OCCUPY WALL STREET seems to be the trend these days. I'm sure Martin Luther King Jr dreamed of a day when illegals and white kids with dreadlocks could coexist peacefully in a public park shantytown. Starbucks and Goya products united.
I understand the concept of protest. As an American, if something has wronged you, offended you, oppressed you, you have every right to assemble with like-minded folk and let your protests be heard. Usually you should have a reason to protest and perhaps a reasonable goal. But this isn't required, so don't pack up your tents yet.
As near as I can tell, people are mad about other rich folk having more money than them. It's not fair, some say, that they should have so little while the rich have so much. I keep hearing the term ONE PERCENT. Assuming that anyone who'll mess with percentages has a strong grasp of math so I'd like to make a suggestion.
OCCUPY JOB
Work more. If you get paid $8 an hour and at the end of a twenty hour workweek, you're not happy with the $160 fruit of your labor (before taxes), try working 30. A magical thing happens. All of the sudden, that $160 check transforms itself into a $240 check. Witchcraft? Hell, naw, baby! That's math!
Not satisfied with that?
OCCUPY SECOND JOB
I've heard of this elusive creature called a SECOND job! The possibilities are endless. But then I'll never have time for fun, you say. Here I thought all the unhappiness stemmed from money. Perhaps protest a maternity ward. Those little fucks have a whole life ahead of them. Certainly they could spare a couple years.
There's a huge Justin Bieber cologne/perfume display at Macy's. Scientifically formulated to attract bubble-headed teenage girls. I may have to buy some if the cotton candy vodka stops working.
I love recycling day. Not because I'm an Earth nut or anything. I heard a rumor that they bring all your rinsed organic almond flax seed butter containers to the same landfill used rubbers go. They don't recycle those. At least not in my neighborhood.
I moved to a city where little old Asian women scour the landscape like carpenter ants on trash day, ripping open garbage bags looking for aluminum cans with a 5 cent deposit. 20 of those babies is a buck. A full stolen shopping cart renders...I don't fucking know. I never played the HOW MANY GUMBALLS game, and I could care less about GUESS CHAN'S CANS (I put the over/under on Bs. Broads are way flat.)
The fun started when the city got rid of the designated plastic/glass/paper green buckets. One day, a gigantic flip top bucket showed up. No more sorting, they say. The recycling bin poses a problem for the average four foot bottle snagger. It wasn't unusual to see a pair of two dollar sandals wiggling out of the trash.
When the 'no-sort' policy hit, the recycling dude's productivity went through the roof. All he had to do was drive up to the curb to utilize a forklift device, catapulting the contents into a large flatbed. Suddenly, the ants are on a time crunch. It's amazing to see how fast ants can sort when a recycling truck's on their ass.
Did anybody else know Rufus the Stunt Bum wrote a book?
I was in a BORDERS bookstore during a store closing sale (funny how even after discounts, it was one of the most expensive joints around), and I caught those unmistakable knuckle tats on the cover out of the corner of my eye. I hadn't thought about BUMFIGHTS in years. I downloaded the whole thing from Napster. After downloading a few gay porn red herrings. Napster was like a box of chocolates back then, Forrest. People loved to mislabel shit and the best thing you could hope for is that the dehabilitating viruses stayed on the screen, not on your hard drive.
Though I only read the excerpt, Rufus' memoir almost ruins the memories I had of BUMFIGHTS. You can check it out on the LOOK INSIDE feature on Amazon where he talks about this incident:
The only thing I can compare it to is when I found out Santa and FACES OF DEATH weren't real. I felt bad for enjoying it as much as I did. The shame is almost enough to keep me from accepting a copy of BUMFIGHTS from anyone who may have it laying around.
When I took latin in fourth grade, I learned two things:
1) How to tell if a Catholic priest is blessing me or trying to throw game, and
2) You can tell a lot about a word by breaking it down.
Look, I'm getting older. Fuck you. You are too. But I don't wanna be that guy who has to pay the kid next door five bucks to reprogram my TV every time the batteries in my remote crap out. I begrudgingly opened a MYSPACE account just in time to see the digital UHauls disappear over the horizon. It was a hard way to find out how creepy and uncreative my friends were. Like FLUFFYLOVER77. You know who I'm talking about, BILL.
It was cute. I told everybody my favorite bands, my favorite movies, my likes, my dislikes(mean people *sadface*). I got a bunch of friend requests from half naked chicks who wanted me to check out things they couldn't show me HERE and metal bands from the Czech Republic who thought I should check out their shit since I liked SIMON & GARFUNKEL. I get disgruntled pretty easily (sometimes before a single stone is ever thrown), so I took my journal entry power to proclaim to the cyber ghost town that I was going to single-handedly bring everyone back to MYSPACE. Then I left.
The next day, I opened a FACEBOOK account, hunted down a couple schoolmates, and started my friend accumulation. The comment box on other peoples' walls was a perfect way to express myself in real time. Taunting my buddies for putting up pics of their families, giving me updates on how the laundry was piling up, and (my favorite) asking if anyone had any weed they wanted to sell. I would post a link to the description of THE PATRIOT ACT on their wall, hoping they could teach themselves to fish before they ended up in the belly of a whale.
But it's never enough, is it? As phones got smarter, we got dumber. Telling people when we went on vacation so one of our 'friends'(who was more likely a desperate token to help get your number up to look more popular) could take their sweet time burglarizing our house. When we went to work so your 'friend you have in common' could sneak over and fuck your 'in a relationship with' girlfriend. Life is a card game, and the more tells you have, the more likely you are to lose. When you TELL the world EVERYTHING, you should just hand the world your wallet. Save everybody the time and trouble.
Then comes TWITTER. The ultimate in live feeds. 140 character bursts of GPS worthy up-to-the-minute action coming at the speed of Matrix style binary code. Only instead of zeroes and ones, it's a flood of #s and @s. All TWITTER's missing is a dude with a dog's head holding a golden staff up to the sun next to some pyramids. I didn't have the first clue what was going on. I thought I hit the DOS button on my computer. They make TWITTER FOR DUMMIES books. I'm not willing to throw my hands up in defeat. I'd rather bash it instead.
After a couple 'tweets' (God, I feel dirty even saying it), I realized I was was out of my depth. People were @ing me, putting # signs next to my name. I didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or call the cops. People I never heard of started following me. I'm already paranoid as it is. The unsolicited attention made me go on a canned good shopping spree and warm up the bomb shelter.
Jesus only needed twelve followers (or was it thirteen? My research department is on vacation). In a stockpiling effort that would rival the Cold War arms race, people greedily make 'follow me and I'll follow you' promises. After making a few of those deals myself, I don't make those deals anymore. Blue balls hurt like a mug.
I know boner pills when I see 'em. The Asian characters graphic on the bottle would lead some to believe the product's name is mere coincidence. I'm not a PHUKing idiot. After reading the reviews, I'm tempted to buy a bottle myself. And I don't even have THAT problem. No, I really don't.
As the story goes, your whole life flashes before your eyes just as you're about to die. Everything from child birth to your final moment can end up on your greatest hits reel. It didn't quite go that way for me. Not that I died or anything, I was pretty convinced I was going to, so I guess it counts. As my hands balled up into clenched fists and my head felt like a teakettle about to explode, the only thing I could think about is whether or not the investment company where I had my 401k was open on Sundays because I forgot to name a beneficiary. I had my phone in a kung fu grip, but it was unlikely they would understand me even if I could find the number because I don't think they speak convulse at ING.
I had no idea what had happened to me. The cop who showed up before the ambulance asked me. The paramedics who drove the ambulance asked me. It was probably the first time in what I figured was the end of my life that I wish I'd gone to medical school so I could answer the questions properly. It felt, without exaggeration, like the worst electrocution I'd ever received. Worse than the one I got pissing on an electric fence. Yes, I did.
The paramedic had a rhythm about him. He would ask me two important questions, and then, in pure non sequitur mode, ask me a nonsensical question. He wanted to know the name of my dog three or four times. I understand it was an attempt to keep me calm, but considering I was strapped to a gurney in the back of a fucking ambulance, calm wasn't likely to happen. Chest pain was one of my main bitches. We all decided maybe I was having a heart attack. A rubber gloved hand shoved four orange baby aspirin into my mouth. I was told to chew. In probably the most pleasant part of this whole experience, they tasted like oranges (what else would they taste like?). I heard that taking aspirin can help if you have heart disease, and I was seriously considering picking up a bottle of these bad boys to have with breakfast.
The other thing they do if they think you're having a heart attack is set you up for an EKG. This whole process involves at least 5 to 7 stickers which REALLY stick. They put them on exceptionally hairy places if you're a guy ( or a hippie chick). I would recommend you never tell a paramedic or a doctor they think you're having a heart attack unless you're 100% sure because they're harder to get off than a eunuch and you can't get a prescription to kerosene.
Another tip is if you get an EKG done in the ambulance, the people at the hospital don't trust the stickers that the paramedics use, so when it's time for THEIR EKG, the nurse will tear the ambulance stickers off without warning. Well, at least the first one is without warning. Only a moron would think they would stop at one. They're like potato chips, after all. I think medical schools should at least teach the common courtesy of putting the new stickers on the bald spots where the old stickers were. I look like a leopard now. Aside from all the normal reasons of not wanting to take off my shirt in public, now I have the added worry of getting shot by poachers.
Both of those readings came back normal. Normal meaning I didn't have a heart attack or any sort of heart related thing other than an actual heart. In the back of the ambulance, we all took turns guessing what was wrong with me. We crossed out stroke since I didn't look like the people at the end of INDIANA JONES AND THE RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK. As a product of watching too many movies, when somebody has a medical background and they say, “I don't know what's wrong with you”, I hit the panic button (which didn't help the situation much). While the paramedics concentrated on driving, I wondered how I possibly could have gotten a disease only spotted monkeys in South America get. Other than the obvious. But I was drunk that night.
We pulled up to the hospital;it was like the express lane. I got right in. No waiting in the lounge next to other people about to die. Instead I had the pleasure of being double parked next to them in the back hallway. Funny how it might take forever to get your room, but they put the triage on wheels now. Some chick with a laptop on a modified office chair came over and took all my information. It takes a lot of faith to do that job considering that sometimes people can't talk. Like me, for instance. I still thought I did well and deserved a gold star. Or 9 EKG stickers.
Through hours of poking, prodding, bloodletting, and being plugged into all sorts electrical monitors, they came up with anxiety attack. They asked me if I had any extra stress lately. That's like asking a hobo if he's been MORE homeless lately. When I asked about the numbness NOT associated with anxiety, he blamed it on hyper-ventilation. Even though I wasn't.
“Look,”he said matter of factly,”if you breathe twice a second for two minutes, it causes *insert latin words here* to your muscles.”
“So I won't do that...”
I thought it was funny. He didn't. An hour later, I was discharged (heh) with a prescription to Xanax. Well enough to handle the stresses of the world again, the nurse, under the guise of 'walking me out', led me directly to billing. Watching the guy try to ask for my emergency room payment while looking at paperwork stating ANXIETY under my information was like seeing a bomb squad technician not touch the red wire. I suppose if I relapsed, the ER was right there.
I wonder if they'd charge me for a separate visit?
There's nothing I enjoy more than browsing around, minding my own business, and accidentally finding something I didn't know existed. I'm sure there's locksmiths out there who'll tell a story about something like this if enough pitchers of PABST are offered.
*BULBSHANK does not endorse or recommend putting such devices on, in, or around the same room as your weenie. But if you MUST, get a spare key made. The ER is full enough.
A while back, I went to see Organized Konfusion in New Hampshire with my friend Tony. My BLACK friend Tony. He's one of the guys I refer to when I try to convince people it's okay when I make off-color witticisms ON color. Of course, he'd disavow me in a split second. So don't tell anyone I use him as a reference. A rerun of ROOTS puts me on thin ice as it is.
To put a timeline on it for the hip-hop heads, it was right after they released STRESS: EXTINCTION AGENDA. Four mics in The Source, if I remember correctly. I bought the CD at midnight at Tower Records on Mass Ave in Boston and loved it like fat people love parking spaces close to the door. When Tony told me they were on a bill with ARTIFACTS, COMMON SENSE, and THE BEATNUTS, no price was too high. Not even fifteen bucks (though that was a quarter of my gross national product at the time).
I went so quickly, I forgot to inform my girl Sonya, a friendly but testy half Jamaican. She killed the triple A battery in my pager (only doctors know what a pager is). I don't remember how much change I plugged into the payphone (a wha...?) to assuage her suspicions, but as soon as she was convinced I wasn't picking up whores, I settled in to enjoy the show.
You can let people tell you what they want about “not seeing color”, but it's bullshit. If the demographic needle tacks too deep into one wedge of the color wheel, the other spokes notice (I didn't misspell spooks or spicks. I was making a wheel analogy). Take it from a guy who dated a Colombian. I sat in a room full of expired passports more than once. Shouts out to SABADO GIGANTE. This time, it was like a piece of black construction paper with two drops of WITE OUT. One would be me. The other was one of the bartenders.
Artifacts opened the night, performing “Wrong Side of the Tracks” amongst others. Pretty good stuff. Check out TAME ONE. He was half of the duo and ,though I'm sure El Da Sensei is doing fine, TAME is the shit. Still.
And then Common came on stage...
I only knew him from “Breaker 1-9” and “I Used to Love Her”. The latter was on heavy rotation. A clever metaphor and the first talk of Common (formerly of Common Sense fame) being a conscious rapper. Put in the same stable as Tribe Called Quest and De La Soul. I didn't see the comparison.
He did a song. I don't remember which. Then he started talking to the crowd:
“I got a hotel room here and needed a couple extra towels, so I went downstairs. When I got to the lobby, there were two WHITE PEOPLE (you see this coming?) watching the OJ trial on COURT TV. They didn't know I was there. One turned to the other and said:
'They should just kill that nigger.'
YOU KNOW I WANTED TO FUCK 'EM UP, RIGHT!?! But I didn't... You know why? 'Cause white people...they're just LIKE that...”
You could've heard a pin drop. The club was filled to capacity and they all turned to look at me. Not US. ME. The bartender saw it coming and fucking bounced. So much for sticking together. I stood as an unwilling representative of all things cracker. Shit was tense.
But Organized Konfusion hadn't gone on yet, Tony was elsewhere, and I wasn't running. Spending the rest of the show with hateful eyes on me, I watched Phaorohe Monche ignore the first stage call because he was too busy sucking down Heinekens at the bar, women clinging to his winter coat (and ski goggles) which he was still wearing. He stumbled onto the stage and performed perfectly, not missing a syllable, even as he laid on his back, rhyming while kicking his feet in the air like an overturned turtle.
The Beatnuts headlined, and though I specifically remember the crowd missing a cue (something about 'eating' your mother), they had a spectacular set. Ahhh...memories.
But I'm getting off track. I don't care what the President says. Common's a jackass. TAKE THAT!
I can still write a pretty mean "I'd like to have sex with you and maybe bed your roommate if we haven't run out of wine coolers and I don't have to be at work early tomorrow" card.
I've been thinking about how tacky it would look if I monetized BULBSHANK. I decided that 1) it would look pretty tacky and 2) I don't care. Every once in a while, you may find a link on something I brought up. Use it as a footnote, a point of reference if you don't know what the hell I'm talking about. If you happen to buy something while you're there, BULBSHANK gets a piece of the pie. Who doesn't love pie?
If I find out you bought something without going through me first, I'll write bad things about you. About you and your mom and maybe the family dog sharing a tequila-fueled weekend of debauchery in Tijuana. Trust me. I'll do it.
I ate anything I wanted. Laid around on the comfiest of couches. Smoked more packs of cigarettes than Dean Martin and Joe Camel combined. For YEARS.
Then, out of the blue, I decided to exercise and shun the extra cheese option when it was available. At an age when people my age are starting to look their age, I can laugh heartily. For because I was a gluttonous, lazy kid, I'm now in the best shape of my life. SUCKERS!!!!
I hate my birthday. And not for the older thing. We're all gonna die. Yeah, sweetheart, you too. (Sorry. Someone go console that person.) My hair's falling out in a light but persistent frequency, letting me know I'll be bald by 40. No sore feelings there either. Sean Connery was named MAN OF THE YEAR. Out of principal, I don't bitch about Social Security because of him. Or is it desperation? As long as there's pudrow* involved...
The HAPPY BIRTHDAY tune irritates me like a Black Eyed Peas song (with similar repetition issues). I feel sorry for any waitstaff forced to participate on a crummy waged barbershop quartet just so some asshole can get a free sundae. When I require the attention of strangers to celebrate my birth, I'm not worth the candles on my cake.
As a child of lower income, birthdays were a reaffirmation of poverty. Kids were getting full sets of diecast TRANSFORMERS at twenty to thirty bucks each, HE-MANs at five. Way over budget in my world. G.I. Joe's were $2.99 each, and on special occasions, I might get two along with a pair of sneakers to replace the foot puppets flapping on my feet.
A McDonald's Party was the holy grail of birthdays. I wanted one so fucking bad. I'm sure I kid-hinted at it, all subtle-like: "You know, I bet those cakes taste just as good as the burgers. Tommy had a party. I heard it was really cool..." My mother found out they sold the McDonald's cake with the sugar mold topper without having to commit to the party. She bought one and involved my also unhip teacher at school to agree to an in-class birthday party. As they handed out slices, I could feel the children, piecing together the clues, knowing why I didn't have it at Ronald's castle. My parents were broke. And the splurge to keep up with the Joneses only confirmed it.
One year, I got a blank VHS tape so I could tape my favorite TV shows. It was a Monday, and I recorded that night's ALF. A riveting episode about time shares and free toasters. My father had his first stroke while he was outside fixing the family car. I woke up the next morning, heard the news, and felt the extra year, full force, putting its foot in my ass. I've tried to avoid birthday spankings ever since.
*PUDROW: a derivative of the word "pussy". Welcome to the first BULBSHANK footnote.
I haven't seen a human cannonball in a while. Perhaps I could peruse Craigslist, pick up some of those cannons cheap, and sell them at a huge profit before the Department of Immigration knows what hit 'em. Which would probably be a flying Mexican. Safety net not included.
With the news of the Arizona wall, I've decided to start a company specializing in oversized slingshots. As anti-American as it is, people forgave IBM for helping Nazi Germany pull off a census or two. I'll take my chances.
When I was young, kidnapping was big business. In reality, it wasn't a business so much as a hobby. A hobby for sick fuckers in late model vans trolling the neighborhood for hot, pink grade school ass. Every night on the evening news, the anchors would tell my parents and me about another child gone missing. My lack of geographical knowledge led me to believe that all this shit was going down a mile from my house. I was THREE DAY COKE BENDER paranoid. Had I known what they did to the children when they got 'em, I would've duct-taped my asshole shut and filed my baby teeth pointy.
I had code words, hand-signals, 'don't go with that guy' hand signals (like the index through a closed OK symbol), and curfews. Watching maximum security lock-up documentaries give me a warm, fuzzy feeling. With the threat long since passed, I can reveal that the code word was my favorite cookie which I can never enjoy fully even now. As a child, I would be reminded of the stark realities of the world, washing down my password cookies with milk from a carton showcasing missing children on the back like a Dillinger wanted poster.
I can't talk to people. If you aren't a friend of a close family member, a friend of a coworker I HAVE to talk to, or a neighbor (and only if you're blocking my driveway), I likely haven't spoken a word to you. Though I would welcome the opportunity to get kidnapped (good luck fitting me into a 55 gallon container), the anxiety that comes along with such a horrible event is attached to every introduction I have to make. I hate saying my own name. If I wasn't such a cheap bastard, I would get business cards to avoid having to say it. Or milk cartons.
Sweatpants with the word PINK written on the leg, or more likely the ass region, need to be policed more regularly. I'm shocked that some asshole Senator from Massachusetts hasn't tried to introduce legislation. The PINK company probably has lobbyists who make the NRA ones look like pansies.
I would be perfectly happy if the government intervened and violated the rights of eight year old predator bait walking around with a g-string slingshot hanging out of her PINK-emblazoned ass.
Take them away from her fifty year old mother too. The one that used a tanning bed to turn herself into slut jerky, riddled with melanoma and STDs, bleach blonde hair in a ponytail making me think I'm looking at prime rib until she turns around and it's obvious she's been well done.
So everybody's still on this broad's labia, huh? After a reality show, a whirlwind of high paid appearances (at least Paris Hilton dances on tables at HER gigs), and a book, the adoring public gets to see Sarah Palin in a movie.
I woke up one Saturday morning and I couldn't understand cartoons any more because they were all in Spanish. After checking to make sure I didn't accidentally turn my television to UHF or
forget to pay my cable bill, I realized Dora the Explorer had done the same thing to my weekends that Oprah did to my weekdays.
Handy Manny makes me feel like Arizona state about my cartoons. It was easy to avoid foreign language programming as long as I knew where TELEMUNDO was (usually sandwiched between a station existing on Matlock reruns and public access stations where old people filmed each other talking about Matlock).
When the Latin invasion invaded the cartoons, I was still in a Friday night fog and wrote it off as a Menudo revival. After a few weeks, I realized even Timothy Leary doesn't hallucinate that long. My television wasn't speaking English anymore. I almost called an old priest and a young priest. I gave it a crucifix in hopes I wouldn't have to pay for the SPICE CHANNEL ever again. Nothing happened there. I've chalked it up as a demographic shift, wondering if TACO BELL would ever have the balls to buy every commercial spot around DIEGO.
When they run out of ideas and start harvesting old cartoons like Puffy Diddy P Diddle Dizzy Combs getting a BEST OF THE 80s collection, I think Scooby Doo is ripe for a redux. I'm thinking it'll be about a bunch of Mexicans riding around in a van with a chihuahua, going from town to town, solving landscaping mysteries. Every episode will end up with the cops, conveniently never verifying the protagonists' legal status, arresting some pasty white guy. When they rip off his mask, he'll yell:
“AND I WOULD'VE GOTTEN THE JOB TOO IF IT WEREN'T FOR YOU MEDDLING IMMIGRANTS!”
I was in the frozen food aisle staring at boxes. Sort of like a strip club with a broken furnace but way less likely to score a fifteen dollar blowjob. I brought change just in case. The whole 'portion control' theory started making a lot more sense since I gained twenty pounds of deviled egg weight, but like every other overpopulated American food niche, I had to sort my way through eight doors of low calorie choices.
Normally I disregard the PRODUCT HAS BEEN ENLARGED TO SHOW TEXTURE blurb on food packages. Common sense dictates that Cheerios don't come in doughnut size. The same common sense should've kicked in when I found a 200 calorie deluxe meat pizza. Only the least luminous of bright folks such as myself would be taken aback when a frozen pie the size of an air hockey puck slides out of the deceptively oversized box.
A likewisely obese couple happened along while I was window shopping, trying to waddle into a browsing position without violating my personal space. Like sharing a clown car with elephants. At least that's what the smell reminded me of. I didn't know whether to keep doing what I was doing or go get a garbage can and a push broom.
Once my mouth took over breathing and the dizziness quelled, I pressed on with urgency, grabbing meals that said CHEESY or MEAT, hoping for the best. The girl-looking one pivoted her body towards me because her neck was too jammed with gristle, sneering at my cart.
"I USED to eat those, but they have so much sodium in them, it's ridiculous. Like a third of your daily intake per meal."
Avoiding salt is no surprise coming from a person built like a slug. Fat people know diet tips like nerds know karate. You can wax a car or paint a fence all day long, but if you don't practice what you read, Johnny's still gonna hand you your ass when you try the crane kick.
One of the great joys of owning a dog is the unconditional love they provide. Until you let them sleep in your bed. Then they become the most selfish hairy assed bastards you've ever slept with (that sound you hear in the background is women all over the world screaming that I must've never met their ex husbands).
We got two sons of bitches, Franklin and Louis (Sons of bitch, actually. They're brothers) roaming around my house. These freeloaders circle my bed like vultures on a carcass, waiting for the first sign of yawning so they can claim their rightful spot: dead center. My girl's hip to the game. She comes into the room, changes into her pajamas nonchalantly, and HOPS IN THE BED REAL FAST!!! The dogs freak out, throwing themselves on the mattress like children playing musical chairs when the music stops.
Which makes me the asshole, standing in the middle of my bedroom looking at a bed with less vacancy than the Hotel Bethlehem. No amount of pushing, threatening, or peanut butter biscuit bribery means shit to a squatting dog. As the alpha male of the house, it leaves me no choice but to squirm into the remaining 6 inches of the bed and hope someone rolls over during the night so I can get my whole body under the covers.
One night, only one of the canine crashers showed up. Louis must've been out carousing for bitches (If I can get away with it, I'm gonna throw it around). I was ecstatic to get my parking space back even if it was temporary. I crawled into bed, kissed my girl goodnight without having to overcome the Great Wall of Canine, and fell asleep.
I woke up at three in the morning to the sound of a clogged sink gurgling over my head. HURG. HURG. HURG. The only light source on my room is an LCD alarm clock I scored at a drugstore for ten bucks. In the red glow, I could barely make out the silhouette of a pit bull in the throes of pregame nausea.
During the housebreaking phase, one of the puppies took a piss on our comforter. It was one of the worst days of my life. Apparently, 'overstuffed' describes the state of the washing machine I put it in. Starting at home, I went from laundromat to laundromat, trying to find a washer that could handle my load (heh). After six hours, I had a damp blanket I swore I would never wash again. It's easier to buy a new one.
Mount Saint Franklin was about to erupt all over the comforter, so I did the only thing that came to my half-dazed mind. A t-shirt is way easier to clean than a comforter. I grabbed Franklin's head with both hands, centered it over my torso, and took one for the team.
If I got a vanity plate openly mocking the handicapped, I'd come out of the mall to find a crutch through my windshield. Or an ass dent on my hood. Fat people are cripples too now.
A magical thing happens in New England around September. Not the leaves changing color (though city-folk who've never seen a tree before are mystified as a hobo with a bar of soap). Not kids going back to school. Or even Major League Baseball play-offs. If you see anything professional there, it's likely caused by steroids. No. I'm talking about apple picking.
Children have one of their too few weekends torn from them, forced to endure hours in a crowded car with asshole sibling cellmates, listening to CAT STEVEN'S GREATEST HITS by the warden.
The orchard's duped every knucklehead roaming the field. Cutting out the supermarket and the labor should lower the prices. Instead, the privilege of picking Farmer Brown's pommes will cost you double what you could pay in the store only a five minute drive from your house. Assuming you can find a parking space among the other hoodwinkees clamoring to help Tom Sawyer whitewash his fence.
Republicans have the wrong idea. Rather than creating stiffer illegal immigrant policies, hire an ad agency to create a campaign letting Americans know how much fun it is to mow a lawn, pick strawberries, or make your own fucking coffee. Within a year, it'd be easier to find a horseshoe salesman than a Mexican. Unless they adapt by scoring jobs gathering all the abandoned 5 gallon Home Depot buckets left in front of boarded up Dunkin Donuts.
The last time I went, we paid twenty bucks for a medium sized bag and filled it in ten minutes despite acting more critical than an emotionally crippled mother at a children's beauty pageant.
“No. Not that one.” Toss.
“Too green.” Toss.
“Wormhole.” Toss.
“Apple.” Toss.
So then we get to leave, right? WRONG! I knew there was a reason I was asked to wear my sweatshirt.
With three in each pocket, a half dozen in the hood, and the front stuffed from waist to collarbone, we shuffle past security (consisting of two 15 year old girls) covered in apple shaped tumors bulging from every clothed part of our body. I tried to suck in my cheekbones to appear as sickly and cancer-ridden as a guy 30 pounds overweight can. They didn't buy it. Nor did they give a shit. We paid roughly five bucks a pounds for apples. The only one we outsmarted was evolution.
Apple picking coaxes the uglier, greedier side of humanity. The entire time I was there, it looked like a fucking apple eating contest. Kids ran around, snatching apples off trees only to take a single bite, and tossing the rest over their shoulders while in pursuit of the next fruit. Maybe med students should spend autumn in the fields to better understand why sexually transmitted diseases seem to spread easier than warm butter.
Old folks have it all figured out. After all, it's their 80th time. They back up their Toyota Avalons to the fence, gain entrance through purchasing the smallest bag possible, and spend the day lobbing fruit over the fence into the open trunks on the other side. I can't imagine how brazen the elderly would become if there were a starlight mint hard candy orchard. Or a grandchild's love orchard. Could probably get that cheaper at home too. I used to sell mine for a quarter. But those are 1980's prices and have not been adjusted for inflation.
I bet you're thinking: What the fuck are we gonna do with all these apples? That's funny. I asked the same thing when, running out of options, I was trying to conceal a cortland up my ass like a rubber full of heroin. They didn't ask me to do that, but I felt obligated to try. No one would answer the apple question. Or shake my hand.
The GOOGLE spike for apple recipes must be astronomical in the fall. Suburbs reek of apples and cinnamon for months. Children get rewarded for their lost weekend by having all sorts of housewife misfires snuck into the bag lunches in desperate maternal hopes that if the kids throw it away, at least they won't tell mom they did it.
In a couple months, when your shitty produce investment is a mere vapor in the landscape of your mind, and while rooting through your fridge for a snack, you find a long forgotten apple crisp triple wrapped in aluminum foil, do us all a favor:
TOSS.
I saw a picture of my buddy's daughter getting ready for 'Pirate Day' at her school. She had an eye patch and a hook crafted out of a silver pipe cleaner. The caption read:
“I've never met a prettier one eyed 8 year old with a hook for a hand in my entire life!”
I'm sure that's a true statement. Aside from being a doting dad, he's never been to a brothel in Southeast Asia.
I'm not sure at what point in our lives pirates became so kid-friendly. Could it be that Robert (or was it Parker? One of 'em's a Hardy Boy, I think) Louis Stevenson guy? Last I remember, pirates lived on a floating terrorist colony, looting ships, raping and killing along the way. Apparently all is forgotten. I waited the entire movie to see Johnny Depp give Keira Knightley a good jolly rogering when they were stranded on the island with nothing but rum and boredom to entertain them. Sadly, the only people that got fucked were the ones paying to see the sequels.
Pimps enjoy a similar historical ignorance. The word 'pimp' is a compliment now. MTV would never have the balls to put out a show called RAPE, EXPLOIT, BEAT, AND HOOK MY RIDE ON SMACK TO KEEP IT UNDER CONTROL. But every week, some scrawny crackerbread from the 'burbs was dancing around his new booger green whip, thanking Xzibit and the mechanics (heavily subsidized by the cable company judging from the amount of televisions they attach to every open surface) for pimping his ride.
I'd like to see Captain Alligator Shirt ante up his mother for the show. Jump for joy when they pull back the tarp to reveal the fellas at West Coast Customs stuffing an eighteen inch bass cannon up his mom's ass. Upholstering her saggy tits with a bright orange shag carpet. Don't forget the added neon adorned cum bubbler feature to make her head look like the funnest glass of milk at your next orgy.
Maybe it's the language. The patois. Kinda fun to talk like a pimp or a pirate. Both are notorious for ignoring grammar as a whole. Pirates like parrots. Pimps like to dress up like parrots. Both wear funny hats. Pirates have hooks for hands. Pimps have hookers on-hand. Both are suckers for shiny objects. And both are in the booty business.
So where's Disney on this trendy untapped market? If Walt were still alive (or at least more than his head), we'd already be familiar with Jezebel, the talking goat, constantly exploited by her step daddy to turn tricks in WhateverEver Land. But one day, she's gonna be the best singer anyone's ever seen. You can see the passion in her square eyes.
Or how about a theme park ride with mechanical Sleeping Beauty, Mulan, and Cinderella going around in circles on the ho track. Hiking up their skirts, showing their goods to the whole family as they ride by in a pink fiberglass Lincoln while listening to the soothing island drums and mice in floppy hats droning on about being “a motherfuckin' P-I-M-P”. It's a small world after all, playa.
Saw an article in a magazine with a picture of a deformed little girl soliciting donations. "FREE cleft surgery...COSTS as little as $250 dollars"? As a kid, I would've screamed trickery and demanded the word problem editor be fired. As an adult, I'm thinking blowjob solicitation in the business district could raise that money long before neck cramps happened. AND you could probably skip a meal too.
While working in an office building, we shared a floor with a life coaching company run by a bunch of uppity Cambridge granola eaters. Why anyone would listen to advice from a guy who wears socks with his sandals, I'll never know. It's judgement calls like this that made their lives suck to begin with.
I fantasized about casually walking into their office while they're busy reloading their organic incense burners and stealing all their K-Cups for our coffee machine. Maybe a soy danish. If I get caught, I can always curl up into a ball, sobbing about how my father never told me I was a man, and hope the prospect of a new client blinds them from noticing that I didn't give the coffee back. Witnessing my craft doesn't come cheap.
It's hard for me to believe my cell phone increased my productivity as much as I tried to fool myself into believing it would when I was trying to justify the pricetag. Sure, it's got a touch keypad as well as a physical keyboard. Any kindergarten apple counter will tell you I'll be able to type twice as fast as normal.
What I didn't count was all the free shit I would download, turning my phone into a hole into which I chucked every spare second. Any game I enjoyed during my stint on this miserable earth could be had in a matter of seconds if you could rhyme or describe it in monosyllables.
Such classics as PIE SHAPED YELLOW MONSTER WHO EATS GHOSTS, CRABBLE, and Russian puzzle game MOVING BLOCK SHAPES killed my phone's memory faster than a tequila bender. Likewise exterminated were most friendships, unable to tolerate my eyes wandering to the device in my hand like it was a ginormous pair of silicone knockers.
My ex-employer would tell you it was this developing addiction that got me fired (Though I bet it was him catching his daughter masturbating to pictures of me playing on the company softball team. Only a court-ordered cease and desist will clear that discrepancy.)
Still find myself staring at the screen during red lights despite the anti-text laws. I know a targeting law when I see one, and I haven't been under 21 in more years than I'll admit to a naive college freshman. For some reason, reading a dialogue between dimwitted Maine housewives about their kids' messy rooms or an urgent email about my dwindling erection seems worth the potential $100 fine.
I'm sure I'll be able to afford it once all the bullshit I write on my phone at the gym pays off. Until then, find another arc trainer, stupid.
Having a girlfriend with a bladder the size of a walnut puts men in awkward positions. I love mine to death (I should rephrase that. Knowing my luck, something fucked up will happen to her, and a Podunk detective with too much CSI and THE FIRST 48 on his TiVo will find what I wrote. Hilarity WILL NOT ensue.), but I watch her liquid intake like a parent who hasn't discovered rubber sheets yet. She spends half her life dehydrated and the other half sneaking drinks out of restroom faucets when she has one of the ten daily bathroom breaks. Meanwhile, I can't figure out where all this pee's coming from so I tighten my grip on the water supply. It's a vicious cycle. Despite what my court appointed therapist says, this has nothing to do with me trying to control every facet of her life. It's more a pattern of inopportune moments. For instance, when we go to the local burger joint, she cuts a path to the ladies' room instantly. And it's not like I'm STARVING, but now I've been put into the default position of standing by myself, looking like a moron.
Fast food eateries don't have much dead space on the floor. Either you're waiting to order, ordering, waiting FOR your order, sitting and eating your order, or leaving in an orderly fashion. Nothing in the franchise plan mentions an area for schmucks like myself who are stuck like dogs outside a variery store waiting for our owners to come pick up as soon as they're done taking their sweet ass time getting a pack of smokes and a couple scratch tickets. Least you could do is bring me a fucking Slim Jim. Unless we're back to talking about the bathrooms. Don't expect me to eat anything you find in there.
When I brought up the problem, she asked:
"Why don't you go in the men's room if it makes you so uncomfortable?"
Fantastic idea. As if it's not conspicuous enough to be leaning up against the wall of TACO BELL like a coyote waiting for potential Spaniards to smuggle, standing in the bathroom when I have no bathroomly duties to perform sets off alarms faster than Buddhist protesters in a smoke detector store. I might be able to get away with it in highway rest area (a wonderful place to make friends if you're not as deathly afraid of herpes), but not there.
Thank God for my cell phone. I pull it out of my pocket and make a few deliberate-looking motions with my fingers, shaking my head as if thinking, "Why did the children's hospital schedule me to do an open heart surgery on a Wednesday afternoon? Don't they know it's quesadilla date day with my supermodel girlfriend?"
Good thing that's not true. If it were, and a child's life depends on my girl getting out of the bathroom in a timely manner, Little Sally's a goner.
I've never been a fan of meeting chicks' dads. Not for the usual reasons. As a man myself, I can sympathize with a father who has to deal with another set of testicles encroaching on his castle with every intention of banging his little princess. Denying that simple fact is as misguided as thinking a dog balances a treat on its nose to impress you with its agility and extraordinary willpower.
My true worry lies in the family resemblance. Nothing kills my will to mount and hump faster than a father who looks like a girl I thought was attractive before I met him. Facial structure, mannerisms, and speech patterns are all eligible for a quick case of BONER-B-GONE. It's this effect that made it impossible for me to masturbate to any Janet Jackson videos. No amount of sit-ups or simulated sexual gyrations could wipe clean the memory of her brother. A bad camera angle or a stray thought could default me into technically beating off while thinking of a dude, and I avoided the situation altogether.
While I understand the reasoning of the 'sneeze into your sleeve' campaign, the next logical step is the 'no more hugs' movement. The easiest way to make me return to my antisocial bomb shelter mentality is to make sure I'm rewarded for my affections with influenza.
One time my girl was bitching me out via text for something stupid I did, was planning to do, or maybe something I hadn't done (Last one's doubtful. Her accuracy's amazing.) Every message triggered a cute ringtone, a happy face icon, and a preview of the incoming text. Something adorable like: "You are such a FUCKING ASSHOLE!!!"
Amazing as technology is, I'm surprised there isn't an app that scans the words, determines the tone of the transmission, and selects the appropriate emoticon. This conversation would provoke a screamy face with a knife in one hand and a pair of testicles in the other. Gimme a fair chance to delete it before my ego gets to read it.
Sitting in the waiting room of a walk-in clinic, I fully expected to be surrounded by a bunch of filthy, broke people wearing vomit encrusted PEPSI CLEAR t-shirts. I was pleasantly dismayed to find myself surrounded by a th(r)ong of young chicks. The demographic frightened me a little bit. With the nice outfits, hot shoes, and latest hairstyle, one would never suspect they'd be broke ass bitches. So when you meet that hottie (Did I just write 'hottie'? I feel sick) at the supermarket or the library, nothing would indicate a problem. Once the pedigree is discovered, it'll be too late. Too much time has been invested in teaching her to do those things you like. Too much money blown on food. So when her hair starts falling out and she's coughing like a motherfucker, it's too late. You're attached to her. Kinda like getting a dog from the pound.
I hope I never get caught in a fire. Especially one where I'm hurt bad enough to require skin grafts. I heard they cut the skin like sod off awkward places like the ass region and attach it to inappropriate places like the face. Not exactly kissable cheeks.
On the other hand, maybe I'd finally be able to grow a mustache.
As a loving boyfriend, certain concessions must be made. Despite what self-proclaimed playaz/novelists will tell you, womenfolk's opinion do matter. It's important not to relent to the inner knuckle dragger. No matter how much it hurts. Even if you have to watch STEP UP 3.
In all fairness, I volunteered to watch it. I brought the devil into the house and the devil sat for months. After a string of shitty foreign films I suggested ( I only watch so I can check off the box for my 'pretentious white guy' application), guilt set in like squatters in a condemned building.
What followed was the unashamed rewrite of BREAKIN 2:ELECTRIC BUGALOO spliced with Rudolph's island of misfit toys. Lucky for the producers, the target audience is too fickle to remember Rudolph. And their parents were likely conceived after their grandparents saw BREAKIN'.When I was a kid, there was no sneaking the message. They had to put morals-shaping tales in the form of the infamous Afterschool Special. MTV has since learned if you hide the bitter pill of a lesson in the tasty luncheon meat slice of hip soundtrack, kids will swallow anything. I started cruising high schools with a Timbaland album wrapped around my dick.
An underground dance crew has to win a big dance battle to save their dance studio from foreclosure. I've never seen a story like it. Ever. EVER. What boggles my mind is a dusty warehouse pulsing with chest pounding bass filled full of tight tank-topped hipsters talking about what's street. Those twinkle toes aren't nearly as street as Madonna back up dancers. Watch MADONNA:TRUTH OR DARE. Her guys would beat the hair gel out of the STEP UP sissies and shove the street up their asses like a prosthetic fist.
My girl claims she's not watching it for the story (though she turned the volume UP during a dialogue scene). It reminds me of when I used to have to endure a lame storyline, jammed inconveniently between the sex scenes, in porn. The writers didn't try much then either. It was always about a nymphomaniac getting a job in a mailroom. Or was it a nymphomaniac selling magazine subscriptions door to door? They all look the same after a while. Especially when the blindness sets in. And the hairy palms.
Thank God my vision came back so I could experience the joy that is STEP UP 3.
Zombies are more popular than ever. Movies. Comic books. Television shows based on comic books. Zombies are so hot that someone even tried to mix the blood of the undead with Jane Austen. While I admire the effort, I read Pride and Prejudice once. Unless we're talking about the hip-hop version of 'getting brains', my interest remains unpiqued. I can't even guarantee that a rampant amount of blowjobs could make me turn a single page unless you threatened to flunk me in English. Knowing what I know now, you can keep the fucking book. I'll get my GED instead.
Let's say you LOVE zombies. More than anything. Certainly more than your job down at the office park where you try to black out. Go to that special place in your mind once reserved for horrific sexual assaults or bad Jennifer Lopez movies to escape the misery. You need a new occupation.
Ever thought about working in a nursing home or senior center? Old people are kind of like the living dead. They certainly smell like them. Sure, they eat butterscotch pudding for every dessert and become unruly if they miss franks and beans Friday, but other than that, they're pretty similar. Elderly people wander around in a daze, blabber incoherently, don't recognize family members, and will only die if you cut off their heads (or their blood pressure medication).
Perhaps you're saying to yourself, "Yes, it all sounds grand, but I hate the smell of pee. Have you anything more...exciting?"
The answer, my friend, is a resounding YES. When the only danger is tripping on an oxygen tube or walking in on two fossils fucking (I imagine it's like watching elephant ears on a rubber sheet slap against each other in a wheezing, liver-spotted moist lump), I understand if you need something more to get the adrenaline pumping.
Loony bins are full to the brim with mindlessly furious nutjobs itching for the chance to wiggle out of their restraints, spit out their bite guards, and tear you into confetti. Romero's zombies they most certainly ARE NOT. We're talking about those fast moving 28 DAYS LATER sumbitches. While a bite from the afflicted may not infect you with cuckoo, it WILL guarantee you get a hepatitis shot. Gonna have to use your imagination on that one. Pretend the zombification attacks your liver function or something. Certainly better than what would happen if you read Emma. Trust me. It's ugly.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
After destroying two wooden coasters, I modified a peanut butter lid to suit my needs. The extended lip catches any spillage which will be emptied on detection. It's inevitable.
DOMOSTIC-noun: A Japanese tool used for ceremonial meet and beats
BANK OF AMERICA sucks. If BANK OF AMERICA had guts, I would hate them in it. Never mind the policies, fees, and other legitimate reasons to hate banks. I'm way pettier than that. I don't even have an account there, but I'm gonna bitch anyhow.
Ever been in a bank where there's obviously a dimmer switch at play? Not sure who's brilliant idea it was to light the joint like a night club. Is it supposed to have a soothing effect? Why not let the tellers sip appletinis and bolt a fucking condom machine to the wall. Given what I know about germs on the money, it seems somehow appropriate to create a banking environment where I wouldn't be surprised to catch hepatitis.
What better way to accentuate the bar effect than post a faux-hawk coiffed asshole by the front door to pounce on me the second I open the door, armed with the same sorry pick up line:
"Is there something I can help you with today?"
Yeah, I'm in the market for a new bicycle. What do you think I'm doing here, dumbshit? Am I even obligated to answer? I wonder what would happen if I ignored him. Walked around him. I pretend I'm a traveling salesman who's happened upon a farm. He's the farmer and the window tellers are his daughters. Then I pee on his popcorn (I don't expect anyone to understand what that means, but I'm putting it in anyways).
I tell the Mr. Hostess I'm making a deposit and hold them up since he seems like the kind of person who could benefit from a visual demonstration. After giving my hand a thoughtful exam (Perhaps too much thought. Checking for a ring? A guy can dream), he attempts to turn our little Q&A into a discussion.
"A deposit? Do you need any deposit slips?"
The logical conclusion is that I don't require any because I HAVE A WHOLE HANDFUL WHICH I AM HOLDING AT EYE LEVEL. Perhaps he's concerned I may have run out considering I have a bunch of deposit slips, but now that they've been all written on and shit, they're worthless. I shake my head and give him that 'I can't believe you haven't accidentally killed yourself yet' look. He smiles and points towards the tellers:
"They can help you with that right over here."
Thanks for the fire, Prometheus.
Heard rumblings of a movie called BLACK SWAN. The director had done some other films I liked a bunch and I put a mental flag on it, even if it stood the same chance as every other movie I wanted to see. Funny how a simple thing like a girlfriend (though simple she most certainly IS NOT) can make the latest Kristen Bell catastrophe take priority over something more cerebral. Like THE EXPENDABLES.
I was handed a nice stack of bargaining chips to help me convince the girl it was worth the movie money she would've rather spent on the latest Ashton Kutcher joint including:
The movie's about the ballet. Women LOVE the ballet.
Natalie Portman, though attractive, doesn't set off jealous girlfriend alarms nearly as fast as Megan Fox or Sasha Grey.
Mila Kunis co-starred in FORGETTING SARAH MARSHALL with Kristen Bell.
Thanks to Perez Hilton and other jabberjaws, I got privy to a couple reasons why I NEEDED to see it, such as:
Mila Kunis and Natalie Portman have dirty lesbian sex.
Mila Kunis and Natalie Portman have dirty lesbian sex.
The imagery of the film truly captures the frustration amidst the fruition of one's life dream. Namely, Mila Kunis and Natalie Portman having dirty lesbian sex.
Of course, by the time my lazy ass got to see it, Oscar season came around and Natalie Portman was nominated for Best Actress in a girl/girl scene. The theater was peppered with suburban pseudo-intellectuals in their 50s who wanted to be able to brag about all the biggest movies while snarfing cocktail wieners in their neighbor's living room in between marital aid demonstrations. Nothing quite like watching near porn with a bunch of old white people to remind me of the time I talked up a movie so much, my parents couldn't wait to see BASIC INSTINCT with me. Ah...memories...
