Is E is the last word?

I'm trying something new.

I'm gonna try out the more conversational style I was telling you about as the normal mode of conversation I have here with you.

I don't know how much longer I am going to make this blog public.

I have come to that partial decision as a result of re-reading some of the things I have posted here in the past.

I know I give you guys shit about how I have only 5 readers and how this blog never grows despite the fact that I have been blogging for more that 6 years.  I shouldn't have done so.  After reading my backlog I know why I am not popular.

My ability is not going to make this blog popular/ (or good.)  So, I feel the least I can do is save myself some dignity and  hide this blog from the general public.

(When) I decide to take this blog private I will issue a few invites to the readership.

If you really like this blog (there are about 10 of you) you will get an invite.

On the other hand,  if you just want to keep up with this blog because you are bored I would let you.  I don't plan on denying any "would-be" reader.

The reason I am going private is that I am not a good writer.

Also.  I may never be.

That reality does not sway me from writing.  I love writing.  I like expressing myself.  And some small part of me actually wants to share some of the shit I come up with an audience.

I am not a megalomaniac, so I don't need lots of affection or attention.  Not that I would mind it.  I am just like anyone else with that kind of thing.

I am not some kind of super hero.  

I know my life is not like my day dreams.  That's okay.  My day dreams are almost too good.  I could live in them for 98% of the day.  And I do, so it's not like I really need any blog to keep me going.

I think I have allowed too much of my self esteem to come from the 3 comments that I get from you guys.

I need to do something about that.

(But I am not sure what that is.)

Turn my life around?

I don't have enough internal resources to do much about turning my life around.  So I am not too sure that I can do.

I want to get better at writing.

I need to take a hard look at my writing and practice and re-write most of what I have written on this blog in order to get a better handle on my strengths and weaknesses.

I want to reiterate something.

I know this writing "thing" is not going anywhere.  I have no delusions.

It does make me sad though.

I wished I could communicate some of the things I feel to you a lot better than I do.  I'd like you to feel what I feel.  I want you to know what I know.

But it's not working.   And you what I say is true.

Time should teach us lessons.

But it never does for me.

Mostly time just adds up.  Piling up, year after year, like dirty laundry.

(The thing about laundry is that there is a simple solution.)

Wash it!

Maybe I am just drunk.

Maybe I am just feeling vulnerable, and I need a connection with someone.

It's hard for me to admit that I need someone.  I'm not built to admit things like that.

I was built to be alone.

So I am okay with being alone.

If you visit this site a lot, I'm sorry.  I feel like I've let you down.

I know there are a few of you guys who visit hundreds of times without ever leaving a comment, or anything.

I think you saw something here that may not actually be here.

To be honest I have no idea why you kept coming back.  But I thank you.  You kept me writing for years.

I don't want to say I am giving up on life.

Maybe I am going to take another route.

I will tell you if I do.

But like I said I don't like joining, so the thought of becoming "something" whatever it is, is not something I am about.

The most likely effect of my stopping the public blogging is of course...nothing.

I know I might be projecting how I feel on to some of you, and the truth is there are almost no readers here, so it makes little sense to even broach the subject with you.

The fact is I feel a little silly even telling you all this.

But if there is just one of you who cares it would hurt me to say "fuck off" to you.

I've been thinking how I will handle this for a long time.

I think I might just take a weeks between posts.  And post a lot after I have written something I think is good.

If you are like me you feel the cop/out in all this.

The truth is I just wanna start taking Ecstasy and forget about the world.

That's what I want.

The few times I have taken E. I have discovered: the connection, warmth, and empathy that I lack in real world.

I know E is fake.

All you do is sit on the couch with your friends touching fingers.

But when I take E I get all the "feelings" you take for granted.

I know it destroys brain cells.

But let's face it. I have not been using those brain cells for anything.

I am not the person you think I am.

(So many of you think I am a professional who feels the blue collar worker.  I am not.)

I really do work for 10 dollars an hour.

I really am the kind of idiot that passes up a 2 dollar an hour raise, because he thinks he can't handle the pressure.

I am a fuck up.  I am failure.  And it really pains me to believe that, (not just say it)  like some kind of joke.

I'm almost 40.

Folks.

It's not going to happen for me.

(I wanted it so much. and maybe I was a fool for thinking so.)

Maybe my Momma shouldn't have told me I was so special so much when I was a kid.

She told it to me so often, I BELIEVED it.

Whenever I think about the love my mother gave me when I was little I can't help but remember how I dominated the basketball court when I was in 8th grade, or how I was reading ahead of the 5th graders in 1st grade.

I thought shit was gonna be that easy for the rest of my life, and I never prepared myself for the hard work that life is all about.  Ironic.  I see so many people live the hard life every day at my job.

I think I know the "hard" life.   I saw my parents try and get through.

I do have some empathy.

I feel it when I look into the weary eyes of my customers.

My heart bumps forcibly in my chest for the guy running too late to catch the bus.

(He knocks furiously on the window, but the driver keeps going.)

It's funny.

I'm not broken, but I may not be fixable.

So there you go.

Self Help for parents: My day off visiting babies, eating lunch, and hanging out at the mall

I bet you were wondering when I was going to make this blog a little more personal.  You know, tell you all about the little things I do.  Like when I go shopping, or when I go visit a friend and his newborn baby.

Babies are weird and don't speak English.  Not that I hold that against babies.  I blame the parents.  Personally, I would teach my child English right away, or at least some sign language because all that crying "traditional" children do to get your attention can be a bit annoying.

Don't get me wrong though.  I like kids.  And kids like me.  Wherever I go, kids walk up to me and start asking me questions.  Though sometimes they just stare at me like I am some kind of deformed freak or clown.

I'm pretty normal looking so there really is no reason for kids to take such an interest in me.  I imagine they just recognize a certain kinship in me they don't find in other adults.

What are the similarities I have with kids you ask?  Just like your kid I take funny colored poops.  Because of my medical conditions I find that when I get bored of holding your kids we have something to talk about.

I am also very trust worthy, so kids like to share their fears with me.  One of the most common questions kids ask me is "if they will always poop green."

I tell them, "it all depends on how much wine you drink."

Your kids usually respond by going all TMI and revealing, "How much Mommy and daddy drink."  I try and assuage their green poop fears by telling them that "you have to drink much more than Mommy does," except of course "how much she drank when she was pregnant with you."

The kids are usually satisfied with my answer.  Kids will take whatever answer you give them as long as you look them in the eye and pretend to really mean what you are saying.

That's the trick you parents forget.  Parents are so overwhelmed by their children asking them questions all day that they tend to go into a dazed "ya whatever" eye roll whenever their kid asks them a question.

I have a feeling ignoring your child will only bring out more attention seeking behaviors from them.  I suggest that you wake up with your kid ala Michael Jackson (who really knew what he was doing) and spend a good 20 minutes in bed with them answering their questions and focusing intently on whatever they think of.

My suggestion may or may not work, but if it does not...then your child just needs more attention.  And you should give it to them.  Remember my advice to look them in the eye whenever you answer one of their questions.

Also, make your kids pancakes for breakfast, because kids like pancakes and they adore the parent that makes them pancakes most.  Kids are just like pets and you can use the same tricks you use on your animals to make them love you more than your spouse.

Now I know some of you are going to say (with a touch of horror in your throats) that you would never want to one of your children to love you more that your spouse.  But we both know that is a bunch of bullshit.

Once you admit your unconscious feelings out loud then you can deal with them.  They become something you can control rationally, and I take that to be an improvement for you.  Even if all your impulses hedge towards the anti-social by being a bit selfish.

Now you might object to some of the things I am suggesting by saying that "telling kids whatever they want to hear or making up crazy stories about why things are the way they are" will only get them in trouble in the long run.

You are wrong.  The world has a way of showing people that 2+2=4.  Your kids will be okay.  When they reach tweenhood they will be out in the big wide world where they will run up against all the naysayers who will tell them that pooping green in diapers at 14 is abnormal.

Worse case scenario?  A 14 year old who poops in diapers, but never asks annoying questions to you when you are looking for your debit card at the grocery store.

Your Welcome.

Now I am off to take a shower.  Wipe away the green poop from my butt and visit the baby.  Where I will give my advice and it will not be listened to.  That damn baby does not speak English yet, and gets upset when it poops yellow in his diaper.  But what can you say?  Nobody ever listens to me.  Nobody ever looks me in the eye to explain things to me.

After the shower and baby visit I get to have lunch.  I have no idea where lunch will be.  I hope some place good.  I hope I don't have to eat Chinamen food.  As I hate bamboo shoots and roots.  Also, I don't think chicken should be covered in orange tang and smothered under rice.  But what would I know?  I am just a humble, middle class aspiring, handsome, sunny, forward-looking kind-of-guy, out here looking for fun and a Big Mac.

Snuggles,

Romius T.

p.s.  Don't forget I am single ladies!

"I am a Miscreant" In Defense of Miscreants by A Miscreant (Meant Mostly for Other Miscreants.)

UFO.  "Gone in the Night." From the Album, No Place to Run.


"People try and tell you 
about responsibilities
You Know
Those Married Men Blues
How it ought it to be.."

I'd like to tell you a little more about the night that you just read about in my friend's diatribe against miscreants.

But to be honest I don't remember a lot about it.  I remember I passed out on my friends comfy sofa.  Then I remember waking up because my toes were being licked by a dog.

I guess dogs like to lick the sick (which is just another thing I don't like about dogs.)


Sure, I am a little grossed out by a dog licking my toes.  Who wouldn't be?  (Your zoophilia aside.)*

I remember when I woke my socks were damp with blood and saliva.   I recall  lapping sounds.  I am sure the dog had been there a while.

But enough about the dog.  Just thinking about that dog licking my ingrown toe nail is making me sick.  And I don't want that feeling improaching on the mild buzz I have.

I have a good buzz on because I just discovered wine.  Not real wine, but Sangria from Carlos Rossi.  Good stuff.  Real mellow.  A nice buzzy headed feeling that you don't have to "work to" like when you drink beer.  And nothing like the reeling, floating feeling you get from drinking too much liquor.

I am going to try and remember some other things from that night.

I remember getting kissed a few times by a girl.  The girl was a cousin of a friend of (JAVI's AKA HAPPY AKA X-MAN.)

 I remember the girl got crazy ass pissed at me.  She was deliriously drunk from shots of Patron. She shouted explicatives at me while fingering her Infinity car key ring.

She said stuff like, "You're a pedophile!"  "You're a rapist!"

I've got to admit, I was impressed with her ability to read personality.  But I was also pissed off, because I felt like a 1970's poster of Farrah Fawcett.  Completely,  see through.

I was like.  "Look dude.  You might be right, but I am wondering just how you came about your information.  I mean... you just met me.  I have not given you a god damn clue... as to any inclinations I might have."

The bitch was unamendable to my logic.  She just kept screaming at me.  Eventually I had to wake up Javi and get the hell out of his friend's cousins house.

I heard her scream as we exited the house.

"The cops are on the way.  I know you touched my daughter!"

On the walk home I talked to Javi about my confusement.

"That bitch got a daughter?"  I asked Javi.

"Her?"  He replied.  "No fucking way."

I was pretty confident about that, but I like to be sure.

So far nothing criminal.

Still, I know you want to call me a Miscreant.  Also, you probably don't like how I called you out on why your dog likes peanut butter so much.  But fuck.  You got a weird relationship with your dog.

Getting caught.

That's how you get labeled a criminal.  The thing is (like my friend suggested) we all do criminal shit.  Some of us get caught.  Others of us don't.

Now you can think to yourself that the reason you don't get caught is that god favors you.  But that kind of fallacy is pretty easy to refute.

I won't, because simply calling your rationalization a fallacy has embarrassed you enough.  And if there is one thing I am not into... it's embarrassing you.

Now that you have accepted my premises, the only thing we have to discuss is the degree of guilt we criminals should feel.

A person who commits a crime, but knows it wrong, is an asshole.  A person who commits a crime, but has  a clear conscious,  is...well...he's an asshole too.  Just an asshole of a different type.

Maybe he is self-deluded.  Maybe he is irrational.  Maybe he suffers from egomania.

I hope I don't suffer from any personality disorders.  Heck, the only reason I think I am smart is my mommy told me I was.

And I am pretty sure my mommy would not lie to me.

*Scientists say that women are far more turned on by scenes of animal/human sex contact than men.  (Though my quick trip through google could not confirm my assertion.)

All My Friends are Miscreants

*Note*  The following blog post has been written by a special guest of the SHC.  Nothing has been edited or changed from his submittal.  A forthcoming post entitled "I am a miscreant" will be posted soon. 


Romius T,.

                All of my friends are miscreants.  I realized this when I received the following text message:  "hes awake now.  off to get lunch.  i had to blow in his car as his ignition device thinks hes still drunk.  my liver rocks."  The setup for this text was my friend Romius (all names have been changed to protect, in this case, the guilty) had gone to Happy's house, apparently after a night at the bars.  He had texted me that he was trapped there, as Happy was asleep in his room.  I told Romius he was a fool to trust Happy, as Happy was notorious for this type of behavior.  It was not until I received the text, however, that I realized Happy had been to jail.

                 I shouldn't actually say all of my friends are miscreants.  Like most people, I have different sets of friends.  Work friends, friends that are really my wife's friends, Facebook friends, etc.  (If you don't have more than one set of friends, and you are reading this on RomiusTexis [The Self Help Center], you are probably two thirds of the way through your Manifesto.)  The people I consider my main friends, the ones I can go to Vegas with, or trust with my real feelings, are the people I grew up with.  The ones who I hung out with on Friday and Saturday nights because none of us could fathom how to get a girlfriend.  It is these real friends that are all miscreants. 

                I don't use that word lightly, but I don't mean it in a horrible way.  I like the way it sounds, and I looked it up to make sure I wasn't using it incorrectly.  The definition of miscreant, or one of the definitions, is a criminal.  That is according to Webster's New World Dictionary.  All of my friends are criminals, at least in the literal sense, but I like miscreant better.

 

                I wish I could say some of them were innocent.  I wish I could say they were victims of an unfair, racially biased, classist justice system.  Unfortunately, they committed the same crime millions of others in this country have.  Call it DUI, call it DWI, it boils down to the same thing.  They drank, they drove when they shouldn't have, they got caught.  Call it a DUI cluster.  I'm not trying to sound high and mighty.  I know I have driven drunk more than most of these guys, just never caught.  (One for sure.  He was the guy who never had a car, so he was always a passenger in our vehicles.)  I guess I have good karma, or at least I like that rationalization.

                One of my friends, I'll call him Raymond, lost a lucrative job in a casino as a result of his offenses.  He spent months in jail, and has been so depressed since his release he rarely leaves the house and hasn't found a new job.  Another friend is a lawyer who's conviction cost him thousands of dollars and several  days of his life.  Romius had to spend months of Saturday mornings in classes, lost his driver's license, and spent five days in jail.  Happy has an ignition interlock device installed on his vehicle.  He has to blow into it every time he wants to start his car, and at random intervals if he is making more than short trips.  Apparently the device will pick up traces of alcohol hours later, depending on how much you drink, I would assume. 

               

             None of these people defrauded anyone.  None of them assaulted anyone.  No one was hurt or injured by any of their offenses.  I suppose you could say they are lucky for that.  Everyone knows people can die in traffic accidents, and that accidents can be caused by impaired drivers.  Everyone also knows someone who has been charged with DUI.  There are industries devoted to prosecuting and defending DUI cases, yet studies have shown that texting while driving is just as impairing as a blood level of .08, but no one has gone to jail for texting on the freeway. 

                I thought about making this a diatribe against DUI laws in America, which have become increasingly severe since Mothers Against Drunk Drivers was formed.  It seems like every year, at least in Arizona, DUI laws get tougher, with no scientific or rational basis.  Politicians tend not to get reelected with a "Soft on Crime" platform, and DUI's are politically expedient targets.  Then I think, if people are stupid enough to drink and drive, knowing the consequences, fuck 'em.  They're all miscreants.

Get up every morning and write. A good writer does.

I have found that the best time to write is in the early morning.  Not late at night like I usually write.

In the early part of the morning ideas spring to me like.  Well, like...I am not really sure.  I don't really write in florid tangles of prose and poetry.  So we won't bother  fleshing out that little metaphor.  Let's just ignore it and pretend that my choice was excellent.

Let us talk about what all male writers talk about.  Women.  Who are in one way or another always related to sex.  I get up in the morning thinking about women.  Mostly about sex with women.  But not always sex.

Sometimes I just imagine the girl of my dreams.  I imagine our conversations.  I think about the way she combs her hair, and we get in arguments about how she like Fruity Pebbles.

I think Fruity Pebbles are shit.  But she just goes on and on about how great they are, defending the strawberry milk they make.  Like somehow strawberry milk and cereal is a good idea.

I think not.  But I like chocolate.  So I guess you can call me a bit biased.  Go ahead.  I know you will.

I did not get up early today.  I am writing this late at night, violating one of the only principles I have found that might improve my writing.

I recall another principle of writing that I saw portrayed in a B-movie.  Write/Think in full sentences.  I agree.  It's a good idea.  Another good idea is to go very concrete. Think about something substantial. Write as specific as possible, and readers will always mistake the specific for something general, and the general is always confused with some higher spiritual principle.

One last tip?  Write conversationally.  Write the way you think and the way you talk.  Readers  will appreciate that you speak from the heart.  And anyway, readers have a way of sniffing out the phony.

At least usually they are good at picking out the phonies.  Unless you are adapt at appealing to some insecurity the reader has.  Reassuring her that everything is okay.  Then she will gladly look past your magic show.  She will encourage all your phoniness and it will grow to such proportions that it will explode outside the boundaries of irony into the melting pot of post-ironic sentiment that replaced true emotional depth for old fashioned moderns, and has begun to impose itself on those of you who are bored of ironic self detachment.

I am not yet so bored of being ironically detached.  I do not believe the movement has played itself out.  I think that only because I am sure that detached irony has hit on something deeper than "mere" playfulness, surface, and reference.

Irony is the post modern soul.  You see, even soulless men have souls, (or so they protest.)  And so it is the protest of irony, the call to end the conditions that require its existence (the rootless, somnambulistic, wandering of our selves) which keeps irony so vital.

Ironic.  No?

I wished beer would get me drunk, I should be drunk

I'm feeling blue again.  Like maybe I should get drunk even though I have been telling friends that I am bored of drinking, and that's why I did not go out drinking with them even though I had three days off from work.

Of course all those days off from work are all unpaid so I really don't have much money to go drinking with anyway.  So maybe that is another reason why I have not partied much.

But really I think it has to do with how drinking does not excite me much anymore.  The drinking mostly kills my liver and makes me feel like shit the next day.  It does all that without giving me much of a buzz anymore.

I guess I have to drink on an empty stomach and do shots and crazy shit like that.  I can't just sit back and drink a few beers and feel nice.

That's why my drug friend says she wants to go crazy and do drugs with me, because I don't get the benefits from beer anymore.

We will be coked out and use E and then maybe I will feel better about life.  If I feel happier I can start taking my life responsibly. I know that sounds ironic, but without joy there is no reason to care about where you are going, or what you are doing in life.

If you are wondering where the post about last weeks adventure is, well... I still haven't written it.

I am not sure when I will.  I also have not gotten the essay from my friend about how much of a miscreant I am.

If he can be lazy so can I.

I am feeling to sorry for myself.  I want to quit blogging again.  Every few weeks (as every blogger will tell you) I think about deleting this project.  I can't grow the readership here even after taking the time to edit and spell correctly for you.

I have a feeling that I am less mainstream that I thought and that I don't connect to the real world in any meaningful sense.

I have also noted how stilted my writing style has become  is as I try and master on the writing style of guys like Bukowski and other minimalists.

I write sloppy.  I write too choppy.  And I can't fix my shitty writing skills.  I have been trying to do so for 7 years on this blog, and nothing much has changed.  I still have the same 10 readers.  I still have the same 100 hits a day (though now most of them arise from google picture searches for Miley Cyrus in pantyhose.)

Since my writing sucks (plus I have a wicked case of  writers block) I might concentrate on getting my podcast up to date.

I bought a new microphone for the podcast.  But the podcast provider I use is being stingy and not allowing me to add any episodes unless I keep them under 45 seconds.  

In other news:

I bought a 30 gig i-pod after my mother read a facebook post exchange between me and my brother where I lusted after his itouch.

"I'm almost a 40 year old man."  I thought to myself. "I should buy myself an i-pod, and not rely on my mommie." 

(I felt especially bad after getting an e-mail from Mom that asked me, "if I could wait till she gets her tax refund check" after I explained to her that a decked out i-touch could cost 3 or 4 hundred dollars.)

I bought the i-pod from a pawn shop because I can't afford to buy a new i-pod (touch or classic).

I feel bad about buying things from pawn shops, because I assume that people who pawn things are in a desperate situation.

The i-pod worked okay for the first few days.  It had a ton of scratches on the screen, but I was okay with that.  Because of the scratches I got the i-pod for 50 dollars (I talked em down from 60).

I noticed right away that the battery life was not great.  If lucky I might get 6 hours of audio time (the specs predict 14 to 20, but the i-pod is at least 5 years old.)

I was okay with the scratches and the shitty screen, and even with having to buy a usb connector (10 extra dollars!)

But the last straw was the audio jack has crashed leaving me with only one ear playing and when I tried watching David Harvey's class on Capital and the i-pod crashed after 10 minutes.

Can you imagine ME fixing this?  Me either!

I love David Harvey.  The longer I live the closer I come to an acceptance that my life will never be the guy listening to such a great lecture series in person, much less the one giving it.  But at least I can vicariously engage the text, class, and life I wanted because of him.

Though not with the shitty i-pod I bought at a pawn shop.

p.s.  the i-pod came with a 5 day warranty that is up tomorrow so at least I get my money back.  And I can watch his videos on my env3.  I just can't bookmark them.

p.s.s. Moral of the story?  I hope my mommy still plans on buying me an i-pod.

A new podcast is up

If you forgot that I had a podcast don't feel bad.  According to my statistics the podcast has yet to be downloaded.  I know that can't be true as I download a copy of each new podcast to hear myself.

I want you to hear what a crappy microphone I am using on my podcast.  All because none of you donate to my paypal.  So the 9 dollar mike I bought at Walmart is crapping out on me.  Somehow it finds the exact moment I am going for a punch line to wig out on me.

Also, the free podcast service I use is limited to its crappy recorder, and does not allow me to use extensions, or add lines, so I can no longer add music or extras to the podcast.

What I am saying is that listening to the podcast is now an extra crappy experience, but I know the guy (or gal) from South Carolina who visits 120 times a month to this site probably can't get enough of me, so that's why I am talking up this crappy podcast.

Enjoy!

p.s.

I had a crazy night last night hanging with my boy JAVI. (Formerly known as MR. X.)  I got kissed on the ear twice by a girl.  I almost made out with her as well. 

A friend responded to my text about last night by saying

Nice. Too much to respond to there.  Could only write one word.  I could write a 2000 word essay on that last text.

I hope he does.  I told him my readers are expecting it.  If we get  5o comments he promises to write it.

*update* 

He says he is going to write it.  Sneak peak in to his opening line was..."all my friends are miscreants.."  Sounds funny!

My post is forthcoming.

p.s.s.

I am twittering on a regular basis again!  I will be talking a lot about cell phones.  It is my new obsession.  Do you care if the the new Moto Devour has the 1.6 Android OS?  If you do then make sure to follow me! 

Also, I will update podcast and blog posts on my Twitter. 

Do you want to overhear a conversation about rape and giant milk nipples?

I sit at my lunch table pretending that I am not listening to the conversation going on next to me.

The couple are both attractive in their mid 20's.  The girl has long, straight black hair.  She is dressed in all black.  Her open toed stilettos expose bright painted nails.  Her low cut shirt shows off her huge breasts.

Her giant breasts slosh around for several seconds after any sudden movement from her like two of those slinky toys we had in childhood got trapped in them.

The breasts must be full of milk.  I imagine myself as her dairy farmer milking them every morning.  I would be an early riser.  I wake from my cold bed, run to the barn,  and grab my stool, and get to work squishing drops of milk from her nipples into my pan.

I think it would be a wonderful life.

"I can think of times when a man has to commit murder.  In cases of self-defense.  At times of war.  If one were an executioner."  The girl in her mid-twenties says.

"But I can't see why a man would ever have to rape.  Which is why I think, between the two, rape is by far the worse of the crimes."  She finishes.

"But what about times of rapist self-defense?"  I interrupt.

The pair look over at me quizzically.  They must wonder how I managed to overhear their conversation.  I point out that my headphones, while in my ears, where not plugged into my phone.

"Excuse me."  The girl blinks at me.  Her voice is quivering.  She must get nervous during debates.

"Like you know, if the chick is like a really hot chick, and she is walking alone down a dark alley- asking for it."

I think I am starting to get the hang of this debate thing.

"What's a guy to do?" I ask.

My attention is diverted from the couple by a young girl who walks into the pizza parlor.  She is wearing boots. In a cliche of teen girl hottness she is also wearing tight jeans that show off her nice bum.

Her nails trace a path on my table as she walks past me.    Each nail is painted a different color.  Neon green, neon orange, black, purple.  Her wrists have several of those multi colored friendship bracelets on.

She sits to the table directly across from me.  She runs her hands through all of the long hair and crosses her legs.  She looks at me like she is daring me to do something.

"That girl can't be more than 14."  The woman with the Bank Of America name tag says to me.

I have to manually close my jaw.

"You think?"  I ask, my voice much too high with excitement.

The woman's voice next to me is trying to get my attention back, but my eyes can't seem to move away from the young girl who is now fingering the buttons on her shirt.

"Can you believe that?"  The man next to me is suddenly awake and laughing.  His elbow reaches out to knock against mine.  His lunch companion utters a few vocal grunts of disgust.

"I know."  I admire.  "This place is awesome!"

The spirit is fading

Write what you know.

If I were to do that then all my notebooks would be filled with descriptions of my swollen anal cavity.

The blood slowly dripping.  My ass cheeks rubbed raw by the infected fecal matter.  The taste of fresh boogers collected from my thumb nail.

If I wasn't writing lurid descriptions of my body then I would be filling my notebooks full of the unsolicited e-mails I send to women on dating sites.

The women are single mothers who like to party.  Most of them have not had the good sense to abandon their children to the state and only keep them from some distorted sense of morality.

By clutching on to their children the mothers only add insult to injury. Only the mothers eventual arrest for solicitation offers these children any hope for breaking free from such suffocating maternal instincts.

Dear Ms. So and So:

I like everything about you.  I like the way you look.  I like your sense of style.  I like the way you like to party.

We should get together and finish off a bottle of tequila.  Not that I really like tequila.  I find that I am more of a beer person.  But perhaps if you made margaritas we could easily finish the bottle between us.  Either that or you could swill straight from the bottle and I could pound away at 5.7% beer so that you would not misjudge my manhood.

p.s.

I do not have a crib, so if you child needs something to sleep in maybe he could stay at a neighbors.

I look forward to hearing from you.

So far I must confess that my e-mail has not garnered me a date from any of my matches.  Even the ones who blog about suicide.

Perhaps that is because I refuse to send the e-mail to any undesirables.  I detest ugly women.  Which I know to be ironic, but what can I say.  I am a self-hating ugly.

I would rather spend my life alone that surrounded by the squishy, hairy mammoth arms of a desperate ugly woman whose fingers yearn to caress my man boobs.

I do not need to be one of those couples with lowered expectations that have unconsciously inverted their standards from the universal to the particular.

Not that I don't understand  a life about lowered expectations.  My whole life is testament to lowered expectations.  Lowered expectations are why I do not leave my living room, or change my undershorts.

I can only hope the suicidal party mom wants to lower her expectations and date a man with half of her aesthetic appeal.

A match can be made between a good looking melancholic, overly stressed by the dependence of her hatchlings, with a sensitive man of words, but limited physical attributes.

I could heat up the bottle in the microwave for her.  And she could heat up things in the bedroom for me.

But imagine yourself with a person with whom you have no chemistry.  The square backed fat girl.  An ethnic girl of most any type.  Save the petite beauties offered up from the Orient.  I react poorly whenever I see a match of two robustly ugly people in love.  I am simply unable to keep eye contact  when I see the two unattractives get all gooey with each other.

They should at least have the dignity to realize that what they are doing is against all of nature.  That no one can find them pleasing to touch or to be around.

Let us uglies find something within us to trade to the attractive in order that we might spread our seed and be matched.  Or if not, let us be content to admit plainly that what we have is not so great.  And thereby avoid the unpleasant display of affection in public.

Post Valentine's Day Blues I consider buying the underwear of my imaginary girlfriend and post a comment on her blog and then I write this

Holidays are a time for reflection.  Even made up holidays like Valentine's Day.

In that spirit I reflect on Womankind.

I shouldn't.

I have no real powers to reflect on women.  I don't understand women, and the only thing I assume they are good for is masturbation fantasies.

The small tragedy of my life is that I am shallow bastard.  The ironic part is that I am ugly, and therefor I will not have any beauty in my life.

Unless you count beauty in some other way than good looking women.  Which is just you trying to be okay with being ugly.  I have never been okay with that.  I don't accept things (like facts) the way you do, and I won't follow the wise man's advice and "just get over it."

Furthermore, I don't like the idea of rationalizing my shortcomings as strengths.  That is some kind of annoying American businessman trait that has been generalized to the populace. 

I would surround myself with good looking women, but I do not know any good looking women other than the women who work at the bank inside my grocery store.  Or the women I pass by in the street, as I cross in the pedestrian pathway, and they are adjusting their majestic pony tails.  They wipe lipstick off their teeth and peer over me from behind polished mirrors and powder brushes.

I do not know these women in any other way than the brief encounters where I am luridly watching them and they are preparing their speed dials for a quick 911 call.

I have encountered the kind of woman who visits grave yards, and picks apples, or dress with a quirky attitude.  But they do not notice me.

The emo girl with tattoos who smells like mint,  and does not shave her underarms wants me to have tats and an appreciation for some obscure indie label band like Romulan Pychobilly.

Just in case you think I am only shallow about the outsides.  

I also do not know any women with a sense of humor.  I do not know any sensitive women with a brassy tough exterior, the kind you find on family sitcoms in the 1980's.

I once knew a woman who looked like a chicken dumpling.

In my life there has been only a a very short list of women.  This is a sad truth that I cannot explain as easily as you might think.

I see men and women all the time that bounce around between companions, and I wonder what is wrong with me that I do not do the same.

I take notice of the types of people who seem clinically alone and I am not like any of them.  I am far more social. I am just as capable  of getting along in society and faking it like the rest of you.

There is the guy at the bus stop that smokes tiny paper cigarettes.  I think there must be dope in them.  He is a ginger boy.   Soft and earnest his eyes always look watery and his face wears an expression like he is about to cry.  He must be slow in the head.   He cannot operate the bill acceptor on the bus.  The bus driver has to insert his bus fare for him.

He sits next to me on the bus.  He tells me of the Martin Luther King he has read in a book.  The ginger boy knows there is something great happening in the universe. It's all meant to be.

He says, "The arc of justice is great, but it bends towards justice."

That is my favorite quote by MLK.

I would talk to him, but he gives a creepy schizophrenic vibe out.  I keep one earpiece in my ear and explain to him that he should not bother me because I am listening to an audio book.

I explain the word Absurdistan to him (after pronouncing it to him 20 times.)

He thinks Absurdistan has something to do with techno or rap.  Techno and rap have something to do with the coming justice in the world.  But he is quiet and conspiratorial, and only half interested in telling me what he knows.

He wants to hear my thoughts.

My first thought is that I like my own company too much.

I am the only person I know that eats alone at diners.  I eat out alone several times a week.  I eat out alone more often that I eat with company.

I would hang out with you, but you are probably boring.  I would have to make all the jokes.  I would have to bring up all the interesting things I found on my internet searches this week.

I would hang out with you, but then I would have to pedantically explain to you all my references to (pick one: pop culture, current events, obscure philosophy whatever you are not good at.)

I refuse to engage you on any level where you may be my equal.  Unless I know that I can fool you into thinking that  I am smarter than you.

Fooling you is usually easy.  I just use the mind control techniques I learned in Psychology 101 classes. 

Sometimes while I am eating by myself I have to turn off the audio book I am listening to in order to talk to myself about what I am reading hearing.

How am I supposed to be able to listen to an audio book if you are hanging out with me?  Do you think we could get one of those earphone splitters so we can listen to the same i-pod?  Do you mind if I stop the book and jot down notes?  Do you mind if we eat at Whataburger at least 3 times a week?

I suppose you will.

Greasy, stinky, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbons

I know that's how you guys like to imagine me.  Drinking and stinky.  Sweating profusely.  Drunk as hell the day after Valentine's Day, crying in my PBR's at some local dive bar telling the bartender how I can't get laid and have not had a girl friend in 5 years.

Well it ain't nothing like that.

Maybe I spent 45 minutes in the shower after I got home from work.  I had to.  I spent the whole day giving out balloons and candy to the happy couples.  So I spent 45 minutes in the shower letting the water pummel me.

I did not do that either.  I just sat on my bed and watched Big Love.  Episodes 5 and 6 from the new season.  I watched TV on the computer because the remote control to my TV is not working.  I don't know why my remote is not working.  I just put 2 fresh batteries in the remote.

I felt all cracked out yesterday at work.  I guess the whole idea of me doing enough drugs to ruin  my life is over.  I don't how you drug addicts do it.

I feel like getting addicted is a choice.  I know that is not true for most of you, but for me it is.  I can feel the addictive powers of drugs, but I can stop myself.

I guess I feel the side effects and it scares me off.  My sense of self is too important for me to watch it drift off in the mist.  I guess I don't hate myself enough.

I was toe tapping all day at work.  I felt my heart jump around.  I had  this tense teeth grinding, bleary eyes take on the world.  I think the coke we bought had to have been cut with Meth.

Actually I am sure all coke is cut with meth.

I am so not addicted to coke that a line sits on a paper plate hidden in my dresser drawer.  I did not finish it off last night.  I did not use it as a perk for getting up early and going to work this morning. I did not snort it up as soon as I got home.  I did not think about doing the line while I stood around at work today.

I am not even thinking about doing it right now.  And it's not like I got the coke shits or anything.  I did not even get much nasal drip this time.

I am sure I am getting my friend Special K addicted though.  She is texting me constantly. When we gonna get some?  She asks.  When we gonna do it?

I don't know man.  I need something purer I think.  I need something more euphoric, because this cut Meth shit is just making me anxious or making me energetic like I am on diet pills.  Just fuzzy stomach stuff and no real out of body experience.

I forgot I was gonna write while high on Detroit. (Detroit is code for coke dipshits.)

Came up with a wild riff last night that got all the party goers saying we need to record me on drugs and work it out so that I can go and do stand up.

I just laughed that shit off as those mother fuckers is drunk, and hopped up coke heads who think anyone who can still think straight (maintain) for 3 seconds has some grasp of the English language that needs to heard.

I will stick to Pepsi Throwback and caffeine and staying up till 5 am without Detroit (at least for a week or so) and see how that goes and when it goes like crap (like it always does) then I will change my mind and move on to E or something more hard core like smoking crack or heroin.

In da ghetto we live the Thug life

This is a pic of my breakroom.

Live blogging

I am sitting at the Burger King next to my grocery store listening to my text messages via a quirky computerized voice program that keeps me from having to read her texts, "no problemo" says the computerized lady voice in a strangely authentic Mexican accent.


The BK is full of single dads on weekend parent duty. I notice how the dads coo over their teenage daughters. 

I ordered a large drink and not a large fries, but I got charged for both. I had to ask for extra napkins, because this BK has a 2 napkin limit. The manager gave me a knowing wink when I asked for mustard and third set of 2 ply napkins.

I just got a text that my "connection" wants a hundred dollars for the stolen i-pod he wants to sell me. I say for that price I will buy online and not deal with the guilt of buying stolen goods.

Almost Heart

First time this week I have woken up without a hangover.  I got up a full 36 minutes before I have to jump in the shower and run off to work.

Work is lame, but I only have six hours shifts this week.  Not so bad.  I do have to work Sunday which is Valentine's Day.  That sucks as I was supposed to go to the Communist Picnic Sunday.

I requested the day off, but alas it got changed because all of you dick heads need to run to the grocery store on the day of the holiday and pick up a box of chocolates, a dozen droopy red roses, and a $5.99  Hallmark card that tells her all kinds of squishy things you never feel about her.

This is done so that you don't have to be nice to her the rest of the year.  At least that was told to me by my friend the Girl Robot.

Girl Robot is mechanical and cannot feel human emotions, so she gets pissed off when humans try and feel things even though we all know you  guys are mostly incapable of feeling things.

"Tell me one couple who has a good relationship."  She offers me as proof that humans are incapable of feelings and good behavior.

I list a few couples we know.  None of them are happy.  I then suggest she adopt a life of monkism like myself.

"Nobody wants to fuck you."  She replies curtly.  "That's different."

Her cruelty will not go unanswered in the next life. 

Her unpleasant words still ringing in my ears, I saunter off to the customer service desk where a girl offers me a tip for printing her money order for her.  Then she offers to double the tip if I show my tits.

I undo the top button on my shirt in a faux strip tease.    She suggests that my strip tease would earn me 4 dollars. 

She giggles and tells me it was nice to meet me even though we never exchanged introductions.  Though she knew my name because I wear a name tag.

Do you remember my Valentine's Day Post from a few years ago?  If you don't here is the link.  It was somewhat funny.  Go remember it.

Regret is never enough

It ended with regret.

Like most things I do in my life. But at the time I had no idea that it would end that way. I never do. I just plunge straight into things without thinking.

"At a certain point you get used to things not working out for you." I lament to the drunk next to me.

Shane is shit-faced and leaning to close to me. The black derby styled hat perched on his head looks ridiculous.

"This is a fucking dive bar." I tell myself. "No way in hell a guy should be in here wearing a hat like that."

I am going to tell Shane my darkest thoughts. I am going to tell him the things that make me ashamed to be alive. I want to choke him on my perversity, my demons.

"We all think things like that, man." He breathes at me.

The air around me is now toxic with stale onions and vomit.

"I want to tie a woman up with masking tape, and douse her in ketchup, and wrap her in plastic lawn bags and give her so much alcohol and pain killers that she doesn't wake up for a day or two after we start to fuck."

I pause just long enough to gulp down what's left of my beer.

"I want to fuck her only through the drunk daze of chemicals. I want her to wake up feeling violated. I want her to beg for me to do it again." I let my voice soften and drift away.

"Man that ain't nothing." Shane says.

Shane takes off his hat and wipes his brow with both of his pale skinny hands.

"I mean…" He stutters.

"I've done stuff I regret." He adds.

I look over at Rhonda the bartender. Her face is grinning at me. I think she loved every minute of my little soliloquy.

"You're one CRAZY ass mutherfucker." She tells me. "You know that?"

"I think I do."

Dear Diary. Nothing Happened.

Dear Diary,

I've been drinking a lot lately.

I've been drinking almost every day this week.

I drank yesterday. I drank two days ago, and I am even drinking right now.

Now Diary, I've only had two beers so far tonight. So I am still of sober mind. So don't go thinking this blog post is one of those rambling drunken posts with no connection to reality.

Even though I am sure I am going to ramble a bit.

I just cracked open my third beer. The third beer was a can. Bud. The second was a bottle of Bud, and so was my first beer.

I bought a six pack of Ultra just before closing time. I need to get fewer calories in me as I am eating chocolate gold fish from Pepperidge Farm.

(They are delish!)

I know that last comment was a little gay, but fuck it.

A word to the wise man, Dear Diary. Drinking Budweiser and chewing on graham crackers goes well with Eric Clapton. I am thinking specifically of the live album he cut on MTV.

My beer is warm.

I think I need to keep drinking it though.

At least the drinking will keep me from thinking about Detroit.

Though sometimes drinking leads to Detroit. And drinking and Detroit lead me to public masturbation.

People are against public masturbation.

I ate some Whataburger tonight.

Diary, did you know there were lots of hot chicks at Whataburger around midnight?

Well, there are.

I stared at one of them while watching the latest episode of 24 on my mobile phone.

The girl I stared at was very pretty.

And she was sitting with her boyfriend and it seemed to me that the guy was not all that special.

Actually, I noticed almost all the girls who had boyfriends had boyfriends that were way below what you might expect those girls to be able to get.

It's strange when you notice people.

The more you pay attention the more things you see.

Most of those things make you feel weird.

I was looking at the boyfriends for a while. The thing I noticed most about them was how unselfconscious they were.

Even though (it seemed to me) they had plenty of reasons to worry.

I've read that ignorance is bliss.

I think at one point the girl I was really digging noticed how brazen my staring had become.

(I was just thinking how nice it would be to have such a pretty girlfriend. Plus when you have a gf you can stare at her all you want. You can stare in her eyes and trace her freckles and chicks just think you are being sweet and all and not creepy or weird like.)

So the girl notices me and points me out to her boyfriend (who doesn't really even look over) and I just turn my eyes away and start paying more attention to Jack Bauer.

Jack's friend is being raped by some Russian asshole who acts tuff by throwing a glass against a wall.

I think about throwing my plastic cup half full of Sprite. I think about bouncing my Sprite off the trash can. I wonder what the group of college kids would do if they saw me do that.

There's a lot of them.

[College Kids]

I think they would call the cops on me.

{college kids call the cops}

The girl I am staring at has nice hair.

Her hair is up in some killer swept up hair do. She is broad smiling and sharing parts of her burger with her boyfriend.

It seems to me she is really playing up the whole, "I've got a bf so you can stop staring at me" thing.

There is another girl at Whataburger that would knock your socks off. That is if you saw her, Diary.

She is tall.

Skinny in her tight jeans.

She had amazing curly hair that was frosted blond.

Her hair was REALLY frosted at the top. I think the stylist may have fucked that part up. Somehow she worked it and it made her look older and more sophisticated as she tossed french fries at dinner companions.

Her dinner companions were two Asian girls and three "surfer" teen boys.

The teen boys were studded with acne and large flat rimed hats. The boys cocked the hats that sat on their heads sideways.

Most of the fries tossed by the pretty blond missed their target and ended up on the ground.

The Asian girls weren't that pretty.

But I would have fucked them.

Absurdistan

Can I tell you guys about the book I am reading?

Of course I can.  It's my blog and I get to do what the hell I want on it.

Go fucking read ABSURDISTAN.

This shit is the bomb!

Think Confederacy of Dunces, but from the style of late decaying 1980's  Soviet Union.

I found the book looking through the electronic resources of the Tempe Library.  I listen for free on my Env3 at the bus stops.  It almost makes me glad it takes me 90 minutes to get to work now!

Detroit is aka the precious which is aka for the shit

Dr. Detroit is the name of my coke dealer. Naturally, I make all kinds of references about "Detroit" when I talk to my drug friends. I say things like, "I am going to Detroit" when I am going over to my drug dealer's house.

My drug dealer does not have a house. My drug dealer lives at one of those Resident Inn's or Traveler Motels. For a motel the place is pretty nice. His room comes with a small kitchen and a 20 inch TV.

My drug dealer is straight up ghetto. He has jerry curls and walks with a limp because he's been shot so many times.

You may wonder why I am doing drugs. I will tell you. I just spent 2 hours editing the whataburger on the road post.  (Was it worth it?)

I was reading over that blog post in hopes that I could get a book out of it. Either that or I hoped I could see some talent or good writing on it. I was looking for anything that would give me hope. Hope enough for me to hang on to this crappy life and keep trying.

What I found caused me to take a road trip to Detroit.

So what we have here at this blog is what we have always had.

A Chronicle of decline. (If I were ever up.)

So that's why I am doing crack, Meth, mushrooms, and whatever I can get my hands on.

I text my friend (she hooks on the side) and I ask her if she wants to rent a motel room with me and buy some coke. I tell her I want to buy the stuff on my day off and hang out with her and get drunk & fucked up in the middle of the day.

"It has to be in the middle of the day." I tell her. "I don't want to get high at night, because then it just seems like we are partying."

I want this drug taking to be seen as obscene not glamorous by her.

I tell her, "I want to snort as much cocaine as we can buy."

I don't tell her that I am really thinking about buying her meth. Meth is way cheaper. Meth is also way more dangerous. Meth is gonna fuck us up real soon, because I can't stop thinking about Meth.

I have Meth on the brain.

I text:

I want to rent a motel room so we can keep all the Detroit to ourselves.

She agrees with me. We should keep all the shit for ourselves. Anyway my roommate might be a cannibal. It's better if I stay the fuck away from him as much as possible.

My new life of drugs promises me a quick burn out. At least I hope it does. When I am gone you will forget that I am loser.

I just want to feel good.

Her text says.

Don't we all baby-doll. Don't we all?

A serious WTF moment

Can someone help me out with this? Why is my roommate collecting wishbones and drying them out on our window frame?

p.s. This is not the first time he has done this.  He had 3 before I threw the last bunch out.  Is he getting a taste for cannibalism?

On the Road to Whataburger

I have this idea to write today's On the Road without ever going anywhere.

I was talking to an old woman at the grocery store and she told me that it is not safe to go hitch hiking anymore.

"You'd probably get raped or killed by one of those serial killers." She deadpans to me.

"Either that or nobody would ever stop for you."

I nodded my head to her and agreed.

"You'd just die of thirst out in the middle of the desert with your thumb up in the air." She added.

I guess she is right. You can't go on the road anymore. Anyway that's been done before. Plus think about all those serial killers. Jack never had to face anything like that.



I figure the only experiences left in America go something like this…

SUNLIGHT

My alarm clock is blaring at 12:45 p.m.

I need to get to work by 2:30. Not a terribly difficult task, if the city of Tempe wasn't fucking with me.

The Tempe City Council altered bus routes and discontinued bus lines near me. Now I have to walk to a bus stop that's a quarter mile away from my house.

When I get there I stand around waiting.

The internet says the bus should be here. The bus book distributed by the city of Tempe says it won't be here for another 20 minutes. I try my cell phone for the automated bus info, but I am placed on hold.

On the Road.

I decide to ditch the bus stop and start walking to Whataburger.

It's good walking weather. Late January and the sun is out. The sun makes it a warm day, but there is enough of a breeze to keep me from sweating into my underwear.

There's a nice working class vibe here at my favorite Whataburger. All of the fast food workers are "lifers." They don't wash their aprons. They toss the burgers with more onions and lettuce than is necessary.

Most of the workers are Mexicans. But at Whataburger you also get young mothers. I wonder why these young mothers went and got jobs. I guess their food stamps ran out.

I check out the girls because I've always liked skinny moms. I think skinny moms must be genetically programmed to have kids because they slim down so quick from their baby weight.

Even though the Whataburger girls are skinny you can see how late nights and single parenthood are having an effect on them. Babies never go to sleep when you want them to. The girls don't have time to wear makeup anymore, so you can see the dark circles burrowing below their eye brows.

I dig in my pockets to look for change. All I need is 6 dollars and I can get a burger, fries, and "all you can drink" soda at Whataburger.

My Whataburger has the greatest soda fountain in the Valley of the Sun. It can take 2 minutes to fill up a 32 ounce soda. When I press down on the lever to top my pop off the fizz spills over the side of the cup. I take a big whiff and smell all the carbon dioxide in the air.

I text my friends Krystal and Candy and tell them I am tired of work. I tell them since I am late for work I am taking the day off.

At my work if you are six minutes late you get docked a quarter of an hour's pay. At my work if you are six minutes late you are in as much trouble as you would be if you'd called in sick. Six minutes late? You might as well call in.

I find some cash and order my meal. Then I call in sick six minutes late.

I text Candy and Krystal. I tell them that I am eating fries and burgers, and I think we should get stuffed on fast food, and buy a few 12 packs, and head back to my place and get drunk.

They agree.

Candy and Krystal show up all smiles.

I used to want to fuck Candy. But Candy just had a baby and she looks like she might hold on to the baby weight. Also, I have a sneaky suspicion that the only reason she agreed to meet me at Whataburger was because she loves fast food as much as I do.

I order the girls some food with the remaining dollars on my debit card.

"I am trying to figure a way out to get us beer." I tell them.

Krystal ain't had a job for a few weeks. But she is flush with cash she says. She offers to buy us beer on the way back.

"We will stop by the gas station." She says. "They have cheep 12 packs for 7.99."

I tell Kristal that I have an idea and the idea has something to do with us having sex in the mop closet.

Kristal lets off a big guffaw of a laugh. Food spills out of her mouth and she wipes the lettuce and onions up in a paper napkin.

"What the fuck is a mop closet?" She asks.

I look up from my burger at her and try to decide if I think she is being serious.

"A mop closet is a closet with a mop in it." I tell her.

"And we should have sex in it." I finish.

The girls giggle at me and tell me I am the craziest mother fucker that they know.

"But I have a feeling that won't get me laid in a mop closet." I tell them.

When Candy gets up to go to the bathroom Crystal tells me, "If Candy gets drunk she might fuck you."

"Then we should get her home and get her drunk as fast as possible." I tell Kristal.

Kristal agrees.

I should tell you that I wrote all this down a lot after it happened. I should also tell you that I write better in the shower. If you were in the shower with me when I wrote this you might understand a little better some of the things I am talking about.

I forgot to mention my attorney in this story.

My attorney is a sociopath who likes to beat stray animals to death with two liter pop bottles.

My attorney is always asking me to go to Van Buren with him to go hooker spotting.

Hooker spotting is one of our favorite games.

I spotted Kristal working one night after my attorney ran over a stray kitten with 4x4. The cat wasn't dead, but it wasn't moving either. So my attorney got out of the Jeep to take a look at it.

The cat is pissed and hissing at him.

My attorney decides he needs to get something out the Jeep in order to prod the sick animal off the road.

"The damn thing has rabies or something." My attorney complains.

"Is that why you need to the 2 liter?" I ask sarcastically.

"You know, you really are obtuse. You know that?" My attorney chides me.

I hate when my attorney uses big words on me. I think my attorney thinks I am stupid or something.

"Is that a fat joke?" I ask. "Because I want to know if that is some kind of fat joke." I tell him. "Like I'm all more than 90 degrees or something."

"I forgot you took Algebra II in high school." My attorney says.

"Just give me the fucking 2 liter!" He snorts grabbing for the 2 liter.

I hand the 2 liter over to him and watch as my attorney holds the 2 liter high over his head with two hands and brings the bottle down over the stray cat.

At the last second the cat jumps up and takes off for the sidewalk. The 2 liter explodes in front of my attorney in a splash of foam.

I laugh at my attorney as he walks back to the Jeep wiping his hands on his dress slacks.

"Had enough fun yet?" I ask him.

"Almost." Came his laconic reply.

My attorney and I climb back into his Jeep. He guns the engine and we head home over the Mill Ave. Bridge.
**Who can afford to travel in a recession? Maybe I can! I hope to make a trip out to Cali with some Detroit. Live blogging event of course!**

More at the end of the road

I was telling my friend Leif (you call him Lester) that:

"I liked everything about the movie The Road except for the ending."

A new pair of tits is slinging beer from behind the bar. The new tits are wrapped in a wife beater t-shirt. New tits has tats up and down her shoulders. New tits hair is crew cut short and slicked back.

"But I liked the movie." I say.

"The movie is one of those post-apocalyptic Sci-Fi movies about a boy and his father. Only this movie gets a lot of it right."

"I mean the movie is completely fucking depressing."
 
New Tits pours me a beer. She slides the beer over to me. She gives me a wink. New tits checks me out in that I am not being discreet I am checking you out but you aren't supposed to see me checking you out way. 

But only I know she is not really checking me out she is only pretending to check me out because she has sized me up already. She has figured out how I like attention from women. Because she is a fucking genius, New Tits is.

She has this idea that being friendly, but not too friendly, is going to earn her some tips tonight. And since there are only 5 or six other people in the bar and most of them appear to be asleep or dead she might as well hang out near me and Leif.

"Bad things are happening in this movie. Really bad things." 
I say.

I am talking really loudly. I am talking loud enough for the whole bar to hear me. I am being dramatic. I am using body language. I am using all kinds of vocal intonations and arm gesticulations to get my point across.

"People are dying. Everyone is hungry. There are cannibals everywhere."

I throw my hands up.

"People are committing suicide."

People would rather kill themselves than live in this movie and that makes a lot of sense to me.

"In the movie things are always getting worse. Every time something bad happens and the father and son escape to a new situation, the next situation is even worse than the old one."

I can see the bar is not convinced.

"At one point the father/son team escape from a group of cannibals and finds a cabin. You think to yourself. Nice, a cabin! Maybe they will be safe for a second." I pause for dramatic effect.

"But not for a second." I deadpan.

"The cabin is home to a bunch of cannibals who plan on feeding off a bunch of people they have locked in a cellar."

I look over at Leif who looks like he wants to throw up.

"Jesus." New Tits says in disgust.

"Some of the captives have had their arms or their legs amputated and eaten." I tell New Tits.

"Christ." New Tits finishes.

"The best part of the movie is how there is no hope. Things are only getting worse. No matter how much people try, no matter how noble their efforts at survival are, they just can't catch a break."

Leif interrupts me.  "If you plan on killing yourself…I want you to tell me first."

I laugh at him, "Okay, man. I promise."

Remember the poster of the little girl eating cheese I talked about? Well here she is!

Remember how I hated her?  How she pissed me off?

I sank into a pit of despair so low that I flicked my finger at a cardboard cut-out of little girl eating a Triscuit that stands at the front of my register.

"Why'd you do that?"  The grocery clerk to my left asked me nervously.

"Because that BITCH doesn't need anymore cheese."  I barked at her.

"Look at her."  I pointed to a picture of the most adorable little girl eating  a cracker you have ever seen.  "You know she just wants more cheese!"

*I'm gonna take a picture of it at work.  You'll see.

That little kid has enough cheese.  But a kid like that is never satisfied with good enough. She just uses her cuteness to get her way.

I guess you think I should just ignore that kind of shit.  But I can't any longer.

"I'm sick of people like her getting what they want."

I must have said some other stuff that I don't remember, because for the rest of the night that clerk avoided me and did not talk to me.

Well they brought the little bitch back.  I think they are just fucking with me. 

What do you think?

At the end of the road is the guy you left vomiting in the toilet stall all by himself

And he gets all mad at you and says things like:

"Hold my hair back."

"Why didn't you hold my hair back?"

"I can't believe you didn't stay with me while I puked on you, and I can't believe you didn't hold my hair back as I puked into that smelly ass toilet."

"Why did you bring me to this shit hole dive bar?"

"Is is just because you want to score with the fucking EMO chicks?"

I remind Leif there is no such thing as a 30 year old EMO chick.

"There are only 30 year old hipster chicks, or fastly approaching 30 year old hipster chicks."

The only EMO's I know are 14 year old girls.

Splashing sound.

I am holding his hair back as he pukes.

The sound I am hearing is like the sound you hear when you pour a pitcher of kool aid into a bathtub. Only the purple splashes hitting your feet in that case would not frighten you.

Leif says, "Are you holding my hair back?" His hair is full of puke.

"I am holding you stupid fucking hair back." I tell Leif.

I tell Leif. "I am keeping your highlights from getting damaged by the powerful stomach acids that are shooting out of your throat."

Leif is drunk. Leif is deranged. Leif insists I am not there. Leif is angry that I left him puking his guts out in the stall of The Tailgate Bar.

Leif has never been to a dive bar. Leif wants to know if he is pretty. Leif wants me to be his pimp.

I tell Leif that all that puking is going to make him thin. I tell Leif that I wish I could puke like that. Then I would have tight abs like he has. I tell Leif that the $10,000 dollars he has been offered by the GENTLEMAN is not enough.

"You are going to be rich and skinny forever." I tell Leif.

I need to get some cocaine. All this hand holding is getting on my nerves. I'd rather be drinking what's left of my beer. The dyke lesbian bartender in the other room is probably pouring my beer out as we speak.

"I look like shit." Leif slurs. His throat is dry and course from all the puking.

I have no idea when my puking sympathetic reflex is going to kick in.

"Your fucking sexy, Leif." I lie to him.

I tell him how I have a semi hard on and I suggest that he make a grab at my dick if he doubts it.

He says it would make no difference.

"Your cock's too small to know the difference." He says suddenly feisty.

I let go of his hair and his head hits the porcelain lid of the toilet and bounces off it. I catch his head before it hits a second time.

"Shut the fuck up!" I scream at him.

"My cock is big enough." I tell him.

Leif is suddenly sorry. Leif is sobbing uncontrollably.

"You've got to pull yourself together man." I tell him. "I am not going out there with you if your lipstick is all smudged up."

"I thought we were friends." He says.

"We are." I tell him.

"I'm gonna take care of you." I say.

"Who do you think is gonna drive you home?" I ask him.

He looks up at me.

"That's right."

"Me."

I'm risking 6 years in jail. I have 4 or 5 DUI's. All depends on the way you want to count them.

"I am going to drive through Tempe drunk as hell." I say to him. The cops are everywhere I am sure.

"First we are going to pick up Krystal." I tell Leif. "Then we are going to get some WhataBurgers."

"We have a plan." Leif sighs, relieved.