What's in a Name?

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.

I'M A MAN, DAMMIT!!!

The Time I (almost) Died

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?

Eligible for Amazon PRIME

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.

Why I Hate COMMON (Sense :P )

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!

Hallmark has nothing on me

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.

The Great American Sellout

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.

JUDGMENT(sic) DAY

You thought I wouldn't jump in? The amusing spelling error was pointed out to me AFTER I drew this. Bummer.

Russell the Barbarian

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!!!!

Make a Wish and Blow Me

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.

Shopping for Women's Shoes

If I were a chick, I'd totally wear these. They're like Chuck Taylors with heels.

Capitalism Part Three

I must admit, the main reason I did this was so I could tag it with ARIZONA WALL MEXICAN KANGAROO. It's the 'To Catch a Predator' in me.

Capitalism Part Two

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.

Capitalism

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.

Don't Talk to Strangers

 Childhood Lessons I Took Too Seriously  (CLITTS)

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.

Where is Osama's Body?