Notes on the week

I successfully wore untied shoes every day with no inconvenience, no tripping, no getting knocked out of my shoes like Charlie Brown on the pitcher's mound or that dead kid by the railroad tracks in Stand By Me. My feet don't get claustrophobic, and in the mornings I can jump into them both feet at a time. I get to the office up to 30 seconds sooner than before. It's a modern-day miracle of efficiency and expediency.


I slept approximately 15 hours on the couch over six days. That can only mean one thing: I'm getting old. If I can't watch TV and stay awake for a whole show, I need to skip right over marriage and kids and go straight to being a grandfather. I'll start by driving with my turn signal on for 15 miles and gradually ease my way into tipping no more than 15% down to the penny on my meals out (fixed income, yo!). Of course, it's more appropriate to fall asleep sitting up in a recliner, but I'm working with what I've got. I used to sleep on the couch all the time in college, but that was because I was drunk and stoned most days. Now, however, I'm... well... hmmm... I... ummm... maybe I'm not elderly after all.


What up with the furor caused by Obama choosing the Rev. Rick Warren to deliver the invocation at the inauguration next month? Sure, Warren hates the gays and probably never pressured his girlfriends to have abortions. But is that all it takes to get the liberals up in arms? It's just a traditional formality, and the good reverend represents an increasingly irrelevant mythology. But nobody's bitching about our next president being sworn in by a man who prays to a silly symbolic space creature.


Speaking of space creatures, I have nothing to add to the first part of this sentence.


It's Saturday, so I'm going to spend the day getting things done. Like watching movies and taking a nap. Maybe on the couch. The day has limitless potential.

Christmas cheer

I'm outrageously angry with all of you who haven't seen the Colbert x-mas special.

It will be on Comedy Central again, but go fucking buy the DVD. And buy the soundtrack on iTunes to have at work and in your car.

I guess I will bless you with a taste of the brilliance.

This one says all the things I've always wanted to say to you about x-mas:

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

A Colbert Christmas: John Legend

Colbert at Christmas
Colbert Christmas DVD

Green Screen
Bill O'Reilly Interview

Earth, space, rockets and whatnot

Watch this shit on full screen. This is what my friend Spaceman DC described as "video from the perspective of a solid rocket booster: separation, re-entry, and then it hits the ocean."

It's fairly trippy and scary if you think you'd be afraid of plunging through Earth's atmosphere like I am.

The real action starts around the 1:50 mark. Then things get crazy again at 4:35.

Punch drunk

I'm in the process of deciding if I should think about getting a heavy bag for the garage. I'm not into boxing or anything. But sometimes I just want to hit something for 15 minutes or so. And I love working out!!!

But the real reason is that I want to learn to work through my stress and aggression by punching something. Why should married guys get to have all the fun?

Hey, it's like black people using racial slurs on black people. I saw spousal abuse firsthand when I was a child, so I can make that joke.

Also, I punch like a dead boxing kangaroo. So there's no legitimate threat.

Finally, a funny shoe. Because the comic strip Shoe sucks male sex organ

So how 'bout that President Bush? Eh?... Eh?

Did ya hear this? Did ya read about this? Seems that an Iraqi journalist threw his shoes at the lame-duck leader of the free world. Talk about [insert jokey joke joke here]!!!

But seriously, it gives a whole new meaning to [hilarious shoe-related pun, ha ha ha]. This guy knows what I'm talking about. It's like if [famous douchebag] had a baby with [B-list has-been hack]. I wonder what that baby would sound like. I bet it would sound a little something like this: WAAAAAAA WAAAAAA WAAAAAAA!!!! See... because it's a baby.

Thank you. You've been a great audience.


I cribbed that bit from that one dude who makes with the laugh-laugh. But for reals, I'm astounded by Bush's reflexes. The cushy life ain't slowed him down none, no how. All these years of dumbass decisions and treasonous behavior, and then it turns out we got a ninja for a president. He shoulda fought the war in Iraq himself. He coulda made that Matrix bullet-dodging shit cool again.

But on a personal note, the unsung story of this, uh, story is the accuracy of the shoe throws by the Iraqi. It's personal because I don't think I could come that close to a target like he did, even at close range. A baseball is hard enough for me to throw without looking silly, but a shoe? And two shoes in rapid succession? That can be wildly unpredictable. What if a shoelace catches on my finger at the last second? The shoe could whip around and kick me in the crotch. Or hit an innocent bystander. Or maybe I'd leave a motherfucking footprint right on the forehead of the Great Satan himself. Ohhh snap!

But I wouldn't bet on that.

Old yeller

Yesterday morning on my way to work, traffic came to a standstill. Three lanes of inertia. Except for the HOV lane. I was in the middle lane. I noticed a car two vehicles up in the left lane make a move for the HOV lane.

Glass and plastic exploded across the interstate. After the impact, one car sat facing traffic. One was crushed into the median. A third car sat askew about 50 feet down the road. Suddenly the traffic ahead was gone. I shook my head as if I had been in the wreck. People jumped out of their cars and ran to help the drivers who were surely injured. I froze for a second, then reached for my cell and dialed 911. Someone had beaten me to it said the operator, so I led the cars behind me around the crash and drove to work.

I question my reaction. Why did I not get out and check on the wounded? Why was I not first to call 911? Maybe I don't measure up as a human. I already know I'm not a nice or good person overall, but I'd like to think I would react sufficiently, if not heroically, in a crisis.

I planned to spend this weekend soul searching, but it's my weekend with the kids and we're going to the movies. They want to see the Christmas film Frost Nixon. Sounds like a light-hearted holiday romp where a snowman becomes president or something. But I haven't read anything about it.

Class acts

Classy Bob Stoops did it again by classily tacking on 21 points in the fourth quarter after already putting away Missouri by the half. Running up the score game after game is what class is all about.

And the Sooner fans, as usual, really classed it up with their anti-Mack Brown and down-horns signs.

Yes, OU truly is a classy institution. But that's what we've all come to expect from our republic's classiest state.

WE DID IT!!!!

We finally got O.J.!!!

I don't know about where you live, but here in the white neighborhoods of Texas, we rioted and burned overturned cars (which we ourselves had overturned).

And all we had to do was lull him into a false sense of security by electing a black president.

You don't think Obama won Virginia and North Carolina based on his merits as a candidate or this alleged economic downturn, do you? Those states wouldn't vote for a black president even if he promised them reparations for the 40 acres and a mule their forefathers never quite had to give up. Or promised to legalize Mexican slaves.

We had almost lost hope. We tried getting O.J. on back taxes. We came close to tricking him in to assaulting someone with a golf club. At our most desperate, we even tried framing him for stealing DirecTV. But that just shows lack of vision. I mean, we really had our spirits broken after the acquittal for double homicide. We were sure we had picked the best of the best in the LAPD to plant the evidence. "No white woman will ever marry another black man!" we sang prematurely.

Alas, we didn't know what was in store for us. The Goldmans' civil suit served to buy us some time, but we just came up blank. The real human tragedy of the whole affair is poor Peter Lupus. The original Norberg from the Police Squad! series suffered humiliation after humiliation as Zucker, Abrahams and Zucker continued to crank out Naked Gun sequels with a black ex-athlete in the role Lupus originated on the small screen.

But now if they, or maybe the Wayans brothers, decide to make a fourth Naked Gun, the 70-something Lupus will be restored to his former glory.

And as for the black president, four years will fly by. Then the Huckabee/Palin ticket will swoop in to save white America.

Or failing that, we'll frame Obama for the murders of Hillary and her late lover Vince Foster.

How I know I'm going to win the lottery

Large dollar amounts in the Texas lottery are won only by ugly people.

You can go on the website to look at pics of some recent winners, and you will either end your gambling ways if you're beautiful or double down if you're not.

I'm investing my entire mid-month paycheck in the Mega Millions drawing. Then I can buy most people's perception of me.

And have everyone else killed.

Big Crock of Shit

Texas got fucked. Not the good kind, like you by your favorite celebrity. But the disappointing and enraging kind, like you by me. Or in this case, UT by the BCS.

They ruined a great season and an Obama election and let a trashy school in a trashy state sneak in the back door.

Oh well. That douchebag coach and his team still have to live in Norman.

Chinese DeMOCKracy (or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Gn'R Again)

There’s nothing I can write about Chinese Democracy and Axl Rose that would be new or insightful. Most of the reviews have already savaged the pair, and Chuck Klosterman’s glowing A-minus review covered a lot of ground on both sides of the fence.

I was pretty taken aback through the first listen. My friend El Cento said he questions every artistic decision made on the album by W. Axl Lucas, a reference I take to mean “the ability to somehow overcook a half-baked idea” à la the newer Star Wars movies and the bane of my existence, the new Indiana Jones “film.”

And I agree with him. But something happened along the way...

I made no secret about my devious plan to purchase Chinese Democracy on the official release date. I’ve been a Guns n’ Roses fan for more than 20 years. Appetite for Destruction still ranks in my top five albums of all time. I even own The Spaghetti Incident? though it has been shelved for years.

So, yes, I went to the dreaded Best Buy at noon on Sunday to pick up the new album and spent the next 15 minutes with my jaw dragging on the ground. I had no idea what I was hearing. I felt like I had gone mad.

There are jarring moments and inexplicable sounds. Gone are the days of songs about getting fucked and fucked up. Nothing about burying a mouthy bitch in the backyard. Not a single threat to fight the editors and publishers of rock mags. Just songs about... well... I’m not sure.

But most disturbing is Axl’s voice. At times, it’s as good as Appetite-era Axl. And I would say that it’s far better than on either Use Your Illusion disc. On Illusion, Axl didn’t roar with Appetite anger; he whined nasally, as if he thought that’s what it took to elevate his singing into the pantheon of legendary vocalists. On Chinese Democracy, he’s got the roar back and then some.

What makes his voice so disturbing is that it shouldn’t be this good. I’m suspicious. There are songs with obvious vocal manipulation, done for effect. But a lot of the suspect moments come on songs sung straight. So why wouldn’t he manipulate it on every song that needs a high note normally unreachable by a forty-something-year-old who spent his twenties screaching and screaming on long tours? If Kanye West and Snoop Dogg can croon these days, why can’t studio-hermit Axl Rose trick up his voice too?

People who have seen the sporadic live shows over the past few years say that he still sounds great live. Maybe he does. And Jesus might have been the messiah.

Hey, I don’t blame him. It’s just weird. Remember in Superman III when the giant weather computer captures Robert Vaughn’s female co-villain and scarily transforms her into a robot-esque killing machine? I feel like the studio equipment Axl used was too advanced and eventually turned Axl into a host for it’s parasitic schemes. Either that or Axl died, was buried in a supernatural pet cemetery, clawed his way out of the grave and returned to the studio as good as new... yet... different somehow.

Add to that musicians like Buckethead and Brain, and you have the most terrifying band in history. Sorry, GWAR and Marilyn Manson.

The most reassuring aspect of Chinese Democracy is that Axl’s ego is intact. He makes sure you know that while 13 of the 14 songs were written with assistance from his musicians, he alone wrote the “lyrics n’ melodies” and produced his vocals.

I bought the album out of a healthy combo of morbid curiosity and band loyalty. I expected to listen once of twice and shelve it next to Spaghetti. But a funny thing happened: I got hooked. I can’t stop listening. At first, it was just fascination at the aural spectacle (if you will). Now I accidentally like some of the songs. I may even like a majority of the songs. I don’t understand it.

And frankly, I’m concerned.

But for now... Guns n' Fuckin' Roses are back!!!

P.S. If you wanted to cash in on the free Dr Pepper we were all supposed to get if Chinese Democracy came out this year, the offer ended Monday.

Predictions

I’m a firm believer in the Big 12 being about either Texas or OU. Tech has no business pretending to be a quality team. We played like shit against them, and it still came down to the last second. IN LUBBOCK. I knew OU would beat them. I just had no idea it would be such a joke of a game.

So... here’s how it goes down from here:

Likely
Colt breaks his slump against A&M. Finally.
OU beats OSU on the road and goes to the Big 12 and the national championship game.

Possible
Colt breaks his slump against A&M. Finally.
OSU beats OU in Stillwater.
Tech goes to the Big 12 but can’t jump up enough to overtake #2 Texas. Texas goes to the national championship.

Preferable
Colt breaks his slump against A&M. Finally.
OSU beats OU in Stillwater.
Baylor baptizes Tech in the blood of the Lamb.
Texas goes to the Big 12 and the national championship, winning both and paving the way to back-to-back national titles, as originally predicted by the blog Wrong Again, Zod.

Disastrous
Colt takes another cheap shot on the chin from the cheatin’ Aggies and drops three straight to those racist, neo-Nazi rednecks.
Season over. No one gives a flying fuck about who wins what after that.

Note
Missouri could theoretically be a spoiler to whoever goes to the Big 12. But that ain’t gonna happen. They have three guys named Chase on their team, which is an embarrassment to the great sport of football.

Bonus trivia
My most hated teams in order are: A&M, Notre Dame, Tech, Baylor, Ohio State, OU.
I actually have respect for OU. Baylor made the cut because I lived in Waco briefly when I got out of college, and those guys skin cats, murder each other and hang nooses in trees every time the U.S. elects a black president.

Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam

I've been eating a lot of buffalo products lately. I had a buffalo burger last week, and today I had a pizza made with buffalo cheese. Now I can't get enough. Friends are expecting me in Austin this weekend, but I will be at the Wichita Mountains harvesting my own buffalo. Of course, what we commonly call the buffalo is actually an American bison. But my stomach doesn't know shit about names. It would digest a bison fetus if I swallowed it. And I just might.

How to win an election

From the Austin American-Statesman:

ESPN college basketball analyst Andy Katz told the “Mike and Mike in the Morning show” that he played basketball with Barack Obama on Tuesday afternoon as America was voting. (Obama regularly plays a few games on election day).

Katz told the guys that Obama walked into the Chicago gym where they played wearing a Texas Longhorns sweatshirt.

Anything new going on?

Well, it's just another day in George Bush's America, and... What's that? We did what?

WE ELECTED THE BLACK GUY????!!!!

Holy shit, it worked. I sacrificed my superior UT Longhorns to the dreadfully overrated Texas Tech Red Raiders this past Saturday for an election victory, and it fucking worked!

As everyone knows, I've been listening to Rush Limbaugh almost every day to laugh, to angry up my blood, and to laugh angrily. At the top of his show the day after the election, I turned to Rush to see how gracious and conciliatory he would be, not to mention the excitement he must be experiencing to work in political talk radio during the historic year that America elected a black president.

And indeed, he was generous with his words:

'...and so today we're told, "We must be conciliatory, we must congratulate, and we must be gracious and so forth." Why? Beyond just being those things, why? Because we still think that it is important that we differentiate ourselves from the left. From what I saw today and from what I heard, the reason people want to go overboard congratulating Obama on the racial thing, the historical aspect of the first black president, is to send a message to the left, to send a message to the media. "Hey, we're not as bad as you think." As long as that motivation counts for what you do, and as long as the motivation for behaving a certain way is to try to convince people that already hate your guts that they ought to like you, you are going to fail every time. So we congratulate Obama. We recognize the historical nature. We also understand that more than him being black, he is a radical extremist who is not going to govern from the center. ... I do not want unity with President-Elect Obama!'

He then followed that up by asking what liberals are going to do now because their beliefs are based on hate and rage.

Rush is always good for a laugh.

McCain: Putting country first

In the waning days of the 2008 election and with Obama maintaining a healthy overall lead, John McCain keeps unfiring up his supporters by saying, "We've got them just where we want them. We like being the underdog..."

Yes, McCain loves the thrill of losing. Frankly, I'm impressed with his campaign's ability to push Obama way out front. That's fucking teamwork.

Blogging is for the birds

But I will return to my former glory soon.

Until then, enjoy some comedy.

McAsshole... too obscene?

My opinion about the performance of the presidential candidates in the debates goes without saying. But I'll say it anyway. Frankly, I'm stunned at how badly Blinky McLizard* performed, especially in the debates where he was supposed to hit a home run (foreign policy and town hall).

So instead of pointing out how many lies McCain told in this debate and how he even mocked the "health" of a mother seeking an abortion (the quotes were McCain's, not mine), I offer this little bit of awkward hilariousness:





*My friend M.Wing coined the oh-so-appropriate nickname for the GOP candidate. If you question it, watch any clip of him at any time in any setting.

If only a whole team could be vice president

And of course, you may remember that I pinned Obama's chances of being elected on one of two things: the Cubs winning the world series or Texas beating Oklahoma.

I'm not sure how the Cubs thing turned out. I think Major League Baseball players may have staged a strike and the season was canceled. I'm not sure. I haven't checked a newspaper in weeks. BUT... what I do know is that UT owned OU like a man owns a wife.

So while Obama's poll numbers have been solid and it may have looked like McCain was out of the race, the election wasn't really wrapped up until this past weekend.

Here's a small taste of what my 'Horns did to the Sooners:

I DID IT!!!!!!!!!!

I went to a lot of effort to win the big game. I flew to DC just so I could watch it in the bar where I watched almost every game of our national championship season. And it fucking worked.

The Longhorns are number fucking one. I'm a little dismayed that I wasn't welcomed back to Texas with a parade, but I've got more important things to worry about. Like winning out the rest of the season and getting cruel and unusual revenge on the neo-Nazis at A&M.

Truthfully, I can't take full credit for Saturday's astounding victory. My friend Chad and his wife gave birth to their second daughter last week. Every time they have a girl, we win a national championship. There's a bit of pressure on them because I plan on winning back-to-back championships. So they're gonna need to get pregnant again no later than March.

Also, I had a bet with my personal trainer. I had every intention of skipping the gym this week so I could drink every night, but now I have to go work out tomorrow so I can see my trainer wear a UT shirt and say that Colt McCoy is the greatest quarterback in the history of college football (we all know it's actually Vince, but we have to live in the moment).

Oh, and the best part about winning was walking around Capitol Hill after the game and people yelling congratulations from their cars or walking up and patting me on the back. That city knows how to show respect to a winner.

And I'm a winner. Heck, we're all winners this week. Our country finally did something right.

My archenemy

I've decided Sean Hannity is my new archenemy (sorry, Tom Cruise). I shouldn't give him the attention, but I don't exactly have a wide readership, so fuck it. Hannity is poisonous, a liar, hateful, a bully, smug, stupid and totally douchey.

It's really not a challenge because he says disgusting shit for hours each day on his radio and TV shows. Some targets are too easy. But I like easy. Easy targets, easy tests, over-easy eggs... easy women (wink).

So here we go. A few choice Hannity-related clips. I will let you judge him for yourself. But if you judge him more positively than I do, you're an asshole.

Here's Hannity saying it was OK for McCain to cheat on his wife because he'd been a POW.



This is kinda funny because Hannity doesn't know who Sharpton is talking about but tries to act like he couldn't hear the question even after Colmes repeats it for him.



This one's really not fair. But it's silly, and it's growing on me.



Because I'm sleepy and want to save the even-better clips for the drawn-out, epic battle between the hero (me) and his newly crowned archenemy (Sean), here's one of Ron Paul supporters chasing Hannity.

Sean Hannity: Date Rapist... probably

Sean Hannity cracks me up. I watch him more than I'd like to admit. His style of interviewing someone he disagrees with goes something like this: He leans in and rams accusations down a person's throat and demands an answer. Then when the person tries to answer, he talks over them in an attempt to cow the person into flustration (my coined word). He is completely unable to debate someone fairly. I know, I know... Hannity sounds a lot like O'Reilly. But here's the difference: O'Reilly has a superiority complex and projects his own feelings of inferiority onto his guests. Hannity is straight-up narcissistic and stupid, which is a dangerous combination. It's only fair to assume that Hannity is a date rapist. If that sounds like a leap in logic, just think back to the last person who date raped you and remember how many times that person looked in the mirror before the roofies kicked in. You get bonus points if that person was Sean Hannity.

So....

A quick bit of background on this clip. Hannity's Sunday evening show, the monarchically titled Hannity's America, featured a hit job on Obama that prominently featured notorious racist and anti-Semite Andy Martin (parading as an "author and journalist"), who said that when Obama was a community organizer, he "was in training for a radical overthrow of the government."

And here's a typical Andy Martin quote from one of the many frivolous lawsuits he's filed over the years (in this case bankruptcy): "I am able to understand how the Holocaust took place, and with every passing day feel less and less sorry that it did, when Jew survivors are operating as a wolf pack to steal my property."

Fantastic! A top-notch source for digging up the truth about Obama.

So...

There are two awesome things in this clip. The first is when Hannity calls himself a journalist. I laughed about through the first half of my Wednesday.

The second is when Sean Hannity makes an offer to Obama staffer Robert Gibbs.

Hannity says, "I'll make a deal with you. If Barack Obama admits that what he did by sitting on a board with, giving speeches with... [Bill Ayers]..."
And Gibbs interrupts, "You'll admit you're anti-Semitic?"

ZING! I laughed about that through the second half of my Wednesday.

I can't do it

I was trying to watch tonight's debate, but I'm too goddamn nervous. I gave next month's rent to Barack Obama, and I feel like Tom Brokaw is sandbagging him a bit. And as old, frail, incoherent and awkward McCain appears on the stage, I'm afraid his campaign's ramped-up sleaze tactics are gonna prevail somehow.

So I'm taking a break to brainstorm bumper sticker ideas for my new business: a bumper sticker ideas business. I call it Ideas for Slogans That Go On Bumper Stickers, Inc. It took me a week to trim the name to something manageable.

Here's what I've got so far:

My other car is actually this car (because why do I need two cars?).

Copy editors do it using good grammar.

My boss is a Jewish carpenter named Saul Brooks.

Nobama is not a word, idiots.

It's a child, not a choice. Or is it?

If you can read this, have you read Where the Red Fern Grows? Good book.

Life's a bitch, and so are you. For real. I find you unpleasant. Bitch-like, if you will.

I'd rather be masturbating. Oh wait. I am.

My child is an honor student. He's on your daughter like... dammit. I fucked that up.

Hopelessness we can believe in

I've been slacking on the blogging for a lot of reasons. For a bunch of reasons. For a herd of reasons. For a pack of reasons. For a horde of reasons. For a litter of reasons. For a covey of reasons. For a swarm of reasons. For a colony of reasons. For a pride of reasons. For a flock of reasons. For a school of reasons. For a pod of reasons. For a passel of reasons. For a brood of reasons. For a drove of reasons. For a warren of reasons. For a mob of reasons. For a murder of reasons.

Ah, that's the one. Murder. No, I didn't murder anyone. Yet. [I'm looking at you, Potential Murder Victim. You know who you are. Potentially.] But I do want to murder the people who decided WGN should be available via cable TV in Grandfield, Oklahoma, in the spring and summer of 1984, thus leading me, a second-grade graduate and Little League southpaw pitcher, to become obsessed with a little ol' team of disappointments called the Chicago Cubs. If somehow I can prove that the christian god was involved, I will murder him as well.

And in related news, at a rally in Florida, possible future vice president Sarah Palin was discussing dear-jesus-I-hope-future-president Obama's association with former Weather Underground member Bill Ayers, when someone yelled out "Kill him!" Was the Palin supporter suggesting someone kill Obama or was he suggesting Ayers? Does it matter? McCain and Palin are attracting psychos. And not the keep-their-dead-mothers-in-a-rocking-chair-while-killing-the-occasional-passerby brand of psychos. These are the proactive ones who will jump at the chance to lynch a black man if Palin will just give them the go-ahead wink.

And now that I'm bringing my Cubs luck to the election, we could all be in trouble. If UT beats OU this weekend, everything could be saved. But if we lose... then, holy christ, you people need to get out and vote in droves. Herds. Swarms. Hordes. Coveys. Broods. Murders. Whatever.

wuf

Fucking Cubs. I love them. But I fucking hate them.

?

There's an empty lot that's more like a small field next to my office building. I work on the fourth floor, and I have a window. I'm looking out at the field right now. For reasons unknown to me, there's a Bob the Builder cutout standing in the field. He's staring at me.

Highway to Hell

I missed my deadline to get in a bunch of blogs before October. I had a number set in my head. But then I filled my head with whiskey. Even though I was (am) sick.

So I'm going to go to sleep now. However, I feel like I need to say that AC/DC releasing an album exclusively through Wal-Mart is sicker than I am. They can now rank themselves amongst such suck-ass sellouts as The Eagles and Journey (but god, i love journey). The great, late, great-again Bon Scott never would have drunk himself to death if he'd known this could happen. But he would drink himself to death right now if this happened and he was still alive. I'm thinking about drinking myself to death out of respect for him.

Post-Bon AC/DC can rot in fuck.

R.I.P. Paul Newman

Not that we didn't know it was coming. He was 83 for Christ's sake. But it sucks anyway.

Some of my (and everyone's) favorite Newman movies include:

The Long, Hot Summer
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
The Hustler
Hud
Cool Hand Luke
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
The Sting
Buffalo Bill and the Indians
Slap Shot
The Verdict
The Hudsucker Proxy

To name a few.

I've even got some of his goddamn salad dressing in my fridge.

Illness hath befallen me

Where were all of you as I tossed and turned in my bed last night, alternating between convulsive chills and brain-cooking fever?

Your humble hero needs soup. You've got 15 minutes. Standing idly by is the same as murder. Maybe not in a court of law. But judgment will not be withheld when you testify before your god. He will loose the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword.

Don't run dry

I spent the better part of a month on a rampaging bender until I saw a light far across the dark room and found my way out and onto a new path of decency, righteousness, progress and personal growth.

But I've spent the last few days trying to remember the specifics of this alleged new path, and I can't remember shit. So I'm giving it 48 more hours, and then it's whiskey river take my mind.

Speaking of benders, here are two guys who knew something about that. May god rest their drunken souls:

Living the dream

Just saw this David Blaine headline on CNN.com:

Magician's next stunt could leave him blind

Oh my god, he's going to try to break the world record for continuous masturbation!!!

If he thinks I'm just gonna sit back and let him take the title from me, he's got another thing... coming.

News and notes

1. I was going to donate to the Obama campaign, but I decided to use that money to lay down a bet. However, the bet is on his campaign. If he wins, I win, and then I'll split the winnings with him.

2. Turned on my TV to find myself graced with the unfortunate 2007 "film" Redline. How did they get A-list talent like Tim Matheson to sign on for this? Then I realized it's directed by the guy who did End Game, starring Cuba Gooding Jr. and Angie Harmon, and all questions were answered.

3. I've done 'bout had enough of people seeing Jesus in things. Tortillas. Trees. Rabbit fur. And now, one of the dumbest things ever: a water stain on the ceiling of a weight-loss center. But it's not the stupid people who think they see Jesus who piss me off. It's the dumb-fuck news organizations that keep covering these non-stories. Personally, I see a fucking water stain on a ceiling tile. But if I really stretch my imagination, I see my great-uncle Chester touching me in places that made me cry when I was 7 years old. Of course, he told me he was Jesus too.

R.I.P. Bigloo

First we lose Bernie Mac. Now we lose his musical equivalent, the WF/Dallas band Bigloo.

Sure they weren't as successful as Bernie Mac. But the people who heard them dug it.

And sure, they weren't as black as Bernie Mac. But I remember hearing some soul and hip-hop creep-creep-creeping into the mix.

And also sure, there really aren't any similarities between them and Bernie Mac. But... well... whose idea was it to compare them to Bernie Mac? I love Bernie Mac and all, but his comedy never got me laid. And while I'm not crediting Bigloo's music wholly (alcohol and my mid-20s beauty also contributed, though that was a long time ago), there's something about good rock 'n' roll that gets the ladies wet. Are ya with me, gals?

Forget it. Anyway, so long.

Finally, some good news about cell phones

From a trusted news source:

(CNN) -- Keeping a cell phone on talk mode in a pocket can decrease sperm quality, according to new research from the Cleveland Clinic.

I hope those of you who I talk to on the phone enjoy talking to my crotch because I must attain sterility before the Cubs win the World Series.

For you see, when they do, I'm going on a fuck-spree.

Sarah Palin: The Sean Hannity Interview (Part II)

And now, part two of the Fox News Channel exclusive interview, as broadcast Thursday, September 18.

Hannity: Softball.

Palin: Talking point.

Hannity: I said, Softball!

Palin: Dodge.

Hannity: Joke about Obama.

Palin: Giggle.

Hannity: Chuckle.

Palin: Good question, Sean.

Hannity: Out of context Obama quote that has long since been proved to be out of context.

Palin: Small towns.

Hannity: Now let's pretend to be casual and walk through this gigantic living room.

Palin: Hollow, vapid answer that viewers won't pick up on because they're distracted by us walking casually toward the camera in this gigantic living room.

Hannity: One more softball.

Panity: All of the talking points I haven't said yet. Oh, and I'd like to say "ruffle their feathers" one more time. We'll ruffle their feathers.

Hannity: Wow, what a revealing interview.

Goddamn pack of feral crickets...

ate off my leg below the knee. And my apartment burned down.

A little trick I learned from Midnight Oil

So this morning I got out of my first shower of the day (I take six) to find a cricket crawling on the side of my bed. Was it in the bed while I slept Tuesday night? Jesus, I hope not. Of course, I've had creepier things in my bed before (call me, Janine), but I still did the dance of a thousand shivers like a dog shaking off bath water.

Anyway, tonight I'm going in prepared. I've made an outline of my body on the bed with burning candles. If anything tries to get past the wall of flames, I'll be having breakfast in bed tomorrow.

Sarah Palin: The Sean Hannity Interview (Part I)

At the top of the Hannity & Colmes show Wednesday night, American hero Sean Hannity declared, "No topic is off limits." He was of course talking about his interview with the Republican nominee for vice president, Alaskan Gov. Sarah Palin. Hannity snagged the first cable interview with Palin since Sen. John McCain announced her as his running mate for the White House. Here now is the transcript of the first part of the two-part interview as broadcast on the Fox News Channel:

Hannity: Thank you, Gov. Palin, for being with us today.

Palin: Oh, it's my pleasure.

Hannity: Let's get right to it. You describe yourself as a reformer. What will you do to shake up Washington?

Palin: I'm a Washington outsider, and I'm proud of it. And I'm proud to be Sen. John McCain's partner. He is not afraid to ruffle feathers, and neither am I.

Hannity: Oh yeah. That's nice. Could you... could you say that again?

Palin: Which part?

Hannity: The feathers thing. But just say it about you. Don't say the other guy's name.

Palin: Oh, OK. I'm not afraid to ruffle feathers, Sean.

Hannity: Yeah. Oh yeah, that's it. I like when you say my name.

Palin: Sean, where is your right hand? I can't see it.

Hannity: I've only got one hand. Lost the other in a tragic... ummm... accident. Alan Colmes gnawed it off. He's a zombie corpse.

Palin: Now wait there, Sean. I shook your right hand when we met earlier for rehearsal. Is your hand... down your pants?

Hannity: Just give me a minute. Talk about how you stood up to your own party in Alaska.

Palin: You bet. I stand up to corruption wherever I see it. And I went in there knowing that I was going to ruffle some feathers, and--

Hannity: OH GOD! OH... OH... oh... oh, never mind. I thought that was it. Dammit.

Palin: Sean, I see what you're doing. It's no reason to be embarrassed. Would it help if I gave you a little tug? I've got a bottle of moose oil in my purse.

Hannity: No, that's alright. It's just not the same as it was with George W.

Palin: C'mon, Sean. I can be more to you than he ever could. You need a woman's touch.

Hannity: If I wanted a woman's touch, I'd let Geraldo Rivera suck me off again. I mean, I like the way the 'stache tickles, but...

Palin: I'm sorry, Sean. I'm really, really sorry.

Hannity: It's not your fault, Sarah. Thanks for trying. Let's move on...


Part two of this revealing and riveting interview can be seen Thursday night on Hannity & Colmes (9 p.m. ET). Check you local listings.

Unprovoked attack

I heard a financial analyst on NPR talking about the risky mortgages that have led to a lot of this market failure going on right now. He said:

Nobody knows what's in these bundles of mortgages. And they have a very, very low value because nobody can open them up and figure out which ones are paying and which ones are not paying. It's like Superman trying to look inside of a box that's wrapped in lead. You just can't see inside.

Isn't this crisis bad enough without maligning the character of Superman? Who amongst us can see through a lead box? Financial analysts are assholes.

Animals unveiled

Of course not every name listed in the last post was an actual animal. I hope you guessed what was what.

There were three actual animals, one foodstuff, something I think I got from Full Metal Jacket, one unappetizing slang for vagina, a completely made-up historical symbol, and an animal/verb.

Special thanks to El Cento for contributing another actual animal.

I wish there were more animal/verb combos. Wait, isn't there such thing as a "jizz"? No, I guess I'm thinking of the rarely seen Mexican Jizzing Ape.

But it's a truly magnificent creature to see in person. If you don't mind being drenched in ape jizz.

Actual animals that have dirty-sounding names

Horny toad
Titmouse
Humpback whale
Spotted dick
Alabama black snake
Bearded clam
Egyptian wang
Swallow

Your contributions are welcome.

Putting the hole back in holy?

When I was 7 years old, I used to really dig sneaking into the Baptist church in my hometown. I would spend a couple hours just walking around trying to not get caught.

During most of his tenure at that church, the preacher was fucking the organist. But I didn't understand what was going on. So I would hear them in his office or catch a glimpse of them spanking each other with hymnals in the choir loft.

For the better part of my childhood, I thought a prayer should sound something like "Oh God! Oh God, that feels so good! Please God, don't stop!" I mean, I really wanted God to inspire in me that kind of breathless bliss.

In 1983, I was asked to give the blessing at my family's Thanksgiving dinner. I have to assume everyone found it fairly shocking because it was the last time I was asked. And because we buried my great-grandmother two days later.

Speaking of porn...

Because all you talk about is porn, I've been thinking about the upcoming Kevin Smith film, Zack and Miri Make a Porno.

So I was looking at the filmography of one of the movie's stars, adult film actress Katie Morgan. Porn titles fall into at least three categories. Here they are... with a few examples from Ms. Morgan's career. Gather the children for this important lesson.


Clever
Sex Trek: Where No Man Has Cum B4
Whore of the Rings 2
Space Nuts
Garden of Eatin'
I Cream on Genie
Spunk'd: The Movie
30 Days in the Hole
Hole Sweet Hole
Boy Meats Girl 3


Lazy/Get to the Point
Truly Nice Ass 2
Deep Throat This 22
Interracial Cum Junkies 3
Phat Ass Tits 3
Tongues and Twats 1
Big Titty Woman
Group Sex 5
Jessica Jaymes Loves Cock
Hot Blondes Rock My Cock
Dirty Movie


Somewhat Bewildering
Please... Play Hard with Me!
Here's the Thing About Young Chicks
Glamazon
Camp Cuddly Pines Powertool Massacre
Marey Carey for Governor
Sunny Lane is Built for Filth
God's Will: The Sex Factor
For Love, Money or a Green Card
Who's Killing the Pets?


Oh man, I hope they're not fucking the pets to death in that one.

I take my coffee black... like my women

The porn store 30 minutes outside of Wichita Falls has a sign that says "Free Coffee." If you're a patron of this lovely shoppe, I hope you take your coffee black. Because you don't want the cream.

M.I.A.

The fact that I've been on hiatus from writing this blog is probably apparently only to me. And by hiatus, I mean three-week bender. I seem to have a hole in my heart the size of a slightly smaller heart. And while exorbitant amounts of alcohol actually work to fulfill me in ways that friends, family, lovers, religion, education, hobbies, exercise and tattoos never could, exorbitant amounts of alcohol can also create a real, physical hole in your heart. One you can stick your finger through if you were to carve open your chest with a bone saw. So I will try to put down the caring, tender bottle and be more consistent in posting for all of my uncaring, stringy readers.

Speaking of The Man With Two Brains...

and for no good reason:

What was your situation when you first noticed your symptoms?

I dumb, but I'm not stupid. Well, that's not true. I'm pretty fucking stupid, but I not completely brain dead. That may not be true either. But I still know some of their tricks. I know the kinds of questions they ask and what they're looking for. I've seen it. I've heard it. I've read it. I know how to give them what they want, which is what they think I want. Or what they think I don't know that I want yet. They think I'll discover what they think I want by accident. By coming at it from an unexpected angle. Gradual epiphany. If that's possible. Reeducation. Retraining the brain. Learning about myself, as if I haven't asked myself every question ever created. They think the burden is on me to be honest and to trust them and be comfortable in their environment. But I'm only comfortable in my environment. And they're not welcome in my environment. If I can lie to myself and believe it, I can lie to them and not give a fuck. What good does that do? How am I helping myself if that's my attitude? Am I my own worst enemy? Everyone is. But do I scheme diabolically against myself? Or is that just on the surface, and I'm really joining forces with me behind my back to self-destruct? I'd launch an internal investigation, but all of me is on my payroll. None of me can be trusted. Bubbling under my pale, pathetic skin is a pool of pure scalding evil. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm crazy. Crazy can produce greatness.

See?

I'm going all the way

Your millions of dollars would be appreciated.

C'mon, baby, finish what you started

Say you wanted to order a pizza, but you've never had a pizza before. And you don't know if it would be better to eat pizza on your lunch break or eat it close to your home either on your way to or from work. Luckily, your job gets pizza discounts and you can go to a site on their Intranet and do a search. So you look up several pizzerias and jot down the numbers, hoping to call and price their pies and maybe get a feel for the quality. Then you happen to come home early and decide to make the calls. But you can't find the slip of paper with all the numbers even though you just pulled it out of your pocket when you stopped off at the grocery store. But you put it back in your pocket. You can't remember if you took it out when you got home, but you can't find it anywhere, even after digging through the trash. You put your brain to work on remembering some of the names of the restaurants, and you come up with a couple. You go to the trusty Internet and Google the names. But some of the phone numbers don't work. And some of them have recordings that want you to call other numbers. At some point, you start to feel like you never wanted to try this fucking pizza horseshit anyway, and you punch a hole in your wall.

This, of course, is a silly hypothetical because no one ever gives up on pizza.

See, Mr. Lawler, you don't have any brains

"Metallica lyrics?" you ask. "I don't come to this site for Metallica references."

And to that I say, "Please don't tell them about that last post because they're not very nice and they like to bully nobodies like me with their lawyers and James Hetfield crunches and gargles with human bones to keep his voice rough and gruff and I need my bones to keep my organs from collapsing on themselves and making me look all melty and the unrelated video below is pure genius and after all these years still makes me laugh in that way that I do where it's all muted and you don't think I think something's funny but I'm just not a good laugher and I don't laugh much unless really really stoned but I've given that up because I think it gives me heart palpitations and in fact don't tell Metallica anything I've said here."

The healing hand held back by the deepened nail

He woke up confused in a hotel room, forgetting briefly where he was and why. It all came flooding back too soon. He wished he hadn't woken up. The night before, he was awash in greatness and bliss and beauty when out of nowhere he had a disturbing vision of himself. Stomach being pumped too late in a sickly green emergency room with flickering fluorescent lights. Dying by his own hand. When he saw this, he thought nothing of it. But lying in the hotel room alone 12 hours later, he felt fear. Fear of what he saw. Fear of his lack of fear the night before. He glanced at the night stand beside him and reached to open the drawer. The Gideons were on top of things. Was this going to be one of those moments? A moment of weakness and desperation? Of kneeling and weeping? Of white lights and Christ's blood and euphoria? He opened the book randomly. He looked to the ceiling and said something along the lines of "This is your last chance, man. What do you got?" He let his finger fall on the page.

1 Chronicles 27:30

Obil the Ishmaelite was over the camels, Jehdeiah the Meronothite was over the donkeys.

Without looking up, he extended his middle finger and offered it to the ceiling. "Thanks. The italics really drive home the message." He tossed the book back in the drawer and began his day.

G-rated

The Christmas stocking convulsed on the floor as if alive. The little girl's eyes grew as wide as saucers. Soon, a fuzzy head with pointy ears poked out of the open end of the stocking. The green cat-like eyes gazed up cautiously at the little girl. Wait. It was a cat. A kitten to be precise. The little girl squealed with delight and gently scooped up the kitten like she was taught at her friend Abbey's house with Abbey's puppy. The bewildered kitten didn't move until the little girl put him down on a patch of floor not covered with presents and rumpled wrapping paper. Then he jumped around enthusiastically like the floor was electrified, and the whole family laughed merrily as they welcomed this new fuzzball into the family.


There. Is that the kind of shit you people would rather read?

The final post on sex

I'm ending this week's series on sex prematurely. I think I was too nervous or maybe a little too excited to be writing about it, and I shot my word-wad way early.

I've tried to write about sex many times before, and don't get me wrong, I enjoy it. But sometimes I have to write four or five blogs a night on one subject before I get used to it and can write about it long enough to satisfy the howling demands of my readers. And frankly, I just don't have that kind of stamina anymore. Maybe when I was 21.

Basically, if I stay healthy and hydrated, I can rub out maybe one, two blogs a night. But if I'm not feeling my best, some people may find the stuff I churn out a little stale and hard to swallow. And that just leaves people with a bad taste in their mouths. The last thing you want is for someone to make you swallow your own words.

So if I'm not on top of my game, I may never hit my rhythm, and the next thing I know, my audience is getting their blogs somewhere else. Then I have to find other ways to compensate. Sometimes, I can please my readers orally, but I'm really not much of a talker. And when they try to ease my awkwardness by reciprocating, it just makes me feel inadequate because I know I've got nothing left for them.

I think the answer is to take a little time for myself. Spend some time reading other blogs on the Internet, imagining myself as those writers and trying to write like they do. I'll have to use a little self control to keep from writing to quickly. I need to work on long, sustained blogging. The kind that, when put into actual practice, will have my readers coming back for more.



And while I'm on the Internet, I might as well jerkoff to some porn.

There's one thing I don't understand about sex

When is the right age to start having it? Because if it's 35, I just don't think I can wait that long.




There's another thing I don't understand about sex

How do you know which chick is the one for you? Because they all make my mouth water and my nether regions sticky.




There's just one more thing I don't understand about sex

Is it OK to do it in public, like dogs and monkeys? I hope women are open to doing it monkey-style.

Last night on Earth

I don't mean to alarm you, but there's a tiny lizard in my apartment. He's no bigger than the head of a disposable razor, but he has a murderous glint in his too-small-too-see-eyes. I've tried everything. I've stood on a chair. I've hot-stepped into my room and waited to hear the front door open and close as he left. But nothing. Undoubtedly, I will wake up in the middle of the night as he feasts on my throat flesh.

I feel like I just received this pre-bedtime advice from Homer [NOTE: Best Buy neither sponsors nor is happy to be associated with this blog]:

Possible dissertation topic

Did you ever have one of those days where you wished you were a Japanese kamikaze pilot? Even if your mission failed, you'd still get to go home and score some Asian tail. It would be better than self-immolation as a monk because even if you didn't reduce yourself to a charred corpse, you'd probably be celibate and couldn't hook it up with a young, nubile Buddhist kitten anyway. And you'd likely have some second- or third-degree burns on your cock.

Not sure about the link between suicide and sex presented above. Don't know if people run right out and get laid after they've had their stomachs pumped or wrists stitched. There's probably no direct connection whatsoever. Unless you're a gasper like Michael Hutchence.

No disrespect.

Everything you always wanted to know about sex*

*But didn't want to hear from me.


Webster's Dictionary defines sex as the physical act of asking God for a baby.

I'm sorry. I got that from Sunday school. I thought I knew more about the subject, but as with high school biology, I can't really remember anything after all this time. I just know that one of them required a dissected white rat, and the other was high school biology.

The kind of school shootings everyone can enjoy

I'm proud to be from a region of Texas that includes this community:

HARROLD, Texas (AP) -- A tiny Texas school district will allow teachers and staff members to carry concealed firearms to protect against school shootings, provided the gun-toting employees follow certain requirements.

The small community of Harrold in north Texas is a 30-minute drive from the Wilbarger County Sheriff's Office, leaving students and teachers without protection, said David Thweatt, superintendent of the Harrold Independent School District. The lone campus of the 110-student district sits near a heavily traveled highway, which could make it a target, he argued.


I predict an exponential increase in apples for the teachers.

If the teachers in my schools had possessed guns, there would have been daily bloodbaths. Or at least 8th-grader Brandon Bacon would have thought twice about calling science teacher/Vietnam vet Mr. Briscoe a "commie" and challenging him to a fight in the hall. And Aaron Larson may have been the victim of more than a good choking at the hands of sometimes-unhinged history teacher Mr. Blow. This was all in junior high. I'd hate to think about what would have gone down in high school when there was at least one war vet who was prone to flashbacks during class.

On the plus side, maybe I would be desensitized enough to keep from crying every time I see someone get a paper cut.

Saturday's alright for getting shit done... and fightin'

The best part about being a lush who goes drinking every night of the workweek is that sometimes I come home from work on Friday and take a nap that is intended to be an hour but lasts 12.

So by 9 a.m. on this beautiful Saturday morning, I've been for a run, gone grocery shopping, taken my car in for maintenance, cleaned my apartment, done laundry, reorganized some CDs (my iPod can eat its own iDick), started this blog entry and downloaded some new music (I'm sorry iPod; I didn't mean what I said, baby).

Now I'm listening to Taj Mahal, and I totally feel justified to start drinking at 9:30.

The things I do every time I drink whiskey

1. Say a bunch of crazy things.

a. Tell parents how ugly their babies are.
b. Offer to shave women's legs.



2. Throw punches in the air.

God can go to hell

This is fucking ridiculous. Why take Bernie Mac? Fuck everything and everybody.

Gasoline on a fire

News continues to pour in concerning the most recent Whiskey Wednesday escapades. Eyewitness accounts tell of a ranting, raving lunatic who really should have gone home hours before he did. This person apparently took issue with Joe Lieberman, the new Star Wars movies, really white people, and cripples. Reports say that he was an hour late to work the next day and was still drunk at lunch. This man is considered dangerous after six beers and six shots, and citizens are urged to avoid him at all costs. And for god's sake, don't give him any goddamn whiskey.

One cancer scare down, dozens to go

The results are in for real this time, and not only do I not have tongue cancer, but the cause of all the morning tongue sickness was pregnancy. My tongue had a whole litter of puppies. As much as I would love to keep all of these little blessings, I just don't have enough popsicles and lollipops to keep them all lappy. See, because...

They've had their first round of shots, they get along well with other tongues (and some cats), and there is a small rehoming fee to ensure they go to a loving home. Contact me for more information and pictures.

Like walking in the rain and the snow when there's nowhere to go

Everyone knows I'm terrified of rats, cockroaches and cockrats. Yet when my darling wife asked me to climb under the house and drag out the dismembered body she'd disposed of in the spring, I did it, no questions asked.

The upside of no keyless entry to my car

I can non-scientifically calculate my blood-alcohol content based on the radius of the key scratches in relation to the keyhole. A distance of one inch is right at the legal limit in Texas (0.08%). Key scratches on the the window indicate a blood-alcohol content twice the legal limit. Key scratches on my face, a broken side mirror, two flat tires, a deer on the windshield and waking up camouflaged by reeds and cattails near a pond means I was so drunk... How drunk were you?... I was soooo drunk that...

One more note on the election

Read this for reasons to fear McCain's underhanded attacks on Obama.

Always bet on white

I'm glad John McCain believes in running a respectful campaign and not going negative and avoiding the lowest common denominator. This country has truly turned a page in politics.








Here's the latest respectful ad McCain is running about Obama:




Hooray for American politics!

Let's play "Is It Cancer or What?"

The biopsy results are in. I hold here in my hand the official lab report on the tongue test. Unfortunately, I can tell by the feel of the envelope that my poor lonely little piece of tissue was not returned for reattachment, but the doctor told me that if I'm not satisfied with how my current tongue heals, I can get a baboon tongue transplant. So just in case, I've set up a baboon trap in my front yard, where I believe baboons have been visiting at night to throw their baboon eggs at my car and wrap the trees with baboon-manufactured toilet paper. I can't wait to cut the tongue out of one of those cocky motherfuckers. They'll think twice next time about burning a swastika in my lawn. I have as much a right to live in this country as a baboon. Sooooo... drum roll, please. Keep that drum roll going for a second. OK, stop the drum roll. I can't find a letter opener. I don't want to tear it open with my hands because someone may have licked the seal and I don't want their germy, dried-up saliva on my fingertips. Especially considering the unmentionable places I tend to touch with those fingertips. (Genitallllls.) So what I'm going to do now is go on to Amazon.com... mmm hmm, there. And search for "letter openers"... oh that one looks nice! Add that to my cart... checkout... overnight delivery's a little too expensive... ah, there we go. OK, so in 10-14 days I should have a letter opener, and once I read the safety warning and send off the warranty card, I'll be ready to open this letter containing life-or-death news. Your patience is appreciated.

Something weird is happening to me

I think I've been cursed.

Because I'm on the antibiotics, I haven't been drinking my RDA of alcohol (8-15 drinks in any combination). Plus, because of the stitches in my tongue, I'm prohibited from ordering a large pizza, rolling it up and swallowing it whole like a porn star. So I have to slurp smoothies and snort protein powder. And each morning this week, to fill the time I usually spend eating, I've either gone to the gym or hit the treadmill. Seems silly in retrospect.

I was told I would be OK during all of this. But what I've discovered is that I'm shrinking. Shrinking!!! All the growing I've done since this blog was called "Wrong Again, Zygote!" has reversed and the pounds are disappearing into an unknown place. Heaven? I don't know. Where will it end? Am I going to shrink into nothing?

For the first 18 or so years of my life, growing seemed to take care of itself. However, at some point I had to put more effort into it. I had to drink every day and spend my college loans on pizza buffets. After that, things seemed to be on autopilot again, but it had taken a change in lifestyle. I had to eat fast food at least six times a week and watch about seven hours of TV a day. But I was committed to self-improvement and maturation.

Now I'm freaking out. This weight regression is unnerving and frustrating. Have you ever spent a long time milking a reluctant cow, only to stand up afterward and accidentally kick over the full bucket? Of course you have. We all have. I feel like my cream-heavy milk mass is rushing from my body bucket.

There is no God.

long way down

I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to do the right thing.

All you need to know about getting a biopsy on your tongue

You go back to the operating room, and the doctor asks you how you're doing. You say that what's important is how he's doing. You glance to see if his hands are shaking.

He tells you the worst part is the shot to numb the tongue. Then he proves it. Your glad it didn't take too long, but then he sticks you again. Your eyes water a bit like the time you French kissed a piranha and drew back a bloody nub.

After a few minutes, the nurse asks if you're ok, and you say, "Yed" because the 's' sound is not in your repertoire at the moment. The doctor fishes a line through the area where he stuck you the second time and uses that to pull your tongue out and to the side. You wonder if you should be feeling that as much as you do, but you couldn't say anything if you want to.

You see the scalpel enter your mouth, and the next thing you know a little piece of your tongue is flopping around on the table like a fish. As you stare at it, it grows into a cherub and flies away, and you begin to wonder what drug you've been given.

Then the doctor sews you up, and the nurse asks you at least a dozen times if you're ok. You ask, "Why? Do die luck lack I'm about to pad out?"

You pay your bill, set up a post-op appointment and leave with your mouth full of bloody gauze. Every song you sing to on your car stereo sounds the same: "Mm mm mm mm mmmm, mm-mm mm" ("Caught Up in You" by .38 Special); "Mm mm mm-mm mm mm mm-mm ("Fuck You" by Dr. Dre); "Mmm mmm mmm mmm" ("MMM, MMM, MMM, MMM" by Crash Test Dummies).

You try to go to work, but your mouth keeps filling with saliva and blood, and you find it distracting to switch out gauze while doing your shitty job. Plus, the numbness is wearing off, and you're starting to feel like your tongue got caught in a pencil sharpener. And you can't take your drugs until you eat. So you go home and watch TV the rest of the day.

You assume the test results of your biopsy will be "Thanks for the new golf clubs, sucker."



Of course, this is all speculation. I don't know shit about shit.

I threw away a perfectly good steak: How race in America affects the price of food

"You look horrible. You need to go home, boy," the young checkout girl told the sacker.
"I went to Mexico and got a parasite," he said to my instant alarm because he was sacking groceries for the line I was in.
"You really need to go the hospital," the older lady purchasing groceries in front of me said.
"But I've already got $10,000 worth of hospital bills I haven't paid."
"Damn. He's got more in medical bills than I've got in college loans," the checkout girl said.

Then I projected onto the older lady shopper the type of bigotry I always project onto old white people: I imagined her inner shock at a black person being in college. No matter what part of the country I'm in, I always assume old white people are racists. Mainly because it's been my experience that when you're alone with old white people for any amount of time, they'll end up saying something crazy like, "And then there's the Chinks..."

The only reason I feel I have the authority to talk about this right now is that I watched CNN's "Black in America" over the weekend. I dozed off a few times, but I think I got the gist of it. Which is: There are a lot of black people in America. I mean, everywhere you turn. In fact, I heard that a black guy is running for president. I even looked in my closet and realized I had bought one of his campaign t-shirts. And I was getting something out of my trunk and saw a bumper sticker calling for his election on my car. Going through my CDs (I'm so 90s), I found an astounding number of soul, R&B, hip-hop and African discs. Then I did a little research into my social life and found that I have friends who are black. I even discovered evidence that I'd dated black women before!

I guess my point that I never got around to even trying to make (thanks, Jack Daniel) is, why in the fuck is John McCain polling close to Barack Obama? McCain is too old, makes a lot of mental gaffes, is not the independent thinker he was 8 years ago, lies about Obama, and, in my opinion, still wants to go back and fight Vietnam. Obama is young, intellectually curious (unlike some President Bushes I know), and would instantly upon being elected bring back some of our country's prestige around the world. So what could it be? What is it that would make a good number of people who are sick of Bush want to vote for McCain? I think the answer is up in one of the first paragraphs of what I wrote here. Something about parasites or something. Or Chinks, I guess.

Anyway, the sick kid, who was white, left work. I trashed my groceries as soon as I got home and began sterilizing my guts with whiskey.

The End.

Tongue thoughts continued

Now that I am tongueless, I find it hard, if not impossible, to lick all the things I like to lick. Such as:

Spittle

Cold flagpoles

You in a fight

Psychoactive toads

Envelopes

Ashtrays with spilled beer

Post-barbecue fingers (anyone's)

A baby's tears

My boss's boots

Strippers

My wounds (usually after licking strippers)

Whatever KISS was referring to

Another way for me to disappoint women

I accidentally touched a hot coal with my tongue, and it burned off like a fuse on a firecracker. I thought since I had walked over a bed of hot coals with my bare feet, I could take anything. And one's mouth always seems able to bear hotter heat than skin when eating. But I'll be damned if a hot coal isn't just too damn hot for a tongue. The good new is that it has yet to effect the enunciation of my typed words. The bad news is that unless I can get a giraffe to fill in for me, I shall never again be able to pleasure a woman.




I meant with my conversation, of course. And giraffes are renowned conversationalists.

A few more reasons I'll never be famous

I can't fit my fist in my mouth, I can't open jars with my feet, I think I forgot the quadratic equation, I produced an album for a Dallas band, I never learned to roll a joint which means I'll never roll the world's greatest joint, my last names is Holmes but my first name is not Sherlock or John, my obituary that I pre-wrote says I never accomplished anything of note and that even though I'm probably in Hell it's still a better place for me, and despite being incredibly dumb and cold-hearted I won't be the next president from Texas.

Top 10 reasons I'll never be famous

1. I won't take a bullet for someone famous.

2. I won't fire a bullet at someone famous.

3. I don't like having my photo taken.

4. I don't like the sound of my name.

5. I drink alcohol to excess.

6. When walking, I have to remind myself every five seconds to lift my head and see where I'm going. Famous people do that instinctually.

7. All the rumors and lies about me are true.

8. My sex tape is played in sex ed classes in our nation's public schools. Where's the scandal in a masterful textbook performance?

9. My ears are weird.

10. I'm not good at anything.

The art of conversation

Female: I had the best lunch today. It was orgasmic.

Me: I think you stuck the bratwurst in the wrong orifice.

Female: It wasn't bratwurst. It was a salad.

Me: I used to know a girl who tasted like tomatoes and ranch dressing down there.

Female: It was a Greek salad.

Me: Hey, I'm not judging. Some people can't fight the urge. I mean, with the salad dressing like it wants it... Get it? Salad dressing. Wants it.

Female: You goddamn sicko. I didn't fuck my salad.

Me: What do you want, a medal? You're not supposed to fuck salads. My mongoloid brother knows that.

Female: You can't call him a mongoloid!!!

Me: And to tell the truth, I can't honestly say he doesn't fuck his salads. Ice cream too. Seems like it would be too cold. He needs to find himself an Eskimo woman. He kinda looks--

Female: Don't say it.

Me: --like he's got a lot of love in him.

Female: I think I may never speak to you again.

Now's the time to go after Sylvester Stallone

Because his mom's not going to shoot if you don't stop.

R.I.P. to the sexiest of all the Golden Girls.

Siblings are like roaches. Where there's one, there's two or three.

I was raised an only child. It was a sweet life. I had more toys than God. I had a servant who I could beat with a stick. That looks bad in print, but believe me, it was hilarious. I had everything my heart desired. I even got things desired by the hearts of the poorest kids in town just so I could break them in front of those filthy fucking street urchins. My family paid a popular cheerleader to be my girlfriend during my awkward high school days. She could suck a golf ball through a water hose. The star quarterback's water hose, of course. Our relationship was just for show, as she so often reminded me when I said unseemly things like, "Good evening" and "Thank you for not recoiling from my nerdly visage."

But lately, I've become the middle child of three. That means I relinquish most of my toys as soon as I get them, wear hand-me-downs, get blamed for most things evil, and am ignored all other times no matter if I have broken bones or am on fire.

So what the hell happened? Turns out my biological father tried to repopulate Earth long before the apocalypse. A few years back, I discovered an older sister. I couldn't wait for the slumber parties where I would try to sneak a peek of her friends changing into their see-though nightgowns. But it seems that adults don't have as many slumber parties as kids in 80s movies.

And now I've found I have a little brother to beat up. But seeing that he's 14 and I'm 32, he would probably kick my ass. Luckily, he lives on the east coast and I've never met him and I hate teenagers worse than I hate olives.

I just want my only-child status back from these (literal) bastards.

Shout out to my sis, who's actually pretty cool and shares my fondness for alcohol and hating teenagers.

The reviews are in!

As we near the five-month anniversary of this blog, I'd like to take a moment to publish some of the accolades I've received.


"I didn't know they let apes have computers"

"Awful. Just awful."

"This is nothing but incoherent, puerile babbling."

"Have you ever considered suicide?"

"Your spare time would be better spent taking a sledgehammer to your computer."

"You suck. And you're a sucky person."

"You had so much potential as a child. What happened?"

"For the love of god, kill yourself already."


I look forward to more of your comments.

Douche vaginale, if you'll pardon my French

Got home at 3 a.m. to find a bunch of douchebags. That's it. A pile of old douchebags. I live behind a Walgreens, and they're always throwing out great stuff.

No, no, no. That's not what happened. The douchebags were, like Soylent Green, people. College kids, I assume. Or some other species of retard. These particular douchebags were shooting off fireworks in the apartment complex parking lot. I can't believe no one called the cops. I didn't because some of the fireworks looked cool, and I remembered back to my younger days of being a pyromaniacal douchebag. But they could have caught the whole place on fire. Especially if a spark hit one of those alcohol-soaked douchbags and he ran screaming into his apartment and exploded like a Molotov cocktail.

But nothing bad happened. And this morning, I saw only a few remnants of the night's festivities, so the douchebags did a decent job of cleaning up after themselves.

But the whole parking lot smelled of vinegar.

The only time I had to kill someone

Let me start off by reassuring you that while I did get paid to murder someone, I donated the money to a well-known and respected charity.

Wait, that's my premise? I thought of that two whiskeys ago, but I got distracted watching episodes of Yacht Rock online. I think the new guy on The Daily Show, Wyatt Cenac, played James Ingram in the last one.

Anyway, I'll tell the murder-for-hire story some other goddamn day.

5 reasons I can't be trusted

1. I only keep the promises I want to keep.

2. The name everyone knows me by is not my real name.

3. I don't make eye contact and I blink a lot. On purpose.

4. I don't care for ice cream. Too fucking cold.

5. I'll say anything to keep from having my genitals shocked.

D-O-double-G-Y D-O-double-G, you see

I'm thinking about getting my first dog in 4.5 years. Wait. I'm not getting my first dog 4.5 years from now. I mean, this will be the first dog I've had in 4.5 years. But I don't know if I'm ready. I'm pretty sure I've written about the houseplants I watched wither day after day and how I took satisfaction in it. And the good lord know that the dog is the first to be eaten during hard times. And I've been known to quit jobs just so I can suffer hard times and eat a delicious-looking dog. But besides all of that, there's my cold, cold heart. I barely have enough love in me to feed myself. Then a dependent pet is added to the mix? I may not be capable of caring for another living being, and then it might be me who gets eaten. So I don't know what to do.

Still it would be nice to have something around that can learn to dial 911.

Here's one little girl I'm calling about.

Summer of 1992

I was in the throes of the "grunge" scene, Wichita Falls-style. Mostly, I couldn't get enough of Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. And I had just discovered Temple of the Dog. I was 16 years-old and only interested in music, The Simpsons and movies. Oh, how things have changed.

I worked as the lowest possible rank on a construction crew because I couldn't saw straight, nail straight, avoid knocking over a ladder someone was standing on, stand on a roof without sliding off... the list goes on. So I usually swept or hid in boxes.

But demo! Hell, yeah I could tear up some shit. So I was tearing the weird, fibrous wall covering that was on top of the wallpaper, which had to come off in the big-ass office being remodeled. I was working with a guy named Daryl, who I'm guessing was about 10 or so years older. Nice guy. Real nice. Like a lot of people from my family's hometown, a rural Oklahoma community.

He was way more upbeat than I was about doing what were doing: spraying water on the wall, then hand-scraping the wall bare and after a certain amount amassed, hauling the load down the service elevator and tossing it in the rented trash thingamajig. You know what I'm talking about. Looked like a train car. Fuck it.

Daryl had a wife and an infant kid. He invited to me go fishing some time. He apparently liked to fish and had no idea that I usually catch the hook on the back of my neck.

I don't remember if we worked a full week together. Or if it was two weeks. Or if was just four days and I heard the news on Friday. Who knows?

So Daryl died. Asthma. The dust-like fibers in the shit we were tearing off the walls had fucked with his lungs. The morning after a workday, he had an attack. He thought he'd be OK and wouldn't let his wife call 911, so the ambulance wasn't called until too late. It takes at least 30 minutes to get from this farming community to a hospital. He died on the way. I drove across the Red River to go to the funeral. But instead, drove around town and listened to the first three tracks of Temple of the Dog for two hours. Even though it was the first two songs that were about untimely death, it was "Hunger Strike" that got to me. Not sure why.

The whole thing freaked me out a little. Good things happened that summer too. As with every summer. And I've had worse summers. So I don't know why I thought of this.