31 January 2006

This Blog Is Proven To Help Reduce Body Fat

Right. The gas station on post is selling a product called "Bootie Beer." Yes. This product sells for a marked price of 7 dollars American for a case. That's like 29 cents a beer or something. I don't think I'm doing a very good job of explaining how beautiful this is. I am going to drink so much Bootie this weekend it will be maddening.
I like how despite the can, Pringles still get crushed by the time I try to eat them.
I thought I told you I didn't want to hear any shit? Yet you gave me shit. All that wasted energy. Just flapping your man-pleasers.
I am reading the paper today and it seems some guy in Italy is suing a Priest for claiming that Jesus was a real person. Not that he is God, not that he is the Son of Man, but that he was a real guy who walked the earth. What? Are you allowed to do that? If so I am suing the shit out of everyone for telling me there was a Santa, Easter Bunny, tooth fairy and ninjas. Fucking Italians. I suppose he had a break from eating pasta and watching his wife getting fatter, so he decided to sue.
I'm glad it's still raining. I had no intention of ever keeping my car clean.
Here is what you do. Get your hands on some silver nitrate and some white phosphorus. Steal a dispersion device and an airplane. Dump the silver nitrate into a cloud. It will start raining. Then dump in the WP. It will rain fire. Pretty sweet. At least that works in theory, I guess. I really have no clue. But it works in theory, theoretically speaking of course. As a matter of fact, I don't know if that will work. So don't do it. You might hurt someone or yourself. And I believe that stealing an airplane is a pretty big deal these days.
What the hell is a Rihanna? And why do I want to cover her voice in nut? Every time I hear her go, "da dee dee dee dee de dad a da dee deed a da day" I desire to spray a 12 roper across my stereo.
My phone sucks balls. I get only three hours of battery time. I fucking hate my shit.
I like how your hands feel on my head. Your fingers grip my hair and force my head into the placement you want it. Upon arrival, your hands loosen up a bit and give a slight squeeze as if to say you are pleased. You then slide your hands down to my neck; using your fingernails to pinpoint the position my head needs to be in. You pull my ears, twist my hair in your fingers and apply pressure, with force, whenever it isn't working for you. God I love it. I wish I could get a haircut everyday.

29 January 2006

This Product Is Not A Safe Alternative To Cigarettes

Right. I am not a moralist. But the family channel is running old episodes of "Wife Swap." I say again. I am not a moralist, but the FAMILY CHANNEL is running old episodes of "WIFE SWAP." I'm glad I got that out there.
I hear the line, "I wish I knew how to quit you," from Broke Back Mountain at least 1800 times a day. This is amazing considering I listen only to ESPN radio and don't watch TV. But I manage to hear this line all the time. I wish I knew how to erase that line from my brain. I don't care that one man says it to another man it's just lame. Even I, in all my sappy thoughts, wouldn't say something so queer.
I am grateful. Today I received the greatest news ever. My brother and his wife are having a child. Yes, he knocked her up. Now my mother and father can leave me the fuck alone for nine months and stop asking me when I will make them some grandchildren. I always get a kick out of that shit because they know I'm single. It's hard for me to make children on my own. But I have a lot of baby socks running around if you know what I am talking about.
Things will never be the same. The spark is extinguished and the smoke signals the dawn. The time is spent and the money is lost. We turned a weekend into a few years, and that is better than most people will do. Jobs will come. Wives will follow. Mortgages, children, leaky gutters, weekend retreats and the lawn will soon take precedent. I will miss all of this in you. I will have to catch up. I am sorry. But I promise you that upon my return I will always have hockey seats.
Her stay in my life was all too brief. She had barely enough time to dry her hair and enjoy a drink before she left. She made an impression though. I can still make out her shape from the wrinkles in the sheets. I can still smell her soap on the bath towel. Her makeup is still on my pillow. I still think of her when I look in the mirror. I remember how good she looked walking up behind me and resting her head on my shoulder as we looked into each other's eyes through the mirror. I thought of throwing that mirror away. Its purpose has been served. It will never depict the beauty it did when she was here. She came into my life, she brought with her a glimpse of heaven then she killed and resurrected me in one night. The life I have is hers because she gave it to me. Because the life I had died the moment I bathed in her shadow.

26 January 2006

King, Saint, Cruise Line And Reading For The Blind

Right. I don't need your support anyway Joel. My boss wants me to be a fucking Army historian all of a sudden. Well I must have anal glaucoma, because I don't see my ass doing it. Call me and teach me how to live. I can spark your fire and I will save your relationship. Feed from my lyrical teat and blame your mom and dad for not loving you enough...or too much. I am so pissed with you people it is beyond words.
You read about the guy who knocked the teacher out because the teacher was fucking with the guy's daughter? I'm sorry, but I'd have slit his fucking throat and video taped it. Then I would make that into a DVD and FEDEX the DVD to his mother. I would send her one for the rest of my life. And when I stood trial and the judge sentenced me to punishment, well shit. I would have to inform him of my plan of killing the bailiff, escaping and drinking a bottle of gin and running his mother over. Then I would do it. I'm all or nothing. Don't half-ass anything, that's my motto.
I think today I will do something special. I think today I will not write anything sappy, apathetic, cryptic, random or clever. I will not give anyone advice. Today sparks a new day in my blogworld. A day filled with beauty. This new day is great. This new day is short; because soon I will get back to writing all the stuff I won't write about today.
Today I will tell you all of a man, a special man. He is a man of supreme intellect. He is a man of unparalleled power. He is a real man. Every woman I have met has wanted to bone him. He is a thief of hearts and a tender man of incorruptible passion. I am a better person for knowing him and your soul suffers unspeakable horrors for not knowing him. You know this man as cocaine. I know him by his first name. That makes me better than you.
Cocaine. The man is like Barry White. He does his part. If you are out and cocaine is there and you aren't having a good time...it ain't cocaine’s fault. I first met cocaine somewhere. But then we went to Denny’s. Cocaine and I had a pleasant cross-restaurant war by flicking sugar packets at each other. I then knew he was clearly a supreme power.
Time passed and yadda blah yadda. But I will not simply tell stories of him. I will let you know of him.
You can't talk to cocaine. Let me clarify. It is an exercise in logic to talk to him. See, cocaine is a doctor, and aside from being a doctor he is close to the smartest person to walk the earth. So he tries to explain things to you and by the end of it you are more confused than when he began. But it does not matter because once he sees in your eyes how lost you are, he sums it up in 3 words and everything he said makes sense. I think it's a game he plays.
Another game he plays is hockey. And if God made a hockey player who moonlights as a shit head, I haven't met him. Cocaine is a catchphrase machine. Check it. Something our group has always done is argued, for the fun of the argument. I watched cocaine lose an argument once and while he was reaching to try to make a point someone told him to shut it down because he was losing. Cocaine responded by informing us that, "Whatever dude, I'm winning."
Cocaine does that. He was fucking something up once and I mean really dicking it up, and when I informed him he was dicking it all up he said, "No. I'm making it better." This is what he does. "Fuck you cocaine." "No. You are the one who is fuck." Splendid.
I listened to him spout off nonsense for a good forty minutes. When he realized that he jabber jawing, he ended his incoherent diatribe with, "These are ideas." He and I were talking of hockey and I mentioned that I hated Bertuzzi. I said, "Fuck him. That guy is a cheap shot little bitch." To which the astute response was an emphatic, "No. He's a really large bitch. That guy is like 6'7" on skates." Touché.
I've drunk with this man on numerous occasions. I have also been privy to many a car wash from cars he has thrown up on or in after us drinking. Outside of a bar once, a random and rather large passerby nicely asked me for a cigarette. Out of nowhere, completely drunken cocaine points at this man and screams, "No cigarette. No fucking cigarette for you."
He came to visit me along with unkind while I was in Boston. It was great. I have video of the three of us being drunk, but only two of us being cognizant of anything. Cocaine starting purring and shaking. He said that he was a cat named Mustafa and that purring and shaking helped him fall asleep. A comment to which unkind and I were forced to throw a barrage of books upon his pre-slumber shenanigans. Also during this weekend, cocaine informed me that he could run 4 miles faster than 4 miles.
Cocaine also has the uncanny ability to destroy a car. I have never met a man who can simply walk by a car and the wheels will fall off. Every car that man has touched has had bad and inexplicable things happen to it. He sat in my TL a few times and now my tint is all fucked. I know better than to think it was shitty craftsmanship.
Cocaine has the metabolism of a hummingbird. I've watched that man eat close to 12 pounds of breakfast once. He lost 4 pounds during the meal. He is a remarkable man and he gets my respect. Check it.

25 January 2006

A Night Early Because I Roll Hard

Dear Yossarian,

I am in a bad way. I recently won a lot of money betting on the NFL. Specifically, I bet the Steelers would beat the Colts. Then I let the money ride and bet double or nothing on the Steelers for the AFC championship. The Steelers won, my ship came in. I won.
The problem is, is that I am not supposed to be gambling as some would say I have a problem with gambling.
Five years ago I lost my house, job, car and family because I gambled away all of our money and would go to various casinos instead of work. I sought help and haven't gambled for some time.
I met a woman a couple years ago and we married and I adopted her two children. She has a good job and the money I used to place the bet was her life savings and the deed to her house. We live in a new suburb, so I risked quite a bit of her equity.
My problem is that now I have won all of this money, how do I put it in our bank or tell my wife about this without violating her trust?

Please Advise,

Dan in PA

Dear Dan,

If, when I die and am judged, I was everything I was supposed to be and am admitted into the kingdom of heaven, I will rekill every last sum bitch in there until they let you in. You are clearly a man of action and my new personal hero. Of course you bet on the Steelers. Why wouldn't you? I would have. And shit, if I had some woman with cash-money and a house deed, I'd be playing 5-6 pick'em till we were broke or I was rich. (Yes, WE share my defeats and I reign supreme in MY glory.)
Let me put it to you this way, you are Tiger Woods of life. You ever watch golf? Well they show these clowns hit these balls very well and no one cares. Drive to the fairway. Chip to the green. Put. BORING. Tiger fucks up and makes spectacular shots out of the sand, the trees or the water. That is why we love him. He makes those shots. We all fuck up and he gets out of it beautifully. You my friend did the same. You are an inspiration to anyone with a fully developed brain. You are an icon of righteousness, ingenuity, determination and growth.
The way I see it, you have two courses of action. Let's examine the two shall we?
Option one, you can tell her. Because guess what? You're gambling problem is now solved. You won. If you were betting straight money, then you doubled her life savings and the worth of her house on the initial bet. Then you doubled that amount the following game. Brilliant. But you were probably betting odds and I believe the Steelers were going off at 3 to 1 underdogs against the Colts. That's cake. If you were betting the points, then you stood to make even more grip. The Steelers were only 3 ½ point underdogs against the Broncos, so I'm guessing it was even money there. I'm sure she'll understand. Even if she doesn’t and she divorces you, well shit buddy, this is America. You'll get half. And half of a shit-ton is plenty.
Option two, is what I would recommend. Take that shit and replace her life savings. Get your deed back and get it to her and make it to where that shit was never gone. Take all of YOUR winnings and put them shits in an account you open up under false identification. If you are hanging around bookies and shit I am sure you know how to get your hands on some Arnolds. Don't say shit about it and do what you will with that money. You want to keep gambling? Fuck dude, you earned it. You want to bone high-class escorts? It's your world bro; I'm just living in it. I'm not here to judge. Also, I would fake my death, collect the insurance money, take my winnings and my scam grip and start life anew in South America. Open up some bar on a beach and fuck tourists and tanned women all day. That's not for everyone.
Fuck the trust of your wife. You won money. And from some quick goat math I am doing in my head, you won a lot of money. There are a few billion people on this planet that get by just fine with out your wife's trust. One more won't end the world, join us my friend. You're already closer to Graceland than I am. You've got currency.
I don't know a single woman who, upon learning they are unexpectedly rich, would be mad. Violating her trust? I'd use this as a means of violating her and her sister anally. But only if you chose option one.
You could always say fuck it and since you've come this far, let it ride one more game. You'd need a wheelbarrow for your balls if you did that.
In summation, you are a pearl among swine. You risked the financial stability of your wife and family, a financial stability you did not provide nor earn I might point out, because you knew it was right to bet on professional football. Bless you. Money won IS sweeter than money earned. Also, I owe quite a bit to various student loan providers, so a little nice thrown my way would be appreciated.
Regardless, I think it is rather evident that you are the greatest person in the history of mankind.

You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings,


24 January 2006

Annihilate Like the Ancients Did

Right. Throughout the night he stared at her at random times he knew she couldn’t see him. He watched her intently. He took note of how differently she moved and acted when around others. She moved like a person uncomfortable in their blessings. He saw how wide she smiled. Her eyes sparkled when she made small talk. She took compliments on her dress very humbly as she nibbled on her olive but never drank her martini.
He traced her visage with an imaginary hand he moved with an anarchist's preciseness, unorthodox but perfect in capturing the beauty he saw. He dreamed of having the talent to paint her like he could in his head when he saw her get caught with her left index finger slightly in her mouth as she began to laugh at a joke she didn't find funny while she was tasting a small eggplant hors d'oeuvre.
He started to tear up as she bent at the knees and twisted her legs to the side in order to pick up the napkin she dropped. He asked god to give him the words to describe the beauty he saw in her. He smiled as she delicately traced the ice sculpture with her fingertips. Her eyes grew wider when she noticed the detail carved into the melting Aves monument.
He took notice of her dress, her black dress. Her backless black dress made him realize. She gently scratched the small of her back and he walked to the bar and ordered another highball and a dry martini with extra olives. He walked the two fresh drinks over toward her. She pushed her hair away from her ears as he walked up the three steps to the ice sculpture where she was standing. He handed her the martini and she thanked him as he looked out the large bay window onto the skyline of the city.
He pointed out toward the towers illuminating the slow rain as it steadily poured onto the people ignoring the skyline on the streets below. He pointed at the skyline with his drink in hand as if he were proposing a toast to the city. She let out an awkward smile and asked if that was the building he worked in. He said no, he said that he wanted to say something profound about the city to start a conversation. She smiled and was suddenly aware of the warmth of her skin as she looked at the floor. Her turned his head to look at her and said, "But all I can think about is how your dress made me realize that the reason I was put on this earth is to work to make you happy enough to where you can wear me as intimately as you wear that dress."
Her left hand trembled as she placed her hand on her chest. She couldn't breathe but she knew she was living because she felt her heart beating. She searched for words. Her mind worked to slowly, but her eyes said everything she wanted to say and he wanted to hear. Suddenly, an unwanted coat was being wrapped around her from slightly behind her and to her left. A voice that neither wanted to hear nor acknowledge its sender said, "Are you ready hun? The babysitter has an early class tomorrow so we had better head back."

23 January 2006

Welcome To The Suck

Right. I received an email today. An email you will soon read. It is quite possibly the greatest email of all time. It will be the subject of my Thursday advice column. I don't know what advice I can give on this right now. I must ponder all ins and outs and ups and downs and everything in between the barroom floor and Alpha Centauri, because this is a pickle. I'm really excited to see what kind of advice I give this man, because right now, I'm torn.
I really have nothing resembling what I usually write about to write about today. So instead I will post a conversation I had with my commander today. This is my first real conversation with him and as you will see it got over like gangbusters.
Captain: "I know it sucks you are doing 3 peoples jobs right now, but it will look good on your OER."
Me: "Don"t piss down my back and tell me it is raining sir."
Captain: "Ha. I like that. You'll do fine in the Army."
Me: "For the next two years and 4 months at least sir."
Captain: "Ha. Okay so what's up?"
Me: "Check it out sir, what is this detail I'm on?"
Captain: "Oh, you're the investigator of deaths. Basically if anyone in our squadron dies, you investigate it and determine if he was being a jack off. You determine if he gets full benefits or partial based on his actions leading to his death."
Me: "I'm not tracking sir."
Captain: "You're essentially the jury in a death case."
Me: "Well sir, any jury I am on is automatically a hung jury."
Captain: "Ha! I like your shit Yossarian. A hung jury for Christ sake. Goddamn that's clever son."
Me: "I have my moments."
You did not have this conversation with your boss. Therefore I am better than you.

21 January 2006

Cornbread, Earl and Me

Right. Here is a rundown of my Friday night chronologically.
Work late.
Come to the realization that Hooters of Tacoma sets the standard for hottness.
Eat 52 wings and drink 2 pitchers of beer in one sitting.
Win my 100 dollars.
Realize that I am to women what hairspray is to spiders.
Amaze everyone when Electric Avenue plays on the stereo when I sing along and instead of the real words sing, "I'm going to rock on to K-Mart to buy some shoes...that only cost a dollar."
Puke up 47 wings and 2 pitchers of beer.
Give 100 dollars back.
Damn near make 300 by almost eating the chicken wing puke.
Feel ashamed for not eating my tasty vomit for a profit.
Drive around listening to the Blues game on XM.
Eat some ice cream.
Watch Conan the Barbarian.
Fall asleep.

Good times. Good times.

19 January 2006

Thursday Night Fights

Dear Yossarian,

The woman in the cubicle across from mine wears her crucifix on the outside of her shirt. She displays this symbol of oppression, both internal and external oppression, everyday. The symbol offends me and her Christianity offends me. She never says anything to me about it, but I have overheard her talking to her family and other Christians in the office about it. This is all very offensive to me and I would like to know if I should her fired for creating a hostile work environment or how I should go about letting her know her beliefs offend me and I don’t want to deal with them in my work place.

Thank you,

G from FLA

Dear G from FLA,

I was watching Clash of the Titians the other day and I drank a root beer. It was a good time, I must admit. Afterwards, I packed a lip and read this book I been reading. I sat in my massage chair and read about six chapters and then I fell asleep, right in the chair. Can you believe that? That's how I like to spend my weekends, because my weekdays are so hectic. That's how I roll. Sometimes the only thing that keeps me driving on is listening Nora Jones and the belief that in two years and four months, I will be out of the Army and hopefully I can land a job with a hockey team. I like that idea. Getting paid to watch hockey. I'll do whatever job they need, but I'll get to watch hockey. Man. There is only one person on this planet I wouldn't ice to get that job, she's my mom, and anyone else would have to go. That entire job thing would also work if you were to replace the word hockey with baseball or football or women’s tennis.
I almost forgot to mention. I bought a couple hundred dollars worth of soup a few days ago. I decided that from here on out, soup is the only thing I will eat. No more unnecessary wear and tear on my enamel. No sir. Soup is the way to go. I have all kinds of soup. Tomato is my favorite, but I also enjoy clam chowder. And I’ll be very honest with you, broccoli and cheese is tasty too. I had this soup one time with mini ravioli things, baby corn, green beans and tomatoes, but I don’t think Campbell's makes anything like that. While I was at the grocery store I thought, "What goes well with soup?" Then it hit me. Tea. So I have an abundance of tea now also. Not hot tea, though I'm not opposed, I'm just more of an iced tea fella myself.
I must have looked funny buying obscene amounts of iced tea and soup and Copenhagen. But that's okay. Comedy is good. I used to like to read tragedies. But that was when I was younger. Before life taught me that life is tragic enough without me reading about it. So I guess it's good to bring laughter into the world. It's also good to bring things like baby corn into the world. Because I fucking love baby corn. In fact, if you are ever trying to get me to go to a party, chances are I won't want to go. But if you tell me there will be baby corn, well shit, we will see how fast the Acura will go.

You're Welcome,


P.S. I did not answer your question nor give you advice because it is quite possibly the most fucked up, inane and frivolous issue in the history of mankind. Is your life so empty that you must take issue with someone whom doesn't speak to you? You want advice? Cram a hunting knife blade first up your cunt. Also, what the fuck is FLA? I thought the abbreviation for Florida was FL, you daft twat. But either way, may Christ bless you for not asking me a sex question.

18 January 2006

this is an audio post - click to play

16 January 2006

Your Power And Strength Stays With Me

Right. There are parts of my past that I fool myself into believing are part of my present. There are parts of her I keep with me. There are parts of her that make forever seem manageable. There are parts of her I think about every second of my life. There are parts of her they can't tear apart.
There are feelings I've felt that I've tricked myself into feeling now. There are feelings she gave me that make it okay to be myself. There are feelings we shared that give me the power to make it through forever. There are feelings I saw in her I will never inspire in anyone else. There are feelings I have that they can't remove.
There are words she misused with aplomb. There are words I remember her mispronouncing. There are words I misuse and mispronounce in secret in order to pay homage to her. There are words they will never define.
There are movements we made that cannot be replicated. There are movements she made that astounded the core of my soul with their elegance and simplicity. She made moving an art form; her body demanded its actions to be called movements instead of motions. There are movements they cannot describe.
There are looks she gave only to me. There are looks that she gave me that I hold as sacred possessions more valuable than anything ever bought. There are looks she gave me, and I look differently because of them. There are looks she gave me portraying every emotion known to man and a few that aren't. There are looks they'll never see.
There are memories of her I'll always have. There are memories that make my worth. There are memories that will bore my grandchildren. There are memories I will use to know how decent the world can be if you let it. There are memories they'll never have.
There are people I love. There are people I will return to. There is only one I want to.

The Bakery Is Across The Fucking Street

Right. Dear Sky, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot over? Seriously. Thirty plus days of rain? Are you joking? What good is this doing aside from prohibiting me from keeping my car clean? You fucking dick. Move your rainy ass to Phoenix where it hasn't rained since like early October or some shit.
Dear Guy at 7-11, I don't give a frog's fat ass what piss ant country you are from. I walk into your establishment every morning at 05:17 before I go to PT. I buy a Grape Gatorade and a can of Copenhagen. You card me. I see you at Wal-Mart and it's all, "Hey what's up bro." Why don"t you "What's up bro" me while I am purchasing dip so I don't have to walk back outside and grab my ID prolonging my mouth cancer? Inconsiderate ass.
Dear XM radio, You came as a component of my car. I have a button on my stereo that clearly says, "XM." Thus I will look like an ass if I don't subscribe to your service. You are fucking assholes. I primarily listen to ESPN radio and recently found out that I am paying you good, hard earned money for a service, which is free if I would have just found AM before you. Fuck you.
Dear ESPN radio, When I want to listen at home or at my office I load up on your website and it sucks ass. Shit never loads and then it goes away. Your shit is bush league.
Dear grocery store, I appreciate the fact that you sell pre-made sandwiches more than anyone on the planet. I am disgusted with the fact that your delicious sandwiches are at one end of the store while your potato chips are on the other and the Gatorade is hidden in betwixt the two. This wastes valuable time I could be in gustation heaven.
Dear Cheetos, What happened to your PAWS snack food? We had a good thing going. You made them and I ate them. I thought we were in agreement that it was outstanding. Now you don't make them any longer? Well fuck that. I'll see you in hell Cheetos.
Dear Campbell's Soup, We got no beef. I dig your shit. The metal you forged making it possible to microwave it is genius. You should sell that shit to the military. I'm sure there is some radiation suit you can make with that shit.
Dear Employer, You are a fucking asshole. My bad. I am counting days. It's not all bad. But it's not for me. Not for long at least.
Dear Neighbor, He is your child not your punching bag. Your hands are huge and you use them to knock your kid around. If I lose any more sleep over you and your being of an ass...I will feed your mother one of your kidneys you piece of shit.
Dear Lady I Saw At The Bus Stop Yesterday, If I were half the man I perpetrate to be, we'd be fucking right now.

15 January 2006

Nothing Backlashed

Four jobs you've had in your life:
1. Gas Station Attendant
2. Waiter
3. Public Relations Specialist
4. Soldier

Four movies you could watch over and over:
1. The Big Lebowski
2. Fight Club
3. The Outlaw Josey Wales
4. Anchorman

Four books you could read again and again:
1. Anything by J.D. Salinger
2. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
3. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
4. Home Ice by Jack Falla

Four places you've lived:
1. St. Louis, MO
2. Boston, MA
3. Fort Leonard Wood, MO
4. Puyallup, WA

Four TV shows you love to watch:
1. The Simpsons
2. Sports Center
3. Pardon the Interruption
4. Infomercials

Four places you've been on vacation:

1. Miami, FL
2. The Bahamas
3. Phoenix
4. Denver

Four websites you visit daily:
1. www.nhl.com
2. www.espn.com
3. www.redontheweb.com
4. www.comicbookmovie.com

Four of your favorite foods:
1. Tacos
2. Fish
3. Bacon
4. Soup

Four places you'd rather be:
1. Back at home with my dog
2. Back at home with my dog
3. Back at home with my dog
4. Back at home with my dog

Four albums you can't live without:

1. Sing Out Loud Sing Out Proud by The Dropkick Murphys
2. Black on Both Sides by Mos Def
3. Humanoid Erotica by Fat Jon
4. London Calling by The Clash

14 January 2006

Flesh And Bone And Silicone

Right. Every time I try to prepare to fight the war I will deploy to I am forced to fight the war in my head, which is too much to contemplate, accept and digest for a man of my physical stature, emotional state and intellectual ability. I know it is petty. I know it is surreal. I am aware it may be impossible. I still hate it. I still want it to die. I still hallucinate about gutting it and ripping out its intestines as I chew its jugular out, watching it die. It is comprised of the two, and the two will die by my hand and I will reward myself by setting it at adjacent chairs at my table and feasting on game hunted, killed, prepared and served by the forgotten children of the future unjustly confined.
It doesn't matter. You are invited to leave at any point you desire. I will tip my hat as you leave. You will try and take me with you, but what I want is here. What I want moves at speeds I cannot comprehend and stops for brief periods to cause enough strife in your imaginary life. Your imaginary life where things affect you and you are important and you have a celestial spark, which makes you better and different than everyone including Tom and me. But the two of us are aware of something you are ignorant of. You are pathetic, and you are the ones who march to the drum ushering in the new police and the old firemen. The Gods of old are back, and with them they bring the knowledge of the new Gods. The new Gods are here for you and you will embrace them and meet them for lunch and a cigar after they offer you a job with the paper.
But Tom and me, we will watch from across the river and laugh and tell stories with flutes we carved from giant redwoods. While you discover the secrets as to why no one in China-Town has grey hair, Tom and I will ignite a fire engulfing the mountains and melting the jewelry your ancestors forged to secretly pass down treasure clues. The frenzy of your jubilation will force your mind to freeze when the new Gods roll and turn your section of the world into a graveyard. Tom and I will send flowers that grow wild from the aftermath of the fires of your funeral pyre.
Before your death you will ask us for help. We will not and you will think Tom and me are the same. We are not. Tom loves you and wants to try to help; he is just not strong enough to die. I am strong enough to die; I just don't love you at all.
If you come here to read words you wish he'd say about you. If you come here to read thoughts you wish he'd think about you. If you come here hoping these words are about you. If you come here to read how detailed a man's mind can be in regards to women. Come here no more. She is dead. She died at the hand of the compassionate.

13 January 2006

With Love And Squalor

Right. First, I am sorry for my lack of posting, as the Army has been working me senseless. Also, per yesterday's post, I hope none of you become code breakers.

Dear Yossarian,

My question is twofold. Primarily, I am curious as to what constitutes a slut. Is there a magic number (or range) of sexual partners that men judge women by? Or is it more circumstantial? I figured that since you had done it to many women that you would be an expert on sluts. Times have changed, and you're obviously a man of the times. Secondly, if a girl really likes a guy, should she be completely honest about her sexual history? Like, I knew this girl in college who told me she had slept with 5 guys, at least that's what she said she tells everyone. (I think she had slept with like 5 guys that week, actually.) But she never told her true number (to anyone) because she did not want to be judged by it. And you've seen Chasing Amy and how that ended up. Do you think in a situation like this ignorance is bliss? Should a gal pick a number and stick with it? Or is honesty really the best policy when your heart is on the line?


Slutty from Ohio

Jesus H. Christ. I'd like to start by thanking you for acknowledging that I have done it to a lot of ladies. From the lowliest bus station skank, to the most sophisticated, debutant, high-class...bus station skank. Now for my answer, which is invariably wrong.
Well, from a male point of view, a slut is a woman who sleeps with everyone; a bitch is someone who sleeps with everyone but you.
I'm not big on honesty in this realm of blither, because it doesn't matter. No matter the number it is 100% too many. See, every man you see throughout the day is trying to fuck you, or has secret wishes of fucking you. No woman walks by your average man and wants to fuck. It's hard for us to find women wanting to randomly hit skins in the bathroom of a Chuck E. Cheese. It wouldn't be all that hard for a woman to get randomly get fucked in one. So really, it's a security or a self-confidence issue.
If the man is anything like me, he won't ask because he doesn't want to know. If he does ask he probably needs assurance that he is satisfying you. So how to get around this, since most every girl I know has pulled the flying turkey while at a party in New Hampshire? Change the subject. If he asks how many guys you've slept with, start talking about hockey. That would take my mind off the subject and make me think I'm with a really cool girl because she likes hockey. Your man isn't into hockey? Well whatever he is in to, start talking about that.
I wouldn't suggest you lie, so don't just pick a number and stick with it. Just, never answer. Because as we all have seen 99% of women are sluts, it's just a matter of perception. Churchill said, "Now that we've established what you are, all that's left is to determine the price." Think about it like that.
But the real number of what makes one a slut is the age of the person minus the number of people slept with, times pi, divided by the square root of the number of holes filled at one time plus ten. If that number is greater than zero then you are a slut.

11 January 2006

Protect Yourself From Yourself

Right. I want to speak with elephants regarding why it sometimes goes crazy. Hate me all you want but love your own body with vigor. My theory about the state of Arizona is amazing. Life isn't so purple. And to all who disagree, fuck off. The real thing of it is that it sucks. Army women aren't nice.
I am going to never walk to the store again. Want I should paint you a picture of what I'm truly saying? To wear this shoe makes you unstoppable. Die you cancerous smoker you.
I will never leave my shower running. Am I the only one who is getting this? Miserable little bastards.
Please do all you can to understand. Help the ones with none. Me and my books, will burn under law. Or you can look closer to what people say. Kill all of your dreams and replace them with shit. Me, I get it.

07 January 2006

You Can't Take That Away From Me

Right. Everyone is like them. You know it. That’s what makes you open-minded. You're right. I wonder if we're ever going to get home. I know what will be there when I go. That's the only thing I look forward to. You're right though; the blood I shed will fertilize forests your grandchildren will protest to save. The thoughts of possibilities from the two meeting for lunch, while I tend to the farm and the pesticides stain my hands making the towns children make snide comments when I'm not there, is enough to make me want to shut this whole fucking thing down. How much? The whole fucking lot of it. I will not accomplish this by any means necessary. I will do this by the only means I know. Will I lay waste to tracks of land until the world gives into my demands? No. I will seclude myself from all. Every change that occurs in the galaxy happens inside, I do not need to go outside to know of it. I made it happen, or at least I am aware of the happenings. You will live and you will fight and you will frustrate yourself and you will feel and you will love and you will lose and you will try and you will dance and you will consume and you will witness and you will read and you will prove yourself right, but you will not see. I will sit and waste and know. One day you will see. You will see things then how I saw so long ago. When your proof is proven wrong, I'll know. When perceptions are realigned, I will know. I will have been forgotten by the memories and photo albums, but I will be remembered by the sight. I am the same as them. You are so different, so better. We are the evil in the good shroud, and what does that make you? You are the last rung on the societal ladder. I thank you for it. I could really care less. I don't know the abstract meaning of what it would be to demoralize the masses by establishing the minority preamble of dexterity. I am sure you can tell me.
Something swam by too closely when you pretended not to know me as we swam and the stars gazed on us. The clouds swirled as the water traveled down your back stopping sporadically like I would stop across the world seven years later. The water made its way back to the lake. You made your way back to the car. I made my way across the land. I pray I will return to the lake soon. That prayer is yet to be answered.

05 January 2006

Lindsay Lohan is Still Hot

Dear Yossarian,

I met a man in Houston who works in Iraq for KBR. He is not from Houston. We have gotten to know each other and I like him a lot. Well before he left to go back, we spent time together and I was surprised to find, since he is a bigger guy, that he was less-endowed than was...acceptable to me.
But it was the first time, nervousness, etc
That was in September, but I adore this guy. I talk to him everyday I've never been like this over a guy.
Anyway we are going on vacation when he gets back to the states this month, and we will inevitably have sex again, to see if he can perform better this time. To be honest, I need to get fucked.
His dick is just small, I don't know what to do, because I like him so much, but I need to get fucked.
You see the dilemma.
I guess he knows how to use it, but this is a problem for us "modern" women
So, if I can't be sexually satisfied to my standards, should I continue the relationship, based on emotion and companionship, and place sex lower on the priority list, hoping that it will somehow get better?
He plans on buying a house near where I live and finding a job there, even though he had no plans to do this before we met and this isn't his home town.

This is a serious problem for us women,


I have been to a World's Fair, a rodeo, three picnics and Officer Candidate School, and that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard.
I'm not even talking about your name.
I'm sorry, but seeing as I am Irish in all its blessings and cursings, so you will receive little sympathy from me. Pun?
Allow me to educate you. This man makes bank. Huge bank. More grip than I will ever see. Anywho, he also works for KBR. This is a giant sacrifice. His life is devoted to a service and to helping, albeit for a high price. Anyway, when someone does this for a while, or prior to doing this job, these types of people have instilled in themselves devotion and determination. It must feel extra horrible to have a man realize that there are things in this world he wants, recognize that he will never achieve these goals in his current job, be all set to have a great job soon and decide that he wants to spend all of his energy in making a relationship work with you. That must suck. Is your wallet too small for all of your fifties? Is your diamond necklace too heavy? Did your trust fund only triple this year?
See, you are a "modern woman" as you so succinctly put it. As a modern woman you have a smattering of problems you are unaware of. See, as a modern woman you tend to live under the belief that life is nothing but an episode of Sex in the City. So you have built this idea of what your perfect man ought to be. This man lives in Iraq. So you have undoubtedly had a plethora of time to construct an image in your head of this man. He failed to meet your ideal, so you find fault. He is becoming real to you and you are uncomfortable with the ghost materializing. I'm no Doctor, but I have done it to a lot of ladies. So I kind of have a PHD in tang, as it were. But the way I see it, on a subconscious level you are pointing this one thing out because as a modern woman this ought to be important, when the unacceptable (to you) truth is you are uncomfortable with having a man make this gesture for you when you feel it is unwarranted and undeserved. Whether or not this feeling springs from a corresponding sense of self worth is unknown to me. He is about to be real and that makes it impossible for you being crazy about a man you barely know. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.
But either way, you have to make a decision. What is more important to you? You want to be fucked or do you want someone there to hold your hand while you die of cancer? Do you want to get fucked, probably along with half your friends? Or do you want to have a guy tell you that you clearly don't look fat and his motivation isn't to get laid, but rather that you will never change in his eyes? I don’t know, but in my experience, the two happenings rarely happen together. I know that I would much rather fuck people I could care less about, at least for a while. Once a certain amount of comfortableness happens then I just try my best to like go all out.
But this man will devote his being to you. So choose what you will. I don't know. I don't care about tit or ass size or pussy tightness or anything. I could care less. I tend to look at it this way, sooner or later, the modern man and woman will be tossed away and will be known as old men and women. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.
I mean fuck. He's willing to move to Texas...are you Keira Knightly? Because she's the only thing that could make me live in Texas.

04 January 2006

That Woman Is Nosey

Right. I can't help but notice that my Thursday advice column is taking off like gangbusters. Or pancakes. I don't know what a gangbuster is, but I know what a pancake is and I like them. So I think pancake is a better characterization of how the column is taking off. Tomorrow will make it crash and burn.
Unkind might have been right and this might have been a mistake.
It feels shitty to be ignored. It feels even shittier to have people scream at you because they went to West Point and outrank you by two years and get on your case even though you're working 14 hour days and you'd like to make it enjoyable but certain ass clowns want to make it suck for everyone. I wish the revolution would come.
I used to smile for no reason because the sky was bluer. I used to get into things and become excited because it was like it was new. I used to laugh longer and smile wider. I used to run faster and love with every iota of every cell as fiercely and gently as any man has done. I used to dance slower and care less. I used to smell more sharply. I used to hear more acutely. I did all of these things with her. Then she left and it all changed. Was it that when she was with me I was a boy and only a boy could have done and appreciated those things? Is it because when she left I was a man and men are not able to feel accordingly? Was she that special, or was I that naïve? Was the grass greener then? Was the sky bluer? Did she give this to me or only show that it was inside me all along? Did she take it away or did I give it to her? Did the fun change or did I just get older? Choices are made and upon those choices half of your life, and a realm of possibilities are gone forever. You are left with your decision. Who decided this? Was it preordained? When did this happen? How did it come to this? It came to this yesterday, when through no fault or desire of my own, life got back at me for getting over for 27 years and forced me to be something I’m not. Something I don't ever want to be again. She's a bitch.

03 January 2006

Forbbiden City

Right. Work sucks. I hate it. I don't know why anyone works. I want to sit on my ass, watch my cock get smaller and watch TV all day every day. In between sitting on the sofa I want to eat chicken wings or sushi and go back to sitting around. They say to do what you know and are good at. I believe those are my only talents.
It has rained for 13 straight hours today. I cut myself to see color. I'm bullshitting. My blood is gray too. I'm a serial lady-killer. But only in the alpha-numeric sense of the word.
My dreams are increasingly apocalyptic. I sadly enjoy sleeping.
Attractive privates shouldn't make eyes at me when I am in uniform. The results could result in me losing my commission.
No Mr. Man. You don't know me. We never met. Don't look at me like that. Yes I drink for lunch. I don't owe you one second of my life. No Mr. Man. I’ve never been to Mexico. I like myself the way I am thank you. I got it under control. I know what I'm doing. Thanks. No Mr. Man. The diplomas on my wall are not a representation of my brains. Nor are my brains a reflection of the diplomas on my wall. Yes, Mr. Man. This picture I drew is a representation of me going down on your wife.
I remember the first time I was inside her. I sank in slowly. She seemed to wrap around me, she formed to me. Barry White was on the stereo, and he was doing his part. The light shone down on her like a halo. She glowed as I turned things and press buttons, I had no idea what I was doing. Soon after I learned all about what to turn and press. She got louder when I did this, so I did it more. I wasn't in her very long the first time. But that was something we remedied in a few days. I love my car.

02 January 2006

Poets Of Old

Right. The reasons Officer Tom Hanson sucks are many. I will put it to you like this: Gilbert Grape. That doesn't do it for you? I could bring up Willy Wonka. I think it's unfair to bring up Benny and Joon. How about 21 Jump Street? The springboard for Grieco, mind you. I can give you reasons why he sucks all day long. However, I think it is more effective if I were to look at why he is considered cool, or rusty trombone worthy. I don't know what a rusty trombone is by the by.
Everyone wants to tell me what an amazing job he did as Captain Jack Sparrow in the Caribbean movie. Let me ask you this: How fucking hard is it to screw up being a pirate? I mean, you're playing a pirate, 9/10 of the cool in the character is given to you.
Outside of this I have seen very little of his body of work. Donnie Brasco was cool, but it had the Pacino. I didn't care for Sleepy Hollow. I fell asleep during From Hell. The only redeeming quality about Secret Window is that I was getting a hand job in the theater when I "saw" it.
I guess he's attractive, but I mean he is on TV. I know bitches that thought Detective Sippowitz was hot. I guess what I'm getting at here is that when the revolution comes, I might have to kill Johnny Depp first.
What I would suggest you never do is listen to doomsday prophets on the radio while you are in the Army. Because if a tenth of what they said comes true, I'm fucked. Split in half.
If you are rich and living in East Germany and hot and a female, then I say to you this: call me...on the phone. Seriously.
Remember when we knew each other? Remember when we were in contact? Remember the laughs? Remember the music, times, clothes and cigarettes? You remember the neighborhood? You remember the guys? You remember leaving ice trays filled with piss? You remember were it went wrong? You remember what happened? You remember going to the hospital for broken ribs while I picked a beer bottle out of my face? You remember pissing blood? I remember not boning your hot assed sister out of respect to you.
I felt so good to be near her. Sitting next to her is an experience I yearned for. Time moves along and bars close and I would have to wait until the next night. Her eyes were brown and big, Her voice was a choir of cherubs. Her motions and actions were kind but her words were harsh. But time moves along and you went with it. It was sinful of me to want to continue seeing you. You gave me more than I could ever give to anyone. I have memories of you haunting my every night before I sleep. If only we had met sooner. If only we had never met.

01 January 2006

They Are Only Machines

Right. I don’t know what all the bitching is about. 2005 was so fat my asshole is stretched out. Gaped. This past year I lived in four different states, three different time zones and ranging from 45 roommates to one to zero. I bought my car. I bought my TV. Another man drank my piss after I took one in his beer bottle. I saw gerbils run rampant in a neighborhood. I fired a fucking rocket launcher. I met the Secretary of Defense, well we shook hands when I got my commission, it's not like I had a sit down with him and ate pasta. I ran more than I have in the collective 27 years of my existence in 2005. I lost very little weight by doing all of this running. I'm going back to not eating.
To better review what a splendid year this has been for me, I have put together the following. The last paragraph from all my shit this year. Or at least the ones I like. Read it and diddle your fiddle later, or whilst. Six years left!!!! Fuck the Mayan calendar.

Let me inspire you. Let me tell you that you're special. Allow me to inform you that the wisdom of the ages could not have described your beauty. If I can impart upon you that the poets of old could never have imagined your importance to me and to the world. The world is a better place because you are in it, and I am a better person because I am in your aura. You are destined for great things and I am blessed that I live during your time.
You deserve more.
I'm going to go look up more porn.

It's early evening. The mothers and fathers are playing with their kids across the street. Life is good. Seesaw goes up and down and the swings go back and forth while the merry go round is out of service due to a bad bearing. Such is life. Sooner or later we have no desire to hang out with the folks. It must sadden them, though they never let on. How depressing it must be to once have been the recipient of such gratefulness for something as small as a new toy, now you barely receive thanks for a loan cosigning or a new kidney. At one time you are the center of their world, now a bit part left on the editing room floor. Everything you say or do is wrong, whereas once it was never questioned. They are turning that playground into a gas station.

I love you. I mean I really love you. The thought of you not being around forever is unbearable. The day I lose you I will destroy Mount Everest. You are too good for this. Everything in the universe is mediocre in comparison to you. The infiniteness of space is a drop in the bucket to how you make me feel when you look at me. God is powerless over you. You move, think, feel and act in such a way that no deity can help but watch you in awe from the afterworld. I think about you every second of my life, even when you are three feet from me. I bathe in your soul, which flows out around you like a warm amniotic fluid protecting you from humanity. You make everyone around you better and even if they never realize it, the power to start or stop the world, as we know it, lies solely within you.

The army loves routine. Schedules run this institution. We thrive by them. We don't know what to do without one. We plan out the next six months and do our damnedest not to break the schedule. For instance, my day is, wake up and go to PT. I then come back and shower and eat breakfast. Then I go to class. Then we get lunch and then it's back to class. We end our day and I go to the gym and come home and drink till I fall asleep. Our lunch goes from noon till one everyday. I hall ass to my car, barely make the first light, drive six blocks so that everyday at 12:06 I see her. This is the best part of my day. She runs. Where from, I couldn't tell you and I wouldn't know where she runs to. But I know she will run in front of my car as she crosses the street, which borders the left field line of the little league diamond. I stare. I sit at the light and watch her run. I inhale her as she runs past, never noticing anything but her next step. She chooses the worst clothes to run in. She sometimes runs in those black polyester pants girls wear to clubs. Sometimes she runs in a sweater and shorts. Her hair is always wild and free. Flowing around like the mane of a horse galloping in the open fields of Montana. Her hair is darker than my car. She is probably some Major's wife. He probably cheats on her. I hope her name is Ivetta. I hope she runs forever.

I took a trip last night and seen it all. I saw the ground crumble from the blood of Jesus. I saw the Argonauts do their thing. I watched as Achilles drug the Body of Hector for three days around the walls of Troy. I tried to warn Caesar. I followed where Mosses led. I watched as Henry got married. I conspired with Oswald to kill JFK. I hid when Cronos ate his children. I hung out with two men named Ajax. I liked Ajax the Lesser more. I ate the Apples of the Hesperides. I got caught shucking and jiving with an Amazon. I saw the Golden Fleece. I told Walt he should think about mice. I fucked Cleopatra pretty hard. I borrowed Shakespeare’s pen. I gave the Druids an engineering textbook so they could build Stonehenge. Rimbaud gave me the flu. I drank with Salinger. I did all that and more. All in one night.

Anyway I would like to comment on your smile. I hate it. It makes me sick to my stomach. My gullet cries out in pain to be tortured every time I see it. It hurts to know that a smile so wonderful and completely beautiful can be subject to the sullies of such wretchedness as human beings. We are wretched, and your smile is so perfect it ought never have to suffer through the indignities others impose upon it. The emotions I feel when I look at it are too strong for me to comprehend. I know that as mortal beings your smile will soon enough fade as we grow older and will one day cease to exist, thus I hate your fucking smile. But I believe that the real reason I despise your smile is that it reminds me of my own limitations. I will never be as beautiful. I will remember it for as long as I can, but will eventually forget it. I do not have the ability to describe it to the extent it deserves. I will fail in making part of you immortal.

I built this house with my own hands. I built this staircase with wood, nails and a hammer. I was buck-naked. I wore sawdust to hide my shame. I'd like to spend some time with you, pulling splinters from my toes with your teeth. I left that stair loose so it will creak and let me know what time you come home. You strumpet.

I wish it would open up and rain. Rain like it’s never rained before. Flood this fucking world and make Noah look like a fly fisherman. But the truth of the matter is, all the rain, Evian or sparkling spring waters that ever flowed could never wash this place clean. It will never glow as new.

Right. She sings to me at night like a drug dealer skulking in the shadows. I beg her as her voice fades to never stop singing. But she laughs at my request with disdain. I don't matter to her. I wouldn't have it any other way. It's beautiful now. Peaceful.
I am tired. So you get nothing. Nothing to make you go, "Awww." Nope. Nothing like that. Today you get shit and you'll have to feast on it until I get back and write something to make you think of me while you fuck his brains out. Or to think of Steve McQueen while she rides your jalopy until the tires go flat. Or think of me while you fuck her mouth and wish it were her friend and she wishes you were an ice cream sandwich. Or think of him saying my words while he fucks your sister. Or even possibly thinking of me while you pleasure yourself and I live in the woods dreaming of beer.

Did it ever occur to you that I might just be spending time, as of late, fighting crime on a level so secret that space aliens don't even know about it? I fight intradiminsional crime here people. Accept it. These are things that we cannot discuss nor contemplate. But we can hypothesize, unless you already know, which you don't.

I just saw her again. We had coffee together. I sat at a table alone and across the room she sat there. She was reading some book I would probably hate. I was trying to teach myself magic. Not the gathering, but like slight of hand type shit. No one seemed amused at my folly, as I suck at slight of hand. Why is she even here? I sat there and drank my coffee. It was black with no sugar. I drank about seven cups. She milked one new fangled monstrosity latte thing for close to two hours. She just read. She knew everyone looked. She seemed bothered by it. How? How can someone be annoyed that another will take interest based solely on aesthetic value? With most people you have to get to know them before they become attractive. Unless you're like me, and your soul is black. Then you just sort of watch her drink her coffee and wish you were the binding of her book that she holds firmly and securely. She know how to hold the spine of a book, she's done it before. Her hand needs a book. It feels empty without one. It is in the nature of her hands. The nature of my hands is not making things disappear.

There's more, but read for yourself. I am tired of cutting and pasting. So bugger off.