Happy Halloween means a Slutty Strawberry Short Cake, a customer drenched in blood, and my conversation about how we forgot that Kobe Bryant is a rapist

She is vile, twisted, and demonic, and not a thing at all like you thought she was going to be. 

She is a slutty Strawberry Short Cake for Halloween.

The assistant manager makes lurid comments about her outfit to you.  He says things like, "I sure would like to take a bite out of that pie."

You tell him you are confused.  You tell him that strawberry short cake is not pie.  The assistant manager then says things about Strawberry Short Cake's bosoms.  "Her cleavage looks tasty."  He says.  He also tells her, "The boys aren't going to be looking at your face today." When she asks if she is wearing too much make up.

She is not used to wearing a dress.  Her bosoms are exposed to you every time she bends over to package up groceries.  She does not remember to cover herself so at least 3/4 of her breasts get exposed.  You do not see nipple.

She curtsies and twirls around in her dress like a six year old ballerina does.  She is trying to fool you.  She is trying to tell you that she is just trying out the devil temptress persona.  Just to see what it feels like.  She is not serious about it.

"How can you be serious in green and white stockings?"  She asks.

She fusses with her new skirt. She is a kid playing grown up.  She smooths the fabric.  She is tying the ribbons on the front of her dress.

Then she tells you about all the hearts she breaks of the boys she knows.  You know these boys too.  And you know that she is telling the truth.  She is also telling the truth when she says that the one heart she can't break is the one boy who always breaks her heart.

You agree.  And then you tell her that she is heartless and mean to all those boys.  And then because you have talked too long about her you tell her that, "she can't break your heart."

She looks like she is going to cry.

"Are you serious?" She asks.  "Am I really that mean?"

"No."  You try and reassure her.

"I was just kidding."  You tell her.

And she turns her head  and maybe she wipes some moisture from her eye.  And you respect that little movement away from you.  You respect that she is going to keep that all inside her.  She is not going to burden you with the knowledge that something you said may have hurt her.

And then maybe it is your heart that begins to break.

"It makes me want to read more." 

Her words manage to break up your thoughts for a moment.

She has read a few of the things that you have given her to read.  But you know she is lying about wanting to read more.  She is not very interested in what you write.

"Oh?"  You sound surprised and you tug a bit at your ear.  You have tugged at it all day, and now whenever you look at it in the mirror it appears red like it was infected.  But you are not running a fever, so you don't think you have an infection.

Slutty Strawberry Short Cake should not be trusted with children, small pets, or the elderly.  She is a liar.  She sleeps with boys.  She plays with your affection.  She is always asking for favors from you.  When she asks for favors she wiggles her face a bit and she leans into.  You can get a good look at her bosoms when she does this.  She catches you peaking all the time so she thinks she has you.

You would like to write, "and suddenly it did not matter anymore what she thought," but you cannot.

"When did people forget that Kobe Bryant was a rapist?"

You like to ask random questions like this.  Which aren't really random questions to you, because questions like this are always running in the background whenever you talk to anyone.

"I am not... sure."  She pauses and then she asks "Is he?"

"Yes." you answer.  "Basically, at least."

"I mean he admitted to something.  He admitted to rough sex, or to keeping her against her will.  He admitted something.  And then he paid her a lot of money.  And then he bought his wife a 2 million dollar ring." 

You get interrupted by a customer who provides you with fodder for your next rule that all customers should follow.

The customer is bleeding from the mouth.  He has a large wad of toilet paper pressed to his gums.  The paper is bleeding through and is quite red.

"I am going to make a rule."  You think to yourself. "I am going to make a rule that says that all my customers should stop their bleeding before they enter my line."

You are proud of yourself.  This sounds like a common sense rule if you have ever heard of one.

You have done some strange things in your life.  But you cannot fathom why the old man is bleeding from the mouth, yet seems so intent on purchasing 3 lemons, a candy bar, and six cans of soup.  It seems to you that this purchase could have been put off.

The customer wants to hand you his club card for you to scan. You head the customer off at the pass, by picking up your wand at scanning the card without touching him or it.

The customer tells you that he thinks "Kobe Bryant had to do some kind of community service."  He has to remove the wad of tissue from his mouth in order to communicate this idea to you.

"You can go to jail for 2 years for ripping the heads of chickens."  You tell the the line of customers that stand around your check stand.  "But you can rape a chick and only get community service."

You shake your head at this and look down back at the scanner and into the beam of red laser light that shines at your eyeballs.  The beam momentarily blinds you and all you can hear is the clicking and beeping of the register as you scan the purchases.

The folks in line are starting to get a bit uncomfortable with where this is all going.

"The next thing you know Kobe is back to starring in commercial for McDonald's. "  You tell the customer who mops a bit of blood from his chin.

You take his receipt and hand it over to him.

Then you hunt for the anti-bacterial lotion that sits under the counter.  You turn your back and splash a bit on you.  You hope no one notices that you needed to use anti-biotic medicine to dislodge the AIDS virus from the packages you were forced to touch by the bleeding customer.

You can't explain why you feel sorry for the old man and his bleeding from the mouth.  You are just super sensitive you guess.  You can imagine his private pain, the embarrassment that the old man would feel if the customers behind him saw that the clerk needed to disinfect his hands after he left.

You hid the disinfecting from the others without thinking about it.  You are always thinking about people like this, putting them ahead of you by anticipating their needs.  You hate when people feel the need to ask something from you.  They should know that you have figured it out already.

You think people should try to read other people's minds more.

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!

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.

Rarely is the question asked, "Is wearing Guess Jeans still cool?"

I am trying to type over the sounds of my roommates dying computer. The fan is running constantly even though it is 70 degrees in the condo. I figure that means my roommates computer is about to fail, because my brother's computer did the same thing before his fan chocked and took the hard drive with it. As soon as I am done with this post I am going to turn off my roommate's computer and wait for it to die on him. That way I can't get blamed for his hard drive failure, and for him losing all those stored Blondie mp3s he has stolen off the limewire.

Actually, I could not wait that long and I decided to finish this post on my computer where all I hear are the crying sounds emanating from my computer monitor. The sound is a lot like a dentist's drill only sharper and less inside your head. It is still annoying; although, slightly less annoying than a cooling fan in its final death throws.

I was supposed to dedicate this blog post to JessieBot3000. We were having a conversation at my checkstand the other day about a customer who came through our line. I tend to make remarks about every cute girl who passes through my checkstand. I make sure to comment to my bagger whenever I chat a cute girl up with all my highly effective and clever grocery store clerk banter.

I was telling JessieBot that the girl in my line could have liked me because she liked our conversation, but Jess disagreed. "Anyway," she said "She has a boyfriend, and the boyfriend and her looked like a cute couple, like they were totally meant for each other."

"But I like alternative chicks." I replied. "And if that girl was truly alternative she could see past my dorky clothes and unassuming wanna- be-preppy style for the alternative dude that I really am."

I may not drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and wear skinny jeans, but I am nothing if not all about breaking down sexual stereotypes and gender roles. I just don't feel the need to wear my faux trans gender persona on my sleeves.

I told JessieBot that I had no idea how to dress myself.

"I have no idea what is cool to wear anymore. When I was in high school Guess jeans where all the rage. I don't think Guess jeans are cool anymore."

The couple next in line overheard me talking to JessieBot and the female offered up her opinion about Guess Jeans. She told me that she thought Guess jeans were still cool and, "if not cool at least they are not uncool."

I wondered aloud if the old guess jeans were still cool. You know the ones with the little triangle and the question mark.

The couple laughed and agreed that the triangle style Guess jeans were no longer cool, "unless you are being retro." Which I guess makes my point. I still have no idea if the jeans themselves are cool or not. All I know is I would look ridiculous in a pair of acid washed skinny 'triangle' Guess jeans.

"No one would think I was being retro. They would just assume I was white trash and wonder where I parked my Camaro."

The world is patently unfair like that sometime. I don't know why I can't dress like the hipsters and pass off their goofy looks. I guess it is because I think the whole idea of dressing in some particular style because it is somehow suggestive of your personality is pretty insipid. I mean I know you think that too, but that's only because you are a bigger dork than I am and people point and laugh at you when you go outside.

Even though you can't be one of the cool kids you still want to be one. You even believe the hype that somehow something as retarded as fashion has meaning. You think a "personal style" reflects something about that persons "artistic soul." You just don't get it. That's why you look awkward copying all of the latest fashions you see out of magazines.

You can't mimic an artistic sensibility just because you have a personal style or a creative flair for grouping shirts with belts. All you have is style. All you have is a burning desire to fit in. And people can smell desperation a mile away which is why people stay so far away from you which is probably just doing you a favor since if they ever got close enough to smell the real you they would get a whiff of that uncontrollable body odor of yours and hate you for the very good reason that people hate things that smell like feet.

Unlike you I didn't just "opt" out of the mainstream aesthetic because I have an alternative body style (i.e. because I am fat or ugly.) I opted out of the the mainstream "looks game" because I refuse to play by rules that are only meant to fuck you.

The game is fixed. And I don't think telling ugly people they are beautiful does them any favor. That's why don't support the alternative hipster movement. I don't think we need another group of people feeling empowered because of the way they look.

First, because I don't think you get to change the rules as you go along. Second, because judging people based on their looks is immoral. I don't want to make everyone beautiful. I just want to end beauty. It's the difference between my radicalism and your cowardly incrementalism.

The whole system of lookism is wrong, and all you hipster snobs are making the same mistakes of judging people based on their taste and their clothes that all your enemies (preppie trendy cheerleader girlfriends) did to you back in the eight grade, causing you to get all depressed and start wearing black. Like we all don't know how sad you feel on the inside already.

All I am saying is that if some trendy hipster snob is going to judge me because she can't take me seriously, all because I wear normal clothes that don't drop off my ass like I am some kind of wanna be inner city Compton gangster, then she can kiss my ass- because she is the least alternative person I have ever met. All she is a snobby stuck up trendy who looks better in black than in pink. She is no better than the empty headed Paris Hilton impersonators of this world, and no amount of copiously underlined passages of Sylvia Plath could suggest otherwise.

All I want to talk about is Sarah Palin and her under age teen daughter

If you are a lot like me then you spend all your free time on the Internet doing research because you don't want to be accused of not knowing what you are talking about. Also I find that researching my favorite topic of jail bait under cover of some kind of scientific rationale to be the best way to present myself to my ever expanding public.

I just read that the "number of girls marrying before age 18 expected to double in next decade." Which I guess means that once again I am ahead of a trend before it explodes into the world consciousness. 100 million child bride grooms can't be wrong. Long time readers know that I have several "spirit wives" so I can speak from a place of authority in regards to Sarah Palin's unwed pregnant daughter and her shotgun wedding.

My first reaction to the shotgun wedding being imposed by Mommie and Daddy Palin is that I would have been a poor choice as husband for this child bride. According to reports her boyfriend is a "f#cking redneck" and hates babies. I am not a redneck even though I am originally from Texas. And I don't hate children, I marry them is secret religious ceremonies that include being bound in sheer white clothing in a swimming pool. I like to know what I am getting right away.

An unwatchful Mother allows her slutty daughter to paint her toe and fingernails. I am sure this child is on her way to unwed motherville courtesy of Maybelline.

Speaking of child brides, Leslie, my number 1 spirit wife is being promoted to cashier which means that all my authority over is her is gone. It also means that despite not graduating from high school and being in the labor market for 20 years less than me she now earns only 40 cents an hour less than me. So much for me feeling sorry for child brides. They earn money and exhibit the secondary sexual characteristics that nature has deemed necessary for child birth. If they lack some kind of emotional stability or maturity ostensibly present in older females they make up for it by bonding to their spirit husbands like a duckling in a critical learning moment deciding that fluff the poodle is going to be his mamma.

All I know is I found a few awesome photos of Sarah Palin's daughter's mom and she looks likes she loves America!

I hope your easter ham was yummy but stop trying to convince me that your kids yellow stained shorts come from eating too many peeps

I got a call from work today. They asked me to come in late. Normally asking me to show up late to work will put in a good mood, but If I am already awake and ready to work, and then you ask me to come in late, I'm not gonna be so happy. I ended up working 9 and half hours today. So I hope your Easter ham was yummy, because I forgot to buy flour tortillas on the way home, so I didn't even get to eat the left over burrito filing that I made last night.

I know you are wondering what burritos have in common with easter, but I figure most hispanics are catholic, and I think you get the rest.

Why is it that you learn all the cool stuff about people after they quit or get fired?

For instance the produce guy asked if I wanted to buy something from his department "on sale." The next day he quits. The guy finally gets around to showing me where the 99 cent stickers are and now he's gone.

It turns out that he must be some kind of crusader for jesus, because in addition to providing you with plenty of potatoes and honey dew, he is a part time exorcist.

Let me repeat that to you, for effect. My produce guy is a part time exorcist. Well, my ex produce guy was a part time exorcist. The exorcism buisness must be real good, because he is no longer a produce guy, he is now a full time exorcist.



I heard he quit because he was convinced that our bread aisle is haunted. This wouldn't be a problem for him except out bread aisle is inconveniently located next to the produce section. I guess he'd just had enough with all the bread flying off the shelf. I was told by the dairy guy that the bread doesn't just fall off the shelf. It flies off the shelf. The produce guy poured holy water over the shelves, but those demons who inhabit the bread aisle must have been too strong for his beliefs or his magic water, because it didn't work.

I think my produce guy should just let the ghosts have it with the AK-47 he bought over the phone while sitting with me on break a few weeks back. I remember spitting up my grape juice cocktail when I overheard him buying it. I just hope the guy is not aware that I am agnostic or something. I don't want to be shot. I love my back from the dead zombie jesus.* I really do.

*how is this not a movie franchise yet? zombie jesus , back from the dead, kicking ass and taking names. Killing demons and non-believers.

I have a list of people I am supposed to be writing about. I have my spirit wife #2 aka babymomma. Babymomma wants to know why I didn't write about her in my last post about my spirit wives. Naughty "m" wants to know why I haven't written about her (even though I did here.) And naught m's boyfriend wants me to write about him too. I think you bastards mistake me for your biographer. I don't think you understand something about this blog. I'm the star of this show bitches. So maybe if you want to get highlighted on this blog you can take up hobbies like exorcism, or hunting ghosts with AK-47's or something. Otherwise I can't just make this shit up for you.

Peace out.

romius t.

I wish I was a baller (spirit wife #1 gets her song on.)

You know the song where a short guy dreams about being taller, being a baller, and having a good looking girl, (You know because he'd call her.) I guess I like that song because it finally shows the creative side of being stuck short and girlfriendless.

Leslie (spirit wife#2) is complaining that I don't write enough about her. She also wonders why I wrote a screenplay for a new TV series called "my boyfriend is gayer than Skittles" and dedicated it to her and her new boyfriend. But we hugged for like 6 minutes after work today and I had to promise to write about her if I wanted her to keep hugging me like that.



I am not really surprised that she would barter away her hugs for some male attention as her boyfriend is Mormon and 24. And if you kn0w anything about Mormons you know that the men who still practice their beliefs in their 20's but aren't married are considered a bit suspect and by suspect yes I mean gay.

Leslie is convinced that "skittles" is just bi-sexual and that we (meaning me and skitttles) could have a fun time jerking off to either gay or straight porn. I told Leslie that the only way that wasn't gay was "in a steven king novel," and she told me that I "seem to make that reference a lot," and she wondered what was up with that.

I'd like to change the subject to wife #3 and her obsession with the song "dirty girl." The song is ok, but watching all my spirit wives play like they have a microphone in their hands all the while shouting "you're a dirty girl, you're a dirty girl" is just way too cute of an image to keep to myself.



I've been busy here are the two lastest episodes of the Self Help Center Podcast. Episode 11 is a straight read of the March 15th post so if you have read the post, skip the episode.



Episode 12 I read the post from St. Patty's Day, and March 20th's post which includes tips on winning a free packet of gravy from me. I also read my world famous poem about throwong bottles of whiskey at homeless people.



Leslie here is a podcast I totally forgot about doing on you, because I thought the text messenger was someone else.

Self Help Center Podcast Volume 8

It's 5:00. In less than a half hour I will need to be on my bike to work. I am really trying hard at this point to forget that fact. I still need to brush my teeth and put on my shoes. I am not quite ready for work and I am not sure how long it will take me to get ready, but I wanted to get something in blog form for you. I know you wait breathlessly by your computer with google reader in hand, refreshing constantly, hoping I can make your life all right.

My number 2 spirit wife has my blog address and my myspace profile so she is going to be checking out this blog. I thought I would give her a double dose of me by posting the podcast as well. I mean lets face it she can't get enuff of me. We work together and now she is going to be cyberstalking me and pretty soon we will be doing what the kids are calling a "kicking back" which I think is pretty much just me and her at my house getting drunk on kool aid and vodka.

I told her we really needed to invite someone else so she couldn't later throw out an "allegedly Romius T. was found drinking with a 17 year old in his.." well you get the picture. I did tell her that we should try buying alcohol together and when the clerk asks for her identification that I would get all indignant and reply that she "was my daughter." I thought it would be a nice touch if we made out right afterwards to creep the guy out.

I let my spirit wife wear eye make up, but I wonder if I am allowing her to live outside the "principle" with all this freedom

I noticed spirit wife number 3 had on eye makeup today. I told her when a 16 year old girl wears eye makeup, she can give pedophiles and perverts the wrong idea. She looks almost 17 with the eye makeup so I think some of the perverts got the idea that they should ask her out. Without the eye make up she could pass for 10 and I think the pedophiles would just go straight for the molesting angle. I guess you could say she is sending mixed messages out there. I for one am not upset at all by that. I told wife #3 that it was great that she could play both ways, nearly legal and young. I thought that only added value to her look, but some of you perverts are going to disagree. You are going to tell me that her new eye makeup look will destroy the purity of her little girl look. I think I'd like to tell you perverts to quit being such internet alt. discussion fags and accept her- eye makeup or not.

Some more advice to creeps who ask out my 16 year old spirit wife. Don't ask her out while she drags in carts to the store. Don't eye ball her up and down and shout "damn girl you lookin' good," for the most part this just doesn't work. I recommend buying her lunch and charming her with stories. Ask if she needs a ride home, tell her you might have a car in a week. Tell her you can buy her beer. Tell her you will buy her wine if that's what she says she is into. When she tells you that she is only with her last boyfriend because she had on "beer goggles" tell her you are more than happy to provide an additional pair of goggles as it will benefit you.

I give advice to my spirit wives because that's what a spirit husband does. What a spirit husband will not do is walk you home if you live 3 miles the opposite way of him. Not that I wouldn't mind walking the 3 miles for spirit wife #3. I think she might get a little creeped out if I walked behind her the whole way, occasionaly ducking into the bushes to avoid beeing seen by her.

Spirit wife number 1 came to me with a problem. I am seen as the village elder at my store. I have a good 20 years on most of the kids working there. So anytime they have a problem they seek me out for my advice.

"Aideen just asked me if it was ok that his penis is red and blue. I know that it's disgusting that he asked me that, but can a penis turn red and blue?"

So I had to give a bit of sex ed advice to spirit wife #1. I told her how when the male penis becomes "engorged with blood" it can turn funny colors, but just the tip of it. She thought that was gross and I reminded her that she bleeds from an opening between her legs.