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I’ve mentioned before that I’m a convicted felon. What I haven’t talked much about was the life changing experience of being locked up in the Wake county jail for ninety nine days. It may not have been prison, and it may not have been that long, but I certainly consider it one of the experiences that has most impacted who I am and how I view the world. Please allow me to share with you my memories of the time I spent on the inside.
I committed my crime while blacked out. I had drank eight shots of Jagermeister, approximately, and had a mixed drink, and also drank a little over twenty beers that evening. I am not going to go into the details of my crime, my story for you starts much like it did for me, waking up handcuffed in the back of a police car with the lights flashing, and a full force of other cars and officers milling about in their typical cocky, I’m-the-fucking-shit policeman way. My immediate reaction was one of general panic and confusion. I hate the pigs anyway, and clearly I had had some sort of confrontation with them which I couldn’t get away from. As my eyes cleared, and I blocked out the pounding pain in my head, I began to take further note of my surroundings.
I was chilled and shivering, my jacket nowhere to be found. When I sat up and twisted my arms behind my back I noticed my shoes were also missing. I had no idea where I was, or what had transpired to land me in the back of a police car in the middle of what appeared to be ground zero for some sort of mass murder scene. The sheer amount of law enforcement on site suggested some serious shit had gone down.
When I got to the police station, still drunk out of my mind, they explained to me what I had done. I didn’t really think my crime was that big a deal. Certainly not one that would warrant a force capable of defending the fucking Alamo. And like the cock sure little bastard I am was, I began talking pure shit to the pigs in the station. Although funny as hell, it was quite possibly the worst thing I could have done in that situation. Over the next eight hours as I was processed through the Garner station, I gradually sobered up some and one by one battered my way through every emotion on the spectrum. Things were beginning to sink in, and I could feel a mental cage quickly closing in on me. There was nothing I could say or do that would stop me from getting locked up for a long time. And I cried. I felt sheer fear and helplessness sitting there in cuffs, just waiting to be thrown in a box with the worst criminals my city had to offer. I broke down at that moment, and all my fear and rage and raw emotion came out in one base expression.
By the time I actually made it to the jail house and got processed I was painfully sober, and feeling the full effects of a Guiness world record hangover. Blow in this machine son. I coughed and sputtered on the verge of vomiting. Look at the camera boy. My eyes screamed against the flourescent lights. What were you thinking punk? What does the law allow us to charge him with? Fuck you pig. Fuck you.
I sat in the holding cell for another twelve hours. Who could I call? My family was on vacation in another state. They wouldn’t be back for several days. My room mate never checked the answering machine. The work office never answered at all. And no one I knew would accept a collect call from an inmate. I was alone, and scared. I tried to get some much needed sleep on the bench, but it’s designed to be uncomfortable. My jumpsuit was scratchy and simultaneously restricting and unnecessarily loose. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t rest. The lights never go off. The concrete walls echo every scream from every inmate, every mechanical door slamming itself shut, every time an impatient ass hole beat on his window to get the guards attention. Each thug scum bag would eventually ask me why I was in. “None of your business” was my only response. Time came to a crawl, and I waited, craving a cigarette, occasionally throwing up the water I drank. Slowly, I waited.
And soon enough the next shift came in and rounded us all up. We were shackled at the wrists and ankles and led up to each of our new homes. I got third floor green pod. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. The guard led me in and told me to find a spot to put my mat. Forty some odd pairs of eyes stared at me, none friendly. I scanned the pod to see how the mats were placed and look for an open slot. There was a full house that night. Every cell was full, and every open space between doorways looked to be taken. I just stood there glaring at the room, trying to look strong, but feeling very small.
A large white man with a shaved head hollered at me to come place his mat beside him. Even laying down he was a big fella, and he seemed to be in excellent physical shape. On first glance he appeared to be meaner than than the devil himself, but upon closer inspection his eyes betrayed a genuine kindness that somewhat reassured me he wasn’t too dangerous. He showed me how to tie my sheet around the mat so it would stay in place, and how to roll up my extra clothes and supplies to put under the mat for safekeeping, and to provide a makeshift pillow-like lump.
A voice came from behind the door next to me. The face in the shadows asked what my name was. Well it turns out the mystery man was in fact a dealer named Chuck from Woodland, a semi run down neighborhood inhabited by a notoriously rough criminal crowd. Mostly white trash skater kids who grew up poor and gnarley. I wasn’t close friends with Chuck, but it was still good to see a familiar face, especially among the predominantly dark meat that certainly wasn’t looking like they were going to be easy to get along with. We caught up on old times and played some cards under the door for a while, then went to sleep.
The next morning I was introduced to my first state provided breakfast. Let me assure you, the government does not provide anything near good food, nor do they provide it in large quantities. I believe it was cold grits, one hard boiled egg, a thimble sized helping of some kind of sausage, (the term sausage is being used very liberally in this situation) and some toast.
I’m looking forward to having my current legal troubles over and done with. This has all been going on for so long now that I just want to bring it to an end and deal with whatever they give me. I’m ready to serve time if I have to, but I sure as hell don’t want to. I know I can survive on the inside, but I’d rather not. Until you have been locked away for a few months of your life, you probably don’t appreciate all the freedom you have. Today I get to sleep in a dark room under real blankets. Today I get to choose what I eat, and when I eat it. Today I don’t have to keep one eye on my mat at all time so my personal belongings don’t get stolen. But this afternoon I may not be so lucky.
So I start my day with hope, because that’s really the only thing you always get. There used to be this hawk that roosted somewhere around the jail house. I named him Mo the Hawk, and to me he became my personal symbol of freedom. I would sit at my window and watch him fly around for hours. He was my hope, that one day I could be free like him. No matter what happens to you in life, no one can ever take away your hopes and dreams. The hope that I can be free. The hope that I can educate myself and make a successful life for myself. The hope that somewhere out there is a girl I will fall in love with one day. These are the things that give me the strength to push on through the hard times in my life. In case I don’t talk to any of you for a while, keep hope alive my friends. They might shackle my body, but they can’t chain down my soul.
I’m gonna tell y’all a little about my drug dealer. We’ll call him Frankie the Weed Man. Now Frankie and I have been close friends for a very long time. We know each other very well. And good old Frankie just got himself a new house. Well, it’s not a new house, and it’s not really his. He has three other room mates, but you get the idea, he just moved in. And Frankie is a younger fellow, so this is the first time he’s lived away from his family. I’ve kind of been procrastinating about going over to visit him. There’s no easy way to get there on my scooter. It’s either balls to the wall speeders on highway 40, or it’s pissed off rednecks in gigantic trucks down little old skinny ass, crazy winding Old Garner Road. Either way spells probable death for yours truly. Plus I’ve been busy as hell anyway, between work, studying, chores, alcohol classes, and spending way too much time on Facebook and looking at porn, well I’ve been pretty well swamped for time. But he came over last night and told me I had fifteen minutes to get ready, cause we were going to hang out at his house. So I got my ass off MSN messenger, cleaned up a little, and hopped in his car to go have some fun.
Now, I don’t really need a good weed connection. I’m what you might call a light weight. But as any of you who have spent any time purchasing drugs will know, dealers tend to be kind of like Cheech and Chong. They get really into their pot scene, and sometimes go a bit overboard with it all. First of all, on the way to his house we stopped at a country gas station for some booze. Since he’s underage I told him to chill in the car while I got my Budweiser, and of course he promptly forgot all about it and walked right in to buy some blunt papers. It’s a small store with these ancient country folks running it, and they know we came in the same vehicle, especially when we end up right next to each other in line. So Frankie gets his mango-strawberry-cool whip-hickory smoked blunt wraps, or whatever those freaks have come out with this week, and the old man is just scowling at him like he ran over his dog or some shit. He’s clearly one of those old school baptist country boys, who frown on things like smoking weed and getting drunk and saying fuck really loud when you accidentally knock over a bunch of beef jerky. Anyway, old man river is looking right pissy when I set my twenty case up on the counter. He just scowls at me, not saying a word. So I scowl right back at him, and very very slowly pull out my wallet. We have our little stare down and then the transaction continues and I walk the hell out of there before he goes vigilante justice on my ass. Me and frankie laughed about it on the way out. Apparently he was giving the old man a hard time too. Surly bastard.
Anyway, so right before we get to his house he warns me not to have sex with Blondie. Now, I’ve never met Blondie before, so I appreciate the lookout, but normally I pretty much trust my own judgment on what sort of strangers I meet at my drug dealers house I want to sleep with, and which ones I want to avoid. (mainly all of them) So I asked him why exactly should I pass on Blondie’s tang if it was available. Apparently she has herpes. Good call Frankie, I’ll make sure to never ever bang that chick. Close one, sort of.
We go in and flick on the lights and he tells me that none of his room mates are home right now, but one of their moms is going to be stopping by later for some pot, so not to freak out if she showed up unannounced. I thought I could manage that. Now this house is a very old farm house. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a hundred years old or more. All the rooms have weird angles. It’s full of those twists and turns, and surprise nooks that you only find in old houses that have been built on to over the years. And it turns out that this house is also racist. No joke, the living room is covered with murals of old plantation life. At first glance it just looks like some pleasant pictures of people riding horses and having picnics. But then you look a little closer and all those people are rich white folks. The rest of the mural is black slaves leading the horses back to the barn, and I’m not kidding one single bit, picking cotton. Bahahahahaha! Cotton picking slaves! That’s so horrifically politically incorrect that it blows my mind. I can’t believe no one has painted over it in all these years. It’s clearly been there for a very long time.
So we head on up to his bedroom, and I’m telling him how I love old houses. He said he liked everything but the ghosts. “Ghosts?” Well apparently there’s some sort of cellar where he thinks black slaves were tortured. I think he’s just been smoking too much reefer. So he whips out his bud, consisting of several very large bags of different grades, and picks the one he wants to pack up Camel Tits with. (Camel tits is a zig zag shaped bong with a picture of a camel that has tits for humps) Now, I haven’t smoked out of a bong for years. Like I said before, I’m a lightweight. So of course upon hearing this he packs up his hairiest heady dank, and even pulls out some dank crystals he had been collecting from his dank only grinder. Skip ahead a few minutes as Frankie is hollering down the hall at me, “if you’re gonna puke do it in the sink! The toilet leaks into Nicks room!” I didn’t puke, but I did take one hell of a dank ass bong hit, followed by a few more. What the hell right? I mean life is short, I might as well have some fun with my dealer. Who needs functional lungs?
So he hands me a purple marker and tells me to draw something on the door paper thingie. After closing the door to get to the back side I was greeted with a big sheet of paper across the back labeled “door paper thingie”. Me thinks I have found what I was looking for. I started drawing a dragons head, but quickly realized that dragons drawn in purple are inherently non-badass, so I gave up on the whole gnarly death lizard thing and gave him black-face lips and a corn cob pipe. At this point I notice the naked chicks at the top of the door. “Sweet, nice pussy dude” was my first reaction.
Now I did not know it at the time, but apparently these two posters of fine young women putting on display what the good Lord had given them was more than just two posters of naked chicks. Turns out it’s their secret gay test. Apparently Frankie and his room mate across the hall have had some guys come over and they weren’t sure if they were ….. digging in the oyster ditch or playing the meat flute, so they devised a gay test that was a secret between the two of them. They would seat said individual on the couch facing the door and casually swing it shut. If their first reaction was something about the ladies, they were straight. If they didn’t say anything about the girls, they were fags. Not that they hate fags or anything, they just like to know. But I passed. I asked Frankie if he had to deal with a lot of gay folks and he just laughed. Apparently right before he had come to pick me up he had accidentally found a butt plug at one of his gay clients houses. I can’t write down his reaction because it was just a long series of faces and guttural sounds, but let me assure you it was funny as shit. Kind of like Earnest P. Worrell.
We had some really funny stuff go down, and I can’t even remember all of it, mostly because of the dank bong hits and the beer, but just a few more stories of interest. I saw my first hydroponic setup. They’ve got a wicked little grow room hidden away in part of their roof. And they’ve got a bunch of little seeds germinating from five different kinds of dank strains. I am excited to see that take off. He had another bong he called the Nintendo. Probably like myself you are wondering why they named it that. Well apparently it only takes cartridges. If you don’t know what cartridges are, don’t feel dumb, neither did I. Apparently you roll up a blunt, dry it out, and cut it into four pieces. These can be inserted into the slider on a bong, and give you four hits or so of premium blunt flavor. And each little section of blunt looks like the cartridges that Spider man uses to shoot web. Cool name but lame application. I hate blunts. I think they taste like dog shit and should only be smoked by the ghetto ass urban bitches who came up with them. I think respectable potheads should smoke from pipes and bowls and bongs and shit, and limit their rolled up smoking to joints like God intended, but apparently I’m the last person on earth who thinks that, so too fucking bad for me. (I don’t like 50 cent either, and I think corn rows look retarded) Plus it’s almost impossible to pass around a blunt with half the people you-know-what lipping it. Bah! I hate blunts.
He had a tit ball. This is even more kick ass than whatever you are thinking of. Imagine a rubber ball filled with some sort of liquid, so it jiggles like a tit. And on one side, is a nipple. It’s all painted to look like a human tit and everything. And they invented a game to go with tit ball. Basically you have to make a basket out of your hand and keep the tit ball jiggling, then pass it back and forth. Whoever drops it, or accidentally stops jiggling it looses.
So anyway, we had gone down to the kitchen for some more beer, and I asked him where this torture dungeon cellar was where apparently he had said they got their ghosts from. I mean, you can’t just tell me you have a haunted dungeon under your house and not show me the damn thing. He opened this door that lead down to the cellar, but the light wasn’t working. So he went off looking for a flashlight to show me. He couldn’t find one. So instead we pulled out our lighters and headed down the staircase into the pitch black cellar. You could feel the cold air blowing past you as we descended the rickety stairs. I had to duck to avoid hitting my head, and the bottom stair was broken, which I found out right about the same time I found out the hand rail was only barely attached. In the blackness I could smell that stale dirt smell that really old cellars have. There was a light bulb, but it was blown out. It was a short room, looked to be the size of the house, but honestly I couldn’t see more than seven or eight feet ahead of me with the tiny flame as our light.
The ceiling, built low to begin with, was made even lower by the air ducts that had been added onto the house some time after electricity was invented. You had to stoop over to walk around, and old cobwebs hung from every beam and duct. The house above us creaked and groaned from the wind, complaining of old age to anyone who would listen. Frankie lead me to the back wall of the cellar where there was a door built into the block wall. It appeared to be a very sturdy door, with those old hand wrought hinges, and a large metal beam that locked it shut. It was stuck in place, so Frankie had to push on the door as I slid out the cross bar, in the dark since neither of us could use our lighters for this. I set the bar up against the wall and pulled on the door. It was heavy, and groaned at me as I opened it. One of the air ducts had been placed close to the door, so it only opened enough to barely fit one person in if you squeezed. Frankie told me this is where they had kept the slaves who were bad, and tortured them when they tried to escape. So I held up my tiny flame and peered inside, but saw only cobwebs and falling dust from the door. So I put my flame hand in first and slid my body in sideways between the door and it’s frame. I stood there just inside the tiny room, trying to make out images in the flickering light. Right then Frankie screamed and grabbed me.
I am not going to lie, I hollered something awful loud. He got me good on that one. There were never any ghosts. The lights worked just fine. He had actually brought it all up at the beginning of the night trusting that my own curiosity would eventually lead me down into the basement for a good scare. One day I am going to own a house with a creepy ass basement and scare the living shit out of people all the time. It was priceless. And the lighter part, that was pure genius. I should have seen it coming, in fact the thought had crossed my mind that he was going to try and scare me when we got down in there, but still he completely surprised me. The timing, the scenery, every part of that practical joke was executed perfectly. So here’s a tip of the hat to Frankie the Weed Man for scaring the crap out of me, I loved it dude. That was like watching all two hours of the Devils Rejects for the first time, except cramming all the fear into ten seconds. Cheers you hilarious asshole. You’ve got it coming.
Good old Emerald, being the daughter of Rock and Roll incarnate, has recently mentioned how much she hates the suburbs. And that’s all good, except almost every memory I have is from the suburbs, where I’ve lived my entire life. So in todays post I want to address some of the pro’s and cons of Suburbia, the land of manicured lawns and one thousand drug stores.
First off I want to say that I can’t speak for all of the suburban sprawl across the planet. I realize that there are vastly different cultures in vastly different areas, and that will have a big impact on how life in Suburbia is for you. But I will tell you about my own experiences, as I saw them, in my little slice of Earth culture.
I was born in Florida, not that it matters much. I only lived there as an infant, although I spent a good deal of my childhood living there on vacation with my extended family. After Florida, my family moved to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love. More like the city of filth and crime. And even there we were in the suburbs. I remember some great memories from my life in Philly, but I also remember the constant threat of city violence and crime. It was livable, but not really good. I remember the snow the most. We had this kick ass park with what seemed like a gigantic hill that got covered in snow every winter. We weren’t allowed to play there by ourselves, but I remember sledding on that hill all the time. I still miss snow to this day. Also I remember this pizza joint in our neighborhood. Every time we went there this old Italian yankee dude would greet us and take our order. He remembered our names every time, and I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the best pizza in the whole freakin world. I mean this family could cook up some delicious shiznit. Fo sho. But that’s about all I remember about living there.
So my family ended up in Raleigh, North Carolina. This is where I have almost all of my memories. All my life can be summed up in the suburbs if Wake county. And I don’t really think that’s a bad thing. I had a lot of good memories in Suburbia. So here’s some of the good and bad things I remember from living here.
Something about Suburbia has always felt really weird, like it shouldn’t exist in real life. It’s always had a certain Alice in Wonderland feel to the entire experience. The way the carefully landscaped lawns and gardens laid across the land like checkerboards at night. Rabbits and cats prowling the shadows and the occasional night bird. Fairy circles in the grass, and the symphony of a thousand cicadas trying to drown out the crickets and frogs. The flickering orange light from the street lights, illuminating empty streets occupied only by the occasional dog walker and cop, and of course the random scurrying societal misfit sneaking hither and thither on some black market mission. That’s why I always liked taking a lot of drugs and wandering around at night. My favorite was hallucinogenics, but you can take whatever you like the most. It’s all fun. I recognize this may be perceived as a bad idea, but I wasn’t ever in any danger, except from the ever vigilant pigs. There are a lot of cops in Suburbia, but you can artfully dodge them if you know you neighborhood, and have two licks of common sense. Trust me when I say that cops are much, much less intelligent than criminals. (me at least) If you can get away with it you deserve to. And boy did we. Almost every night in my later high school years, I would carefully slip open the window, ease my body out into the hot air of the night, and hit the road for some nocturnal suburban chemical voyages.
The general hub of travel for our neighborhood was South Garner Park. (that’s right, South Park) Located between the two subdivisions next to ours, it had a seemingly endless array of dark forest paths to escape through. All the bad kids would eventually meet up in this park. And at eleven every night a police officer would drive in, scope the place out, and lock it up so no cars could get in. After then you were safe. We climbed the soccer goals, threw rocks at the lights, raided the shack for candy, started fires. Whatever destructive activities our minds could come up with, we could do it, and all whilst higher than a fucking kite. And if the cops ever did show up, none of them knew the paths well enough to run down them at night. Even with the added advantage of flashlights, we could out run the cops in the dark. At one point we constructed this massive, MASSIVE fort in one section of woods between some trails. I mean, the walls were made of logs dug into the ground and placed as vertical posts. The exterior was camouflaged so well that even in the winter with no leaf cover, you still couldn’t see the damn thing from twenty five feet away. We carried some benches into it, along with a cooler and some lawn chairs, even a grill from the park. We had a fire pit. It was awesome. I couldn’t ever find it without help, since I was absent during the construction phase. But I had this friend named Scott, and I would follow him down these forest paths at night, only barely perceptible patches of moonlight sifting down through the branches to light the way, and he would simply glide down the path. Scott was a kind of creepy guy anyway, because besides being extremely large, and having green hair, he almost never spoke. Still to this day getting him to say more than three words is like pulling teeth. But Scott would silently, I don’t know how to explain it, levitate through the woods for a few minutes, then suddenly stop at some secret marker, and walk right into the forts secret door just a few paces away.
Eventually though, we started getting cars and could branch out and find newer, cooler places in suburbia to fuck around. There was a closed down strip mall about ten minutes up towards Raleigh, and all the bums lived in the woods behind it. At the time, the only thing that was open in the mall was a black night club, and it was only open at night. So we would head back to the loading docks out of view of any pigs and skate around getting drunk and having fun. Occasionally we would have to chase off some homeless fucker who thought the sheltered dock belonged to him, but usually we would leave each other alone.
We discovered this dirt utility road that lead back into the woods on highway fifty. It wound past a condemned house that had been grown over, and around to this really sweet pond in the middle of the woods. I guess the city built it there to access the water lines that had man holes farther on down the road, but at the time we just hung out at the pond. I didn’t discover the man holes till a few years later when I slept in my car at the end of that road for a month or so. But this pond was completely hidden from all view. No houses around at all. And it was just as pretty as you could ever ask for. The duck weed grew thick and healthy, and the woods looked pristine, even though we were really just between developments. We rolled some concrete pipe down the road about a hundred yards and made a trash barrel so we could keep our new spot nice and clean. We called it “the cut”. But eventually word started to spread that there was a new safe place to pull off a car and smoke up or get drunk with plenty of people, and the city chained off the road. Too many dip shits found our secret cut, trashed the place, and brought the heat.
I remember the first time we climbed the towns water tower. It was located right behind one of the police substations, so you had to be really careful. Well, we should have been really careful, but we didn’t really give a shit back then. We would steal the antennas from the police cars and give them to our friends. They get really good reception I hear. For some reason stealing antennas from in front of a police substation on the historic main street seemed perfectly safe, but screwing that sucker on my own vehicle seemed way too risky. Once you parked your car and snuck back to the lot, you had to get in this huge fence with barbed wire. But the idiots who locked it up left enough chain to slide in between the gates. Then you had to turn a palate up on it’s end to reach the bottom of the ladder. And someone had to carry the beer up, usually a 24 pack. That was harder than it sounds cause you’re climbing hundreds of feet straight up a ladder. Maybe thousands of feet, I’m not sure, I am what you might call a ground person.
It gets scary at about thirty feet, cause you realize that if you do fall, you will probably get killed. Once you get up above the pine trees you can see out across the town, and your arms start to get a little tired. Then you realize that if anyone above you on the ladder slips, you’re probably going down too. When you pass the tree tops, the wind starts to pick up and whip at your body. Somewhere around fifty feet before you reach the top, the ladder actually starts to lean out a little, so you’re climbing up a ladder waaaay off the ground, carrying 288 ounces of beer, leaning back, and your arms feel like they’re going to give at any minute. Sometimes people would panic right about here and just freeze. Not cool. But somehow we made it all the way up and back down every time. We’d sit up there looking out for what seemed like the whole span of the planet, sipping our beers, pissing down on the trees below us, and staring out at the moon and stars and the big buildings over in Raleigh.
Eventually the cops caught on that we were fucking around there too. Again, too many dumb fuckers making too much racket and tearing shit up. We had a few close calls where we had to hoof it from the police. They never caught us climbing the tower. But eventually this dickless sack of monkey shit narked out me and my two little brothers by name, alleging that he was meeting us there later that night for a big drug deal, which wasn’t true. They stationed two police cars at each of the water towers in Garner that night. It just so happened that one of the guys in my car lived on that tiny road that went past the police substation and the water tower. When we went to drop him off, they pulled us. That was on Independence day, 2001. The police were so proud of themselves for catching such vile public enemies. That was the first time I ever caught a charge, possession of an alcoholic beverage by persons under the age of 21. If I ever see that rotten mother fucker who narked out me and my brothers to try and save his own ass, who made up some bull shit and had three fucking separate police stings going to catch us, I swear on my fucking testicles I’m going to stomp a mud hole in his ass and walk it dry. Snitches get stitches Brandon fucking Stancill, and if I ever find you, you’d better have a fucking gun, cause no amount of kung fu or muscles is going to stop the tirade of hate I rain down on your sub human ass. Fuck you, you wigger bitch.
Ahem. Sorry about that.
I suppose that pretty much sums up my life in the suburbs. If we need anything special, you can find just about anything you want up in Raleigh, Durham, or Chapel Hill. We didn’t have all the crazy shit people living in big cities have available, and that meant we often had to find our own ways to have fun, but we were good at that. Because kids in the suburbs are often a lot of fun. I had many more good experiences than bad. I met a lot of good people, and only a few scum bags like Brandon. Sure, in the suburbs you can’t ride the subway, but that means everyone owns a car and therefore has more mobility. And maybe if you get a craving for falafels at two in the morning there isn’t any place to get them. But this is North Carolina, there aren’t any places to buy falafels in the first place. If you get hungry in the middle of the night, and you don’t feel like getting off your ass and cooking, then just head on down to the Waffle House, or the Country Kitchen and grab some good old fashioned souther cookin. I promise the tea will be just as ice cold and sweet as you can imagine, and the waitresses will be gnarled and burly country women, just like they should be. We may not have the Broadway nights, but you’ve probably never tasted any shine. And we may not have huge museums, but have any of you downtown big city folks ever picked psilocybic mushrooms from a cow field fifteen minutes from your house? I can be in the capital building in twenty minutes and feed deer in the back yard every night. I can head to Raleigh and watch the Carolina Hurricanes stomp your asses for the Stanley Cup again, or I can head the other direction towards Benson for Mule Days. Nobody gets to have everything in their life, and sometimes I wonder what it’s like to live in a huge urban metropolis, but honestly I really love the suburbs, and I really love the south. I’m happy with my place here on earth, and if you don’t like it, you can kiss my rebel ass! (no offense Em, I’m not directing that at you, even though you inspired this post. Although if you really got the hankerin’ for a little booty smooch, well, we could play that by ear)
Now in the spirit of doing stupid, crazy shit, just for fun to pass some time in the suburbs, (like right before the Super Bowl for instance) here’s a few pictures of me riding my scooter while holding a pirate flag stapled to a pick axe.
I realize this is probably the most bad ass thing you have ever seen. Mr. Redshirt felt the same way about it. Please note that I am clearly standing up while driving downhill at top speed, with one hand, and no helmet, with not only a pirate flag in my hand, but a skull and cross bones on my Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt. I apologize if you just came in your pants, I assure you that was not the only purpose of this photo shoot.
I really liked this last photo. It was actually a crappy shot of me riding around in circles in the cul de sac, but you can see the entire family of red necks sitting across the street watching me screw around. I kind of like to think of my beer fueled antics as a public service, curing the boredom epidemic. Have a nice hump day, or plague day, whatever you call it.
Holy bat shit Batman, I don’t know about you but this Valentines day seemed crazier than usual. I’ve got stories galore to share with you.
I don’t normally go for all kinds of mushy shit, but there was some unfortunately. My work buddy Kato proposed to his woman on Valentines day. (I’ve decided to call work Kenny “Kato” and “Kenny & Rachael” Kenny by his real name, cause it’s getting hard to remember which one is which and I can’t call both of them Kenny or you will all be confused as shit) First of all, he declared bankruptcy a while back, so he really should not have even been approved for a line of credit at Friedman’s Jewelers in the first place, but those suckers let his broke ass right through the system and gave him one of those little shiny circular things that chicks like. So his woman had to work late, and she was having an especially hard day with people getting fired and getting sick and all sorts of crazy shit. So when she walks in the door, she’s ready to collapse and almost in tears. I don’t know exactly how he popped the question to her, cause he didn’t really elaborate on all that. But apparently she said yes and she busted out the waterworks, which I’m pretty sure every chick does. And then she had to call up her mom. And naturally the mother wanted to know what the ring looked like over the phone. It’s got a round part that’s gold and a shiny rock on one side, just like every other engagement ring in the history of mankind, what the fuck do you think it looks like?
And then they had to call her two kids into the room and explain it to them. The oldest, who’s 14 I think just shrugged and said cool and went back to playing video games. (Not a big deal really, they’re all living together anyway) But the young one, who’s 11, and wired like a squirrel on meth, and borderline mental, well he didn’t take it so well. He started hyperventilating and pulling his hair. He started crying and said something along the lines of, “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’m going to have to think about this!” And Kenny and his woman were like, think about what kid? Get in here. What are you talking about. Well apparently he thought that if Kenny married his mom, his daddy wouldn’t be his dad anymore. This might not be funny at a first glance. You may look at this situation and see a distraught child who’s upset about the shattering of his family, but that’s not what I see. What I see is a kid who’s confused in such a way that his poppa will get pisseder than all hell and start some serious shit with Kato. His exact words were, “Lets fix this before I have to tell my fiance I can’t marry her because I’m going to prison for killing her ex husband.” Kato’s a rather confrontational and violent person, so the idea of his kid going home to his poppa and poking the hornets nest was hilarious to me. But it’s all straightened out now.
Also funny about his getting hitched is the fact that’s he’s a fairly blatant racist. He’s gotten in trouble for spouting off the N word at work. He’s old school country, through and through. But he’s engaged to a Puerto Rican. I guess love is blind. I shared this story at the bar Valentines night and in return heard a pretty good race joke. If you are a sensitive Puerto Rican, tune out now. Why don’t Puerto Ricans do their own taxes? …. Cause you can’t sign tax forms in spray paint! Zing!
Anyway, so Kato had a good Valentines day, but my boss, Drew, didn’t fare so well. Here’s my best rendition of the conversation we all had:
Drew: Well I’m glad your bitch wasn’t so fucking crazy, I’m about tired of all this female shit.
Kato: So you didn’t get laid or what?
Drew: Hell no, fuckin bitch started acting the fool. I got her eighty bucks worth of clothes last weekend, and when I did I told her, ‘This is your Valentines day present. I’m not getting you any more expensive shit.‘ So she said all she wanted was just a card or something.
Me and Kenny: What are you? Stupid? That’s some amateur mistake bull shit dude. Everyone knows women tell you they don’t want any more shit and not to go out of your way, but they lie. They really mean get me all kinds of crazy shit and it had better be something expensive, something I actually want, and it had better be a fucking surprise. You can’t just get a card and leave it at that unless you want her to be pissed. There was a fucking flower stand at the end of the road on your way home dude. You could have pulled off in the dirt and gotten some thing for your woman from the Mexican chicks. They had chocolates and teddy bears and shit. Come on man.
Drew: Hell no. She said she was cool with a card and that’s what I fucking got her. I put it in the little red envelope and left a nice note in it on the end of her bed so she would find it when she woke up. So I got stuck with some paperwork from the girls in the office and I was ten minutes late. Ten fucking minutes! And as soon as I walked in the door there it is. There’s a big ass frog balloon that says some shit about love, there’s some chocolates, and there’s a new Dale Earnheart shirt. So immediately she walks in like ‘You’re late!’ And I’m like ‘Yeah, ten minutes late. I’m sorry I was working to earn you money to blow, Jesus can I get a minute to relax before you jump on my ass?‘ So she jumps in with ‘What, you didn’t even get me anything?‘ So I’m all ‘I got you almost a hundred bucks worth of clothes last weekend!‘ She said ‘Well you could have at least stopped and gotten something little.‘ And so I said ‘Well I’m sorry I didn’t get you a fucking balloon. Thanks a lot, now we’re both pissed off. I’m going to bed.‘
Me and Kenny: Dude, seriously, that’s just a dumb mistake on your part. You should have gotten that woman something shiny, you know they love that stuff. Tonight before you go home, just go get her a balloon or something and tell her you are sorry. She’ll probably forgive you.
Drew: Hell no. No fucking way. If I do that, then she wins. I’m not getting her a god damned thing, period. If she don’t like it she can go find some other idiot who will buy her a fucking balloon. Not me. If I get her a balloon I’m just going to pop it right in front of her. Like ‘Here you go baby here’s a balloon for you.” (makes popping motion and sound) Cause thats what she’s doing to me. That’s what all women do. There you are, just walking along in life. And behind you are all you hopes and dreams like little balloons. And sure enough, like taxes and death, some bitch will start following you around and one by one, she’ll pop every last one. ‘Oh what’s that? You’re tired from work and you just want to go out and hang out with your friends? (POP) NOT TODAY MOTHERFUCKER! Bwahahahahaha!‘ Fucking bitch, I’m about tired of all this naggin’ bull shit. I’m ready to stick my boot up her ass. And wherever she lands, that’s where she’s staying. Cause she’s not staying with me anymore!
Me: Hahahahahahahahahahaha! Idiot. Flowers are so cheap! Hahahahahahahaha!
Drew: Shut up and get back to work bitch. It ain’t that funny.
My own VD was filled with neither romance nor drama, but it was kind of fun. Kind of lame, but also kind of fun. I went up to my bar for Thirsty Thursday. But when I got there it was transformed into some sort of romantic diner. There were red table cloths and expensive menu’s with food they never serve. There were candles and shit. I turned right around and left. Screw that shit. Who the fuck goes to the bar for Valentines day? Not people who are celebrating love that who. Lonely people who don’t have anyone to dine with. I just wanted to get drunk with my friends, but love was ruining my evening. More precisely, the woman who took over control of my bar is ruining my evening. In fact, she’s ruining Judd’s in general, and she needs to be stopped. But that was a task for a different evening, for the moment I was just looking for someone to hang out with.
So I hopped on my scooter and headed to the neighborhood across the street to see if Kenny and Rachael were doing anything. As I started considering my options, I realized that I don’t have very many friends who aren’t in relationships. At least not close enough to go visit on my scooter. So I pulled up to their house and through the window I thought I saw my sister in law. I pulled around back and knocked and when I entered I saw not only Kenny and Rachael, but Nate and Sami and another girl from the neighborhood. They were all excited to see me, and excited that I was going roller skating with them. WHAT? Yes, roller skating. And not drunk roller skating, the sober kind. All the girls were super excited, and all the guys were mostly just pissed. Especially about the sober part. But off we went anyway.
Now on the way they informed me that the only one they could find that was open on Valentines night was in the middle of the ghetto. Great. Here I am with my Hank Williams Jr. shirt with a rebel flag and everything, my freshly shaved skinhead looking haircut, and my generally hostile honky demeanor. It was going to be a long night. When we got there, after chugging several beers in the car, I was immediately greeted by a mountain of a black security guard. He patted me down and cleared me to go through (not sure why exactly pat downs are needed for a skating rink, but not a good sign) and somehow he missed my utility knife that I keep clipped to my pants at all times. I forgot I even had it on. So as we are walking in, the Carolina Rollergirls were leaving. I was kind of bummed that I didn’t get to see them practice their skating, partly because they are so hot, and partly because they are so violent, and partly because it would have given me something to do besides actually skate. As in: watch their sexy asses go around in circles.
So we were left with nothing to do but skate. That was boring. There was the regular assortment of weird adults who hang out at rollerskating rinks waaaay too much. there were three or four black dudes practicing their faggy hip hop moves on roller skates in the middle of the floor. There were the slutty ghetto chicks who like to shake their ass like hookers, but while moving around in a circle. There was that one white guy who has on some sort of team jersey for some sort of ridiculously gay roller skating team. There was the pixie cut lesbian who figure skates all night, whilst simultaneously doing some sort of tae bo dance move thing. She was weird, but for some reason I kind of wanted to do her. Perhaps it was my subconscious mind telling me that anyone who could lift their leg that far behind them probably had all sorts of Olympic kegel muscles. Who knows.
After about an hour of listening to urban bull shit music everyone got tired of that and we went to go get drunk like we should have to begin with. I got a free chicken wing out of the evening though, and I savored every crispy calorie of it. Plus our regular bartender was absent that evening and his replacement was some much better looking female. I mean, Jeremy is pretty good looking, but I’d much rather look at chicks, especially on Valentines day. The night ended on an especially pleasant note. At the bar I picked up this hot chick named Rosie Palm and went home for a massive orgy with her and her five sisters.
Overall I had a pretty good Valentines day, at least I survived it. Next year I’m picking up a hooker and banging her to Air Supply when I first wake up, just so I can get all the romance out of the way and spend the rest of the day having fun however I want. I hope your VD was filled with beer and someone else’s bodily fluids, happy black history month everyone.
So I watched the Super Bowl. For those of you who aren’t down with the sickness, aka people who live anywhere besides the USA, the Super Bowl is the final game in the National Football Leagues season. That would be American football, not that soccer crap everyone else has been tricked into watching. I’m not really into football. It’s not nearly violent enough to interest me. Even as a kid I found it boring and I thought the players were pretty wimpy for alleged professional athletes. But since I’m a man, I am pretty much duty bound to watch at least the Super Bowl, even if I ignore the rest of the season.
I didn’t go to a party or anything. None of my friends were very excited about it this year. So I went over to Nate and Sami’s house to chill and eat and drink and be generally merry. I would like to say that I have found it gastrointestinally inadvisable to try and limit your diet to Super Bowl food for more than one meal, two at most. I ate nothing but wings, seven layer dip, chips, and beer for two days. I’ve become well acquainted with my porcelain buddy in the water closet. I’ve got a scary story about ass blood, but I’ll spare you this time.
So New York won, everyone already knows this. I didn’t really care. I will say that the commercials, while not as good as some years, were still pretty damn good. GoDaddy.com still keeps trying to get people to give a fuck about whatever it is that they do, but no one does, cause their commercials are lame. And of course, Bud Light had the funniest overall campaign. I’m going to go ahead and give you my favorite ad of all. This decision may or may not have been influenced by large quantities of alcohol and tetrahydrocannabinol, but here it is, the Dorito’s mouse trap commercial.
They’re only 30 seconds long anyway, so go ahead and watch two more if you didn’t already see them. It’s call laughter people, and it’s allegedly the best medicine.*
*Fact not supported by science, or the international medical field.
Notably absent from all Super Bowl ads was the monkey factor. It’s been scientifically proven that people will be four to five thousand times more entertained if there is a monkey in your commercial, and that number increases if you dress up the monkey. Case in point, the nefarious trunk monkey. Possibly the most kick ass commercial series ever created. Even better than the Budweiser iguanas, frogs, ferret, Clydesdale’s, dalmatians, or Real Men of Genius. They were and are at least as awesome as midgets in kung fu flicks. Check them out, now mofo.
And now for something completely different. I was starting my work day yesterday and my boss told me to remove a toilet so we could tear out some tile in a bathroom. Well, I had to crap first, and when I was done I headed into the trailer. I smelled a funk in the air and momentarily wondered if I had farted or wiped poorly, and then I opened the bathroom door. What greeted me was the foulest stench you can imagine. Some ass hole prick had left a present in the crapper, with no water. My coworkers had a good laugh as I stifled my gags and squeezed down next to the source of the smell and spent the next few moments simultaneously unbolting the toilet and cussing the shit out of everyone in ear shot. So I bought some stink bombs that afternoon at the local gas station. I got my revenge by smashing three of those ass nasty vials in the room I knew my buddy would be working in for the next few hours. Imagine rotten eggs and fart, and you’d be close. I thought we were even.
Today I stuck my knife in the wall and headed to the next room to fix some holes in the front door. Whilst I was preoccupied, my buddy heated up my knife with a mapp gas torch. When I came back I grabbed my knife and promptly gave myself first degree burns. Nothing too bad, but I hollered something awful and threw the knife across the room. I would have been pissed, but it was actually really clever and hysterical. He got me good, I never even suspected it. But now he’s got it coming big time. I’m talking, trick him into watching a tape of me banging his sister type revenge. Well maybe not, that’s a bit harsh, and his sister might be ugly as hell since she’s related to him, but I’m going to find something to get him really really good. If anyone has any ideas for sweet practical joke revenge, let me know. I’m thinking something along the lines of home made itching powder or laxatives. Maybe something to get cayenne in his eyes or something so gross he vomits all over the place. No mercy people, what’s the most evil prank you know of? In fact, even if you don’t have a prank, I’d just like to hear some interesting work related storied to make me laugh. Tell me something funny that happened to you at work, if you have the time.
Speaking of work, if any of you remember my brother Nate’s campaign for employee of the year, he lost. After three recounts they had a secret anonymous voting system, in which he cheated, and he still lost, so he knows the voting is complete bull shit and it was rigged the whole time. I’m sure it won’t stop him from campaigning even harder next year.
Wow. I just finished watching a Frontline report titled Growing up Online. It delved into the various aspects of a generation who’s always had the internet and the various dangers they face in a new digital world. All the old familiar fears that the media has been bellowing at the top of their lungs since the first high school kid logged onto the first chat room back before social networking sites ruled the planet. Will your kid leak photos that make them look like the jackass they are? Will they find porn and become weirdos who make the Jergens stock skyrocket in value? Will predators find your kid, become obsessed with them and abduct them to take back to their kiddie porn dungeons? Can the internet make your kid worship Satan and commit suicide while binging and purging, drinking underage, and breaking national copyright laws?
It was basically an entire hour of conservative suburban parents freaking out for no reason. And I stayed to watch every second. Now there were some good points about safety on the internet. One kid ended up hanging himself because he was being bullied, online and off, and he hooked up with another suicidal kid who basically showed him online tutorials for how to kill yourself, and even encouraged him to end everything. That sucks. I’m sure that is a devastating event in any parents life. But the internet was at most a catalyst for a depressed kid with serious problems he was trying to deal with. The problem wasn’t that there are sites that show you how to kill yourself. The problem is that the kids in his school were making his life a living hell, and no one stood up for him. Life’s a bitch.
Likewise, an anorexic girl who went online to network with other anorexic females. She found sites promoting and glamorizing eating disorders, and lots of other people who had the same baggage she had. The internet did not cause this. Neither did television. The fact is that our entire society is pretty fucked up. Every kid faces a mountain of pressure and stress that other generations just plain didn’t experience. Going through high school almost all my friends were fucked in the head one way or another. If they weren’t raped or molested as kids, then they burned and cut themselves. If they didn’t have an eating disorder, their parents beat them. Everyone got bullied. Everyone got picked on and treated like shit. Not just a few loners, the vast majority. And trying to blame these things on the internet is not only retarded as hell, but it completely ignores the actual source of the problems: real life bull shit.
Guess what, I’ve got problems too. I suffer from depression. I have a serious drinking problem. I’m socially awkward and insecure and I poke my fat in the mirror just like everyone else. And I have to deal with my shit without going overboard just like everyone else. But none of my problems have jack shit to do with the internet.
The best part of the program though was when they interviewed this suburban PTA mom from Jersey. I felt so sorry for her kids. She was overbearing and overprotective in a way that truly creeped me out. She only allowed one computer in the house, and it was in the kitchen, where she could hover and watch as her kids tried to surf the net and talk to their friends in peace. And she had the balls to get pissed about the fact that they were shutting her out. Maybe this will explain why.
One of her sons went to a concert at Madison Square Gardens with a bunch of his friends. While they were out, a lot of the students got wasted. There was photos and video posted on MySpace the next day, and some vigilant asshole let the Nazi Mom know about it. She was appalled. There were kids passed out, and kids puking, and kids generally having a kick ass time going to a concert with their friends in NYC. So this bitch sends an email to every parent in the school. Mayhem ensues, and now her kids accuse her of ruining their high school lives. And she’s all choked up because they are shutting her out. Well no shit Sherlock. You think that helped them get along better with the people they have to see every day? You know what happens to narcs in school? Bitches get stitches, that what.
Maybury doesn’t exist. Leave it to Beaver is not how America is, never really was. Kids drink now. Kids do shit you didn’t do, or maybe did do and don’t want to admit. My parents think they know all about how my life is because they listened to the Who and smoked weed while their parents were still listening to Pat Boone and Harry Bellafonte. But quite frankly I’ve done and seen things they never even had to think about when they were young. I’m not always proud of what I’ve done, I honestly have done some rotten, gnarley, dangerous, rebellious shit. But partying and rebelling doesn’t make you a bad kid. It makes you a normal kid questioning the values you’ve been presented in life.
Now her kids won’t even get online at their own home because their mom is so controlling, they can’t even have a private conversation with their friends. All this in the name of internet safety and parental responsibility? Fuck that. Her kids aren’t ten years old. They are in their late teens. Not babies, but half grown adults. You can’t force an adolescent kid to let you listen in on every phone conversation, read every email, and let you shake it off when they take a piss. Of course they will shut you out of their life. You’re fucking it up. Teens need some freedom to become individuals. Restricting their personal freedom will only make them push you and your psychotic rules out of their life, or worse, stunt their social development so much that you have adult children running around asking mommy to help them with everything. Double fuck that.
And when the kids were interviewed, they pretty much said their mom was a fucking idiot. Every single kid they talked to said they knew not to tell people where they lived. Every single one said they deleted and blocked creepy sexual advances. And you know if even one kid had admitted to talking to predators online, they would have put it in the program, because fear sells. Even the experts they interviewed agreed that the threat of predators online has been blown out of proportion. They said that in most of their studies, there was much less sexual advances than they expected. And in addition to that, most of the advances were not the sort of creepy big fat hairy guy in a basement that people associate with internet predators. Mostly it was the nineteen year old hitting on the seventeen year old, which honestly shouldn’t be against the law anyway. Not that I want to hook up with young chicks, but honestly, a two year difference is not a big deal. In fact, in my state, it isn’t illegal. The age of consent is sixteen, with a four or five year age difference limit until you turn 18 and become a legal adult.
But forget my legal tangent. My point is that I understand that there are dangers online. I know this. But I also know that if you just explain this shit to your kids, they will probably protect themselves very well. The internet has created a generation gap even wider than the previous ones. People no longer have to keep their families in the loop. Kids can log on and tune out their parents while interacting with people across the world. My generation is comfortable in a digital world that the previous one is struggling to adapt to. But you gotta trust your kids to know the right thing to do. Kids aren’t stupid. Wait no, kids are stupid, but they know how to behave online so stop flipping out. Just think, you are more likely to crash your car and kill them than they are of being abducted by an online predator*.
(*not actual statistic, conjured from thin air to prove point)
The internet can be a beautiful technology. I know it’s opened up a lot of new things for me. I’ve made friends across the globe. I’ve found new hobbies. I am constantly learning new exciting things about the world that I never would have if it weren’t for the internet. I am probably going to make a career working on the internet one day. So mothers, love your kids, but release the strangle hold. It’s really not necessary. Talk to your kids. Find out what’s going on in their life. But don’t smother them or they will turn out like me. They will get pissed and reject everything you’ve ever taught them, eventually sprinting to hell.
***********
I wrote this a few weeks ago and wanted to come back and add a little bit about the general vulgarity of the internet that makes me chuckle every day. Anyone out there who has a WordPress blog (WordPress is the best, switch now) will know about your blog stats. It’s a fun side page that lets you know a little about the traffic you blog is getting. My particular favorite is the “Search Engine Terms” section which shows you all the terms people have somehow used to find your blog. Now for me, almost every visitor I get has come here looking for either drugs and alcohol, or something sexual. Hands down, 95% of my visitors. And this is every single day. I took a screen shot yesterday just to kind of give you an idea.
You’ll notice the only two searches that weren’t about drugs or sex were “retarded daughter”, which is hilarious, and “DONKEYS” which is kind of weird. Hell, just today I got eight hits for “how to put cock in butt without hurting”. Eight freaking hits. Apparently there’s a lot of people out there who have never heard of Crisco. And “how to find weed at burning man”? Really? Try closing your eyes, spinning in a circle, and asking the first person you see if they have some to sell. Odds are they won’t but they will instead dose you on acid and give you a sweet discount on peyote infused X. Dumbass. I’ve kept a list of all the results that stood out for one reason or another. Here’s just a few selections from said list:
“fun to swear”
gas motor vibrations clit
spicy coon/coon pussy
Wendy farts a lot/broccoli farts/donkey fart/shit locker
man accidentally fucking donkey (as if that’s even possible you dip shit)
pwn3d
make someone look like they are on fire
TO TOLERANT WILL BRWNIES GET M HIGH
let me tell you why he should be the emp (a double whammy. Both insanely long for a search and completely nonsensical)
Best stuff to do when high on weed/doctors who smoke weed/how much weed can one person smoke/do vegetarians smoke weed (I don’t know, ask Em)
“baby oil”
real life she hulks
40 Secrets About Yourself
Be HONEST no matter what!
1.What’s your natural hair color?
Brown. Oooh, we’re off to a hectic start with these soul piercing secrets aren’t we?
2. where was your default pic taken?
In my brothers car port on Halloween night. We actually just screwed around in the car port all night cutting up plywood to floor the attic. We were about drunk as hell. Some of the parents just skipped our house entirely. Here’s me brushing my teeth after we ate all the candy that the kids didn’t get.
3. What’s your middle name?
Lorne. Pronounced like thorn. As in Lorne Michaels from SNL. NOT Lauren. It’s a guys name dammit. And I just so happen to be the fourth first born male on my fathers side to have that middle name. (I hate it, can you tell?)
4. Your current relationship status?
Me and the woman from Halloween are no longer together. So single. I’m getting kind of sick of being single. Do men have biological clocks?
5. Honestly, does your crush like you back?
I don’t really have a real life crush right now, just e-crushes. All the good women I hang out with are taken. I do fantasize about some of them though. Usually I just miss my ex. (The good one, not the last one. See question 10)
6. What is your current mood?
Just think pissed, then add tired and lonely and stressed out and you should have a good idea of what sort of day I’m having.
7.What color underwear are you wearing?
Black boxer briefs. Wanna see my package? It looks good in these.
8.What makes you happy?
You know after sex, when you are drifting off to sleep, and someone is curled up next to you, with their nose in your ear, and they sigh and make that mmmmmm sound. That’s what makes me the happiest. That and fighting. Fighting makes me pretty happy. Oh yeah, and beer.
10. If you could go back in time, and change something what would it be?
I would have gotten control of my alcoholism before I destroyed the relationship I had with the bank manager. I still think about that every single day. Probably the biggest regret of my life. But she’s probably happier with someone else anyway. I wasn’t normal enough to make her happy even when I was sober.
11. If you MUST be an animal for ONE day- what would you be?
I’d be a house cat. They get to eat and sleep all day. I could really use a day of sleep.
12. Ever had a near death experience?
Yes. Several. I was in a pretty wicked truck wreck once. It rolled over three times and everyone except me left on a stretcher. I was just sore and cut up a little bit. I could have very easy died though. I was lucky.
13. Something you do a lot?
Uh, work. Whack off. Curse. Smoke. Listen to rock and roll. All the good stuff.
14. What’s the name of the song stuck in your head right now?
Cherokee Nation by Paul Revere and the Raiders. This video plays the kick ass song with photos from Cherokee North Carolina, a kick ass reservation in the smoky mountains on the west side of my kick ass state. I went there as a kid. I enjoyed it. Very much a tourist trap town. I didn’t go to the casinos, I was too young.
15. Who did you copy and paste this from?
6. Name someone with the same b-day as you?
(I had to look this up) Buffy the Vampire Slayer, aka Sarah Michele Gellar. The brother from Everybody Loves Raymond, Brad Garrett. Ritchie Blackmore, the guitarist for Deep Purple. \m/> <\m/ Also less cool, Pete Rose and Loretta Lynn.
17. When was the last time you cried?
I’m a man and I’m tougher than robot leather. My tear ducts just pump testosterone and nitroglycerine.
18. Have you ever sang in front of a large audience?
Yes, but not well.
19. If you could have one super power what would it be?
This has been a topic of debate with my brother and I for a long time. I think the coolest and most useful power would be the ability to morph my body into any shape I wanted. He thinks the best would be controlling gravity. He’s dumb and I’m right.
20. What’s the first thing you notice about the opposite sex?
Really, that often depends on what they’re wearing. Not their eye color usually. More like an overall impression of their face. But sometimes they have an exceptional ass or boobies or both, and then those catch my eye and I get distracted from everything else. Sorry, I’m a hetero male. But the face is the most important. I’m not that picky about bodies, but I know right away whether I’m attracted to a face or I think it’s ugly.
21. What do you usually order from Starbucks?
Nothing, Starbucks sucks ass.
22. What’s your biggest secret?
No way. No fucking way. I’ve got entire cemeteries in my closet.
23. What’s your favorite colour?
Green.
24. When was the last time you lied?
I don’t know. I think it’s been a while.
25. Do you still watch kiddy movies or TV shows?
Yes. Spongebob is cool when you’re baked. There’s more, I just don’t remember right now.
27. What are you eating or drinking at the moment?
Nothing. I had a brownie with icing earlier though.
28. Do you speak any other language?
Yo hablo pequito espanol putas. Chupa lo.
29. What’s your favourite smell?
Grilling meat. But sawdust is pretty good too. And that smell that your hands make when you tighten a drill bit and it spins real fast in your hand and almost burns you. And what the hell, why be original, female is pretty nice too. Although I really probably just enjoy being in situations where I’m close enough to distinctly smell female scent.
30. If you could describe life in one word what would it be?
disappointing
31. When was the last time you gave/received a hug?
Earlier at dinner. I went to some friends house to eat wings and pizza.
32. Have you ever been kissed in the rain?
Negative, not yet. Other kissing related activities I’ve never done include: kiss on valentines day, kiss on anniversary, kiss on stroke of new years, and kiss a complete stranger.
33. What are you thinking about right now?
I’m thinking this survey is pretty focused on relationships when it could be focused on something less depressing.
34. What should you be doing?
Smoking up and going to sleep.
35. What was the last thing that made you upset?
Question 32 didn’t really put me in a great mood.
36. How often do you pray?
Me and god don’t talk. We have an understanding.
37. Do you like working in the yard?
Sometimes. I do enjoy physical work a lot, but mowing sucks. Gardening is kind of fun. Grilling often happens in the yard, does that count?
38. If you could have any last name in the world, what would you want?
Fightmaster, Longfellow, Badass, Butcher, Tank, Prime, Armstrong, pretty much any kick ass manly name. But I like my real name.
39. Name 5 things in your closet.
Five things in the closet besides Ryan Seacrest? Right now the only thing in my closet is some blankets, clothing, and the screen from my window which I removed so I could smoke out on the roof.
40. Do you act different around your crush?
No, I always flirt with everyone. It’s my way of pretending like I’m not intimidated by hot women. Cause honestly, y’all are kind of scary. So I put on my game face and dork-flirt my way through life.
