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.

Oh sweet Jesus above

To be honest, I only got through a few paragraphs of this story before I vomited all over my computer, my computer room and my damn self... and then went to look for my car keys.

I was more animal than man

ACTUAL CONVERSATION*

Me: I'm in bad fucking mood.

Person: Why?

Me: What?

Person: I asked, why?

Me: Since when does there have to be a reason?

Person: There's always a reason.

Me: That hasn't been my experience.

Person: Well, then, you're either crazy or an asshole. Which is it?

Me: I don't fucking care.

Person: You're an asshole.




*Not an actual conversation.

Drunken boxing

When you wear your Obama shirt out to a new douchebag bar in your very conservative home town, you've probably got a chip on your shoulder and you're just asking for a fight. You probably came close to getting in that fight when someone mouthed off and your policy of not letting assholes talk to you like that produced a little smack talk in return. Then at the last second, before the room exploded, the situation cooled, and you were left to imagine what would have happened. You assume it would have been like this:

Don't fear the Reaper

I'm looking at an invitation to the birthday celebration of a distant aunt or maybe it's a distant cousin (see, because the key word is "distant"). It's in August, and it will be her 90th. Seems to me you wouldn't want to plan something like that too far ahead. Maybe an hour ahead? Anything over a half-day and you're tempting fate. But on the plus side, the party is taking place at a church. Sooooo... you know... all bases are covered.

It's not my fault I get thirsty

It has been suggested by some that I drink too much. The beverage in question was never specified, but I think we can safely assume it's blood. Blood, or "life blood," being my name for alcohol, of course. I happen to think I drink the right amount every time. But here are a few of the arguments others have made to prove that I need to cut back:

1. The paint on both sides of my car is missing.
2. My paycheck is direct-deposited into my home bar's account.
3. I won the Larry Hagman medal at the 2008 Alkylympics.
4. I have track marks on my arms, in between my toes and on the underside of my scrotum from injecting pure grain alcohol.
5. My sweat can be used as a disinfectant.

I want you all to know that I'm listening. And I'm willing to discuss everyone's concerns over a drink.

Everything sucks

Like you didn't know that.

I wanna be your dog

Ladies... a favor, please. Let me be your pet. Let me be your dog. I can't think of anything else I want or need. I would by loyal and loving, and it wouldn't have to be weird. I won't even watch you change clothes or shower. I just need you to feed me and sometimes pet me affectionately. In return, I'll snuggle and nap with you. I'll lick my dishes clean. When I shed, I'll pick up the hair. I'll bark at burglars to scare them away, and if that doesn't work and he raises his fist or weapon, I will yelp and run behind the couch with my tail between my legs. I won't chase your cat(s). And enjoy these bonus features:

I don't like to talk.

My leg kicks when you scratch me behind my ears or under my collar.

I can juggle a little.

I respond to all commands (English).

I get jealous and growl at your guy friends.

I lick salt off of arms.



If you want me to stay in character, I don't have to juggle.

Things that have happened in a year

1. I saw Stevie Wonder. I'm pretty sure he didn't see me.

2. I drank a swimming pool's worth of beer. Olympic-size.

3. I went to Europe, most likely for the CIA. I'm only guessing because in Amsterdam, a local "spy" tricked me into smoking something, and after I woke up, I was missing the kidney with the implanted chip. But who hasn't pissed blood upon returning from Amsterdam?

4. I began the weekly tradition of flipping a coin to see if I should quit my job "for the fuck of it."

5. I learned a few things about myself. But not too much. I like to keep things light.

6. I found out how long a year can feel. It can be like Groundhog Day. Why didn't I learn a goddamn foreign language and seduce Andie MacDowell (despite the fact that she's Andie MacDowell)?

7. Or does time fly by? Is there such a thing as a slow blur?

8. I drank a large hot tub's worth of whiskey and Jager.

The ultimate compliment, in my opinion

A friend of mine is starting a new job, so I wished her a good day. A great day, even. (That's my Snagglepuss impression, as seen below).



So my friend said she's not at all nervous and asked me if that's bad. I said, no, it's a good thing. I told her she had the bravado and swagger of a young David Lee Roth. Which received no response.

But where I come from, that's the highest honor. If someone said something like that to me, I would spend the next day strutting around in leather pants with my shirt unbuttoned and wiggling my hips. Like God intended.

Sanitized racism

I bought a box of Clorox Automatic Toilet Bowl Cleaner, seen here:


The back of the box lists the features, such as killing 99.9% of household germs in toilet bowl water, flush after flush, making it healthy to drink and bathe cats in.

But the one that shocked me was "Safe for colored toilets." When was this product made? The 50s?

Quick writing experiment

Here are the rules. I've picked two books from my bookshelf at random. I will use the first sentence from one book as my first sentence and the last from the other as my last.

Today's selections are from The Autobiography of Malcolm X by Malcolm X (as told to Alex Haley) and A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole.


The Beginning


When my mother was pregnant with me, she told me later, a party of hooded Ku Klux Klan riders galloped up to our home in Omaha, Nebraska, one night. I consider that a bad omen. It's already disappointing enough to be chosen by God to live a life on Earth, only to find out upon exiting the womb that it's beginning in Omaha. I tried to crawl back up my mother's vagina, but my dad punched me in the face and yelled, "That's my wife, you asshole!" But back to the KKK. At the time, I, enveloped in flesh and guts, obviously couldn't hear everything that transpired. But my first word as a child was a racial slur. So there must have been some kind of osmosis of evil. I'm proud to say that today I have many friends of that particular race and have not used that word since I was 8. I mean, 28. Well, 38. But the point is I haven't used that word since this morning when my manservant, Than Nguyen, spilled coconut milk on the floor. I now believe bigotry has no place in society. Especially when a good lashing with a leather strop can teach the same lesson. Anyway, life in Omaha was not as glitzy and glamorous as the media would have you believe. It was/is a dull place to go through your life functions. It drove my parents to desperate measures. My mother ran away with the last milkman in America, thus bringing the era of home-delivered milk to an end. I decided to run away from home when my father dismembered a pig, put the pig parts in his bed and rolled around in them in a sexually perverse manner. My last memory of him before I walked out the door for good is one I'd like to forget. Taking the pigtail in one of his paws, he pressed it warmly to his wet mustache.


The End

Here's how it went down

I'm already drunk, right? I'm just hanging at the bar.

Douchebag asks me, "What's your favorite part of freedom?"

Which to me, is this guy confessing that he's a douchebag.

I'm already talking a mile a minute tonight, so I say, "I don't know. The cost," as a joke and as a tip of the hat to the Crosby, Stills & Nash song "Find the Cost of Freedom."

The piece of fuck says, "The cost? Oh, like the troops dying? Is that what you like?"

I said, "Yes, dude. Obviously. That's what I like." I made eye contact and held it.

Fuck that guy.

The fellow in between us told him to chill out, and the douchebag went to the restroom and didn't come back. I was jacked up and ready to feel his pulverized face dripping from my hand.

I guess it's possible he would have kicked my ass.

Fuck that guy.

Death of a clown

Normally in a situation like this, I would say "rest in peace" to Larry Harmon, the guy who turned Bozo the Clown into a franchise, thus inspiring my favorite clown, Krusty. But in retrospect, Bozo was fucking terrifying.

Spirit of '76

I plan to celebrate this Independence Day the same way I do every year: by throwing off the shackles of law (I'm looking in your direction, gravity). How else do you celebrate independence if you don't become truly independent?

You have to regulate yourself for a day. Want to drive around without license plates? Go for it. Think you're going to eat off a friend's plate at a Chinese buffet without paying for yourself? No one can stop you. Don't feel the need to close the blinds before masturbating? They're your blinds.

Join me in honoring the spirit of our country this 4th of July. Declare anarchy. Hey... while you're out there [wink], kill a drifter for me.

I ain't goin' out like that... or maybe I am

Not to be alarmist, but I woke up in the middle of the night choking on what I have to assume was my own vomit. Now it's possible that someone snuck in and poured a glass of vomit into my mouth. But I'm not lending that theory much credence; it would be hard to prove who's vomit it was because you can't really dust for vomit (R.I.P. Eric "Stumpy Joe" Childs).

I hadn't been drinking at the John Bonham level (maybe more along the lines of a Lohan or a Dunst), and an autopsy would have shown no other drugs in my system. So what the fuck? I'm not sick, in the traditional sense. I haven't eaten anything that would try to crawl back up, though I had sushi two days ago.

The only solution is to recreate last night down to the last detail and sleep with my camcorder on. Then my filmmaking partner, M.Wing, can use the footage in our biopic of the great Bon Scott. I realize that's not actually a solution. But it would give me an excuse to wear sleeveless denim and sing like this:

Re-welcome

There seems to be a slight misunderstanding about what I do here. So here's a brief tutorial on how to interpret my keystrokes.

1. I am neither talented nor serviceable at what I do. What I lack in talent and proficiency I make up for in I don't give a fuck. Therefore, when you're disappointed by what I've written, remember that you're here voluntarily and, as a rule, I don't give a fuck.

2. Sometimes I type shit while drunk. While very drunk. My supervisor recently remarked that she doesn't drink because it makes her sick. I said, "That's the whole fucking point." I mean, I'm not trying to drink myself into immortality. Some of what you read will be from the fingertips of sickness.

3. This is cathartic for me. I can't fix my problems here. But I can purge some feelings and make myself feel a little better. I believe with every bone in my heart that this is healthy.

5. I can disregard ordinal numbering systems if I please.


The End.

What Part of My Brain Am I Cutting Out? Part I

This is the first part of a series that documents what part of my brain I will be removing with the various kitchen utensils I have before me.



Apparently, science has proved that a prefrontal lobotomy to cure emotional disorders is not a cure and only causes passivity and lack of motivation.

But it's as good a place to start as any.

So, nurse, please hand me the nostril expander (not pictured) and the pizza cutter (pictured).

OK, this is causing more discomfort than I anticipated. In fact, it fucking hurts like a motherfucker. Fuck. FUCK! Holy motherfucking fuck FUCK FUCK!!!

Wait... wait... got it. Slicing throooooooo... yayyyy... thank you, me. You sleep now. I mean, I sleep now. Everything good again.

All's well

Turns out it was an amphibian after all.



I feel better already.