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.