Archive for December, 2011

(Cheese from the television show The Wire. His real name is Method Man. This has nothing to do with him)

My girlfriend and I argue about a lot of things. For one she thinks drowning would be a peaceful way of dying. I even showed her the movie “The Prestige” where Michael Cain says that drowning was like “going home” then at the end says that it is “agony.” She’s still not convinced even after everyone else agrees with me. I’ve offered to hold her head underwater so she can experience that peace. She refuses. This proves she knows she’s wrong.

I’d mention a few things that we argue about that I’m probably at fault, but this is my blog where I am perfect. She can start her own or create a Livejournal account to complain about how she never really liked me. I had a girl do that. That was depressing to read that someone really doesn’t feel like seeing you and you’ve only been dating a week. Christ. You’d think I’d have at one point hit a woman. I don’t hit girls though. Unless they ask me to. Believe it or not, more than a few have. Females are sick.

One thing that my Old Lady (I’ve been catching up on Sons of Anarchy and really want a motorcycle gang. First rule of SAMCRO is to call your bitch your Old Lady) has said to me is that she thinks if she were to break up with me that I would kill myself. I’ve thought about this. I don’t think I would. I hope I wouldn’t. I spent the first 21 years of my life practically alone. Losing someone who you actually love would be cake. I could ease back into the single life no problem, right? Honestly I know I could never kill myself. I still have to abuse alcohol and drugs first, write more poetry, give up everything that I already love to do, get really fat or really skinny from not caring about my diet, and possible do a few more cries for help such as posting Dashboard Confessional lyrics as my Facebook status.

I’m curious though, her thinking I would kill myself. How does she think I would do it? I asked her and what she said didn’t make sense. She said I would hang myself. Hmmm that wouldn’t work. I need to figure out which rhetorical way of killing myself would be best.

1) Hanging

Like I said, she thinks I would hang myself. It’s how most people kick the bucket when they take their own life. I could not do this. It took me until 3rd grade to stop wearing Velcro shoes. I still rarely untie my shoes. I’m terrible with knots. There also isn’t anywhere in my apartment to hang from. Shower curtain rods are too weak and where I hang my shirts is too low. I also don’t want to die in the closet. People would make too many gay jokes at my funeral.

2) Gunshot

This is probably the way I would go if I really had to. It’s messy and sends a message that I really was upset. But if I was ever going to shoot myself I would have to go out and get a gun. I’d probably have to wait a week to get it. My emotions sway so much that by the time I got the gun I wouldn’t be so upset anymore. Then I’d be stuck with a gun and nothing to do with it besides flash it at parties. I won’t be eating a bullet. Too much paper work.

3) Jumping

Falling off of something high would be the best way for me to go in theory. I broke my leg falling 3 feet from the air. I broke it again when someone slid into my leg. I’d probably splatter into soup if I fell from 10 feet. There aren’t any really tall buildings near me though. That’s going to be a problem. I also don’t have access to a ladder. And, looking down from a high place, I know I’d chicken out. I’d have to get a good job or a penthouse apartment to really accomplish this. If either of those happened I’d have no reason to jump.

4) Wrist Slitting

I would never slit my wrists. That really creeps me out. My wrists are really thin and girly. I really feel like I don’t have forearms, just one vein running from my elbow to my hand. I have plenty of sharp objects I could do this with. I’d have to do it in a bath tub too. I still don’t know though. Dying with my head that close to the toilet? What if I become a ghost and have to be in that bath tub forever? People will have sex and masturbate on my soul. Yeah, not a good plan.

5) Car Crash

I don’t know if people kill themselves by purposely causing car crashes too often, but I’m running out of ideas. This is a risky one. There’s no guarantee that you’ll die. You may end up paralyzed and miserable. Or paralyzed and become an inspirational speaker. It all depends on how fat your tongue is and if you are a people person. I could easily crash my car. One time I’m pretty sure I did it subconsciously. I was driving straight minding my own business and for no reason at all my car swerved off the highway into a small ditch. I was fine and still have no clue what happened. I took my car in to see what was wrong. One of the mechanics asked if I use my car to “go Mudding.” I didn’t know what this meant so he laughed at me. I hate when people laugh at me. It makes me want to drive off the road into a tree.

6) Pills

Again, this is a risky one. You might end up throwing up all night. I hate throwing up. I haven’t done it since Christmas Eve when I was around 10 years old. I have an iron stomach. I can eat an entire box of high fiber cereal in one sitting. The only side effect is that the next day my stomach hurts and it shoots out the back of me. I learned not to do this. It took a couple tries, but finally I know not to eat like a pig. I don’t know what pills I should take to snuff myself either. Allergy pills would probably just make me never get a sniffle again. Why is suicide so hard?

7) Electrocution

People don’t usually electrocute themselves to death. There’s the old toaster in the bath tub trick. I don’t own a toaster. I could always throw my laptop in there with me, but I have 180 saved Word Documents saved. I’d like some of them to make it. This again means that I’d have to die with my head near a toilet. It reminds me too much of Elvis and I’ve never been an Elvis guy. Plus, don’t I have to be naked to die in a bath tub? The water will be cold by the time someone finds me and we all know what happens when a naked boy is cold. I don’t want to end with that false legacy.

8) Carbon Monoxide Poisoning

I think that’s what comes out of cars. I don’t own a garage. You need a garage or at least a random tube to connect to your tailpipe to do this. I know the guy from Boston used a grill inside his home to do himself in. I don’t own a grill either. Shit. What do I own? This also takes too long. I’m very impatient. Especially in the car. I definitely won’t be doing this ever. I’m not a garage guy. Garages are for people who own bikes and a second refrigerator

9) Oven

I haven’t used my oven once since I moved into my apartment. It took me 9 months before I used the stove top. The pilot burnt out after a month. I don’t have strong enough knees to put my head in the oven. My head is always probably too big. I’d have to take out the racks first. I’ve already made it pretty clear that if I kill myself I won’t be working hard for it. Ovens are for baked goods, not sad boy’s heads.

10) Train Hitting

This is actually pretty trendy. All of the hipsters talk about it. Whenever I see a train speed by I think about that part in Hostel when the Asian woman with the eye hanging out of her face jumped in front of the train. That last sentence was written poorly, but it’s taken me too long to try to figure out how to reword it. I’m around enough trains, but it’s nothing I’m interested in doing. I’d be afraid of being dragged or having my arm cut off. It’s weird that planes still hit people. I’ve known people who’ve known people who had that happen to them. It could have been a lie. People like to brag about knowing cool folks.

When it comes down to it, there is no perfect way for me to kill myself. It’s just too much work. Another thing my girlfriend argues with me about is saying that I’m a quitter. Fuck you whore. I made a list of 10 ways for me to kill myself. I thought I was going to stop around 6, but I didn’t quit. I kept trucking along. You’ll argue that I’m still a quitter because I didn’t do any of them. Then I’ll feel bad about myself and make a new list of things. It’s an endless cycle of pain, but I still love you. Bitch.

P.S. This is my last post of the year. I wanted to let you know since this was all about killing myself that if I don’t post for a few days, I am not dead. I am busy changing my thousands of calendars.

Thank you for a lovely year. Writing this blog has been helpful for several reasons. Most importantly, self discovery. I do not wish to get sappy, I will save that for a future post I have planned. I hope you all have a Happy New Year and get to kiss someone hot at midnight.

Set. Down. Blue 42. Blue 42. Set Down. Hut. Hut. Hut. Hike!

That’s quarterback talk for “not yet not yet not yet not yet not yet not yet not yet not yet not yet okay now!” I could never be a quarterback. Chances are, even if you don’t know much about sports, you know what a quarterback is. They’re the players in football who throw the ball. You know their names. Tom Brady, Michael Vick, Peyton Manning; quarterbacks are mainstream. You know them for dating super models, killing dogs, and enjoying Oreos with their ugly brothers when they themselves are already ugly. Oreos don’t make you ugly by the way. Ugly people just happen to like them. And if you like Oreos you’re not automatically ugly. Oreos are the best cookies in the world. That’s why when someone calls a half-black half-white person an Oreo it should be a compliment and not a racial insult.

A new quarterback has taken over as a famous dude. His name is Tim Tebow. If you’ve turned on ESPN, attended any sporting event, or use the Internet then you’ve at least seen his name or heard something about him. I don’t know much about the guy. Mostly because the more I learn about someone the more I hate them. That’s why being ignorant to my Tebow knowledge is a good thing. I have enough millionaires to hate. One more would be too many.

However, I do have one issue with Tebow. We share a first name. This is something that I cannot deny or change until I legally change my name. I shouldn’t be forced into a new identity because of the association with the name. That’s not fair. I am better than Tim Tebow. This is why.

(He’s clearly stuffing his crotch)

1 -Tim Tebow has a reputation for starting off poorly and making incredible comebacks. Me? I’m consistent. I usually start off poorly or mediocre and continue that trend. I’m a straight line of success or failure. It all depends on how you hold the chart. If I was quarterback for the Denver Broncos they’d be 0-16. You’d know not to bother watching. With Tebow, you get nervous and eventually he will disappoint you. Not with me. What you see is what you get. A winless season.

2 -Tim Tebow does not have sex. It’s against his beliefs. His morals. Okay grandma, what’s the gimmick? Tebow is devoted to his belief in God. He likes to sing religious songs. He prays after good plays. I used to pray. I would pray for my family and loved ones to be safe, happy, and healthy. You couldn’t meet a more miserable group of people with a lot of health problems. We are pretty safe though. 1 out of 3 isn’t bad. That’s almost what Meatloaf said. I don’t like when religion is brought in somewhere that it shouldn’t be. Lots of people feel this way with Tebow. God didn’t help you win those games. Poor defensive and inappropriately setting up in a Nickel Package did. Look me, pretending I know football strategy. I haven’t played Madden since 2005 but I still sound like I know what I’m talking about.

3 -Tim Tebow went to college in Florida. Do you know who else went to college in Florida, Carrot Top! Shit that isn’t good. Brooke Hogan went to college there too. Hulk Hogan’s favorite sex was a Florida alumni. I only know this because my friend went to the same college as them and knew that his life was over. I think Tebow was a Florida Gator. Gator? Too lazy to spell out the whole word? Tim Tebow takes shortcuts. That’s a coward’s way to live. I never take shortcuts with words. I always spell them all the way out. That’s how you know I’m legit.

4 -Tim Tebow has a term named after him, Tebowing. It’s what people say when they came from behind and win. I don’t have anything named after myself. Actually I do! Boiling. When you take something and cook it so hot that it begins to boil, that’s called boiling. My last name is Boyle! Boyling and Boiling are only one letter off. And since Y is only sometimes a vowel you can easily replace it with any other vowel of your choosing. I win Tebow. I had something named after my last name before you.

5 -Tim Tebow is younger than I am. I’m older and have more knowledge of the world. Tebow’s had everything handed to him. Women who he turned down, money that he probably donated to charity, and compliments which he humbly denied. Me, I work for my shit. I tell jokes and lie to women to get them to like me. I prance around like a monkey to get noticed. With money I do things I don’t want to do. I have to sit a lot too. It’s hard work. All that staring at a computer has damaged my eyes! And I most certainly don’t give away that money. Why should you give away a gift? That’s racist. I also always thank other for compliments. If you humbly deny a compliment it’s like telling the person who complimented you that they’re stupid. Tebow is a jerk.

6 -Tim Tebow probably knows all of the words to a couple of Jesus Hymns. I used to know all the words to Smashmouth’s song All-Star. He probably also has a favorite Bible Verse. I’m sure it’s probably John 3:16. My favorite Bible Verse is Austin 3:16, and that says “Tim Tebow I just whooped your ass.”

7 -Tim Tebow’s name comes up as incorrect in spell check. Mine does not. Do you know what else comes up in my spell check? Terd. So does the word turd. Which one is the correct spelling of terd/turd? I know, Tebow. Because Tim Tebow, that’s what you are, a terd/turd.

8 -Tim Tebow plays football in Denver. I remember another person from Colorado. His name was Alferd Packer. Not Alfred, but Alferd. He was accused of cannibalism during the gold rush and ultimately convicted. There’s a musical about it. I’ve never eaten another person. I’ve thought about it. Never have. How can we trust that Tim Tebow won’t get lost in the woods and eat the rest of his party? We can’t. Stay away from Tebow. He’ll eat you.

I could go on forever about how I am better than Tim Tebow. I’ll stop here because he’s a sensitive guy and might cry. I really don’t mind him. From what I’ve heard, he’s a swell guy who at least pretends to care about others. I’m also not a football fan. Our paths will probably never cross. Even at the annual Tim Convention that’s held every year in Dallas I doubt I’ll see him. We run in different circles. Maybe he’ll read this though and stop and say hello. He’ll mend the fence that divides us. I will take that opportunity to prove to him in person that I am better than he is. Push-up competitions, sexy dance-offs, first quarter passing percentages, I will probably win them. But he’s still a nicer guy than I am. And it’s like the saying goes. Nice guys always win.

I would like to apologize to those of you who are here for pictures of actor Ken Watanabe. It’s not my fault his name is so similar to the word Wannabe. That’s his ancestor’s fault. Blame those dead Asians. Are you really that low that you will not only insult a dead person but also an Asian person? For shame. His ancestors were probably great samurai warriors. They prided themselves in honor. You have disgraced them with your anger. Learn to read stupid.

Sometimes I’ll lie in bed at night and think “I am me. Everything I do is something that I am doing. I have complete control over every idea and action I make.” This usually freaks me out a little bit. I think, therefore I am. It’s so simple yet so creepy to believe. I don’t always want to be myself though. Sometimes I want to be other people. Okay, most of the time I want to be other people. I wouldn’t tell them that though. Then they might get big-headed and end up like me. And then I’d just be me again. Thank goodness Being John Malkovich was fiction.

The first person that I wish I was is The Joker. Yes, the Batman villain. I don’t know what it is. I love The Joker. He’s so confident. Even when he tells a bad joke he sells it with a maniacal laugh. The Heath Ledger Joker was so awesome that I actually considered cutting my lips to have the same smile. I’ve mentioned before that two people told me I looked like Heath Ledger before. I hope I also mentioned that I don’t. What I think they really meant was that I looked like The Joker. My hair was messy and my face was pale. I also probably had way too much makeup on. Not looking like The Joker doesn’t stop me from wanting to be him. He’s so incredibly awesome. I wonder though, what does he do in his down time? Does The Joker watch television? He has to buy underwear. Everybody buys underwear! What is the process that The Joker goes through to purchase his underwear? Does he go into Kohl’s and everyone looks around and says “Ut oh, The Joker’s back” or does his presence go unnoticed? He can’t always be “on.” He’d be dead by now if he was. Nobody likes someone who is always the jokester. Even a clown needs to cry.

(What does The Joker eat for breakfast? I’m really curious to know. He poops just like everyone else. The book said so!)

Since becoming The Joker would be too dangerous and violent I need to find someone in real life I would want to be. God this is hard. I could pick any porn star in the world. But I don’t know if I could deal with working with a fluffer all day long. I hear they ask lots of fan boy questions. Here’s some fluffer humor for you. Do you know why I didn’t become a fluffer? Because it’s a very “hard” job. If you don’t get that then you have a better shot at going to Heaven than I do.

I would definitely be a professional athlete. Hands down that is who I want to be. Okay I’ve figured that out. But who? I know. Derek Jeter. Even my girlfriend knows who he is and she calls the visiting team “the bad guys.” Derek Jeter gets more women than anyone. I met Derek Jeter one time and I could tell he felt intimidated by my presence. His girlfriend was checking me out and gave me her phone number. Actually none of that happened. He signed my baseball card then hid behind a large black man. Derek Jeter is very pretty. I definitely would be a pretty man if I could. He makes about 16 million a year I think and he’s a .260 hitter with no range at short stop. He has so much money and so many women and he’s a real guy. Derek Jeter is who I want to be. There’s nothing horrible about his life. The only downside is that he has to drink Gatorade. Eek. I don’t like Gatorade. Maybe Derek Jeter’s life isn’t as great as I thought. Yeah, never mind. It’s not worth it. I’d rather be someone else.

(Derek Jeter must hate Obama. He’s no longer the most popular mulatto in America)

I was thinking Johnny Depp might be a good choice. Everyone loves him. Then I remembered that he’s married and hasn’t made a good movie in years. Darn. I was so close. I can’t be  a musician. I’m too much of a goody-two-shoes for that. What about Russell Brand? He’s an actor who pretends he’s a musician. Or is he a comedian who pretends he’s a musician? He’s not funny so that can’t be it. What the fuck is that guy? Is it even a guy? He weighs 98 pounds. Guys shouldn’t weigh that little and have that long of hair. He is married to Katy Perry though. I would have sex with her. But marriage means you can only have sex with one person. That’s the point of marriage. So that your partner can’t sleep around. Yeah there’s no way I want to be Russell Brand. Other than who he gets to have sex with, his life sucks. And I also don’t think I could love myself if I couldn’t understand a thing I said. How does Russell live with himself not making any sense?

(Russell Brand looking like my dad and Charles Manson pointing at Edmonton)

The best course of action to me is to not become anyone else. I can just be myself and hope that someday someone else wants to be me. It’s okay if I steal a few things here and there from others. I can take a hairstyle or how someone cool walks. Why hijack everything they’ve got? I can become my own man. There’s already Halloween where I can be someone else. There’s no need to do it all the time. So that’s what I’ll do. Start my own styles, my own trends, and not try to be someone else. I’ll be myself. A boy who desperately wishes he was a famous actor, professional athlete, or comic book villain.

“And IIIIIIIIII will IIIIIII will always, love youuuuuuuuUUUUuuuuUUUUUuuuu”

When I think of bodyguards, I don’t think of Kevin Costner or Tina Turner. Somehow that song is still stuck in my head. The film The Bodyguard must have been big when I was a child because I remember hearing that song all the time. I think my babysitter really liked it. She always liked picking on kids in subtle ways. My nickname was Big Timmy to differentiate between Little Timmy. Little Timmy wasn’t all that little for his age. Big Timmy was big for his age. They should have called me Fat Fuck and left it at that.

I would never be a good bodyguard. I’m bad enough at guarding my own body. I do use Right Guard deodorant which is officially endorsed by the Body Guard’s Union of America. That’s a start. But to be a bodyguard you have to care about others. Be willing to throw yourself in front of a bullet to save a politician or a drugged out rock star. I could never do that. My diving skills are below the 20th percentile. I like to think I’m more athletic than the average guy. One thing I never have excelled in is jumping or diving. I’m more of a wall sort of athletic. Like I can only move side to side or fall down quickly. I’m a great goalie. That’s kind of like being a bodyguard. Hey, maybe I can do it.

I remember a show on television a few years ago starring David Alan Grier. I forget the name and think that the government erased all information of it from the Internet. The plot was that he was a Secret Service Agent who walks around trying to protect the president. An attempt on the president’s life is made and DAG (that’s the name of the show! Weird how things like that come into your head) dives in the wrong direction. Then he has to protect the first lady instead. So, the president is an evil enough man that he doesn’t fire DAG, he just demotes him to protect his wise cracking wife who I imagine was played by Wanda Sykes but know it wasn’t. The show lasted only about 3 episodes. It was greatly hyped too. That just goes to show you. Even if you are nominated for a Golden Globe, you still might suck. I’m talking to you The New Girl! Learn to write a joke!

Lets say I had to be a bodyguard. Like I had a gun to my head. They said “protect me or I’ll shoot you.” I’d probably respond back and say “so I choose if you shoot me or one of your assassins does?” Then the gunman will look around realizing how strange this situation is. He’ll readjust the deal and I’ll become a bodyguard anyway. But this time he lets me have the option for being a bodyguard for anyone I want. I think I would choose Donald Trump. Not enough people want him dead, he has a lot of connections, his daughter is hot, he’d probably set me up in a nice apartment in Trump Towers, maybe he could help me get a TV deal, and he could probably handle any potential killers on his own. It would be an easy job. I don’t particularly like the guy, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t particularly like anyone or anything. At least Donald would be interesting to work with. Plus he’s probably friends with a couple of crazy millionaires have yacht races or pay high-end prostitutes to have knife fights.

When you need a bodyguard in your life that’s when you know you’ve really made it. Someday I hope I will need one. I want so many people to hate me and want me dead that I hire a couple of tough looking fat guys to walk around with me to make sure I don’t get hurt. Until then I’ll have to fight my own battles. Thwart off enemies with my amazing wit and charm. I’ve never been punched and only picked up and dropped three times. I must be doing something right.

Before you leave thinking this is a complaint about not being allowed to say “Merry Christmas” allow me to say that it’s not really about that. This post is a little scatter brained. I’m not sure why. I’m usually right on point! This is more about Christmas. It’s about every day life and having to make sure everybody is happy. The Christmas spirit is only my inspiration. I hope all my Christians/Americans/English readers enjoyed their Christmas and hope the rest of you saw a good movie.

I don’t care much for political correctness. It’s a pretty new thing for us. I think we used to be too stupid to notice these things. All political correctness comes down to is a definition. Many words mean many things. A jackass can be a donkey or an idiot or a man named Jack’s butt. It’s usually pretty obvious which one someone is talking about when they use the word. This probably wasn’t the best example. Being called a donkey, an idiot, or a man named Jack’s butt are all bad things. Unless Jack does lots of squats. Then it could be a compliment.

The political correctness that annoys me most is the kind where everyone needs to be included. Yes. Everyone should be welcomed everywhere. I agree. You should be allowed to enter any public place that you wish and apply for any job and have every opportunity as everyone else. So what’s the problem? The problem is when people have a problem. Do you really think that many people sit down and write emails about how much South Park pissed them off? Most of us are mature enough to know that if we hate something on TV that we change the channel then complain about it on our blogs. I could list who I blame for this but they’re all people who are on the extreme right or extreme left of the political spectrum. The Bible Thumpers on the right and the Bob Marley T-Shirt Wearers on the left are the exact same thing. They’re not happy. They’re miserable terds who have always gotten what they wanted in life and now feel the need to ruin everything for you and me. Us moderates need to stick together. We know that we need to pick and choose our battles and that not everything will work out our way. We’re better than them. We use reason and logic and don’t get our inspiration from 2,000 year old books and Bruce Springsteen songs.

I have two examples of political correctness that have me growing out my hair longer just so I can rip it out in a couple of months. Please, feel free to share your observations with me. I have a big head, hence lots of hair. I need more reasons to pull out my hair.

The first one was an advertisement for a high school play. It wasn’t quite on a billboard as much as it was on a small piece of cardboard in front of a liquor store. Location. Location. Location. That’s what advertising is all about. You’d have to be drunk to see a high school play that your kid isn’t in. The play was called “12 Angry People.” Hmmm. I didn’t know high schools did original plays. Maybe I’m not as well-versed in theater as I thought. I use my thinking schools and remember that there is a play called “12 Angry Men.” Oh no. Did they–they did. They changed the name of a play to be more politically correct! No! No! No! It’s 12 Angry Men. 12 pissed off guys with dicks and balls. I get that mostly girls act in these high school plays so maybe that’s why the name was changed. But how about this. Don’t do that play! How cheap are you that you have to do a play that all takes place in one room? Your entire scenery budget was paying a janitor to move a large table onto the stage. Stick with classics like Anne, Oliver Twist, or Big. Yes. My middle school did the theatrical and musical version of the Tom Hanks movie Big. The letter was all in small letters too which only me and one other person noticed. We planned on writing a musical called SMALL which is just the film in reverse. We’re lazy and instead occasionally mention it for a laugh.

The second example came from a radio advertisement. A woman talks to her husband. She wants to know what she should get for him. What a good wife. She asks him “What do you want for the Holidays?” Huh? Wait–people talk like that? I have never wished a loved one a happy holiday. Do you know why? I know which holiday it is that they celebrate! The man proceeds to tell her that he wants a pulled pork hoagie. It was an ad for sandwiches, mind you. The fact that he’s eating pork kind of tells you that he’s a heathen Christian. He celebrates Christmas! And their voices weren’t nasally or whiny. Clearly WASPs. Christians only celebrate two holidays in the “holiday season.” Christmas and New Year’s. For Christmas we get gifts. For New Year’s we get someone pregnant. Your birthday around October 5th? You might be a New Year’s conceived baby. I get that they want to attract people who don’t celebrate Christmas but why not find a better way to word it? Like “Hey, you haven’t given me your wish-list yet. What do you want? We’re running out of time!” Something corny like that where you still don’t mention the dreaded Christmas holiday but don’t offend those who don’t celebrate it. And who would not go buy a delicious sandwich just because they mention Christmas? If you are so caught up in your beliefs that someone as miniscule as that will turn you off from buying a product then you need to really consider what’s more important, eternal salvation or a delicious mother watering sandwich.

Things will probably never change. Why should they? There are enough ways to get around it and there are enough traditionalists like me out there who see nothing offensive about including everyone. Not everyone has to like you. If you’re someone who everyone likes, you’re phony. You have no opinion. There are plenty of people who I don’t like but I respect because shit, they stand their ground and are always open to being corrected when they’re wrong. For all we know life is nothing but a dream. We could be in the Matrix. Or on the fingernail of someone else in a Universe that isn’t even known to the person whose fingernail that belongs to. Doesn’t that blow your mind? Stop fretting about making everyone happy. It’s not your job. That’s Brian Regan’s job. Everyone loves a Fig Newton joke.

I used to get upset whenever someone achieved their dreams. I still do sometimes. I’m nowhere near achieving mine. Then a thought popped into my head. These successful strangers can’t all have rich parents who buy their way into fancy jobs. That’s too insidious and possible. I would like to instead believe that hard work eventually pays off.

(Nobody worked harder than Pete Rose and things turned out great for him)

There’s a saying goes “Give 110%” which if you know math is impossible. If anything giving 110% would mean you’re overexerting yourself. You’re doing more than anyone can possibly handle. You’ll end up going around 70% and maybe pulling a back muscle. Stick with 100%. It’s safer and you won’t get a hernia.

I like to have a reputation as a hard worker. I hustle when I need to. I put my heart and soul into most everything I do. Sometimes it pays off. Others it fizzles out. The thing about hard work is there was never a guarantee made that it would actually pay off. Imagine you were a pilgrim who helped to build the first colonies of the United States. You built a home from scratch. You helped skin a few animals for clothes. Then you caught a cold and died. You practically broke your back trying to begin a new life only to die. All of that so future people like me could live in a world without being made fun of for wearing belt buckles and thinking all women were witches. Thank you pilgrims. Your sacrifice means a lot to me.

(Thanks Laura Ingalls. You and your blind sister did a lot of helpful things)

In today’s world it’s easy to not work hard. We have robots that do most of our jobs. Some of us have chickens do it for us. We’re lazy. Why? Because we’re so far more advanced than we should be thanks to a few geniuses in a science lab. We’re living longer which means that we have many more tomorrows to do our laundry or shave our butts. Pilgrims didn’t have that luxury. They were married by 9 and grandparents by 13. John Smith, the guy that had sex with Pocahontas, he was 11! That’s actually probably not true. But you have to admit he acted 11 by falling in love with someone he could not verbally communicate with. John Smith was shallow. He liked Pocahontas for her looks. What could they talk about? Trees? Beavers? I’m glad I actually get to know women. I’m better than John Smith. Make a movie about me Disney.

(Captain John Smith, he doesn’t nearly look as much like Ike Hanson here as much as he did in the Disney Film)

It doesn’t matter where I go, I’m always seeing people on the job slacking off. They’re distracted by poop jokes in e-mails or drawing butterflies when they should be going over the Parson’s Account or picking their nose while taking an order. I could work much harder, but like you I love poop jokes, drawing butterflies, and picking my nose.

Here is a vow I will make to help the world. From now on I will never give 100%. I’ll give somewhere in the 40-50% range. Higher if I really need to. You might be thinking that this would accomplish nothing. Actually, this would force others to pick up the slack. One person giving 40% means that everyone else has to take some control and work a tad harder. The more lazy I become, the more other people have to do. The more hard work I do, the more lazy everybody else gets to be. Did Spock not say “The needs of many outweigh the needs of one?” I never saw the movie, I’m actually asking.

That’s my idea to help others achieve greatness. Be an awfully skilled human being. Don’t help out others. Never give good advice. People will no longer be able to lean on me for support. They will be forced to do it all alone. They will build up an immunity to success. They will be stronger and faster. The world will move smoother and productivity will be at an all-time high. Peace will shine over the lands. And the lion will lie down with the lamb.

(Lions have yet to lie down with the lambs, but apparently ducks have began to walk with the dogs. It’s a start)

Now begins my journey of laziness. Enjoy the view ladies. I’m going pants-less.

“My sacrifice.” – A Creed song about a baseball strategy with a man on first and less than 2 outs with a pitcher up at bat

I’ve written before about all of my celebrity sightings. I have a new one. Do you remember a little film starring an angry Australian man named Russell Crowe called “A Beautiful Mind?” Of course you do. It won a lot of awards. I never saw it. I know what it’s about basically. A schizophrenic man helps the military and teaches at Princeton University. I’m sure it’s much more exciting than that. Jennifer Connelly runs around in a wet t-shirt at one point which always seemed out-of-place in the trailer. Anyway, that movie is based on a true story. About a man named John Nash. A man who eats lunch at the same place I do.

(My lunch buddy. Genius, autobiographical movie star, and sandwich connoisseur)

The first time I saw Mr. Nash he was wearing short shorts and had an oxygen tank. The second time I saw him he was driving very slowly and stopping completely at a yield sign. He drives a red car in case you’re stalking him. I’m not sure of the make or model. I’m retarded when it comes to cars. It’s something that would probably be a teenager’s first car though. Nothing fancy. Something very simple.

I didn’t know that this was John Nash for a good year or so. I knew he lived in the area and I knew he was old. For some reason I was looking up pictures of him online and thought “Hey, he looks like that creepy guy in the short shorts that I see at Subway.” Turns out, I was right.

I haven’t spoken to him. That would be a weird thing for me to do. I did take a video of him getting out of his car one time. One creepy thing is enough. I was hoping to turn the video into “A Beautiful Mind 2: Nash’s Revenge” but was turned down by the film studios because they are currently not accepting 10 second films shot on phones with my thumb in the way. I figured if the Wayans Brothers get to make movies, so should I. Lets be honest, Scary Movie was great when it came out. But it’s because of how shocking it all is. Look, a penis stabbing someone in the ear! After you do a penis stabbing someone in the ear gag you can’t possibly do another joke for the rest of the film or any other film. You peaked too soon Keenan Ivory. Go back in time and make your films less about shock value and even less about White Chicks.

(Looks like this copy has 8 bonus minutes of raw unedited material! Is it too late to order this for Christmas?)

There isn’t a bad thing to say about Mr. Nash that I wouldn’t say about any older gentleman. He’s slow, a little clumsy, and has strange knees. He’s at Subway forever. Sometimes he doesn’t even appear to be eating. Then he’ll get up and get a soup or a soda. Who knew that soup was a favorite among geniuses? I have to start eating/drinking it more. The last time I had soup I was 8, at a friend’s house, and I stepped on a fishing hook in his backyard. Who keeps fishing hooks lying around in their backyard? That reminds me, he had a hot sister. Holy crap I forget how I could see her lying by the pool from my back deck. Then they moved and I was forced to watch the two overweight girls play basketball in their backyard with a soccer ball. Ugh. This is why I hate U-Haul. They take love away from me.

Mr. Nash does enjoy his walks. He also enjoys his trench coats and briefcases. I’ll see him walking at times with his trench coat and his briefcase. He must have learned this from his days hobnobbing with the Hollywood elite. It’s kind of cool to know that I eat lunch at the same place that a genius with a movie made about his life does. They should put something in the window that he eats there. I’m sure they asked him, but he’s too humble of a man. He helped fight the Commies. If I ever even beat up a midget I’d brag about it. And yes, I can call them midgets. I was born before the year 2000. You can’t tell me to change something that I’ve done for more than half my life.

(Brushing my teeth, something I’ve done for over half my life. On an aside, she looks like she just did something naughty. I’m using my imagination)

Perhaps one day Mr. Nash and I will have a conversation. We can talk about Ron Howard or which of the five dollar foot longs we enjoy most. It’s nothing like physics or other science things that only he would understand and would not only go over my head, but would also come back around and nip me in the ass. But we do have that one thing in common. A place where we can go in the middle of the day to get sandwiches from Ecuadorians who work for Indian people.

We all have them. Unless you’re a machinist. They’re called fingers. Those little dingle dangle things coming out of your hands. A normal person has 10. 5 on each hand. I am normal. I have 10 fabulous fingers. Lets go over each of them because I don’t feel like making you think hard today.

The first finger on most people’s hands is the thumb. Some argue that the thumb is not a finger. I poke them in the eye with my thumb and they say “get that finger out of my face.” I win those arguments. As humans, we’re the only species with the opposable thumb. It helps us grip things. The thumb is also useful when telling someone who you liked a movie or if you’re a Roman emperor and want to see a gladiator killed. When the thumb is aimed up it is good. Down is bad. A sideways thumb means nothing. It probably should have some meaning. How about it means “you look good today.” We need more hand signals that are compliments. They all seem to mean fuck you. Lets do this. Lets start the sideways thumb.

Next on the hand is the index finger. Children call their index fingers pointers. It’s because they use their finger to do just that, point. I learned at a young age not to point. It’s impolite. I was at an Indian Reservation and the chaperone’s son pointed and said “Look, an Indian.” His mother slapped him and said “Don’t point. That’s not nice.” How else was I supposed to know where the savage was? I probably use my index finger more than any other. It’s perfect for poking and picking. Don’t forget scratching. I’m a very itchy person. If I had to cut off one finger, it wouldn’t be my index finger. I’d never be able to shush anybody anymore.

Then we get to everybody’s favorite finger, the middle finger. The big motherfucker of fingers. You lift up this one by itself and you’re starting up a storm of shit. I rarely flip people the bird. Mostly in the car or when their back is turned. On the school bus years ago, a kid who is now a professional baseball player put his two middle fingers up in the air and crossed them. His brother said “Don’t do that. That means fuck everybody.” He did it again. Moral of the story, athletes are douche bags who don’t care about any of us, even when they’re 5 years old.

The ring finger is quite possibly the strangest named finger. It’s like saying the name is irrelevant unless you have a ring on it. That’s kind of true too. It’s hard to move that finger by itself. I guess in a way it’s a second string middle finger. Sometimes people will flip others the ring finger. These people cannot fully commit to telling their enemy to go to hell.

Finally we get to the pinky. The biggest wimp of fingers. I don’t use my pinky for much. There are very few tiny spaces I need to slide a finger into. Ladies in olden days would lift up their pinky to show off how feminine they were. Rich people still do it while drinking tea. Pinkies are very relevant to surfers who do the “hang loose” symbol. Don’t let the name mislead you. Your pinky does not need to be pink. Mine isn’t. I did used to have a freckle near my one pinky that I thought for years was a poop stain. I’d watch my hands nonstop. Now I have asthma and eczema because of my clean living ways.

There are of course people out there with more fingers. I don’t know what the names of these fingers are called. I’m sure they do have one. How do those people shake hands? If I had 6 fingers I would try to get girls to think this gave me some magical talent to give them pleasure. Or I’d learn the piano. You can’t get too many girls by playing the piano so this is an either or situation. I won’t have to worry about that though because I don’t plan on growing a new finger any time soon.


Posted: December 20, 2011 in Uncategorized
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Years ago, a Jewish person who I thought was gay and flirting with me gave me some advice. He said to never make a friend of yours your roommate. You’ll grow to hate them. I think this is true. Unless you’re open about how you don’t want to hate each other, it’s inevitable. I later found out that he wasn’t gay. My mistake was that I had never talked to a Jewish person before. I didn’t know how flamboyant and talkative they could be. The older you get, the more you learn.

I have a roommate. It’s a dog. He’s the family dog whom I am taking care of, temporarily I hope. What’s temporary? 8 months and counting is. He’s not technically allowed to be here because he’s too fat. They have a weight limit in my apartment complex. They don’t want dogs over 35 pounds. I wish they had a weight limit on people here. It only seems fair if there is one for animals. Luckily the people who live above me don’t work which means they can’t afford to eat. I only have to worry about them crashing through my floor during one of their weekly shouting matches. Why do I get the sense that I’m going to have to be the one to call the cops?

My roommate and I don’t get along very well. He’s a dog, remember. I usually get along great with animals. They love me. Not this bastard. He’s a dick. We used to get along better. Then I didn’t see him for a year and he has an attitude about that. I was never his favorite. In fact, no joke, he just farted on me as I am typing this. I didn’t feel it or hear it but I certainly smell it. I told you he was a bastard.

So to embarrass him, I would like to name a few things that he should change about himself. I feel like a woman yelling at her boyfriend doing this. It’s necessary for revenge factors.

Annoying Things About McGwire The Dog

1) He always pants whenever the temperature is 65 or above. I get it that he’s fat and all, but 65 isn’t that hot. My electric bill was so high in August because of him. Does he care? No. Dogs don’t have to worry about bills. Only ducks do! (I hate myself for saying that)

2) Whenever I pat the couch and say “come on McGwire, sit next to me and cuddle” he walks over, looks at me, then leaves. What a dick move! Not only does he not obey his master, he teases me and then leaves and goes into the other room. He’s sitting next to me right now (remember how he farted on me?) and that’s only because it’s late and he’s trying to hint to me that I need to go to bed and get off his fucking couch. His words, not mine.

3) He can’t aim when he pees. This could be due to a few medical problems he has, but seriously, this is annoying. You’ve got paws. Use them to aim your dick! I would much rather be living with a guy who pees on the toilet seat than a dog who pisses on his own leg and one time into his own face. He also pees like a girl. So embarrassing.

4) He has this unwritten rule that I can only go outside twice a day without him crying nonstop. I can do it in the morning after he eats and at night after he eats. In short, after he gets what he wants I can go die in a car crash for all he cares.

5) My dirty clothes sprawled out on the ground in my bedroom is his favorite place to lay. This is annoying when I feel like wearing a dirty shirt. Yes, sometimes I like to put on a dirty shirt you know for painting or dates with fat girls I want to end poorly. It’s probably my fault for allowing him there and once Christmas rolls around I’ll have a hamper and things will be better.

6) He eats my clothes, blankets, and bed sheets. Have you ever seen a dog poop out the color plaid? I have. A lot. He loves eating plaid things for some reason. He ate a part of one of my plaid shirts. He ate the image of a smiling face off of another shirt. That’s cruel and Satanic. Of all of the images to eat he chooses one of a smiley face. The shirt did say “I Hate You” but he doesn’t know that. He can’t read!

7) Sometimes McGwire gets in the garbage. I don’t ever throw away anything interesting to eat. The other day I came home to two egg shells, a ripped up plate, and a bottle of carrot juice which he didn’t even bother touching. I’m sure he was very upset to realize that I always clean my plate. Probably why he hid with his tail between his legs while I beat him with a belt.

8 ) My apartment has two rooms in it. A bedroom and a living room type thing. Chances are, if I’m in the living room he’s in the bedroom. When I enter the bedroom, he leaves and goes into the living room. My parents lived together for about 2 years and didn’t speak. This reminds me of that and I start to cry again.

9) Whenever my girlfriend comes over he will not leave us alone. All day long when I’m with him he acts like I don’t exist. The second she gets here my crotch becomes the most interesting thing to him. Maybe he’s trying to send her signals that it’s what she should be doing, but I don’t think he’s that clever.

10) He does a lot of other things that most dogs do. He barks at inappropriate times, tries to eat other dog’s poop, exists, begs for food, and makes me sneeze. I can’t really fault him for these, but I wanted you to know that he also sucks in the obvious ways that other dogs do too.

11) He has never gotten a girl to talk to me. Isn’t that the whole point of having a dog? Attracting girls? I’ve walked him in public enough for some hot mama to notice and everyone looks at him like he’s a big retard buffoon. He is, but it’s impolite to stare and they should be old enough to know that.

12) He will only let someone pet his face for so long before he sticks his butt in your face. He loves his butt rubbed and slapped. No normal living creature should like this much humiliation. He’d probably get off on reading how embarrassing this is. His red penis (lipstick as I call it) would pop out.

13) He’s a pussy. I mean a massive gaping one. Three little yapping dogs live next door and whenever he sees them he hides. He’s 5 times their size and that’s not an exaggeration. Even three of them they’re barely half his size. He’s also very afraid of thunder and fireworks. He’s very unpatriotic. McGwire hates America and that’s why you should hate him too.

McGwire does have a few cool things about him. For one he knows what the word “Dinner” and “Breakfast” mean. I can say to him “Do you want to go for a car ride?” and 50% of the time he will guess the correct car in which he will be entering. He doesn’t do it anymore, but when we were younger boys whenever I would toss him a ball he’d try to catch it with his paws like I would catch it. He farts a lot which can cover up any of my farts that I might make in front of others. If I drop food he’s there to clean it up. That’s my favorite because I’m lazy when it comes to cleaning. For a while, he would wake me up right before my alarm went off. I really dig internal clocks. I don’t know why he couldn’t have waited 5 minutes to walk into my room wagging his tail and smiling. He would have saved himself a couple of strangling sessions that I gave him later on in the day.

The only other good thing about him is that for the first 5 minutes after I come home he pretends to be happy to see me. I know it’s because he has to pee, but I like to pretend that he actually has some sort of love and affection towards my being. I know that can’t be true. Something that smells as bad as he does can’t possibly have the capacity to love anything that cannot be eaten. Unless he’s planning to eat me. Shit. That’s why he’s been so sweet lately.


Posted: December 18, 2011 in Uncategorized
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Preface: I’m posting this ahead of time and scheduling it for a future date. I will not have a chance to post anything Sunday or Monday so hopefully this will hold you over. I hope the “scheduling” feature works for this. Also, if you are one of the creeps who frequently looks at my blog and does not comment, leave a comment. I like to know who reads this so I can cater to you interests/make sure I don’t say bad things about you/make sure I do say bad things about you if I don’t like you. I’m curious to know who these people who Google “mooselicker” are. Yes, I can see that you do that. Stop being a creep and show yourself.

(Until I know better, this is you. A gay clown in the bushes spying on my every move. He’s gay because gay clowns only red the tips of their nose, not the nostrils)

Onto the article:

This is a thought that has putted around in my head for a while now. It came to me when looking at Facebook profiles of old high school classmates. I might be going out on a limb here, but Jesus Christ, I am the only person who looks better now than they did 6 years ago. I’m not in amazing shape or anything. One thing I do have is that I am completely unrecognizable. I’ve talked to people from my old high school and they have no idea who I am. Maybe they never noticed me and I didn’t get more handsome. Crap. I was excited and pooped my pants for nothing.

I recently saw a picture of an ex-girlfriend on the Internets. Before you get mad at any insults I might say about this girl, let it be known that 2 days before we broke up I texted her “I miss you” and she responded with “That’s nice.” What–the–fuck? You said you loved me! It took us dating 2 days and you were in love with me! Now only about 2 weeks later, it was nice when I missed you. You son of a bitch. I regret not saying your face looked feline.

I’m sitting on Facebook trying to find some Spanish girl whose name I recently learned. Yes, I’m stalking. Big deal. Do you know what the worst thing about Spanish girls is? They’re impossible to stalk. All of their last names are the same. I hope I never need to seriously stalk a Maria Lopez. There has to be 5 million of them.*

(Sofia Vergara has never had a successful stalker. Believe me, I’ve tried)

*This is a recycled joke that I posted on Facebook. Sorry if you’re my Facebook friend and had to read this again. I thought it was clever. Only one person commented on it which is one more than I usually get. I felt it was also very fitting for this post so I used it again. I really was trying to stalk a Spanish girl so it’s not so much a joke as it is a harsh reality. It’s fine to recycle harsh realities.

I am getting so off-track here! I apologize. What I wanted to say was that I saw my ex-girlfriend had some new photographs up. To say she packed on a few L.B.’s would be an insult to the letters L & B. Do letters get insulted? I can’t remember if it’s letters or numbers that have emotions.

(Numbers and Letters getting along for once despite religious affiliation)

I won’t go on a tirade of fat jokes or anything. I’m above doing that to anyone I actually know. I also can’t think of anything clever or hurtful enough. My question though has to do with exes. There are a lot of people who go from “geek to chic” as Jenny Jones would put it. Or in other cases they go from “chic to big fat mess.” I know there’s nothing wrong with change, that’s how Obama got elected.

The question here for you is, what’s the most important and what is the worst of the below choices? Yeah, I’m having trouble wording this. Fuck letters. I hope they are the ones with emotions and feel sad now. Just select which one of the below is more true for you.

A) I would rather date someone attractive who used to be unattractive


B) I would rather date someone who has always been attractive who ends up becoming unattractive after we break up

There are tons of variables to this. I know I would rather date someone who used to be unattractive merely for the fact that they’ll probably lack confidence and be easy pickings. Having dated someone who turned out worse feels a little embarrassing. I don’t know why that is. Maybe because I relate more to people who get better looking as opposed to others who take a nose dive into a bucket of ice cream.

I guess though what really matters is what the person looks like when you actually do date them. Why else should any of us care? Because we’re gossips who want those who hurt us to live miserable lives! That’s why.

To be less shallow, what really matters is personality. I can’t fall in love with someone unless I have some sense of a personality. That’s probably why I don’t like porn. Those girls don’t have a personality other than being a slut. I need to be able to know that the girl has a sense of humor or is real into animals. If more pornographic films had girls wearing clown noses or holding kittens I might get into it and fall in love.

(I am in love)

Yes, sometimes I’m a real pig and will find something very small to turn myself off from another person. What you might call being an animal, I call being observant. I’m not picky at all with girls I’d date. All I ask is that you let your beautiful personality shine through, always let me remind you how amazing you are, and don’t have a big nose. Everybody needs a line. Big noses are mine.

P.S. I also wrote something else. It’s about wrestling! Enjoy by clicking on this link.