, is a young Mexican boy who grew a gigantic mustache when a social worker tried to take his fathers guns, after he died in a tragic trapeze accident where he was torn to pieces by a pack of coyotes, pumas, and wolves that were shot out of a canon. Gordito rides a raptor named Yoshi around shooting people, and watching Dr. McNinjas back. The Doc’s family is none too pleased that he somewhat deserted his ninja upbringing to become a doctor and save lives when he could be killing people full time, but never the less, he has a thriving practice assisted by his gorilla receptionist and butler.

After a few run in’s with Ronald McDonald’s evil franchise, and a cartel of drug dealers that were selling ninja drugs that gave everyday people ninja powers, and an ongoing war with the pirate race, the story arc pretty much settles into a kinder gentler McNinja love story. His love of killing everything. Benjamin Franklin’s clone gets tricked by Dracula into taking an eternal life serum, which backfires and accidentally awakens a plague of ninja zombies. (Ben Franklin II was buried in the same section of the cemetery as all the ninjas that the Doc had slain) So he has to track Count Dracula to his moon base, where he’s tricked into fighting Dracula’s robot double, in an effort to kill McNinja so he can sneak his way out of hell and teach Dracula about the secrets of the afterlife. But the Doc is sneakier than the Count, and after training for a few moments with Bruce Lee, he jumps from the moon back to Maryland, surfing robot Dracula, after his wigger ninja brother helps him reprogram the feet rockets installed in all robot doubles.

As the story line ends (at least for now) Dr. McNinja is back on earth working with to reverse Draculas spell which turned Ben Franklin II into one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, and Gordito, whom the Doc has left to train with his family, had just helped them defeat a ghost wizard who shot flying sharks out of his wand.

I’m not sure my mind is capable of absorbing any more awesome than has already been presented at the mind-fuck buffet that is the Dr. McNinja webcomic, but I sure plan on staying tuned to see if it’s possible for anything to get any cooler than this already is.

Long story short, if you feel a little depressed and bored with life, you can slit your wrists, get baked on prescription meds, or read a webcomic about a ninja who rides rocket powered vampires from outer space to save Benjamin Franklin’s clone. Your choice.

I wanted this for my next tattoo for a long time until I found out it was from Dr. McNinja. Now I need it.

Everything sucks and I’m emo

I’m kidding of course, everything doesn’t really suck. A lot of cool shit has happened lately, but I do seem to have had a ridiculous string of bad luck in the last month. Bad things far beyond my control seems to be the general theme of my life, so I’m fairly used to it. It doesn’t really bum me out, but it can be very frustrating. For example, I haven’t punched any babies lately, but I did throw a cat into a wall because it spilled my lunch. (a technique which isn’t taught in many mainstream animal training philosophies, but which I have found to work exceedingly well)

Let’s start with my computer. It has developed the bad habit of completely crashing every two or three days, and becomes unable to restart. After about three hours of error screens and startup repairs and memory hardware checks and failed system restores, I had to factory reset the damn thing twice now. That sucks on so many levels, mainly because I lose everything I’ve installed, and I have to take the damn time to reinstall it, and when I do, I’ve permanently lost everything I had saved on my computer. For instance, I saved the IM when I first told Em I love her. Not cool. apparently my hard drive is on it’s way out of this world, and I will have to replace it soon, as in, this week hopefully. If robots really plan on taking over the world and destroying or enslaving mankind, they are gonna seriously have to get their shit together.

As I said in my last post I had an exciting trip to the hospital where I was diagnosed with gastritis, and now am on medication for that. In addition to that I caught the flu this weekend and am now very, very, very miserable. I totally forgot how much I hate having the flu. I would rather have serious surgery than have the flu. I would rather break a finger than have the flu. If sucking dicks cured the flu, I would be seriously considering it, because flu’s are at least as bad as having a mouthful of wiener. So now I’m on four different kinds of medicine, and I still feel like ass. Hoorah.

My poor sister in law felt really bad about it, but I was teaching her to drive my scooter and she crashed us into a mailbox in a particularly difficult turn and kind of broke the whole thing. And by the whole thing I mean the handlebar, which I have now replaced and thanks to a nice donation by my brother I have made that death trap even more badass than it originally was, which is to say, slightly badass.

I “found” some rusty barbed wire just hanging around at work, and mounted a deer skull on the front of my scooter. If I ever crash the damn thing I’m going to impale myself on the horns and shred my stomach or arms on the barbed wire, but on the other hand it looks really fuckin badass, so I will take my chances.

I’m almost done with my weekend jail time in Johnston county, which is great, and my probation officer told me I get a whole month off before I have to start my weekend time in Wake county, so rock on! I get a whole four weekends to live like a normal person, and I can’t flippin wait! For those of you who have never served time, jail blows, so don’t go there. I also found out that I am completely done with my probation in October, not a year from October, so Em and I have changed plans and now I figure I’ll move there this winter instead of her moving here this summer.

I don’t know how I missed posting this when it happened, but a few months ago, it actually snowed here, for realz. I live in the deep south, so any kind of real snow is cause for celebration. Some people make snow angels. (which I did, but I made snow devils) And some people have good old fashioned snowball fights. (which I also did, with my boss) But being the badass I am, the kind of a man who would mount a deer skull on his scooter, I decided to make a snowman. I also made a snow lion, and had him devouring the snowman’s bloody dismembered corpse. And I built all this on Nate and Sami’s front lawn while they were at work.

I Have the Body of a Greek God

Well, to be fair, I would only really have the body of one of the lesser Greek gods. Maybe an alcoholic god, in poor physical shape, who smokes too much and makes poor diet and lifestyle choices.

So what happened was, I was sitting at work on Tuesday, chillin’ like normal, watching Domino during our lunch hour. (fucking brilliant movie in case you haven’t seen it. Get off your vag-lips and go rent that shit right now, you will thank me) I heated up some Jimmy Deans sausage biscuit thingy, and a Tombstone personal pizza, downed an energy drink, a can of Mountain Dew, and two tums, ate half a bag of chips, two oatmeal creme cookie sandwiches, a zebra cake, and a double pack of peanut butter wafer bars. Shortly after Keira Knightley tells Lucy Liu that she’ll be dreaming of her pussy when she goes to bed alone that night, I began to feel a little ill. Actually, I was fairly hung over already, so my general state of health started at a level normal people might call “sick”, but I was getting some red alert signals from my digestive track that shouted for attention over the background noise of my throbbing head and mild nausea.

I managed to make it to the good bathroom before my lunch made a hasty exit. I’ve hurled in the “bad bathroom” before, and let me tell you, there aren’t a whole lot of things less pleasant that sticking your bare hands in a sink full of vomit because the drain doesn’t really drain worth a fuck. The good bathroom on the other hand, you could ralph gravel in that sumbitch and it wouldn’t overflow.

So I watched my lunch disappear down the drain in roughly the order I had eaten it, except reversed. Yeah, that’s definitely pizza, and yup, there’s some sausage, and that would appear to be a fairly well mixed up witches brew of junk foods. But it was the last guest in my post lunch party that threw me for a loop. Blood. I couldn’t say for sure exactly what had happened the night before, but I could fairly certainly remember never eating any blood. And yet, there it was, gleaming up at me smugly from it’s crimson pool, as if taking some twisted pleasure in knowing it was completely screwing up my plans for the day.

Now for those of you who don’t know me, namely all of you, I hate doctors. It’s not that I dislike them as people, because they are usually very pleasant and intelligent as far as humans go, but I just hate having to go see them. Partly it’s cause I don’t like feeling like a pussy, and everyone knows real men never need medical attention. And partly it’s because I know that eventually, some doctor somewhere is going to walk into a room, force me to put on a “gown” and stick his finger up my ass, and with my luck I’ll get a boner and then I’ll be gay, and I’ll be damned if a little blood puke is going to turn me gay.

My coworkers on the other hand have no problem going to the doctor, and after throwing up some more, and beginning to get dizzy, they convinced me I should probably seek some kind of medical attention rather than finish out the work day. I was already dreading it. The waiting rooms. The long forms. The throngs of overweight, sickly, rapidly breeding minorities who while legally created equal are still a total pain in the ass when in public. Other peoples kids. Why was this happening to me? Was God punishing me for one day becoming gay when a doctor fingered my ass? Can he even punish people in advance? I figured if George Bush could do it, I wouldn’t put it past Jesus. My proactive hell sentence was about to start.

I had my insurance information faxed down from headquarters, stopped by the ATM, and drove up to the Urgent Care center. After waiting in line, I got up to the counter and this very nice, elderly black woman asked me what she could help me with. By now my head was spinning so bad I had to lean against the wall to keep from falling over, and I was fighting back wave after wave of nausea. I began to weakly mumble, “I am not sure if I should be here or go to the hospital but I just …”

“IM SORRY SUGAR, BUT i CAN’T HEAR VERY WELL, YOU GONNA HAVE TO SPEAK UP, TELL ME IN THIS EAR!” she said. “I beg your pardon, but I don’t know if I should be here, or go straight to the hospital. I just threw up a belly full of blood, and I’m very disoriented. Can you handle this or not?“

“OH LAWD!” she said, “COME ON AROUND HERE SWEET HEART AND SIT YOURSELF DOWN IN THAT THERE CHAIR. WE GONNA CALL YOU UP AN AMBULANCE, YOU DON’T NEED TO BE DRIVING AROUND LIKE THIS. COME ON BACK HERE. DOCTOR, COME OVER HERE AND CHECK THIS BOY OUT, HE SAYS HE’S BEEN VOMITING BLOOD. LORD HAVE MERCY.”

That was followed by twenty minutes or so of questioning and blood pressure checks, and various other general medical pokes and prods. Before I knew it I was buckled into a stretcher and being loaded in the back of an ambulance by a freakishly short lady with a dyke hair cut, and a super hot young girl who made me a little nervous even through my gagging and vertigo. Thankfully she was the driver, because if there’s one thing I hate more than medical attention while I’m sick, it’s adding on sexual intimidation to the whole pile.

So it was me and the middle aged lesbian and her student, (who was male) and they prepped me with several more blood pressure tests, some electric sensors glued to my chest, and a big fat needle. Up to this point I had been hoping to get through this without having a metal tube shoved in my body. I mean I’m not exactly scared of needles in quite the same way that I may react to spider that get on me unexpectedly, but they just give me the willies. In fact, it didn’t really hurt at all going in. The pain was really more afterwards when she rammed this fucking needle/tube around the inside of my arm for a while trying to get some blood to come out. Turns out she hit some kind of valve in my arm, and while her second try was much more successful, the first stabbing left me with a big ass track mark running down my bow-pit like some kind of junkie.

When we got to the hospital, she told me she had to rip off the four wires that were attached to my chest and stomach, and the best way to do so, in her medical opinion, was to rip it off like a bandaid. She was legitimately freaked out having to do this, which puzzled me somewhat because I felt almost no discomfort, unlike the needle in my bow-pit which was now taped to my arm for no apparent reason, and stabbed me internally every time I bent or straightened my arm.

But anyway long story short they gave me a doggy bag, ushered me in my wheelchair through the paperwork process, (at that point I still couldn’t walk without stumbling from dizziness) and plopped me in front of the TV where I could watch Dwayne Johnson completely destroy the credibility of the Rundown and Walking Tall as he starred in the Game Plan. About the time that all the special features and extra footage for Apollo 13 were finishing I got called back to triage, but not to see a doctor, just to make sure I wasn’t getting worse. By the time Freaky Friday was wrapping up and Dennis the Menace was starting I was told that I could see a doctor soon, maybe, if nobody else’s condition got worse. When I first got there, I was told by a security guard that there was absolutely NO SMOKING anywhere on hospital premises. By midnight I wasn’t even walking ten feet from the front door to smoke. I was sick, and I had been there for over ten hours with a fucking needle in my arm, and if they gave me one ounce of shit for smoking after the day I had, they would be thanking their god of choice that they had done so while at a hospital.

When I did get back to a room to be examined, the nurse told me to take off all my clothes, and put on the hospital gown. You know the ones, the light blue floral pattern gowns that kind of tie in the back, but still leave you entire ass hanging out. So of course I did, checking the room for any signs of lubricant or vaseline, suspiciously eyeing anyone who walked past the slits in the curtains. And at long last a doctor did come to see me. He checked my breathing. He poked around my stomach for a few seconds. We chatted briefly, clarifying some of the account from the paperwork he had, and then he informed me that I would just need a few blood tests and assuming they turned out fine I could be on my way.

I was frankly relieved that there would be no fingers going into anyone’s bung holes that evening. As he left I asked him if I could throw some drawers back on to cover up, and he suggested I just stay how i was until they had finished the blood tests. Suddenly my brief wave of relief vanished, replaced only with a sharp dread. Where exactly would they be drawing blood from that required me to leave my pants off? Surely no place good. I was feeling much better by then, I could probably still survive if I made a mad dash for the safety of the lobby. Surely the guards would understand and not charge me with public nudity.

Well as it turns out they only had to stick me in my arm, and I was allowed to put my clothes back on. The only problem was that they had not used the needle I had been stuck with in the ambulance ride. No sir, that needle was completely useless, and had only been stabbing me in my arm for twelve hours because nobody really knew if I might need one like it or not. A fucking precautionary needle, as if I would need immediate intravenous attention and would not have the two seconds it takes for a nurse to poke me on demand. And on top of that, I now had both arms taped up with needles in my bow-pits. I’m not sure if I can convey the mental image of what a man looks like trying to put on his clothing when both his arms are fairly immobile. The pants weren’t such a problem. Hell, even my shoes and socks went on pretty easily.

My shirts on the other hand proved to be a bit more problematic. By then my curtain was open, and I was clearly visible from a large section of the hospital. I held my wife beater over my head and slowly but determinedly wriggled into it like a crippled snake climbing into a condom. After a lengthy and exhausting bout with futility I managed somehow to get it on in approximately the right location on my body. Next came my button up work uniform. I got one arm in and held it high over my head while trying to turn my left arm behind my body to find the arm hole. But try as I might, no arm hole was to be found. In fact, after closer inspection I discovered the sleeve was inside out. But on top of that I looked up to see no less than five nurses snickering in amusement as I desperately tried to get my shirt on without stabbing myself. I jerked around for a second or two longer, looking I’m sure like a retard at a rave, until I finally gave up in shame.

So anyway, all that to find out I have gastritis, or something along those lines, and my stomach and throat has eroded the lining that protects them from my digestive acids. Life’s a bitch I guess, but overall it seems like a fairly small problem with a fairly easy solution. And the best part is, I made it through the entire fiasco without losing my flaming heterosexuality. And that my friends is something I will cheers to. (except I am not supposed to drink much anymore, or smoke much, or eat spicy or greasy food or caffeine. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! See you all in hell)

Leave Me Alone

Why is life full of people who constantly bother me? I would be very happy if everyone just left me the hell alone, forever. Bugger off, everyone, please, now.

Some homie just called me with a telemarketing scheme for some electrical company bullshit. I laid the phone directly in front of my speakers blasting Down (think heavy metal meets southern rock) and walked away to take care of my personal life, which is what normally occupies my time when I’m in my own damn home. I’m not out in public, I’m in my bedroom, reading Sarah Lena’s blog, chilling like a motherfucker. I don’t even have pants on. Random companies should not be allowed to set off blaring bells in my house to force me to get off my ass in an attempt to sell me something I don’t want or need when I don’t have pants on. Thanks for pissing on my cornflakes douchebag, I was in a good mood, but now my ass is raw. Congratulations, you just made my list of people who bothered me today. Your death will be slow and painful when my army of robot monkeys takes over the planet. Actually fuck that, I’m locking you up in a cell and every night just when you fall asleep or get comfortable I’m going to call you on a phone attached to bomb sirens from WWII just to let you know you suck.

Who else bothered me today? How funny you should ask, because I have a list of people. I’m not normally a pissy person. Honestly I’m a pretty happy individual, content to traipse through life whistling dixie and smelling flowers and what have you. But society seems hell bent on poking me with a stick just to see me bite. Here are some more people who deserve my boot up their ass.

Old people: Old people are a pain in the balls in every possible way. First off they drive shitty. They drive slower than fucking school buses and are usually blind or at least senile and lost. Get off the fucking road if you can’t see the lines and know where the gas pedal is. I drive a scooter, nobody should EVER drive slower than me. Also, you can’t do shit around them without old people freaking out and acting like you just made out with Jesus in a gay bar. Holy hell man, chill out gramps. You would think after eighty years of life experiences you would have seen a curve ball or two outside of your baptist societal norms. Just let me watch transsexual hookers fight for their cheating lover on Jerry Springer in the middle of your restaurant, and you can go back to your discussions about these new flying machines and talking boxes. Attention all old people, pants are to be worn around the waist. Which is to say, for men, the waist is located just over your ass, or where your ass would be if you weren’t old. Nipples are where shirt pockets go, not belts. Also, you can pay with exact change every time without ever again fishing for pennies if you would check your calendar and notice it’s the year of our lord two thousand and nine. We have debit cards, you’d dig them, way better than cash, and don’t even get me started on checks.

Lawyers: We get it, you can fight for our social security benefits. You can stop paying for every single commercial slot between seven in the morning and four in the afternoon. The same goes for workers compensation, children born with defects of any kind, any medical side effect of any kind for people who have ever taken any prescription drugs, and mesothelioma. In fact, I would be much more happy to pay you money if you would take all that money you use for advertising on daytime television and put it towards eliminating the Snuggie. Snuggies freak me out a little, and God save your soul if you’re the kind of idiot who actually paid good money for one of these retarded inventions.

People who treat their pets like people: Why are you so publicly dumb? (Holy shit! another fucking telemarketer just called, while I was trying to answer Em’s call! Fucker! I just picked up the phone, screamed in the receiver, and hung up) Having pets is cool. I have pets. Most everyone has at least one pet. But guess what, they are not people, they are animals. Animals are dumb and eat dead things, and pieces of shit, and lick assholes. Animals poop wherever they want. Animals live outside. Animals are not, and I repeat NOT people. People have feelings and conscious thoughts, and people can do things like not lick assholes. (unless it’s in the heat of the moment, and then it’s ok) People eat people food, animals do not. People have human children. Animals are not children. People go to funerals for other people they know. People do NOT go to memorial services for a fucking dog they have never met that belonged to the secretary for their company. That is stupid. Try to remember this, it isn’t a complicated idea. Also, I don’t want to see pictures of your pets. I don’t care about your pets. I barely even care about my own pets. Leave me alone. (see title)

Christians: I realize that nobody wants to talk to you because you believe we should give up everything fun to please your invisible friend, and so it’s kind of hard to grab peoples attention, especially when you have absolutely no proof of your beliefs or evidence of your God’s alleged power. I know it’s hard for you. But that does not mean you can stop me every time I get out of my car at Walmart. I am there to buy shit at every day low prices, guaranteed. I am not there to read a poorly made comic book about biblical super heroes. I find you annoying at best, and a borderline criminal cult at worst. The appropriate time the approach people about Jesus is when you can get your shit together enough to actually perform a miracle. Even one should do the trick. Then people will hear this good news, come to your church on Sunday, and when they enter your doors they are fair game for your propaganda. Walmart parking lots are not fair game. And while we’re at it, the same thing goes for church car washes, those assholes with the bells and santa suits at Christmas, boy/girl scouts, and people collecting money for little timmy who lost him arm to whatever or got cancer or something. I just want a toaster and some stationary, so fuck off.

Bankers: You suck. There is no gentle way to say that. Everything about your criminal empire sucks. I hate you all, and I hope you all have miserable personal lives, where the best thing you look forward too is sex with an ugly, morbidly obese person who doesn’t care about you and rarely bathes. If you could be less convienient I can’t think of a way. Normal people work from eight to five. You are open from nine to five. What the hell? The only possible time to do business with you is during lunch, when you are slam packed. What the fuck do you do the rest of the day? Plan you holiday vacations, which by the way, most of us don’t get off of work. Let’s cover the basics. During lunch: packed, takes forever, probably understaffed. Before/after work: closed. Weekends: closed. Holidays: definitely closed. Thanks for nothing, I hope you burn in hell you cock smoking wankers.

Fast Food Blows Donkeys

I fucking hate fast food. I mean, I love eating it, sometime, when it’s done properly. But unfortunately that only happens never, so I’m constantly left hoping for some kind of fast food miracle every time I go, and I am constantly disappointed. Why? Why is this so hard for you people to get right? I have worked several fast food jobs, and I know for a fact that it is not hard to do. I know this. Why must you insist of fucking with me?

Here’s how the last few trips out to eat have been for me.

I went to Hardee’s because it’s right around the block from where I work and I THOUGHT it would leave me plenty of time to get back early during lunch and play some golf on our PS2. Unfortunately for me the Hardee’s near my work is kind of famous for having incredibly horrible service. After about ten minutes in line, which is the time it took for a meager four people to order, I finally got up close and personal with the she-ape they had stationed at the register. To say this woman was ugly would be like saying Elvira was “kind of hot I guess”.. I can assure you, this particular creature feature had no alibi. Not only was she some kind of side show leftover from the days of yore (think somewhere between cavemen and monkeys with sticks) but she had chest hair. Not a single chest hair, but rather a multitude of chest hairs. And they grew in strange little clusters, like kinky afro-bushes afraid to stand alone on a sweaty chest. Frankly, I found it horrifying. I can deal with ugly, even very ugly, but the horrible blasphemy of nature that greeted me with with a guttural croak was too much, even for me.

Perhaps it was her appearance that caused me to order incorrectly, we may never know for certain, but I could have sworn I ordered a chicken sandwich combo with a milkshake. Apparently it came out as, “I would like a shitty disgrace to the hamburger genre with soggy fries, no milkshake, and I would like it in seven or eight hours if at all possible.” I kid you not, half a fucking hour to get the wrong food. But being the busy little worker bee that I am, and having a real job such as I do, I no longer had time to sit in their lobby and watch their fine employees stand around not making food, for alas, my lunch break was more than half way over. I got back just in time to choke down my food, and I use that term loosely, and then jump back into my daily projects with nary a drop to drink. Why, you ask, did I have nary a drop to drink? Well, that would be because they did not have any drink holders for me to stabilize my sweet tea with, and since I drive a scooter, this meant that it was deposited all over their parking lot the first time I turned.

Skip ahead to the next day. Our young hero (me) has gone to Lowes during his lunch with his boss. Driving to the store, parking, walking in, finding the right tool, purchasing it, and getting back to the car took all of ten minutes. Sweet, fifty minutes of lunch break left, plenty of time to grab some quick McDonald’s and get back for some Hot Shots Pro Golf Fore, right? McDonald’s has got to be fast, they’re fucking Micky D’s man, an American classic for fucks sake. Surely, this is a fool proof lunch plan we thought. With all the confidence in the world we proceeded to cross the parking lot to McDonald’s. We got in a medium sized line, not too bad really for the lunch rush, maybe a five minute wait. Not so. After a lengthy stay in their parking lot/drive through we made our orders and proceeded to the wallet-rape window. Out of the window beams the face of hope. We’ll call this culinary professional Shamika McAsshat. Shamika chews her gum for a moment, opens her horse like maw, and booms out (at a completely unnecessary audio level, even outside voices aren’t that fucking loud Shamika) “Yeeuh, that’s um … Seventeen fifty aaaaight.”

Aaaight with me Shamika, no problem, I will gladly trade you my money for your fine food products, which I can now smell and are causing my stomach to growl and cramp up. You see Shamika, doing real work tends to build up a voracious appetite, which normally culminates around noon, a cycle I’m sure you are familiar with working in the fast food industry as you do. We hand her my debit card. The window closes. Our previous ray of hope slowly drowns in depressions and commits suicide in the interim between our first interaction and the time she finally opens the window again. The window burst open and she leans out in a casually disgusted way. “Yeeeuh, um, our credid card machine ain’t workin right now. You got any money? No? Oh, then sorry.”

Shamika, don’t lie to me. Something in the way you roll your eyes and make every slight move seem like climbing Mount Everest tells me you aren’t very sincere with your apology. Somehow I don’t think you are sorry. In fact if I were a betting man, I would put ten to one odds down that a competent person could probably get that credit card machine working properly. But that’s OK, you’ve only wasted a huge chunk of my valuable lunch break sitting cramped in a car pondering the finer points of death by starvation. It’s all good, you just chew your gum, make your time, and try not to break a sweat or anything. It’s not like there’s a huge fucking line of hungry ass people wrapped around the building expecting something even slightly resembling “fast” food.

Hungry and frustrated, and now thanks to Ms. Asshat short on time as well, we proceed next door to KFC, another monument to the fast food industry. No line this time, it seems perhaps lady luck has smiled upon us. We order our meals, and move up to the window. Apparently these windows have some kind of five minute minimum waiting period that I was not informed about. Eventually Shamika opens the window. Oddly enough I thought we had left her behind at the last joint, but sure enough either she was standing there or some equally as miserable and possibly mentally challenged welfare recipient. Could have been a clone, who knows, all those drive through panty wastes pretty much look the same. (please note, I worked drive through once upon a time, and fucking rocked face at that shit. I know first hand it’s not difficult. It’s not fun, but it’s not hard either, get it right assholes)

Shamika 2 tells me the sandwich I just ordered from her, ten seconds ago, seems to have vanished from the face of the planet. There are none in the restaurant, and it will take approximately seventeen minutes to cook a new one. Let me say that one more time for you, so you can really soak it all in: seventeen minutes. That’s three less that twenty minutes. In seventeen minutes I could drive home, make my own sandwich, and eat the whole fucking thing. I could raise my own god damn chicken from egg, slaughter it, cook it, and serve a multitude of sandwiches to a multitude of similarly starving people in seventeen minutes. What the hell kind of chicken takes seventeen minutes to cook? Seriously? Are you cooking it with solar power? Is there some new age chef in the back trying to harvest energy with crystals to deep fry me a fucking piece of chicken? What the hell is the hold up bitch, I’m eating myself alive over here, help a cracker out. For the love of all that is good and right in this world, do you just have another comparable chicken sandwich that is perhaps available in your restaurant that allegedly serves chicken as it’s specialty? Do you need me to come back there and make it my self?

After a few minutes thought she informs me that there is in fact another chicken sandwich that she could sell me which is ready. I’m overjoyed. I was so happy I popped a boner right then and there fantasizing about delicious dead animal chunks with crispy perfectly seasoned herbs and spices on the outside. Maybe there is a god, and maybe she doesn’t hate me.

The window opens, Shamika asks me if I want two apple fritters or some such bull shit. No Shamika, I do not want apple fritters, I want a chicken sandwich with fries and a drink, but at this point I will literally take any kind of food or food substitute that you have available so I can get out of this endless food purgatory you call the drive through. Why do you ask? The total is a dollar different and you’re too incompetent to be allowed the codes to change order totals? OK sure, fritter me up sugar tits, just give me some food before I climb out of my fucking window, drag you out of behind that counter, and curb stomp you American History X style, now WHERE’S MY GOD DAMNED FOOD? Beg your pardon, you’re out of root beer? How about Dr. Pepper? Out of that too? You know what, surprise me, I honestly don’t even care any more.

After all was said and done, we had spent forty five minutes of an hour lunch, gone to two food chains, ordered three times, and still not come out with anything close to what we wanted. My badass chicken sandwich with tons of cool delicious shit, like tomatoes, and lettuce, and cheese, was replaced by a chicken sandwich that consisted of what appeared to be deep fried leather in between two plain buns with three pickle slices all stacked directly on top of each other as if the cook had taken the time to align them perfectly. That’s my biggest fast food pet peeve, toppings stacked directly on top of each other. I understand you are probably a dipshit, and you hate your job, but just out of common courtesy and general decency, can’t you people just take the extra two seconds to spread some shit out? I want even flavor, not ten bites of dried out, plain ass, bull shit, followed by one incredibly intense ride down pickle mountain. God damn it, no matter where I go it’s the same fucking story, three pickle slices, aligned with nigh-robotic precision. God damn it I just want a decent sandwich!

With my blood pressure now reaching the vicinity of five hundred over twenty six hundred (I’m assuming that’s high, to be honest blood pressure always kind of confused me. Which is why I don’t work at a fast service medical drive through clinic, hint hint) I desperately dive into the meager slop pile in front of me in the hopes that I can get some of it into my belly with enough time for the food to outrun the alarmingly close malnutrition. I take a bite of the driest sandwich in the history of dry sandwiches, and savagely recoil from the sheer shock of it’s parching qualities. In hast I rip the wrapper off my straw and insert it into my drink. I suck and suck (that’s what she said) but no relief meets my sandy throat. As stars dance before my eyes and the world begins to fade around me I make a last ditch effort to fix my situation. I pull the straw out to look at it, and the end of it has been mechanically sealed shut somehow. What the fuck, this isn’t funny anymore.

Unfortunately, I passed on before I could get my knife out and cut the end off the straw. And that my friends, is the story of how incredibly shitty fast food killed me. You’d hate fast food too if it killed you.

Harder than your average bear

Since the beginning of time, mankind, and by mankind I don’t mean humans, I mean MANkind, has sought out the most dangerous and awe inspiring feats of bravery, strength and borderline stupidity in an attempt to out testicle each other. While the women-folk wove baskets and tended their herb gardens, and lesser men skipped rocks and daydreamed about one day owning a penis, real men have set sail across unknown oceans, scaled the highest mountains, faced each other in mortal combat, and rode rockets into the merciless void of outer space. Since there are no real dragons, and sharks just freak me the fuck out, I have chosen the next mightiest beast on our planet for my life long quest into ultimate man-history. I hope to one day kill a bear in hand to paw/maw combat armed only with a knife.

Some have told me this is a foolish endeavor and that in their opinion, based on my physical stature, it will certainly end in death. I bitch slapped death and date raped it’s mother just for kicks. How dare you and your pathetic common sense nay-say my dreams of doing what very few men have ever done. How dare you try and domesticate me with scientific fact, or weight and strength ratios. If Buddha can kill two thousand Philistines with the jawbone of a donkey, and George Washington can escape from Alcatraz without telling a lie, then why can’t I kill a bear with a knife? Are you insulting my manhood? Because if you are, so help you God, my watermelon sized balls might just burst from my mighty loins and sprout curly little hair-legs and shove their super potent boots right up your doubting little ass. Do you really want to risk having your ass impregnated by the boots of my giant balls? I would think not. Why do you think Stephen Colbert is so scared of bears? (hint: D’s nuts)

So I decided to do a little research on the topic of bears, and bear combat, and just generally being a total badass. What sort of awesomeness has bear violence inspired with other people? Where can I find sweet moves that bears are weak against? What kind of soundtrack would go best with slaughtering bears by hand? I have found many answers my friend, seek and ye shall rock, behold the gleamings of my righteous inquest. (just throw a beer bottle at me when I get too carried away with this whole theme)

First of all, apparently there are a shit ton of other people who think this is a really good idea, and all of them are either totally kick ass, or just crazy enough to pass for bad ass. Please note exhibit A: a song titled “I Wrestled a Bear Once”, by Tastes Like Kevin Bacon. (What did you expect Kevin Bacon to taste like? Dancing? You half wit, he tastes like murder, duh) What kind of music would you expect bear fighting to sound like? If you guessed sonic pain, then you are correct. This song should, at the proper volume, (11) immediately initiate bleeding from all of your orifices, followed by spontaneous ejaculation, no matter your gender. It features many of my favorite qualities in a music video: a hot chick singing, a hot chick with glasses, a hot chick with tattoos, a hot chick that might be able to beat me up, seventies mustaches, a segue mocking the eighties, inflatable instruments, and really really fast music at a deafening decibel. (my favorite part is at seventeen seconds)

I was listening to Bob & the Showgram the other day, and heard a story about a guy in a nearby town who actually did wrestle a bear. (Exhibit B) Turns out he got mauled pretty bad, and it ripped off all his clothes except his football helmet and his shoes. But the point is some guy who lives near me already had the balls to jump in a cage with a live bear and wrestle it unarmed. The following year, at the same carnival he wrestled a Gorilla who broke his back, and then proceeded to break his back later in life by jumping out of a deer stand trying to chase down a deer he had not shot, and again attempting to lift a tractor by himself to win a dare with his brother. Although I must give him a tip of the hat, I am simultaneously quite jealous of his clear lead over my own race for manliness.

Which leads to exhibit C: the case of Sam Mazzola, the peoples hero. Sam Mazzola runs the Wildlife Adventures of Ohio, a state mostly known for the invention of the Cleveland steamer. He runs/ran a circus of sorts in which he showcased many wild animals, including wrestling bears, and would invite members of the audience to come up and wrestle them in front of a live crowd. (According to the laws of nature, this feat had to be accompanied by strippers, beer, and lasers, with the distinct possibility of zombies and/or zombie bears) Not one to stand by whilst the general populace was being mind blowingly awesome, our beloved (aka hated) government has swooped in and stripped Mr. Mazzola of his licenses, charged him with crimes, and loaded his veritable monument to badassery with hefty fines. “The United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) has cited World Animal Studios numerous times for failure to have a responsible person available for inspections as well as for housing incompatible species and poor housekeeping. The USDA issued an official warning to World Animal Studios for operating without a license. World Animal Studios’ bear “wrestling” event has been canceled in several communities that considered it dangerous and inhumane.” (link here)

Seriously government? First you take away our weed, then you take away our hookers, then our rights to use explosives for fun, and now this? Why do you spit in our face? Why do you oppose everything that I stand for? Let’s get one thing straight Uncle Sam, inspections do NOT come before bear fights. So fuck off. Also, the very premise of putting a man and a bear in a cage to fight nullifies your “incompatible species” housing bull shit. Every community should consider it dangerous, but that’s why it’s so great! Can’t you see? There’s nothing inhumane about it. Was it inhumane when all the cavemen banded together and destroyed the vile dinosaur race and made up the story about the asteroid? NO! Was it inhumane when Alice shot up all those zombie dogs in Resident Evil? No, that kicked ass. The act of kicking ass is to inhumane as rock is to scossors. I say Sam Mazzola deserves a Nobel Prize for being way cooler than you or anyone you know, unless you kow me. I say this kind of behavior should not only be encouraged, but rewarded. Why is Calista Flockhart a celebrity? Kick that bitch out and make room in Hollywood for a real man. And one day, make room for me, because in the future, I will enter the Wildlife Adventures of Ohio death cage in a winner takes all bloodbath with some rabid grizzly, and emerge the most manly man who has ever walked the planet.

Imagine it something like the following video, except the bear kills everyone else in the ring, and we eat thier corpses together while mocking their widows, and then we fight for six or seven hours. And when I finally gut the beast with my knife, I swagger up on the ropes, impervious to my many lascerations, and savagely slay everyone in the stadium with my twelve foot erection in a blood rage. Afterwards of course, I take my rightful place as king of Earth.