I make a plan for life

I'll turn 40 in a couple of years. I really need to get around to choosing a career, or deciding what I want to do with my life.

I think I finally found my calling.

I want to teach sign language...

To babies
in
Scottsdale

and have
their
fit Mom's
fall
in love
with me

then
fit mom
will
Leave her
sugar daddy

and
together:

me,
signing baby,
and fit trophy wife

will run off
to the
Caribbean
Sea

and

live

Happily ever After

The Semantics of Last Conversations

I've been busy making friends. My new friends want to add me on Facebook. I tell them that this is a bad idea. I tell them that my Facebook is only for my friends "in real life." I tell them that my Mom reads "all my posts on Facebook" and that "I would have to explain to Mom what StickCAM is." I am not ready to do that yet.

Another reason I've been too busy to write in this blog is because I have been watching old men have heart attacks while arguing the meaning of bus stops.

It's not just semantics for the old man.

"I just got out of the hospital." He told the bus driver. The old man waved his hand at the bus driver like he was waving back cold soup at a deli. "You're going to give me a heart attack." He bellowed.

For some reason the old man strikes me as Jewish. Even though I am sure he is not. I think the old man would like to end the argument with the bus driver, but the bus driver kept telling the old man to "calm down."

There is no quicker way to inflame an argument than by telling one of its participants to calm down. For some reason that only makes people angrier.

The argument got started over the fact that the old man waved the bus driver down while a good 50 feet from a bus stop.

When the driver saw the old man he let out a curse and slammed on the brakes. The old man walked slowly toward the bus using a cane. He was upset and red faced by the time he got on board. He mumbled and sat down close to the driver in the partitioned section reserved for the elderly and the handicapped.

The mumbling must have set the driver off because the bus driver got stern with the old man. The bus driver lectured the old man about proper bus riding technique. He told the old man that, "Although I stopped for you…you were not at an approved bus stop." In addition he told the old man that he should, "Get himself to a bus stop in time if he wants to ride the bus."

The old man would have nothing of it.

"You did not give me time. You never stopped at the bus stop!"

The retort was not enough to win him favor.

"I just got out of the hospital." The old man looked at me like I could confirm his whereabouts.

I don't know a lot about philosophy, but I am sure that the old man's statement was just meant to garner sympathy. His illness is not germane to the case at hand. The old man's gaze caused me to stir in my seat uncomfortably.

"Either you WERE or were NOT at a bus stop, sir." I say to myself.

I don't like all this conflict between bus driver and bus rider. I want it to stop. I think I should say something. Get them to calm down.

But I don't like conflict so I don't get involved. I don't say anything to the old man or the bus driver.

I wonder if I am experiencing something my social psychology textbook tells me is the bystander effect.

The old man is telling anyone who will listen to him on the bus that he is "probably having a heart attack." I wonder if I am going to have to try and revive the old man when his heart gives out.

We are only a few hundred feet from the hospital. Maybe the paramedics can get here in time and I won't have to give him mouth to mouth resuscitation. I wonder if the old man has dentures. I wonder if they will slide off his gums when I bend down to give him my air. I imagine teenagers getting stuck by interlocking their braces. I see the dentures in my mouth as I come up for air like I went bobbing for apples.

There is a college girl sitting on the bus reading Bukowski. She reads the book because she was assigned to at school. She looks up at all the yelling. She takes an earphone out of her ear. The earphone is the in-the-ear kind. It is white. It unmistakably belongs to an I-pod.

I want to talk to the girl about her Bukowski book, but she pulls the cord along the window. The bus driver stops the bus and the girl disembarks without looking back at me.

I am invisible to everyone but the old man. I feel bad for him. I figure the old man is going to die soon. The old man's last conversation is arguing with a middle aged bus driver. The old man was in the hospital, but no one came to pick him up. He was all alone but still stood defiantly away from the assigned bus stop. The only person on the bus who looked him in the eye was worried about his knowledge of CPR.

I sure hope I know at least enough CPR to keep the old man's heart beating long enough so that he can have a better "last conversation."

Call Me

"What's it like to be from Arizona?"

I don't know.

"I'm worried that I am orally fixated."

That's what Freud would say. Not that Freud is relevant anymore. He exists. But only in blurbs in undergraduate classes, or in the used copy of Interpretation of Dreams that sits in the "self help" section of a used book store that some tattooed neo-hippy is drawn to.

"Everyone looks better with ART on them."

My face is ruddy. The sun is killing me. Making me go blind. I could fix it . I just need SPF 15, but I can't afford $4.89 for the knock off bottle of Oil of Olay.

"After work all I do is eat. I bought a 32 ounce bag of apples. I ate the bag in three days."

Karen Horney was right. The breast is bad. I have three hours to kill, but you want to sit on a chat phone line and fake it. Go ahead. Silence. It is just a form of punishment. Of withdrawal.

"Are you a Hal Hartley fan?"

Please say yes.

"Fuck yes."

What pseudo intellectual doesn't have a favorite filmmaker? It used to be easier to be a fake. Before the internet. You wouldn't know anything about that. "I need to you be 20 years older."

"So you can understand my references."

I think the Atari 5200 is shit.

"I have a conference call with the V.P. of the Communist Party USA."

I am sure the glimmer of recognition is fake.

"WHY THE FUCK DID YOU NOT KILL THIS WHEN YOU HAD THE FUCKING CHANCE?"

If you are going to say something like that. Try to plan for maximum shock value. Say it when she has no idea it is coming. Make sure she is eight or nine months pregnant. Say it when she is waving "hello" at you and carefully balancing herself down stairs while in combat boots and a pink miniskirt. If you waited and she is holding on to her belly when she hears you she may begin to cry before she is down the stairwell.

Don't bring it up again. Act as if you never said anything. Then get mad at her. Make her believe something that is an obvious lie. Keep saying it over and over again.

She will give in.

"I like the new Dairy Queen."

No you don't. But you like the new girl who works at the Dairy Queen.

"She is Uber Fucking Sweet!"

You smile and use chic nerd speak. This is disarming to most. As long as you have black plastic rims on your glasses. It will not work if you have wire glasses. That was so six years ago.

Today's post is all about SEXY

Rhode Island is the greatest state in the union. According to this article Rhode Island allows 16 year old girls to become strippers. The fake island state even allows prostitution "behind closed doors."

"Rhode Island teens under 18 can’t work with power saws or bang nails up on roofs. But dance at strip clubs? Sure. Just as long as the teens submit work permits, and are off the stripper’s pole by 11:30 on school nights.

It’s enough to surprise even those in America’s mecca of striptease and sin –– Las Vegas."

"With the age of consent at 16 in Rhode Island, the police worry that teenage strippers could take their business to the next level and offer sexual favors –– and it wouldn’t be illegal. State law currently allows indoor prostitution, and two bills intended to ban it have stalled in the General Assembly."

I am moving to Rhode Island. I hereby induct Rhode Island into the Jailbait Hall Of Fame!

Now take a look over at Bathos for my take on the world's greatest Amateur Porn clip!

My Ex-Boss is PSYCHIC!

July 30th is the fifth birthday of this blog.

You might think I would be excited about that. But I am not. Somehow celebrating the five year anniversary of a blog that has attracted 12 readers only makes me want to cry. You can't celebrate 12 readers. Just like you can't celebrate how the writing on this blog has gone from awful to almost better.

Maybe the boss that fired me all those years ago was right.*

*The following conversation is not verbatim.

This blog will never amount to anything.
Neither will you.

My boss never really said that. My boss never got the chance to tell me how he felt. He requested a meeting with me after he discovered my blog. I never went to that meeting, and my failure to do so was cited as "one" of the many reasons he had to fire me.

Dear [ identity redacted ]
I predict in 5 years that you will be making the exact same salary you are making now. Further more I predict that your blog traffic will grow 400%. From 3 to 12 people a week.

My former boss sounds like a prick.

But he was right. It took 5 years for me to get back to earning 10 dollars an hour. And if you look carefully over at the sidebar you will notice that my Google following is 12. Exactly.

I used to have 13 followers. And I felt like 13 readers was some kind of good luck number. Like the devil was winking at me. Letting me know that he was down with me. That he cared. And that eternal justice would one day rain down on the rest of you.

But now that I am down to 12 readers I feel like I have been abandoned. Not by my dwindling readership, but by SATAN himself.

If I can't get SATAN interested in my soul then who will have me?

I need to drink until my liver bursts like a blueberry in a 425 degree oven. Berries hissing and popping, bursting black blueberry bile all over me, until I am stained, my insides half cooked like I failed to read directions, stuffed too many blueberries in the batter like some kind of...

I am getting spammed!

I am forcing people to type in those little matching words if they want to leave a comment. I hope just for a few days (until the spam bot gets the point.) Hopefully we will be back to regular comment posting soon!

News from the household:
My roommate burned something on the stove tonight. The fumes and smoke nearly made me pass out. So I guess my roommate is trying to kill me, either that or he is the biggest fucktard of all time.

Crazy update from the internet:
I heard that Victoria the 15 year old from Maury "that wants to have a baby" started a Youtube channel. If you have seen you must share it with me!

More news:
You can leave voice mails for the podcast again!

I may be a 'self-hating ugly' but I would never develop "military robots that could feed on corpses."

If you are ever at the post office eye fucking a cute girl and she tries to look away, you could assume she is disgusted by your actions.... that is until she EYE FUCKS the guy with tats holding the door open for her on the way out of the post office.

Then you understand that she really doesn't hate being 'eye raped,' she just hates being eye raped by you ...Mr. Ugly.

Which I get. Because I hate ugly people too.

Maybe you have no idea what this "eye rape" post has to do with the government developing robots for the military that feast on the dead bodies of slain soldiers, but I imagine that the only people developing such a weapon were self-hating uglies that have it out for the human race.

A message to my Nerdy friends in the weapons development arena:

YOU KNOW BETTER!...You guys spent every Friday for the last two years watching Terminator-The Sarah Connor Chronicles. You have to know what those robots are going to do us.

AN URGENT MESSAGE TO ALL HOT GIRLS

Please allow the ugly guy in line behind you at the post office to eye rape you. Eye rape is all ugly men have. Well... that and the hand job we give ourselves later.

If you don't allow eye rape you may just allow Mankind to be exterminated. And that's on YOU hot girls of the world.

All on you!

When Martin Attacks

There are people out there who want to tell you a story. They will bend down to whisper things in your ear that they are ashamed to say out loud in line at the grocery store. They will tell you that things are going to shit. The world is falling apart.
They spit a bit into your ear when they tell you, "Plan for the worst. Things won't be getting better."

It's true. Life is shit. But that does not mean that everybody I know isn't better off than me. The spit mumbled narrative is not the story of "our" times. It's just the story of my life.

Martin had a plan to kill Lester.

The plan backfired. It ended in a sad ironic twist.

But before that Martin sat on the video game chair getting pissed. Not far from his line of vision a couple of cockroaches ran from the dishwasher to the cabinet. No one at the party noticed them. The cockroaches counted themselves lucky after they reached the safety of the dark food pantry.

There is a party going on but someone forgot to buy plastic cups, so we are all drinking out of dirty glasses. The host of the party is running around asking people if they have "seen any of her shot glasses." The party hosts also forgot to purchase toilet paper. There is a crate of empty beer cans and trash in the middle of the floor of the living room that we have to step around to get to the beer stored in the refrigerator.

An mp3 player is connected to a couple of computer speakers. The speakers strain to be heard over the noise of a half dozen teenagers getting drunk. The piles of damp towels on the floor in each of the bedrooms are beginning to mildew. The towel's eerie smell sticks to your goatee when you use them to dry off spilled beer.

Martin is upset that the door to Jessie's room is locked. He has tried unlocking the door, but the cheap apartment frame and the door's hollow particle board center are too much for him. The door remains securely locked. Whatever secrets the door has kept from Martin remain hidden.

Martin is drinking heavily. He has consumed one of the two bottles of Crown Royal purchased for the party by himself. I bought the Crown because it was on sale. Buy one get on free. I never knew how smooth Crown Royal was until I tried it at the party. Now I see why all the kids in the Ghetto enjoy it. You can't taste the liquor or the alcohol. All you taste is the Dr. Pepper you bought to mix it with.

The television is on. On the screen a man is talking behind a podium. There is a large red devil painted into the background of the podium. The man behind it is talking about Abbey Hoffman and the counter culture.

The party has gone through 3 cases of Budweiser in addition to a quart of vodka and the Crown Royal.

The man on the television is telling me it is okay to take money from yuppies. "Yuppies want to pretend they are part of the counter movement. Don't worry that's okay. We are ALL part of the movement."

I wonder if the man is talking about me. I wonder if I am counter culture because I am twice the age of the second oldest person here. I am not sure. I wonder if being old only makes me perverted. I begin to question my attendance at this party after I get a lap dance from an 18 year old girl who tells me, "She thinks of me as a father figure."

"You have a strange father." I tell her.

She lifts her shirt to show me her belly. She slowly grinds me. Her breasts nuzzle against me awkwardly. As soon as her breasts touch my face they stop. She falls forward off the chair and off of me to the ground. She laughs and runs back to the bedroom where Lester waits. Lester locks the door again and I think that's when Martin begins to think about killing Lester.

Martin and Jessie have a history. The history consists of Martin trying to conquer Jessie and failing. I can imagine why he is worried. All that hard work Martin has put in over the years has left Jessie vulnerable. Martin is fuming that Lester is going to take advantage of all of Martin's hard work.

"If you take Ritalin you will be able to stare at boring websites longer."

"Excuse me?" I twist my head towards the sound. I look at the girl next to me but she just stares at me blankly.

"That was the TV… I think." She says after I ask her for Ritalin. She does not have any. And then she laughs at my joke that, "This party would be more interesting if we had Ritalin."

She agrees. She tugs at the lime green striped dress she is wearing. The dress is more like a long t-shirt than a skirt. The dress is tight. She has a nice body. I was surprised by a Martin's remark after he caught me staring at her long legs that, "she's had like 4 kids."

"But she's like 20." I found myself adapting the local language and adding "likes" to most any sentence.

"Unbelievable." The man on the TV and I respond.

Martin was getting antsy. He kept glancing over at the door that Jessie and Lester were behind. I knew it was only a matter of time before the door got kicked in.

Martin does not disappoint me. He got up and sat his drink down on the kitchen table. He then walked quickly over to the bedroom door and gave a mighty pull on it. He jiggled the lock and cursed. Then he raised his foot and kicked hard at the door knob.

A loud KERAAACK sound. But the door still stood. The knob was in place. The frame seemed resistant to his efforts. Martin placed two hands on the door knob and started pulling. That did not work either, so he started bumping the door with his shoulder. He put all his weight behind a last effort with his shoulder just as Lester from behind the door managed to swing the door open.

Martin's shoulder missed the door but his head did not miss the frame. He fell backwards after making a strange sound. Like he had the wind knocked out of him.

"Sorry, man." Lester said as he looked down at the crumpled body below him. A knot was already starting to show on Martin's forehead.

Martin sat down on a chair. He mumbled for the next few hours. In between mumbles he would place his head in his hands and fall forward off the chair. He would lower his head between his knees for a few minutes. Just long enough for me to begin to worry that I would have to get up and ask him if he was okay. Then just as I would stand up so would he and he would start to say something about being "good."

That was good. I needed Martin to live long enough for the buses to start running. After the buses got here and I was safely gone it would be someone else's fault if he died. I could imagine saying to the police officer, "he seemed fine while I was there."

Maybe I would only get charged with negligent homicide instead of manslaughter.

"If I went to prison." I told myself. "I would use my time wisely. I would learn how to be an arsonist and a murderer. I would join the counter culture."

"Great idea!" Echoed the guy on the TV. "Great idea!"

Read Part 1 of this post HERE!

Oh Heavanly Father

Why has thou forsaken me?
And sent tiny fishes to feed on the bottoms of my feet?

and thou awokenenst me
in the middle
of the night

by chocking
me
in my
sleep

I cannot
swallow

lest
I choke
again

O father
I wipe my eyes
in the bed
thou
maketh for me.

Thou had maketh
my tongue
swell

and
placeth
cotton
in my mouth
to silence
me

Lord,

I
Cannot
swallow

AND

I walketh
beside
ye
In the desert

yet ye cast demons
at me
who taunt

Demons
who
falsely offer
to lay with me

I
am
Falling
lord.

falling
d
o
w
n

AND
even
on my
knees

you will
torment
me

and
send
a thousand
plagues
on
me

and you will
taketh
all things
from me
that are rightly
mine

sworn to me
in covenant
with
thee

And
you will
make
blisters
on my
shoulders

And mark
my chest
with the
stain
from
birth

Even as you
do these
things

I will
not
repent

For
I have
no
sins

for which
you
can find fault.

I will call
out a
warning
to all
who will
hear.

open thy eyes
lest they
be the rest of
the dead

And walketh
with
injured
calves

Escapeth
the
PATH

be true
and
hear
my words

lest you all
be as damned
as
I.

Last night my life was a lot like a tV action series only I drink beer and shit green peanuts

The morning after I still smell like stale beer. Like a half empty can of Schlitz malt liquor that has been left open all night.

I sit at my computer in my underwear. I type into a search engine the words "Emma Watson panty slip." I look through the links for pictures. I tug at my flaccid penis until my ass begins to itch.

I go to the bathroom and wipe. I am curious to see what's down there. I look in the bowl and I see peanuts. The peanuts are covered with a moist green layer that looks a little like algae.

After I am done taking the shit I don't want to jack off anymore. So I take a shower.

My ingrown toe nail has decided to bleed out. There is blood all over my foot. I watch it run down the drain. Some of it is bright red. Most of the blood is black. It must have clotted last night when I jumped over the fence and ran to the liquor store.

We had to make a beer run last night. I outran my 18 year old BFF to the liquor store after she told me that the liquor store closes at 1:45 am. I think her large bosoms prevented her from keeping up with me.

The liquor store had police tape blocking off the entrance, though no dead bodies inside. Instead it had three guys with mops cleaning the floors.

I yelled over at the black guy who I assumed was the liquor store attendant.

"Are you guys closed?"

"We close early every night. We close at 1:45." He answered back. The man grabbed a garden hose and began to shower the area in my direction with sprays of water. I think he wants me to keep back.

"I know that." I told him. I was still shouting at him, because I wanted him to hear me over the sounds of the water hitting the cement drive way.

"I know you close at 1:45." I glance down at my cell phone. The display blinks at me. It says 1:40.

"Did you close early today?" I ask. My voice trails off. I am out of breath from the run from the apartment. I am worried that I not going to get any more beer, and my BFF just invited Lester to come over and party with us.

Lester is a redneck who wears cowboy hats. I assume rednecks drink a lot. Unless Lester is a gay redneck. Gay rednecks don't drink beer. They drink Gatorade and they offer to smoke meth with you in the bathroom. Then they argue the merits of calling nine year old boys "Manginas" vs. "ManPussy" with you.

"So you closed early tonight?" This is mostly a rhetorical question. My brain is still bouncing in my skull from the run. I just wanted to clarify the events. I did not mean to say anything to antagonize anyone.

"We close early EVERY night!"

He uses the garden hose to punctuate the ending of every word. The water leaps out in giant arcs. If the sun was out you would have confused his efforts to clean the drive way with making rainbows.

"But it is not 1:45 yet!" I tell him.

This time I meant to antagonize him. I am far enough away from him that I figure he can't get a good look at me and so he won't remember me. And if he decides to chase after me I have a good enough head start. I am fast. Much faster that I look. The 18 year old girl who ran with me to the store is just coming down the side walk. She hides in the shadows of the brick wall so as not to get caught trying to buy beer with me. Her eyes stare wide open at me. She is watching me get pissed off for the first time.

It's been a long time since I got pissed off enough at someone to yell at them. I go years without a good cathartic scream fest.

"We close early EVERY night!" He yells.

Now the guy is just trying to piss me off.

"I get that! I know that you close every night at 1:45. Only the time is FUCKING 1:40. You see?? So that's why I am asking…I mean WHAT THE FUCK… DO I LOOK LIKE SOME KIND OF FUCKING IDIOT?"

I walk off.

I turn my head and scream back at him, "WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?"

"Did you hear that, Jessie?"

"Fuck ya!" Her eyes were full of admiration. "That was awesome!" "I've never seen you go off on anyone like that!"

"I know."

We still need to get beer.

"I know another store where we can get beer." Jessica volunteers.

"Can we make it?"

"If we run."

I think she means if I run we will make it.

"Let's go."

As we walk to the next store Jessica tells me how she gets hit on by lesbians a lot. I think it's because she looks EMO when she wears mascara. I tell Jessica that I think EMO chicks are hot.

"If you weren't young enough to be my daughter…" I leave the sentence hanging.

"You would what?" She asks. "I thought you were going to finish that statement."

I just shrug my shoulders.

"When I first met you..." She remembers. "I thought you were cool. I hoped you had a son. If you did I would have dated him."

"What if he was 14?" I asked.

"We'd work around it."

I stop walking.

"Pervert!" I mock accuse her.

"I know." She laughs. "Four years. That's gross."

So I guess 20 years would not be okay then. I decide to change the subject.

"Lester is in love with you."

"No he's not!"

Yes he is.

"I can't see why else a guy would walk three miles at 2 in the morning to meet you on a random Tuesday."

We are almost to the other store. I see the lights are dimmed. The store is closed and now we will have to walk even further to the gas station. The time is 1:55. I look over at Jessica and mumble something about Keifer Sutherland and start jogging.

I need a shortcut. I see a fence. I hop over the lowest part of the fence that separates the sidewalk and the gas station. I run some more and make it to the store just as the door is about to close. The cashier tells me I have 30 seconds.

I grab the first 24 pack I can get my hands on. Busch beer. Jessica is stunned by my performance. Jessica tells me she is going to alter her facebook to add me as a hero. "For running like a bitch to get beer."

We walk back towards the apartment that Jessica shares with two roommates. We walk by a Camaro that has two hot Mexican girls in the backseat. I point them out to Jessica. I tell her that "if the girls are lesbians that will be ok because we both have Bush."

"You see I am carrying a case of Busch beer." I point at the 24 pack of beer I am holding. Then for extra giggles I point at Jessica's vagina.

She laughs and runs off to meet Lester who is walking towards us carrying a 32 ounce Lemon lime Gatorade.
Go read part 2.

Happy Fourth of July, Megan Fox. Now Please Shut the Fuck Up!

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