Starbucks is cool. (cool = fucktarded)

OK, Romi posted a blog about starbucks (no capital letter for their name, they have lost that privilege) and it inspired me to share my own experience with the corn holing jerk offs that work in what I would like to call Satan’s taint.

Wow. Yeah, I just had my very first starbucks experience recently. I’m the sort of person who would rather drink sludgy, burnt, ass-water from a pot that’s never been washed, in a work shop filled with VD and fire ants, which stinks of other peoples fresh liquid turds, than ever have to interact with people in a fucking coffee shop.

I hate coffee shop people. (no offense ass holes) We’ve got this joint called Cup O’ Joe down near the college district, and I’ve been in there a few times. It sucked, never again. The crowd was all a bunch of college intellectuals who want to look all hip and god damned trendy with their half emo/half homeless hobo suit jacket with Buddy Holly glasses and probably a fucking scarf in seventy degree weather outfit. Suck my nuts you poser douche bags. I actually thought college folks were smart when I was younger. Now that i have passed the age where I should have graduated college, I look back on these jerk offs (not all of you, some of you are chicks, and some of those chicks are the type of chicks I would not like to choke the life out of, and some of those chicks are actually cute and interesting. So 1.117% of college people don’t deserve naked death by furnace) I am really not sure why I ever saw these people as anything but retards who have no fucking idea who they are or what life is all about. Also, there was the I’m-too-with-it-to-work-in-an-office nut stains. Go get a fucking office. We all know you either are too poor to get one, too lazy to actually do any work, or you are just pretending. I used to have a boss like you. I quit because he looked up goatse in his bluetooth-coffee-banana-hammock of a starbucks lounge while I froze my ass off in the dead of winter building shit with my peasant poor calloused hands while we allegedly split the work and profit. Get a fucking job and by the way, fuck you and your fucking entire way of life.

So anyway, I went into this ritzy ass starbucks on the wealthy side of town, and everything is shiny and new, with no bullet holes or racist ramblings carved into it, and I walk up to this ridiculously huge menu board. But there’s no where to inconspicuously read the shit. You have to stand right in front of the coffee fucks. (they are not baristas)

So this coffee woman starts with the blah blah, and I’m all, “hold on woman, I’m trying to read.” So she cocks her coffee F’in head to the side and stares at me for thirty minutes while I read the fine print menu which is posted forty or fifty feet above eye level. And I’m all bleary eyed and pissy and cramped up from sleeping on a road trip in a car. (that’s right, I would never have gone to starbucks in the first place if I wasn’t woken up suddenly and coerced by a vagina. My mind wasn’t processing the information fast enough to recognize the bull shit ahead of me. I hate coffee shops!)

Finally I spot something with “eggnog” in it, and I order that. I pay the chipper fag up at the counter, you know the one who worked with Jennifer Aniston in Office Space, and then I had to wait for fucking ever to get my shit made. And THEN I had to go add sugar and chocolate and all sorts of creamer and shit because apparently three hours to make coffee doesn’t include flavor or anything good at all. Just scalding hot piss water that burns the living shit out of your fucking mouth so you won’t even be able to taste the beer you drink when you get home to calm down from the shitty ass starbucks ass raping.

I swear to Allah, I completely understand why hippies and the folks on Fight Club want to destroy that hell hole of a coffee shop. Global commercialism, consumerism, corporate elitism, anti small market, common man screwing-over-ism be damned. I just hate starbucks because they suck. I’ll wake my own ass up early enough to get to work and brew my own pot of Foldiers stingy-blend and mix in my own powdered creamer, sweet-n-low, (yes my company is too cheap to buy sugar, we salvaged the sweet-n-low from a trailer that we fixed) and cold water so I can instantly drink my crappy bull shit coffee and wake up in peace. I’m willing to sacrifice the flavor to save me eighty bucks and the hassle of dealing with the worst ass holes I’ve ever met.

Thirsty Thursday

Let me tell you all about this little tradition we have. It’s called Thirsty Thursday. Every Thursday night, me and my friends get together at this bar down the street and hang out and listen to live music and drink. Imagine if heaven had a bar, and every time you walked in it was like the opening scene of Cheers, yeah, that’s what Judd’s is for me.

Technically, it’s no longer called Judd’s. Mrs. Judd decide that if Mr. Judd didn’t sell his bar and permanently move to their second home on the beach that she was leaving him. Now it’s the Garden Gate Cafe. It’s exactly the same, except they put a fence around the patio so it’s a pain in the ass to get inside or move around because everyone is squished together. And they replaced the comfy chairs they had with cast iron monstrosities to match the garden decor. And they hung up some plants and shit. But it’s the same employees that have always been working at the exact same bar. and grill

I started coming there when i was eighteen because my friend Kenny would always go there and play shows. You see, he liked that bar because it’s an old people bar. There’s not very many folks my age who patron the establishment. Just our group. So it’s not too loud, (except when we show up) it’s not too crowded, you don’t have to wait long for beer or a turn at the bathroom. And you for sure don’t have to sideways walk through shoulder to shoulder crowds looking for someone in strobe lights under deafening techno while you’re drunk. That’s nice.

But Kenny knew this guy Joe who was a cook there. And he knew Mr. Judd, because he was there all the time. So Kenny started playing punk rock shows every month or so. And they started getting more organized and attracting larger crowds and more bands. Eventually we built this gigantic modular stage that got set up in the parking lot, and hundreds of people would show up for these big parties. Mr. Judd expanded his bar into his storage area, almost doubling it’s size. He added pool tables and extra booths and even an indoor stage for the bands to play at. (he was baking serious loot off of these shows)

So I was there a lot, underage. I would sneak in a pint of whiskey in each pocket and get sloshed and mosh around like a crazy drunken teenager. I loved it. I have a lot of memories there. Well eventually Kenny’s band broke up, and the music scene moved somewhere else, and Mr. Judd sold the joint. The new owners wanted to clean it up and make it more of a family friendly restaurant deal. So the months and years passed and eventually the stars aligned and the winds blew a charged up air on out to Kenny’s house. Once that scent of destiny reached his nostrils, he knew it was time to go back.

So he started inviting people out to the bar on Thursday. Thursday was late enough in the week that people were ready to do something, but before the weekend when everyone had different plans. And pretty soon a good sized group of people started coming around again. Nothing like before, but fun none the less.

Well, the new owner recognized that business was up on Thursdays, and she decide to pay Joe the cook, and our old friend Lennon (named after the Beatle cause his parents were hippies, excuse me, are hippies) to come at night and play live music.Lennon on the bongos and backup vocals, Joe on the acoustic guitar and lead vocal. And Joe is a phenomenal musician. He’s fucking crazy. He had this band named Indonation and he toured around actually making a living playing music for a long time. They don’t exist anymore. He’s got a new band now. They have a totally different sound when he’s doing his acoustic set live, but just check out the song Star Stretcher. It’s all about butt sex, and it’s pretty kick ass.

Anywho, so we go up there and booze it up, eat some wickedly delicious food, and groove to the music. They’ve built up a pretty extensive list of covers to choose from. Everything from the Ballad of Curtis Lowe to Possum Kingdom to Epic. And it’s technically open mike night, so sometimes we get surprise performances by other people. Some are good, some suck balls, but they are all fun. Some old man stopped by the other day and did a solo set of acoustic blues and old school country. He was sick nasty awesome. He was in a band too, the Fifty/50 Band. (I’m guessing the average age of the band members) They’re pretty good, a wide range of covers and whatnot. But this guy playing and singing alone was in-fucking-credible. I may or may not have gotten a boner listening to him pick out the melodies. And he had this sweet Taylor that sounded like Satan himself had crafted it out of the bones of angels. It was such a nice damn guitar. Every guy in the bar was drooling like the Miller Lite girls from the week before had walked in wearing wet wife beaters with no bra.

I had a picture to put up but Myspace is being gay and won’t let me access it. Bad Myspace, BAD! Don’t make me roll up the home page of CNN.com and smack you in the e-nose with it. Good for nothing site. So that’s what I’m off to go do now. I hope all of you have a great Thurday night as well. Except my friends in new Zealand, y’all have a nice Friday morning you future living weirdos. Peace and chicken grease world, see you tomorrow.

Reliability is a two edged sword.

So I don’t mean to brag on myself here, but I’m a pretty hard worker. I bust my ass, and I do a damn good job at whatever I happen to be doing for money. I suppose the home-type work is a lot slacker and usually involves loud music, a casual pace, and frequent breaks to eat/sleep/check internet addictions. And It often doesn’t get finished in one sitting, no matter how small the task. But at work, I keep up a hard pace and I turn out quality results.

There are good and bad things about having a good work ethic. First off, there’s the good old intangible self satisfaction of doing a good job. I know this sounds very Leave-It-To-Beaver, but I do feel better about myself after doing a good job than I do after slacking off or leaving a half assed job for a customer to look at and sigh, and cluck their tongues, and wag their mental fingers at my product in shame. Secondly, there’s the much more tangible result of having your boss recognize your work, praise you for it, lord it over your slack ass coworkers shitty work to their faces, and hook you up with a sweet raise when your evaluation comes around. And I’ve got one of the best bosses ever, so he really does thank me for doing a good job. This is a new and invigorating experience for me, seeing as most of my previous bosses were, how you say, ballands. Before this job, my hard work was, at worst, recognized by a taser to the face followed by a purple nurple and an Indian burn, and at best by the occasional, “keep it up”.

There are however some down sides to working hard. The most obvious would be the fact that you actually have to work hard all the time. And hard work isn’t easy, so that sucks. Also, when you work harder than the people around you, you set a standard for yourself that you are expected to keep up all the time. Doesn’t matter if you are sick, or hungover, or just plain tired, you’d better be getting stuff done, or the boss man will notice. Fortunately for me, I have the sort of job where when I’m too tired I can just tell my boss to fuck off and leave me alone, and he usually will. We construction types cuss like pirates, and generally understand the occasional slow pace in the morning time.

The last, and most annoying down side to working hard is that whenever something needs to be done extra fast, or especially well, or some higher than average standard needs to be met, you are the one who gets called on to do so. Reliability is a two edged sword, and that bitch is sharp.

Let me illustrate by spinning a yarn from earlier today. Tomorrow our road tech is going out to do some really easy work that requires two men, but will be a piece of cake. I did not get sent out with him because my boss wants to get as much as possible done in our yard to catch up from the four day weekend. Hey no big deal, I like working in the yard better anyway. I don’t have to hang out with the dorky road tech, go me. But Thursday, there’s a killer service call all the way out at the beach, two hours away at least. And it will take all day to finish with two men. So I get chosen to go with him on that job because my boss knows I will bust ass and finish as quick as possible. But this means I have to get picked up from my home at five o’clock in the morning, the butt crack of dawn. Nay, before the butt crack of dawn, which is at six thirty, when I usually wake up. And I have to ride all the way to the beach in a van that smells like swamp balls, with an anime fan who stinks like his wife hasn’t discovered soap, with a ladder on top that emits a skull shaking tone as the wind whips through it. It’s like a headache machine. A sadistic evil headache machine. And when we get there, I have to work from seven-ish to somewhere between four and six, and then drive another two hours back, unload the van, and drive home from there. This means I could very well be working a fifteen hour day. Damn my stupid work ethic for making me get assigned jobs like this!

And here’s the best part: I get to spend these fifteen hours with an uberdork. Let me just say, he’s a serious Christian. Now before you go getting your chastity belts twisted, I realize there are some Christians who aren’t dorks. But y’all often do have a tendency to get a little Ned Flanders-ish. Admit it. It’s ok to be like Ned Flanders, it’s just kind of annoying for everyone else. With that established, he likes to edit his language all the time. So he goes around saying such phrases as, “man that crap was messed up” and “Who the heck fixed this junk.” Stop it please, you sound retarded. Just cuss like everyone else in our entire industry or go teach a daycare. No joke, we all think that stuff is fraggin dumber than poo you weiner headed fracktard. Of course when he gets pissed off, he cusses just like everyone else, but then he apologizes like we’re the fucking pope and we care or something. And he has the balls to complain about our music having too much profanity, but he listens to video game theme songs. No shit, like the sound track to virginity. Does it get any more annoying than two hours of the score from Final Fantasy? Answer: hell no.

He’s also a serious video game freak. He plays World of Warcraft all the time. And not only that, but he insists on talking about it in public. Seriously Joe, nobody cares how much you hate gnomes. Likewise, please refrain from informing us about any and all farming/weapons/magic attacks/magical items/magic in general/guild news/or absolutely anything about World of Warcraft as a whole. You can play it if you really wnat to, just never tell us about it. And don’t get me started on the anime thing. Dear lord, why? He’s literally got hundreds of anime movies. If you aren’t familiar with anime, just imagine the worlds laziest animator teaming up with a cast of mentally retarded translators and voice actors, to make a movie about something only a Japanese lunatic with Alzheimer’s could possibly conceive. Gahhhhh, I hate anime!

And on top of that he never lifts his feet off the ground when he walks, he constantly complains about how pussy whipped he is, and he talks about church all the time. Dude, how many times must I tell you, I’m never, ever, ever going back. You can do whatever you want, but I think the odds of going to hell are actually higher if you go to church. I mean, God never goes, why should I? And he can’t think about more than one thing at a time. He asks the same question four or five times before he remembers what you told him, and if anything at all, like keys for instance, distracts him, he immediately forgets whatever you just said and completely screws up whatever he was doing. In the last week he 1) almost burnt down our office by hooking up electricity completely wrong after being reminded FIVE times to do it a certain way, (seriously, we only caught the outlet melting and beginning to smoke a few minutes before we all left), 2) did the exact same thing the next day, except I checked behind him, and 3) spewed freezing water all over one of our coworkers because he thought he had turned the water off, but was in fact just an idiot.

And apparently the woman who runs this place we’re fixing is incredibly demanding and stands there whilst you work offering helpful, yet completely ignorant suggestions on how you should be doing your job. I don’t do well with that sort of thing. I tend to freak out and rant, if you haven’t noticed. Also, I cuss a lot, and I burp, fart, and tell vulgar yet entertaining stories while I work. Please wish me luck as I try to not only keep my job, but refrain from punching someone in the ovaries. Maybe I’ll luck out and she will at least be hot, but in the construction industry, the odds are pretty slim. (and of course by slim, I don’t mean in some sort of thin attractive way, I mean in the overweight, mannish, bull dyke sort of way)

Observations from the A.M.

Looking back on my life, with the benefit of hind sight, I realize that most of the best things that happen, happen in the wee hours of the morning. It’s my personal witching hour. I often wake up, with not a damn thing to do, and no chance of sleep, so I switch on the television, pop open a beer, and observe the world. I get the feeling sometimes that people are more honest with themselves at five in the morning. After the initial hate fest brought on by my hangover, I settle into this valley of peace and tranquility. A large portion of my upper brain shuts down. Not like actual sleep, but a cessation of cognitive thought. And all of God’s green creation comes into crystal sharp focus. I realize things that I wouldn’t normally realize.

Like how many marriages has Shania Twain ruined? I would assume that the video for Don’t alone has untold numbers of men leaving their women to go ride horses with Ms. Twain, or walk through fields of, … what the hell is that crap? Agave? I don’t know. And how did she even get on that horse wearing that gigantic dress. Was there some sort of crane or a pulley system? I mean, you would assume gravity wasn’t happy about that whole arrangement. Did Conway Twitty own a mirror? And What the hell is up with Keith Urban’s drummer? Seriously, am I the only guy that thinks this face should never ever exist?

I haven’t always been a fan of country music. I was raised Christian, and therefore unaware that good music even existed. I wasn’t allowed to listen to the radio, and for sure forbidden from anything labeled as “the devil’s music”. But round about middle school I discovered rock and roll, and try as my parents might, I was hell bent on living out this new rock thing I had found. No more Newsboys for me, and DC Talk could suck a dick as far as I was concerned. Rock and roll was the only good and decent noise I would ever listen to again. Except it wasn’t. Later on I discovered that there’s a whole lot of music out there that despite not being fueled by the devil, is pretty bad ass none the less. I think it was Hank Jr. that converted me. Whatever the case, I now love me some country.

Another good early morning activity is watching the crop reports. If you have never gotten your ass up super early and watched a crop report, you haven’t lived. They come on at four or five in the A.M. and believe you me, it’s worth the red eye to peel your peepers open and take in one of these bee-otches. It’s like a parody of a parody of the news in parody form. I honestly don’t think I can communicate to you exactly how ridiculous it is. Imagine the most country ass, red neck, cousin fucker you have ever met, with the thickest accent you have ever heard. Now imagine this guy telling you the weather and news as it pertains to farming. It’s wild.

Also, tele-evangelism is awesome. I may hate church, but I love me some Hollywood church. It’s so ridiculously fake and retarded. I want to jump through the screen and choke the life out of these douche bags. But I can’t take my eyes off of the whole embarrassment. It’s so fucking awesome.

In fact, now that I think about it, I hooked up with my woman early in the morning. It was the morning after I married Kenny and Rachel, and I woke up stupid early because I had slept in the chair in the living room. And Sarah was there, sleeping on the couch, and her folks were in the back bedroom, cause Kenny and Rachel were gone on their honeymoon. So I woke up, my neck was all cracked out and sore, and I had some mystery bruises on me. I remembered later it was because I was trying to help Sarah into the house (she was a bit tipsy after the wedding) and she tackled me off the front porch into the bushes. That was the exact moment I knew I was interested in her. I guess she knocked some sense into me or something, but I distinctly remember laying there in the bushes, trying to help Sarah up, and thinking to myself, “you dumb ass, why the hell didn’t you figure this shit out before now? She’s leaving tomorrow you know?”

And so I slept in the chair and woke up sore because I wanted to get a little more time with her in the morning. And I woke up really early, watched the crop report, and woke her up just in time for the Jack Van-Impe ministries. And apparently, her vagina was hanging out, (she slept in her bride’s maid dress) but I missed it. I was pretty bummed out at the time, but it all worked out alright in the end.

I suppose I should update on my holiday trip to the beach. It was meh. Meh. Meh. I didn’t have to meet any family. I didn’t have to meet very many of her friends. Not a whole lot of anything actually happened. I did see the most fucking awesome liquor store I have ever seen in my life. If heaven has a liquor store, it will be like the one in Beaufort North Carolina. No shit, it was gigantic, and shiny, and it smelled like happiness. First off, it was at least double the size of any liquor store I have ever been in. It was huge. Most ABC stores are tiny, poorly lit, and have a vague odor of vagrants. But this one had gigantic isles, every thing was clean, and orderly, and there was a bar. For real, an actual bar, in the liquor store. Holy hell that’s awesome. A long time ago, back before I was born, apparently my mom was a bar tender at an ABC liquor lounge. And the whole bar slowly spun in circles, like that scene in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. At least that’s the word on the street. That must be where I get it.

It would seem that I’m a ten year old. The reason being, I laughed my ass off every time we saw a sign for crabs. Hahahahaha! Crabs! I’m still laughing about it! That and this place called Dick Parker Ford. Due to a comedically placed flag, it looked a lot like Dick Packer Ford. I laughed for a good ten minutes on that one. And apparently I’m a dork. Because when we pulled into the back of Sarah’s friends trailer park, I saw her back yard was THE FUCKING OCEAN! So I ran back and climbed down the rocks, and dumped my head in the water. I mean, I’m not traveling all that way without getting a little wet. Well the locals all thought I was crazy. But I told them I was just excited to see the ocean. They quickly informed me that that was not if fact the ocean, but rather Bogue sound. And if I wanted to see the ocean I would have to trek my land lubber ass over to the other side of the island, and blah, blah, blah. But I told them, if the water is salty, it’s the fuckin ocean, and I don’t give a flying fuck who you are, you’d better not tell me otherwise because dammit, I’m trying to enjoy myself here!

But I really didn’t have that great a time down there. I wish I had gotten a little more time with Sarah, and a little less time with her friends. Also, apparently Sarah is a completely different person when her parents are around. She’s incredibly affectionate and likable when they aren’t around. But once they are, she doesn’t even know me. It sort of pissed me off. I’ll just write off the whole trip as one long crap fest. The food was good though. And I consumed my weight in Sailor Jerry’s rum. And any rum that was brewed up by a tattoo artist is pretty bad ass. Just a few more weeks till I get to see Sarah’s honkytonk badonkadonk again. I hate dating.

Update: I was dunking my head in Core sound, not Bogue sound, and I was on the mainland, not an island. My bad everyone, I know you really care how geographically correct my blog is.

The Build Up

As many of you are aware, I am in along distance relationship. And not one of those sweet movie-type long distance relationships where the people fall in love and then some conveniently timed obstacle comes between them, and they overcome it because they love each other, and life is magical pixie dust, and everyone has at least two happy endings for twenty bucks. No this is the real life kind where two people who might or might not be compatible start dating, but they live an ass long ways away from each other.

Now I am no stranger to neurosis, but this sort of relationship is new to me and is introducing new fun sorts of mental fuck ups into my life. For instance, I am going to see her tomorrow, and the only thing I can think is that the second I see her she’s gonna discretely let me know she no longer wants anything to do with me because she found some migrant worker named Julio who is much better in bed, and has already charmed her whole fucking family. This possibility scares me despite the complete lunacy of it. Am I weird?

For real though, I really am going to have to meet a lot of her ex boyfriends, all in one night, while I also meet her family, and I have jello shots shoved down my throat, and I have a drinking problem. Not to mention her step dad is a total alchy, and he loves me, and he’s promised to get me hammered whenever I visit him. So I have to be cool with a bunch of guys who stuck their wangs where I love to stick mine, but beat me to it, and meet her entire judgmental family, who already doesn’t like me, especially the mom, and at the same time, show her a good time as an alcoholic, without getting smashed, but still partying enough to be fun for her, yet not making an ass of myself. It scares me.

Also, this is a very small coastal town, where everyone knows everyone, and it’s been that way since way long ago, before I ever met anyone in her family. So she wants to introduce me to all her friends, who have heard a lot about me, and know probably every awkward intimate moment we’ve had. And who know her family well. And who know her entire dating history. And who love her deeply. And I have to come put on a show for them to prove I am a cool enough guy to date their life long friend. I do pretty well under pressure, but this shit is gonna be rough.

I honestly think I will do a great job of befriending all her friends and coworkers. But her family is disconcerting, since they have previous experience with me at the wedding. (blog post to come soon) And on top of that, I stopped wanking off on Wednesday, and I don’t see her till Friday afternoon/night. I did this so I could be extra ready for the fun, but now I’m just not liking life at all. Two days is a long time to go without rubbing one out! But now I’m too close to launch time to renig on my decision. It’s all or nothing, and I have to be all on this trip!

So I’m left with this taste in my mouth like I really like this woman. I do honestly. But I have to jump through hoops all weekend long, just to get a few minutes with her. Is it worth it? Yes, it is! I may not get to scrog her unconscious, but we’ll sneak in enough fun for two weeks despite whatever happens whilst I’m there. And yet, despite my motorized gift, despite my very real and severe attraction to her, despite my ability to win over families, despite my skill at winning over frineds, I still think she may just get a bit tired of me this weekend. And if I ever say (you know what, ILY) she will ditch me faster than a highway worker with a drainage problem. That’s how it’s always been, and when I’m wicked honest with myself, I am scared that she will just up and reject me for no reason and with no warning. Just like all my women do. You ladies turn against a guy like me very quickly, and very violently. And that’s the last I ever see of you. One moment all is well, the next, I am hated and alone. That sucks.

And I fear it in every relationship, at every moment, in every place.

My pets are kick ass. Well the one is. Venus, not so much.

So I have pets. I realize this doesn’t really set me apart from everyone else on the planet, but mine are pretty sweet. Well, not my cat really, she’s a psycho freak. But my snake is cool. Now pets have been a tradition in my family for as long as I can remember. We have baby photo’s of me as an infant, propped up in the corner of the couch. And my parents had this cat named Snoopy, and it would run along the couch and smack me on the side of the head. And since all babies are stupid, I would look, but it would be over on the other side by then. And we would repeat this until my parents got tired of laughing their asses of at my drooly confusion and toss me in a crib or a closet or wherever they kept me.

My mom was always a big nature person, so growing up we almost always had some sort of pet. My first memory of having my own pet was some hamsters we got. I couldn’t tell you what their names were, or what color they were, I just remember being really sad and crying when they died. So we got some lizards. The next time we were down visiting family in Florida we went out and caught a bunch of those little anole lizards that run wild everywhere down there. And we put them in this terrarium near the back door. And to feed them we would take my baby brothers diapers and lay them in the yard. And whenever the flies showed up as a team, we would go sit next to the crap pile and hold one of those plastic grocery bags over it until all the flies stopped flying around and settled on the poo. And then we simply slammed the bag down over them, and they would fly to the top, and we could pinch the bottom, careful not to grab any poo. And then we could let them loose in the terrarium and cheer for the hunting that ensued.

Later on we owned a series of fish, rodents, reptiles, and all sorts of bugs. It was a regular zoo for most of my childhood.

Anyway, skip ahead to my adult life, a year or two ago. I was living with Nate and Sami for the first time back then. And I was simply relaxing at home on a Saturday morning, drinking a bud and watching Magnum P.I., or Charmed or some such crap. Nate and Sami get home from shopping and let me know they have a surprise for me, and ooh boy was I excited. (excited = wary and unenthusiastic) Without consulting me they had gone out and gotten a cat for me to take care of. It was the gift that keeps on giving, fresh new bills. I really didn’t want a cat, but I said fuck it and agreed to keep the runt. (she really was the runt)

Well it turns out that it wasn’t so much a cat as it was the furry hell spawn of some demented demon. Not cool at all. She was a lovely kitten mostly. She had a tendency to attack my weiner through the sheets when I was sleeping. And nothing says “please kick me into the wall on the other side of the room” quite like clawing someone in the pee hole whilst they lie defenseless. But besides the weiner attacks, she was pretty cool. She house trained just fine. She didn’t destroy crap. She didn’t mewl all night, unless I locked her out of my room. I actually liked her a lot back then.

I decided she needed a name suited for royalty. I named her Venus DeMilo, the Duchess of Kittyston, cutest province in all of Catlandu. But then she grew up. And now she hates everyone. Whines all the time. Destroys everything. Eats incessantly. And attacks the crap out of the other cat. She would make a much better out door cat. She’s a good mouser, but no so cool inside.

My other pet is much cooler. His name is Musclini. Like the Italian dictator, but with muscles! Very clever right? I know, it is. Musclini is a red tail boa I got from a friend of my brothers who worked in pest control and removal. He was pussy whipped and his woman told him he wasn’t allowed to have the snake when she moved in. that was also about the time that we never saw him again because she controls everything he does and everywhere he goes. Anyway, we think it’s about 2 1/2 years old. It’s somewhere around 7′3″. And it eats the largest size feeder rat they have available. One of those gnarly bastards every two weeks.

You may notice Ziggy hanging behind me. I am actually standing on my bed in those pics, and Ziggy is the skeleton who hangs in front of the window next to my bed. I really do love Halloween. Ziggy has been a year round staple in my various rooms since I bought him a while back.

Any way. Those are my pets. Here’s some picture from around the house recently.

Thanksgiving dinner with my family.

Right, so I was going to post a blog about my pets, but the people went to sleep with the camera in their room because it’s the middle of the night, and I have to wait till at least tomorrow to do that. So instead I’m going to talk about Thanksgiving.

For those of you who don’t live here in the good ol’ USA, Thanksgiving is basically an excuse to feast on wickedly good home cooked grub. Now, historians and holiday enthusiasts may tell you Thanksgiving is a day to celebrate the fact that out early settlers managed to con the native peoples into helping our conniving asses make it through the early north eastern winters without freezing to death or running out of food. This is partially true. We did in fact barely make it, but that’s not the best part. Not only did we learn how to survive on local foods, but we did so in such a manner that we quickly blistered forth on this green continent into a massively contagious sore fest which completely obliterated almost any remnants of the original inhabitants.

There are still some left, and they live on reservations in the middle of nowhere. I am not sorry for them. That’s how history works. Look at the black folks over here. I shouldn’t have to apologize to them because my race was hundreds of years more advanced than theirs, and their tribal warlike people sold them as slaves into my peoples hands. It’s not my fault that white people have kicked everyones ass for most of recorded history. If you don’t like it, maybe you should travel back in time and tell your ancestors to stop chucking spears and start reading and writing. Whatever. Now the Indians have peyote, casinos, and they don’t have to pay taxes, so they’re doing at least as good as me. And the black folks aren’t stuck in a third world continent riddled with and AIDS epidemic and non stop civil wars and genocide. So fuck off and kwicher bitchin.

Anywho, we kicked ass and survived, and now we get together with our families to eat ridiculous amounts of food and watch football (american football, not soccer) and drink. I don’t know if Canada celebrates Thanksgiving or not. I would seem like we share some common settlers, butt who knows. You Cannucks do things your own way, and that’s all good in my book.

There are some basics you need to know about having a family Thanksgiving dinner here in America. First off, turkey. You have to have turkey, the bigger the better. And you have to cook that bitch whole. Like a twenty pound turkey would be good. And you have to stuff it with stuffing, which is soggy bread and sausage and sometimes cheese and raisins and beer. Actually, everyone has their own way to make stuffing, but sausage and cheese and beer and soggy bread are a good start in my opinion. and you have to cut it into huge slices and pile heaps of the crap on your plate before you even touch any of the other food. And everyone has to fight over who has to eat dark meat. And there should be one weird fucker there who likes the neck and giblets and gizzard and all that nasty hooplah. Usually you bake your turkey, but some people like to deep fry it. These people usually burn down their homes. Bake it.

After you have your turkey and stuffing established as a small mountain on your plate it’s time for side dishes. Now as Americans, when we get together as a family to feast, we have to have more food than you can eat in one helping. So at this point just grab a little bit of everything from the first half of the line. Around my home this usually means: cranberry sauce, mashed taters, sweet corn casserole, macaroni and cheese, gravy, bread of some sort, and a vegetable like broccoli or asparagus. Pile this as high as you can while still keeping it on your plate. Don’t worry, if your plate is too heavy and breaks, there is plenty more for the next few weeks, you can get a second batch. Now go sit down near whatever relatives you want to kill the least and dig in. Now that you have started shoveling food in your face, wait for your mother or aunt to bitch at you across the house to stop eating until everyone gets served and you all say grace. You don’t really have to close your eyes or bow your head for this. Mostly you just have to wait for one of the older men to somberly talk to his invisible friend for a few minutes, and when he’s done you can really dig in. Anyone who see’s you not participating won’t say shit because … and the survey says: they weren’t participating either, so screw em!

At this point some kids should come up to you and pester you for a few minutes to watch what they can do. Just ignore them, pretty soon their fat pregnant mother will waddle out of the kitchen and start screaming at them to go sit down at the children’s table and finish their plates or they won’t get any dessert. Now you will be accosted with questions from the older women of your tribe. Mostly these will be about why you don’t go to church or college, and why you don’t have a wife. (or husband) Blow these people off with some half assed answers mumbled through your taters and gravy, and hold out for a few more minutes until the men finish their first plates and settle in for the much slower and more intense second helping.

Now when you go up for your second helping there are a few must haves and a whole lot of your relatives crappy (but in their minds, delicious) side dishes. You need ham, duck, and any other meat available. Sometimes this will be pot roast, and some times this will be burgers and dogs, or grilled chicken. Whatever the case, get some of everything. Now you are down to the mediocre filler dishes. Get some slaw, if there is any. And sort of pick through the rest till you’ve got a pretty good, but not huge pile of food on your plate. Now go sit again. The kids and women will have busied themselves with their preferred activities, namely bouncing off the walls in front of the TV, and gossiping. Now you can talk about man things. (if you aren’t a man, you will have to go find a lady blog for the rest of our traditions during dinner, I know not what goes on)

For man time, you will probably get about two to four minutes of conversation in with one of your few cool cousins before your crazy uncle interrupts everyone to speak about his completely insane conspiracies involving the red Chinese taking over the world through sheer numbers, why gays are going to hell first, and whether speaking in tongues is required for getting into heaven or simply just highly suggested. You will not mention his idiocy or point out that he’s fucking crazy enough for a passing deaf, dumb, and blind toddler with cerebral palsy to pick up on the insanity of the entire argument from a distance of fifty paces. Nothing good will come of that, trust me. Also don’t ever say maybe he should try and work out how a condom works before he goes delving into the mysteries of the universe. Once again, shitville for whoever says that.

Now sit through fifteen or twenty minutes of his bull shit before the other men take over again and change the subject to hunting or football or the huge load of fireworks in the car that someone just got from South Carolina. Finish your plate and go out for a smoke and a digestion break. Stay there for half an hour at least. The turkey will be making your relatives slow and lethargic as they sit in the warmth. Use this to your advantage. Try and squeeze as mush food out of your stomach as possible and head back around to the kitchen for the third, but not final, plate of food.

This one is the best: dessert! There should be apple, pecan, minced meat, and pumpkin pie. There may or may not be cake and ice cream. There will definitely be someting made of fudge, something made of peanut butter, and several kinds of cookies, not to mention my mothers cherry cream salad. And if you are lucky, some warm out-of-the-oven cobbler. Georgia peaches are the best for this, but blueberries, blackberries, and cherries work pretty well in a cobbler pinch.

Go find a remote place to very slowly eat your dessert and hang out with your cousins. When you are finished, find something destructive to do. Usually this involves extreme ping pong, something with a dog, archery, firework battles, teaching kids stuff they shouldn’t know, or some combination of flaming material and heights. Continue this activity until someone freaks out and starts yelling or crying. Preferably crying. Now get ready to leave and go get wasted with your friends.

But wait Josh, we can’t leave yet, you said there was another plate of food! Yes indeed I did. Sneak back in amongst the crowd and FULLY load another plate or two with all of your favorites from the night. It works best if you can get several people working in unison to go grab a specific list of similar foods. (I’ll get the sweets, you get the meat, but not the chicken we have that at home, get lots of duck, it’s expensive, and you go grab the sides, but nothing too runny, we have to drive home, and no more mac and cheese, or potatoes, we have those already too, oooh, I almost forgot, get some more of those wicked sausage balls)

And that’s how you celebrate Thanksgiving in my family. It would be good to note that there are also some speeches about giving thanks, several prayers, and possibly songs performed by children who can’t sing worth a shit. I skipped most of that because it’s pretty much just living hell. So this year I’m thankful that I have a four day weekend. I’m thankful I don’t have to stay long. And I’m thankful I get to do it all over again with my girls family, wait what, come on! But see that thanksgiving dinner will be worth it because of the special dessert. If I don’t post again till next week, I’ll say hello to the beach for you.

A brief history of my YouTube addiction.

Well a year and a half ago I discovered YouTube. Before that I did things like occasionally view sunlight and interacting with members of the opposite sex, nay the general populace. But I found YouTube and got sucked in by it’s crack magic. I was smitten with an electronic love for this astonishing wonderland of creativity and global interaction. I made new friends from across the globe. I made myself some videos. And life was good.

You see, before YouTube the internet really had no use for me besides free porn and illegally downloaded music. I was happy limiting my usage to those two activities. But YouTube opened my eyes to a vast array of internet activities I had never been exposed to. After the initial binge of video consumption, I began reaching my e-tendrils out to other sites. I got a Myspace page, also known as social heroin. I started reading a few blogs. Pretty soon I moved on to harder usage, like Break.com, MegaUpload, and Flickr. I found out about all the free games and cool sites that I had never thought could exist.

Anyway, I thought I might share some of my previous internet activities with my new blog readers, sort of like a brief history of Josh. And before any of you start sending me your panties and professing your love for me, I’m sadly taken. You will have to long from a distance. Also, I realize that when my goatee is long it looks like pubic hair. I wear it short now to avoid that little problem. I just always wanted a long ass goatee, even as a young child, so I had to try my hand at it for several years a little while before I gave it up.

This first one was the only one that really kicked ass. Well it was at least funny to me. The premise was all about sticky songs. You know the annoying ones you don’t really like, but when you hear them you can’t get them out of your head for days. I believe in German they are called Orverms (I have no idea how it’s spelled, i just did it phonetically) which translates to “ear worms”. Yeah, well this video will unstick them by replacing them with lots of even more annoying songs using the latest in psychological therapy, a side hobby of mine. Ahem.

This was the first video I ever made. I didn’t have a camcorder at the time, so I had to use stills to illustrate the story line. I entered it into a contest a fella by the name of AericWinter hosted, in which you had to make a video about one of your stuffed animals. This one was all about (Curious) George the sock monkey. It’s weird, I’m just warning you.

And last but not least, a video I did for a friend of mine VeeBeeLicious, a total fox from across the pond. She, like me, is a bit of a freak, and she requested that all her subscribers make her a video in drag. Or at least in make up, I think I kind of volunteered the drag part. But anyway, if you want to see me in womens clothes, this would be the video for you. Also featured in this video, my brother Nate and my Sister-in-law Sami.

That pretty much sums up all the half way decent videos I made. Most everything else was shit, but if you want to check it out, my YouTube profile is OnceYouGoatee. Peace and chicken grease from Dixie Land.

If I ruled the world. (aka your very near future)

So apparently there’s some sort of secret society of wannabe dictators blogger group where they post challenges and the members write their posts accordingly, and then the votes are cast. And some sort of blood ritual occurs after which a victor stands and the rest know their better. I really don’t feel like joining any groups right now, but I did like their latest challenge, so I’m gonna try my hand at it. Plus, as someone pointed out in a comment, I’ve been rather sexual with my topics as of late, so I’m going to try and pull off some Disney magic for a while and keep it clean … er.

You know, so I don’t make children bleed from the eyes. (although …)

So the mystery challenge was to post what you would do if you were president for a day. I think. But of course I want to be president of the whole world. And I don’t want to be a president, I want to be called the Commander Supreme. In fact, let’s just go ahead and make it The Most Excellent Commander Supreme, Overlord of All Earth, King of Men! And then I want to get to choose a new name, so instead of Josh I would be The Most Excellent Commander Supreme, Overlord of All Earth, King of Men! His Excellency: Jumbofist McBonecrusher!!!!! (((crowd cheers))) (((ahhhhhhhh!!!)))

Ok, so my first act as Commander Supreme would be to put my face on Mt. Rushmore. But I want my head to be made of gold, not granite. And it should be at least twice as big as the other heads. And I want it to shoot a laser show out of my eyes and play Lynyrd Skynyrd over loudspeakers so that everyone in the surrounding countryside would be forced to rock out to my visage. And I want it to rock back like a Pez dispenser and shoot fire and ninja stars out of my mouth. And everyone who visits will get a free lengua torta with a tall glass of horchata, or beer, and baklava for dessert. Romi, I’ll make sure they get you a triple chocolate somethin’ somethin’.

2) I want fireworks every night. Everyone on the planet doesn’t have to participate, but I at least want them to go off in front of my crypt-like super-lair. In fact, I want Gandolph the Grey to be my pyrotechnician. If he’s not available, (I think he’s white now or something) I want George Lucas and all the employees if ILM to be my pyrotechnicians.

3) The 700 club must be taken off the air forever. And Pat Robertson will be forced to cross dress and drink excessively for the rest of his life. However, Jack Van Impe gets moved to prime time, because no other tele-evangelist can make me laugh like Mr. Van Impe and his trusty geriatric bimbo sidekick. That guy is the best kind of completely insane!

4) Gay people can get married. I don’t really care about gay people or their causes, I am just sick of hearing people whine about the issue, it’s over now. The gays win. Stop whining Christianity, it’s a brave new world out there. Are you ready for the apocalypse? Jack Van Impe is, maybe you should watch his program.

5) We’re gonna take all the money we were paying congress and the rest of Washington, and it’s all going towards better schools. And everyone in charge of a school in North Carolina looses their job and gets replaced by someone competent so maybe my home state won’t be full of idiots who didn’t learn jack when they should have. And in the place of the entire legislative branch of our government, will be me. I will put in my four hours a day of hard work and spend the next twenty or thirty years going through our laws and getting rid of all the dumb ideas. Because we don’t need more laws, we need less. And we don’t need a bigger government, we need a smaller one.

6) America, news flash: you are switching to the metric system like the rest of the world. It makes more sense and is much much easier to use. Stop being obstinant jack asses. Why are there 12 inches in a foot instead of ten? And why are inches broken down into fourths and eighths and sixteenths instead of a normal base ten measuring system? It’s idiotic. Stop it America.

7) Pick up your dogs poo, or get stripped and beaten in a public square. If any of your dogs poo ever ends up on the unsuspecting shoe, excuse me … spiked boot, of a certain Commander Supreme, you will be put to death and your dog will be Chinese food for my supper.

8 ) Black people have to wear at least half white at night. Well, this is mostly just for the thugs and general witless classless ignoramus’ that stain the otherwise respectable black community. No more of this all black attire. And you have to walk on the sidewalk, or at least near the side of the road. You may not have realized this, but unless you’re smiling real big, you’re invisible until you hit my bumper. And at this point, I wouldn’t slow down anyway, just walk on the side of the road like normal people or get run over, cause you’re pissing me off.

9) Movie previews have to accurately reflect both the general plot of the movie, and the general quality of the movie. You can’t take the only three funny lines from a chick flick, clip together a bunch of shots of chicks walking around, and pass it off as a college comedy. That’s called lying and it’s not cool. I fell for it with Boys and Girls, never again. Stop it Hollywood.

10) Toyota will be allowed to continue making the Camry. All other car companies will be required to discontinue any models that look exactly like the Camry. (ie: all car models currently sold in America) I like a little variety in my commute.

11) CEO’s of companies now make, on average, something like 300 times what their regular employees make. Under my reign the owners of companies will not be allowed to make more than 20 times what their average employee makes. with the exception of Arby’s, a chain run by the lowliest of scum in all the universe. The dregs of society will be forced to labor at Arby’s for little or no money, and if they continue taking forever to get me my jamocha shake, or they give out regular fries instead of curly fries, as their current regulations require apparently, they will be doused in kerosene and lit up with tasers. Also, speakers made with technology from some time in the last fifty years will replace the hand crafted audio scramblers they currently have in all drive throughs.

12) Christian “music” has lost their privilege to call themselves music anymore. From now on all Christian “music” will be referred to as ear torture of the propaganda persuasion. Or just “that unpleasant mess” for short. The same thing goes for all rap except Outkast and the Beastie Boys. And Everlast I guess.

13) Everyone at Revlon will be confined to their stations until they can reformulate all make up to smell less gross. I want it to smell like hickory smoke and beef jerky from now on. Because when I have my face close enough to smell make up, I want to enjoy myself. Sawdust would be a pretty sweet scent. Or pancakes. Yeah, chicks who smell like pancakes, now there’s a Utopian society. And guys, wash more. you just stink in general. And everyone, brush your teeth. In fact, go ahead and schedule four evenly spaced breaks during your work day which you will henceforth use to brush your teeth. Cause elevators are getting unbearable. The general public is starting to stink like a bunch of anime fans.

14) Welfare will be replaced by work camps. No more free rides. I’m not supporting any more poor people. I’m wicked poor and I never asked for a dime from the government, even when I was living in my car. From now on if you can’t/won’t get a job, yet you still want a check each month, you have to report for ten hours per day of labor in one of many new government work facilities. You will be provided with guaranteed work, and you will have the ability to support yourself and your family on a sparse income if you are willing to get off your lazy bum. Women will be assigned to help landscape, clean, and generally upkeep all government and public facilities. Men will construct new government and public facilities, as well as upkeep all roads and sidewalks. All prisoners will be put to constant labor for the good of society.

15) No more FCC. No censorship at all. You can either accept the fact that there are a lot of people who don’t want to follow the same moral code as you, and stop forcing them to, or you can move off the planet earth. If you don’t want you children being exposed to anything politically incorrect, crude, sexual, profane, or fun, then act like a parent and pay attention to what they are doing. And I’m personally going to force Tipper Gore to break every single one of her precious censorship laws on live national television, and get a parental advisory sticker tattooed on her face. You’re going down Tipper, you’re going down!

16) Cops will be required to take an anti-douchbag test to continue/begin in law enforcement, that way we can filter out the 99% of douchey cops who make the other honest and brave 1% look bad. Ok maybe that was a slight exaggeration, it could be more like 95/5 but whatever.

17) The greatest minds from around the world will be convened to try and divine some way to serve me good tasting coffee, quickly, cheaply, and somewhere below the average seven hundred degree standard that all food joints seem to have adopted. I actually do want to drink that-there coffee some time before noon jerk face, the whole point is to wake me up right now so I don’t punch my coworkers in the throat when they greet me with a chipper hello at seven in the freaking morning. In fact, hold on, …

18) No company shall ever open before the sun comes up. Think, what would Jesus do? If it’s too early for nature to wake up, I’m not gonna argue. God set the sunrise at a specific time each morning for a reason. Are you saying God is lazy? Cause he just might smite you if you do. And that’s not a chance I’m willing to take. If you don’t hate Jesus, and you don’t want to spit on the Holy God’s perfect plan for all creation, then don’t get up before the sun you smarmy workaholic.

19) If you are so fat that people have a hard time seeing the bottom of your two piece swim suit, wear a one piece. A loosely fitting canvas one piece that will keep you warm in the survival camp I’m sending all grossly obese people to to whip them into shape.

20) If you are on myspace, and you have no phone, and you want to use myspace to communicate with all your friends all the time, that is ok. But send messages to talk to them in stead of posting bulletins. You are wasting the limited space in my bulletin window that could be notifying me of crap I actually care about. Like anything besides o.O <l:-)> or whatever retarded other emoticons you figure out how to type. And never post a bulletin that says, “hey whrz everybdy at? Come chil” I hate that shite. I will never chil wit u again loser. In fact, I’m bombing your house just for wasting my time.

And I guess I’ll be posting my friends into positions of power. If any of you have any requests for new jobs in my New World Order, let me know, I’ll probably let you do whatever you want. Except you The Queen, you have to choose something that doesn’t involve changing any laws. You know what I’m talking about. Pick anything else and it’s all good.

Vibrators and Butt Plugs and Cock Rings, OH MY!

So I was chatting with my woman on the phone last night, preparing for my first visit down east to the beach. I’m gonna tag along with Kato and Rachel when they go down to her parents for thanksgiving weekend. I think now is a good time to mention that Kato’s name is really Kenny, and I’m the only person who calls him Kato, like from the Green Hornet. And he fucking hates it, he gets pissed when I call him that. But he doesn’t read this blog, so I can do whatever I fucking want. Plus he is a big part of the reason that every friend I have has called me Muffin for the last five or six years. So I owe him some grief.

Anyway I get to visit Sarah, and hang out with her father in law, who is this kick ass redneck dude who just started a boat building company. And I want to see that too. Plus, who doesn’t enjoy visiting a small town where everyone knows everyone and having the opportunity to meet every GD dude who has ever banged the girl you’re with? Kidding. I’m not really looking forward to that. Boo fucking hoo, I know.

So we’re blabbing on the phone, and the conversation starts to get a little randy, and at some point I mention that I’m pissed because I lost Pocket Sally. And she was all shocked that I had a sex toy. I told her my porn star/stripper/bartender friend had bought it for me for Christmas a few years ago. We actually kept the box on the mantle for a while. It was cool. But I was surprised to find out that apparently she has never had a toy of her own. No shit! I didn’t know there were people out there who had never been in a sex shop and bought something to pass the time alone. Seriously, I think every girl I am friends with has, or has had some sort of dildo or vibrator.

So I told her I was going to remedy that situation and get her a gift so we could have a little fun during my visit. So I go online today to figure out exactly what I want to get her, and lo and behold, it turns out I don’t know jack shit about sex toys. I have no idea where to begin. I knew the basics. You’ve got dildos, vibrators, and mini vibrators. But noooooooooo, there’s so much more!

There are butt plugs, rabbit style vibes, clit lickers, vibrating cock rings, dildos of every shape, size, and texture, waterproof vibes, vibrating whips, vibrators in the shape of mice, octopi, cobra’s, and even three fingered hands. There are ticklers, g-spot stimulators, poon suckers, beads, probes, bullets, and toys with so many attachments they look more like pervy swiss army knives. A few of my personal favorites were the Cobra vibrator, I rub my duckie, (a super smart idea btw, hide it in plain sight) and the ever popular glow-in-the-dark clone-a-willy vibrator kit.

Now I don’t have much experience with owning a vagina, so I’m not really sure what to get her now. It would almost feel too tame to get a plain old dildo after the shopping/learning I just did. But maybe that’s just the ticket. but if so should I go with glass, metal, or something fleshy? And if I get a vibrator, what sort is the best? Is the normal phallic style good enough, or should I get one with one of the rabit style clit stimulators? Or maybe something more discreet, like a bullet style mini vibrator. I definitely don’t want to make myself obsolete, so I won’t be going with anything like the 8″ vibrating Emperor. I mean jeez, I do alright, but DAMN! She’s gonna laugh at me after that.

I’m leaning for either a discreet bullet style like the Fukuoku 9000 Massager, or something sleek like Jenna’s Velvet Jewels. I don’t want to scare her, this is her first toy after all. But I don’t know what I’m doing. So if any of you ladies have any advise for a fella, let me know. Cause I’m picking something before I go, for better or for worse. I figure the worst thing that could happen is that I have to resort to normal sex, and that’s a chance I’m willing to take.

Also, a vagina related story from today: Sami had to go get her wisdom teeth removed today, and apparently the anesthetic they use makes your crotch really itchy, but the dentist didn’t warn her. So her poon starts itching and she keeps going to scratch it, but pretending it’s her arm instead so she doesn’t look stupid. Oh my god, that just cracks me up. Itchy poon gas. Awesome.