I try to entertain myself

I am eating sunflower seeds to stave off boredom. I had at least 8 cokes today. I think I must have gained 30 pounds in the past month.

I watched Pineapple Express yesterday. 2.5 stars out of 5.

I watched BattleStar Galatica. The latest episode was the least enjoyable of the season thus far.

I bet my brother 20 dollars on the Super Bowl.
Go Cards!

I am going bowling with the work crew again on Monday. A friend from work has invited a single female and I was told the single female has giant titties. I will take a picture of them for you.

I read the bible

I know I have told you this before, but I really hate my life. The only time I don't hate my life is when I am on the internet, and I am not talking about all the time I waste on writing this blog, but all the time I waste watching Stickam.

Now for those of you who don't know what Stickam is I am sure you have at least heard of Google, so I don't think I need to waste my time explaining what something is when all you have to do is type a few words into your magic looking box and out comes the answer.

The only other time I have fun when I am not watching young girls strip on chat cams is when I read the Bible.

Reading the Bible is fun. But only if you know where to look.

I know reading the bible could never be your idea of fun. That's because your idea of fun is getting knocked up by some guy you can't stand because normally you never let dick anywhere near your vagina without a condom. But that no condom rule of action is only for the guys you like. The guys you say you respect.

You save all your dirty fucking without a condom for the guys without a job, or the office mate that has two kids and a girlfriend, or when you are really feeling horny you go all bareback with your cousins fiance. Of course that guy had already knocked up your cousin and her sister, but that won't stop him from knocking your ass up too.

All I know is that family reunions must be weird at your house, but you and your new baby daddy love to tell anybody who will listen how happy you are with your 4 kids and your greasy monkey sex, even though you have nothing in common with each other, except that you both like to make jokes about how you never wanted to hook up with each other, and were just hoping for a quick booty call, but now you have decided to get classy and stay married.

A couple of years later one of you decides that the only way to make sure "little bobby" learns is by throwing him through a plate glass door and now you are both fighting child abuse charges, but at least you have Jesus.

I opened that bible you are always talking about at random because that's how I assume the holy ghost works. Through random shit like that. I opened that bible and I discovered what is now my favorite bible quote:

"When thou goest forth to war against thine enemies, and the LORD thy God hath delivered them into thine hands, and thou hast taken them captive, And seest among the captives a beautiful woman, and hast a desire unto her, that thou wouldest have her to thy wife; Then thou shalt bring her home to thine house, and she shall shave her head, and pare her nails;

And she shall put the raiment of her captivity from off her, and shall remain in thine house, and bewail her father and her mother a full month: and after that thou shalt go in unto her, and be her husband, and she shall be thy wife.

And it shall be, if thou have no delight in her, then thou shalt let her go whither she will; but thou shalt not sell her at all for money, thou shalt not make merchandise of her, because thou hast humbled her.

In case you can't understand Old English, god just gave you permission to take a love slave from your enemy. As long as you shave her head and clip her nails.

That is big time crazy if you ask me. And if you are wondering what the big deal is about that passage, it's that the same chapter of the Bible is used by Christians as justification to go after the gay people.

If you stop and think about that for just one second, you realize everything you need to know about magic, spirits, gods, and gay bashing.

If on the other hand you have a few ready made excuses after reading that passage I suggest you go ahead and start planning on how you are going to fire bomb that abortion clinic you protest every Sunday after church, because god is spiteful and cruel to those who yank fetuses out his followers, but he rewards slave holders with untold riches. Just like thow this blog still rewards you with abortion jokes ....after all these years....

Reading this post will be difficult for you, try to anyway

I write a personal ad for craigslist:

I am going to try something different. I am not going to try and appeal to you. At first this will discombobulate you. But if you give into the feeling, if you get past the dizziness that will most likely ensue, then perhaps you will be rewarded.

I was given some advice awhile back. When it comes to women, "always lead with you faults."

Before I do that, allow me first to assuage YOUR fears. I am not looking for a "barbie doll." It appears that most of the women on Craigslist assume men want only a barbie doll.

We do not ALL want a barbie doll. Not that a wonderful, witty, caring women couldn't also be wrapped in large breasts, which we could then rest on top of a slender waste, and her face then capped by blond hair. I for one would have no problem with that. Even though I prefer petite, dark haired women who have more of that "exotic" look to them.

So don't go running off from this long post, "just because Cosmo says you ain't all that."

Though I imagine that most of you have already left. That is only because you are not used to my experiment. What I am doing is requiring you to engage text in order to understand me.

We are just a couple of paragraphs in. I hope you will stick around. We have so much to cover. If the the task of wading through dozens of words is too much for you, then by all means surf away. I hear on youtube there is a video of someone doing something, and most likely it involves a strike to the crotch.

Don't get me wrong. I am not a snob. I am not educated. At least in the non auto didactic sense of the word. Nor am I normally overly pedantic. Though you would be correct to suggest my verbosity today is reminiscent of a high schooler right before taking his SAT's and as such is highly insulting to anyone who did not need google to understand what I just said. Frankly, if you were interested enough in staying in our conversation to use a dictionary I would only have praise for you. In due course I will return to a more straight forward style.

Now that "they" are gone. We can get down to me leading with all my bad qualities. The qualities you may wish to have no part of. If this is so, then so be it.

What I am trying (badly) to tell you is that I am the man of your dreams. At least I am the man of your dreams that you (all you women) say you want. You want a man who has something on his mind. You want jokes.

But of course none of that is true is it? What you want is something more like daddy.

You are going to start calling me names now.

Call me a slacker. But I have transportation, a job, and a place of my own. So wade gently in this stream. I must apologize for rambling. I was going to write this ad much earlier in the day, but I did not. I had no time. I had to go to work, so much of what I am writing now is simply translation of what I can recall.*

* If it helps imagine the earlier version was funnier. It was also much more condescending. In addition it was terribly vile. I made a point about how sick I am of reading how "weary" women on Cragislist are of men. I take then to task, I suggest I would rather have a man infected with the Ebola virus puke on me. I describe his yellow teeth.

I compare the bile the man vomits on me to the sores of an ingrown toe nail. I mention the treacle of blood. I don't think that scored me any points. And I am sure some of you were frightened off by just the description of what I thought about.

I should make some crack about how dainty you are being, about how attracted you are to me anyway, because for the first time in your lives a man is treating you as an equal. He is telling you what he really thinks. I live richly in a highly developed inner world. I must know only the imaginary, because I expect that somewhere out there a women might be able to handle this.

Of course I am wrong I am sure. You have no desire to shed the old rules or the old expectations. If not, go cover up your tattoos and dust off the old unicorn posters you have hidden in your basements. Most of you still have those dark fantasies of being protected by the knight in shining armour.

Need we discuss this generation of women folk's insipid fascination with all things "princess?" I hope not. I am sure at least some of you are as sickened as much by such things as I am. Some one out there wants a partner. A co-equal.

If you can, imagine a way around your brains biology where you won't look for the man to dominate you. If right now you have a sickening feeling in your stomach. If you have dreaded every word I have said, know this: that is just a cruel trick of your evolutionary past.

Your revulsion is your refusal to grow past your monkey brain and actualize your true human essence. I can be of some help there in your struggle. Maybe for a time you will depend on me. But soon together we will have you flying. Soaring.

I should mention of course that plenty of Lesbians have thrown off those shackles, and yes Lesbians try and get with me. That is because they think I am some weak girlie man that they can dominate.

That is crap.

I do not want your strap-on dildo.*

*not that there is anything wrong with adventuresome sex.

If you have read to the bottom of this ad then perhaps you would like to send me an e-mail. Or maybe you need help. I hear METH is fun for the first few weeks.

Either way let us explore those possibilities.

Your picture gets my picture.

All I ask is that you be not some hideous woman. I am not hideous. I am not beautiful in body like (take your pick of movie stars ladies) I just refuse to accept a women several tiers below me in attractiveness.

Don't get defensive. WE ALL FEEL THIS WAY. That is what you mean by saying "chemistry is required." What you say with the use of pleasantries I say with force of facts. FACTS are on my side of course as you may have naturally ascertained through reading this ad. Either way, happy hunting. Good night and good luck!

Part 2 is over at Bathos for the Misanthropic.

I report back to you: I still have nothing to say

I haven't written anything worth reading in the past week or so. I don't blame you even though I think we can assume that at least some of it is your fault. I am not one for believing in free will, nor am I one to accept responsibility for any of any (non)actions.

But you already knew that.

I am supposed to go to work in a bit, and after work I am supposed to go bowling because going bowling is the new thing I do on Mondays.

Bowling is fun and the last time I went bowling my score was near a hundred which I believe to be a perfect score. I see why "professional" bowling never had a chance.

Let me give you a prediction:

• The economy gets worse before it gets better
• I get laid this year

I am positive one of those predictions comes true.

At the time I decided to write this post I actually had an idea for what I was going to write and I had even decided on a "voice." As you can tell, I did not follow through on my plan, but I almost never follow through on any my "plans" so that should come as no surprise.

Maybe I will just end this piece before it devolves into me talking about your mother's inappropriate touching of you during bath time, or am I just projecting my own hopes and dreams about becoming a stepfather someday. Either way you decide I should just stop writing and go take a shower and go to work because in this economy we are supposed to be thankful for even having a job.

I guess what I meant to tell you was that I am feeling anti-social. I don't want to go bowling even though 5 dollars for midnight bowling (shoes included) is a good deal financially and is the one bit of entertainment that I can afford.

Mostly because the girl who works behind the drink counter at the bowling alley has a crush on me. She sold me a super large coke for just 50 cents. She told me I was getting the best deal of the week. I think I wrote about that already. Correct me if I did. But that drink offer was the best thing that has happened to me this year.

I check my voice mail

I am off early. How often do I get off early from work? Not often. Almost never. In fact never. I was not really off work early. I was just home all day. Never went to work. Didn't have to go. It was my day off.

What did I do? I did nothing. I did nothing because I am hung over. I am hung over because I drank. I drank too much last night. Now I must pay for it. I woke to red splotchy arms. I woke to a pounding head. I could have slept all day, except for the pounding in my head. The pounding won and I finally got up at 2 in the afternoon to take tylenol.

I am itchy. I want to scratch everything on my body. I want to scratch like that with take the itch away, but I know that won't work.

I am worried. I am coming down with something. Maybe some flesh eating bacteria. I am sure I am going to get it. My toe is still infected. I am going to have to have to go see the doctor. Soon.

It won't matter. They won't save me. The flesh eating virus is now part of the natural flora in this condo.

I am hungry. I would like to eat. Nothing sounds good though.

Don't read this post, it sucks

I took a break from blogging the other day, not that any of you noticed, or if you did notice, not that any of you cared. Even when you do care I don't understand why. Like the guy who asked me when I was going to do another podcast. "But didn't you say that you got bored of the last one in the first 3 minutes of listening?" I asked the guy. "Yep."

That doesn't make any rational sense, but then again neither do any of the people who would call themselves fans of my material. I guess just like you the guy figures it is better to keep me involved in the world by making my blog or performing it live as an audio blogcast than leave me to my own devices which turn out to be surfing and downloading porn all night on my computer.

Actually, I am sure it has nothing to do with that either, I don't think any of my friends would expect me to do anything but surf for porn for 5 hours last night. Maybe you guys just like punishing me by demanding creative work from me like a I should have some kind of deadline, even though not a damn person in the world gives a crap about it, and I will never make money, get famous, or gain anything out of doing all this other than my own sense of time filled and wasted.

I know this was pretty much a waste of a post and that it really had no point, but since no one has tagged any of my posts with the boring tag at least you can now. On the bright side if you want me to suggest some good jailbait Internet sites let me know. I can probably help you out. I know what you are thinking about that statement. "Finally he has said something worth paying for!"

I love Hannah Montana"s Box (of Tissues)

This is going right next to my bottle of Mary & Kate Ashley hair gel. That bottle of hair gel creeped out my exgf's little sister. She asked her big sister to never let her be alone with me. To this day I almost regret that bottle of gel. But really, how could I?

The Self Help Guide to the Philosophy of Mediocrity

I think my face is melting. What I mean to say is I wish my face was melting. If that were the case there would be nothing I could do about the fact that I am getting older, fatter, and uglier.


If I just got a bit skinnier you might be able to see my jaw line, and see how all the years have only added character to my face. I might be better looking that I was when I was 20 and actually getting pussy.

Instead, all I have is a number of pictures on myspace with me looking like a fat ass. I have no idea when getting fat happened. Though from what people have said to me it has been happening for quite some time and, "I should really think about hitting the gym."

I suppose going to the gym could get me skinny, but then I would have to stop eating ding-dongs, and drinking cola.

Not that any of that matters.

I still have the infection in my toe, and I have to think that all that puss is going somewhere, and that somewhere is showing up as red splotches on my arms. Or maybe those splotches are just the signs that my arms and back are growing hair all the while I am going bald on the top of my head.

I guess all this means is that the period of time I had when I could fool 18 year old girls that I was under 35 is now about gone. I might have a few more weeks, maybe less, and then everyone who meets me will assume that I am over 35, and when that happens everything in my life will be in decline.

Once I was young, and full of potential. Now I am old, and full of regret. I know some of you out there have some kind of strange New Age belief that you never regret anything that happens in life, "because it just sets us up to learn difficult life lessons we could have never learned any other way."

Either that or you never regret anything because you are afraid to admit that you made a mistake. I think the second manner of thinking is false, if not impossible. I think the first way of thinking is magical and silly.

All I can tell you is that I have made tons of mistakes in my life. I am sure there are a millions things I would "do over" if given the chance. Anyone who would tell you different is a liar.

As I wrote this post I figured out the reason I stay "youthfully immature" is that way I can have people view me through the prism of 'potential' rather than 'practice.'

Neither paradigm holds much promise for me anymore. I have done very little with the life that I have. I will most likely do nothing much with what is left. I am in danger of waiting around or "running the clock out" as a good friend of mine once said about another friend of ours.

All I can tell you is that I must lack some element of faith that you believers have. I can't seem to give myself over to the idea that anything I do will matter.

I know when nothing matter to some people they just give in to the impulses. As for that kind of hedonism, my lusting for the good life is quite different from yours. I don't want to go after a lot of material goods, so I can't be bought by the promise of riches. My hedonism is simple. I wish to be left alone. I wish to have time to myself. Though we all know what "time to one's self" eventually does to that self.*

*Does it not just force the focus of our lives too richly on ourselves?

I know if we give in to our darkest desires we tend destroy ourselves. Binging on drugs, sex and rock 'n roll is just too obvious a way to kill yourself:

I know some of you would like to offer me some advice.

You want me to stop dwelling on the big picture. Maybe just look smaller at some of the little things that need adjusting. Like maybe some fine tuning of my life skills would get my heart back in the right place.

I can tell you that concentrating on the smaller things in life is all I do, and I will need a lot of those life skills to practice anything other than the slow ride into death from the joyless existence I now have.

What disgusts me most about myself is my fascination with the minutia of my decaying life. How the body alerts you over the years of where every thing is eventually headed.

I am motionless, like a suicidal. I have any number of small ailments. Many of which could be looked after. The result of which could enable me to live out life more comfortably. Perhaps with some pleasure.

I have insurance, but I do not seek out the help of doctors. I am overwhelmed by the smallest of obstacles and tiniest of stumbling blocks that society and culture set before me.

I can find in the warning of a 250 dollar deductible the death sentence of mortals. Two hundred fifty dollars. I won't go to the doctor. I will allow my toe to rot.

If I were artist, or a philosopher, or a hero I would cut it off to spite the world. But I will not. I am no one like that. I am like you. Only weaker. The struggling minnow in the torrent of the flood. The Ocean swallows me. The maelstrom collision of modern alienation and anomie leaving me rudderless . Set adrift, I follow only the current of my destruction. Unhappy at my lot. I sit at my ship. I keep careful watch for the falls. But I know I will sail over anyway.

None of that is true. It is a waste of poetic imagery. Hacked from better thinkers. Borrowed from the collective unconscious. I just hoped you would follow along with me, simply because you were familiar with the language.

What I am is so much smaller. I am not the hero of this myth. I am alone. I am imperceptible. Unknown by fate. To be mocked by the gods is to be treasured.

But all I have is the smallness of my every day life. What we have now is something that can only be understood by Heidegger's Dasein. His "Being-in-the-world."

I cry out at the hypocrisy of others. At the futility of rage assigned to the blameless. When all my thoughts are consumed by the splinters that effect us all. "How will I pay for this bill? How can I afford this* item? Where will I live?"

*do I need it? what will it do? are there others better. what are the trade offs this purchase will make me endure?... ad infinitum....

My answer to this question is to take my dirty sheets off the bed, if only after a month or two, if only to see them pile up in the dirty clothes pile, if only to tell myself that I will wash them before I go to bed, and wonder at what I will tell myself now that it is 2 am and the sheets are unwashed. Is it o.k. to place the unwashed sheets back on the bed? Do I have time to wash them before bed? I wonder if there are sheets in the pantry that will fit my bed.

Afterward I wonder if I can stop the hemorrhaging of money. I spend money like I earn it, which I do not. I spent 77 cents on a glass when I have cups. 8 purple cups that work just fine. I do not need 4 new glasses. Even if the glasses are just the correct size to pour cold ice tea from the refrigerator into. The correct size and texture and feel to drink from when no ice is required, because the tea is refrigerator cold. Just big enough to drink leisurely from without the contents turning warm. Large enough to consume without going thirsty.

I must have a drink in my hand at all waking hours. If I am awake I have a cold glass of coke, or a tepid cup of Iced Tea ready at hand. I have no idea why. Other than the observation made form a nursing assistant that diabetics drink like that.

Nursing assistants. They only let them change bed pans. But I take his advice to heart. Those words were the last words I heard from a health professional.

My roommate has been asleep all day. I can hear his snoring through two shut doors. I walk to the kitchen and fill my glass full of ice tea. The roommate left the tea out earlier today. It sat between the stove and the refrigerator on the kitchen counter tops getting warm. Not too warm though. Cool enough for me to know this must have been a mistake. That he placed the large plastic gallon pitcher on the counter so that he could rummage through the ice box looking for ding-dongs or pasta or left over bowls of top ramen. All he eats is "top ramen and tuna fish" he reminds me.

I would like to scream at the injustice in the world. But there seems to be no injustice. Life's calloused hands swat away a billion insects in the moment it took me to write this sentence. I am not humbled by this fact, as it exists like every other fact. Connected in a way that makes no difference to me.

It is just a fact. And as a fact, I can ignore it.

Volume 29

Hey, another episode of the Self Help Center Audio Blogcast is ready. Just click the link on the sidebar and you can download the podcast, you can subscribe to the feed from iTunes, or you can listen directly at the site. Don't forget you can vote for the podcast by rating each episode. If I get a god rating I can get back in the top 50 and start my dominance of another medium of communication.

The podcast is great for those on the go who don't have time to read the blog or are just to lazy to do so. And of course forwarding the link to all of your e-mail contacts is not considered spamming. At least by me.

My roommate was awake listening to his TV until 7am. At least that was how long he let his TV and computer blare. I finally went in to his room to turn off the noise so I could get some sleep and of course that dude was passed out asleep. So who knows how long I was forced to listen to the same episode of Battlestar Galactica. I have never understood people able to fall asleep to the sound of TV. I can't fall asleep when a TV is on in another room. I know my roommate reads my blog so this is just my way of asking my roommate to be an adult and turn of the volume to his media devices before he falls asleep.

I mean you are old enough to realize you are falling asleep, no? Don't you know how to turn off the power and just go to sleep? Actually I assume a 3 year old would be able to so and I would beat a three year old's ass if he did that so I think you should assume and ass kicking is on its way as soon as I get home from work tonite.

Blame the roommate for the reason that I slept till 1pm. And blame me sleeping in for the reason you got this shitty blog post. Maybe next time he will learn. I hope I don't have to post that asshole's e-mail so he can get spammed by all the upset 45 year old women who read this site. You really don't want to disappoint middle aged women. With the empty nest and vagina that no longer gives life, middle aged women start thinking of ways to get even with all the men who made promised over the years to them. And of course they never do, but some of them decide to kill on the Internet, because they have developed a troubling fascination with a younger and sexier version of the nerdy guy in high school they always wanted to bang, but figured that doing so would seal the deal from all the popular kids and they really wanted to sit at the "cool table."

Can't say I blame them as sitting at the cool table would count as the highlight of their lives. Because we all hate our children, resent our mates, and wish we could quit our jobs.

Don't do that shit yet. I promise another blog post or two tonite. I am sure that my roommate will keep me up till 8 am. And this time I won't just lie in bed at 3 am staring at the wall and wondering where I put my pocket knife. Wondering if the pocket knife can take down a 300 pound black man.

I review Harry's Last Call a bar in Phoenix where I met up with my exgf and her new Baby Daddy

The first thing you should know about Harry's Last Call in Phoenix is that your pussy ass should not go there. This is a REAL dive bar and not a FAKE dive bar that caters to your hipster irony. If you bring in any of that fucking hipster attitude into this bar I will help the homeless guy nursing his Bud Light on the stool next to me kick your ass. We will leave you bleeding, and the homeless guy will take a piss on you, and someone may cut you. AND THEN YOU WILL GET AIDS motherfucker.

I am just saying. 

I am not going to take your side, because this is not your place, and you have been warned. If you still want to go there the pool table takes quarters and it costs 75 cents a game.

The beer is cheap, but that is because the draft does not work. It just tumbles out at the bartender (my exgf so take your fucking hands off her) and spills all over her and she will ask if she can get you a Bud Light bottle because she hates fucking with the draft.

The bar looks deserted as you drive in. There are no cars outside. But that is typical if you are at a real dive bar as opposed to the fake bars you drive to. Real homeless people and drunks and so can't afford cars, or they never learned how to drive, or they have 6 DUI's so the cops took their license and their vehicles away. So it is no real surprise that the bar has 7 people milling around the front entrance.

I askew using the back entrance because I have no idea at first if this is the bar I am supposed to be going to, or if I have ended up at the wrong bar. (A dirty bar with homeless people and crazy Native Americans who guard the entrance.)

I know some people like to make fun of the fact that Natives drink a lot, but you will never see me do that. Probably because I am one fourth Cherokee. Anyway, I don't think Natives drink that much. I am pretty sure that all the Natives I see drinking in bars are not really different Indians, but the same Indian guy. Because everywhere I go I see the same drunk Native dude on the stool closest to the entrance.

He never sits with his back against the wall. And he always invites me over to share his warm small pitcher of beer. He winks at me and when I walk over he pulls out his pocket knife. He does that trick every time. Then he winks at me again and complains aloud to anyone who will listen that he needs to find the Indian bar on 16th street and he needs money for another drink.

Mostly I ignore him and hope he really does not want to kill a fellow Native American. I have no idea what they do in his tribe, but my tribe does not kill the Red Man. Just whitey.

When I approached the entrance I noticed a girl who I assumed to be the bartender. I look closer at her and I realize that she is my EXGF. She is standing next to a rather tall and goofy looking half-black dude who I can tell from his myspace profile must be the exGF's newest baby daddy.

It is not very often that my appearance somewhere will startle people, or make them jump. By my showing up here does. My Ex looks likes she is ready to swallow pills. Her eyes are jumpy and she excitedly runs at me to introduce "baby daddy" to me. Home boy gives me a hand shake and I tell him it was nice to finally meet him. I tell him that I bet he has heard all kinds of shit about me and he says he has heard only, "good things." he says "nice things" like all begrudging like somehow it is my fault that I am nice guy and he walked out on a woman with two kids and no job.

I keep wanting to tell him to stay away from the white women, but mostly we don't talk. He offers to play a game of pool with me. He wins the game, but only by one ball. We both take a long time to finish the game and he admits "that we suck."

I order a couple of beers from my exgf. She stays busy talking to her customers and she stops by every once and a while. I tell her how I think the bar is unsafe and she confides to me that she bought mace.

" I have no idea if mace would even work against the brutes in this place." I scold her.

I play UFO and Trapeze on the Internet Jukebox. just for shits and giggles I play some Kelly Clarckson. Some drunk comes in and orders a drink. He pays in quarters. He says he was "just in a fight and the cops are on their way here. " At least the cops are coming. I think to myself.

The cops show up and they are being cool. The cop does not walk into the bar. He stays out on the front entrance like he and the homeless vermin who inhabit this bar have some kind of special agreement. He just asks to talk to the guy who was in the fight. The guy drinking the jack and cola walks out calm and cool. He doesn't even put up a fight.

In my pocket is the lottery ticket I purchased for this weeks drawing. I am potentially worth 186 million dollars. I should leave before something happens and I get stabbed. The baby daddy is most likely upset that I am here, but he has not started anything with me. In fact he seems cordial and shit. I guess it true what they say. We are polite to strangers. Cruel to those we love.

I showed up to the bar at 10. It was midnight and I did not want to wait around all night if baby daddy was going to be there. He would make sure the ex lived through the night. She was not my responsibility anyway.

I stopped by another bar on the way home. I should have guessed by the name "Cruising 7th street" that the bar was a gay bar, but since I don't know a lot about gays -the way you do- I had no idea until it was too late that I had stepped right into the gayest bar in town.

I had to use the restroom. I know going to the restroom in a gay bar is not the brightest idea, but the whole reason I stopped at the bar in the first place was because I had to go pee. Cruising has two bars separated by rest rooms. After locking the stall door and peeing I heard what I thought was singing from the other side of the bar.

It turns out there where a bunch of drag queens Lip-syncing to music full of double entendres.

A few of the drag queens tried hitting on me, but I guess they did not try very hard. I ended up leaving after the drag show (which consisted of one dude with a stuffed bra singing over the radio and getting tipped a few dollars by a couple of horny gay guys) finally ended.

I need you to stop talking, because I hate the words that come out of your mouths

I need people to stop telling me how they can't control their impulses. I get that shit a lot, about how I am more 'normal' than most of the people I know. I think that idea is full of shit.

I can agree that you have an edge. I just am tired of hearing how much you like to sit at home, and not got to work like you are some kind of rebel when you are really nothing more than a selfish bastard. I don't want to hear how much you like to drink either, and how you love to do drugs, because I don't know anyone who doesn't like drinking beer, shooting cocaine, and sitting around the house playing x-boy, or Wii, or Atari, or whatever the fuck it is that you kids do instead of organizing against the coming Fascism of Surveillance, or watching black and white Italian movies like we did back in my day.

All I am saying is that the reason I don't give in to my impulses is that they are dark and scary. My impulses are so creepy that they worry me.

I have fantasies of stabbing you in the mouth, of pulling the arm sockets out of innocent children while their mothers cry. I am not talking about fleeting moments where some kid is screaming at the mall or at a diner and I am selfishly pissed that all the noise they are creating is bothering me. I am talking about being curious what it would feel like to have the power of life and death over someone. Gaining for the first time a sense of mastery and control over the universe and my pathetic life.

What I need from you is for you to stop pretending that you have a dark side and that the universe should be thankful that you have not given in to it. Sitting around the house getting fat on Doritos brand French Onion Dip and offering to pay for my visits with transvestite prostitutes is just "alternative" fun for you, because you think of yourself as some kind of alternative hipster into "freaks" all because you have lost all the feeling in you cock from all the masturbating you do and now the only way you can orgasm is by watching something come to life that was directly out of one of your internet porn archives.

After that stops working let me know. Maybe you will move on to being the person who goes to the tranny shows, or masturbates to thoughts of your new "girlfriend" having an threesome with some girl you pick up on Craigslist that you accidentally strangle to death in some kind of auto erotic asphyxiation role playing game, and decided that now that she is dead you might as well know what it is like to stick your cock in something that does not move, because for the first time in your life you can actually realize what it was like to be your dad, and fuck that dead fish of a woman you call your Mom.

I guess what I am saying is that if you think you are hot shit try getting off on necrophilia, and then ask yourself if you can spend and hour and a half on Google trying to figure out escape routes from the local mall that you want to blow up. Try going down to the mall carrying a backpack full of knives and count all the security guards you walk past. See if that gets your heart to race. It probably will you fucking retard.

Then order some C4 explosive, a few machine guns and stash a motor bike in the alley a few yards away. Make sure you have a van parked a few miles from the alley by the mall that you can hide your bike and drive off in.

For the more advanced fuckers try to order up a stinger missile and shoot down a few passenger planes with the same idea. You stop by the airport and shoot a few of those puppies off and bike your way to a van that drives you to a safe house where you head off to Mexico.

That makes you a bad ass.

Drinking low class beer not make you cool and drinking that shit out of a paper bag is not ironic. It's just a waste of paper bags, and I thought you chicks dug the environment. I guess not. I guess you just have a different sensibility than most of us which makes you one of the cool kids instead of one of the masses.

You need to stop fooling yourself. You are not an individual. Stop dressing your kids like they are into alternative hip-hop post-hippie hipster shit like you, because they just aren't. They are 8 years old and they have no idea what they are giving up by getting piercings and tats at 13 and not watching Hanna Montana and being normal.

I know you hate normal, but if you were a freak you would understand how safe and happy normal is. But you aren't a freak. You are just a poser who is pissed off at society for valuing things like tits that are not floppy, and big penises, or large incomes, or other things that matter. I am sorry for you that society does not want to value your willingness to stretch a massively large gap in your ear just to show people that you are willing to fit in.

I guess I am glad you found a place where the "posers" and cast outs of society can pretend that fat people stretching out black pantyhose with holes them is a fashion statement and not some kind of grotesque side show for regular folks to gawk at.

I have an idea for a new game of Russian Roulette.

If you had any balls you would take all that antipathy you think you have for people and use it start some kind of revolution, or at least take a few of the regular folk down with you. You would feed off the death of people like a good Muslim soldier does, not get off on the clownish aspirations of fake vampire cults.

Stop injecting yourself with the blood that some little rich bitch you met at boarding school gave you. Go find yourself some AIDS infested fags to hang around with. Have them funnel you around in an umarked white van to all the homosexual "jack off" sex shops in the Valley. Then try to enjoy it when they make you swallow cum from some random bi-sexual dudes who's cum is mostly OK, but probably just a little bit infected with AIDS. Then you can wonder if you pulled the cocks out of your mouth in time before you swallowed what came inside you so that you can avoid getting AIDS.

I have no idea if that will work.

You just might get aids from bending down in your skirt and getting a bit of cum on your dress. We can assume whenever you wash that dress the cum will get all mixed around in the wash and the next time your boyfriend licks your panties and then kisses you, you will get a mouth full of AIDS.

I only bring up that last fat bitch because I let her suck my cock. I can tell you that she has fat chubby hands, and that she is not as greedy when she sucks my cock as your boyfriend is.

I wanted to follow that bitch home, because I figured she was into some freaky shit like fucking the dead hogs that are used in Hawaiian celebrations or something even freakier. But she pointed me out to the guys in the van and they sped off quickly, and I was not about to chase them down because I had been drinking and the last thing I need is another DUI.

I am a big tease

I don't have time to write about hanging out at my exgf's new bar. Or getting to meet her other baby daddy. Or how scary the bar is. Or how I accidentally went to a gay bar and watched a drag queen show. I will post it all tomorrow. Instead I will go to work. If I was making 100 dollars a day on the Internet business idea that Mrs. Card shark suggested I would be able to stay home and blog. Alas, I am off to to grocery hell.

Stop being nice. Women don't want dick, they want "dicks?"

I know you didn't notice anything different yesterday about the blog. But the fact is that I altered the blog. I made a "whole sale" change to the writing style you were used to. I wanted to write in more of a prose style and less of a bloggy confessional style. The change was supposed to help me in my vain and stupid dream of becoming a professional writer. I figured I can't keep writing in the same silly style of the drunken stepfather because he does it a lot better than me and because it has never gotten me the hits or fame it was supposed to.

What I wanted to do was work on my "craft." So that is why I wrote about sunlight and tried to add description to my normal blog stuff. From the underwhelming results I know that attempt (just like every thing else in my life)- was a big fat failure.

One person left a note that it was "interesting." My future wife thought it was good, but she also thought it was just like all my other stuff, so she really did not see what the big deal was that I was making about how I was going to make over the blog and become a writer. I guess that is because I suck at writing.

I also suck at getting girlfriends. I was hanging out with Card Shark and Mrs. Card Shark and Mrs. Card Shark said that I should just avoid trying to get with intelligent women because they will assume that I am beneath them. Then she asked how my love life was going.

I told her it was shit because I am sick of fucking hideously ugly women, sick of dating mental retards, and tired of getting involved with emotional basket cases.

"When I eliminate the women who are normally attracted to me i.e. the chubby, stupid, and drama queens. I really eliminate any possibility of being with someone. That is why I am alone right now because I would rather be alone than date the women I can get."

I also told her how I did not think it was fair that I had to date ugly chicks and she wondered if I had my standards to high. When I informed her that I thought about 60% of the female population was attractive she said, "the chicks that want you are hideously ugly?"

"Yes!" I replied. "They really are ugly. I mean...it is almost unfair that I have to have sex with the chicks that I have sex with. I see lots of guys that pool better ass than me that don't have jobs and are way uglier than me. But for whatever reason I just can't seem to attract or get nice girls or good looking ones. I am not asking for a supermodel. I just don't want to date someone 2 or 3 levels below my own mediocre status."

It seems that the Mrs. had assumed that I wanted a supermodel. I guess all women think men want a supermodel. But that is because women don't understand men even though we are really easy to understand. We all most always mean what we say. When we don't it is because we are lying and when we lie it is just to get in your pants. Men like sex. We can find a lot of different kinds of women sexy. And we just want a women who pretends to understand us and accept us for who we are. That ain't that difficult ladies.

When we are nice to you it is because we like you. When we like you we want to fuck you. Sure, sometimes we want to fuck other people when we want to fuck you. But you can blame God for that. What we really want is for you to cook dinner once or twice a week. Make our beds for us. Tell us when we are being seriously stupid. Sex 3 to 5 times a week. Plus the occasional affair if we promise not to get caught or rub your faces in it. We promise in return to remember your birthday and to buy you a dishwasher on our anniversary.

I know that does not sound like a fair tradeoff to you ladies, but the truth is men don't have a lot to offer women. At least most men don't. I guess that is why women choose the tall ones, or the good looking ones, or the rich ones. I don't blame you for that even though I know I tend to run my mouth a bit at you all. That's just because I am sick of the hypocrisy most women (and yes men) have. Women are always telling guys that they want a guy who can make them laugh or have a conversation with.

I tell you what. I am good at all that shit. I can show you I care in lots of little ways. I'll rub your back when it hurts. I will remember you are out of conditioner when I go to the store. And if you are in to my wacky world view I can keep you entertained for hours listening to the crazy stories and internal landscape that is my imagination.

But chicks don't really want that. Chicks are still grounded in their evolutionary history. Which is why chicks go for the bad guy. As Mrs. Card Shark put it, "Women want to know that a man can protect a woman even though we don't live in a world of bears and tigers trying to eat you. If a guy is kind of dick then you can imagine him beating up your enemies or saving you from a wild fire or whatever your insecurities are."

I guess what I learned from a Mrs. Shark is that if you are "nice" women don't see you as protective and being protective is one of the things women look for (if only unconsciously.)

She also said that I shouldn't ask a girl out by saying "we should hang out sometime" because that will get you in the friend zone. I thought I would pass on the knowledge I get from my female friends to all you homeless losers trying to get laid. I know none of this advice means much to any of you as most of you live in the basement of your parents homes and can't imagine anything more thrilling than a a fake blow job from a World of Warcraft prostitute even though the female character is mostly likely played by a dude. But really since when has that bothered you? Certainly not since the time when you were 8 and your mom caught you taping your penis together with your only friend's penis. I have no idea how your Mom managed to make it through that day, but I imagine it was with a lot of alcohol, so don't blame her weak kidneys on the drink, blame it on your homoerotic tendencies.

This is my life, Only fictionalized

The sunlight does not peak in. It breaks in on a mission to disturb my sleep. It slices through my window and the cheaply made blinds. It crosses my bed in sharp bands that fall on my head.

I tuck my head underneath a pillow. Now that I am awake the daylight seems to only want to cuddle up next to me. It nudges me. It hopes to wake me gently. Like I have something terrible important to do in a few hours, and I should get a head start.

My sinuses are heavy this morning. My eyes are full of sleep that I rub on my pillow (that ineffective barrier to my conscious life.)

The first thing I do in the morning is turn on the computer. I press the wake up button and the computer balks. It bellows and screams like a drunken 50 year old at noon. It churns and clicks for a few minutes, but finally connects to the Internet.

I check my e-mail. Nothing important. Just a notice that my insurance bill in due. "Just a friendly reminder, not a cancellation notice." The e-mail says. To make sure I know the e-mail is friendly the message has a picture of a cartoon spokesman looking quite dopey and sad about the possibility of losing his car insurance, or maybe he is sad thinking about the possibility of losing me as a customer.

I am not sure why I am supposed to interpret the warning as cute just because the message is sent in the form of a drawing. In a way the drawing is more sinister. The mixed message of the cartoon disturbs me. I am sure the guy who thought it up comes straight out of a Quentin Tarintino movie. I am sure he sits at his desk wise cracking all the while thinking of ways to fuck you over. The kind of guy who always has a cigarette in his hand. He is waving the cigarette at passers by and munching on Funyuns. He sweats too much and hasn't had a date in six years.

Not a real date. The last date the guy had he brought a woman over to his place and showed off all his strange cartoon characters. I guess he though if he explained himself to women they might "get him." He figured the only reason he wasn't getting LAID is people never saw the real "him."

So the girl takes one look at the comic book land this funny little insurance dude creates and walks right out the door. Doesn't even stop to tell the guy that she is leaving. She gets the dude alright. Good enough to know that she should not be alone with a cat like that. She just hops out the door so quick that her purse straps get caught. She re-opens the door just long enough to retrieve the straps. You can hear her high heels click down the hallway.

I can't decide what I am going to eat today. I told myself yesterday that I was going to start eating healthy. But that was yesterday and today I just find myself with my ass seated firmly in my chair. I can feel the shit squashing down in my intestines. I decide to pop in some pizza bagel bites because I know how fast and easy they will be to prepare. The only other thing to eat in the house is eggs and bacon, and I figure bagel bites have slightly less cholesterol so I am probably being healthy.

I have to let the bagel bites cool. The last time I ate one too quickly and the sauce burned my lip. It looked like I had herpes or chapped lips for two weeks. I think the bagel sauce must have burned off the skin completely or something because a section of my lips turned dark black and scabby.

I look down at my cell phone. I have a message from a girl I met online. She lives in Hawaii. She lives in tropical paradise. I tease her all the time that I want to move in with her. I tell her how much I love to go sunbathing, and how good I am at body surfing. "As good as Steve Martin." I text her.

I tell her Steve Martin because I noticed some funny pictures of him body surfing on the Internet today. I am sure she has no idea about Steve Martin body surfing. Even though she has been awake for 6 more hours than I have. Some people just don't have their priorities straight. How am I supposed to communicate with someone if they are not up to school with today's celebrity gossip?

I need to get ready to go to work soon. I will have to take a shower. I work in less than 2 hours.

I drink flavored ice tea with my pizza bagel bites. The ice tea is decaffeinated and has hints of orange nectar. I think it turns my poop green. I have to blow my nose and I have to try not to examine the contents of the tissue. Ever since I saw Eddie Murphy in concert talking about how 'everybody looks at their snot' I have had an overwhelming desire to look through my tissues after I blow my nose. Before the Eddie Murphy concert I never wanted to. I am not sure what kind of mind control Eddie Murphy has over me, but I wish he would stop.

I am not sure what orange nectar is.

I am considering having a couple of Hostess Cupcakes for dessert. I have tons of cupcakes, because I bought two packages at work last night. They were buy-one-get-one-free.

I sip my tea from a purple plastic cup. I worry about drinking out of cups that come straight from the dishwasher. I don't use the heat setting on the dishwasher so the cups never come out fully dry.

Tthe cups have droplets of water collected inside them even when you turn them upside down and place them in the cabinet for a couple of days. I always turn my cups upside down whenever I place them in the cabinet. It was a trick I learned from my Mom. She did that to prevent the cockroaches from crawling around on the inside of our glasses. I guess she figured that you could always wash the out side of the cup. But who wants to think about how a roach was creeping around the inside of your cup?

Not me for sure. That's why I always make sure to keep my glasses turned down. Not that I have any roaches in my apartment. I don't. I just remember being traumatized by waking up one day at my Mom's place after the divorce. The floor was covered with cockroaches. So many you could not take a step without walking on a few dozen. The cockroaches outnumbered us by at least a million to one. There was no food in the house, so the roaches were desperate to eat anything. They would not scatter whenever you turned the lights on like at most houses. They would just continue to eat away at the package of bread that was accidentally left out on the counter.

I remember 4 or 5 roaches had bunched up on the top of the bread. I can't remember if they where just eating from a whole in the bread package or if the combined efforts from 5 roaches teeth were enough to pierce the thin layer of protective plastic away from the bread. I just remember turning off the lights in defeat and the cracking noises from stepping on bugs as I walked back to my room wearing shoes.

I think I just lost my appetite. I had my second helping of bagel bits sitting in the toaster oven and I can't bring myself to eat them now.

I know what you are thinking. "That's gross! But is it true?" It's true. Every word. Except the "cracking noises" the bugs made when you walked on them. In general the roaches were quick enough to get out of your way when you walked.

I have a lot of buried anger inside which comes out as fashion tips for you

I try to stay away from death. That's why I have haven't posted in a couple of days on this blog. Every day this blog gets fewer hits and i can only guess that is because America is full of stupid people who don't want to read about my ingrown toe nails, or how I lost another paycheck.

Actually this time I did not lose the paycheck. It was put it in my file and the person who put it in my file lost it. I am quite angry at that person. So angry I thought about smacking her in the gut. Which I guess is about how angry I was at myself the last few times I lost my paycheck. But if course I never smack myself in the gut and I hardly even noticed that I was angry at myself which just goes to show you that people are not very self aware.

My guess is that being self aware like that is not very helpful in the Darwinian sense of things. Mostly it just makes you want to kill yourself or kill others and that just makes it hard to get a long in society which I already have a hard enough time doing because I keep growing back hair and from what I hear women really hate back hair.

I guess men judge people on body hair too. I really hate girls with hairy arms. I mean I really hate that. A woman with hairy arms is worse than a guy with back hair any day of the week. A man with back hair is just an ugly gorilla of a dude. But back hair sends mixed signals to women. It says "Hi, I have a shit load of testosterone!" And is says "I look like a gorilla." The best thing you can say about a women with hairy arms is that she reminds you of a really expensive tranny which I guess for most of the male readers of this blog is a good time and the best way to send the 200 dollars that grandma sent you for Christmas.

If you are wondering if there are women out there that are really hot but do nothing about the arm hair all you have to do is take the strange case of Alyssa Milano. I know this bitch trolls the internet for any mention of her name and to get rid of all the naked pics people post, but I will just have to risk the 200 dollars I have in the bank and tell the girl that she needs to buy some Nads. Otherwise I might as well jack off to tranny porn. I mean sure I love to jack off to tranny porn, but sometimes I'd like to jack it to something without a meat stick if you get my drift.

Romius T. talks about Fashion.

I am not sure when those flat shoes became popular. You know the ones that look like ballerina slippers. Well I am thankful for that because at 5 foot 8 my life with the ladies is tuff. As long as you women are wearing shoes that keep you at your real height I can tower over you by a good 3 inches or so. Then you complaining about how tall I am seems superficial and I don't feel guilty when I put our sex tapes up on youporn. The only thing that sucks about this trend is that I have not been able to use it to my advantage. The whole time you girls have been wearing these short shoes you have also been ignoring me. Maybe the back hair thing again? But I don't see how you can guess I have back hair when I have a shirt on. Secondly, I wear socks and a shirt whenever I have sex with you ladies. Maybe you just know that bald guys have hair every where but where it counts. (You are right about that.)

I read somewhere that skinny jeans are not cool anymore. I am super glad of this. I hate skinny jeans. I like tight jeans, just not the tapered jean look. I also like short skirts and dresses in general on women. I think you ladies should go back to wearing gloves after 5 pm and men should wear a coat and hat. I think we should talk like we are in some kind of futuristic noir film.

I can't seem to post any pictures to this post for some reason. I will try back later. Or you could just google the terms Milano and hairy arms. Yummmy.

I find stuff on the internet. The stuff says you women all want sugar daddies, and sperm can control your minds

If you are anything like me then you stopped reading a few years ago, except for stuff you find on the Internet. I know you can't really trust the Internet, but that doesn't stop me from finding stuff on the Internet that confirms my biases, or makes fun of you.

That's why when I read the other day that sperm is like a mind control agent I though I would have to report it back to you. I guess the fact that sperm can be a mind control agent is the reason why I hate condoms and enjoy injecting myself inside you so much. Unconsciously I know the more I ejaculate in you, the more you will have to do my bidding.

I am not so sure about the study, but I can tell you that when a woman demands your seed, when she says to you, "cum inside me!" you can bet that you have 'tapped that ass' pretty good. Women are suckers for an orgasm. Much more so than men, because it is pretty easy for us to have one. Some women never have orgasms. I know most of the women I've dated were unable to give even themselves pleasure.

I would warn any of my male readers to stay away from women folk like that. That's because so much of what makes us human is brought about because the brain can analyze pain and pleasure properly. When the brain mistakes pain or pleasure the mind grows up wrong and you can become a serial killer or some kind of sociopath.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised the reason that women love money more than people is because of genetics. Because women can't have orgasms on their own they grow up to be sociopaths that care only about ensuring the survival of their offspring along with worrying about the comfortableness of their surroundings. The link in the last sentence is an article from Salon.com. The female writer talks about how she did not consider the "for richer or poorer" part of the wedding vows carefully.

Basically she was pissed off at her husband for losing his job. She thought about leaving him because of her dreams of a life where she could do what she wanted had drifted away because of his financial instability. Eventually the women got over her need to be a princess. She did so by adopting the stereotypically male role of provider. She quit free lancing and got a real job with a real paycheck. Her husband eventually found a job and they moved to Brooklyn to start their life as middle class Americans.

You can read the conversation over at Slate where both male writers and female writers think about what it means to want a sugar daddy. The female part of the equation wants to open the sugar daddy definition to include things like the wishful lust for winning the lottery (yes men want to win the lottery too!), and patronage for artists.

I think the only difference between say a guy like Leonardo da Vinci hoping to find a rich benefactor for his labor, and the average women who dreams of being rescued and carried away by a knight in shining armour, is that artists create something of value, while women have nothing more to offer than a vagina. And we all know how wrecked a vagina is after say age 16. Add marriage and kids and what you really have is a 3 car garage. Don't get me wrong, I could really use the extra storage space. But ladies we all sex bits, so get over it. Not all of us actually have artistic talent. Those that really have it should be taken care of, so that they can nurture those talents for the betterment of society.

I guess I just don't buy the argument that men who seek out benefactors are like the average girl looking for a Sugar Daddy. It breaks down for a number reasons. Not all men look for a patron. All women want a Sugar Daddy. Not even all artistically talented men look for a patron. Of course there are plenty men who are really nothing more than a bunch of schemers looking to live off of other people. But those men don't count as artists.

I know you want to protest now. You want to say that not all women are princesses that want a sugar daddy. Those girls are whores. They are prostitutes.

Nope. Those are women just being women, only more calculated. Of course women hate women who are calculators. Some will say that is because women can be catty. I don't think so. Maybe it's just because women hate math.*

*(Like the stereotype says.)

I still have a job. I still have this ingrown toe nail.

I guess I just wrote the title to my newest book. I still have a job. I still have this ingrown toe nail. I got some advice from a friend at work about how to deal with my ingrown toe nail. He suggested surgery, only with out a doctor and with me grabbing a cuticle cutter and clipping away at the nail. Then I am supposed to tear out the offending bit and yank it out with tweezers. He says whenever he went to the doctor that is what they did to him, so he decided to leave the high cost of private insurance and self medicate.

I for one am too chicken shit to try that. Though I did buy some cuticle cutters.

I still have my job. About an hour in I remembered that I don't particularly enjoy the job. Standing from 3 till midnight got my toe all yellow and nasty.

I went to Card Shark's house and we drank until 6 am. We finished off a 24 pack of Miller lite and a bottle of Martini & Rossi's Asti Spumante. That stuff if yummy. You can tell the difference between a 14 dollar bottle of sweet wine and a 7 dollar bottle of Balatore.

I am dehydrated. I have to work late again. I am supposed to go play poker after work. Maybe I can win enough money to go see a doctor about my toe.

That ain't no reason to wake me up

I woke at 9 a.m.
startled by the text message
from a girl on her death bed

it was nice she reached out to me
right before
she
died.

I got another
text message
just a few minutes later

this time
from a girl
in
high school

"don't worry she is 18"

so when I asked her for nude pics
she agreed
and offered to
take me to her
bed
whenever we got married

she told me that
she had no friends in
period 1

so i did my best
to keep her
entertained
Even though
I was half asleep

My landlord
paid me a visit
he brought with him
6 nicely addressed
envelopes

they were even stamped
I guess to make sure I could pay

He did not know
that I was under
suspicion at work

they wanted
to fire me
I think.

All because I lose checks
that I guess they can never cash
even after I put them in the drawer

I am on vacation
just for few
days

the unpaid kind
the only kind
I get
with this
job.

which just makes
me think
that
I should do that
more often
since
it appears
to be
my only
way
out.

I read Bukowski
who inspires me to write this

I listen to the man
who whistles
why he works

he was paid
to fix the rotten drywall
that the leaky roof made

I was told
new paint was
coming
and
I was told
they
were
going to fix the heat.

Just in
time
for
summer
in
Arizona

I figure
as
soon
as the place is nice

I can kiss it goodbye

Now I am just waiting
for the silver haired man
to finish
so I
can take a shit
and a shower.

so I can go to work
until midnight
assuming they don't want to fire me

Not that I want to go back to work

ain't it ironic
I have to wish to
god
that he saves me
that he allows me
to keep
the job I hate
that doesn't
pay the bills?

just so I
can go on
"faking it"
like you.

I like reading, but I can't come up with a title for this blog post

I watched a documentary on Hunter S. Thompson after getting a comment from the Drug Monkey that compared a post of mine to his. The documentary is called Gonzo and I highly recommend it to fans of Hunter or to fans of the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

I wanted to check out a few books by Hunter. I was hopeful that the Tempe Public Library would have a copy of Thompson's seminal study of the Hell's Angels. No luck. The library is all out of Hunter S. Thompson. All of his books have been stolen. I have no idea if the library will be ordering any more soon since the last time I talked to some of my fellow ex-coworkers they mentioned that the library was getting rid of 40% of the stacks (book shelves) even though the library is going through a major remodel and they are adding additional space. I sarcastically rejoined my coworker that a "library without books was kinda weird." For some reason the employee was in favor of the plan. He cited his reason that " most of the books we have don't get checked out." That just seemed like a reason to get different books, or more copies of the books people wanted. But I guess I am the last remaining bibliophile in Tempe and the rest of the city just wants more free Internet access and coffee bars.

With the notion that I would have to purchase my copies of Thompson's works I took off to Bookman's. Bookman's is the best used bookstore in Arizona. Unfortunately Bookman's was out of Hunter S. Thompson. Apparently a patron had asked for all the books by Hunter that the store carried just a bit before I arrived.

I did find a copy of a book of poetry by my favorite author Charles Bukowski. I don't think it is a major work, but it was the first time Bookman's had a copy of a Charles Bukowski book. I was told they sell out of his stuff as soon as they they place it on the shelf. I would buy his stuff new, but I have a thing about buying new books. I know I have talked about that before on this blog, but I know how people on other blogs casually mention things on their blogs like "if you have been reading this blog ...you know that..."

The truth is even when I pay attention to a blog I forget things that are said on it, so I am betting that you do the same thing with this blog. I say all that just to tell you that I think paying retail for books is a scam and since I am broke I try only to purchase used books or I try and read a copy at the library. I only buy new whenever I know I want to keep a book to reread or to use as inspiration, or when I know I will want to use it as a reference. That excludes a lot of good books that most of you middle class people buy, because you have too much money and don't need to worry about spending 20 dollars for the latest Stephen King novel.

The poet of Schadenfreude

It seems like no matter what I do I can't do enough for any of you. I just took a quick look at my stats and I see that they have fallen off a cliff. I am getting under 60 hits a day on the Self Help Center.

I guess I should just resign myself to the fact that this blog is never going to take off and get popular and that the few people who read this blog get bored after a while and go some where else.

I guess you don't want to read about my ingrown toe nails, my poop, or my aborted efforts with women. Mostly because I don't really have any contact with women, if you don't count "accidentally" brushing my hand against theirs when I hand them change at my check out counter.

I know those women want nothing to do with me and who can blame them? I mean I think I have lost 15% of my hair in the past few months. I stopped drinking soda and even though all I do is drink Ice Tea without sugar I can tell you that I have not lost a single pound. I am still chubby and maybe we can blame all the chocolate I keep eating, but I would not need to eat chocolate if I wasn't so depressed and sad and I wouldn't be that if I had a few female friends from the Internet begging to masturbate for me on webcams.

I don't get anything like that offered to me even though I was the one to introduce you to Schadenfreude. I mean it seems like that word is all over the Internet now and just like always I am ahead of the curve on shit like that, but it never seems to pay off for me.

So I guess I will just offer you another place to take your reading time since none of you want to spend it here. GO visit the new blog I found. The writer is a very shy person on a mission to get with the ladies and be more social. It is kinda like the blog version of the MTV show that tells people how to get dates only without the obnoxious Mystery dude as the narrator just the computer geek trying to get his groove on.

Best Week Ever

I get suspended from Work!

I wanted to start the New Year off with a bang. I guess that is why I ended up getting suspended from work. I am off for the next three days. I bet you are wondering why such a good worker got suspended. If you are wondering then you don't pay any attention to what you read. I told you guys a while back that a check got lost while I was working at customer service.

I did not say I lost it. I have no idea what happened to the check. All I know is that when my boss reviewed the DVR tape she could not tell what happened to the check. I don't see how that is possible. I had the check. She saw me "frank" it. She just can't tell what I did with the check afterwards.

Personally I think that shit sounds suspect. You see clearly what is going on...then all of a sudden nothing is clear? I refuse to take responsibility for the things I know I do wrong. I have a real hard time coming to understand anything where neither party is sure what happened. But since my drawer was short over 200 dollars because of the missing check I get a 3 day suspension.

Suspensions in the retail industry are nothing to worry about. Normally that is. I got suspended for having 4 tardies last year. It is just how the grocery business works. Personally, I think it kind of stupid. But that is just my take on things.

The only thing about it is that a friend at work (the dude who wants to go 4 wheeling) told me how every single 3 day suspension he has ever seen has ended with a person getting fired. That freaked me out a little obviously, because I don't make a dime off this website despite the fact that you won't find the kind of entertainment you find here anywhere else in the world. I mean I podcasts, TV for the Internet, my radio station, 3 blogs. I give and I give to you people. I get nothing but the occasional comment about how brilliant I am and usually that is enough to keep me going. Of course if I lose my job I will be homeless for real, because I am sure Card Shark's wife won't want to give up the spare bedroom to rescue a homeless bum.

I can't say I blame her as bums stink and use a lot of toilet paper as they are not used to being able to wipe their ass and whenever you let a homeless person inside to use your "facilities" expect them to steal all your toilet paper and aspirin. Even if the the homeless person is really just some under age post hippie "Mill Rat" which is a term we use around here for young white people who purposefully live on the street or take to wearing the same clothes everyday and begging for change in downtown Tempe. Some guy wrote an online book about a mill ave rat who is some kind of super hero. You can read it here.

My Ingrown Toe still hurts. I get accosted in a bathroom. I get hit on by a chick. I get cock blocked by the X-man.

I think it has been a week now but my ingrown toe still hurts. It is still infected. Luckily I added a bump to the head to even things out. I was in the bathroom stall at Casey Moore's when the door flew open and hit me in the head. If you know Casey Moore's then you know that the door is made of god damn steel and you know the place is supposed to be inhabited by a ghost. Do the math.

I still got hit on by chick when we checked out the Time Out bar. The TimeOut bar is a hipster heaven. My friends and I were the only people in the bar without makeup, tattoos, or body piercings. I guess we are original like that.

We played pool. Me, X-Man, and his brother. His brother looks a lot like Jesus. I always suggest that Jesus start a cult. He never wants to.

I was checking my email while the brothers played pool. Some girl walks over to me and gets in my personal space. She tells me, "Whatever you are looking at must be interesting." I guess she feels that being in hipster heaven is good enough for her. But looking at a bunch of posers and wanna be's gets boring and my friends can't play pool for shit. It's actually kinda embarrassing how bad we are at pool. And anyway sometimes I get e-mail that tells me how great a writer I am and I love getting that e-mail more than I love hooking up with fat bitches, and y'all know I live to hook up with fat chicks.

This girl is skinny though. She has bleached hair. She is drunk out of her mind. She wants to know if my e-mail is for work. I wonder how many people at hipster dive bar have blackberries that go off on the half hour reminding them to get that graphic design in before the deadline or their shit is canned. "I think all hipsters are graphic designers." I tell her. I am full of theories.

The e-mail is a notification from YouTube that someone has subscribed to my YouTube videos. I am fucking shocked by that. I had no idea anyone ever watched those. I was happy. She wanted to see my video so I showed her the video of the crazy talking pencil who is "not thinking about vagina!" She could not hear the video over the crowd noise and my on the spot impression voice over did not make her laugh.

COCKBLOCKERY

Just as I am closing the video the X man walks over. He is having issues since he has not gotten laid much. He starts fights now in Scottsdale. He introduces himself and gets the name of the chick. Aurora. "Like the car." Thankfully, I keep that thought to myself. I run out of beer and decide to get another beer. I thought I was making a point for me and the chick to go get a beer and get a away from X. She is too drunk for subtlety. She walks off. I get a beer and X man gets a phone number. He asked and she handed out the digits like they were free or something.

X defends his thugishness in the car. He calls me a pussy. He say it took him only 10 seconds to get the digits. I remind him that she walked up to me and that he was not a good wing man. A good wing man does not swoop down and prey on the drunk and weak. He works to get his "boy" laid. X just wants to talk about how is going to end up killing people at McDonald's if he can't get laid. I tell him about She Male prostitutes on Van Buren. For 10 dollars they can take care of that problem. "But that chick was hot!"

"That ain't no defense, man." I tell him. "So you are a good friend and wing man unless the chick is hot?"

We get more beer and head back to my place. Jesus calls his go go dancing girlfriend. Her name is Sara and she wears boots that look like the are made of fur. She looks cute and she enjoys drinking bottles of my Balatore Rose Champagne. We play 3 man (the dice game).

Sara makes a rule after rolling three doubles. Anytime a player rolls a 6 they have to drink 6 shots. That rule is fucked up. We are getting hammered now.

After a few hours I kick aside the music of hip hop that my gangster friends like. Then I make a discovery of EPIC PROPORTIONS. Sara LOVES my favorite rock band of ALL TIME. Sara loves UFO!

I think I just met my dream girl. A go-go dancer who drinks bottles of Cheap champagne and loves UFO. "This girls is awesome!" I exclaim to Jesus. "Marry this girl! Right now!" I demand. I don't think Jesus wants to marry her. Jesus hates 70's music. I see myself in 5 years married to Sara with our kids being second generation UFO fans. The idea makes me want to cry. "I love Sara." I tell Jesus. "I can believe I met a girl that likes UFO." Neither of my friends can believe it either. Jesus wants to dump Sara just because she likes UFO. But first he takes her back to her place, or more likely she takes him back to her place. I bet they are going home to fuck. Even though Jesus won't marry her. Even though Jesus hates UFO.

GOD MUST BE PUNISHING ME

Since God is punishing me I have decided to go CHURCH. Tuesday I will attend the services of Bob Larson. Bob is a demon chaser. Bob performs exorcism. I new a guy who worked with me that now works for Bob. That shit is crazy. I plan on taking a few friends down and checking it out. I plan a post tomorrow. I have posted some videos about BOB (his TV show on the SCIfi Network over at Bathos.

Wake Up

My text message machine sits empty as people go about their busy lives. A Fourth day in a row with a ingrown toe.

Left over potatoes sear in the fat of unwanted bacon. They sit next to a half a glass of sprite. 2 slices of white bread. The fluorescent bulb flickers. I watch it burn out. Empty pizza box. A bottle of champagne.

I wipe my ass raw from my third shit. I watch the red flecks disappear down the toilet. I wonder where they go. What kind of life they will have. They half dissolve on the way down.

I limp through the apartment careful to avoid putting to much weight on my toe. I pour a bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the blood stained nail. I watch the foam bubble up.

I think about showering. It is 2 in the afternoon. My feet are cold because I opened the windows. It is raining. The rain smell mixes with the cloud of bacon fat to form a smog over my life. The trashcans are overflowing. Several sets of dice litter the dining room table. A bottle of liquor remains stuck to the table. The smell of bananas is overwhelming.

I should have a worse hangover. I remember bits of things. Star Trek on TV. The episode where Kirk fights a Greek God. A girl is running around in a pink dress with no shoulder straps. She has small breasts. I think Kirk has sex with her.

I start the dishwasher. I glance at the left over dishes. 4 wine glasses. 4 shot glasses. I need to take out the trash. I need to shower. My face feels grimy. I may have smeared the bacon fat. I look dumbly in the mirror. I hope to see something that is not there. I see the growing scalp line appear where once there was hair. The computer hums in the background.

Work calls me. I ignore the call. I grind my teeth. My hands are too cold to type.

A New Podcast

Rejoice. A brand new podcast is ready for you audio pleasure. Take all the fun of the Self Help Center with you portable style. You can subscribe to the podcast very easily. Just click on the side bar for the self help center podcast. You can also search for me on iTunes by searching for "the self help center."

The podcast makes for fun times on family car rides. Surprise your parents, amaze your siblings.

Welcome to 2009. Same old thing as 2008.

{Subtitled A Slacker's Bill Of Rights}

Welcome to the first post of 2009 which means that one more year has gone by and that means one more year I never accomplished anything. I can only hope when they write my obituary or biography they are kind to me during this stage in my life. Maybe they could say something like "I was keeping it real," or "gaining valuable life experience." Of course you and I know better than that, but the people reading about my ass in 300 years won't.

It's a new year and that means it is a time for reflection and a time for evaluation. I askew that kind of shit, because it is plainly obvious to anyone that I am not successful and whatever game plan or big idea I have needs to be reevaluated, because it sure as shit is not working. Of course I don't really plan on doing much different this year. I know what you want to say to that, "the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." Other than the fact that that statement is patently false (I think it only means you are stubborn) that statement makes me want to shit in your face.

I have a theory about slackers.

I have a theory about the world. How none of our actions are consequential, but you already knew that, or you wouldn't live in the suburbs and drive an S.U.V. Which just proves my point that you are an idiot who hates his life, but for some reason you are too much of a coward to face it. Unlike me. The one thing I have going for me is that I am a realist who is not afraid to look 'reality' square in the jaw. No matter how much it hurts.

Like when I look in the mirror and it tells me that I have lost more hair in the past 2 months that in the past 3 years. I know that sucks, but frankly I am almost 40 and the fact that I held on to some of my hair for as long as I did is really something I ought to be thankful for instead of bemoaning what a shit draw of the luck jar I got when I was born into a family full of men over 6 feet tall but some how I still managed only to get to 5 foot 8. My uncles lost hair too of course, but they get the advantage of being 6 feet tall. I get no advantages. I only got to lose my hair, and see how that looks when it gets paired with the chubby gene and some major league shortness. But of course I am a tad witty. So I guess that makes up for it, huh?

Not really. I'd complain, but the fact is you are not interested in me complaining, you have you own complaints, which are even less important than mine, but somehow you manage to think they aren't, because as always you've convinced yourselves that you are responsible for all the good things in your lives, but for none of the bad. You think I hate you for that, but you are wrong. You think I am resentful for your productivity, but you are wrong about that too. I hate you because you think I am responsible for all the bad things that happen in my life and you can't accept that I am happy not caring about the stuff you value. Why would you guess the first thing? You think I give a shit about your lives?

The truth is nobody really "makes" their lives but we all have to take responsibility for them and in the end we are the only ones who really ever suffer for our actions. Don't blame the slacker if you are shouldering too much of the blame for his life. Take some fucking responsibility for yourself. The truth is you only see the negative aspects to my lifestyle (life choices if you want to get all Sociological) but the fact of the matter is that my life beats most of yours.

I know. I know. I can't buy a house or get laid or even rent a Jet Ski. But those kind of things don't matter. How many times are you going to go Sea Doing in your life? Six? Seven? So the fuck what. I don't give a shit. Just like I don't give a shit if I die of some disease when I am 56 instead of 72. Those in between years suck. As far as I am concerned I may as already be dead. I mean I can't even get the idea to stick around at a party full of a bunch of 20 year olds getting drunk on New Year's Eve. Instead I am sitting here blogging a long ass blog post that nobody will read and even fewer will understand. I guess what I am saying is that if the only thing you can point out about my life that you think is an advantage to me is the the fact that I don't have to take responsibility for any of my actions, then you are fucking idiot. I guess I could point out some of my advantages, some of the disadvantages, and then just let you do the math. But then I would have to carry the 1 for you as well. I guess I just don't feel like it, man.

Maybe I could give you a hint. It is all about non-conformity man. Maybe. Well. One small part is.

Don't go all shit knockers on me either and call me a hipster. I would seriously have to fuck your little sister over that shit.

We may not agree on much friend, but that's cool. Just stop getting all high and mighty. Stop telling me stuff I already know. Let me tell you my friend, I have free-time, FREE TIME.

I know I can't do anything with my free time. But shit, man. When has human kind ever done anything with their free time? That is whenever they have been lucky enough to get any.

I value my FREE TIME. I need my FREE TIME.

Maybe you don't. Kool rockets dude. I say great for you. But I need my free time. Understand? Comprende?

When you have FREE TIME like me it seems like everybody wants to invade it. "Hey man, you got free time. Give me some! I only got a little. I need some of yours!"

Fuck that, Homey. I got my FREE TIME. But (as you always remind me) it has cost me greatly. Dearly. I won't give it away. Not for nothing. You see dipshit, I have to horde my free time, because that is the pay off for me. That is the pay off for being a slacker. I sit in my FREE TIME. I do my bullshit. FREE TIME is a vacation for you. FREE TIME is my life style and you vacationing asshats are invading my lifestyle choice. I get FREE TIME. You don't. That was your fucking choice, so don't go resenting me for it. I get to USE my FREE TIME as I see FIT. And that means I may waste my time. It may mean that I am going to abandon you. But it won't be FREE TIME if I have to baby sit your ass. If I have use my FREE TIME like it is a vacation. I can't schedule FREE TIME, baby. FREE TIME has to be FREE, baby.

YOU CARE ABOUT EVERYTHING
MISERY KEEPS ME FROM BEING ABLE TO VALUE ANYTHING

I know you are sick of me telling you that I am lazy. That I don't care about shit. Lazy is just my way of saying that I don't value shit. I don't value a HEMI engine or your fancy associates degree from community college. I mean, I am glad you got your 2 year degree, and I am glad that you make more money than me, because the average retard* makes more money than me.

* There was a study.

What you need to understand (to understand me) is that I only value a couple of things in life. Those things vary from day to day (and between slacker and slacker.) But the truth is harsh and the facts are real and they are that I really don't give a shit about some things that (objectively) may be important and which you are certain I need to value. I don't. I would be happy in a motel room, if I had my i-pod and a hot plate.

There is a lot more STUPID in the world than that. We got a shit load of people dying and we got a shit load of misery. Myself. I would like to see and end to all that misery, but if life teaches you one thing...it's that MISERY is one big bad motherfucka and MISERY ain't going nowhere, brother. NOWHERE.

You can only fix a few things in life and all those things are small. So small that it won't matter much. The wolves are always hungry. The sheep are always slow and stupid. They will always get eaten. And if you have your big screen high definition tuned into that frequency all you will ever see is the MISERY.

I can't turn that shit off. I can't escape the WATTAGE that MISERY gives off. I get it HIGH BEAMED to me ALL FUCKING DAY, dude. And after a while that shit will wear you down. Make your frown and get inside your brain. Maybe you will say that my brain is rotten then. I am just telling you what I know. I know MISERY. Even if I don't experience it fist hand. I feel it, dude.

Maybe I am too sensitive for you. Maybe I am not sensitive enough. Maybe you feel (Unlike Kant) that you can get an Ought from an "is."

Don't argue MORALITY with me, dude.

Morality is a losing cause for you.

Morality is just some reasoned guys way of saying that he finds your behavior or your attitude "disgusting." It is pure animal instinct, baby. The more you read about MORALITY man the more you "ought" to know better. Tell me how you feel, baby. Tell me all you want. I might care. Who knows. Just don't go telling me your stupid feelings of disgust are UNIVERSAL. Don't go telling me what is RIGHT and don't go telling me what is WRONG.