The Altogether
Just been thinking for a minute.
It’s the first couple of weeks of summer, the end of the 4th of July weekend. That time of the year when folks are sweating by the bucket load. That time of the year when women wear less and fellas drop more slobber and drool than Sprint drops phone calls. As one of the millions of confused bastards here in the City of Seraphims, I’m kind of….confused. In a city intergalactically known for entertainment, style, and all kinds of creativity, why is it that everyone here looks the same? I’m not talking about facially or racially. I’m loathing the clothing. Sometimes I think that I’m in an episode of Battlestar Gallactica, battling cyclons and other clones. If everyone is going to wear the same three outfits, have the same four hairstyles, and say the same two catchphrases like mindless zombies, then we all should just take the easy route–the slackest, laziest way out. Let’s forget about fashion and just walk around in the altogether, in other words, naked.
We’ll save time by not putting on clothes. We might as well. There are too many “Like, OMG!” cookie-cutter people saying jazz like, “Like, OMG!” Everyone in the nude means the end of scented and/or dye-free laundry detergent, getting busted by your spouse for cheating because of an inside-out shirt or lipstick on the collar, and accidentally wearing the same outfit that that trick at work wore the other day. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. It would also mean the end of stuff falling out of your pockets, masked robbers, people having the gross moral turpitude for wearing Kobe Bryant jerseys, and the end of the wedgie as we know it. No one could ever put a “boot up your ass” again. You could even see how much your boyfriend really likes your sister or best friend when she walks into the room.
Perfect excuse to give to the charity worker in front of the grocery store, “Sorry, I don’t have any change on me.” Why? Because you don’t. You don’t have any pockets. Unless you’re part kangaroo. And then that would just be outright nasty. People, publicly being in our birthday suits could mean the end of gang colors and tribal warfare. No more strip clubs. Hmmmm. No more prom pictures. Couldn’t mistake those transvestites for women anymore, huh? Adam and Eve would become fashion icons. Nudists, all of a sudden, would be trendsetters and “kind of cool.” The projected job prospects for professional pickpockets in the upcoming years look very low. When someone claims to be capable of “knocking your socks off,” you know that person’s full of shite. Tattoos in “secret places” are…whatever…you ain’t that special. Everybody’s places aren’t secret, and everybody’s parts ain’t private anymore. No more red carpet crap of rich people sporting free clothing that poor people make for pennies. No more clothing drives. Google Earth becomes Google Birth, as you can see any birth anywhere in the world via satellite. Love handles are the new black. The last pair of corduroy overalls is guarded by 20 armed security personnel at the Smithsonian.
Warmer regions of the planet would experience an almost immediate influx of former cold climate dwellers. Less frisking at the airport. More frisking everywhere else. Mass confusion at sporting events. No more lapel pins. Don’t have to dress up for work anymore–every day is Casual Friday. Popping your collar in the near future? I don’t think so. Now, you can exclusively use your iron to cook grilled cheese sandwiches. A clothes hangers could be used for its original purposes: a poor man’s boomerang and a strangulation device. Shoestrings look like floss for people with big front-teeth gaps to me. Belts, ties, and bras could be used as…I don’t really know what. Any ideas? I’m done with this. Enough useless thinking for today. I hereby begin the no-clothes movement. Who’s with me?
Until then, keep your shirt on,
Be well.
Ichabod, type faster…
Last time we spoke, I was in the final fortnights of my fantastic 20s. Honestly, at first, entering my 30s wasn’t something that I was looking forward to doing. But time waits for no one, time marches on, and all of those other cliched phrases. But living in youth-obsessed Los Angeles has helped me to realize that being old is a misunderstood art form. In the past few months, I’ve learned a few of the benefits of being elderly, or “youthfully challenged.”
Osteoporosis: Sure, you hear that’s it’s bad, and that your bones become brittle, but I look on the bright side with my bifocal shades, you get to drink a lot of milk. I like milk. Milk likes me. I like milk, especially with prune juice.
Knee replacement: Years of squatting as a catcher and spinning around throwing a discus has guaranteed me a lifetime of occasional, weird knee issues. This also guarantees me my own chauffeur. Don’t be jealous. Everybody should have their own chauffeur, but everybody doesn’t. My wheelchair pusher person is the best there is. But I guess y’all ain’t that lucky, huh? Suckers.
Senior Citizen Discounts: There was a time when the local IHOP knew me by name. Now, they know me by my Ben Gay scent and my posse of silver- and blue-haired homies. Getting stuff half off is the greatest thing since getting stuff half off. Eh…uh…did I just repeat myself? Which leads me to the next thing on the list…Alzheimer’s. Some people see it as the beginning of the end. I see it as a new start. I can’t wait to start forgetting all the stuff that I wish I couldn’t remember. Like the time, my identity was stolen, but then the dude gave it back, talkin’ ’bout he needed to have a better one. Or when they rejected me when I volunteered to help at Ground Zero because they didn’t want me to contaminate the site. Some things are better off forgotten. Speaking of forgetting, I’m having my grandson, Ichabod, type this up for me…since I can’t see the keyboard…and I didn’t even know I had a kid to have a kid to be my grandson. What was I saying?
Tai chi: You can catch me in the park with the posse. stretching. Really slowly. Really really slowly. Um, what was I saying?
Incontinence: Yep. I said it. While the rest of you are running around looking for a restroom when you’re out and about, I’m chillin’–with a personal, portable porta-potty. Damn right. Beat that! I’m saving water, paper, time, resources, etc. I’m going green. Saving the planet!
Clubbing: Clubbing? Who needs it? Standing in lines for eternity in the cold and heat. Paying off bouncers to let you in. Buying overly expensive drinks for overly cheap people just so they can overly enthusiastically leave the overly packed club with someone else that’s overly dressed. Well, I’m through with that. Had it up to here with it. No more clubs for yours truly. It’s the doctor’s office from here on out. Umm hmm. You heard me. Look, the wait at the doctor’s office can be quicker than waiting in line at a club. No bouncers. Hell, nurses look better than bouncers anyway. And who needs to spend money on drinks when I can get drugs…from my doctor…legally. It’s not loud. I can mack on some of these 70-year-old fillies and they’ll hear what I’m saying–with or without a hearing aid.
Freedom: I can do whatever I want. WHATEVER. No one tells me what to do. If I want to sleep just after Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy goes off, then I can do it. You can’t stop me. He can’t stop me. She can’t stop me. I can’t even stop me. I start feeling sleepy around 6 pm. The night can’t handle a wild boy like me. That’s why I give it a break and never go out. Westside!
Mr. ED: Can’t wait to try Viagra and see if it’s really 4 hours. You’re looking at the new smiling spokesman for Levitra. Call me Bob. My heart should be able to handle it. Haven’t had the triple bypass yet…
30 ain’t so bad, as I have proven already. Excuse me, youngins, I’ve got to go the library and get some sleep. Have an uneventful life, kids! And get off my lawn…
Disclaimer
Disclaimers usually go at the beginning. My bad, y’all. Didn’t ever think that I’d have to write this. I think that the content and nature of some of my blogs have convinced some people that I’m both insane and a threat to society. Therefore, I have to defend the person(a) my mama raised. In college, I once wrote a poem about a young guy that unknowingly gave his girlfriend HIV. In the end, his girlfriend dies and he’s left wondering if he’s gonna die next. It ended up getting published in the school’s annual literary journal/publication. Let me just say that, for the next 3 weeks, folks all over campus thought that I had AIDS. Guys were rolling up to me, talkin’ ’bout, “Yo, you alright, dawg? I didn’t know you were sick. That’s messed up.” It was nuts. The point is that sometimes people assume that you are exactly what you write. And sometimes that can be problematic.
These blogs have always ranged from records of light hearted observations of odd things that I’d encounter throughout the day to my attempts at sharply aggressive, sarcastic, biting satire. The bit about eating flight attendants doesn’t really mean that I want to consume those angels of the friendly skies (although I heard they’re not bad with a little salt and butter). It was an ode and homage to Jonathan Swift’s great 1729 satirical piece A Modest Proposal, or as I like to say (its full name) A Modest Proposal For Preventing The Children Of Poor People In Ireland Being A Burden To Their Parents Or Country, And For Making Them Beneficial To The Public. Here, he says that poor people can get out of poverty by selling their kids as food to the rich. Guess they thought he was coconuts, too. Speaking of kids, and for the record, I don’t hate kids. Not all of them. Just the bad ones. The ones that kick me in the shins when I say hey to them. That’s all. Also, to all my PETA and ASPCA supporters, I’m not an animal hater nor do I subject dogs to my vast array of wrestling moves like the choke hold, sleeper hold, or the figure four leg lock. My only beef with animals is when I’m randomly attacked or peed on. There ya go.
To answer all of the looming questions and rumors, no, I am not starting a cult. No, I am not starting a neighborhood watch program with McGillycuddy. Hell, I should. I am not going to commit suicide because your mama said she couldn’t talk to me anymore because I don’t make enough scratch for her liking and that I had extremely bad luck. Bust it. If I’m the “best guy” that she’s ever come across, then who’s the one with bad luck? Whoa!!! I got a big one! It’s lively! Keeps kicking! Hopefully, this fishing line can hold it. Gonna reel this tangent back in now.
Where was I?……
Hmmmm…don’t take the blogs so seriously, those who do. Not everyone, now. Most of y’all get it. And stop telling my people that I should be on suicide watch becuz you read that I said folks with no eyebrows can’t look surprised at surprise parties. LOL. They’re only jokes, like me playing the harmonica. Now, that last statement’s not a joke, like my demeanor when I’m bowling.
Live well, love more, and laugh harder in ’08. Happy New Year, my pretties!
Be well,
Two fingers,
Me
P.S. – I was watching boxing the other night. Of course, the commentators interviewed the boxers. When asked how he would describe his fighting style, one of the pugilists responded, “I box like a Ford Expedition.” WTF?! Yo! For real. Dinner is on me to the first person who can figure that one out.
ASK INQ: the world’s worst advice columnist
ASK INQ
(the world’s worst advice columnist)
Dear Inq,
It’s that time of year again. The time of year when I have to force my husband to go Christmas shopping with me. He dislikes it all. Malls, outlet stores, shopping plazas, etc. He just wants to stay inside. He’s so boring. I’m a Virgo and he’s a Pisces. How can I get him out of the house and make him more exciting?..:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />
– Shop ’til I drop
Dear Shop,
My dear, let me just say that you’re going through what is commonly known as a marriage. You’re overlooking the obvious. Everyone knows that the easiest way to get a man out of the house is to tell him that there is some sex waiting for him outside. If that doesn’t work, invite some of your hottest, most flirtatious, and least trustworthy girlfriends over to mount him. That will not only get him out into the fresh air, it will improve your marriage. He’ll see and understand that you truly trust him. Indeed. Trust and communication are key. Bonus: If you inject some liquor into the festivities to get everyone loose and happy, you’ll be his best friend. Forever. Till death do you part.
But you know what, Shop? I’m going to give you an early Christmas present and help you understand why your man doesn’t want to go outside this holiday season. First of all…
1) He hates sunlight. Not all year round. Just in December. I remember when I lived in Miami seeing Santa Claus on a street corner. He was ringing his bell for charity. No problem there. The problem was that he was wearing shorts with his red suit. Now, that is just wrong. Most of us associate Christmas with snow, cold weather, and drunk Uncle Joe, not sunshine, palm trees, and heroin. You see where I’m going with this? I thought you would. Any logical person would automatically see that he needs an enema. I can’t make it any more sensible or clear than that.
2) He’s scared of people. Why wouldn’t he be? I am, too. The other night, in front of the Staples Center, a man who had a tracheotomy coughed out some thick, phlegmy mucus into his hand through the hole in his neck, and held his hand out so that I could give him some change. Did he want me to tip him for that? Maybe I would have, but you know why I didn’t? I was scared. And that’s exactly what your hubby’s afraid of. Homeless mucus-slimed hands. But you know what’s even scarier than the homeless? People with homes. They commit the majority of crimes, rapes, murders, and bad American Idol votes. So your best bet is to bring safety to your home. Round up some safe, scruffy looking, complete strangers and bring them home for the holidays. Show off your best china, jewelry, and valuables. Sleep with your windows open and your door unlocked to show everyone on the block that you two have the Christmas spirit by the truckload! Those presents under the tree should still be there in the morning!
Good luck and keep me posted.
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Dear Inq,
I am a Sagittarius sandwich artist at a really prestigious submarine sandwich shop. I rather not give away its name. The job is cool, but my boss is beginning to be a bit troublesome. She flirts all the time, likes to pinch my butt, and call me her “Honey Mustard Man.” I’m nobody’s “Honey Mustard Man.” Being that she is extremely attractive, I was flattered at first. Now, I’m just annoyed. Not to mention, she’s married with kids. I need help. How can I get her to quit and still maintain my job?
– Sandwich Architect
Dear Sandwich,
First things first. Harassment, especially sexual, in the workplace is illegal…and wrong. You know that. Your boss knows that. People in positions of authority can use their status to their advantage. You have to be strong. And smart. Please don’t think that it is your fault. You’re not to blame here. You should pull her aside and let her know that her behavior makes you feel uncomfortable. Tell her she makes you feel like a piece of meat. Pork, not beef. Tell her to stop. If she persists, then begin to document and keep a detailed record of all her subsequent advances. I’m talking dates, times, actions, witnesses (if any), and even the number of olives and tomato slices still in the bins. Record everything. Then, you should take this to your company’s Human Resources department and file an official complaint. But not before you first give in to her demands and spend the night with your boss at the Super 8 Motel next to Quiznos. Secretly videotape your rendezvous and post it online. Give the HR department gals the link, and watch their faces become animated with amazement. Amazement at your genius. Yep! With this visual evidence, you won’t need to spend a fortune hiring a lawyer. You’ll win your case hands down. No more boss for you. Soon, you’ll be the boss. Then, you can do the ass grabbing, if you decide to go that route. For my advice, I expect free subs until your company’s either bought out by Starbucks, Wal-Mart, or Oprah.
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Dear Inq,
Recently, I (an Aries) took my girlfriend (a Taurus) home to meet my parents for the first time. She hit it off with my dad (a Gemini) immediately. However, my mother (a Capricorn) hated her from “Hello.” My girlfriend has no problem with my mom. None whatsoever. It’s just that my mom thinks that my girlfriend should be thrown into the sea. Mom’s not actually specific with her hate. She just hates. It’s really important to me that both parents like my girlfriend, especially since I’m going to propose soon. How can I get my mom on board?
– Conflicted
Dear Conflicted,
You’re fu*ked. Being that your mom is a Capricorn and Capricorns are notorious for their jealousy, there’s not too much you can do. I know you want to keep things between the two women in your life civil, but I don’t see any resolution to this. Sucks to be you. I’m glad I’m not in your position. You need to seek some advice from someone. Older adults tend to be stuck in their ways, and it sounds like you’re pleased with your girlfriend so she’s not going anywhere. Hmmm…On second thought, there is one thing that you could do to relieve some of that great weight off your shoulders. Instead of wasting time trying to find a woman that mom will like, I suggest you dump your mom. If dad starts static, dump him, too. You can always get a new parent. There are several websites that provide such services, just to name a few of them: http://www.drop-a-pop.com, http://www.bomb-a-mom.com, and http://www.parenttransplant.org. At this stage in the game, you really don’t need your parents other than to do the occasional babysitting or to be that constant reminder of the kind of parent you should not be. Ditch ’em. Who needs them? Not you. FYI: In the future, if you decide that you don’t want your kids either, visit http://www.get-rid-of-a-kid.edu or http://www.toddler-robbers.gov. Both usually have a 2 for 1 deal just before summer hits as school lets out.
“Ask Inq” your questions at AskInq@notarealemailaddress.com
Man Bites 776-Pound Dog…and Crosseyed Tadpoles.
Someone told me that I should write a happy blog for once. Personally, I don’t think I write angry blogs. They’re just passionate. But I’ll give it a try in this one. So here’s my attempt at writing a happy blog. Here goes. “A happy blog.” There. I did it. That didn’t feel that bad.
Not long ago, I saw this girl get off a bus. She must have been about 16. Next to me was a guy who was probably in his mid 30s. My man kept trying to get her attention. Being a masterful communicator, he decided to yell out phrases like “Aaay! You!” and “C’mere, gurl!” Seeing that she smartly wasn’t repsonding to his mating calls, he dug into his shallow bag of intellect and pulled out the mother of all random salutations. He zeroed on what she was wearing. He bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Orange coat! Orange coat!” I love the connection you feel when you share a laugh with perfect strangers. Thanks, Orange coat caller man. I’m dedicating this blog to you.
Twice in the last few months I have been exposed to folks that I really want to murder. Murder in a nice way. Still want to show them that I care. Once again, this involves public transportation. First, I was on a train for about 2 additional hours one afternoon. One of the trains ahead of us hit a car, which caused ALL traffic to be backed up. A boy and his older sister were riding on the same train car with me. After about an hour and a half, the boy sprang from his seat, ran to the corner of the train car, and proceeded to use the it as his personal urinal. Yeah. At first, I didn’t realize what he was doing. It didn’t hit me until the smell hit me. I should’ve hit him. We all should have hit him. Little boy, I know was probably hard for you to hold it, but that’s your problem. It was so nasty that the bum that already smelled like piss was shaking his head in shame. Moreover, on that same train route, on a different day, as I entered the train, I was greeted by the smell of feces and Pine Sol. This hybrid I can’t explain.
In the vending machine, I noticed that Quaker Oats makes Express Instant Oatmeal. First of all, how the hell do you get faster than instant? Is the instant oatmeal not fast enough for you? And exactly how fast is express instant? According to this logic, by the time you open the instant oatmeal package, the oatmeal’s already cold. So that’s why you need to get your instant oatmeal expressed! Right? What’s next? Spontaneous Express Instant Oatmeal? You-get-yo’-oatmeal-right-fu*kin’-now Express Instant Oatmeal? If oatmeal becomes any faster, then you’re gonna have to get all Marty McFly and go back in the past to eat it hot.
Why do fugitives put so much effort into dying their hair, cutting their hair, or changing their hair when they’re on the run? You have the same face! This isn’t Metropolis where everyone can’t tell that meek, bespectacled Clark Kent is really Superman. Folks ain’t that retarded. We still know it’s you. I can understand plastic surgery, even self multilation. But just dying your hair black or red? You’re better off just walking around with the ski mask that you wore when you robbed the local credit union. Try that. Technically, you’re still hiding your face. That’s was your original goal anyway, right? Go for it. I’ll see you on the 6 o’clock news. Don’t forget your perp walk music.
I almost got mauled by a German shepherd. Again. I grew up around a multitude of stray German shepherds. They don’t like me for some reason. The feeling’s mutual. They must think I’m down with Michael Vick. Anyway, I walked past this woman who couldn’t control her dog. Just as I went by them, the dog went bananas and tried to attack me. If it wasn’t for my cat-like agility, rabbit speed, and dangerously dashing good looks, it would have definitely gotten me. I say that to say this. If you weigh 76 pounds and your dog weighs 776 pounds, then you need to tell your dog to go “sic ’em.” In this scenario, “’em” means you. That’s right. Command your dog to eat you. Why? Because you’re not thinking. I understand the notion of having a dog for protection. But if you can’t control your dog, then it’s not protecting you. Nothing is. If your dog charges me for no reason other than your failure to control it, then kiss that dog goodbye because I’m biting back. True, that dog might kill or maim me. But you know this. If I’m cornered and I feel like I’ve got nothing to lose, your dog is fu*ked. I’m taking an eye, a tail, some hair, or an aorta with me. I’ll be in heaven but other dogs will be laughing at your lame, limping ass dog, Mr. Patches.
I met a good guy who’s getting married to a good woman on Independence Day. Too bad he’ll be losing his independence.
To the surprise of many of you, I think that having a baby is a beautiful, life changing event…but acting like your baby is the most important and only baby that matters in the entire world while looking down on other people’s babies is wrong. Now that I think about it, your baby ain’t all that damn special. Next time you’re in a public place, look around at all of the people. Yep, they used to be babies, too. That thing called pregnancy…that $hit happens all the time, in case you didn’t notice. What makes your kid so remarkable? Can your baby recite Chaucerian poetry straight out the womb? Can that munchkin walk on water? Maybe not, huh? Hmmm…let’s see. Here’s an easy one. Can your baby sign an international peace treaty? Didn’t think so. Your baby’s just a regular, Gerber chomping, uncontrollably pooping, goo goo gaga-ing crosseyed tadpole. Just like we all were.
Oxygen bars. Never heard of them until recently. Apparently, what you do is go to one of these bars, pay some sort of fee, and breathe in scented air through some sort of breathing apparatus. You can smell air like strawberry oxygen, chocolate oxygen, etc. I’m not sure exactly what the prices are for this is, but paying anything to breathe air is too much. Ammonia and bleach has a distinct smell. You can mix that for free. Spray some 409 or Febreze in your living room, and catch a whiff. Or if you’re into the natural, more organic stuff, then lock yourself in a small room and let a few rip. Save yourself some damn money, and use it to buy some turkey this week. Happy Thanksgiving, ya bastards!
McGillycuddy’s Revenge
While in the movie theater, if you’re complaining to your buddy about how expensive your $10 movie ticket is on your $600 iPhone as the movie’s playing, you will also be the first to see if that phone really tastes like an Apple as iShove it down your throat. Shut up! You waited 2 weeks in line to buy a phone that can walk on water and bring world peace. But NO!! Your movie ticket was too expensive. If you don’t get off that phone, everyone in this theater is going to throw you into the hot butter machine and watch you die.
Ever notice what’s in any brand of trail mix? You’ll see peanuts, raisins, sunflower seeds, raisins, etc. None of that stuff you’re likely to find on a nature trail. Right? Where’s the authentic trail mix? One day, I’d like to see them package stuff that you actually would see on a nature trail. Stuff like acorns, broken glass, rusted batteries, and crack hypodermic needles. That might be a hard sell, though. I guess.
Folks that wear surgical masks in public. ???? Why do you do it? Whatever you’re trying not to catch can seep through that filmsy mask, jackass. It isn’t exactly airtight. Your thinking ability is, though. Open your mind. Read the studies. You might as well take that mask off and breathe in the smog and other air pollutants like the rest of us are. The only thing that mask is doing is keeping a good portion of those nasty germs you expel from your mouth closer to your mouth. Or maybe you’re a really big ER or House fan. You have to live everyday like you’re on call or you just heard a code blue. Walking all fast like you’ve got an open heart surgery to perform at the intersection, or maybe you’re trying to outrun air. You’re scared of everything. Germs, rain, big clouds, and your reflection. Now, you’ve got all of America scared. Thanks a lot. Oops! Is that the ol’ school smallpox virus sitting on your shoulder like a parrot? You better get it off! “Virus wanna a cracker!” The humans vs. air molecules war will be televised on FOX.
If you hit me in your car when I’m crossing the street while I have the right-of-way and you kill me, my spirit’s haunting you, your family, friends, enemies, descendants, and neighbors. It’ll even haunt your ancestors’ spirits. Yeah, I already have a deal worked out with the boys at Afterlife, Inc. That’s right. They make sure that my interests are being met and I make sure that certain people (dumbasses) don’t make it to the afterlife. It’s a tough job, but I’m doing my best. Afterlife, Inc. is an Equal Opportunity Employer, but they do discriminate against people like this…
…the next brain surgeon that asks me if North Hollywood is north or south of Hollywood is going to have to figure out if my left or right foot is the most comfortable up his ass.
In the morning, some workers take water hoses and spray down the sidewalk in front of their place of business. One morning, I’m walking and the guy gives me the gas face (a look of pissedofftivity, circa 1989) because I’m walking on his newly, freshly wet sidewalk. Well, guess what, Hoseman? It’s a public sidewalk. That means it’s everyone’s, not just yours. Ooooh! And it’s a sidewalk. People walk on it. The verb is actually in the name. Don’t get mad because people walk on your artwork. Spray inside. That way, fewer people will have access to walk on it. Your boss may even give you a raise for sharing your artistic skill with the customers and other workers. Try it. Let me know what happens.
Ok. Let’s say I’m standing by an elevator. Envision that. You with me so far? Cool. Now, you walk up next to me. You notice that the elevator button’s lit. You see it’s lit, right? So why do you feel like you have to press the button yourself?!?! Is your elevator-push-button finger more intuned to elevatorism than my elevator-push-button finger? Or maybe you’re pushing it because you’re going in a different direction of “up” than I am? That could be it. Could it be? No, you village idiot. Repeatedly smacking on the button does not make it accelerate. But you repeatedly smacking your head on the wall might make you smarter. Meanwhile, you’ll just have to wait for the elevator. Like the rest of us. Like normal people do. You freak.
This may surprise those who know me. Normally, I’m pretty hard on kids, but this time, I’m actually in their corner. Yeah, I can’t believe it, either. Anyway, last week, a train station “cop” decided that he was going to slap a $250 ticket on this mom and her thristy, little son. The kid, obviously overwhelmed from the summer heat, needed a drink…badly. His mom gives him a sip of her Powerade. However, eating and drinking aren’t allowed on the train platform. Needless to say, the train cop is a bored f%% who was on break from scratching his crotch. Train cop, you’re a living, breathing puddle of the bum piss that you slurp up everyday to entertain yourself. Giving that kid’s mom a ticket for being a caring mom was pretty low, and this is coming from a guy that makes fun of kids on a weekly basis. I hope you feel good about yourself. I won’t tell you to stand in front of the next train like I usually do. Nah, I’m not angry. Just annoyed. Just lie down in front of it instead.
If you are talking your head off in public and you don’t have a Bluetooth or any other kind of wired or wireless phone connection to your ear, do not look at me like I’m the crazy one when I stare at you. Yeah, people talk to themselves all the time, but you sound like you’re having a round table discussion with the Teletubbies. Get away from me. You’re scaring me. You are freaking me the f&% out! Where’s that extra voice coming from? If I see that alien from that movie Aliens jump out of your chest, I’m sprinting away like Barry Bonds after an ice cream truck full of steroids.
Finally, this point goes back to an earlier blog. Just because I’m walking behind you does not mean that I’m stalking you. A few weeks ago, a woman in my neighborhood who has seen me and even spoken to me was walking her dog. I was walking to the grocery store on the same street. She was about a half a block ahead of me. She kept looking back at me. I even turned around to see if the Hamburglar was behind me or something. I sensed the tension. I crossed to the other side of the street. She crossed over, too. As this happens, she hangs up her cell and dials another number. By the time, I get to the grocery store, she’s rounded up a manager and they’re looking at me like I ushered the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse down the cereal aisle. Anyway, I ignored them and kept shopping. By the time, I returned to the checkout counter (no more than 4 minutes) the dog-walking lady’s gone. The manager begins to ring me up. She tells me that the lady thought I was stalking her and called the police on me. What’s even more bizarre is that the lady said I was walking with another guy, who was wearing a dark hoodie. No one was on the street but myself, this nutty chick, and her rat-ass lap dog. Long story short, a week later, the same woman passed me (without the dog) and said, “Hello. How are you today?” Hey! I’m doing fine enough to push your stupid ass off a cliff. The LAPD hunting down me and this imaginary man down is the last thing that I (and McGillycuddy–I’ve named the imaginary man since then) need right now. Thanks for setting back the neighborhood fifty years, ya gremlin. Next time I see you, I’m calling the cops, the FBI, Interpol, Homeland Security, the Armed Forces, the Boy Scouts, and the Salvation Army and tell them that you’re a terrorist. Uh huh, yeah! When they ask you if you’re really Osama Bin Laden’s lover that he met in a chat room and why you’re 1 on his MySpace friends list, you’ll know that was mine and McGillycuddy’s handiwork. Then I’ll finally answer your “How are you today?”….”$hit, I’m fantastic! How do those handcuffs feel, muthaf*****?”
The Middleman
All-you-can-eat does not necessarily mean eat-all-you-can or you-can-eat-all. I know a guy who got thrown out of a Chinese buffet joint for eating food for four hours straight. They said he was eating too much. Everyone has a limit. If the buffet restaurant says, “Hey, buddy, you gotta get out of here; we’ve ran out of white rice,” then you need to slow down. Slow the &*^% down. Your heart is calling your cell phone now. Answer it. Too stuffed to reach for it? Never mind, then. Your Bluetooth connection can’t get around your stomach to the phone? I’ll just call 911. And a tow truck.
I’ve always been interested in history. Anything from ancient Kush to Timbuktu to China to Rome. All of it intrigues me. Some of it confuses me, too. Ancient Greece. First of all, being a sports fan, any civilization that invented the Olympics is a friend of mine. However, one of my favorite Olympic sports, track and field, was performed a little awkwardly back in those days of old. The ancient Greeks liked for all track participants to be men. Only men. Women weren’t even allowed to watch. All runners were completely naked. So a relay team, 4 men, would run around completely naked. I wonder what their times were. You may have less wind resistance that way. Running around naked is just strange. Nevertheless, a relay team should have only one baton, not five.
If your priest/pastor/clergyman/pope/reverend/rabbi/esteemed religious official wears a ton of jewelry, drives a futuristic car, owns a jet, lives in a mansion, has a pinky ring, or rocks a gold tooth, any of which happens to be worth more than the GNP and yearly oil earnings of Saudi Arabia, then you should start your own church and cash in, too. He may be helping you get to heaven or whatever afterlife destination you believe in, but you’re really helping him out with that lush beach house in the Caribbean. I’m not saying that all men/women of the cloth are suspect. That’s not the case at all. But when I personally saw a preacher with more diamonds than De Beers do a wedding and then hop in his pimped out BMW, just to drive about 25 feet to the reception hall, I decided that it was time for me to start a religion. Here I am, just like every other hard-working MySpace reader, paying these crazy bills and “budgeting” my next paycheck when I know it’s already spent…when, really, I could just go to the top of a mountain and tell all of my followers to give me money. If someone asks me a question about salvation or anything “religiousy,” my immediate and only response would be, “Have you paid your membership fee yet?” How does it sound? I don’t know. It might not be a good idea. Yeah? You agree? Right. I know. I was thinking the same thing. I’m sort of scared of heights. That standing-on-the-mountain bit might not fly.
One day, within a few minutes, a bird crapped on my arm; a grocery store worker dropped a 12-pack of Mountain Dew, which exploded and sprayed all over my back; and a rain cloud (on a clear day) out of nowhere poured down on my bald head. Are those signs of good luck?
If I see you working out at the gym…then I see you at the Cheesecake Factory killing some poor, decadent cheesecakes, don’t look at me like I’m gonna rat you out to the Guilt Fairy. Cause I will. That’s right. I’m the gym’s tattletale. You’re the one that was bragging about how lean you were gonna be and how you were gonna stick to your workout regiment. You’re the one that’s gonna feel bad. You’re the one that’s crying on the inside. You’re the one that’s gonna have to work harder to lose that weight. Not me. I’m a paragon of perfect persistence. Intestinal fortitude. I’m — what’s that you say? Huh? What was I doing in the Cheesecake Factory? Uhhh…ehhh…that’s not important. I was…I was…bird watching. Where are my binoculars? You just gonna mess up the point I was trying to make?!! F%k!!
Note: If you can only park diagonally, then you should not try to parallel park. It’s basic geometry. On the way to watch Transformers, a friend and I saw a Transformer. Almost. This guy was trying to put his minivan in between two compact cars. Apparently, he must have been pretty scared that he was gonna hit them, because my man’s foot had an epileptic seizure on the brake pedal. The minivan was jerking so much that I thought that it was gonna transform into Optimus Prime. His minivan was an Autobot. Its squeaky brakes supplied us with the transforming sound effects and everything. I was laughing so hard I got a cramp in my neck and damn near threw out my back. Everyone can’t parallel park. Just keep circling the parking lot like a parking shark. You’ll find somewhere to park. Eventually. Just beware of the Decepticons (tow trucks, meter maids, boot guy, etc.)
If I’m frowning when you see me, don’t ask me if I’m having a good day. It should be obvious that I’m not. That’s why we have faces. A facial expression is the middleman of what we like to call “life.” Life’s middleman. The intermediary. The go-between. Faces effortlessly broker silent deals with other faces so that you won’t have to endure too much stress, face rejection, or have stupid conversations. We use them all the time. When you approach a love prospect, doing your 1970s-style winks, talking all smooth, laying down your best game, and that person looks at you as if you have a 3 1/2 feet long booger hanging out your nose, that person does not want to be bothered. I’ll sum it up for you. Me + Frowning = Things probably ain’t going too well that day. Maybe that blister on my toe popped or I just ran out of Raisin Bran Crunch that morning. Who knows? It could be anything. Instead of asking me if I had a good day, I rather you say, “Have a better day,” “Hey, it can’t get any worse,” or “Smile, ya big bastard!” All those will suffice. At least they’re not stupid. The next person that asks me if I’m having a good day while I’m visibly grimacing will have the unfortunate, yet rare experience of watching reptilian wings sprout out of my back, seeing me morph into my original Pterodactyl form, and screaming for dear life as I chase ’em around the 99 cent store.
The Trojan War: Fire Ants and Dandruff
I pose a question: Why aren’t pigeons pigeon-toed? Or at least the ones where I live aren’t.
Recently, I learned that every year, some organization sells out the Hollywood Bowl to host a Sound of Music Sing-A-Long. Yep, thousands of people show up to watch that 3-hour musical on a big jumbo screen, and sing every song at the top of their lungs. They sell out every year. Every year! I gots ta thinking, “Hmmm…if they can have that, then they should have a Scarface Swear-A-Long, too.” That would do it. They could definitely pack the house for that one. I can see it now. Thousands of itchy trigger fingers dropping the f-word 182 times. Too bad someone’s getting shot there.
There are some other things that I’ve noticed, too. Maybe I think too much. So before we get too far into this, I need to say something to you. You are the lowest form of scum $hit! If I was close enough to you, I’d hit you dead in the mouth. You need to turn around and mind your own business. Who? No, not you. I’m talking to the person behind you, reading over your shoulder. Is he gone yet? Good. You should try that. Next time you’re typing up something and someone’s looking over your shoulder, try typing something like this: “….Why the * %( # are you looking at my screen? Look at your own. You syphilis discharge.” That’ll get someone’s attention.
If you’re traveling somewhere, please don’t bring more luggage than you can carry. Every time I travel, I see somebody who’s about 5′ 2″ carrying a bag that’s about 7 feet tall. Dumbass, what do you need that’s that important and that big? Nomads have the right idea. They can roll up their houses and put them on their backs and move at a moment’s notice. You’re the Paris Hilton clone with a zazillion pairs of shoes in a suitcase when you’ve only got 2 damn feet.
While we’re on stupidity, if you’re running up the escalator and you’re about to pass out from running up the escalator, stop running up the escalator. It’s an escalator. Guess what, genius? It’s going up anyway. Yep! That’s the same direction you’re going, remember? Plus, when you faint midway up the escalator and it eventually takes you up to the top, the people behind won’t be able to get their luggage over your dead ass. The escalator’s a great invention. Accept it. Embrace modern technology. Jackass.
While on planes, if you take your shoes off, then the sky marshal should be granted authorization from the FAA to either throw you in cargo, into one of the turbofan jet engines, or out of the plane completely. If you think that’s a little harsh, you shouldn’t. First of all, who told you that your feet smell like a bouquet of roses? No one. When your dog will sniff your ass but won’t sniff your feet, then your feet are rank and stank and they need to be fumigated. I hate seeing people flounce around the plane like they’re at home. You’re not at home, punk! You’re in an oversized tomato sauce can with wings. Unless your name is Prego or Ragu, then that ain’t your home. Put your shoes back on. You’re the real Shoe Bomber. The TSA agents should confiscate you and your shoes. They should put you in a zip lock bag. Keeps the freshness in. Watch you kill yourself on your own fumes.
Parents, if your kid keeps crying on the flight and it (yeah, I called your baby an “it”) won’t shut up and everyone’s getting annoyed, save us all some grief. Put the kid in the overhead storage bin. It’s an overnight flight and I don’t know about you, but I’ll bet that most of the passengers are trying to get some shut-eye. But before we can shut our eyes, your baby’s got to shut its mouth. So the overhead storage bins aren’t that bad. Check it out. It’s roomy. Your kid can fit in one. Hell, both of your kids can fit in one. Conserve some space for the other couple’s kids. And if you think about it, a storage bin is dark inside so when the plane rocks a little, it’ll be just like you rocking your baby to sleep at night. Just only less oxygen. Makes sense to me.
Now, there are some times when you shouldn’t quiet your kid. Running to pick up your child every time he or she screams or yells is bad parenting. You’re teaching that rodent that someone will always be there to save him, and that someone’s always gonna answer his every beck and call. You’re spoiling him. That’s a prime training ground for a child that’ll later turn out like the Menendez Brothers. Let your kid cry a little. Let him get that demon out of him. He’s trying to get it out. You just have to be a good parent/exorcist. Let the mongrel cry.
Moving on….
Note: Just because I hate you, doesn’t mean that you’re a player.
Ladies, and for the record, just because I happen to be walking behind you, does not mean that I’m looking at your ass or am about to rob you. Can you leave the vanity at home for once and just let me be, just because I’m walking in the same direction that you are? Most of the time, I have better things to do like count how many cement squares each block has or remember where the hell I was going to in the first place. I’m just walking here.
But since we’re on the subject, when I am looking at your behind, I must ask: Why get a tattoo on your lower back just so you can hide it when I’m trying to see it? Makes no sense to me. I’ve seen women walk 10 blocks with their hands tucked behind them, pulling down the backs of their shirts over their tattoos. Huh? Don’t do that! You’ll get metacarpal tunnel syndrome that way. You should let it do what you originally intended for it to do: to be seen. I’m an artist. I appreciate art. All types of art. Even skin art. Fine, you don’t have to believe me.
Is it me or…alright, it’s probably me. I’ll go ahead and say it. Is it me or is the Trojan Condoms mascot and marketing scheme a bit nutty and confusing? Let me explain. Trojan Condoms has always had the head of a Trojan soldier as its logo. You don’t have to be an English literature expert or Classics Ph.D. candidate to remember the mythology of the Trojan War. Check out the movie ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Troy. Got it? Remember the Trojan Horse? The wooden horse that had all of the soldiers inside it. Well, didn’t those soldiers eventually come OUT of the horse, and wasn’t it meant to be a SURPRISE attack? Hmmm…things coming OUT of a condom by SURPRISE. Think about it. That’s a little discouraging to me. Well, the alternative isn’t any better. They say Lifestyles changes lifestyles.
When someone calls you the wrong name during sex, you shouldn’t automatically get upset. You should be happy. You should be relieved. You should be grateful. You ask, “Why?” Well, that person could be calling you by the name of an inanimate object like a maple tree or a fire ant hill. That would be totally awkward. Or they could be calling you by the name of their favorite food like sloppy joe or fried okra. That would be even more awkward. At least, if they call you by the name of an ex-lover of theirs, you can find solace in the fact that for a quick, fleeting split-second, you reminded him/her of someone who was a serious (maybe even godly) expert of the very act that you’re trying to do now. Ya know? For that “one shining moment” you were the man or woman! Maybe not the man or woman that you actually are or wanted to be, but you gotta start somewhere. Right? At least that person acknowledged your presence…sort of. Hell, it could be worse. While you’re down there doing your thing, that person could be asleep. Or watching TV. Or on the phone. Or watching TV AND on the phone. Be cool. Things are looking up, soldier!
To avoid long lines at the restroom, women should learn to pee in cups like men.
To avoid long lines of piss on the floor in the restroom, men should learn to piss in the toilet like women. And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.
Why are most songs on the radio about love? Take a look at the top 40 at any time in the year, and you’ll see that the vast majority of the songs have to do with someone pursuing another romantically, the aftermath of a breakup, or something to that effect. Is love the only subject in the world? I know it’s important. Don’t get me wrong, y’all. I’d just like to turn on the radio and hear something else. Hip Hop used to be refreshing because various topics were discussed. Nowadays, every hip hop song seems to be about a pimp that deals drugs with a flashy car and big chains rapping about being a pimp that sells drugs in his flashy car while wearing big chains. Just once I’d like to hear someone singing for 4 minutes about skinny dipping a vat of melted taffy, or how someone’s debit card kept getting declined at Wal-mart, or even how a kid had to explain to his mom why the window’s broken because his toenail clipping had a little too much force on it. They don’t make songs like they used to.
You can not get mad because you’re on a crowded bus and someone’s in your “personal” space. That’s bull$hit. You do not have “personal” space on “public” transportation. Get over yourself, get used to it, or get off at the next stop. This dude was so mad because he had to let an older woman in so she could seat at the window seat. He had an aisle seat, didn’t want to sit in the window seat. He just didn’t want anyone sitting beside him. It’s times like that I wish that the trap door would open and bastards like that would get ground up underneath the gears of the bus. The wheels on the bus go round and round…
Overly pushy guys trying to mack to overly sexy women on the bus are bound to lose. Your chances of getting her respect, let alone getting her number, are struggling for life straight out of the womb. All of your cologne. All of your Chap Stick. All of your jewelry. All of your slick talk. They’re all sinking your battleship, son. She’s on the bus because her car’s in the shop. You’re on the bus because your car’s still at the dealership. Give it up. Those old, Jewish ladies in front of the bus are laughing at you, schmuck.
A curly haired boy on the train with a head full of dandruff decided that it would be funny to rub his hand through his hair and shake all his snowflakes out. He sat right across from me. It was like anthrax spores invaded the airspace. Christmas in July. I took my folder and fanned that dandruff toward the back of his throat. He started coughing. I started smiling. Everyone started clapping. Good times.
People who are really, really, really concerned with how the animal they’re currently eating was treated prior to being their dinner……I know where you guys are coming from. But does it really matter? I don’t know. I don’t have the answers. That’s why I’m asking you. Would it make a difference if that turkey you’re devouring stayed in a 5-star hotel, got room service at the jingle of a bell, and watched satellite TV before it got its neck chopped off, feathers plucked, and gutted out just so you can eat that lean roast turkey? Whether it lived the high life and waddled on a red carpet at the Oscars or was beat up in the back alley of a slaughterhouse, it’s still dead. Dead so you can appease your appetite. You think it’s a problem…well, you’re actually part of the problem. That problem’s called the food chain. Heard of it?
This guy I know lives about a block from me. Sometimes two blocks. Anyway, he’s gotten on my last nerve. You know what? I’m gonna quit being mysterious and vague. Man, I’m calling you out. Right here on MySpace. Zacko, I know you’ll read this eventually. I know you’ve got the internet. Listen. When you asked me to help you out with some money, I did. I did it for you. I did it because I thought we were boys. I thought we were friends. Thought we were tight. But you did me wrong! When I’m in a pinch and I ask you for some scratch, you turned your back on me. Didn’t even acknowledge my presence. Mu+hafu#ka! You owe me! Just because you’re homeless…that doesn’t mean jack $hit!! How come you can do right by me? Bastard! I know you got money! I’ve seen you driving that big ol’ SUV down the street you usually beg on. You saw me, too! Uh huh! Sinking down in the seat when you see me. I see how it is! Now, you’ve got tinted windows so I can’t see inside. But you ain’t as smart as you think. License plates stay the same unless you change them, Einstein! It’s all good, though. I’ve got your number. I’ll be waiting in the bushes when you least expect it. I’m gonna get my fifty cents back!!
I’m a hypocrite.
I’m a hypocrite.
I’ve been telling myself and others that I would not dedicate any blog space to the person that has successfully stayed in the top three of my Hate List for the past few years. Yet, here I am, about to do just that. Normally, I would hold my tongue, but this person’s latest antics have pushed me to the edge. So here goes….
Kobe Bryant, why are you still alive?
You must be purged from the earth. Your crybaby ways have made me very sick. I rather vomit in a wine glass and then chug it down again than watch your interviews. There are abandoned schools in New Orleans with more class than you. You wannabe! You wanna be Michael Jordan so badly that you can taste it like I used to taste Nutella before you endorsed it. I stopped buying it, but since they dropped you a few years ago, Nutella never tasted so goooooood! You even changed your number from 8 to 24 just so you could be “one more” than Jordan. I must be the only person in LA to buy a Clippers jersey solely on my pure hatred of you. How are you going to complain about the Lakers’ management, insult your teammates, and ask to be traded only to change your mind shortly after and act like nothing happened? Now, you want to be traded again! You made your bed, so you gotta lie in it. Ya bastard! You wanted to be the #1 man on the squad so you complained enough to drive Shaq and Phil Jackson away. Now, your team is a mere shadow of what it used to be, it loses games even when you score 80,000 points before halftime, and, not to mention, y’all suck. The Lakers organization needs to quit bending over for Kobe, grow some balls, and kick him in his. But then again, he might like that. Let’s not forget that he likes it super rough, rough in that illegal way. You shoulda gotten shut down like your album was shut down. I guess you told yourself, “Hey, I can’t rap, but I can rape.” Guess you’re living your dream now, huh? You and R. Kelly need to be locked in a room so you two can just go at it on one another, since you two deviants like raping so much.
—
One day I was in a drugstore and this woman came running in, completely hysterical. She recently had plastic surgery on her face and was livid about not finding painkillers that were strong enough. This type of behavior — I have a problem with. Lady, extensive cosmetic surgery is not the way to go. If you’re that unhappy with yourself, then there are plenty of tall buildings around the city that you can jump from. Since you want to change your face structure so much, you might as well go all the way and let the pavement do it for you. Hell, your face is crooked for a reason. God made you ugly. We, ugly folks, calmly and successfully deal with it every day. Why should you get special treatment?
Usually, when someone asks me what I want for Christmas, I’ll honestly tell ’em that I don’t want anything. Can’t help it. That’s just me. Blame it on my Southern upbringing. However, this year’s gonna be different. I’m declaring what I want for Christmas 7 months early. This Christmas I don’t want anything….I want a Segway. Aaaaaah yeeeah! A Segway, you know? Those motorized, crazy-looking scooter thingamabobs. I saw an airport cop with one once and I almost knocked him off it. I want one mainly for one reason. I want to ride it down the highway. Yes, I want hundreds of cars to honk at me simultaneously as I hold up traffic. I want to challenge sports cars to all-out drag races. I want to steal some M&Ms and a Yoo Hoo from a corner store and make my getaway on a Segway. Hopefully, if you all chip in, then you can help a growing boy’s dreams come true.
Ok, if one more person farts in a department store while I’m in it, I’m going to subject you to an old school, Old Testament village stoning all by myself. I am sick and tired of walking through invisible clouds of your ass gas that make me sick and tired. It fogs up my glasses, burns my eyes, singes my nose hairs, and hurts my soul. These silent but deadly vapors of methane should be banned…intergalactically. If you have to fart in a store, keep it in. That’s right. Give your insides a taste of its own medicine. I wanna see you implode. Homeland Security’s fighting the wrong battle. Also, if you’re on a elevator with someone, don’t let one go before you get off the elevator. Not only is that foul elevator etiquette, but it f%ckin’ stanks! “Stanking” is stinking squared. You should be either arrested or shot to death for that. It all depends on whether the officer or arresting citizen pulls out handcuffs or a pistol first. In the near future, scientists will be able to extract a fart’s DNA and trace it back to you. Those offenders will soon be caught and then you’ll be skinned alive.
Note: People with no eyebrows are no fun at surprise parties.
There’s a cook named Bobby Flay on the Food Network that’s starting to annoy me. He’s a born and bred New Yorker who tries to portray this “I’m tougher than all the other cooks” attitude and image. He even named one of his shows “Throwdown.” Gimme a break. He needs a beatdown and a smackdown. What are you, a karate chef? You a martial artist? More like a martial sandwich artist. The closest thing you’ve got to any kind of martial arts is your Japanese wok. Brotha, you ain’t tough cuz you whip the hell out of some pancake batter. Unless I see you in a barbed wire, fight-to-the-death, cage match with Emeril Lagasse, Rachel Ray, or better yet, Martha Stewart, and then you go inside a mosque and convince 500 Muslims that your pork soufflé does a body good, you’re just another guy who can cook with a cooking show. You are not an Ultimate Fighter, a welterweight boxing champ, or a kung fu master. You’re a bozo whose weapon of choice is a spatula. Tough guy, my ass.
Ever wonder why you pay hundreds of dollars for a plane ticket and all you get to eat are some 50-cent cheese and crackers? Huh? I know. Can’t wrap my brain around it either, which is why I propose that we begin wrapping a more satisfying food around our famished appetites. What do y’all think about munching on flight attendants? We should give it a shot. They’ve got to be more filling than Nabisco crackers, right? Which would you rather have: treats & snacks or feet & backs? Kettle Chips or Deborah’s hips? Doritos or Dorrie’s toes? The Donner Party had to eat one another when they were stranded away from civilization for a long period of time. Hey! Sounds just like being cooped up on a plane to me! One flight attendant for every five to ten rows works perfectly, according to my calculations. Oh! And if the flight’s half empty, then your stomach won’t be half full. More food for you. Plus, I hear people taste like chicken….just in a people kind of way.
Suing the Holy Ghost — w/ Cummerbunds & Red Lobster
Why is the Holy Ghost so violent? I’ve decided to take the Holy Ghost to court, charging it with assault and battery. Hope there’s not a statue of limitations. Years ago, I was standing behind this lady in church. Wrong place, wrong time. She immediately caught the Holy Ghost and threw her arms back wildly. Her fingers penetrated the defenses of my glasses and damn near took my eye out. To this day, I have a scar just over my left eye where her 3-inch fingernails pierced my skin and tore it wide open. She never knew what she did. And that’s why I was going to let her know. I wanted to hit her with a spinning roundhouse kick to the back of her head, but that wouldn’t look good…being that she was 70. I’m older now, though. And wiser. I know the way that I wanted to retaliate was not appropriate and I have learned from my mistakes. Next time, a choke hold would be more efficient. Clean and quiet.
What’s the purpose of a cummerbund? I remember renting a tux once that came with a cummerbund. I threw it away. Not the tux. The cummerbund. It serves no purpose. The cummerbund is the appendix of clothing. You don’t need it. I did some research and discovered that the word cummerbund comes from the Hindi word “kamarband,” which means “loin band.” Why would high school kids going to their proms need these “loin bands” to cover up their loins when they’re so hellbent on trying to expose their loins that night? They should think of different ways to use cummerbunds. They should make cummerbunds out of Kevlar and other bulletproof materials. Go to war with that on ya. You may get shot up, but at least you can donate your loins to science. A cummerbund is the extra material that the mummy didn’t want. Give cummerbunds to kanagroos so that their Joeys don’t pop out. Or maybe give one to the kid with the really, really big head in karate class. Yeah, that one sitting in the corner by himself. Now, he can be part of the class since he’s got a headband now.
The next time (let’s hope there won’t be a next time) a monumental disaster like Katrina plows through this nation, I think another group of people should take the place of FEMA and handle matters that need a speedy response. Those people should be – yeah, you guessed it – taggers/graffiti artists. Them muthabastards are fast! They can tag the 10th floor of a new building while the 8th floor is still being built. And you never see them! Anybody who can spray up a complete mural on the highway sign that’s probably 50 feet in the air in the 15 minutes it takes me to pick up my omelette from IHOP at 2am Saturday morning deserves a government position. I’ve seen one tag a pedestrian from head to toe before the guy could pull out his cell phone to call the police. Fast, I tell ya!
Politicians need to stop thinking just because they convince (or pay) some celebrity to endorse them that I’m gonna automatically vote for them. That only works when you’re trying to get the stupid vote. I personally don’t care if you have Puffy (I still call him Puffy; he’ll always be Puffy to me) or the cast of the OC standing behind you while you deliver your speech, they’re not gonna influence my vote. Just ’cause I like a celebrity, doesn’t mean that I like his or her politics. And if I hate that celebrity, chances are I hate the politician, the celebrity, and their families anyway. I’m not a swing state. I rather not vote at all than give you the satisfaction of filing me in the stupid vote category. I was in Florida back in 2000 when it was the laughingstock of the world. No longer will I be labeled “stupid by association.” Anyway, since Puffy’s standing behind you, tell him to close his mouth. Can he close his mouth? His mouth is ajar even when he’s not speaking. Mosquitoes are flying in.
What’s wrong with this nursery rhyme? “Twinkle, Twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are?” Umm….hmmm…if you really need to ask that question, maybe you should say the beginning part of the statement all over again. But this time, read it really slowly. I mean t h i s s l o w l y.
Staying on nursery rhymes, what kind of message does “Rock-a-bye Baby” send to a child? Sure, when you’re an infant, you don’t know what it means. Of course. It just sounds really soothing after you’ve gorged yourself on Gerber apple sauce and you’ve made yourself tired by flailing your arms and legs all day although you stayed in the same spot the whole day. All that damn motion and you haven’t gone anywhere. No forward movement. Being a baby sucks. It’s only when you become older when you realize that your parent/guardian was singing you to sleep every night by threatening to put you and your cradle on top of a tree and watch you plummet to your death. “And down we come, baby, cradle and all.”
Why do some people insist that spinning rims go on beat-up hatchbacks and mini vans? That looks just a wee bit more than retarded. Spinners look hot on certain vehicles. Not that thing that you have to crank up to start, not by turning the ignition, but by pulling the cord on its lawnmower engine. If you’re riding down the street and your idea of blasting your “system” is by having damn radio static (you know…the sound that goes, “shhhhhhhhhh”) pumping with the treble all the way up, you should focus your money on other things and leave the rims in the shop.
Why isn’t R. Kelly in jail yet? I was reading somewhere that since his videotape came out of him doing a favor for a really young friend and dutifully sanitizing and cleansing her backyard with his tongue sponge, he’s released SIX top-selling albums and has had THREE domestic tours. My man still hasn’t had a trial. Swift justice at its finest. But never mind that. That’s old news. You know what he should really be thrown in prison for? Saying this dumb $hit the other day:
“I’m the Ali of today. I’m the Marvin Gaye of today. I’m the Bob Marley of today. I’m the Martin Luther King, or all the other greats that have come before us. And a lot of people are starting to realize that now.”
Oh, really? Who are these people? You fu[k^n’ diseased urethra! Marvin, Marley, and Martin are all rolling over in their graves from the mere discomfort and “wrongness” of your words and ego, and all of a sudden, Ali wants to fight you. Forget insulting just black folks, you just insulted everyone with a heartbeat and/or a navel. Watching my 12 Play CD roast in flames makes me feel like steppin’! Step to the left! Step to the right!
Why is it that the same places that have hot warning labels on their coffee and other hot drinks are the same places that turn off the hot water in their restrooms? What’s wrong gas station and fast food joint managers? Y’all don’t trust us. When I clog my arteries with the cholesterol from your triple cheese, triple bypass burgers, eat that Big Texas, Big Debbie honeybun from the 3rd aisle, or stain my teeth with your extra concentrated tar coffee, I’d like to at least have the opportunity to fully clean my hands. Gotta keep the germs away. Can’t get anything bad that might kill me on that nice, healthy food. There’s a thing that hot water does. It likes to kill (or at least drown) germs and other microscopic critters. I don’t know what cold water does in that situation. Maybe the opposite. Don’t worry, managers. We won’t sue. Turn the hot water back on. Just put a hot warning label on the faucet. That should do it.
Is it just me or does anyone notice that Maury Povich does nothing but have paternity tests shows? Every show has a “I’m here for the 14th time and I KNOW, this time, that he’s the daddy” theme. Poor Maury. I know he just gave up. After years of having shows about serious and somewhat serious subjects, he caved in and just started doing the same thing over and over again. I heard that clinics in Chicago don’t even supply paternity tests anymore. They just send ya on over to Maury. Well, at least, it’s better than that continuous stream of makeover shows Jenny Jones had going on. The only makeover show where all the participants came out wearing the same maroon silk blouse that Jenny’s wearing. She would always say to the newly made over guest, “You look so great!”
Runway models should have at least one Philly cheesesteak before they jump on the catwalk. Maybe that would make them happy. That way, they’ll stop looking so damn serious and stop frowning. They look like someone just told them that they look like they weigh 85 pounds. Oh, the horror! On top of that, why are you always modeling clothes that are too big for you? What was that? What did you say? You don’t like greasy meat. Well, that’s your prerogative. It’s the way that you wanna live. It’s your prerogative. You can do just what you feel. But Philly cheesesteaks are gooooooood. Your plate full of air and dust? Baaaaaaaad. Just so you know, swallowing your own spit doesn’t count as caloric intake.
Why is it that people with bad breath like to say words that start with the letter H? You know what I mean. Uh huh. We all know at least one person with breath that could cause another Chernobyl. Yeah, that nuclear meltdown, nuclear fallout breath. Watch them next time you’re around them. Especially those with that “it’s 8 in the morning and there’s no reason that your breath should be this damn bad” breath. They’ll go up to you saying something like, “HHHHi, HHHHow are you? Did you hhhhave a hhhhappy hhhhholiday? HHHHarry’s not hhhhere. HHHHe hhhhas hhhherpes.” Can you say HHHHHHalitosis?? Better yet, don’t say it. I’m sure they sell gas masks on Ebay.
Who the hell is OTIS and why is there always a 2000 pound limit on his elevators? I thought Otis made Spunkmeyer cookies.
I must have occasional (if not perpetual) bad taste in clothing. I got a shirt a couple of years ago. Back when I was in Miami, I went through a “dress like the locals” stage. I got a blue, Cuban-style guayabera shirt. It had subtle prints of tropical marine life on it. I thought it was sorta smooth. That is until strangers started coming up to me, asking me if I worked at Red Lobster. That shirt has been exiled to the back on my closet.
If you are an adult and you act AND dress exactly like your child 6 out of 7 days of the week, turn yourself into the proper authorities. You may not be aware of it yet, but you quite possibly could be a child molester. More than likely, you are. That TV crew that keeps following you around isn’t “Candid Camera” or “Punk’d.” It’s Chris Hanson and the “To Catch a Predator” guys.
If you drive while you’re talking on your cell phone or while you’re texting and you get into an accident, it is your fault. I don’t care if you get rear-ended. I don’t care if you get hit by a drunk. I don’t care if a tree uproots itself and runs out into the middle of the street and you hit it. I don’t care if a crane drops another car on top of your car while you’re at a stoplight. It’s your fault. Get a hands-free joint and stop risking all of our lives. We should track down your parents and beat the hell out of them for all the $hi+ they’ve caused.
Why do you have on a leather jacket in June? We all know that you just got that jacket on clearance and that you love it so much, you couldn’t wait to sport it. Here’s some advice. Wait, dumbass. It’s 99 degrees and you’re standing in the shade. Why? You want people to think that you’re cool, but we all know that your heart is sizzling inside your chest. You’re dying inside. I’ve heard of people dying from broken hearts, but you’ll be the first to die from a smokin’ heart. Take the jacket off. Old folks look at you in that jacket and pass out. Stop being stupid. You’re about as smart as someone going to a cannibal convention smelling like bacon bits.
By the way, please tell me why you decided to wear your sunglasses at night? Is there some kind of nocturnal sun that you can see that the rest of us mere mortals can’t see? Who are you? Cyclops from X-Men? He wears shades for a reason — he has to. You don’t have a reason. Plus, he’s make-believe. Now, guess what? You’re real. A real scrotum-head. It’s 11 pm and you wanna wear your shades like you’re important. You’re not important, but you might as well be impotent because no sensible woman’s gonna give you the time of day or, in your case, night.
Hydrangea and Phalaenopsis Orchids…sign of the Xs
I’ve been having conversations with some friends of mine lately. Women. The single, underlining theme of these dialogues is that women seem to think that they don’t get looked at every day. I’m always quick to say, in a polite way, “Bulls#!%!!” Women, you are always getting looked at. Men always look at you. That’s what we do. That’s what we’ve been biologically engineered and chromosomally wired to do. We would be letting God down if we didn’t look at you. Hell, I’ve got four eyes and a pair at home on the table, and I still don’t have enough eyes to look enough. I’ve known many a man (me) to even change his route to work just so for the chance to get to SEE “her.” Women, you have this power, but sometimes you get upset at the fact that you even possess it. Again, you’re always getting looked at, but you may not always like or be satisfied with the guy or type of guy whose eyes you attract. Well, you can’t have everything, but at least you have options. Most fellas don’t have options. Most fellas couldn’t even spell the word “options.” Or is it “opshuns?” See what I mean? That’s how unfamiliar we are with the term and concept. I can travel from LA to Quebec stark, buck, and butt naked on a fuchsia parade float led by green giraffes with a neon, flashing Vegas arrow sign pointing straight at my head and still not garner any attention. Speaking of naked, I saw this woman that was almost naked the other day. On Lankershim Blvd, near Universal City at 3 pm. Broad daylight. Spider-man 3 had just opened so the street was packed with moviegoers. Granted, she may have been a little “touched in the head,” she was only wearing a bustier and a thong. The bustier was covering the wrong part of her body. It should have been covering her face because she looked like Shrek with plastic surgery gone wrong. The point is that all the fellas, even though we shouldn’t have, looked at this gargoyle anyway. Why? Because we can’t help it. So, ladies, no matter how frugly you think you are, no matter how many curlers you have in your hair, no matter how many fungus colonies you have growing between your toes, no matter how stank you think you look at this very moment, there is some guy looking at you, checking you out. Don’t believe me? Look behind you, behind the bookcase. No? Not there? Umm…check behind the door. Better yet, check behind th—Oh, you see him now?! Yeah, there he is. Told ya. He was hiding behind the corner, huh? Yeah, we like to hide back there. Remember: the average woman gets ogled, the average man ogles. Now, feel better about yourself.
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For those that are unfamiliar with the restaurant Koo Koo Roo, it’s comparable to a Boston Market, Pollo Loco, Pollo Tropical, or K&W Cafeteria. If you haven’t heard of any of those, then please cross state lines and try ’em. Anyway, the logo for Koo Koo Roo is a winking chicken. Why is this chicken winking? Doesn’t it know that it’s about to be fried, baked, or grilled? Or did it cut a deal with the USDA and sell out the other chickens? Just a thought.
Why are people treating their pets better than they’re treating their own human offspring? That’s a lot coming from a guy that ain’t too fond of pets or kids. Today, I saw a woman holding and kissing her little dog while smacking her little son in the head because he was “bothering” her. I wish that I was closer to her so that I could vomit in her face. Shooing your kid away because he just might be jealous of all the time you spend kissing the pooch and letting it lick you on the mouth does not make you a good parent. It makes you an asshole. Put the kid up for adoption and move in with the canine in its doghouse. That seems more like your style anyway. Maybe if you two mate then you’ll have a kid that’ll sniff people’s asses and watch Spongebob. Best of best both worlds for you, right? Wrong. You’re the worst.
I’ve been noticing this next trend since 1996. Actually, I guess you can’t call it a trend since it is 11 years old. Why do big people drive little cars and little people drive big cars? If you are 250 pounds and up and 6 feet tall and up, you should not squeeze you big ass in a Miata or a Mini Cooper. I know that you’re trying to save the world, rebel against rising gas prices, rebuild the ozone layer, and curb that pesky thing called global warming, but you are killing your knees and the rest of your joints. Ever wonder why when you ask your friends if they want to ride with you, they always have excuses and some of even say, “Are you fu#kin’ crazy?!” That’s because no one wants to ride with you in that matchbox, knowing that you don’t like to roll down your windows because you’re so damn proud of your AC unit. When it’s time for them to go to the pearly gates, I’m sure that they don’t want their last experience on Earth to be dying from heat exhaustion from being jammed up in your sweatshop on wheels. On the other hand, if you’re a little taller than a fire hydrant, then you shouldn’t be pushing a vehicle that’s bigger than your house. Alright? You know what you look like? You look like a guppy in the dolphin tank at SeaWorld. If I see one more petite, sylphic woman or a Gingerbread Man-sized man, who needs to sit on 8 phonebooks, in an Excursion, please forgive me as I launch a brick through your side window. If you tap your breaks hard, you’ll go flying through the sunroof because the seatbelt’s too big for you. If you need the seatbelt to swing out of your seat and then rappel out the door down to the pavement, that $#!+ is too big! Here’s an idea. Drive to that parking lot on Main and Magnolia. Yeah, that one by the library. Ok. Meet up with that really big dude that drives that really small car. He’s there now? Good. Now, switch cars. Don’t worry about the paperwork. The insurance companies will sort it out. Now drive away. Aaaaaaahhh! Doesn’t that feel better? A car that fits. Like a broken-in pair of (the way we Southerners say it) “drawls.” Now, swing by and pick me up and let’s go to Koo Koo Roo.
Baffle of the Sexes: Sterility or Fertility?
One of my favorite movies of last year was Children of Men. For those who don’t know, it deals with a futuristic world in which children aren’t being born because men are sterile. That’s the basis of it. I was watching it again recently, and the thought hit me, “We aren’t too far away from that notion.” Yeah, we aren’t. Not specifically talking about children not being born. I’m talking about men becoming sterile. That can definitely come into fruition if something doesn’t stop happening. You know what I’m talking about, too. Don’t cha? Yes, men have got to stop wearing tight pants. Give yourselves a shot at fatherhood. Give your “boys” the fighting chance to produce some boys. Now I’m not saying that you have to wear big balloon, MC Hammer-like pants from the early 90s. Some guys don’t wear extra baggy pants. It’s not their style. I understand that. That’s cool. But what I’m yapping about is……..you know what? Let me back up. Ok. Let me rephrase. Dudes wearing tight stuff are fighting an everlasting, losing battle with the laws of nature. Moreover, fellas who have abnormally big heads, like me (look at the picture), need to cease wearing every snug piece of headgear that you get your hands on. The litmus test is that if you can touch the back of your neck and come upon something that feels like a pack of Hillshire Farm sausages or Hebrew Nationals, then find something that may actually fit your skull, like a fitted sheet or a baseball field tarp. Also, men, I saw this today, do not abusively pressure your woman to work out, look good, get fit, lose weight, etc., if you, yourself, look like you’re a Krispy Kreme dream away from a heart attack. If you’re sitting down watching a basketball game on TV, and you’re sweating more than the actual players, you need to ease up off your woman with the insults. She’s trying. You’re not.
Ladies, I love and respect all of you….eh….umm…most of you, but let me say something that may get me in trouble. Low rise/low cut jeans can be/are sexy. Posteriors/butts/booties are sexier. However, when your low cut jeans or cut so low that your Fallopian tubes throw me the peace sign, it’s time to invest in something that fits. Some of y’all got more crack than Miami in the 80s. There’s a fine line between looking sexalicious and looking sickalicious. I didn’t make the rules, nor did I draw the line. I do, though, notice when somebody jumps way over it. Just make sure you’ve got all your bases covered, got me? Otherwise, your future children may fall out when you’re crossing the street.
Observations of the Day
First, if you’re in line at the deli during lunch and you (like most people) have a 30-minute lunch, you should not spend 45 minutes deciding which sandwich you want to eat. Who cares how thin you want your slices of black forest ham to be? You’re anorexic! You’re going to throw it up anyway. On the other hand, the weight of the your sandwich should not equal your body weight. Quit being so picky and quit being so greedy. Just get a damn sandwich. Turn around and look. There is an angry, hungry mob of blue-collar and white-collar workers that will be happy to eat you if you don’t hurry up.
On a street corner near downtown, a husband and wife were manning their fruit stand. Anything wrong with this picture? Nope. Not until you hear their baby crying. Where is she? She’s over there. In that milk crate. Yes, they put the kid in a milk crate. An extra fat kid in a fat free milk crate. Sad and funny.
For the second time in four months, I’ve seen the man that rides a bike covered in gold tin foil. Spokes, handle bars, seat, everything.
To the fellas: don’t dress like your boys. Groups of guys dressing alike has got to stop. You look rather girlish doing that, but even a woman hates to see another woman wearing an identical outfit. Why do you do it, guys? I don’t know. Unless you’re going on the Ed Sullivan Show, American Bandstand, or Soul Train; you are part of a sports team; you’re with your platoon in battle; or you’re in a barbershop quartet, you should not be dressed exactly like your male counterparts. If you’re going somewhere with your boy and he has on the same white T-shirt and jeans that you’re wearing, roll around in the dirt. Now you have a brown shirt. See, that’s better. By saving yourself, you’re saving him, too. You’re a good friend to have.
Is your mullet, shag, or Jheri curl’s backpack long or big enough to rest on your shoulders and support your neck while you’re driving? If you answered yes, cut that $%!+ off. If I see one more person who looks like a squirrel is hugging the back of your head, I’m gonna lure it away from you with some acorns, kill it, and then have it stuffed. Squirrels belong in trees, on the ground, or on the dining room wall of a serial killer, not on your head.
Things still ain’t right: The Bus Edition
If your child is big enough to grab the oatmeal off the top shelf at the grocery store for you, then you shouldn’t have his/her big ass in a stroller. Parents, you’re killin’ me with that. Please stop. If your snot-slurper is old enough to run away from you when you try to spank him, then he’s old enough to NOT have a Cosco chariot. Take the stroller away from Yao Ming and let him go out and earn something that can hold both of you. A car.
An old lady in the post office yesterday tried to get in front of me in line. She said that she was the next one in line. Funny, I didn’t see her in line, and I have four eyes. In fact, when the clerk called “Next!”, this lady was nowhere to be found. She was making a big scene so I told her brittle ass to go ahead. I wanted to push her down and kick her in the ribcage. So I did. Nah, just playing. I didn’t push her down.
Recently, I saw the aftermath of a hit and run accident. Being the only one on the bus besides the driver, it was an eerie and sad sight. A pedestrian died. As the cops taped off the perimeter, we passed the scene. Not being able to believe that he was actually witnessing what he was seeing, the driver burst out into sadistic laughter. Not cool. At this point, I was extremely anxious to get off the bus. Seconds later, I got off at my stop. Good thing I did. The driver drove for about 100 feet before the ground opened up and sucked him into hell. Wonder if he’s still laughing.
One night, I got to my apartment building and I saw a flyer on the wall. It’s a wanted poster for a man that’s been assaulting people and breaking into apartments in the area. This guy’s description: black male, 6 feet tall, 200+ pounds, shaved head, glasses, last seen wearing black jeans, a black shirt, and black shoes. I stare at the poster. I happen to be wearing all black at that precise moment. The other features sounds just like me, too. Just then two security officers come up behind me…
I saw a Greyhound bus that was moving so slow that the greyhound on the side of the bus was actually rolled over on its back, dead.
Due to some crazy circumstances, the other day I was on a charter bus with about 55 Filipino octogenarians. That’s it. No punchline here. It was what it was.
When I was about 6 or 7, my family and I went to see Santa Claus at the local town shopping center. Sitting on Santa’s lap, I remember him slurring his words and smelling like three fellas that I didn’t know at the time, the Three J’s: Jim (Beam), Johnny (Walker) and Jack (Daniels). Unbeknownst to me, from that point on, I would subconsciously associate the smell of alcohol with sitting on people’s laps. Later in life when I thought about it, I laughed at myself. It was funny…until I realized the power that I now possessed. Power of persuasion. To make a long story less long, I thought that I’d give it a try….you know…(wiggling eyebrows) see if I could use the influence of liquor to “persuade” certain members of the opposing gender to think of me as their friendly, neighborhood Santa Claus guyfellacatdudebrothaman. Well….it doesn’t work. Got scars to prove it.
Back in the 6th grade, I had a funny teacher. He had gall bladder surgery; brought his gall stones to class, floating in formaldehyde in a big Mason jar; and put the jar on his desk so we all could see them. He would have the class rollin’ with his jokes after recess. He was our grandfather figure of the 6th grade. He was nice. He was kind. He was also a Vietnam Vet suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. So one Thursday, this kid in class wouldn’t shut up. The teacher told him to simmer down. The kid was defiant…and stupid. The teacher freaked out, let out a yelp like a dog does when you step on its tail, grabbed his key ring (which had nearly 20 keys on it), and hurled it at the boy. Hit him dead in the chest. The impact was enough to knock the boy (who was already leaning in his chair) out of his seat and onto the floor. Another kid across the room started laughing hysterically. The teacher didn’t like that either. That student ended up with a mouthful of chalky eraser. I’ve never met anybody with aim like that since.
Melatonin.
The time: 2:01 p.m.
The place: Burbank, CA
The setting: A Greek joint down the street.
I have just had the biggest plate of food that I’ve had in a long time. Just come back from my lunch break. Sitting in the office right now. Fighting. Fighting for my life. Fighting the Sandman. That food was good, but it had entirely too much starch in it. Now I’m struggling. Losing focus. I’m sliding. Sliding downhill….down…down….down into the pits of slumber. Trying not to sleep at work. Trying not to drool all over this keybbbboard. I’m–I’m try—tryin—not to–fall aslee…….try……nnnnnn……notttt…….t……..t…t……eeeepppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp
Octagonal Omens from the Omnipotent.
A few years ago, a friend of mine started doing time…I mean, he got married. At the wedding, I happened to look up and saw that the ceiling was in the shape of an octagon. Yeah, as in a stop sign. So I leaned over to my other friend, pointed to the ceiling, and asked, “You think that’s a sign from God? You know? Is God saying stop this wedding?” May sound stupid, but they’re divorced now. Just a thought. Signs are everywhere…lol. Alright, stop reading this and go do something constructive.
Be well.
Pumpernickel.
If you’re driving an Excursion, Expedition, Explorer, Exterminator, Executioner, Hummer, H2, H22, or a Mercedes BenzMW Maybach Testarosa Model T and/or your parent or legal guardian is the emperor/ruler/president/prime minister of a mid to large sized wealthy country, corporation, or conglomerate, do not ask me for $5 to get a ham and cheese sandwich on pumpernickel from the 7-11. I will headbutt you in the heart. You are rich. Act like it.
Things ain’t right.
The other day, I stopped this kid from running out in the middle of the street and getting hit by an Altima. The little bastard turned around and jabbed me in my crotch. His mom thought I was trying to abduct him. That’s fine, ya lil’ bastard! That’s the last time someone’ll save your life. I hope a lot of steamrollers frequent your street.
My cell phone has begun to ooze out the adhesive that’s inside the screen. It’s brown and has the consistency of Vaseline. Until I get a new one, I have to wipe it down with Purell, sanitary wipes, and alcohol so that the side of my face doesn’t become infected. All my phone calls are dirty talk now.
Speaking of dirty talk, I have a T-shirt that has a picture of North Carolina and South Carolina on it. The caption reads “North Carolina: We like being on top.” Funny shirt, I thought. Until I wore it to work one day…the same day we had a surprise “sexual harassment at the workplace” seminar. That lady covered everything from inappropriate comments to lewd emails to offensive clothing. Looking at me the whole time. I’ve never slid down so low in a chair before.
I moved one weekend. Both elevators decided to break. The whole weekend. Rented a U-Haul truck. The signals didn’t work and the mirrors kept swinging while I was driving. Had to guess if someone was behind me or not. At least, it was the good truck.
Haven’t been home in so long, my mom told me to visit soon because she forgot what I looked like.
Two Halloweens ago, my roomy and I decided to be nice for a change and offer the neighborhood kids some candy. As soon as we got back from the grocery store, we heard a herd of kids running down the hall. Pretty much frightened by the sheer magnitude of noise, I fumbled with the keys and finally opened the door. As soon as we shut the door, at least 387 offspring from hell came crashing into the door. It sounded like fighting in Fallujah. I thought I was going to die. We finally opened the door and the maggots came INTO the house. One kid said he didn’t want candy; he wanted liquor. I karate chopped him in the esophagus and told him to go back to hell. He did. Lil’ bastard.
(to be continued)
Writing…
Guess I’m the only writer on MySpace that hasn’t blogged a word yet. Maybe I should start soon, huh? I will. Just not today.
Think Ink|Thinq Inq 