Welcome to the last post of 2008. I won't do any of those annoying "best of lists" because for the next three months that's all you are going to read about or see on TV. I hate those lists as much as you love them and that is another reason you won't be getting anything like that from me.
I have to go to a party soon. Actually I am picking up a coworker and giving her a ride to a party because young people deserve the opportunity to get drunk and make an ass of themselves like I did when I was their age. Also, it makes me feel like I did something on a holiday even though I did not.
My internet g/f has been ignoring me and my ex gf blew me off to go party with out me. At least my little brother text messaged me "Happy New Year!"
Otherwise all I did was eat at Fast Food for New Years Eve. Lame. Though I did read an article that hated on Hipsters. That was fun.
2008 sucked as far as I can tell and I am happy to wish it good bye. 2009 is going to suck ass I am sure. I plan on working my ass off for no good reason other than to pay some bills and by a pair of glasses and new shoes for work. If I did not have a job I would not need new shoes so I guess that is the vicious circle that we all get trapped in sooner or later, and for me it was way late, maybe too late as I chose to get a job right around the same time that Capitalism chose to choke itself to death again. But capitalism does that every 20 years or so. It goes into it's last death throws and we [faux revolutionaries] all get excited and hopeful, but then some new kind of sinister fascism raises its head, and we will just have to deal with that.
I for one never liked privacy, and I am glad we are about to get rid of it. I just hope all this new government and private surveillance means I get to see you in your underwear. I know I don't wear any, so good luck getting that image out of your brain.
Best of luck my fellow bloggers. You will need it.
Hearts,
Romius T.,
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
I fight crime
Some guy tried to pass a bad check through my line. He bought about a hundred dollars worth of groceries. He wrote me a check and handed me over his I.D. His I.D. had some teeth marks and looked to have been altered. As per my usual tactic of avoiding anything that has to do with paying attention or doing my job I let his possibly fake identity card go. I was sure it was real license. I figured the dog ate it and he was very agreeable fellow so I just figured that if he wrote in a few numbers they were the correct ones. He was just being helpful.
I tried to see if the check could get approved, but after I sent it to the check reader it came back unapproved. A code that said something like "all accounts blocked/notify collections." I called my supervisor over, because I hate to be the one to break bad news to anyone.
My supervisor ran the check and asked to see his I.D. again. He handed it over but got very nervous. He wanted to know why we needed his id and what the check reader had said about the check. My supervisor left to call the cops and I assured him this was normal. I had no idea she had run to call the cops of course. My supervisor left me in the dark about that one. So there I was standing next to crackhead check fraud guy and his crackhead girlfriend and they are getting as antsy as if they had gone 3 days without drugs. They are shifting in their feet and mumbling strange things to themselves.
A few seconds later the couple says, "fuck it" and walks out the store by the nearest exit. My supervisor returns and explains that she thinks the check is fraud (not just a bad check.)
About an hour passes and the cops show up. Just in time for me to go to break. The cop decides to do some paper work and I drink a soda and eat a package of those orange cheese peanut butter crackers that sit in my locker.
After break I have to fill out a police report. The whole time I am filling out the report customers stare at me. I think they think I am getting arrested. Little do they know. I am not in trouble. I am Batman. The gangster carryout and his girlfriend walk past me. They high five me which is awkward. I am 40. I am too old to high five high school gangsters who think I am getting "popped." I assure gangster bagger and gansta girl that I am cool. That I am not not getting arrested.
The cop asks me to identify the "perp." All I can do is tell him they were white and looked unkept. I made sure to get the "unkept" down as part of the official police report. That way when the police confront them and show them the report they will realize that people think they look homeless and maybe they will decide to get off drugs and take a shower because the only thing people remember about them is that they look homeless. I guess I just love to help out people whenever I can.
OF course for all efforts and crime fighting efforts the only thing I will get out of this is the possibility that I will have to testify in open court against a felony evil doer and his g/f. They know where I work. They will probably send someone over to kill me. If I do this blog will be famous for a few days because the drunken stepfather, fark, and metafilter will link to me.
I better get my Will ready. Make sure that whoever takes over the rights to this blog does things my way. That things stay classy. Please make donations to the Communist Party in Lieu of flowers. Either that or stage a protest against PETA.
I still hate dogs. Even in death.
Signed from the grave,
Romius T.
I tried to see if the check could get approved, but after I sent it to the check reader it came back unapproved. A code that said something like "all accounts blocked/notify collections." I called my supervisor over, because I hate to be the one to break bad news to anyone.
My supervisor ran the check and asked to see his I.D. again. He handed it over but got very nervous. He wanted to know why we needed his id and what the check reader had said about the check. My supervisor left to call the cops and I assured him this was normal. I had no idea she had run to call the cops of course. My supervisor left me in the dark about that one. So there I was standing next to crackhead check fraud guy and his crackhead girlfriend and they are getting as antsy as if they had gone 3 days without drugs. They are shifting in their feet and mumbling strange things to themselves.
A few seconds later the couple says, "fuck it" and walks out the store by the nearest exit. My supervisor returns and explains that she thinks the check is fraud (not just a bad check.)
About an hour passes and the cops show up. Just in time for me to go to break. The cop decides to do some paper work and I drink a soda and eat a package of those orange cheese peanut butter crackers that sit in my locker.
After break I have to fill out a police report. The whole time I am filling out the report customers stare at me. I think they think I am getting arrested. Little do they know. I am not in trouble. I am Batman. The gangster carryout and his girlfriend walk past me. They high five me which is awkward. I am 40. I am too old to high five high school gangsters who think I am getting "popped." I assure gangster bagger and gansta girl that I am cool. That I am not not getting arrested.
The cop asks me to identify the "perp." All I can do is tell him they were white and looked unkept. I made sure to get the "unkept" down as part of the official police report. That way when the police confront them and show them the report they will realize that people think they look homeless and maybe they will decide to get off drugs and take a shower because the only thing people remember about them is that they look homeless. I guess I just love to help out people whenever I can.
OF course for all efforts and crime fighting efforts the only thing I will get out of this is the possibility that I will have to testify in open court against a felony evil doer and his g/f. They know where I work. They will probably send someone over to kill me. If I do this blog will be famous for a few days because the drunken stepfather, fark, and metafilter will link to me.
I better get my Will ready. Make sure that whoever takes over the rights to this blog does things my way. That things stay classy. Please make donations to the Communist Party in Lieu of flowers. Either that or stage a protest against PETA.
I still hate dogs. Even in death.
Signed from the grave,
Romius T.
Monday, December 29, 2008
A very DaVid MaMet Christmas
I had one of those dreams where I pretend I am in a David Mamet play.
"I don't understand a lot of things. Like what the inventor of the S.O.S. pad was thinking?" Who would do that? Why invent a product that rusts when placed in water when the product is designed to be immersed in water? "And yet we are told that the S.O.S. pad is an icon of Americana. No wonder we suck."
That dialogue wasn't in the dream. The problem is I don't remember much of the dialogue in the dream anymore.
"you don't remember?"
I don't remember. I can't remember if what I am...
"remembering"
Yes. Remembering.
"continue"
If what I am remembering is really remembering now or if what I remembering is something different.
I am sure it is different. It had something to do with not knowing stuff, and how the stuff we don't know is not important. I think it was just some clever word play that really meant nothing. But if I remember something about it I remember that I liked the way the dream wrapped everything up with a pun/zinger at the end. I remember thinking I was clever and I should get up right away and write it down.
I remember I added the the S.O.S. thing as just some random aside and that the S.O.S. thing was a less polished joke. It was more of a "what the fuck good is an rusty pad of wool?"
I was going to add pictures of the rusting S.O.S. pad sitting in my sink, but I figured that only I care about the S.O.S. pad and you will just see a picture of a rusty worn out piece of steel wool and think I am a dirty person who never cleans his sink, so I threw away the steel wool and I cleaned my sink because the last thing I need is you judging me for keeping a dirty kitchen even if I keep a dirty kitchen. I mean I may keep a dirty kitchen, but I always clean up before company comes over, so in fact if you were to ever become a guest at my house, you would just assume that I always keep the dished clean and my sinks washed and my stove tops clean so you would never be able to judge me for that.
Sure you would judge me for all the other things I do. Like my hypochondria. How I worry after eating an chewable antacid with acid reducer that the pill will clog in my throat and inflame my swollen lymph nodes and cause my airway to constrict enough to make it difficult to swallow and difficult to breathe, but not so much that I need to call a doctor. But that doesn't make me paranoid. It only makes me a hero. A silent sufferer. A martyr like Jesus. Though I guess this is the season for Martyrdom.
Like how my Mom is suffering in silence and refusing to speak to me because I couldn't get the time off from work or save the money to go and see her get married even though I managed to finagle a way off work to see Card Shark's wedding and even payed the money for a Tuxedo which is about the cost of a one way ticket to see my Mom on SouthWest Airlines. I guess I should be ashamed, and the fact that my mom forgot my birthday and forgot to wish me a Merry Christmas or even send me a card should just be my punishment.
But I thought my punishment was having to watch a movie on Christmas Day by myself and when I tried to strike up a conversation with the "refreshment guy" about his poor luck having to work on Christmas and then getting all snubbed by a 19 year old dude with acne "making time and a half" thinking it was too pitiful to have to speak to me that he turned his back on me and pretended to start filling popcorn buckets even though there was not a person in line behind me and I had not ordered any popcorn.
I don't buy expesive popcorn at the dollar theaters. Instead my snack consisted of the warm M&M's I snuck hidden in my pockets with. I decided to sneak in the candy that I picked up from the Walgreen's that I visited for an hour before the movie started. I walked around and looked at all the Christmas sales and the various drug store items that Walgreen's has. I talked to a young lady that looked over at me with pity which I mistook as interest until she asked me if, "40 year old men are supposed to wear T-shirts over thermal underwear?"
I think she must have been in her high school fashion club or something because she had on light blue eye shadow. I was 3 p.m. but she still had on pj's and slippers. Her face was painted colorfully even though she had just woken up for the day. She had a fake fur lined coat and her hair was intricately laced in a upswing hair do that takes hours to make it appear like she only spends a few minutes on. She did casual with flair. My look says, "I do casual with sweat pants!"
We started talking after I asked her where the hemorrhoid medicine was. I think she noticed that I carried around with me a bottle of douche-for-ass-cleaning. I told her I was a male model. I don't think she believed me until I told her I was in gay porn. "Butt I am straight." I told her. "The money is way better for men in gay porn." I could tell she knew that because she cocked her head at me with one of those "I am so way hip I know about the pay rate structures for male porn performers." Like she had some kind of Excel spreadsheet on her palm pilot highlighting the gay/straight pay differentials. Maybe she did. She seemed knowledgeable.
Even though she was pretty smart I think she missed out on the opportunity I gave her to indulge in a post-modern witty tête-à-tête. At first I think she pretended to not know who Priscilla Lane was just to keep from bonding with me.
"The Lane Sisters?" I beamed my phazers at her. "They were a sister group that sung patriotic songs." I explained.
"Star of the 1942 Alfred Hitchcock movie Saboteur?" I added.
"Surely you jest." Was her reply. I should have known that a girl her age would have no clue who Alfred Hitchcock was. She was probably thinking I was making some kind of grotesque penis joke.
"Ask your grandmother." It was the only thing I could think of to respond. I was demure now. I was having no fun. I placed the Ass Douche on the counter.
"My grandmother is Priscilla Lane." She finally confided in me.
I told the girl that Ms. Lane was, "Britney Spears before Britney Spears was Britney Spears."
"She was married for a day. Then she had the marriage annulled. I've seen photos of her in bare midriff bent over a chair."
"That's kinda slutty." My new friend acknowledged. I agreed. "But hot. Your Grandma was hot." After a long pause in our conversation I used my last bit of Priscilla Lane trivia on the girl pretending to be Ms. Lane's grand daughter. "Prisiclla died in 1995." I told her.
"Oh."
I guess talking to young people about death is boring. Old people love to talk to about death.
"Did I say that outloud?"
"Yes."
"I did not mean to say that outloud. Also, I did not mean to say that 'I did not mean to say that outloud' as I assume you are smart enough to realize when I ask you if I said 'something outloud' that I in fact did not mean to 'say it outloud'."
"I guess for some reason you are just saying things outloud that you wished you had not said aloud."
"Indeed."
"I don't understand a lot of things. Like what the inventor of the S.O.S. pad was thinking?" Who would do that? Why invent a product that rusts when placed in water when the product is designed to be immersed in water? "And yet we are told that the S.O.S. pad is an icon of Americana. No wonder we suck."
That dialogue wasn't in the dream. The problem is I don't remember much of the dialogue in the dream anymore.
"you don't remember?"
I don't remember. I can't remember if what I am...
"remembering"
Yes. Remembering.
"continue"
If what I am remembering is really remembering now or if what I remembering is something different.
I am sure it is different. It had something to do with not knowing stuff, and how the stuff we don't know is not important. I think it was just some clever word play that really meant nothing. But if I remember something about it I remember that I liked the way the dream wrapped everything up with a pun/zinger at the end. I remember thinking I was clever and I should get up right away and write it down.
I remember I added the the S.O.S. thing as just some random aside and that the S.O.S. thing was a less polished joke. It was more of a "what the fuck good is an rusty pad of wool?"
I was going to add pictures of the rusting S.O.S. pad sitting in my sink, but I figured that only I care about the S.O.S. pad and you will just see a picture of a rusty worn out piece of steel wool and think I am a dirty person who never cleans his sink, so I threw away the steel wool and I cleaned my sink because the last thing I need is you judging me for keeping a dirty kitchen even if I keep a dirty kitchen. I mean I may keep a dirty kitchen, but I always clean up before company comes over, so in fact if you were to ever become a guest at my house, you would just assume that I always keep the dished clean and my sinks washed and my stove tops clean so you would never be able to judge me for that.
Sure you would judge me for all the other things I do. Like my hypochondria. How I worry after eating an chewable antacid with acid reducer that the pill will clog in my throat and inflame my swollen lymph nodes and cause my airway to constrict enough to make it difficult to swallow and difficult to breathe, but not so much that I need to call a doctor. But that doesn't make me paranoid. It only makes me a hero. A silent sufferer. A martyr like Jesus. Though I guess this is the season for Martyrdom.
Like how my Mom is suffering in silence and refusing to speak to me because I couldn't get the time off from work or save the money to go and see her get married even though I managed to finagle a way off work to see Card Shark's wedding and even payed the money for a Tuxedo which is about the cost of a one way ticket to see my Mom on SouthWest Airlines. I guess I should be ashamed, and the fact that my mom forgot my birthday and forgot to wish me a Merry Christmas or even send me a card should just be my punishment.
But I thought my punishment was having to watch a movie on Christmas Day by myself and when I tried to strike up a conversation with the "refreshment guy" about his poor luck having to work on Christmas and then getting all snubbed by a 19 year old dude with acne "making time and a half" thinking it was too pitiful to have to speak to me that he turned his back on me and pretended to start filling popcorn buckets even though there was not a person in line behind me and I had not ordered any popcorn.
I don't buy expesive popcorn at the dollar theaters. Instead my snack consisted of the warm M&M's I snuck hidden in my pockets with. I decided to sneak in the candy that I picked up from the Walgreen's that I visited for an hour before the movie started. I walked around and looked at all the Christmas sales and the various drug store items that Walgreen's has. I talked to a young lady that looked over at me with pity which I mistook as interest until she asked me if, "40 year old men are supposed to wear T-shirts over thermal underwear?"
I think she must have been in her high school fashion club or something because she had on light blue eye shadow. I was 3 p.m. but she still had on pj's and slippers. Her face was painted colorfully even though she had just woken up for the day. She had a fake fur lined coat and her hair was intricately laced in a upswing hair do that takes hours to make it appear like she only spends a few minutes on. She did casual with flair. My look says, "I do casual with sweat pants!"
We started talking after I asked her where the hemorrhoid medicine was. I think she noticed that I carried around with me a bottle of douche-for-ass-cleaning. I told her I was a male model. I don't think she believed me until I told her I was in gay porn. "Butt I am straight." I told her. "The money is way better for men in gay porn." I could tell she knew that because she cocked her head at me with one of those "I am so way hip I know about the pay rate structures for male porn performers." Like she had some kind of Excel spreadsheet on her palm pilot highlighting the gay/straight pay differentials. Maybe she did. She seemed knowledgeable.
Even though she was pretty smart I think she missed out on the opportunity I gave her to indulge in a post-modern witty tête-à-tête. At first I think she pretended to not know who Priscilla Lane was just to keep from bonding with me.
"The Lane Sisters?" I beamed my phazers at her. "They were a sister group that sung patriotic songs." I explained.
"Star of the 1942 Alfred Hitchcock movie Saboteur?" I added.
"Surely you jest." Was her reply. I should have known that a girl her age would have no clue who Alfred Hitchcock was. She was probably thinking I was making some kind of grotesque penis joke.
"Ask your grandmother." It was the only thing I could think of to respond. I was demure now. I was having no fun. I placed the Ass Douche on the counter.
"My grandmother is Priscilla Lane." She finally confided in me.
I told the girl that Ms. Lane was, "Britney Spears before Britney Spears was Britney Spears."
"She was married for a day. Then she had the marriage annulled. I've seen photos of her in bare midriff bent over a chair."
"That's kinda slutty." My new friend acknowledged. I agreed. "But hot. Your Grandma was hot." After a long pause in our conversation I used my last bit of Priscilla Lane trivia on the girl pretending to be Ms. Lane's grand daughter. "Prisiclla died in 1995." I told her.
"Oh."
I guess talking to young people about death is boring. Old people love to talk to about death.
"Did I say that outloud?"
"Yes."
"I did not mean to say that outloud. Also, I did not mean to say that 'I did not mean to say that outloud' as I assume you are smart enough to realize when I ask you if I said 'something outloud' that I in fact did not mean to 'say it outloud'."
"I guess for some reason you are just saying things outloud that you wished you had not said aloud."
"Indeed."
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Christmas comes early to Romius T. in the form of a phone number from a dude who wants to go 4 running and maybe rent some sea doo's
I got my first phone number in 4 years today. It was from some dude who wants to go 4x4 ing with me and maybe we will rent some Sea Doo's. The dude just left the number neatly typed on register receipt tape all non chalant like. Like it means nothing the way he always asks, "when are we going 4 running?"
I can't imagine this dude in a 4 runner or hiking boots.
I asked the dude if had a 4x4. He said no. I told him I had a 4x4. I lied. I don't have a 4x4. My truck is a 4x2 which means if we get stuck in the mud we could die. I hope not. Dying in the mud is not cool. Especially if we die before we make it to the Sea Doo's. My phone number giving dude says he knows a place near the grand canyon that rents Sea Doo's.
I think riding a Sea Doo is fun. So does my boss. She said so when she overheard us talking about our plans to go Sea Dooing. She said she likes Sea Doos, and I bet she was hoping one of us would ask her to go Sea Doing with us. But we didn't. I think we were holding out for Jackie. Jackie is the girl who fucks my boss's ex husband.
My boss hates Jackie. I wondered aloud if Jackie was hot. Well. What I actually said was, "Jackie is hot. You can't blame the ex for going for hottness."
The boss replied that Jackie was not hot. "Jackie looks just like me." She continues. "Only shorter."
"Midgets are hot!" I shot back at her. She didn't have a response to that. I guess she knows Midgets are hot too.
We haven't decided on how many Sea Doo's to rent. We may rent 2. It's always fun to drive by yourself, and that way you never have to share. Then again, it is fun to ride on the back of a Sea Doo. Though maybe not as much fun as stuffing an entire Nerf Football inside your asshole.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
I am still sick, so I decide to complain, because that always get me somewhere.
I still can't breathe through my nose. I am mouth breathing. I am sweaty and cold at the same time. I have a headache. I am taking Ibuprofen to get rid of the chills and fever. I am drinking apple juice for vitamin c. I am still unable to swallow so I have not eaten today. I tried to eat Turkey chili from a can last night. I forgot how awful Turkey chili from a can is. I had to stop eating half way through. My throat made it impossible to swallow. I will try a chocolate milk shake before work today. That way I might have enough energy to make it through the work day.
Christmas Eve is all about working. I have to work 8 and a half hours on the 24th. I thought I was getting double time and a half. That was why I took such a long shift. Turns out we just get regular pay. Christmas eve is sure to be the busiest day of the year. I am too sick to think about all that hard work. I think I will need at least two weeks before I get back to feeling normal if the rate of my recovery stays the same.
I am sleeping less than normal which is not a lot. For a guy with no kids and no responsibility who loves to sleep you would think I would suffer from over sleeping. But the reality is I have insomnia so I don't sleep much at all and that only makes me sleepy and lazier than I already am which is pretty lazy.
I have the portable heater going. I am sitting here typing with a jacket on and a blanket around my legs because all of my sweat pants or pajama bottoms are ripped or thrown away. I need to buy a new pajama bottom soon.
My face feels dry and chapped. I need to scrub away all my dead skin but I am too chapped to try it. My mouth hurts from clenching too much. My back hurts. I had to cancel lunch with an old friend because I am sick and I did not want to infect him. Also the prospect of eating a giant burger was made improbable because my throat has closed.
I don't have the energy to weave an amusing tale out of this shitty illness. Instead I will just sit here and slowly get worse and possible die. When I do I want you to feel bad. I want you to know I will not forgive you- if you thought I was just being a hypochondriac. I want you to know that I will haunt you after I am dead. I will interrupt every happy thought you ever have with a reminder of how you let your friend die on the Internet because you did not take anything he said seriously. I hope you can live with that. I know I couldn't.
Christmas Eve is all about working. I have to work 8 and a half hours on the 24th. I thought I was getting double time and a half. That was why I took such a long shift. Turns out we just get regular pay. Christmas eve is sure to be the busiest day of the year. I am too sick to think about all that hard work. I think I will need at least two weeks before I get back to feeling normal if the rate of my recovery stays the same.
I am sleeping less than normal which is not a lot. For a guy with no kids and no responsibility who loves to sleep you would think I would suffer from over sleeping. But the reality is I have insomnia so I don't sleep much at all and that only makes me sleepy and lazier than I already am which is pretty lazy.
I have the portable heater going. I am sitting here typing with a jacket on and a blanket around my legs because all of my sweat pants or pajama bottoms are ripped or thrown away. I need to buy a new pajama bottom soon.
My face feels dry and chapped. I need to scrub away all my dead skin but I am too chapped to try it. My mouth hurts from clenching too much. My back hurts. I had to cancel lunch with an old friend because I am sick and I did not want to infect him. Also the prospect of eating a giant burger was made improbable because my throat has closed.
I don't have the energy to weave an amusing tale out of this shitty illness. Instead I will just sit here and slowly get worse and possible die. When I do I want you to feel bad. I want you to know I will not forgive you- if you thought I was just being a hypochondriac. I want you to know that I will haunt you after I am dead. I will interrupt every happy thought you ever have with a reminder of how you let your friend die on the Internet because you did not take anything he said seriously. I hope you can live with that. I know I couldn't.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
The Self Help Guide to getting the promotion you don't deserve
I lost another paycheck this week. I have no idea how I keep doing things like that, other than I am forgetful. I guess I don't worry about 239 dollar paychecks because they don't do that much. I am careless with my money and my life. That's why even though I attended community college* for 12 years and I bathe* every day, I still have a shitty life.
*advice from Kelso's Nuts is to bathe and attend community college. all advice you receive on this blog that does not originate from Romius t is not guaranteed.
I can't afford basic repairs.
I just had the windshield wipers replaced on my truck. I had hoped that was all the maintenance the truck would need this year. I was wrong. I just got an oil changed and a tire rotation. I was told to get my brakes bled and the fluid changed. I did that, but the brakes are still squeaking. They started squeaking when I went to Midas to get the oil change and tire rotation. I blame Midas for that. I blame them for trying to charge 79 dollars rather than 59 dollars that Sun Devil Auto charged me for bleeding the brakes and replacing the fluid. I think it stops a little easier now, but that is probably just my imagination. I think I still need a balance and an alignment.
Sun Devil got their greasy hands all over my upholstery. I should send them the bill. Instead I will reward them with 129 dollars, the cost of replacing my belt. I really can't afford all this. I need to start selling my blood. I need a second job. Send money mom. I'd sell my blood today, but I am still sick. My throat is swollen. People at work pointed at my neck today and asked me, "Hey is your neck swollen?" I had no idea it was that bad, but I guess it is. That's when every one asked to me to go away.
Speaking of the job, I was offered a promotion yesterday. I was offered a promotion while I was getting written up for losing a check from Western Union. I have no idea what happened to the check. I think someone must have dropped it when they collected the drawer from my register. They are going to take a look at the DVR. I could be assigned to cash control for 3 months.
In the meantime my boss asked me if I have considered becoming an assistant manager. I lied and told her I thought about it all the time. She told me that she wanted to start my training as soon as possible. I might have to wait the 3 months that I am on cash control. It all depends. If they see me putting the check in my drawer or bag I will tell them not to write me up. Then I will be an assistant front end manager pulling down the big bucks. I think I may get a pay raise of a couple of dollars. Maybe up to 4 dollars. They will have to pay me $4 more if they want me to accept all the hassle that comes from managing a front end. Which really means sucking up to you assholes when someone forgets to bag your groceries with paper or listening to you gripe because we are all out of Alpo. (Alpo- the caviar of white trash every where.)
THE SELF HELP GUIDE TO GETTING THE PROMOTION (at a grocery store) YOU DON'T DESERVE.
You are probably asking yourself just how I got offered a promotion when all I ever do is complain about my job. If you read this blog and you work with me you are probably even more confused. And finally, if you read this blog for advice then you are in trouble.
What are some of the reasons I would not be chosen for a promotion?
1. I am not the fastest cashier at work.
My rebuttal
I am not the best cashier at work. I am not the fastest cashier, though this week I a was number 2! I am not the friendliest cashier either. But being front end assistant manager is not about being the best cashier. What I have done is made it clear that I can be fast. Not the fastest of course. But quick. Efficient. I rarely make mistakes. Mostly because it is hard to make mistakes at my job unless you are an idiot, but also because customers give you a hard time if you make too many mistakes.
2. I am not the nicest cashier in the store.
If I was super friendly I would have a very low score on the tracking meters that follow our work behavior. While I am not super friendly I have been known to chuckle it up with my regulars. I make sure that supervisors know that I have customers that love me. Furthermore; I never antagonize customers. I have had only one complaint by a customer in more than a year. I'm polite. Supervisors never worry that I will cause an incident.
Personality is KEY.
Corporate is looking for a friendly personality. But you can't be so friendly that you will be afraid to hurt peoples feelings. An assistant manager has to assign duties and if you are every one's friend then you will have a hard time keeping everyone happy. One must be able to deal with irrational and emotional customers without mirroring those emotions back.
The folks who are super friendly are wasting their time and the company's time chit chatting. They will never be considered management potential, because happy people are too emotional. The super fast cashiers are too fast to be nice, or have been working so long that they would have to take a pay cut to be assistant manager. The second point is critical to my analysis. My company wants to find new employees who are competent to make assistant manager, because they assume those folks like me will stick around, and eventually out earn assistant managers by the simple act of tenure.
It makes more sense to get me (any my low key low achieving personality type) into lower management that to sit around and wait for me to be fast enough (if that ever happens) to be worth the extra money, or friendly enough (from getting to know all the regulars) to draw in customers.
The right move is to put me in lower management where I can use my superior intellect as a check against the stupidity of the new crop of ever changing cashiers and front end personal. I can go around correcting errors and diffusing possible employee blowouts because this requires little more in the way skill that I have already exhibited.
HERE ARE THE REASONS I CAN GET OFFERED A PROMOTION over you even though you are like so much better than me....
In the end I will get a promotion not because I deserve it but because I fit a personality profile.
*advice from Kelso's Nuts is to bathe and attend community college. all advice you receive on this blog that does not originate from Romius t is not guaranteed.
I can't afford basic repairs.
I just had the windshield wipers replaced on my truck. I had hoped that was all the maintenance the truck would need this year. I was wrong. I just got an oil changed and a tire rotation. I was told to get my brakes bled and the fluid changed. I did that, but the brakes are still squeaking. They started squeaking when I went to Midas to get the oil change and tire rotation. I blame Midas for that. I blame them for trying to charge 79 dollars rather than 59 dollars that Sun Devil Auto charged me for bleeding the brakes and replacing the fluid. I think it stops a little easier now, but that is probably just my imagination. I think I still need a balance and an alignment.
Sun Devil got their greasy hands all over my upholstery. I should send them the bill. Instead I will reward them with 129 dollars, the cost of replacing my belt. I really can't afford all this. I need to start selling my blood. I need a second job. Send money mom. I'd sell my blood today, but I am still sick. My throat is swollen. People at work pointed at my neck today and asked me, "Hey is your neck swollen?" I had no idea it was that bad, but I guess it is. That's when every one asked to me to go away.
Speaking of the job, I was offered a promotion yesterday. I was offered a promotion while I was getting written up for losing a check from Western Union. I have no idea what happened to the check. I think someone must have dropped it when they collected the drawer from my register. They are going to take a look at the DVR. I could be assigned to cash control for 3 months.
In the meantime my boss asked me if I have considered becoming an assistant manager. I lied and told her I thought about it all the time. She told me that she wanted to start my training as soon as possible. I might have to wait the 3 months that I am on cash control. It all depends. If they see me putting the check in my drawer or bag I will tell them not to write me up. Then I will be an assistant front end manager pulling down the big bucks. I think I may get a pay raise of a couple of dollars. Maybe up to 4 dollars. They will have to pay me $4 more if they want me to accept all the hassle that comes from managing a front end. Which really means sucking up to you assholes when someone forgets to bag your groceries with paper or listening to you gripe because we are all out of Alpo. (Alpo- the caviar of white trash every where.)
THE SELF HELP GUIDE TO GETTING THE PROMOTION (at a grocery store) YOU DON'T DESERVE.
You are probably asking yourself just how I got offered a promotion when all I ever do is complain about my job. If you read this blog and you work with me you are probably even more confused. And finally, if you read this blog for advice then you are in trouble.
What are some of the reasons I would not be chosen for a promotion?
1. I am not the fastest cashier at work.
My rebuttal
I am not the best cashier at work. I am not the fastest cashier, though this week I a was number 2! I am not the friendliest cashier either. But being front end assistant manager is not about being the best cashier. What I have done is made it clear that I can be fast. Not the fastest of course. But quick. Efficient. I rarely make mistakes. Mostly because it is hard to make mistakes at my job unless you are an idiot, but also because customers give you a hard time if you make too many mistakes.
2. I am not the nicest cashier in the store.
If I was super friendly I would have a very low score on the tracking meters that follow our work behavior. While I am not super friendly I have been known to chuckle it up with my regulars. I make sure that supervisors know that I have customers that love me. Furthermore; I never antagonize customers. I have had only one complaint by a customer in more than a year. I'm polite. Supervisors never worry that I will cause an incident.
Personality is KEY.
Corporate is looking for a friendly personality. But you can't be so friendly that you will be afraid to hurt peoples feelings. An assistant manager has to assign duties and if you are every one's friend then you will have a hard time keeping everyone happy. One must be able to deal with irrational and emotional customers without mirroring those emotions back.
The folks who are super friendly are wasting their time and the company's time chit chatting. They will never be considered management potential, because happy people are too emotional. The super fast cashiers are too fast to be nice, or have been working so long that they would have to take a pay cut to be assistant manager. The second point is critical to my analysis. My company wants to find new employees who are competent to make assistant manager, because they assume those folks like me will stick around, and eventually out earn assistant managers by the simple act of tenure.
It makes more sense to get me (any my low key low achieving personality type) into lower management that to sit around and wait for me to be fast enough (if that ever happens) to be worth the extra money, or friendly enough (from getting to know all the regulars) to draw in customers.
The right move is to put me in lower management where I can use my superior intellect as a check against the stupidity of the new crop of ever changing cashiers and front end personal. I can go around correcting errors and diffusing possible employee blowouts because this requires little more in the way skill that I have already exhibited.
HERE ARE THE REASONS I CAN GET OFFERED A PROMOTION over you even though you are like so much better than me....
In the end I will get a promotion not because I deserve it but because I fit a personality profile.
- Be old. I am older than the kids who try harder at work that me.
- It is assumed by management that my being older means I can gain respect of younger workmates. It is easy to exhibit this personality trait. If you aren't old try giving off a sense of diligence and calmness around your supervisors. (If they saw how I acted when they are not around they would boycott my advancement.)
- Be competent without being flashy. Upper management wants to show you off, but they don't want to feel threatened by your abilities. Limit your mistakes. Own up to those you make. Tell the boss that you welcome mistakes because that is that is best way to learn.
- Make sure your boss likes you. Shave. Wear proper attire. Use deodorant. Comb your hair. Tell you boss jokes and laugh at hers. Make sure to joke when it is not busy.
- Help the boss out. Come in when he asks you to. Just make sure they know what an inconvenience it is. They will misinterpret your sacrifice as debt and feel a sense of personal obligation to you. When you can't work for them be blunt. Just say "I can't today." Supervisors hate being tied down by a lowerlings decision.
- Go to work sick at least once. Tell the boss you knew they needed your help. They won't remember the times you call in sick.
- Be dependable. Try not to call in sick. This is tuff because working sucks. But a boss loves the guy or gal who always shows up. If you can't make sure to cover your shifts. Go out of the way to tell boss that you don't call in, you are resourceful. You find answers to problems. You don't hand off your problems to others.
If you follow this advice you too can have the moderate increase in stature and pay that low levels of management presents to you. That way when people from your high school see you at the lowest level of in store management they can tell themselves things like, "Wow, I can't believe he wants to make a career out of this."
If you stay a cashier you can always lie to yourself and say things like, "I am just waiting for my big break on the Internet." And then you can drive around with a serpentine belt that needs to be replaced. And you can hope that your landlord comes through with his promise to shave off 2 months rent if you to paint the Condo, because even when you are not paying rent you can's save money on a 9 dollar an hour salary.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
I call in sick to work today so I can google "green shit and liver disease" and because I am afraid of all the death threats I get for being racist
I know you don't care but this is the sixth day in a row that I had a green bowel movement, and even I know that ain't right. I called into work today because I am sick. I have a fever and I can barely breathe because my nose is full of gunk.
I know I write a lot of mean things about Mexicans and I am sure some of you get offended by that shit. I just want you to know that I am not a racist. Heck, I even married a Mexican and that is probably more than any of you have ever done for a Mexican, if you don't count hiring one as your gardener, or ordering something from a Taco Bell Menu, and I don't count any of those things as anything other than 'partaking of a racist stereotype. ' So maybe people need to ease up on the death threats, because in reality every time you hire a Mexican as a gardener, or order something from Taco Bell, you are just being part of the problem, and not part of the solution.
Then again I could be wrong about the whole thing as I don't have any Mexican readers and I am suffering from delirium from my fever. Also, the whole too much bile in my stool thing has me worried, and when people are worried they look for someone to blame, and I would blame the Jews, but I am afraid of Jews, because the Jews run Hollywood and one day I plan on taking this blog and making it into a book, and as soon as I am done with the book I am planning on selling the rights to the book to some Jew so he can make a movie about my life.
I know that shit is kinda far in the future and many of you can't believe that I would worry about something that far off, but despite all my craziness I am very resourceful, and I got plans and those plans have contingencies and possibilities, and I can't say for sure that none of it won't come true, so you won't hear any bad mouthing of Jews here, because anyway I am pretty sure God has punished them enough for killing your saviour. {Too soon for Holocaust jokes?}
Anyway, to borrow another idea from Drunken Stepfather, I would assume that anyone who comes to this weblog by now "gets me" and if you don't get me that's ok. I mean I don't really care. If you find something offensive about this blog, and this is your first visit here, I humbly apologize. I meant no disrespect. Of course if you are a regular visitor (one of the eleven) then by now you should know what to expect. Don't go getting pissed off when I finally pick on something or someone you really like. If you stick around long enough I am going to insult you because that's what I do. Take it or leave it. IF you 'take it' you just might find that the mirror I am holding up to you is ugly, and that's because plastic surgery can't fix every thing. Yet.
I know I write a lot of mean things about Mexicans and I am sure some of you get offended by that shit. I just want you to know that I am not a racist. Heck, I even married a Mexican and that is probably more than any of you have ever done for a Mexican, if you don't count hiring one as your gardener, or ordering something from a Taco Bell Menu, and I don't count any of those things as anything other than 'partaking of a racist stereotype. ' So maybe people need to ease up on the death threats, because in reality every time you hire a Mexican as a gardener, or order something from Taco Bell, you are just being part of the problem, and not part of the solution.
Then again I could be wrong about the whole thing as I don't have any Mexican readers and I am suffering from delirium from my fever. Also, the whole too much bile in my stool thing has me worried, and when people are worried they look for someone to blame, and I would blame the Jews, but I am afraid of Jews, because the Jews run Hollywood and one day I plan on taking this blog and making it into a book, and as soon as I am done with the book I am planning on selling the rights to the book to some Jew so he can make a movie about my life.
I know that shit is kinda far in the future and many of you can't believe that I would worry about something that far off, but despite all my craziness I am very resourceful, and I got plans and those plans have contingencies and possibilities, and I can't say for sure that none of it won't come true, so you won't hear any bad mouthing of Jews here, because anyway I am pretty sure God has punished them enough for killing your saviour. {Too soon for Holocaust jokes?}
Anyway, to borrow another idea from Drunken Stepfather, I would assume that anyone who comes to this weblog by now "gets me" and if you don't get me that's ok. I mean I don't really care. If you find something offensive about this blog, and this is your first visit here, I humbly apologize. I meant no disrespect. Of course if you are a regular visitor (one of the eleven) then by now you should know what to expect. Don't go getting pissed off when I finally pick on something or someone you really like. If you stick around long enough I am going to insult you because that's what I do. Take it or leave it. IF you 'take it' you just might find that the mirror I am holding up to you is ugly, and that's because plastic surgery can't fix every thing. Yet.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Bloody Mexicans
I shat green for the 4th day in a row. I am getting sick. I ran a fever last night at work. I am stuffy headed and my nose is running a bit.
I am still going to work because I want to reinfect all my customers. I am sure I am sick because of one of them has gotten me ill.
Most of the customers at my store are from Mexico or some other Latin American country, and from every thing I have read on the internets you can get some crazy ass diseases from playing with chicken blood.
You may not know this but that Latino next to you in the cubicle goes home every night to chicken blood and Jesus candles, but because the whole thing just kinda creeps out white people Latinos keep that shit to themselves.
That is until they go to the supermarket, because every one knows that people from Third World countries never wash their hands, and that's because they've never heard of science. All they ever took from the white man was his crazy religion (even though most of the brown skinned people I know never completely gave up on their indigenous religion.) All they did was add saints and burning candles to rubbing chicken blood on themselves, and I guess that's where I get added to this equation, because Mexicans go through a lot of chicken blood if you go by how much chicken we sell to Latinos at my store.
I tell you it's a shit lot of chicken and just about none of the people buying chicken wash their hands. All they do is show up from after working digging ditches and hand me crumbled up 50 dollar bills, or blood stained 100 dollar bills. I have no idea where these damn immigrants are finding jobs where they get paid in cash, and paid in 50 dollar bills. All I know is I worked all week and all I earned was 239 dollars, and that was only because I tell Uncle Sam to kiss it and claim except, because I figure I should not have to pay taxes to the Federal Government, because it starts wars I don't believe in and it allows foreigners with all kinds of chicken blood related diseases to gain contact with me. And in my weakened AIDS related condition I can't fight off any of the exotic diseases they come over the border with.
This post is dedicated to Mexicans and all Latinos south of the border. Light a candle for me. It's the least you can do.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
I Hate My Life
"God, I HATE MY LIFE."
I say that to that no one really.
"I wish you wouldn't say stuff like that when you have your penis inside me." My exgf says.
My ex gf is wondering about my penis.
"What's wrong?" She asks.
I think my ex gf is wondering why my penis is 'suddenly' soft. I try to tell her that it is nothing to worry about. "That's what happens to men my age." I tell her.
What my exgf does not realize is that my penis is always that small or soft when inside her. I think about telling her that, and I think about telling my ex-girlfriend that my impotence is all her fault.
She's had 5 babies from 4 different men. I want to tell her that all those years she spent fisting herself for men at the peep shows for 2 dollars a minute left her pussy busted and incapable of providing friction to anything smaller than a midgets arm. That my penis is only aroused initially into the sex process. I get hard and then I fuck for a while, but the longer I fuck the smaller my dick gets. Right before I cum my cock shrivels up like an 8 year old's dick in one of those kiddie play pools.
Inexplicably, right after I cum my dick gets huge again, sometimes it blows up to 4 inches or more. So I always make sure to pull out after I cum and wipe my penis all around her vagina. That way she sees what she assumes to be a normal sized dick. Because the dick now looks normal she has to assume that the dick was that size whenever it was inside her and that any lack of sensation she felt during our love making was her fault because as I explained to her, "an episiotomy does nothing about putting a woman's womb back together."
"It's all done for looks, Dear." I tell her.
She nods back at me and begins to chew on her nails. I am always trying to impress my girlfriend with how smart I am by making wise cracks about "the epistimology of episiomoties. "
My girlfriend has no idea why I think I am so smart. All she knows is that I read a lot and that I tend to make the most disgusting comments she's ever heard. She has no idea if that makes me smart. Whenever she tries to quantify anything in particular about me that is actually smart she has trouble coming up with anything.
"I know the names of all the continents." I try telling her. I don't think I am very convincing. I am also done wiping my cum on her vagina. She is holding the empty condom with pinched fingers like it is a bag of poop.
"What should I do with this?" She waves the the latex prophylactic at me.
"I guess we could reuse it." I tell her. "Since it ain't got no cum in it."
"Why do you always talk in a southern accent after fucking?"
"I got no fuckin' idea." I tell her. I decide I am going to drop my g's for the rest of the day. That'll teach her.
In the play pen next to the bed you can hear her 2 year old rustlin' around. I think the sex has woken the girl up, and that means we can't go to sleep for hours. Once her little one is awake there is no sleep. She screams and cries. I tell her mom that, "Nicki might be autistic, because I've never seen a kid rock herself so much."
My exgf tells me that she is just "soothing herself." And I tell the ex that "soothing behaviors" are "straight up Autism...yo...yo."
Ex-Gf just cranes her neck at me and then gives me a look. Nobody ever takes me seriously. I hate that. The exgf has still not disposed of the empty condom. It just lies on the cabinet, pathetic.
The air smells of shit instead of sex. Mostly because the trash can next to the bed is full of dirty diapers. The air should smell of sex, but I think that only happens when the girl has an orgasm.
I can't give my ex an orgasm. I think her pussy is too stretched out. Also, even though we have dated for 3 years she is, "not comfortable with me going down on her." Since she won't let me eat her out, all I can do is use my dick on her. I know my dick is not doing the trick, because she wants me to get some kind of piercing in it. She told me that her ex boyfriend had one and she, "used to cum a ton with that guy." She also tells me that she, "only cums with some guys."
"It's mostly a sexual chemistry thing." She tells me. Like that's supposed to comfort me. That we don't have sexual chemistry.
I assume by "we" she means "she" because I can cum as long as I don't masturbate during the week, and as long as we don't use a condom, and as long as I am not on anti-depressants. Then cumming is pretty easy. As long as we are doing it doggy style, and one of her kids is not knocking at the bedroom door.
Somewhere in the house a dog has shit on the floor.
I won't discover that fact until tomorrow. I won't step in it. But I will notice that the place smells worse than normal over a breakfast of Cheerios without bananas. It's the only breakfast food in the house, because the ex-gf has traded away all her food stamps so she can make her next car payment.
I ask the ex if she wants a little money for gas so she can get to work. She tells me she doesn't have to go to work until Thursday and if I give her gas money her sister will end up using the car and waste all the gas going to see her boyfriend who lives in Payson which is 60 miles from here.
I snort loud enough for my ex to get the point. She needs to be able to say no her family now and then. I wonder aloud "why she can always be guilt tripped by other people, but not me."
I figure it has something to do with how unsexy I look out of clothes. She once told me that I looked good until I took my shirt off. She told me not to worry that, "because looks are not that important for her" and that "men who look better than me often have shitty attitudes and end up breaking her heart."
I tell her that all that honesty sounds like emotional abuse to me. Then I tell her 5 year old to pour me a glass of chocolate milk, "If you are going to make yourself a glass of milk...make me one too."
The first time I met the 5 year old he hugged me goodnight. I got creeped out by the kid doing that. He did not know me, but he thought it was ok to hug a strange man he'd never met before. I guess he just figured I was his new daddy, and he might as well get a good start with this daddy so maybe new daddy would not run away.
I felt too sorry for him to tell him the truth. That I was just lonely and needed a little part time pussy, and his mom let me fuck her. Of course it took me hanging around her house for hours at a time and for days on end to ever get a little nooky, and by then the offspring would get attached to me. They would ask me to play games with them. They had a bunch of board games in the attic that must have been bought at a yard sale because all the boxes were broken and some of the pieces to the games were missing.
The ex hated playing with her kids. I hate board games too, but sometimes the ex gf smoked pot, and whenever she smoked pot she would forget she had kids and would stop looking after them. That's when I had to take care of the kids and entertain them and I would usually give in to their suggestion that we play Sorry for the millionth time.
I would play Sorry and I would look over at my ex gf smoking and getting high. She would flirt and laugh at her sisters boyfriend. She would give him looks whenever she thought her sister wasn't looking. I caught her more than once and I am sure her sister did too. I think her sister liked to pretend that it meant nothing, since her sister was 6 years older and since her sister always claimed to hate younger guys.
"That's why I hang around old fart's like him." She would point over at me and then they would all look over me. My ex, her sister, and her sister's boyfriend. They would look over at me and have a big laugh like the term "old fart" was just invented for me. Whenever they laughed at me I tended to look down at the game board and pretend to busy myself with some operation of game play like I was really into the game and missed out hearing their little inside joke.
The kids would laugh too, but they only laughed for the reason that kids always laugh whenever they hear a bunch of adults laughing. They figure something funny had just been said and even though they did not understand it they don't want to seem left out of all the fun.
I say that to that no one really.
"I wish you wouldn't say stuff like that when you have your penis inside me." My exgf says.
My ex gf is wondering about my penis.
"What's wrong?" She asks.
I think my ex gf is wondering why my penis is 'suddenly' soft. I try to tell her that it is nothing to worry about. "That's what happens to men my age." I tell her.
What my exgf does not realize is that my penis is always that small or soft when inside her. I think about telling her that, and I think about telling my ex-girlfriend that my impotence is all her fault.
She's had 5 babies from 4 different men. I want to tell her that all those years she spent fisting herself for men at the peep shows for 2 dollars a minute left her pussy busted and incapable of providing friction to anything smaller than a midgets arm. That my penis is only aroused initially into the sex process. I get hard and then I fuck for a while, but the longer I fuck the smaller my dick gets. Right before I cum my cock shrivels up like an 8 year old's dick in one of those kiddie play pools.
Inexplicably, right after I cum my dick gets huge again, sometimes it blows up to 4 inches or more. So I always make sure to pull out after I cum and wipe my penis all around her vagina. That way she sees what she assumes to be a normal sized dick. Because the dick now looks normal she has to assume that the dick was that size whenever it was inside her and that any lack of sensation she felt during our love making was her fault because as I explained to her, "an episiotomy does nothing about putting a woman's womb back together."
"It's all done for looks, Dear." I tell her.
She nods back at me and begins to chew on her nails. I am always trying to impress my girlfriend with how smart I am by making wise cracks about "the epistimology of episiomoties. "
My girlfriend has no idea why I think I am so smart. All she knows is that I read a lot and that I tend to make the most disgusting comments she's ever heard. She has no idea if that makes me smart. Whenever she tries to quantify anything in particular about me that is actually smart she has trouble coming up with anything.
"I know the names of all the continents." I try telling her. I don't think I am very convincing. I am also done wiping my cum on her vagina. She is holding the empty condom with pinched fingers like it is a bag of poop.
"What should I do with this?" She waves the the latex prophylactic at me.
"I guess we could reuse it." I tell her. "Since it ain't got no cum in it."
"Why do you always talk in a southern accent after fucking?"
"I got no fuckin' idea." I tell her. I decide I am going to drop my g's for the rest of the day. That'll teach her.
In the play pen next to the bed you can hear her 2 year old rustlin' around. I think the sex has woken the girl up, and that means we can't go to sleep for hours. Once her little one is awake there is no sleep. She screams and cries. I tell her mom that, "Nicki might be autistic, because I've never seen a kid rock herself so much."
My exgf tells me that she is just "soothing herself." And I tell the ex that "soothing behaviors" are "straight up Autism...yo...yo."
Ex-Gf just cranes her neck at me and then gives me a look. Nobody ever takes me seriously. I hate that. The exgf has still not disposed of the empty condom. It just lies on the cabinet, pathetic.
The air smells of shit instead of sex. Mostly because the trash can next to the bed is full of dirty diapers. The air should smell of sex, but I think that only happens when the girl has an orgasm.
I can't give my ex an orgasm. I think her pussy is too stretched out. Also, even though we have dated for 3 years she is, "not comfortable with me going down on her." Since she won't let me eat her out, all I can do is use my dick on her. I know my dick is not doing the trick, because she wants me to get some kind of piercing in it. She told me that her ex boyfriend had one and she, "used to cum a ton with that guy." She also tells me that she, "only cums with some guys."
"It's mostly a sexual chemistry thing." She tells me. Like that's supposed to comfort me. That we don't have sexual chemistry.
I assume by "we" she means "she" because I can cum as long as I don't masturbate during the week, and as long as we don't use a condom, and as long as I am not on anti-depressants. Then cumming is pretty easy. As long as we are doing it doggy style, and one of her kids is not knocking at the bedroom door.
Somewhere in the house a dog has shit on the floor.
I won't discover that fact until tomorrow. I won't step in it. But I will notice that the place smells worse than normal over a breakfast of Cheerios without bananas. It's the only breakfast food in the house, because the ex-gf has traded away all her food stamps so she can make her next car payment.
I ask the ex if she wants a little money for gas so she can get to work. She tells me she doesn't have to go to work until Thursday and if I give her gas money her sister will end up using the car and waste all the gas going to see her boyfriend who lives in Payson which is 60 miles from here.
I snort loud enough for my ex to get the point. She needs to be able to say no her family now and then. I wonder aloud "why she can always be guilt tripped by other people, but not me."
I figure it has something to do with how unsexy I look out of clothes. She once told me that I looked good until I took my shirt off. She told me not to worry that, "because looks are not that important for her" and that "men who look better than me often have shitty attitudes and end up breaking her heart."
I tell her that all that honesty sounds like emotional abuse to me. Then I tell her 5 year old to pour me a glass of chocolate milk, "If you are going to make yourself a glass of milk...make me one too."
The first time I met the 5 year old he hugged me goodnight. I got creeped out by the kid doing that. He did not know me, but he thought it was ok to hug a strange man he'd never met before. I guess he just figured I was his new daddy, and he might as well get a good start with this daddy so maybe new daddy would not run away.
I felt too sorry for him to tell him the truth. That I was just lonely and needed a little part time pussy, and his mom let me fuck her. Of course it took me hanging around her house for hours at a time and for days on end to ever get a little nooky, and by then the offspring would get attached to me. They would ask me to play games with them. They had a bunch of board games in the attic that must have been bought at a yard sale because all the boxes were broken and some of the pieces to the games were missing.
The ex hated playing with her kids. I hate board games too, but sometimes the ex gf smoked pot, and whenever she smoked pot she would forget she had kids and would stop looking after them. That's when I had to take care of the kids and entertain them and I would usually give in to their suggestion that we play Sorry for the millionth time.
I would play Sorry and I would look over at my ex gf smoking and getting high. She would flirt and laugh at her sisters boyfriend. She would give him looks whenever she thought her sister wasn't looking. I caught her more than once and I am sure her sister did too. I think her sister liked to pretend that it meant nothing, since her sister was 6 years older and since her sister always claimed to hate younger guys.
"That's why I hang around old fart's like him." She would point over at me and then they would all look over me. My ex, her sister, and her sister's boyfriend. They would look over at me and have a big laugh like the term "old fart" was just invented for me. Whenever they laughed at me I tended to look down at the game board and pretend to busy myself with some operation of game play like I was really into the game and missed out hearing their little inside joke.
The kids would laugh too, but they only laughed for the reason that kids always laugh whenever they hear a bunch of adults laughing. They figure something funny had just been said and even though they did not understand it they don't want to seem left out of all the fun.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I'm sorry I pooped on you
I know I shouldn't have posted a picture of my shit just to prove to you all that I really poop green. If you click on the picture it expands to huge proportions and you can see a bit of the green hue in my shit as well as some of the specs of sunflower seeds. I have to apologize for my camera's resolution under poor lighting, but I felt fishing out the bowel movements and photographing them was a bit too much.
I think I will add a poll to my blog so we can democratically determine if you guys want to track my poop in real life. I could take a new picture every day. In a few years it would qualify as science. I really think I could win a Nobel prize or something, either that or really disgust my Internet girlfriend.
By the way, I am pretty sure Golden Smacks has agreed to marry me.
Good news, eh!
I think I will add a poll to my blog so we can democratically determine if you guys want to track my poop in real life. I could take a new picture every day. In a few years it would qualify as science. I really think I could win a Nobel prize or something, either that or really disgust my Internet girlfriend.
By the way, I am pretty sure Golden Smacks has agreed to marry me.
Good news, eh!
Monday, December 15, 2008
A list of songs I bought legally
I got an a i-Tunes gift card for my b-day.
Here is a partial list of songs I bought:
16 songs from UFO that I do not have on CD.
Highlights include a million miles, broken strings, give her the gun, sixteen, and an altertative version of Oh my that is way better than the album version.
A Queensryche album- Promised Land.
Leonard Cohen's Everybody knows.
7 songs from foreigner mostly from the foreigner 4 album. (nightlife, break it up, woman in black, I'm gonna win, luanne, blue morning, blue day)
4 songs from MSG and statetrooper
A Trapeze album called Medusa (folks will love)
3 songs from Billy Squier: stroke,my kinda lover, in the dark
Here is a partial list of songs I bought:
16 songs from UFO that I do not have on CD.
Highlights include a million miles, broken strings, give her the gun, sixteen, and an altertative version of Oh my that is way better than the album version.
A Queensryche album- Promised Land.
Leonard Cohen's Everybody knows.
7 songs from foreigner mostly from the foreigner 4 album. (nightlife, break it up, woman in black, I'm gonna win, luanne, blue morning, blue day)
4 songs from MSG and statetrooper
A Trapeze album called Medusa (folks will love)
3 songs from Billy Squier: stroke,my kinda lover, in the dark
Sunday, December 14, 2008
I shit green for two days in a row
I guess trying to eat an entire pound of M&M candies today was not a good idea. I am typing with gloves on because it is 59 degrees in my house. I ran the heater for a good 46 minutes and now the temperature gauge reads 61. I guess I will need to start using the portable heaters soon.
I know I promised I was not going to write about the wedding, but since I have disappointed so many of you with that decision I have decided to write in an upcoming blog entry the Self Help Guide to getting married. The SHG to surviving a wedding, etc. Maybe I will just milk this whole wedding thing for as much as fodder as I can.
I've had the last three days off and I am not looking forward to getting back to work.
The last two days have seen dark green shits. But I am not the kind of guy who worries about his bowel movements enough to blog about them. I need to take a second shit today and I am sure it will be green as well. Maybe McDonald's is adding green dye color to their cheeseburgers. Otherwise I am dying of something or something has invaded my colon because AIDS makes it impossible to fight off infections. As long as I can keep my bowel movements in the toilet I guess I will be ok. The day they start leaking all over my shorts is the day I will go get checked out for them. I don't have the kind of money it takes to get checked out for these sorts of things and for now I am sticking to the idea that all the antacids I am eating are preventing my stomach acid from breaking down the nutrients in my food. I know that sounds like a nutty idea, but it is no nuttier than my bowel movements. I've eaten a bucket of sunflower seeds this week.
Sunflower seeds aid in compacting my bowel movements. Normally I shit Hershey squirts but with all the fiber from the nuts I can get a pretty good chuck of shit out. Like that infomercial says my bowel movements have added girth and width and I guess that is a good thing. I am not too sure about all the scraping that goes on in my anal cavity with the nuts, but at least you can tell when to quit grunting and pushing. I would suggest that pregnant women slather their unborn fetuses with a mixture of olive oil and nuts so that the kid could just slide down and the nuts would give a subtle clue as to where the baby was without all the need for fancy equipment like sonar guns and heart monitors, but the insurance companies, doctors, and medical equipment suppliers are making out like bandits and will never give up the opportunity to charge for an unnecessary piece of equipment.
I know I promised I was not going to write about the wedding, but since I have disappointed so many of you with that decision I have decided to write in an upcoming blog entry the Self Help Guide to getting married. The SHG to surviving a wedding, etc. Maybe I will just milk this whole wedding thing for as much as fodder as I can.
I've had the last three days off and I am not looking forward to getting back to work.
The last two days have seen dark green shits. But I am not the kind of guy who worries about his bowel movements enough to blog about them. I need to take a second shit today and I am sure it will be green as well. Maybe McDonald's is adding green dye color to their cheeseburgers. Otherwise I am dying of something or something has invaded my colon because AIDS makes it impossible to fight off infections. As long as I can keep my bowel movements in the toilet I guess I will be ok. The day they start leaking all over my shorts is the day I will go get checked out for them. I don't have the kind of money it takes to get checked out for these sorts of things and for now I am sticking to the idea that all the antacids I am eating are preventing my stomach acid from breaking down the nutrients in my food. I know that sounds like a nutty idea, but it is no nuttier than my bowel movements. I've eaten a bucket of sunflower seeds this week.
Sunflower seeds aid in compacting my bowel movements. Normally I shit Hershey squirts but with all the fiber from the nuts I can get a pretty good chuck of shit out. Like that infomercial says my bowel movements have added girth and width and I guess that is a good thing. I am not too sure about all the scraping that goes on in my anal cavity with the nuts, but at least you can tell when to quit grunting and pushing. I would suggest that pregnant women slather their unborn fetuses with a mixture of olive oil and nuts so that the kid could just slide down and the nuts would give a subtle clue as to where the baby was without all the need for fancy equipment like sonar guns and heart monitors, but the insurance companies, doctors, and medical equipment suppliers are making out like bandits and will never give up the opportunity to charge for an unnecessary piece of equipment.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
It was a time of shit
It was a time of shit. Those words were spoken to me by a man dressed as Santa at a local dive bar last night. He had a lot to say. Stuff about not getting married. He had a 45 minute rant against marriage to anyone who would listen. Not that many of you would. Most of you would have noticed that the guy looked a lot more like a homeless Jerry Garcia than Santa Claus or as he like to call himself The Ghost of Christmas Divorce.
A SPECTRE IS HAUNTING. THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS DIVORCE
But you guys aren't like me. You don't go to bars where you could get accosted by homeless people pretending to be rich all the time they are trying to get you to buy them a beer by telling you stories about the life of a man who stayed married for 22 years before getting divorced and the divorce made the guy so bitter that he lost his job as an engineer at Boeing and now he has to go around as some kind of funny homeless guy ranting about Irish men and how they aren't human like us because, "they shoot themselves in the kneecaps even though they are all the same color."
I guess what homeless divorce Santa meant to say was that white people should only shoot dark skinned people. I say that because he dropped the "N" bomb a few times while trying to tell a string of Irish jokes. None of his Irish jokes had anything to do with being funny or Irish. They were just lame attempts to gage our latent racism, but since I don't know any white people all he was doing was pissing off his audience, which is supposed to be the last step you take after becoming successful in life as an entertainer. Not the first step you take as dirty homeless guy ranting about marriage to a nervous colt of a guy the day before his wedding, because that's not going to get you a beer from his groomsman, nor will it get you invited to sit down with them, but it will get you popular enough with the local patrons who feel sorry enough for you to allow you to sit next to them, because they don't mind your smell and they will pretend that you can still sip some beer out of your empty bottle of Miller Genuine draft.
I GUESS I WAS SUPPOSED TO BLOG ABOUT THE BACHELOR PARTY AND WEDDING
A SPECTRE IS HAUNTING. THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS DIVORCE
But you guys aren't like me. You don't go to bars where you could get accosted by homeless people pretending to be rich all the time they are trying to get you to buy them a beer by telling you stories about the life of a man who stayed married for 22 years before getting divorced and the divorce made the guy so bitter that he lost his job as an engineer at Boeing and now he has to go around as some kind of funny homeless guy ranting about Irish men and how they aren't human like us because, "they shoot themselves in the kneecaps even though they are all the same color."
I guess what homeless divorce Santa meant to say was that white people should only shoot dark skinned people. I say that because he dropped the "N" bomb a few times while trying to tell a string of Irish jokes. None of his Irish jokes had anything to do with being funny or Irish. They were just lame attempts to gage our latent racism, but since I don't know any white people all he was doing was pissing off his audience, which is supposed to be the last step you take after becoming successful in life as an entertainer. Not the first step you take as dirty homeless guy ranting about marriage to a nervous colt of a guy the day before his wedding, because that's not going to get you a beer from his groomsman, nor will it get you invited to sit down with them, but it will get you popular enough with the local patrons who feel sorry enough for you to allow you to sit next to them, because they don't mind your smell and they will pretend that you can still sip some beer out of your empty bottle of Miller Genuine draft.
I GUESS I WAS SUPPOSED TO BLOG ABOUT THE BACHELOR PARTY AND WEDDING
The reason I have not blogged a lot lately is I have been busy with a friend's wedding. Also I am sick of blogging and I am sick of a demanding audience whom I can never satisfy. I know some friends in real life will want to have the past week memorialized, because you are too lazy to remember stuff yourself. Only thing is I don't write this blog. Romius T. does, and Romius doesn't like weddings and Romius cares not to include all of you in his little blog world.
I could have written something mildly humorous that would have served the dual purpose of creating a nice funny narrative about the weekends activities that might also have amused this blog's general audience, but I don't like giving you guys what you want. If I did that I would be just like every thing else in your life: like your air conditioned cars with heated seats, or your stainless steal frost free refrigerators with ice makers, or your flat screen TVs, or your mommies, or the little suck up people who tell you how nice you are, or the TV & movies that never challenge you, but keep you entertained all the while making you feel smarter than you really are.
I won't ever do that. You don't deserve all the good things you get out of life, and I am the one place you can go to that will tell you what you need to hear. That life is cruel and random. And it cares not a bit about you.
This post is dedicated to my cousin.
"I named my penis 'my cousin.' That way every time I fuck a bitch I can tell her, "You like fucking my cousin, don't you?"Thursday, December 11, 2008
I've been too busy for you
I am not dead. Just in case you thought I was. I am not. I am just tired. Tired of you and all your demands on my free time. No wonder I never get any pussy. I am always chasing the "proverbial" internet pussy that is my readership, thus denying myself a life in the world not connected by an Ethernet cable.
I have the weekend off, and normally that would mean a lot blogging and TV watching and stuff. Instead I am getting ready for a wedding. This whole week has been dedicated to my friend's wedding, even though I am not the one getting married, and I am not a chick, so I am not excited about watching my buddy get hitched.
I don't get excited about much. Maybe I get excited when I use my voice recorder to capture the speaking voice of one of the girls I stalk. I add the audio to the pictures I take of my victims. I blow up the pictures on to a cardboard cut so out I don't feel so lonely. Sure all cut out's say is the random stuff I catch them saying on the street, and sure there is always background noise going on, but I bet they are working on noise reduction technology for stalkers, so that I can have the stilted one way conversations that people like me assume people like you have with your loved ones.
"Did you like dinner?"
And the cardboard cut out replies....
"Do you have change for the parking meter?"
When you think about it- that conversation is not so far off from most of the non sequitars that you and your spouse have, because you stopped listening to each other years ago. Just like most of you have stopped reading this blog, just because I took a mental vacation away from this blog that lasted months longer than the physical absence of words you have noticed the last few days.
I don't know if this post will be enough for you to get by. I can only hope so. I have too much to do this weekend to comfort you, and I have no time to read about you on Fark.com. About how you killed yourself because your favorite blogger stopped blogging for 4 days, and you can't take dealing with the real world. You need this blog because you are saving up all the information you learn about me to add to the wikipedia entry you started about me in your journal. Just because no one will ever read it, doesn't mean it shouldn't be accurate.
Signed,
AAI*
*inside joke.
I have the weekend off, and normally that would mean a lot blogging and TV watching and stuff. Instead I am getting ready for a wedding. This whole week has been dedicated to my friend's wedding, even though I am not the one getting married, and I am not a chick, so I am not excited about watching my buddy get hitched.
I don't get excited about much. Maybe I get excited when I use my voice recorder to capture the speaking voice of one of the girls I stalk. I add the audio to the pictures I take of my victims. I blow up the pictures on to a cardboard cut so out I don't feel so lonely. Sure all cut out's say is the random stuff I catch them saying on the street, and sure there is always background noise going on, but I bet they are working on noise reduction technology for stalkers, so that I can have the stilted one way conversations that people like me assume people like you have with your loved ones.
"Did you like dinner?"
And the cardboard cut out replies....
"Do you have change for the parking meter?"
When you think about it- that conversation is not so far off from most of the non sequitars that you and your spouse have, because you stopped listening to each other years ago. Just like most of you have stopped reading this blog, just because I took a mental vacation away from this blog that lasted months longer than the physical absence of words you have noticed the last few days.
I don't know if this post will be enough for you to get by. I can only hope so. I have too much to do this weekend to comfort you, and I have no time to read about you on Fark.com. About how you killed yourself because your favorite blogger stopped blogging for 4 days, and you can't take dealing with the real world. You need this blog because you are saving up all the information you learn about me to add to the wikipedia entry you started about me in your journal. Just because no one will ever read it, doesn't mean it shouldn't be accurate.
Signed,
AAI*
*inside joke.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
BABY JESUS wants me to celebrate Christmas, so says my Toaster Oven
I like to save electricity because I can't afford to pay for it. I live in squalor because my house leaks even though this is Arizona and it never rains here. I bring up how I never plug stuff in to let you know that I experienced a real life miracle this morning.
My toaster oven wants me to celebrate Christmas.
I know because it told me so.
"You should be a Christmas Tree." Whenever my toaster oven talks the door swings open like a cheap special effect from 1960's TV. It's not so much that my toaster oven talks to me. Toaster ovens have always talked to me. The only unnerving thing is what the toaster oven demands. It wants me to get a Christmas tree.
"I don't celebrate Christmas." I tell the talking appliance.
"You sure liked that spider man you got when you were 8." The toaster oven reminds me.
"Sure." I interrupt the toaster, "But I was 8. And anyways I just liked toys back then. I didn't care about baby jesus or anything."
"You should still get a tree."
The toaster oven sounded a bit disappointed. I think the toaster over might be depressed, because I don't cook at home a lot. I eat out too much and the oven just sits at home. It would probably cheer the oven up to look at a cheery holiday display instead of the bare walls that cover the house now. The condo has not been painted in 20 years, and you can see yellow stains on the roof where water is trying to leak inside the apartment.
"I'll think about getting a tree." I tell the toaster oven. I think the toaster oven is happy now.
My toaster oven wants me to celebrate Christmas.
I know because it told me so.
"You should be a Christmas Tree." Whenever my toaster oven talks the door swings open like a cheap special effect from 1960's TV. It's not so much that my toaster oven talks to me. Toaster ovens have always talked to me. The only unnerving thing is what the toaster oven demands. It wants me to get a Christmas tree.
"I don't celebrate Christmas." I tell the talking appliance.
"You sure liked that spider man you got when you were 8." The toaster oven reminds me.
"Sure." I interrupt the toaster, "But I was 8. And anyways I just liked toys back then. I didn't care about baby jesus or anything."
"You should still get a tree."
The toaster oven sounded a bit disappointed. I think the toaster over might be depressed, because I don't cook at home a lot. I eat out too much and the oven just sits at home. It would probably cheer the oven up to look at a cheery holiday display instead of the bare walls that cover the house now. The condo has not been painted in 20 years, and you can see yellow stains on the roof where water is trying to leak inside the apartment.
"I'll think about getting a tree." I tell the toaster oven. I think the toaster oven is happy now.
Friday, December 05, 2008
I get ready for the gayest log cabin bachelor party ever
I thought I'd post another picture of Turtle and the girl that plays Meadow on the Sopranos. I guess they are still going out which ought to give me hope. If a guy like that can nail a broad like that, maybe I am not going to die alone after all.
If you have ever wondered what I look like, I look a lot like Turtle.I am short and chubby. Only I hate most rap music, and I have never worn my baseball cap sideways. Also, I don't think white shoes are a fashion statement. Despite his love of white tennis shoes, the man clearly has good taste. Turtle is also the kind of guy that gets what he wants out of life. Turtle is not like me. He is not willing to settle for what he should get out of life. I mean a guy with no discernible talent, small stature, and odd facial hair out to earning 10 dollars an hour, and trying to save his money so he can get online at E-harmony in the hopes of banging a few overweight divorcee's.
Speaking of overweight people with facial hair, I am going to a bachelor party in Northern Arizona. I won't tell you the city because card shark is worried that one of you stalkers will try and meet us there. All I can tell you is that there is only one strip club in this town and I think Turtle is probably better looking than most of the women in it.
It looks like Card Shark is going through with this whole I am getting married thing and that makes me the last 'hold out' among my friends in the "let's get remarried" idea. I know you are going to say, "what about the fro?" But let's face it that guy has no chance of getting married...ever.
I plan on taking a few pictures, if I am not too drunk for an early morning hike. I have to work today until 8 tonight, and I have to work tomorrow at 6 pm so my time at the log cabin bachelor party [that's not gay is it?] will be short.
Just remember. I am not gay. I am Turtle. I don't get chicks, because I hold out for hot chicks like Turtle, and Turtle has convinced me that if I hold out long enough, I can date me a hot Italian girl from Jersey. Until then I will put up with the gay jokes about how I have not had sex in 4 years, how I blush when Kyle the singing cashier hugs me, and all the random gay dudes who want me to help them pick out parsnips in the produce section of the grocery store.
Because one day I will be the one laughing. At that day is coming soon.
It looks like Card Shark is going through with this whole I am getting married thing and that makes me the last 'hold out' among my friends in the "let's get remarried" idea. I know you are going to say, "what about the fro?" But let's face it that guy has no chance of getting married...ever.
I plan on taking a few pictures, if I am not too drunk for an early morning hike. I have to work today until 8 tonight, and I have to work tomorrow at 6 pm so my time at the log cabin bachelor party [that's not gay is it?] will be short.
Just remember. I am not gay. I am Turtle. I don't get chicks, because I hold out for hot chicks like Turtle, and Turtle has convinced me that if I hold out long enough, I can date me a hot Italian girl from Jersey. Until then I will put up with the gay jokes about how I have not had sex in 4 years, how I blush when Kyle the singing cashier hugs me, and all the random gay dudes who want me to help them pick out parsnips in the produce section of the grocery store.
Because one day I will be the one laughing. At that day is coming soon.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
I have the day off which means I live blog because nothing is more exciting than a shut in typing in his underwear
The time is 8:15 in the morning.
I've decided that I like blogging in the morning better than I like blogging at night. When I was without the internet a few weeks ago I got used to getting up early and heading off to the public library to type for you. I guess it is just easier to focus when you are awake rather than grinding something out when you are tired from working all day.
My morning work ethic would be good news to my wife. She would get up and go to work. I'd make her a bagel and cut some apples and lace them with crunchy peanut butter. When she left I would turn on the computer until it was time to get the kids up for school. The kids would eat Count Chocula and I would tell their mom how I made them tofu sausage and fake eggs with soy powdered milk. Mom would love how the kids are growing up vegan and she could hold out hope that our macrobiotic diet would calm my aching bowels and drippy anus.
It never would because I'd sneak off to Taco Bell for lunch bringing my laptop and snapping another 5 pages off my screenplay about the man eating space lizards. I'd tell her there was some interest over at the Sci-Fi Channel and give her all the scoop about the channels made for TV movie of the week thing they do over there. She'd be impressed that I put so much thought into what I was doing all the while I was just reading sci-fi blogs on the internet in between flirting online in chat rooms and masturbating to YouTube girls that shake their ass.
The reason I am up so early is that I am waiting on my landlord to come over and fix my leaky sink. Water is slowly dripping downstairs in to the apartment below. They might not notice it now. No one has come upstairs banging on my door to demand that I shut off the water flow. But in a few months or years they will notice a yellow stain in their ceiling and not realize what that mark is. Maybe they will just decide to paint over the foul looking stain and not investigate the moldy colony of one celled animals invading their territory. I hope so, because the last thing I need is another lawsuit on my hands.
@@@@
The time is 8:34 in the morning.
Did you notice that I changed the fonts on the past couple of posts? If you did Kudos, sir.
The time is 12:50 in the afternoon. I check my stats online. I notice one reader wonders if I have a girlfriend.
I picked up my paycheck. I forgot this week I would be paid for a holiday, so I have got all kinds of extra cash. So I am feeling rich as hell. Of course all that extra cash is going to pay for the bachelor party this weekend.
I went to the bank and I got a haircut. I still need to buy a used spare tire. I got a call from one of the cereal girls. She is upset with me that I don't check in with her about my where abouts or my availability. She had no idea that I had a lot of running around to do today and I can't stay at home and read to her stuff I find off the internet just because her internet at work is broken. But I do love to read to people. I bet she never knew that.
TO THE GIRL ON THE EAST COAST WHO WANTS TO BE MY GIRLFRIEND
You can be my girlfriend. You don't have to look up the key words "romius t & girlfriend" on my blog, because I will tell you that I don't have a girlfriend. I have not been laid in over two years if you don't count those Asian whores I pay for. I never count prostitutes and only loser guys count prostitutes when they add up their "numbers."
I can't get laid because I can't lose weight even though I have not been drinking soda and I am eating healthier. I limit my intake of fast food to 2 or three times a week max (except special occasions like being hungover.)
Don't worry if you are ugly as most of the women I have dated over the years have not been considered attractive. If you ugly we will just stay inside and you can learn the delights of my taint. I hear it is smelly so we can take a shower first if you want, but if you are lazy like me then we can just smooth some chocolate sauce down there.
I get a lot of people who find me with weird searches. I will list the most common searches to find me:
I've decided that I like blogging in the morning better than I like blogging at night. When I was without the internet a few weeks ago I got used to getting up early and heading off to the public library to type for you. I guess it is just easier to focus when you are awake rather than grinding something out when you are tired from working all day.
My morning work ethic would be good news to my wife. She would get up and go to work. I'd make her a bagel and cut some apples and lace them with crunchy peanut butter. When she left I would turn on the computer until it was time to get the kids up for school. The kids would eat Count Chocula and I would tell their mom how I made them tofu sausage and fake eggs with soy powdered milk. Mom would love how the kids are growing up vegan and she could hold out hope that our macrobiotic diet would calm my aching bowels and drippy anus.
It never would because I'd sneak off to Taco Bell for lunch bringing my laptop and snapping another 5 pages off my screenplay about the man eating space lizards. I'd tell her there was some interest over at the Sci-Fi Channel and give her all the scoop about the channels made for TV movie of the week thing they do over there. She'd be impressed that I put so much thought into what I was doing all the while I was just reading sci-fi blogs on the internet in between flirting online in chat rooms and masturbating to YouTube girls that shake their ass.
The reason I am up so early is that I am waiting on my landlord to come over and fix my leaky sink. Water is slowly dripping downstairs in to the apartment below. They might not notice it now. No one has come upstairs banging on my door to demand that I shut off the water flow. But in a few months or years they will notice a yellow stain in their ceiling and not realize what that mark is. Maybe they will just decide to paint over the foul looking stain and not investigate the moldy colony of one celled animals invading their territory. I hope so, because the last thing I need is another lawsuit on my hands.
@@@@
The time is 8:34 in the morning.
Did you notice that I changed the fonts on the past couple of posts? If you did Kudos, sir.
The time is 12:50 in the afternoon. I check my stats online. I notice one reader wonders if I have a girlfriend.
I picked up my paycheck. I forgot this week I would be paid for a holiday, so I have got all kinds of extra cash. So I am feeling rich as hell. Of course all that extra cash is going to pay for the bachelor party this weekend.
I went to the bank and I got a haircut. I still need to buy a used spare tire. I got a call from one of the cereal girls. She is upset with me that I don't check in with her about my where abouts or my availability. She had no idea that I had a lot of running around to do today and I can't stay at home and read to her stuff I find off the internet just because her internet at work is broken. But I do love to read to people. I bet she never knew that.
TO THE GIRL ON THE EAST COAST WHO WANTS TO BE MY GIRLFRIEND
You can be my girlfriend. You don't have to look up the key words "romius t & girlfriend" on my blog, because I will tell you that I don't have a girlfriend. I have not been laid in over two years if you don't count those Asian whores I pay for. I never count prostitutes and only loser guys count prostitutes when they add up their "numbers."
I can't get laid because I can't lose weight even though I have not been drinking soda and I am eating healthier. I limit my intake of fast food to 2 or three times a week max (except special occasions like being hungover.)
Don't worry if you are ugly as most of the women I have dated over the years have not been considered attractive. If you ugly we will just stay inside and you can learn the delights of my taint. I hear it is smelly so we can take a shower first if you want, but if you are lazy like me then we can just smooth some chocolate sauce down there.
I get a lot of people who find me with weird searches. I will list the most common searches to find me:
- two vaginas
- Lindy Slinger (by the way I hear she is still hot!)
- why bad things happen to me
That's about all the key words I have this week. I think I am going to get something to eat. Maybe Whataburger. Maybe something healthy. If I knew healthy food that tasted good. The only good healthy food I know about is the Pita Jungle. Awesome food, but it costs like 10 dollars to go there. I can get Whataburger twice for that amount. Stay tuned for my exciting return.
The time is 5:26 in the afternoon.
Whataburger was ok. I should have gone to get a torta from some place on 7th avenue that I read about in the newspaper I found at Whataburger.
I will list for you all the movies I have watched on Netflix since I renewed my service.
Rating system is based on 5 stars.
***** Masterpiece
**** Awesome
*** good (worth your time)
**1/2 average (only watch if you like these kind of movies)
** ok (obviously uou do not have cable if you are watching this)
* awful (not even awesomely bad. Just bad. Boring.
no stars = paris hilton in starring role. I kid, Paris. You can act!
Sex and the City: The movie [***] Go look for my review on this blog if you care to.
Hell Boy II The Golden Army. [*** 1/2] Not bad. Awesome specials effects. I'd like to see the director make the definitve Dungeons & Dragons movie.
Handcock [***] This movie made no sense. But I liked that about this movie.
Baby Mama [***] Sweet. Not as funny as mean girls.
P2
You rated this movie: 3.0
Puccini for Beginners
You rated this movie: 3.0
Uncounted: New Math of American Elections
You rated this movie: 3.0
Ratatouille
You rated this movie: 3.0
Coupling: Season 4: "9 1/2 Months"
You rated this movie: 4.0
Coupling: 4.05: The Naked Living Room
Mister Foe
You rated this movie: 4.0
The Hunger
You rated this movie: 4.0
Kill Me Again
You rated this movie: 4.0
Haven
You rated this movie: 2.0
Water Lilies
You rated this movie: 2.0
Under the Sand
You rated this movie: 4.0
01:34:58
We Own the Night
You rated this movie: 4.0
The Secret
You rated this movie: 4.0
Resident Evil: Extinction
You rated this movie: 3.0
My Kid Could Paint That
You rated this movie: 4.0
The Falcon and the Snowman
You rated this movie: 4.0
The China Syndrome
4 1/2 stars
The time is 2:26 in the morning.
I started to read Dave Eggars first book. I bought it for my birthday. I got it for 5 dollars at the used book store.
It made me write this:
Whenever I look up into the sky I do not see a scratchy sky. It is never gray or overcast here. Whenever I look up into the sky I see nothing, ok I see something, I see the sky.
I am going to read his book and then I am going to write to him. I think I will send him the story that I titled[if you don't know it is called Memoirs from the short bald fat white guy who sits next to you on the bus who wants to get your attention but quickly averts his eyes when yours meet. ]
it just like a david eggar's book long before I had ever heard of dave eggars, long before I knew other people thought just like I thought, only dave takes the misty evaporated clouds of ideas I get and puts words on them, words that you study for a vocabulary test for a social theory class or an advanced English degree.
Either way it is late and most of you have read what you are going to read today and that means you are not going to read this so I guess I can just keep writing now because it does not matter what I say I can say it in private which is a bit ironic I know as I write my journal on the internet for all to see but of course I figured nobody would ever read it even when I hand them the url all hand typed on evenly spaced on receipt paper that I print out from my register with the warning that failure to read and comment on the blog is tantamount to heresy or apostasy and I would use the correct word but I can't remember which word is correct and I am too lazy to google right now.
GOOD NITE!
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
You should go ahead and hate your life if you can't be glamorous
You are not glamorous
In case you did not notice I don't feel like blogging right now. I am not sure when it happened or why. Not that it matters, as no one reads this blog anyway. And if they do read it, they get bored half way through most of the posts which I guess means you treat me better than most of the way people have treated you. They've been bored for years over your shit, and stopped paying attention way back, but that's OK at least you've got me. I care about you the same way I care about all the random moles that are collecting around my body. I hate them but I guess they will always be around, and since they are a part of me I have to get used to the idea of being seriously deformed, and missing out on all the good things in life like hot chicks and cocaine.
I guess I could do cocaine because all cocaine takes is 20 dollars and a taxi ride to the bad part of town. But I won't do that. Not because I think drugs are bad or immoral, and not because I worry about cops or doing shit that is illegal. No, the reason I don't do cocaine is because coke is glamorous, and there is nothing glamorous about my life.
blogging
watching Netflix until 4 am
waking up three times to pee
listening to my phone alert me to new spam messages in my e-mail
I live in dilapidated places
I found another leak in my condo. This time the leak is coming from my bathroom sink. The water shut off valve broke when I attempted to stop the water from dripping. The metal crumbled in my hands like the ashes from my failed life. The valve broke just like the last time I had a leak in my bathroom (the day of the toilet disaster) it will be impossible to stop the water and we must hope a few towels soak up the leak until it can be fixed.
My land lord was very happy to hear about another leak to fix. In the two months I have lived here in the condo, I have reported three leaks to him. No wonder my rent is going up.
In case you did not notice I don't feel like blogging right now. I am not sure when it happened or why. Not that it matters, as no one reads this blog anyway. And if they do read it, they get bored half way through most of the posts which I guess means you treat me better than most of the way people have treated you. They've been bored for years over your shit, and stopped paying attention way back, but that's OK at least you've got me. I care about you the same way I care about all the random moles that are collecting around my body. I hate them but I guess they will always be around, and since they are a part of me I have to get used to the idea of being seriously deformed, and missing out on all the good things in life like hot chicks and cocaine.
I guess I could do cocaine because all cocaine takes is 20 dollars and a taxi ride to the bad part of town. But I won't do that. Not because I think drugs are bad or immoral, and not because I worry about cops or doing shit that is illegal. No, the reason I don't do cocaine is because coke is glamorous, and there is nothing glamorous about my life.
blogging
watching Netflix until 4 am
waking up three times to pee
listening to my phone alert me to new spam messages in my e-mail
I live in dilapidated places
I found another leak in my condo. This time the leak is coming from my bathroom sink. The water shut off valve broke when I attempted to stop the water from dripping. The metal crumbled in my hands like the ashes from my failed life. The valve broke just like the last time I had a leak in my bathroom (the day of the toilet disaster) it will be impossible to stop the water and we must hope a few towels soak up the leak until it can be fixed.
My land lord was very happy to hear about another leak to fix. In the two months I have lived here in the condo, I have reported three leaks to him. No wonder my rent is going up.
I wrote this screenplay for you because I keep hope alive
I am just going to keep hoping that everything is ok because the hoping is the only way I know how to cope with things when they go bad. That's why I consider myself an optimist even when nobody else does. No matter what happens to me I can always day dream that things will get better and I can always pretend to myself that things are not as bad as they seem. That's why I spend all my time in a fantasy world.
Last night on my bed for a good hour I wrote a screen play about the financial crisis in this country.
In the screen play I got a second job as a data entry guy at a law firm. In the course of my duties I find a few smoking guns that pointed to criminal behavior.
I trick the CEO's lawyers into bribing me a couple of million dollars for my silence.
I give a dramatic speech to the lawyers [who are very skeptical that I won't turn them in- they present my membership in the Democratic and communist parties]
I convince the lawyers that I want what was always promised to me.
(I will try to recreate from memory here folks)
My mother always told me I was special
I guess everybody's parents tell them they are special.
But my problem was that I BELIEVED THEM.
I thought I was special, and special people just wait around for good things to happen to them, because the universe rewards smart and special people.
I never tried because I was convinced that things work their way out. I new I had nothing to worry about because I was the smartest person I knew.
So I got nothing. I never got anything and dI was promised the beautiful woman and the fancy job, and all the respect of my peers and fame and maybe even some lasting postive impact on the world. My name isn text books for 6th graders to memorize.
They hand over the money real quick after that. I pretend to give them back the evidence I collected on them.
I know they are "watching over me" so my plan is to live the "good life" as quietly as possible. I go to strip clubs. I secretly pay off all my bills. I get a nice sound system in my truck. I quit my job and tell everyone I found a better job as an advertising copyrighter. I pay for all the drinks and meals when I go out with my friends, but I can't pay for anything big whenever hard times hit them because that would give away my secret.
After about a year or two later I go on 60 minutes and give my story. I offer some evidence, but not everything I have. The CEO's mock me because I don't offer any proof and just give my word. No one belives me, but I get called before a congressional hearing and I deliver another emotional and awe inspiring speech.
I tell people [for some reason I break into a real thick southern accent]
that you "fall in love with the personality"
but you gotta live with the character
and in my case
the character
"ain't so great"
I got a nice personality....you'd like it...we should hang out sometime...but I am not so good at always doing the right thing. I ain't what you'd call a great person..
The congressman is correct in suggesting you can't just take my word, but I ain't worried about going to jail
I have shamed my family. And they want no part of me.
I have lost my wife. My one true love. She has filed for divorce. I've lost her.
I have shattered the trust of the only people who have ever truly cared about me, my friends. And they have rightly abandoned me.
There is nothing you can do to me, congressman that I have not already done to myself, but worse.
50% of y'all are republicans and won't believe a word I say. But I am not the messenger of "Truth" like I always wanted to be. No, I am nothing now but the imperfect weapon of Justice ...to these MEN
[I point my finger dramatically.]
I offer up the briefcase full of incriminating evience.
The movie ends there.
But if we make a TV series I have this second idea that I set up a secret deal with congress and they set me free so I can investigate how the CEO's of the world are actually Lizards from outerspace who plan on killing all of mankind.
[there was stuff I left out of the recap-no time to tell you about the space lizards-must go to work!]
But I do like space lizards.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Say what?
I read that one in five young people have a personality disorder.
List of drinks I had on my birthday:
- 2 long Islands
- 3 hefferweizens pints
- 3 shots of jagermeister
- 2 bud selects
- 2 20 ounce coors lights
- 2 pints of sam adams
- 2 bottles of sam adams light
Monday, December 01, 2008
It's been two days since my birthday and I am still hungover. I am contemplating deleting all my useless friends at myspace because none of them sent me a happy birthday wish even though whenever they sign in to myspace they get a message that tells them about upcoming birthdays so there is really no reason for them not to say happy birthday.
My eyes are bloodshot red. They look awful like I've sold my soul to the devil. Scary. Super AIDS style.
My landlord woke me up at 1130 this morning to give me notice that rent is going up 100 dollars a month. Now is the time to get this blog so huge that it could pay the bills. But in reality I am looking for a second job. After Card Shark's wedding and bachelor party and stuff are done I will hit the ground running and that means I won't be posting much other than stuff like this where I am typing with 13 minutes before I need to shower.
My toilet looks like a gremlin exploded in it. I threw up late on my birthday when X's brother forced me to drink shots. My liver is shot. My back hurts which means I am doing damage to the liver (or what's left of it.)
My house smells wet and it is 71 degrees inside. I left the door unlocked and the windows open. I left the patio glass door cracked when I fell asleep.
I ate and watched netflix and texted all day yesterday. I was too ill to blog or read your blogs. I read them all today. But I hate google reader because I am too lazy to post comments because of all the extra clicking that is required. I don't have much for you today. Sorry folks.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Today is my birthday
I turn 38 today. I am going to grow up this year. I won't fantasize about the teen daughters of the middle aged woman I date this year.
At a certain age it starts to get creepy talking about girls who are young enough to be your daughter. I think 40 is that age, and I am fast approaching the big 4 - 0. At 40 if you think Miley Cyrus is hot you need to keep that shit to yourself. You ought not bring it up in public. Which means a lot of 40 year old men try to hidetheir lusting for all thing Vanessa and Miley, and in a way that just makes things worse out there for the average hebophile.
What I mean by that is I have discovered that being a sexual offender/deviant is not nearly as devasting to your social status as the militant feminists and over protective parents would have you believe.
At work it is common knowledge that I heart jail bait. In fact most of the girls I work with make sure to point out to me whenever they see a cute girl who is possibly jail bait just to find out if I "would go there or not."
Usually I would. But I tell them I am unsure because it is better to be safe than sorry.
My coworkers make a point of finding me all the stuff in the store that is related to Miley Cyrus. I guess they feel my obsession with her is cute. One 17 year old coworker of mine found a picture in a magazine of Miley and thought I would like it. She gave it to me and I taped it to my locker. I never suffered any consequences for the picture like hate crimes or mobs attacking me with lit torches.
In a way I think I am like Martin Luther King. I practice non-violence civil rights campaigns on behalf of my fellow hebophiles. I hope my blog and my openness leads to the same civil rights movement that blacks, Latinos, and Gay peoples have historically fought for.
If America lost some of its Puritanical ways and stopped persecuting hebeophiles the whole country would be better off. There would be a lot less rape-murder of children. I am sure there would be an increase in rape. But less rape with murder. Sexual predators often have to murder the child because the activities they enjoy are illegal. Taking care of any potential witness is just being criminally tidy. I think most of the child rapists out there hate having to murder. If America had the open standards of the Netherlands Jon Benet would still be alive today and she would have her own Reality TV series. At the very least she would have posed for playboy by the age of 16.
I guess what I am saying is that all the talk about needing sex offender register laws is wasteful. In fact society already implicitly endorses my ideas. That's why women who have sex with teen boys never get forced to register as a sex offenders. According to society Female teacher boy student sex is just hot. That's why female teachers get a slap on the wrist. If more hebophiles were like me and showed the world that their interest in teens was harmless and sweet we would all live in a better world.
But I have done my part. For the last 37 years I have stood tall. Never wavering. But at last like the red bracelet wearers from Logan's Run my time has come. I will have to restrict my desires to the harmless exercise of watching too much Disney TV.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Cooking With Romius T. A Banana Pudding recipe so good that it will make your relatives forget that you are a failure.
I made banana pudding.
Recipe:
I box of instant jello brand banana pudding.
I bag of generic "nilla wafers."
2 over riped bananas.
3 green bananas.
3 egg yolks (grade b medium brown eggs)
1 splash of artificial vanilla flavoring.
3 cups of non fat milk.
Directions:
Watch Card Shark play poker until 3 am.
At 4 am
Boil pudding mix and milk and egg yolk. Reminisce to yourself about the time you made the funniest joke of your life that had something to do with the color of egg yolks and a guys shirt.
Pour ingredients into pan and throw in bananas and cookies. Chill overnight. Drive and hour to relatives house. Watch as no one tries it. Go home and cry yourself to sleep.
(more pictures on the way)
Recipe:
I box of instant jello brand banana pudding.
I bag of generic "nilla wafers."
2 over riped bananas.
3 green bananas.
3 egg yolks (grade b medium brown eggs)
1 splash of artificial vanilla flavoring.
3 cups of non fat milk.
Directions:
Watch Card Shark play poker until 3 am.
At 4 am
Boil pudding mix and milk and egg yolk. Reminisce to yourself about the time you made the funniest joke of your life that had something to do with the color of egg yolks and a guys shirt.
Pour ingredients into pan and throw in bananas and cookies. Chill overnight. Drive and hour to relatives house. Watch as no one tries it. Go home and cry yourself to sleep.
(more pictures on the way)
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving YOU Turkey ass Mofo
I guess this is the part where you expect me to share with you some kind of "Holiday Post" where I discuss my feelings about Thanksgiving. Maybe you would prefer me to write about "This Years Thanksgiving," or at the very least you wish that I would write some kind of post where I tell you what I am thankful for. Except in my case you know I'm not thankful for much in this world. So then you expect to get a shower of negativity that would cleanse you much like the colonic you need but can't afford.
I'll see what I can do. I mean I'd hate to leave you in a sour mood on a holiday. I know what it can feel like to be packed full of bile.
I drove to Sun City to see my family. The family I have in Arizona consists of: an aunt, a cousin, a second cousin, a cousin-in-law, and a step uncle. Just listing people this way makes me feel creepy and weird. Or maybe it's just having my family around that makes me feel weird and uncomfortable.
I guess that's why I waited a year to go and see them, but then I did and every thing went OK. Especially the part where they kept asking me if I ever finished college. They must have asked me that question a dozen times.
I did my best to ignore the situation. I fained disinterest in their question. When that did not work I pretended not to hear them question me, because I was so interested in listening to my cousin's husband tell me all about his favorite past time. Treasure Hunting. Eventually the family noticed that questioning me directly was not going to work, so they altered the question. They asked me what college I went to and then they asked, "Did you ever graduate from it?" Clever. But not clever enough to get them the answer they wanted. Instead I simply told them "I attended college."
The drive to my Aunt's house in Sun City is surreal. The winding road to the retirement community is dotted by drug stores and nursing homes. The only things allowed into the city are old people and golf carts, except on holidays like Thanksgiving. Most of the other cars on the road were ambulances. They sped away from me with their flashing lights on, but their sirens eerily quiet.
I guess here is the part where I tell you that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I tell people Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because Thanksgiving is the coolest holiday. That's because Thanksgiving has cache. If asked all the cool people would tell you that Thanksgiving is "like their favorite holiday," because "it has totally not been commercialized like Christmas."
I liked Thanksgiving because I used to go over to my Aunt's house. It gave me an excuse to see my older cousins who I hero worshipped. I also liked to play in the woods behind the fence in their backyard.
I don't do those things anymore. Instead I played balderdash with my 7 year old second cousin. I watched snippets of the Cowboys game whenever my cousin's husband decided fiddling with his TIVO's settings has become too boring for him and he switched the TV back from 1/4 viewing mode to full screen just in time for the screen to go to a commercial after missing important action that resulted in some kind of scoring play.
I think I now hate Thanksgiving. My new favorite holiday is my birthday. I like my birthday because it is the only holiday that is all about me. Only this year's birthday won't be all about me because all of my friends are getting together on my birthday to plan someone else's bachelor party. The narcissistic personality has decided to poop all over my parade and have his bachelor party intrude on the holiest of my holy days. I can't say I am surprised. Just like I was not surprised after it rained today and the hole in my roof leaked, because that's what holes in the roof do. They leak.
I keep having dreams where I kill myself. The dreams always start off with me being interviewed by David Letterman. In the dream I tell David that the whole celebrity thing is 'bullshit' and so is the whole "genius" and "creative artist" thing. I go on to tell Letterman that I also reject the concept of talent. Mostly because I lack talent, so I would never amount to anything if we were to use talent as a barometer to decide who gets to be famous.
Next, I tell Dave how angry I get when I see how people with even less talent than me get talked about as being 'serious artists.' It just makes me sick. But the only thing that makes me sicker is your belief that Art does anything other than allow us time to jack off. Which I guess is better than encouraging "Rape" because "Rape is violence" and it has nothing to do with ugly men not getting sex from hot chicks just because sometimes granny gets what she's asking for.
I called my mom while I was at my Aunt's house for Thanksgiving and put her on speaker phone. I had to keep reminding her that she was on speaker phone and that being on "speaker phone" meant that other people could hear what she said and all she had to say about that was that, "Your Aunt knows I speak my mind." She might have said something else, but I couldn't understand much of anything from all the slurring in her speech. Mommy was on her thirteenth cocktail. Which I guess goes good with all those pain pills she pops.
Then I told mom that sometimes I write as Sarah Beth on my blog all because she scarred me as a child with her constant droning on about how she always wanted a girl and she finally admitted to me that she should have stopped having children sometime after me, and I said something about how it was good thing there was no Roe vs. Wade when I was conceived, and she said something like, "yep."
All in all it was one of the best Thanksgivings ever.
I learned to emotionally eat again. I had a bowl of ice cream, a slice of chocolate pie, and a bowl of banana pudding that I made all by myself that was so good that when I asked the family, "if they wanted to keep the dish and the pudding they could," the only answer I got was a resounding, "Please take your cheap ceramic dish home- it clashes with my college degree and big screen TV, but at least the truck you have parked outside our home is not so trashy as to be embarrassing, and because of the truck we will pretend that your answer 'in the affirmative' to the question "Are you in a union?" means that somehow you make "good money" as a blue collar worker and we will try and look past what a failure you are for not graduating from college "because every time we ask how you are doing, your mother tells us you are still in college and we think it is kinda cute how you want to a professional student" to which my reply of "if only it payed better" garners the biggest laugh of the night, because nothing gets rid of uncomfortable tension like inappropriate sharing.
I'll see what I can do. I mean I'd hate to leave you in a sour mood on a holiday. I know what it can feel like to be packed full of bile.
I drove to Sun City to see my family. The family I have in Arizona consists of: an aunt, a cousin, a second cousin, a cousin-in-law, and a step uncle. Just listing people this way makes me feel creepy and weird. Or maybe it's just having my family around that makes me feel weird and uncomfortable.
I guess that's why I waited a year to go and see them, but then I did and every thing went OK. Especially the part where they kept asking me if I ever finished college. They must have asked me that question a dozen times.
I did my best to ignore the situation. I fained disinterest in their question. When that did not work I pretended not to hear them question me, because I was so interested in listening to my cousin's husband tell me all about his favorite past time. Treasure Hunting. Eventually the family noticed that questioning me directly was not going to work, so they altered the question. They asked me what college I went to and then they asked, "Did you ever graduate from it?" Clever. But not clever enough to get them the answer they wanted. Instead I simply told them "I attended college."
The drive to my Aunt's house in Sun City is surreal. The winding road to the retirement community is dotted by drug stores and nursing homes. The only things allowed into the city are old people and golf carts, except on holidays like Thanksgiving. Most of the other cars on the road were ambulances. They sped away from me with their flashing lights on, but their sirens eerily quiet.
I guess here is the part where I tell you that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I tell people Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because Thanksgiving is the coolest holiday. That's because Thanksgiving has cache. If asked all the cool people would tell you that Thanksgiving is "like their favorite holiday," because "it has totally not been commercialized like Christmas."
I liked Thanksgiving because I used to go over to my Aunt's house. It gave me an excuse to see my older cousins who I hero worshipped. I also liked to play in the woods behind the fence in their backyard.
I don't do those things anymore. Instead I played balderdash with my 7 year old second cousin. I watched snippets of the Cowboys game whenever my cousin's husband decided fiddling with his TIVO's settings has become too boring for him and he switched the TV back from 1/4 viewing mode to full screen just in time for the screen to go to a commercial after missing important action that resulted in some kind of scoring play.
I think I now hate Thanksgiving. My new favorite holiday is my birthday. I like my birthday because it is the only holiday that is all about me. Only this year's birthday won't be all about me because all of my friends are getting together on my birthday to plan someone else's bachelor party. The narcissistic personality has decided to poop all over my parade and have his bachelor party intrude on the holiest of my holy days. I can't say I am surprised. Just like I was not surprised after it rained today and the hole in my roof leaked, because that's what holes in the roof do. They leak.
I keep having dreams where I kill myself. The dreams always start off with me being interviewed by David Letterman. In the dream I tell David that the whole celebrity thing is 'bullshit' and so is the whole "genius" and "creative artist" thing. I go on to tell Letterman that I also reject the concept of talent. Mostly because I lack talent, so I would never amount to anything if we were to use talent as a barometer to decide who gets to be famous.
Next, I tell Dave how angry I get when I see how people with even less talent than me get talked about as being 'serious artists.' It just makes me sick. But the only thing that makes me sicker is your belief that Art does anything other than allow us time to jack off. Which I guess is better than encouraging "Rape" because "Rape is violence" and it has nothing to do with ugly men not getting sex from hot chicks just because sometimes granny gets what she's asking for.
I called my mom while I was at my Aunt's house for Thanksgiving and put her on speaker phone. I had to keep reminding her that she was on speaker phone and that being on "speaker phone" meant that other people could hear what she said and all she had to say about that was that, "Your Aunt knows I speak my mind." She might have said something else, but I couldn't understand much of anything from all the slurring in her speech. Mommy was on her thirteenth cocktail. Which I guess goes good with all those pain pills she pops.
Then I told mom that sometimes I write as Sarah Beth on my blog all because she scarred me as a child with her constant droning on about how she always wanted a girl and she finally admitted to me that she should have stopped having children sometime after me, and I said something about how it was good thing there was no Roe vs. Wade when I was conceived, and she said something like, "yep."
All in all it was one of the best Thanksgivings ever.
I learned to emotionally eat again. I had a bowl of ice cream, a slice of chocolate pie, and a bowl of banana pudding that I made all by myself that was so good that when I asked the family, "if they wanted to keep the dish and the pudding they could," the only answer I got was a resounding, "Please take your cheap ceramic dish home- it clashes with my college degree and big screen TV, but at least the truck you have parked outside our home is not so trashy as to be embarrassing, and because of the truck we will pretend that your answer 'in the affirmative' to the question "Are you in a union?" means that somehow you make "good money" as a blue collar worker and we will try and look past what a failure you are for not graduating from college "because every time we ask how you are doing, your mother tells us you are still in college and we think it is kinda cute how you want to a professional student" to which my reply of "if only it payed better" garners the biggest laugh of the night, because nothing gets rid of uncomfortable tension like inappropriate sharing.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Married chicks like "it"
I wasn't going to post the story about the actor who plays "Turtle" on the TV series Entourage, because I read about the story on the Drunken Stepfather website, and I like to limit myself to stealing one story a week from his blog.
But then I noticed how Turtle's story is just like the story of my life. He is a chubby, amiable loser who lucked on to a TV show. He is not an actor, but he got lucky enough to land a part where he could play himself. And the character he plays on TV gets to fuck the Meadow from the Sopranos. My life is just like that. I too am a short, prickly, chubby guy who plays a character just like himself. Only I play a character on the internet who used to fuck fat chicks.
I read the rest of the story, and it turns out that Turtle's life is a little different than mine. In my real life I am just sitting here in my underwear trying to decide if the potato salad I bought at work is still safe to eat after I left it in my work locker for 5 hours, and the guy who plays Turtle on TV really is fucking Meadow.
I think you know how the rest of this story is going to turn out. I am going to ignore the proscription against eating warm mayo, so I can blog to you about projectile vomit and painful diarrhea, and Turtle is going to fuck some of the best pussy in the world.
I bring that story up to illustrate for you how the world is always fucking me and it has nothing to do with me being short, balding, chubby, or untalented -as lots of people are just like that and most of them have occasional good luck. I never have any kind of good luck. I need you to understand the tragic nature of my life, so you don't take the next couple of stories I will tell you out of context, and think that those stories are just coincidences. They aren't.
Married Girls Are Easy
A cute blond girl was placing her items on my conveyor belt, "Can I give you my phone number?"
But then I noticed how Turtle's story is just like the story of my life. He is a chubby, amiable loser who lucked on to a TV show. He is not an actor, but he got lucky enough to land a part where he could play himself. And the character he plays on TV gets to fuck the Meadow from the Sopranos. My life is just like that. I too am a short, prickly, chubby guy who plays a character just like himself. Only I play a character on the internet who used to fuck fat chicks.
I read the rest of the story, and it turns out that Turtle's life is a little different than mine. In my real life I am just sitting here in my underwear trying to decide if the potato salad I bought at work is still safe to eat after I left it in my work locker for 5 hours, and the guy who plays Turtle on TV really is fucking Meadow.
I think you know how the rest of this story is going to turn out. I am going to ignore the proscription against eating warm mayo, so I can blog to you about projectile vomit and painful diarrhea, and Turtle is going to fuck some of the best pussy in the world.
I bring that story up to illustrate for you how the world is always fucking me and it has nothing to do with me being short, balding, chubby, or untalented -as lots of people are just like that and most of them have occasional good luck. I never have any kind of good luck. I need you to understand the tragic nature of my life, so you don't take the next couple of stories I will tell you out of context, and think that those stories are just coincidences. They aren't.
Married Girls Are Easy
A cute blond girl was placing her items on my conveyor belt, "Can I give you my phone number?"
I seldom take the opportunity to use my best lines at work, but I did today. Maybe it was something in her eyes. Normally I only see fleeting negativity of judgement when I catch a woman looking at me.
"You bet!" I yelped. I think my voice jumped 9 octaves.
The girl turned red. "I mean for my club card."
"I can't give out my phone number anymore." She explained. She flashed her left hand at me and used her thumb to point to the silver band around her finger.
"Your married." I sighed.
"Ya."
"That's ok." I told her. "I'll probably forget your number as soon as you say it."
I don't remember the rest of the interaction. I just remember that it was the closest I have come to being asked out on a real date in 4 years.
I know you guys are sitting home feeling sorry for me and wondering just how pathetic a guy I must be to get excited over a girl giving me her phone number just so she can save 31 cents on broccoli.
But it's not like that. I am humble guy so I don't like to brag, but I know when a chick is into me. I spend all day waiting around for women to drop me signals that it is "ok" to fuck them because I am too lazy to ask them out. So you have to get pretty good at deciphering the signals women send you if you if ever want to get laid. Unless you plan is to convince the 18 year old at work that you have a room for rent, and when she finally moves in you can drug her and steal her virginity, because you are almost 40 and have no other way of ever being someone's 'first' down there, or listening to a girl scream out in actual pain from your penis, and not just the fake screaming the girls at the massage parlor pretend to do for you before licking your ass and then asking for a french kiss. I think you should tell those girls the same thing I told the meth addicted prostitute I met in the bathroom at my favorite Greyhound bus stop in Gainesville, "Screaming isn't going to get you more than 15 dollars for a rub and tug!"
What I am trying to say here is that I have special skills and one of those skills seems to be my ability to hit on married women. I never asked for the skill. In point of fact I actively turned it off a few years ago after getting burned by the love of my life. But that is a cunt for another story.
This story had a blushing girl who liked the way I talked. I kid you not. I could have banged her. I chose not to because stealing married pussy is about the easiest thing to do, and I am not about to go and do something if I already know I can do it. What's the point? Which is good news for the 16 year old dudes who read this blog who thought that all that married pussy was off limits, because the truth is once a woman says she is going to lock her pussy down for one man what she is really saying is that she finally found a sucker who is willing to put up with her shit and pay her way through life.
Of course she is not telling the dude that. She is telling her man that she only wants one dick, but one look at Japanese bukake porn tells you different. Women love spooge, and women love to lick spooge from as many men as possible, and the only thing better than fucking some dude in the closet before she getting married, is fucking her husbands friends every time her he forgets "her" anniversary, or birthday, or some other made up holiday women are constantly going to the store to buy candles* for.
* I don't understand women and candles. I have never purchased a candle in my life, and other than power outages I can't see the need for them. Especially considering all I need is a potato and string and 12 other items to make an emergency light if the power ever goes out.
Fire From A Potato! AMAZING! - The most amazing videos are a click away
"You bet!" I yelped. I think my voice jumped 9 octaves.
The girl turned red. "I mean for my club card."
"I can't give out my phone number anymore." She explained. She flashed her left hand at me and used her thumb to point to the silver band around her finger.
"Your married." I sighed.
"Ya."
"That's ok." I told her. "I'll probably forget your number as soon as you say it."
I don't remember the rest of the interaction. I just remember that it was the closest I have come to being asked out on a real date in 4 years.
I know you guys are sitting home feeling sorry for me and wondering just how pathetic a guy I must be to get excited over a girl giving me her phone number just so she can save 31 cents on broccoli.
But it's not like that. I am humble guy so I don't like to brag, but I know when a chick is into me. I spend all day waiting around for women to drop me signals that it is "ok" to fuck them because I am too lazy to ask them out. So you have to get pretty good at deciphering the signals women send you if you if ever want to get laid. Unless you plan is to convince the 18 year old at work that you have a room for rent, and when she finally moves in you can drug her and steal her virginity, because you are almost 40 and have no other way of ever being someone's 'first' down there, or listening to a girl scream out in actual pain from your penis, and not just the fake screaming the girls at the massage parlor pretend to do for you before licking your ass and then asking for a french kiss. I think you should tell those girls the same thing I told the meth addicted prostitute I met in the bathroom at my favorite Greyhound bus stop in Gainesville, "Screaming isn't going to get you more than 15 dollars for a rub and tug!"
What I am trying to say here is that I have special skills and one of those skills seems to be my ability to hit on married women. I never asked for the skill. In point of fact I actively turned it off a few years ago after getting burned by the love of my life. But that is a cunt for another story.
This story had a blushing girl who liked the way I talked. I kid you not. I could have banged her. I chose not to because stealing married pussy is about the easiest thing to do, and I am not about to go and do something if I already know I can do it. What's the point? Which is good news for the 16 year old dudes who read this blog who thought that all that married pussy was off limits, because the truth is once a woman says she is going to lock her pussy down for one man what she is really saying is that she finally found a sucker who is willing to put up with her shit and pay her way through life.
Of course she is not telling the dude that. She is telling her man that she only wants one dick, but one look at Japanese bukake porn tells you different. Women love spooge, and women love to lick spooge from as many men as possible, and the only thing better than fucking some dude in the closet before she getting married, is fucking her husbands friends every time her he forgets "her" anniversary, or birthday, or some other made up holiday women are constantly going to the store to buy candles* for.
* I don't understand women and candles. I have never purchased a candle in my life, and other than power outages I can't see the need for them. Especially considering all I need is a potato and string and 12 other items to make an emergency light if the power ever goes out.
Fire From A Potato! AMAZING! - The most amazing videos are a click away
The bad news in all this is for the men who are married who don't think that their wives would ever cheat on them. You need to worry. If you think you are safe just because you settled down with the mousy girl with bad hair because she would cook for you, and take care of your children, and not complain about working more hours than you, so you can go off to the basement and be alone to watch football and drink Miller High Life you are wrong.
Just like you are wrong to thing she means it when she tells you that her ass is "off limits" because the 30 pounds she has added since marring you makes her feel self-conscious. She's not lying. She feels self-conscious and I think she should be, because it looks to me like she has the first signs of "grandma's ass."
All I know is that her ass is not that "off limits" because we can go from holding hands at the movies to ass fucking on the first date in like 2 hours. All it takes is for me to shut up and listen to her boring ass stories like somebody could give a shit, and 3 or 4 watered down shots, because your wife can't handle the alcohol. She doesn't even get drunk. She just wants an excuse to "loosen up" if you get my drift.
Ugly, fat, married women are easiest, but often they are so into their husbands tiny penises that they forget that they can "order off the menu." When they do extra-curricular it turns out less dramatic than in Film, or even made for TV movies starring Joanne Kilmer.
I will spare you the details of frozen dinners, and the women with stained shirts who prepare them through tears and bouts of swearing and cursing at the men who won't (or can't) fix the air conditioning in the trailer. All you need to know is that ugly people have souls too and they hurt and feel pain just like the beautiful people, only I don't care about them because they are ugly. And you can't really blame me for that, because I once tried to treat an ugly person like they were human, and instead of being grateful they acted like it was their right, but all I could think about was the sweat, building up on the hairy upper lip of a women who somehow thought a polyester pantsuit 3 sizes too small for her could be worn in public without ridicule from the purple lipsticked foster daughter she carts around with her, because she can't trust someone else's daughter around her husband after 6 beers.
I guess the whole thing that strikes me as unfair in this world is that people like Kathy Perry actually think they are being clever the whole time they are just being lucky. I know that just sounds like the running monologue in your head the whole time you were reading this post, but the fact that I got you thinking that I think I am clever was all just a ruse. I don't think for second that I am clever. Because unlike the rest of humanity I seem unable to turn off that part of my brain that stands outside myself. I am an observer of my own life and most of the time it seems unreal, and the rest of the time it is just boring, and not at all Sci-Fi, like an experiment where scientists are trying to discover the neural nodes of identity, and even less like the communion with god, or the wacko fringe eastern philosophies that want to dump your ego and get to Nirvana.
I get assaulted at work.
draft version not ready
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)