28 February 2006

Tits And Whiskey

Right. Here is what I want to do with my life. Before I get into this, I must point out that I am serious and I will need your help in order for me to accomplish my soul ambition.
I want to win a really offensive amount of money in the lottery. This is the linchpin in my destiny.
Next I want to build a house. A bomb ass house made of brick and stone with secret passages and underground tunnels. I will also build a 40-car garage and I will buy a number of cars to fill this garage. I will also buy some shitty cars and teach myself to fix them up.
After that is done, I will take care of my friends and family. So they can buy shit. During this phase of my operation I will do a number of other things. For instance I will build a Church, a homeless shelter and a drug rehabilitation center for the youth. I will probably also build a whole neighborhood and move in decent people at cost. I would sponsor little league teams for baseball, football and hockey. I might devote some time into helping the coaching as well.
Then comes the most important, and also shortest phase. The kick assery phase. I will use the secret underground tunnels to drive my bomb assed cars into the city and foil crimes.
Upon acknowledging this is not getting me laid. I will enter what I refer to as "Heaven Phase." This phase rules. This phase is broken down into 4 sub-phases. I will now divulge the end state of my dream.
Sub Phase 1 – Nothing – I will get my friends together and we will sit around playing videogames, watching movies and drinking beers. (The extra pluralization is due to the number of beers drunk.)
Sub Phase 2 – Stir Crazy – I will then turn to books and voraciously read everything I can get my still rich hands on.
Sub Phase 3 – John Candy – Next I will eat everything. I will eat an obscene amount of food. I will force feed myself. I will force feed my friends. We will be the fattest cutters in camp. We will sew together blankets to cover ourselves.
Sub Phase 4 – Run Shit – My plan culminates in being so fat I say fuck it. I hire a tailor and buy the bombast suits ever. Then my fat assed friends and I go out to put a fat wreck on some bitches. Most girls wouldn't go for a group of fat dudes. But fuck it. I sneeze hundred dollar bills. We will get more ass than ever before. We will laugh at ourselves for ever being skinny and not getting any. We will eat like mobsters and fuck hot bitches like coke dealers, clearly the bomb life.
As you see I need help. I cannot manage this on my own. I need money to fund this operation. So help me win the Powerball or give me your savings and we can start from there.
I have spoken. Let it be written. Let it be done.

26 February 2006

Let's Break Out The...

Right. Here I come again now baby, like a dog in heat. I am unsure of what it was I ate yesterday, but I am paying the proverbial price for it today. And by proverbial price I clearly mean I am typing this in the bathroom.
I sit here and wonder how many fortunes were won and lost on horse racing before the camera and subsequent photo finishes.
My name is Stuart Ransom Miller.
I think when Ted Nugent wrote his shit for Stranglehold. He thought to himself, "Ted. This is clearly the best guitar ever. Someone else must have written it before me." But then he checked and as it stands, we have Ted to thank for the greatest opening and song long guitar ever. So thank you Ted. Go back to hunting shit now.
I have secretly loved her since I’ve known her. She knew there was only one word in the language ending in "MT" and she knew it was dreamt. I have, in private said things I will only say to her. I have watched her dance, date and kiss many different men. I have surreptitiously admired every man with confidence enough to speak to her.
She always seemed easy around me. Not easy in the sense that I could fuck her and not easy in the sense that I could talk to her. Easy in the sense that she could talk to me in manners she couldn’t with others. Easy in the sense that she always looked as if she were trying to get something out of me.
I haven't seen her in years and I will see her again this summer. I hate the fact I have placed her visage in conjunction with your intelligence. I hate how I pretend she will feel the same way I hope you would. I hate how I remember her voice and when I picture her face the picture falls apart into tiny pieces. I hate how your intelligence and her looks will never be paired. The pieces spell words resembling what you are.
She is what I wanted then. You are what I want now. And I fear that in any woman meeting those specifications is a galaxy outside of my sport and above my level that she wouldn't even look at me.
Not looking at me wouldn’t be new. I've been living with that since I was young. What bothers me is working entirely too hard to be a man that I would imagine she might want, and to fail. There is the proverbial rub.
To be honest, I've never met you. You on the other hand have met me in ways most never will. You seem to have gotten it but you have disappeared. I long to see your face and stare at the beauty God created for everyone to see. I long to see this and hate myself because of my selfish nature. I believe that God created you for only me to see. I also believe that Got created me humbly enough to never hold you to me only.
You expose the hypocrisy in my being, and I thank you for it. I love you. I love your name. I love you. I will hold you every night in my mind forever. I will make love to you every time I make love. When I die and am made the man I could have been, I hope to be good enough to be with you. Even for a brief time in eternity.

25 February 2006

This Song Makes Me Happy

Number One By John Legend

(feat. Kanye West)

Ooh I promise not to do it again
I promise not to do it

You can't say I don't love you
Just because I cheat on you
Cuz you can't see all I do
To keep you from knowing the things I do
Like erase my phone
And keep it out of town
I keep it strapped up when I sleep around
Well I should have known one day you'd find out
But you can't go and leave me now

You know that I love you
There's no one above you
I said it the last time
But this is the last time
Don't make me over
Cuz I can be faithful
Baby you're my number one
You're my number one

Now who is she?
What's her name?
You don't need to know about everything
We fight about this
We fight about that
You hang up the phone and call me right back
Well I'll never be something I'm not
Please don't throw away what we've got
Cuz we've been together for way too long
I was playing around but I'm coming home

You know that I love you (know that I love you)
There's no one above you (no one above you)
I said it the last time (hey, hey)
But this is the last time
Don't make me over (don't leave me baby)
Cuz I can be faithful (you know I try)
Baby you're my number one (baby)
You're my number one

[Kanye's Rap]
I keep you laced up so you aint gotta borrow nothing
From them broke ass friends who be bargain hunting
They say they shop on eBay --baby why is they frontin'?
They be on the internet but they never cop nothin'
I keep you in Girl what is those on your toes?
And your neck staying froze off that rose colored gold
I suppose you was told by them hoes I was cheatin'
Thinkin' my heart don't got nothing to do with my penis
He got a mind of his own and he just be seeing shit
And I don't wanna cheat but I don't be saying shit
I try to jack off he ask me who is you playin' wit?
But I know he love you he told me you was his favorite

You know that I love you (know that I love you)
There's no one above you (above you)
I said it the last time (said it the last time)
But this is the last time (hey hey hey yeah)
Don't make me over (don't leave me baby)
Cuz I can be faithful (you know I try)
Baby you're my number one (oh baby)
You're my number one

You're making it hard for me
You're messing up everything
You tell me I gotta leave
Say we over
You saw that she came over
Came in the Range Rover
Left with a hangover
Say we over

I promise I won't cheat
I promise I won't lie
I promise I'll act right
Say we over
You can't tell me
I can't have you
I can't have that
We aint over

Hey, it aint over baby
We aint over
Oh you don't need to go it's not over
We aint over
We aint over
Oh it's gonna be alright now don't go now

23 February 2006

Only Nineteen

Dear Yossarian,

I have a date with a girl from school and I am very excited. She is very pretty. We decided to get some food and watch a movie. My question to you is what is a good date movie for a first date with a girl you really like?



Yes you sound very excited. Dating. My expertise. You came to the right man. Let's get down to the nitty gritty.
Some people will put out a lot of misinformation about what makes a good date movie. Certain people believe crude humor makes for the best movie, something like The Aristocrats. This point of view stems from the hope that once the words, idea and thoughts are out there and laughed at it makes for easier conversation. It also serves as a gauge by which to measure the person you are with. If they don't find it funny or if they become all uptight about it, chances are you don't want to know that person for very long.
However, this point of view negates the fact that sometimes people who act all uptight make with the boning in violent and pleasurable ways. It's best not to piss those people off, unless you don't like fucking.
Other people will tell you that romantic comedies are your best bet. A man stumbled upon this idea when he realized that these movies have one important thing in common with women on a chromosomal level: a complete lack of rationale, reason and logic.
I tend not to use this method because while it may work, you still have to watch that tripe. There are limits to what I will do to get laid, and watching Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks kiss is over the line.
Some believe that a good old-fashioned, red-blooded American slasher is fodder for screwing and extended fondling and make out sessions. This trick was first though of by a guy driving an El Camino and listening to Molly Hatchet. He figured this out when he needed something scarier than his personal hygiene to bring the women in close to him.
I tend not to traumatize women into fucking me. It leads to a bad place I don't necessarily like to go. You do what you want.
I knew one guy who would go rent a movie, and on the way home slip the movie out and replace it with porn. Then when his date and him sat down to watch a movie, straight butt-fucking. Then he would either get laid or act all pissed upon her reaction and he would call the video store and complain and raise a fuss. This display usually got him laid.
I do not have the testicular size or the acting ability, which are prerequisites to pull off this option.
I have found that there is one definitive date movie. That movie is Conan. You sit a girl down on a couch and watch Conan and it is guaranteed sex. Conan the Barbarian is such a good movie on so many levels that the female brain cannot comprehend the pure brilliance of the film and then the female brain has a choice to make. One, it can accept the fact it is behind the intellectual power curve or it can earn a sense of self worth for its host by putting out. I know where this leads.

22 February 2006

May We Live On The Golf Shore

Right. I think of it and it makes me sick. It makes my brain churn and my stomach conceive a million possibilities and every prospect involves your death. You must bleed and die in order for the purification of the world. It is my job to bleed you. It is my test to bleed a friend.
I think of it and it makes me laugh. It makes my brain tighten and my stomach expunge endorphins, and every endorphin drives pleasure into my cells. You must bleed and die in order for the world to end. It is my job to bleed you and thus to end the world. It is my test to end our friendship for the betterment of the collective soul of man.
I think of it and it makes me uneasy. It makes my brain become flustered and my stomach empty and blank. You must bleed and die in order for the world to grow. It is my job to bleed you and thus allow the world to grow. It is my test to give up what I love most for the benefit of all mankind.
I think of it and it makes me hopeful. It makes my brain bare and my stomach race. You must bleed and die for the world to die. It is my job to bleed you and thus kill the world. It is my test to take vengeance upon you for transgressions I would have made myself.
I think of it and it makes me cry. It makes my brain hunger and my stomach reflect. You must bleed and die in order for the world to continue. It is my job to bleed you and thus continue the world. It is my test to place my hatred below your hypocrisy.
I think of it and it makes me indifferent. It makes my brain sick and my stomach dull. You must bleed and die for the world to listen. It is my job to bleed you and thus make the world know. It is my test to martyr you to persecute me to have the roles reversed upon a historical analysis.
I think of it and it makes me passionate. It makes my brain pure and my stomach blank. You must bleed and die for the world to shift. It is my job to bleed you and alter the current time path. It is my test to destroy what was in hope of what might.
I think of it and it makes me healthy. It makes my brain growl and my stomach relax. It is your job to bleed and die for the world to freeze. It is my job to bleed and kill you to isolate time in one instant when I see fit. It is my test to kill all possibilities of consciousness, reality and decisions to spend the rest of our frozen eternity locked in a glance with her before you can destroy, evolve and fuck her.

21 February 2006

Quest For Failure

Right. It's high time I put my foot down. It is time I inform you of the standard. I have sat back in fear of banishment long enough. No more. Today I will school you all in the subject of the almighty bar.
First, let me tell you a little story and then I promise I will tie it in. Just stick with me here. I am minding my own business the other day and I get an AIM message from some putz. He (she?) asks me to explain how I can be so lovely and sensitive when describing women, and then turn around and refer to women as bitches and inferior beings. I'm sorry. There is a social spice called sarcasm. When not used any putz, including yourself, can understand the joke. When used just right, decent people understand it. When overly used the sarcasm is only understood between a few close friends. I tend to like spice so I'm somewhere in between just right and too much. So I am sorry you are a putz. I expect a little more from my readers. I expect you to get it. If you don't get it then that just isn't good enough. You need to do better. (An interesting point to contemplate...which side of the afore mentioned issue am I being sarcastic about?)
It's the same for bars. I expect more out of your establishment and I am often disappointed. That is not good enough. If you have a cover charge, I will not drink in your bar. That's just dumb.
Too often bars open up and feel they need some sort of gimmick. That isn't good enough. I know what the place is. It's a bar. The purpose of a bar is to drink. You can dress my girlfriend up as Batgirl, and I'm still only fucking my girlfriend. Sports bars are fine, because I have a bit of a penchant to enjoy sporting events, but I tend to enjoy sports more in my residence.
If the big selling point of your bar is that you have a dance floor, that isn't good enough. Dancing is stupid. Yes it attracts hot girls. Yes people tend to enjoy it. Yes you can get a lot of mileage out of the same dance track and girls will bum rush the floor saying, "This my song girl!!" All of those facts are true for crank, and I think we are all in agreement that crank is bad for you. Yes, I have been privy to a, "This my blow girl!"
Another shenanigan, I still haven't figured out the reasons for, which bars enjoy adding to their atmosphere is obnoxious levels of volume. They make up for it my selecting obnoxious bass and crap to play for my listening pleasure. This isn't good enough. You can do better. I like to be able to hear the person I am talking to. Anytime I find out someone likes to go to one of those bars I know right away that they have nothing to say and I ought to look into finding someone else to hang out with. I have said it before but I will say it again because it is true, music is like make up, it is best when you don’t know it's there.
One of my favorite things bars do is split the bar. Those half dance floor and half pool hall type bars. Okay look, the first thing my mother taught me is that you cannot be everything to everyone. This nugget of wisdom was reinforced when I later learned the same rule in BASIC MARKETING. Pick something and go with it. Coke whores don't like pool sharks.
If the bar you like to go to the most has smoke machines with any of the following: neon, strobe or flashing laser lights, you ought to reexamine your life. That's brainless.
I do not want to get started on the lame as fuck, hipper than thou, shaggy hair, denim jacket, emo or whateverthefuck new fangled rocker bar. We all know that’s not good enough. That's why no one with an income level, education level or point of view not given to them from the radio frequents one.
What happened to going to a bar, sitting down and drinking with friends? What happened to alcohol adding to the fun not making the fun? Now I have to wear a wristband to prove I'm 21? Fuck that. Kick the little bastards to the curb or tell them to go get fake id’s so they can learn to drink and socialize.

20 February 2006

I'll Learn To Swim After I Kill The Last Kola Bear

Right. He left the house five minutes earlier than he ever has. Mort is a man of routine. He desires a routine and had a difficult time functioning without one. He finds peace in one. Today, he wanted to do things different.
He didn't check his email while his shower heated up. He didn't read the business section first. He didn't even read the paper. He drank his coffee, but he added honey instead of sugar. He wore the same pants as he wore the day before, tied his tie in a different knot, styled his hair differently and drove his special occasion car to work. A Delorean, he never drove, he only washed and waxed every Sunday.
Today, he drove it. He left five minutes early, and it made more than five minutes worth of a difference. He saw different cars on his way to work. He noticed different people. He saw for the first time the sun refract its light from the shimmering skyscrapers onto the bay. He saw morning joggers finishing their runs. He saw college-aged kids driving home from the night before. He felt different. Mort was different he was alive.
He arrived at work early, as usual, but today he left and went to a café and ate a Danish. He decided that when he went out to lunch, he was going to ask the waitress out. He smiled.
He went to work late for the first time in 13 years. No one noticed. Mort swaggered around the office, trying to quell his inner pride of feeling alive. No one noticed. He blew of his 9 o'clock. No one noticed. He took an early lunch and his normal waitress wasn't working. He went back to work late and no one noticed.
Mort returned to the office and tried to get in on the current office pool, something he had never done before but always secretly wanted to, but there was no more room in the pool. Pete took the last two-dollar slot yesterday. Mort brushed it off and vowed to get in on the next round of office gambling.
Leaving work early, after arriving late and taking an early and long lunch was next for Mort. He left and went to the park. It was still too cold for the ducks to be on the now unfrozen pond. He strolled around the park, not answering his constantly ringing cell phone. He smiled. Mort realized that someone had to notice he was gone.
He went to an expensive French restaurant and ate by candlelight. It was hard for him to order more bread as the waiter was busy with larger tables. He paid his bill and returned home. He didn't check his email. He hadn't checked it all day.
He checked his cell phone. It was Tuesday. He makes his weekly call to his mother every Tuesday. He forgot. It was too late to call her now. He would call her tomorrow.
His phone must have rung a dozen times as he was walking in the park but only registered one missed call. It was a number he didn't know. He called his voicemail and his eyes closed. His mother had died.
Mort woke the next morning and checked his email as the shower warmed up. He put on his Wednesday suit and read the business section. He drove is Honda to work. He walked in early and stared at his cubicle. He set his briefcase down and turned on his computer.
He slouched back in his chair and began working. Mort had a lot to do; he had to make up for a wasted day.

19 February 2006

Fragment This

Right. Women are fucking retarded. Yeah, yeah, God's gift, most precious, mother and life giver and all that jazz, yet still fucking retarded.
So when it stays sunny here for more than an hour, I can wash and wax my car and realize why I love it so, because it is beautiful. And will be even more beautiful with these. Front.
Now then. I decide this morning that fuck all. No more cramping myself up in this stuffy apartment. No more 20-hour videogame marathons. No more bullshit. I have a freshly waxed car and money in my pocket. There is only one thing to do...go into beautiful downtown Seattle. And so the decision was made and so the action was taken.
I was living under the fallacy that City Planners were on some sort of SOP. Wrong. St. Louis and Boston have it right. We know how to get it done. Seattle has is dead wrong. Wrong. Wrong as the day is long. Wrong as all get out. Seven different types of wrong. Allow me to elaborate.
In Boston or St. Louis, if you are out and about and you are thirsty, you simply walk to the corner and have yourself a drink. Seattle says, "Nay Nay." Fucking naysayer.
No bars. Coffee up your pink asshole. Bars? Nope. Why? I couldn't tell you. But nothing makes me revert back to my adopted accent quicker and say, "No a fuckin' ba ya retad," than having no bar to drink in. I asked where the bars were and the man looked at me as if I had three heads. Three. I don't. I only have one. Well, then the dickhead. So two, but not three.
Shopping? Yes. Seattle is ripe with obnoxious places to shop. The places and the clientele make me hate all I am, was and might one day be. However, Seattle is rotten with dank bars where I can drink cheaply and listen to music at a reasonable volume.
The skyline is great. It looks lame as fuck on my drive up, but then I see the stitching turning and I realize it is a curveball and I adjust accordingly. From the outside, the skyline looks as if it were attracted to other skylines of the same gender, however what you soon realize is the hills. There are a bunch of hills, which hide much of the area and make for a nice surprise.
Another surprise was the Space Needle. I have no knowledge of what it is or represents. Nor do I wish such knowledge bestowed upon me. But I imagined a fucking Space Needle. You know, something touching space. Nope. It's about as tall as Shaq with Bertuzzi on his shoulders and Todd is holding up a midget. It's not very big. "Did you go up in it?" I was asked about 400 times. No. It's closed. It's Sunday. Fuck off. What could be up in the Space Needle making it worth the hype? Hookers, kegs and fireworks? I'm going back next weekend.
I will return next weekend if only to buy these shoes I saw but didn't buy because I am lame and now my feet are unhappy that they are not in said shoes. Also, I need to scout locations to open a bar to enlighten these people that there is more to life than coffee.
After my Seattle cherry was busted I went to dinner and fell in love with the most beautiful woman to have graced this earth. I will write about her as I crystallize her into memory. She is the reason I born. So I could look upon her and feel again.

16 February 2006

The Defeated Will Fall


I am thinking of taking a much better paying job. The problem is that my girlfriend will have to leave her job and she doesn't want to. She will have to leave her job because my new job will force me to relocate. She also doesn't want to leave her family. Should I try and convince her to come or not take the job?



I think you take the job and trade the old girlfriend in for a new one. Your two courses of action suck. Mine is clearly the supreme course of action. Now I will demonstrate why.
It's like my grandmother always said, "You can lead a whore to culture but the bitch will always leave." That's funny if you think about it. Try saying it out loud. Get it? I usually don't give maps out with my jokes.
Are you going to let this woman dictate how you live your life? Are you going to let an inferior being manipulate you into working your current shit job? She has a brain a third the size of yours. But I doubt it since you are considering staying for her. Are you a woman also? Wait...is Sam short for Samantha? This is getting so hot in my head right now.
Okay scratch what I said before. Stick with your girl. Make out a lot. Fuck each other. Let me watch. Because if you two are half as hot as what I am imagining in my head, this will be great.
Lesbians are so great. Not really. I tend to hate them more than anything. Because it's hard enough for me to compete with all the cool guys with slick hair and tans and jewelry, now I have to compete with fine assed bitches such as you now too. Fuckers.
Something I've always wondered about lesbians is what's up with the attitude. Every lesbian I have ever met, and many suspected and future lesbians, has attitude problems. My question is why. If I knew that I was going to give and receive oral sex on some bitch, I'd be pretty laid back. If you are a lesbian and you are hot, then please drop the attitude. If you are a lesbian and you are not hot, well then I don't understand the attitude at all. See, I have a theory. Ugly, fat or stupid people have no business having attitude problems. Because fuck you. You're fat, what on earth gives you the right to front? Nothing, that's what. Conversely, if you are hot and not a lesbian, then have more attitude. Nothing makes an attractive woman hotter than her being a bitch. Can I get a witness?
On the other hand, you are probably a dude...take the job. Ice Cube said it best, "You can walk or ride, either leave it or love it." Snoop also later elaborated with, "And I really don't love ho's." I believe Snoop also opined with, "If that bitch can't swim, she's bound to drizzound." Clearly hip-hop wants you to take the job. Or maybe you should listen to Mike D who said, "I'm a take that money out your ass you whore." So maybe you could just hate-fuck her once for every ten dollars you lose for not taking the job.
Take the job.

15 February 2006

Trade In Old Shoes For New Feet

Right. I love tobacco. I have well documented my love for Copenhagen. Well move the fuck over. I had a temporary lapse of sanity yesterday and I bought some Skoal Berry Blend, and I love it. It smells like crunch berries, which I think we all agree are the bomb, unless you disagree with me, in which case you are wrong. Then the taste, it tastes like I would imagine grape kool-aid would taste were it made by an Indian, dots not feathers. So it's got a kick and it's a little bit dirty, but altogether pleasing.
I usually just go with straight Copenhagen. It's a quality product. Once I put a couple drops of brandy in my can and I let it soak in there for a few days, it was the bomb. I also like this peach flavored dip I had a few times. It tastes like peaches.
Whenever I bite into a peach and I get the slightly sticky juices to coat my chin and around my lips and all, it’s always so pleasing to me because it reminds me of going down on a female. And I think we all can agree that's my only talent.
I have a four-day weekend coming up and I have big plans. I plan on chewing a lot of tobacco. I also plan on playing Shadow Hearts. It will be the best weekend ever. I love tobacco.
The best part of dipping is spitting. Now, I don't carry a bottle or anything so when I am indoors I generally have to swallow, but nothing makes me happier than being outside and letting loose a huge wad of black spit onto the ground. I've also spit on a few cats, a number of rats and I spit at a murder of crows. A group of crows is called a murder.
Another good part of dipping is how offensive it is. Smoking is outlawed everywhere these days, a law I find retarded but I won't complain now, but you can't outlaw me dipping. And nothing makes me happier than having a big fat dip in and talk to the girl at Starbucks and order my coffee and watch her cringe as I drink the coffee with dip in my mouth.
This post is great.
Why don't you give me money so I can open up a strip club/casino? I would imagine that would be a cash cow and I could retire in a few years.
Check it out. I might move to Ireland when my time in the Army is done. I will have enough money to buy a boat and all and live there. It will be nice. You ought to move there with me.
You know why I love her? She speaks like A Jimmy Buffet song. Every word she says seems so pure and natural and like you are hearing it for the first time, for the 1000th time, and you know all the words. She says nothing bookish, yet filled with so much wisdom you can ponder what she says for days. She has a way of making it seem that she only speaks to you this way. She fronts for everyone else and says simple things, but with you she speaks her heart, and her heart is beautiful. Her heart is made of angel breath and the amniotic fluid Jesus was surrounded by. It beats on time and in rhythm with the Heavens. It pumps pure love through her veins. She says these things to me and I will never say such majesty.

13 February 2006

There's No Going Back To That

Right. I am baffled by sausage. Here's where I'm at: how does it always taste the same? If I am correct in my vast knowledge of sausage making, they scrape up all the loose junk, leftovers, hoofs and whatever else sluices out the gutted animal, then they cram it into edible plastic and I eat the shit out of it. I love this process. Because the result is my taste buds erupting in orgasmic joy. However, it baffles the shit out of me how the same sausage always tastes the same. For instance, pepperoni is the jet. However, I always wonder how they get the right mixture of lower intestine, fur, lips, scrotum and eyelid to make this delight? You'd think once in a while the guy would add in too much bone marrow and the acidity would throw off the Ph balance and it would taste totally different. But no. It's sad that sausage scientists are more advanced than the idiots who make cell phone batteries.
If you haven't slept in 4 days like me, then the previous paragraph is the funniest thing you've ever read.
When I step outside myself and look at my life I come to two realizations. One, if me at any other age prior to my current age saw me, the younger me would kick the piss out of me. Two, when I am old and my grandkids ask me what I did during the war I will be forced to say the USR. I will loose all street cred right then and there.
So with leave time and all, I figure I have about 2 years left before I split from my current employer and hopefully onto brighter skies. So where are you at in finding me a job? Nowhere I'd bet. Ingrates.
I think a good thing for me to do when I get out of the Army would be to beg for change and drink a lot of apple wine.
I think they ought to outlaw bars where the bar sticks out in the middle of the room so the bartender is operating on all fronts. I want this outlawed because when I show up to drink alone, I don't want to look across the bar at me in 40 years still drinking alone. I want to look at shelves filled with booze and I plan on drinking that booze for the kids. Because you can't stop progress. But that's fucking depressing. I don’t want to be reminded that I wouldn't like me if I met me. I don't want to be reminded of my solitude future where I still drink in bars because I don't have the decency to drink alone at home like a real man. He looked kind enough though and he drank quietly as he read his paper and then as he read the subtitles to Sports Center. He gave me a knowing nod and smiled. I left to drive around drinking a couple 40-ounce Miller's hoping that one day I could get my dog back from my mom.
But mainly I was thinking of that man and the future Yossarian and how both have so much inside pounding to get out. Beating the respective inside of the skull to be let loose until the day we die. I was thinking of the stories, advice, inspiration, mentoring, jokes and laughs each have bottled up inside waiting for someone to come around and bask in them. You'll never get it all out of me. And more than likely, you won't get anything else.

12 February 2006

The USR Is The Bane Of My Existence

Right. I have an impacted wisdom tooth and it is starting to hurt like a bitch. Funny thing is, it never hurt until I found out I had one. Stupid dentist. I am about 70% that I will quit blogging soon. Oddly, this has nothing to do with my tooth, which is all I can think about at the moment, and more to do with my brain, which is rarely on my mind. There are things I want to say and yet I can't. So what's the point?
The Winter Olympics are here. Score. I hate 90% of the sports played in the Olympics. I don't understand them and I think they look retarded. I don't know anything about the scoring or the rules or why anyone would do some of this shit. Yet every 4 years when I hear that music, I can't take my eyes off it. I love it. That music is my dog whistle. You want to get me to pay attention? Well easy, play that music every time you try to talk to me. I will hear every word you have to say. Also, women athletes are fucking hot. I'm going to start frequenting slalom slopes. This will be funny considering I have no intention of skiing. I also have no intention of making it look like I am there for anything else except to meet a hot female skier and act like a 13 year old girl all red faced and giggly when I do. But the Winter Olympics, I will watch curling until my eyes fall out. The Winter Olympics is like a bug light and I keep ramming my head into the sum bitch.
I have no shame in admitting that, "Anchor Man" has improved the quality of my life.
Lime wire is possibly the greatest thing ever. I now have all the shitty music I would never have bought. I know a certain Law School graduate who will receive an abundance of CD's he will inevitably hate.
When I get to Germany, the first chance I get I am going to Greece. I said it. I am going to visit the ruins and ancient battle fields and I am going to buy a horse and I am going to ride the horse and then I will probably take a nap and then I will maybe hunt something and cook it and eat it and then I will feed my horse and lead him to water to drink and I will drink from the stream as well and then I will make a fire and we will sleep out under the stars and I will think of a name for my horse and it will probably be Conan and I will be very tempted to never return to anything and I will want to just live like that forever and not have to do anything except hunt for some food and feed my horse and I will desire to be so far off the grid that no one remembers me and I will just sort of be a bum only living in the wilderness and then I will remember my mom and how if I did this she would be fucked with my student loans and then I will get back on my horse and ride back and sell Conan and take the train to Germany to go back to work so my mom doesn't go poor on account of her no good son who wanders around a country on a horse and doesn't even speak the fucking language and who also has no desire to finish this sentence but he will eventually and that eventuality is apparently now.
That's not about being gay...it's about the actual country.

08 February 2006

Cause You're A Friend Of Mine

Dear Yossarian,

My son is 5 and he wants a pet. He seems to like cats and I was thinking of getting him a kitten. My husband doesn't like cats and I am not fond of them either. He has his heart set on one though. Should I get him a cat or another pet we all can enjoy?

Mommy G

Mommy G,

I'm not a parent. Do you even read this blog? I never get laid, thus it's hard for me sire a child. I don't know the first thing about parenting. That being said, let's begin.
Buy him a dog. This does two things. One, it gets him a pet. Two, it teaches him that life sucks and you don't get anything you want in life. It's important to teach children things.
It will be hard to enjoy a cat though. I am with you there. Fucking bastards. If cats were bigger, they'd be lions and they'd then eat you. I never understood people who have pets like that. "Hey look I just bought a giant anaconda." Good for you. I'm leaving your house and I will start writing my speech and learning to fake tears for the news cameras when they arrive, because that thing will eat you. People with lizards are the worst. If a lizard were bigger it would be a dinosaur. Then it would eat me as well. So when the aliens come down with their enlarging rays and zap your pet, now I'm fucked because you didn't have a loyal dog to get zapped with said enlarging ray and fuck up the alien invaders. Thank you asshead. Thank you for bringing a plague upon both our houses.
Unkind and cocaine both like cats, that's okay, no one is perfect. Someone once told me that a cat is a thinking animal. I live under the impression that cats generally think, "Why am I not a dog?"
Anyway, your kid is 5. Buy him a dog and tell him it's a cat. He won't know the difference until it's too late. This reinforces that life sucks and it also teaches another lesson. It teaches him that you can't trust anyone.
One thing you and your husband might want to look into though. (And this is completely off the subject.) But I always thought it would be a more effective parenting technique to beat my wife in front of the child instead of punishing the child for anything. That way I can say things like, "If you don't want to watch your mother take another beatin' I suggest you get your grades up." This would accomplish two things. It would teach the child that I am a force to be reckoned with, and it would teach the child that life sucks AND you can’t trust anyone. That's 3 lessons for the price of 2. Bargain.
Okay. Problem solved.


06 February 2006

I'm Down For Whatever

Right. I wish I could give this to you. I wish I could take this out, hand it over to you and be done with it. I wish I could watch how you handle it. I want to watch you scream it out into the darkness of the night. You can bore everyone else with it. You can receive the looks and comments. I wish I could rid myself of this love.
I don't want this anymore. It isn't for me. It's too much. You can have it. Run with it. Live with it. It is now your burden and you must carry it because I am through. You do it. I don't know how to anymore. I lost the desire to live with this long ago, I've been faking it ever since. You use it. I'm done.
You must forge forward and pass this on. Give it to someone else when you are tired of it. I want to know how long you can live with it. Tell them about it. Tell them how your joy makes you suffer. Tell them how with this, happiness is carrot inside a brass ring always on the next rung of the ladder. Tell them how the journey seems worth it. Show them the weariness on your face. Show them the compression on your spine. Then you can unload this and walk upright.
I want you to have this because I am not strong enough to carry it. I am limited by my own desires. I desire things I am not afforded, things impossible to attain when holding this. I must stand proud in the vulture's line of sight. I want to bask in the sun near the river. So you take it. It's your turn. I have changed and am no longer of the ilk capable of such feats. Once, I could have carried this to my grave, but I lost the instinct. Through pure instinct I have survived this long.
I thought no one was buying when I put my soul on the market. But the destitute hopeless man with barely any clothes had more worth than he let on. In exchange he gave me this. I now give it to you. I need help finding what I lost though. I hope I don't need what I am giving to you to find it.

05 February 2006


Right. I know that someone somewhere got my piece of the pie. My heart beats irregularly and yearns for her arrival. I have a feeling he wouldn’t be caught dead underneath this sky. I’m standing all alone. I will never be famous. My eyes see blurredly through wind-induced tears. I will never have kids. I watch trash swirl in the wind. I will never remember half the shit I have done in my life. I smell the subterranean perfume. The lands have been discovered and the seas have been charted. The smell overpowers the carcass stench from the alley. I will never strike fear into a woman's heart when I pull out the goods. I listen to the wind howl. I will never create anything of any value to anyone. It muffles the inebriated laughter coming from the seedy basement bar. I do not believe in Karma. The coffee I drink has no taste. I believe in burning you alive. My mouth is filled with the shit taste steaming in the sewers under the street.
I will never do what I want with my life. The flashing neon lights illuminate my silhouette in three-second intervals. I will never have fun again. I'm standing all alone. I will never look wildly into her eyes with sweat pouring off of our faces. I wait for her on this street at her request. I will never watch her eyes smile at me from across a room. This city belongs to me. I will never taste the flesh of a pure soul. I stand with no fear as the men walking from the bar are rolled. I will never fly with my own wings. Police sirens are all faint. The man I thought I'd be mocks me. No law comes here. The boy I was hates the man I am. I watch the barges move slowly down the river. The man I am is desperate for affection. The deep horns are soothing compared to the high-pitched chatter if the rats. The man I will be is dying.
I don't want things to be this way. It swells up from inside me. I don't want to wake up. I am standing all alone. I will never be the same. She isn't here. In my heaven, she is there, along with twelve other people, my family and my dog. I feel it coming on. She should have been in my life longer than the few weekends I saw her. I sense its destruction. I will never feel this pain again. I know what it wants. No one listens to me. I don't even fight it anymore; I give in and enjoy it.

02 February 2006

Everyone Thinks Appolo Creed

Dear Yossarian,

I was talking with my prospective boyfriend the other day about public displays of affection, which I am strictly opposed to. He disagrees with me on this issue, to the extent that "he couldn't be with someone that wasn't into pda." I am a pretty willful person, and I don't know if I can bend on this issue. But I really like this guy. So I guess I am asking, to what end do I follow my infatuation? Is there a limit to what you will give up or what you will compromise on to keep someone in your life?? And in a romantic situation?? How can you give of yourself and be sure you're not giving too much?


Dear Prudence,

You don't like the name? Then don't sign anonymous. What kind of public displays of affection is he talking? I only ask because I am all over the place on this one. On one hand, I will make every attempt to make it seem as if I don't know you. On the other hand, I will do everything in my power to throw it in your ass in a taxi or a back alley behind some rundown gin tank.
This shit fucks me up. I mean read this. He is a prospective boyfriend. He can't be with someone opposed to pda. You are opposed to pda. In the industry, we call that a done deal. It's over. But to placate your need for power, yes you are right and you should dump him. I mean seriously, are you that afraid of rejection?
Regardless, we have other questions here. You need to understand that life is a compromise. For instance, let's say we were together. Let's say you wanted a new car. Now I don't want to buy you a new car. But I might say, "Fine. You get a new car and I get to pull the ass to mouth cum shot on your ass." Next thing you know, you're driving around in leather seats and I am laughing at the situation with my friends.
I can see you don't believe me. What is your job? What did you want to be when you were a child? Compromise.
This shit kills me. Every girl I've known since Junior High as always said some shit like, "I don't even know who I am anymore." Shut the fuck up. You are not a toaster. You are not defined by some all-encompassing term for the rest of your life. You change everyday. Get used to it. Don't blame the guy because you used to hate baseball but now you like it because he watches it so much. You're still the same whore, only now you like baseball.
Also, if you do end up liking baseball, don’t blame him for it as if liking baseball is a flaw in your moral fiber. Don't. Stop it. You're embarrassing yourself. I don't play with any victim bullshit. You chose something, deal with repercussions.
How much is too much to give? I reckon only you can answer that question. How much do you want it? Were you comfortable with yourself and secure before him? I would doubt it considering you are trying to break up with him before he breaks up with over what, holding hands? Or are we talking slobbering on each other in Starbucks. Either way, he can probably compromise his stance on this. Maybe you can come to an agreement. I suggest the following compromise: You shut up and grow a sack with some hair on it. He acts like a man and ignores you.

01 February 2006

Relationship Commencement

Right. There is a knock on my door. I don't want to answer it. I know who it is, but it's impossible that I am right. No one has the gall. I mute the television. I look over at her. She is twitching in her sleep again. There is another knock and laughter. There are two of them outside. I adjust her blanket to warm her neck: the heat in my apartment is on the blink again. I light my cigarette and there’s another knock.
I know what waits on the other side of that door. I know I have 1, maybe 2 seconds to make my move. I know that my chances of living are small. She brought them here. They came for her and she's been sleeping for the last 20 hours. This is the first time I have seen her in 3 weeks. There is a kick at the door.
Maybe it's my roommate. Maybe he forgot his key. He would have called. There isn't much time. I have no peephole because I live in a shitty apartment. Her cell phone rings. I walk to the door and take one last look at her. I start to open it.
I am greeted with a handgun in my face. "I just need to get my keys from her. You understand?" Yeah, I understand. I understand that the last time you showed up I put you in the hospital. I understand you aren't alone this time. I understand that this is the second time I have had a gun in my face.
Pull the fucking trigger. Be a fucking man. The door widens. An extremely wide man is holding the gun. The voice walks in uninvited. He kicks at the couch and loudly explains he is leaving and needs his car keys. She gives them to him and closes her eyes. "Business." The gun is withdrawn and the door closes. She hears her phone beep and reaches a sleepy hand into her purse.
She checks her text messages. She bolts from the couch and out the door. Nothing spoken, nothing thought. I hear a car backing up and I watch her enter the tricked out Lexus from my nicotine stained window. The import leaves, ignoring the stop signs along the way until it is out of sight.
I put on my jeans and a sweater. I smoke a cigarette and open a beer. This will not be the last time I see her. The next time will be, and the next time I will have a knife thrust at me. But that won't happen for another 3 weeks and this time it's her with the weapon.
He heard a knock on his door. He doesn't answer. I knock again. The wide man, sans gun, greets me. He is greeted with a cue ball in a sock across the face. She brought me here.