Archive for July, 2012

The first stage of death is denial. Isn’t that what Kurt Cobain keeps saying in Smells Like Teen Spirit at the end? “In denial! In denial!” I’m not sure. Kurt Cobain lacked speaking clearly even without a shotgun down his throat. Denying anyone of anything can be hurtful. You can deny people access to anything. You can deny yourself. Denials are all around us. I denied myself a shower this morning. I need to show up to work smelling as badly as possible. I want to be asked to go home for causing a distraction.

Why do denials happen? Jealousy! I blame everything on jealousy. A girl once denied me her phone number. She was jealous if we ever stood aside one another naked I might show her up. She was flimsily built. Her hair on par to a wet rat’s back. I only asked her for her phone number because she was Amish and I wanted to see if they were allowed to have phones. They’re not. They’re also not allowed to put me down nicely without laughing about it with their friends.

(Stop giggling about Mary turning me down and churn some butter you bitches)

Certain establishments must deny certain people admission. Back in the olden days women and minorities would not be allowed into some businesses. No longer is this the case. Now there are places where women and minorities only go. Women have their Coach Purse stores, their nail salons, and planned pregnancies. Minorities have their rap concerts, fried chicken joints, and cash checking centers. I’m allowed into each of these places. I would rather not go into any of them. Boredom and bullet wounds are always on the horizon. Bars do not allow people under the age restriction into their door. If you’re cute enough you can usually get inside despite being underage. Most bouncers are pedophiles. They only applied for the job because they thought it involved knee bouncing. Knee bouncing, the pedophile’s version of stamp collecting.

(Disgusting)

Only one building on earth has my picture placed on the wall behind the counter saying I may no longer enter. Next to my picture is one of Nelson Muntz and George Lucas. This place is a restaurant down at the Jersey Shore. During my early standup comedy days I thought being funny was saying words and phrases like “fart”, “vagina”, and “up your ass and around the corner” were a surefire way to get laughs. The owner of this restaurant/comedy club that can seat 20 jerk-offs did not appreciate my attempts at humor. He folded his arms to let me know he was angry and Italian then told me I was not welcome back. Since my email address at the time was Cheekstheclown, they assumed I would be some dorky clown who makes dumb animals. Now my email address is TimBoyle109. Does this mean I’m some dorky idiot mathematician?

(Nope, don’t see me. Why are the two black guys near each other? The one is sandwiched between two Asians. Why, because he can’t do it on his own and he needs some help from the Chinese? Such a racist cover)

I deny people things at times. I deny my dog food all the time. He’s always begging. He should be happy enough I allow him access to my bathroom to sleep in to beat the heat. Right now he’s lying by the front door wanting something. I can’t figure it out. He probably hears the ice cream truck. Christ he’s fat. I also deny people into my life a lot. It’s difficult for me to allow someone new to enter. Meeting someone new is work. You have to get to know everything about them and then accept their flaws. Yuck. It’s frightening. What if they don’t like me? What will they think of my strange moles? What will I think of their strange scars? How long into our friendship do I ask about them? This is why I can never make new friends. I jump too quickly to worry they have some murdering father after them who is coming to finish the job. I do not want to be collateral damage.

(I don’t want him to tug on my hair either. Hair pulling is only for the bedroom. Even then it’s annoying. Stop trying to seem tough. It’s hair. You’re not strong for being able to pull it ladies. It’s decided, I’m shaving my head)

A good undertaking we can all do is to deny less, invite more. Denying anything from your life can have reverse effects. You may binge on whatever bit of whatever it is you deny yourself once you get ahold of it. Most important you should not be in denial about yourself and who you are. This can leave you less aware. You become more vulnerable to the monsters out there in life. Get past stage one of death and this end of the world thing on August 9th will be a lot easier on you.

Since the Doomsday Clock refuses to cooperate with mankind and the world will most certainly end on August 9, 2012; I have decided to prepare you for the end. With my help, over the next week or so I will guide you through the 5 Stages of Death.

This was another installment of poorly constructed Microsoft Paint pictures.

Sadness comes from a lot of places. Sometimes it’s from childhood trauma. Other times it comes from the stress of everyday life. My sadness comes from my butt. It’s not a very good support for my overly muscular body. Muscle weighs more than fat. The slogan of mothers everywhere trying to please their overweight sons. And even if you are an overweight son you have value. Your life has worth. And that’s what today I would like to talk about. The value and worth we as human beings all have.

Firmly I believe each individual life has some value. Even the most despicable person on the planet has a purpose. I feel worthless a lot of the time. Then I remind myself that even if I was dead I would have value on the black market. Do you know how much a kidney might cost out there? Cubans are born with only 4 toes on each foot. Still think your being is worthless? There’s an entire Communist island envious of how high you can count on your footsies!

(The missing toe helps them to swim better. It almost makes their foot into a fin so they can swim to America which of course is paved with golden roads and has plentiful job security)

Slavery is always another option to make yourself feel more worthwhile. The fatter your calf muscles the more valuable you are. Slaves are like oxen in that way. I remember a faker pretending to be a Williamsburg Colonist telling me I would have been very desired back in his days due to my strong calf muscles. This is a creepy thing to say to a child. Especially when you’re dressed in 400 year old fashion with an ugly wig on. Maybe he was the town pedophile like how they have town criers or town whores. Perhaps whenever a pedophile was seen as committing pedophilia back in those days he would be put into one of those things you poke your head and hands through. Instead of throwing rotten fruit they rub fully developed breasts in his face. Nothing worse for a pedophile than a grown woman’s body.

(They’re called stocks! I think I gave my computer a virus looking it up. I should have settled with a picture of a grown woman’s body as planned)

What makes me a valuable person? That is a question we all need to ask ourselves. Personally I have a lot to offer. I am a great listener. Mostly because Timisgoo and will avoid saying anything bad to other people at all costs. Instead I shut up and ask questions I do not really care to find out answers to. Here’s a tip. The more questions I ask, the more I’m trying not to get caught doing something I shouldn’t be doing. It’s what us magicians call a “swerve.” And yes I consider myself a magician. I own The Prestige and once rode Houdini’s Great Escape 8 times in one day at Six Flags Great Adventure. I’m more qualified than half those dopes in the Magician’s Alliance.

(Would you believe the guy in the middle is married to Amy Poehler? I know, he really must have thought she had a movie career after SNL)

Think about the magic of life for a moment. It’s okay to think about magic. I’m a magician, remember? You’ll be safe. The odds for you to even exist are so slim. For that one sperm to make it is magnificent. Now think about how weak you are sometimes. You’re still stronger than all those other dud spermatozoa. So many factors have to be right for you to even exist. Your parents have to be in the mood. The alcohol has to be flowing. God forbid you’re one of those poor sperm who are nothing more than a wet dream. No. That ain’t you. You managed to survive the sperm lottery. You exist. And that alone gives you value.

Feeling worthless usually comes from self-doubt. It’s fine to doubt yourself. I doubt myself all the time. I bought honey roasted peanuts the other day and the entire drive home was nervously trying to reach into the bag to see if I had accidentally bought the regular ones. Not that I don’t mind the regular ones. I was in the mood for the honey roasted type. I know this is much different from doubting your existence as a good person. What even is good? See, you start questioning things like this and you become a Greek philosopher. Those guys were always getting murdered for thinking outside the box. Now when you think outside the box you get a C- on your English paper. My point is, doubting yourself is natural and we all do it. Don’t think so much. You’ll end up drinking poison or having to show off extra cleavage to please your lazy-eyed English teacher.

(My 12th grade English teacher actually did have a lazy eye. It happened when he tried following a fly around with his eye and it got stuck going in circles)

Every person on the planet has some value. That’s why suicide bombers are so incredibly heinous. They believe in a cause more than their own lives or the lives of others. Same goes for you Kamikaze pilots reading this. Sure, you got an alcoholic drink named after you, but at what cost? You’ll never live to see it. Look at yourself and find what makes you a great person. If you can’t do that then who will ever believe you when you tell them they’re wonderful? Love yourself, then love others, and they will feel all the more loved. Stop moping around about how you’re worthless and have no value. You aren’t and you do. At the very least you could always donate yourself to science. Shut up and put that hive inducing lipstick on.

Game shows are important to the American economy. Without game shows Alex Trebek would be a fisherman, Pat Sajak would be nothing more than the descendant of a notorious bank robber from the 1930’s, and Mark L. Wahlberg would not need to let us all know his middle name is “Lenny” to save us confusion into saying “Wait, Mark Wahlberg is a game show host now? What happened to his career?” One such game show that has captured my heart was Supermarket Sweep. I’m going to write about that today because I made a reference to it in a text message. You may never have heard of this show. If you never have it’s okay. Go read about some woman’s cat or some dumb avocado recipe today.

Supermarket Sweep was big in the 1990s even though everyone on it looked like they were from the 1980s. The show was on PAX, the religious channel. I never had much use for religion. I had much more use for their channel. Shop Til You Drop, Wonder Years reruns, It’s A Miracle, It’s A Miracle: Pets Edition, It’s A Miracle: African-American Neighbors You Always Thought Were Drug Dealers Edition, and an occasional movie with all the good parts taken out were great on PAX.

(6 discs, 6 hours? What a scam artist’s way to jack up the price. Is the economy in heaven that bad?)

The entire show took place inside a supermarket. I think there was a crowd hidden somewhere we never got to see. The host, David Ruprecht, looked like any religious man you know hates women looked. He always smiled. I never trust a constant smiler. Especially not one with Q-Tip hair. He was the perfect host for the show. Never did he give off a negative vibe and that’s what overly religious people want when they watch television. They want a guy who won’t laugh at idiots who think Bush’s Baked Beans is a cereal company.

(Someday D.R. will kill a man and an older Neil Patrick Harris will play him in the movie)

In many ways Supermarket Sweep was like The Price is Right. I liked it better. The Price is Right is an hour-long. I have trouble spending an hour doing anything let alone being tricked into thinking “Barker’s Beauties” are as good-looking as women get. Supermarket Sweep focused more on grocery item questions. The first round consisted of one partner running off after a smile and a slight shoulder rub. Smiling Dave would ask the remaining partner questions about grocery items. The partners eventually would switch and they would then answer questions in some format. The final round was called the Round Robin where the partners would switch off each question. The whole goal was to rack up as much time to shop later on. Sometimes Supermarket Sweep was a show that could be skipped through the first half. The real magic happened once the shopping began.

With their yellow, red, or their Buster Baxter from Arthur colored t-shirts now in place; teams would prepare to do their actual shopping. The main goal in the shopping was to spend as much money as possible. Sounds easy doesn’t it? Contestants were limited to 5 of each item. The big grabs were always gigantic turkeys, supersized diapers, and Afghan edible underwear. Of course 9/11 changed everything and the Afghan underwear was discontinued. There would be special events during the shopping such as hints to items containing more cash prizes, giant inflatable Jolly Green Giants with a peel off coupon representing a mystery amount beneath, and temple guards who would come out to occasionally attack the shoppers.

(This kid is so getting ready to kick this temple guard in the balls)

Time would run out and whatever was in their cart(s) would then be totaled up during the break. It was sad sometimes to see teams who only accumulated a minute and a half only spend around $200 during the shop while a team with a hefty four minutes could rake in $1500. Poor smiling David would have to act as if they had a snowball’s chance in my ass. Once the winning team was selected they would then have the chance to win a bigger prize by going from product clue to product clue in the allotted time. Rarely did these Christians ever succeed in the very last round. I always felt like they never gave them nearly enough time. Then David would smile and things would be better. If David’s smiling then they must have plenty of time. I swear. That man has some really scary skeletons.

It has been years since I have seen Supermarket Sweep. There’s no way it’s still on the air. It was one of those fly under the radar shows. I believe it came on at 6 or 6:30. Religious people are always getting home earlier than sinners like me. When I mention religion with the show it’s not like they threw in famous religious food products like “Jesus-O’s” or “Canaanite Canine Bites.” Supermarket Sweep kept the religion to a very minimum. Probably because a lot of their contestants were clearly really chipper gay men. The only time David wasn’t smiling was when contestants tried telling him they were just two guys who lived together. David did not get this. Why would two men ever live together? Maybe to share a woman. Other than that he was very confused.

(Of course they chose the banana…)

For those interested, here is a full episode:

Caring for others is a huge part of the human experience. Having a love/hate relationship with others is another big part of life. I have a love/hate relationship with my dog. I take care of him because I know it’s the right thing to do, but I also fantasize about tricking him into running into traffic. It wouldn’t be very hard. All I would need to do is chase after him with a vacuum or running DVD copy from a Fourth of July celebration. He hates loud noises. I think he fought in Nam. Maybe that’s what he dreams about when he squeals and kicks his feet while in dream land.

(Tom Berenger also hates loud noises. The flash of paparazzi cameras gives him seizures. Good thing nobody cares about him anymore)

Sometimes I sit myself down and wonder if anyone cares about me. It can be a tough question to ask yourself. “Does anyone really care about me?” Of course people care about you. Your boss depends on you. That creepy fat woman you always see on the bus adores you. Even your government needs you once WWIII breaks out. All of them care. I care. Your existence gives me more hits to my blog. Everyone has a purpose. Yours might simply be numbers.

There’s caring about someone and then there’s caring for someone. Caring about someone means you don’t want them to die. That’s about the extend. Caring for someone means you go out of your way for them. You make sacrifices. When they feel pain you feel it too. Hopefully we all have people in our lives where this goes both ways. I like having people around who I can cry in front of and my tears alone make them cry. It’s powerful. It feels like we’re playing Simon Says. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery after all. Why is it? Because if you behave like someone it means you want to be them. You want to share the emotions with them no matter how bad. It’s a true sign that someone cares.

Even bigger than caring about someone or caring for someone is just plain old caring. You don’t even need to add anything else to it. Caring is much harder to find. I don’t think anyone truly cares. Before you stop yourself and do your best sighing voice with your hands on your hips getting all uppity, let me explain. I’m sure you care about me. I’m sure you care for me. Caring to me is caring about what I care about. Are you following along? It’s complicated. If it wasn’t complicated then I wouldn’t be writing about this to try to figure it all out. I had an epiphany while walking into WalMart about this. I get a lot of epiphanies at weird times. I also had another one very inconveniently. To keep things PG I will just hint that something that should have been hard went soft at the worst possible time. Use your imagination.

(I had showed up expecting to play hardball, but my friends wanted to play softball. I didn’t bring the right mitt!)

There are plenty of things in life I care about that are specific to myself. I care about the way I look. I know that seems shallow on the surface, but who doesn’t care about the way they look? Ugly people. That’s who. I just like to not only be told how awesome I look, I also like when people make an effort to make me look better. Buying me cool clothing or telling me when I have a stray nose hair can help me out with this. I also don’t really like being told I am handsome. Handsome men smoke cigars, gel their hair down, and sexually harass women with a smile. I don’t smoke anything, I barely comb my hair, and when I sexually harass a woman it’s with a baseball bat, not a smile.

(Winston Churchill with a cigar in his mouth looking very…handsome? Okay, there goes my theory about handsome men smoking cigars)

Another important thing in my life which is much less shallow are the people in it. Friend(s), family, and people who can be used for car rides places are all very valuable. It’s important that these people respect each other even when they don’t get along. I have had friends in the past who hated each other. It never bothered me much because I enjoy fighting and it never affected my friendships. At the very least it takes knowing who the important people in each other’s lives are to show that you truly do care. A name isn’t that hard to memorize. Half the guys I know are named Mike anyway. Know the role players in someone’s life and they will know you love them.

A big part of my life is writing. Like sometimes I worry it is what my social life has completely become. Not that I don’t mind most of the time. Words on a computer can’t cancel on you when you plan on going to the beach. A sentence has never told you she overslept when you were supposed to go out to breakfast and you really knew she was out hanging with someone else. I love when people take an interest into what I’m writing. Even if they think it’s terrible I appreciate any interest. Things I write are important to me because they are a part of me. Anything I write is me trying to communicate. When people do not take an interest then I feel as if it is no different from me speaking to them and being ignored. It’s a hard thing too because I am always interested in reading other people’s work. Sometimes it’s to see a train wreck. I would pay some people I know to try to be entertaining. I know they would fail. They were not born a monkey with cymbals like I was.

(All I’m missing is the fez and swollen pink feet)

Not only does it take an active interest in what is important to me to show you care, it also takes trying to get to know every little thing about me. I could never care about someone who doesn’t try to psychoanalyze me. I analyze everything. You should be the same way. You don’t have to be psychotic about it like I can get. What I believe is important is that you not only understand what I do, but also why I do it. Who was mean to me when which causes me to do certain things? I can never deny someone into my life who tries to “figure me out.” Here’s a little hint if you ever try to do such. I’m not as complicated as I seem to be. None of us are. We all want the same basic things. Mostly, someone who cares.

Immaturity is running rampant. Like an ad for a 1950s horror film, citizens are dashing out from theaters everywhere to get away from it. Being immature is fine. I’ve been known to say a silly goose thing here and there. When immaturity becomes a problem in my life is when you say things a 13-year-old might say. What do 13 year olds complain about most? Their gross start of puberty bodies! After that though it’s their parents. How much they hate them. How unfair they are treated. Unfortunately some people take a while to outgrow this hatred. Some people need to read this post and take away from it to grow the fuck up.

It’s fine to hate your parents. Lots of parents are scummy. I don’t believe everyone is even meant to be a parent. Charlie Manson would never be a great dad. Yeah he got his little family he put together to do whatever he wanted, but that doesn’t make someone a good parent. In order to be a good parent you have to be as much friend as you are authority. You need to know when to talk about feelings and when to roll your eyes at your kid for being such a shit. It’s hard and anyone who can pull off not having kids who completely hate them deserve an award. May I suggest a mug declaring they are number one?

(Excuse me, but I don’t believe Sylvester was a father .What’s a cat who wants to eat a wise cracking bird have anything to do with fatherhood?)

I never much hated my parents. Sure, there were things they could have done better. My mom could have bought me a jet ski and my dad could have paid for me to have jet ski lessons with a topless model. I will never forgive them for letting me down. To be perfectly clear I have no problem when someone complains about another human being. I think it’s necessary. When it becomes constant and excessive is when I get annoyed. Especially when it’s people you can leave. I remember Louis CK once saying something about how if you are ever in a relationship and you’re not married with kids then you should just leave. He’s right. Things are going to get worse. It’s true with parents. If you’re out of high school, leave. It makes your life harder sure, but no longer will you have those bullies in your life who seem to be preventing you from moving on.

Most parents really do want the best for their kids. A lot struggled to show it for whatever their issue is. I always know somebody is irresponsible when they complain to me about how their parents won’t let them do something. Sometimes the irresponsibility comes from the child not being trustworthy. Other times it comes from the child not being adult enough to find a way to do whatever it is anyway. If your parents don’t let you drink it probably means you have a problem with alcohol. I don’t know. Maybe a few months ago you got alcoholic poisoning at a concert in New York City. If you nearly died from doing something I cannot blame your parents for making you limit yourself. I once almost died during a bank heist. My parents told me not to go anywhere near a bank anymore because they were afraid I might get shot at again. It was annoying, but they were right. I probably would have killed another clerk if given the chance.

(I was the one in the brown suit disguised as Gary Busey)

When I moved out it was because I had no other options. More kids need to be put in this situation. I guarantee if my childhood home was still owned under the family name I would still be there. I never would have had reason to leave. It was comforting. Secure. Like a mother’s womb. As much as you mama haters will never admit it, you feel this comfort too. That’s why you let your parents boss you around and you never do a thing about it. Didn’t everyone used to run away from home and start rock bands? I know some people ended up dead in the streets. Still, live a little and take a chance. If you die you won’t care anyway because you’ll be dead.

The way you behave around your parents can to a certain degree represent how you behave around other people in your life. I hate yellers. Anyone who yells at anybody really scares me. My dad used to yell. It was scary for the first 5 seconds then he would start to drool. This made the whole thing humorous. People who have shouting matches with their parents means they do not have something called reasoning. You can’t reason with your own parents? Learn about compromise. And if they won’t budge then work your whole life to say “fuck you” when you turn 18 and get the heck out of Dodge. Stop being a wimpy baby. I always knew I didn’t want to turn into my uncle (58 still living at home) so I saved every penny I could and made sure I could make it on my own. I know not everyone has a creepy uncle to help inspire them to grow-up and plan out their futures. What a strange purpose in life for him to have. All he was supposed to do was be weird and make me look at him and say “yeah, that’s not going to be me.” Maybe someday he’ll date someone who can legally drink.

(My uncle would date anyone in this high school picture. Maybe not the gay guy on the far left. You always know a guy is gay when he has a lot of female friends and when holding the Asian one is stuck on armpit duty)

Take away from this that you cannot blame your parents for everything in your life. Especially once you get to a certain age. When you’re unhappy change it. Nobody deserves to be around people they don’t want to be near. Turn your childish hatred into motivation to become something greater. Quit complaining about your mama and your papa. You’re not them. They don’t have as much control over you as it seems. Don’t make yourself a whiny slave. Sojourner Truth had a cruel master and you never heard her once bitch about how her owner won’t let her go to the Blink-182 concert dressed like a whore.