Archive for February, 2012

I am getting old. Yes, 24 isn’t that old. It feels it though. There are people on MTV dating shows 6 years younger than me. I was already getting picked on in first grade when these people were popping out of their mothers. 18-year-old girls are almost off-limits for me. It’s getting to a point where I’m creepy to them. It happened so fast too. I remember when I was 20 and 18-year-olds thought I was the man. They assumed I had my shit together and that made me cool in their high school eyes. I still don’t have my shit together and I’m worrying that people are about to notice. I can only hide for so long that I haven’t achieved a single thing in life worth bragging about.

(Gia is worth bragging about. Gia’s mother’s life is empty though. She hasn’t achieved much that she has to brag that Gia can count backwards quickly)

The idea that the thought of “21-year-olds are so disrespectful. When I was that age I was nicer to older people. I showed them respect” popped into my head recently scares me. When I was that age? When I was that age nothing in the world was different. That was barely 3 years ago. Still, I believe it to be true. 21-year-olds aren’t nearly as polite to me as I was to 24-year-olds when I was that age. They’re standoffish and cocky. They don’t come to me for advice or think of me as their older brother. No. Instead they’re too busy getting girls that I should be getting. Stupid 21-year-olds. You shouldn’t have all this figured out yet!

It’s safe to say that all 21-year-olds are pretty damn stupid. I can say that. I was 21 at one point. An entire year! Everything I did was stupid. Do you know how I got less stupid? I listened to what older people had to say. Without knowing it, they helped guide me into the confused 24-year-old I am right now. I would be even more lost in the world if it wasn’t for their semi-help. The problem with people who are 21 is that they’re far away enough from living under the tyranny of high school but also haven’t really lived in the real world. Yes, it’s annoying to have to call the power company. It’s part of growing up. I am always being called sir. I hate when cute girls do it. It makes me feel like I could be their father. Making me think that makes me think about time travel then I get nervous. What if she is my daughter? She traveled back in time to meet me then tried offering me a free water bottle if I signed up for some stupid contest.

If you’re 21 and reading this, you’re probably furious. I know, I know. You’ve got it all handled. May I suggest though that you print this out and put it in a time capsule? Open it in 3 years and realize how little things still make sense. Sure, you’ll be a little smarter and wiser. You’ll also probably hate the newest drinkers at the bars. It’s always easy to hate people younger than you. Especially when they’re 21. Nobody at 21 accomplishes a thing. All you do is drink and try to convince yourself that the meaning of life is moments away from entering your brain. Sorry, but it’s not. You’re in for a whole hell lot more of confusion and frustration. Welcome to the rest of your life, slowly watching your body decay.

(Sid Vicious has being 21 all figured out. He managed to kill himself before reaching 22)

I’m never a good example for anything. I’m too nice of a person. My dad’s old password for AOL was “timisgoo” which was supposed to be “tim is good” but he insisted that the “d” would go over the 16 character password limit. I was such a good kid that being good was what my dad associated with me above all else. I always show respect to others. I hold doors, once helped a woman move a carpet, and never over stay my welcome. I’ve only pinched one girl’s butt and she didn’t even notice. She was a descendant of Winston Churchill’s, you kinda-gotta pinch it. That’s why I don’t blame anyone who is 21 for being such a cock. I’m so incredibly good that by comparison, everyone seems like a disrespectful ass.

This is all I want from 21-year-olds. Don’t be loud. That simple. Don’t be so incredibly loud and invasive that I notice you. You can be as mean and rude as you want. You’re young and can get away with it. But don’t be loud. Give my ears a break from you. Destroy the rest of my senses as much as you would like. Have gross offensive to the eyes hair, don’t bathe frequent enough where I can smell it, and touch me inappropriately. I don’t know how one would go about invading my taste buds. I think I have tasted a 21-year-old at one point and I don’t remember them ever tasting badly. She was quite rude though. She told me that I kissed too fast and to keep my hat on. Picky! Picky!

(The only thing from 1991 worth acknowledging)

Here’s something you may not know about me. I am so exceptionally skilled at sports that I am banned at participating in them. It’s true. I’ve dunked on Jordan, blocked every shot by Gretzky, and I fucked Sheryl Crowe while Lance Armstrong was busy trying on a new “Live Strong” bracelet. But like all great athletes I have had my fair share of injuries. Joe Dimaggio once tore his rotator cuff punching Marilyn Monroe in the jaw. They’re freaky and come out of nowhere. Sports injuries have plagued my life.

The first injury I remember getting was having a softball hit me in the eye. It was at my dad’s company picnic when I was in second grade. My dad told me to stand near a man named Wilson who he worked with. I knew nothing of the man other than his name was Wilson and he liked doing that lame “take off my thumb” trick for me. My references were pretty poor back then and for some reason I thought Wilson was Ozzie Smith, short stop for the St. Louis Cardinals. There was also a man who lived on my street with grey hair. I assumed he was Cal Ripken Jr. Anyway, I disobeyed my father and had a softball land in my face. I went to the emergency room and had to wear sunglasses to school for the next week. I felt like a movie star. Especially when all of the teachers would take me into a room alone and ask if softball was code for mom or dad. It wasn’t. And despite the name, softballs are not soft. Maybe if I didn’t take things so literally I wouldn’t have tried catching the ball with my eyelid.

(Someone buy this woman a baseball glove! She needs to stop catching her husband’s fist in the face)

My second big injury came while playing in an organized baseball league. I was the catcher someone slid into my leg and knocked me over. I came out of the game from catching it hurt so bad. I remember the umpire saying “Don’t worry, chicks dig scars.” I was 9 years old. I didn’t even know what testicles were yet. I still could pee without having to hold my penis. I also was smart enough that a broken leg wouldn’t leave a scar. I guess when you’re a little league umpire, medicine is hard to comprehend. I did stay in the game though and managed to get a base hit. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that my leg was broken. This was a blessing in disguise as it gave me something interesting to write to baseball players begging for their autographs. They wished me well and asked that I stick to playing ball. Little did they know I used that story years after it had happened. Sorry about that Pete LaForest! I had to trick you because I thought you’d be a big name by now. But thanks for the letter encouraging me to stay tough.

It wasn’t just baseball that gave me injuries. Most of those injuries I would eventually fake or over exaggerate. It was the only way to save myself from the embarrassment of a rare 0 for 5 day with 4 strikeouts and a ground out to the pitcher. I never got hurt much playing soccer. I remember getting my feelings hurt one time because I was having a bad game and I insisted that it was because the sizes of the goals were not even. Classmate and kid who once whispered “Let’s get physical” into my ear, Stephan Giffin, agreed and helped me get a teacher to confront them about the goal size. The cones were moved in 2 inches each and I finished off the game magnificently. I even won an award that year for being the best recess goaltender. It was made of tinfoil but that didn’t matter. So is the Stanley Cup.

(Some kid with Down Syndrome touching a coveted sports trophy)

My other big soccer injury came in gym class of ninth grade. I was goalie (I’ve mentioned that I was a fat kid before right? Fat kids are always the goalie) for a game of indoor soccer. My team was made up of two stoners and me. The other team was three lesbians. You can’t make this shit up. The fattest and probably meanest lesbian kicked the ball at me. While stretching for it, my knee felt like it exploded. I crashed to the ground and held it tight. Like an army buddy you knew was going to die and you knew you’d sleep with his wife when you got home. I went to the nurse and then to the doctors a week later. My doctor said that it was because I was fat in oh so many words and I was fine a week later. Not all problems are due to being fat. Starvation for instance.

Football was one sport I never received any injury in. It was such a rough sport that I was able to tough anything out. I played on the high school football team for one practice then quit because everyone seemed mean and I hate(d) running. I had no idea the quarterback and the cornerback were different positions. I thought whenever people mention them they just had a speech impediment. I did jam my finger a few times catching footballs with my dad. Other than that, I’ve never had a major football injury. Probably because I was always the fattest kid playing.

There’s a legend going around that I am not a good ice skater. Yes, photographs might suggest I don’t know how to properly place my ankles on the ice. Despite popular belief I wasn’t that bad in my prime. I could skate forwards, backwards, sideways, I could jump up and not fall on my face. I’ve fallen down a lot ice skating and each time I got right back up after crawling back to the wall. My most memorable fall happened getting off the ice. I never learned how to properly stop which is the most important part of slowing down. The blades hit against the edge and I flew forward onto my face. It was loud and everybody saw it. Worst of all, I remember someone who worked there that I had a crush on. She came over to me later on and asked if I was all right. That made falling down worth it. To have someone unattainably older than you show concern for your existence, it made every injury mean something. A sports injury doesn’t always have to be a bad thing, I guess. It can be good. It will get people to pity you. They’ll come over and talk because they’re afraid their souls are headed for hell. Asking someone how they’re doing makes them feel like they have a chance at a better after-life. I know, what a shitty lesson to learn in the end. But I’m trying to be more positive. Sprain your ankles, cut up your knees, get hit in the head with basketballs, do all of it. Maybe you too can learn an invaluable lesson.

(A soccer player at Lesbian Camp injuring her knee. I can’t wait until footage of the “muscle rub down” is released to the public)

What are your sports injuries? And unrelated, should I update my avatar? I wrote a whole blog post about updating my avatar but reread it and thought it was worse than that Freshly Pressed article about the yogurt selections.

Being a teenager sucks! The cops are always harassing you, parents are always yelling saying you need to eat your vegetables, and teachers won’t get off your ass about how important geometry is. Really kiddos, geometry is something I use everyday. Every night after dinner I grab a protractor and measure the width of my asshole. I’m kidding of course. Why would I need to do that more than once? It doesn’t change. Geometry is pretty pointless unless you’re a carpenter. Nobody really sets out to be a carpenter either. Usually they’re failed architects. And just because you enjoy Legos doesn’t mean you should aspire to be an architect. It’s a much more boring job than it sounds. If you’ve seen Prison Break and remember how Michael Scofield spoke you’d know.

(Wanna bet he put more time into getting these fake tattoos on then he has working since Prison Break went off the air?)

The hardest part about being a teenager though is finding a place to drink. They’ve got these crazy laws in the United States. You’re not allowed to drink until you’re 21! It’s insane. Everybody knows that 15-year-olds are totally responsible enough to handle their alcohol. That’s one of the dumbest things that teenagers argue about. If American kids could drink when they were under 21 nothing would ever get done. Justin Bieber would be begging for change and Dakota Fanning would be a prostitute.

(Wait, wasn’t she 12 last week?)

I would like to do a service today and let my teenage readers know where the good spots to drink are. I know, I’m a swell guy like that. The first place I would like to mention is my apartment. Yes. All teenagers are welcome to come to my apartment at any time to drink. If anyone asks though you didn’t get the booze from me. You got it from your parent’s liquor cabinet. Here are some perks about drinking in my apartment. For one, it’s inside. That means heating and air conditioning depending on the time of year. I also have a love-seat to sit on as well as a swivel chair. Parties are always more fun with a swivel chair around. I also have a bed. I think it’s a twin? Either way, it could easily fit two slender 18-year-olds who are interested in pursuing a career in modeling on either side of myself. Have I ever mentioned that I’m a modeling agent? I am now if that’s what you’re interested in.

Some of you might be a little uneasy about coming to a stranger’s apartment. Just because I’m strange doesn’t mean I have to always remain a stranger. That so sounds like something a child molester would say. Another place you can drink is at your friend’s house. Not every friend’s house either. It has to be at that one friend’s house. You know, the one whose parents don’t love them. Usually there’s a basement there. Usually this friend also doesn’t have a bed, just a cot. We all have had that friend at some point. The friend with the party house. This friend usually doesn’t amount to much. Nobody has ever done an interview saying “I knew I was going to win the presidential election when a friend of mine called me the biggest partier he knew.” There’s nothing wrong with being the party house kid. It can be a blessing. People will be nice to you because you’re the one person they know who won’t be upset if they throw up on your floor. It’s worth a life of working minimum wage jobs.

(In high school she was the prom queen. In the real world she burns her fingers on a the Fry-O-Later twice a day)

If you’re a more outdoorsy person, you could always have a bonfire. Remember though, these are illegal to do. Actually I’m not sure. But a bonfire has to be illegal. There’s no way a bunch of teenagers are legally allowed to build a giant fire even if it’s to toss a redheaded person into. I’ve been to one bonfire in my life. It was okay. Nobody fell into the fire. One person fell into the lake. All I remember was a lot of guys sitting around on coolers shirtless. They said that they were really hot and that’s why they took their shirts off. How about putting out the fire? A girl also had sex with three different guys in the woods that night. That was the rumor that the one kid whose dad was there started spreading. How does a dad show up at a teenager’s bonfire? No wonder I gave up drinking. It was always too awkward.

The most ridiculous place for a teenager to drink is the car. Teenagers do a lot of strange things in cars. They drink in them, smoke weed in them, have sex in them, everything but drive them. When I think about it, I never even drove my car when I was a teenager. I would sit in it and make racing noises. Call me old-fashioned, but drinking in the car seems sad. You render the car useless by doing so. Your life is that bad that you have to sit in your 1999 Hyundai trying to forget about how bad everything has become? Maybe I’m alone in this. I think if you have to do something that depressing in order to do it at all then you should wait 3 more years until you can do it in a more normal setting, like somewhere with a table.

Teenagers are always going to be drinking. I guess you can’t blame them really. What else is there for them to do? They have so much free time, no worries in life, and awkward pimples in even more awkward places. If it wasn’t for alcohol, teenagers would never have sex. And teenage sex is what makes ABC Family a successful cable channel. Really, how is always bringing sex into the equation family oriented? Families don’t talk about sex. They avoid it. The History Channel should be called the Family Channel. I never had a sex talk with a family member. Yet when I was 14 years old my dad sat me down to have a talk about how Hitler got all of his technology from ancient aliens and ice road truckers. That’s what a real family is like.

(My dad, Giorgio, telling me all about Ancient Aliens and how they built the pyramids and Statue of Liberty)

I like to give advice out to people. That’s nice of me. The problem, most of it is unsolicited. I’m not an ass about it. I don’t walk up to ugly married couples and suggest they not make a baby. That’s great advice. There are lots of ugly people in the world. By my counts, I saw 43 today. Yes, I actually counted how many people whom I saw in person who I could consider ugly. It’s a fun game to play and lets me forget about other problems in my life. Ugly people do serve a purpose. They remind me that I’m not them.

The main thing I have given people advice on is weight loss. I’m no Adonis or anything. I probably will never grace the covers of a fitness magazine. I don’t know why I would even want to. They’re only masturbation fodder for gay teenage boys too afraid to look up real gay porn on the Internet. Instead they settle for whichever professional wrestler is showing off his abs this month. I do believe that I at least have some knowledge to offer on the subject though. For the uninformed, I used to be very overweight. I remember my Indian doctor saying “I have a chart of weights here that match up with heights. Your weight does not match up with any heights.” Well fuck you. I’m sorry that your chart doesn’t go up to 8’9. We weren’t all born in a place where there term “Holy Cow” should be taken literally. (I had an even longer rant on this but it seemed too racist. Instead I’ll leave you with a picture of Phil Rizzuto whose catchphrase was “Holy Cow”)

(He swings like a gay kid who doesn’t know what baseball is)

How did I lose this weight? I used this book that my mom got me. It was called Jorge Cruise’s 8 Minutes in the Morning. It was a simple exercise guide which involved, on average, 8 minutes of exercising after immediately waking up. There was a diet to follow and little activities to do. I still have the notebook I wrote everything down in. It’s kind of sad to look through again at how lonely and sad I was back then. Even worse is that some of the things haven’t changed despite my “amazing transformation.” If you’re fat and think everything about your life will change when you lose weight you’re kidding yourself. Things do get better. A lot better. But you’re still a bum who all the girls think are weird. You’re not the fat kid anymore. Now you’re the kid who used to be fat and now is just oddly shaped. Kind of like a nutty candy bar that has been stepped on.

I tried to pass this book along to others. I had this “Pay it Forward” fantasy in my head that the book would be passed along from fat kid to fat kid. We’d all shape our lives differently thanks to the kindness of friends helping us realize our full potential. That never happened. The book became mostly an object to collect dust and be ignored. The book pretty much became the same as those who possessed it.

The first person I gave it to told me he weighed 270 pounds. At my peak, I was 256. That’s 17 pounds more than Homer Simpson weighs if you’re keeping score. I don’t have anything else to say about that except to watch your donut consumption. It’s hard to lose track and pretty soon you’re a 16-year-old the size of a 35-year-old fat cartoon character. My friend insisted that he did the 30 day cycle twice and lost 20 pounds on it. I asked him how much he weighed now and he said 275. I’m no math expert but somebody was lying. I think it was him. I think it was him about even trying it at all. The second person I gave the book to admitted that he never even opened it. The last time I ever saw him I asked for it back. I don’t know why I wanted it back so badly. I guess it was still fresh in my head how it had helped change me that it was important for me to keep. He gave it back and we insisted that we’d hangout a lot once he went away to college. I’m not even sure if he’s alive or dead now. I guess that’s part of growing up. Having to wait until you see the ghost of a dead friend to know if they’ve passed over or not.

(This plus 17 pounds was my mid-teen years? And they say suicide is never an option…)

Others still never wanted the book. As much as I begged and pleaded with them that it could help, they refused. I almost don’t blame them. I was telling fat teenage boys to not only exercise and eat right, but also to read. What a bastard move. The excuse most of them gave me was “I want to lose the weight on my own.” None of them ever did. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help or taking advice. We all do it. Receiving advice is a way of not making the same mistakes other people have. Why should we all make the same mistakes over and over again? If you already know it’s not going to turn out well then skip over the heroin addiction. Nobody’s life ever got better from taking drugs. Unless they had cancer, but how can things get any worse from having cancer? Having cancer and being stuck in the hospital with Nickelback playing on loop?

Here’s some advice for you. Listen to all advice that people give you. If it seems viable, give it a shot. If it fails, you know they were a loser. You should also give out as much advice as possible. Never hesitate to offer your opinion on the matter to someone else. Most people want advice. They want to know they’re not alone and that they’re at least headed in the right direction. Lend a helping hand to others. Don’t be a fucking asshole. And most importantly, don’t insist that you can do it on your own unless you truly believe it. Most things are hard to do alone. Especially when you’re a fat teenage boy with few redeeming qualities outside of taking up space.

(At least he’s watching something with subtitles. That’s kind of like exercising, right?)

We love our gym teachers don’t we? They teach us everything about physical education possible. We learn the rules of soccer, the proper way to bench press, and how to keep our mouths shut when they stare at us in the showers a little too long. Never settle for anything less than $50 to keep quiet. Today I would like to discuss the gym teachers I had. I’ll try to keep the lesbian jokes to a minimum.

(His name’s Butch, he has a lesbian haircut, yet Eddie Munster is not a lesbian)

Mr. B – For the sake of protecting the guilty, I will not reveal real last names. With Mr. B, that isn’t a problem. He always went by Mr. B. I don’t think he had a real last name, just an initial. Like how some Chinese people have the last names Oh or Yu. He was a nice guy. His hair was fake though. It would flap in the wind while he warned us about giving our teams a two point penalty for talking while he as talking. As great as an elementary school gym teacher as he was, he gave me a lot of misconducts. I got one for excessive celebration after scoring a goal in soccer and another for making a save in floor hockey with my foot. Goalies were only allowed to make saves with their sticks. Mr. B, you didn’t know shit about sports did you?

Mrs. P – She was the counterpart of Mr. B. The bad cop to his good cop. The bitch to his Santa Claus. I think her being mean turned a lot of students gay. She was a real witch. I remember her yelling at two of my friends for drinking too long at the water fountain. What kind of Nazi does that? We had some rule that you could only drink from the water fountain for 5 seconds. That’s barely enough time to quench thirst from a vicious game of crab soccer. She ended up in my middle school and all of a sudden was really nice. This was the same year as a teacher’s strike. My mystery friend would claim that it was because “she got her big fat paycheck.” I think that was true. Now Mrs. P could upgrade her lesbian haircut from butch to lipstick.

Mr. V – This man was everybody’s favorite gym teacher of all-time. He was the cool guy in his 40s who acted like a retarded kid in his teens. Rumor had it that he played minor league baseball for the St. Louis Cardinals in the 1980s as a short stop. He would have made it to the majors but Ozzie Smith blocked his path. I heard the same thing, but it was that he was so superstitious that he couldn’t give up his baseball number. Who knows? Mr. V would take out the male students during recess to play games of football. He loved being around young males. If he didn’t have a smoking hot daughter I would have been sure he lived in a house full of young males obsessed with football. He also loved short shorts and owned a Tim Couch jersey. Never before has Tim Couch been referenced anywhere. Never again will he be.

(Stop gloating. I’m the only one who remember who you are)

Mr. J – The man who inspired so much entertainment for me. I never even had him as a teacher yet I’ve written 3 movies, 5 television shows, and a book based around him as the central character. Okay, it’s not really about him and the character being portrayed as him is nothing like the real man. He wasn’t an evil bastard like I make him out to be. My only memory of him was one day I was wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates t-shirt and he raised his fist at me and said “Go Steelers!” Mr. J only read half of everybody’s shirts. That’s why he’s such an inspiration on my life.

Mrs. J – I’d like to say no relation to Mr. J but I’d be lying. She was the wife of Mr. J. The fucktoy, if you will. I didn’t like her. She made fat jokes about me to one of her classes. What a whore. If my 7th grade year wasn’t horrible enough I had teachers attacking me for having no self-control. I had her for health class a few months later and she was never nasty to me then. I guess she realized I was nothing more than a quiet fat kid trying to make it through life without blowing myself up. Still, a murder suicide would not upset me. I know your former mailman bitch! I could have your mail sent somewhere else if I really want to.

Ms. S – The stereotype of all gym teachers. If the lack of an “r” in her title doesn’t give it away, Ms. S was a legendary lesbian. She was short, had grey hair, had the voice of a parrot, and didn’t know the difference between a badminton racket or a softball bat. She never aged either. I guess that isn’t so remarkable because she already looked to be the age of dead. Every day she would go outside with a thermometer and check the temperature. Sometimes she’d smile. Sometimes it was a frown. I never asked why she was doing this because that would involve chatting with her. My favorite memory of her was the time we had the activity of “walking” in gym class. Yeah, they’d have us walk through the park. I thought it would be funny if while going through the parking lot I went to my car and pulled out a bowl, a box of cereal, and some milk. Gym was the first class of the day and they always said how important breakfast was. I was eating a big bowl of cereal in front of her and she didn’t say a thing. I didn’t get in trouble for what completely backfired on me. Never try eating milk and cereal outside in 20 degree weather. Your hands will freeze and the hot girl you’re trying to make laugh will scowl at you for not taking things more seriously.

(I once was going to try to catch a Frisbee in my mouth to impress another girl during gym class. I heard she liked dogs, so I figured…)

One sport that has died out over the years is boxing. Back in the 1970s, or whenever you could still yell racial slurs out at black people and be mayor of a town, boxing was huge. Guys like George Foreman, Joe Frazier, and Mohammed Ali were at the top of their game. Of course now they’re not nearly as amazing as they used to be. George Foreman sells grills and names all of his kids George because he’s crazy and conceded. Joe Frazier died recently and as he was lowered into the ground the undertaker yelled “Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!” Mohammed Ali, arguably the best boxer of all time was diagnosed with Michael J. Fox Syndrome, worse known as Parkinson’s Disease. He is now permanently shaking, in a constant state of a rope-a-dope.

I’ve never been much into boxing. I don’t gamble. I don’t involve myself with the mafia. Those are the only reasons why people ever get into boxing in the first place. It’s known as the corrupt sport. The one where champions are paid off to take dives. It’s sad really. Boxing could be a very popular sport in today’s world. Instead Mixed Martial Arts has taken its place. Boxing, which was once the prize child of violent sports has developed mental retardation and grown red hair. In other words, it’s a reject.

(If boxing were a person, it would be this)

I actually for a brief time in my life trained to be a boxer. I bought a jump rope, a blow up punching bag, and owned a nice pair of boxing gloves. Black ones too. If I ever made it as a boxer, I would have to be the bad guy. My career didn’t last long. I can’t jump rope without a catchy tune being sung which led to poor training. I decided to retire before my career even got started. I’m still not positive I know how to throw a punch. Every fight I get into is a shoving match which ends with one of us tripping backwards. Well, the one fight I was actually in. Suck a dick Josh Marshall. You might have a loving wife and a child who looks up to you, but you’re no match with me when it comes to fisticuffs.

There was a man who almost saved boxing from aborting itself. He, himself was an abortion of a human being. I am of course talking about Mike Tyson. A guy who was so mean that making singing cameos in The Hangover actually got people to go and see the film. Yeah, the first Hangover was silly to see Mike Tyson in it. Then the second one the entire theater went silent went he came out. “Oh that old gag. I was hoping at least one thing in this sequel would be different from the first.” I mean seriously, what a fucking waste of however many dollars I spent. You wonder why people pirate films? Because you try passing crap like The Hangover 2 as original. We all know the story of Mike Tyson though. He bit a 50-year-old man’s ear and got a tattoo on his face. The rest, as they say, is a past event that has been recorded lest we forget that it happened.

Right now in boxing the biggest names are Manny, Floyd, and Vladimir. If I had to get my ass kicked by any of them, it would be Vladimir. Getting beaten up by someone named after the fat kid from Modern Family or the barber from The Andy Griffith Show doesn’t seem like much fun. Vladimir is a tough name. That’s Dracula’s communion name. I went to school with a lot of Catholics. They were always talking about their communion names and most of them were as vicious as vampires. Every mean person I have ever met was a servant of The Pope. Even Kennedy, the beloved president, was always out cheating on his wife. We were busy practicing the “Duck and Cover” while he was deflowering interns. At least Clinton had the courtesy to give Monica a souvenir on her dress. All Kennedy did was give this old broad an idea for a book.

(*insert pearl necklace joke here*)

What have we learned about boxing today? Nothing really. There’s not much to know. Nobody really watches it because you have to Pay Per View. So that’s why they call it that! Boxers fight maybe once or twice a year. How can you root for someone like that? It’s like rooting for your grandmother you only ever hear from on your birthday or Christmas. You can’t do that. All that downtime in between you forget why you liked them in the first place. If you are a fan of boxing, I am impressed. Somehow you have managed to look through all the garbage and found some good. This could explain how some really ugly and trashy people find spouses. It’s those all-inclusive observant boxing fans who they settle down with.


Posted: February 22, 2012 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

It’s February and people are tagging me. Don’t they see how everyone else is sick right now? That’s a good way to spread a disease! LOLLLL I was going to start this off with a picture of a skin tag but decided against it as I don’t want that picture on my computer.

The two taggers (that sounds racist) were in no order other than the order they did it in Simple Observations and Adair You. Thanks guys!


1. You must post the rules.
2. Answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post and then create eleven new questions to ask the people you’ve tagged.
3. Tag eleven people and link to them on your post.
4. Let them know you’ve tagged them!

Here are my answers to their questions:

1. If a magical Genie granted you three wishes with the condition that you could keep one, but had to give the other two away; what would they be? My first wish would be to be the best in the world at something that I can do for a living that makes me happy, successful, and reasonably wealthy. It doesn’t have to be too stinking rich, but enough where I don’t feel guilty about buying soft toilet paper. That’s the one I’d keep. My second wish would be a cure for cancer. I’d give that one away to some nice scientist so he could get credit and win a prize. My last wish would be for a new incurable disease even worse than cancer. Only one person would ever have it and whoever my biggest enemy at the time would be given this wish.

2. What chore do you hate doing the most? Cleaning in general annoys me. Doing the dishes is something I don’t mind. But even the 5 minutes of scrubbing the toilet or bath tub is dreadful in my eyes. Laundry is annoying too because I have to go outside to do it. My neighbors see me sometimes and say hello. So I guess being friendly to those around me is my least favorite chore.

3. Do you or anyone else think you look like a living or dead, famous person? Yes. I get lots of these. The most recent was Billy Corgan which I don’t look like at all. It’s because everyone born after 1990 thinks all people with short hair look like him. Everyone born before that go to Michael Stipe. I think I look like a chubby-faced Joel McHale and when I starve myself my face looks like Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia. Both our eyes droop when we don’t get our vitamins.

4. Are you a morning or a night person? Neither. I’m barely a person. I either have to get things done immediately after waking up or the last three hours before going to bed. I take it back. Neither isn’t my answer. Both is more accurate.

5. If you could be one superhero; who would it be, and why? Batman. Hands down I would be Bruce Wayne. He’s rich, sleeps around, and handsome. Except when he was Michael Keaton. Why was he ever Batman? Batman is a regular guy and if he ever wanted to he could just walk away from the superhero business. He has options. Superman is stuck being pussy whipped forever by that clod Lois Lane.

6. What were the best and worst gifts you ever received? I’ll say the best was tickets to a comedy show I wasn’t expecting from my older sister this past Christmas. I don’t know if it was actually the best as much as it was the most surprising. The worst is anything my grandmother has gotten me that didn’t have a dollar sign on it. She gave me banana bread one year. Don’t get me wrong, banana bread is delicious but it shouldn’t be wrapped up in newspaper and given to a child.

7. Can you describe who you really are in 20 words or less? Probably not. I think I’d have a better chance at describing myself in a Haiku. I’m not even quite sure who I really am. I’m not complicated or anything. I’m not one in a million or “just your average guy” like everyone claims to be. I’m me. A self-conscience, lost, monkey in tap shoes trying to please others for no real reason at all, righteous, sneaky person. I’m not bad or good. If reincarnation exists, in the next life I will be something neutral. Like a Swiss grasshopper.

8. What was the hardest thing you ever had to do? Pooping on a high protein diet can be difficult. I don’t think that’s what you mean. I’ve never had to do anything really that hard. As long as I’m not the first to do something I assure myself that I can survive it.

9. If you had to give up one modern convenience; what would it be? I don’t use most modern conveniences in general. At home, I don’t have cable, the Internet, a toaster, more than one lamp, or any Apple Products. I’d choose iPods though. I guess they’re convenient because all of your music is in one place. I only own five CDs anyway. I don’t need them to be in one place. I also wouldn’t mind giving up cars if I could somehow still make money without one. Prostitution could work.

10. What was the strangest dream you ever had, about? Every dream I have is strange. My most memorable ones are the ones that I wake up and try to write in my phone what happened. I had one where the fat guy, Craig, from Malcolm in the Middle came to my birthday party with a guitar. He sang a song entitled “Just Like The Pope” which was about how I had the same birthday as The Pope. I don’t have the same birthday as The Pope. But I did write a full version of the song because of it. I also had another dream which inspired me to write a television pilot. It’s probably my favorite one I’ve written. A popular girl in high school gave me a blow job in one dream. That one was really inaccurate.

11. What scares you? Other than the obvious, wasting my life. I would hate to die and know that everything I’ve put hard work into accomplishing was for nothing. So please, if I die prematurely, go through my computer and find all of the files that I have been working on. I promise you won’t find any pornography.

1. Die a bit younger with all your facilities or, die at a ripe old age, having no idea what is going on? Definitely a bit younger. Isn’t a bit younger like 73 now? That’s a lot of time. It’ll be 2060 when I die. I already don’t have much of a clue as to what’s going on. And how are old people ripe? They’re rotten if anything.

2. Have you ever eaten gefilte fish? No and I can’t imagine saying that without a thick Jewish woman’s accent. Which if you’re an agent, I can do.

3. Your perfect companion. I guess my girlfriend? I don’t know if she reads my blog that often. If she does, definitely her. If she doesn’t, someone who is even more like the female version of myself. I guess in the end I am my own perfect companion. I never steal food from myself. That’s always a worry of mine if trapped somewhere like an Alaskan cave.

4. Do you still write real letters? No, but I do handwrite ideas. I used to write letters all of the time to sports heroes. I still have some that I never sent out. Stamps are expensive.

5. Movie or play or book? Not a play. I’ve never seen a play that really blew me away. Books are good because they give hours of entertainment. And you can always go back and look at certain parts. A movie seems like a 2 or 3 time thing. I can’t watch too many movies more than that. If I can quote the movie, it was on TBS way too often. “Not these guys again!” – Brendan Fraser, The Mummy Returns

6. What have you done you’d prefer your parents not discover? I haven’t done anything all that bad. Especially not compared to them. There are no actions I’ve done that I’m afraid of hiding. It’s the things that I am that scare me. Like not mysterious enough to have something to hide.

7. Do you/Did you like your in-laws? I guess we can go with my girlfriend’s family? They’re fine. Nice people who have never said or done anything directly at me to my face. I wouldn’t associate with them in any other circumstance. I have very neutral feelings. They’re just there and don’t really impact my life all that much. Kind of like caterpillars.

8. Regular coffee or the fancy schmancy stuff? None. I would choose the fancy stuff though. It’s fancy and I’m a fancy man. I own two pairs of dress shoes. How’s that for fancy?

9. One thing on your bucket list. Move somewhere completely different. It’s the scariest feeling in the world to know that I’m in a completely new place. To me, that’s like skydiving and playing football with a baby whilst doing so. Frightening.

10. Biggest surprise you’ve had. That my life is not one iota like I thought it would be. I probably aimed too high. I figured I’d have at least one MVP Award by now. Instead I toil away in mediocrity. Eating cereal for lunch in my car.

11. Pick an ethnicity other than you own. Why? Black. I’m surrounded by them right now and they’d hit me if I didn’t choose them. If I had to be another ethnicity I would be Asian though. They’re the wave of the future. Everyone likes a good Asian Underdog Story. Look at Jeremy Lin. People who don’t even know what Asia is love the guy.

And now for my questions. The following people have been tagged to answer them.

Your Daily Dose

Grounding My Roots

Hard to Say Really

Delicious Suspicious

A Spoonful of Suga


The Camel Life

Wind Up My Skirt




1. When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? What did you think you would become?

2. Who is your biggest celebrity crush?

3. Angels, Bigfoots, or Aliens; which one do you think is most likely to exist?

4. What is something that everybody seems to enjoy that you hate?

5. If you opened your front door and I was there, what would you say? What would you really be thinking?

6. What is your favorite movie and why?

7. There has to be something that you believe you’re the best at, what is it?

8. Who is the ugliest person you know and why are they so ugly?

9. Is love unconditional?

10. Lots of people have addictions. What is yours?

11. What is the nicest compliment you have ever received? What is something that you would like to be complimented more about you?

This year is an election year in America. In other words, it means we get really excited that things will change but we all secretly know they won’t. This disappointment leads to something else. It’s called a revolution. I see that word every year. Mostly coming from the lips of people who have no idea what they’re talking about. Usually, soaked in whiskey.

(Future Freedom Fighters of America)

Sure, I would love if things were different. That would be great. I also know that a revolution isn’t the way to go. The Beatles, who were never held accountable for inspiring the Manson Family Murders, had a song where they talked about a revolution. Are they the best people to lead a revolution? They couldn’t even stick together. Before they even became famous they kicked out their drummer. That’s not loyalty. For a revolution to start you need to be loyal to the cause. They tossed Pete Best out into the streets of Liverpool like he wasn’t the best option. He clearly was. His last name said so. Instead they went for Ringo Starr. They cared more about stardom then they did about being the best. Fuck the Beatles. Fuck them and their “all you need is love” mentality. You need more than love. You need the ability to duck from the bullets of fat retarded fan boys.

(He kind of does look like Lennon with a few extra pounds and insanity)

I don’t believe that most people who want this revolution to take place really know what they’re getting into. The American Revolution was huge. It led to freedoms that never existed before. Same thing goes for the French Revolution. They got to cut off their leader’s head! All because she told them to go eat cake. That’s how you know people are pissed off. When they are told to eat a delicious dessert and they cut off your head. A revolution in this country wouldn’t really get us much. What freedoms don’t we really have? We can’t run around naked and we can’t control other people’s minds. I would love to do both of those things. I walk around naked for hours at home and whenever I see a cute girl I always attempt to get her to think “I want to kiss him. Get up and kiss him.” Those things will probably never be possible. I won’t go into why but I’ll blame the Republicans because they’re easy to blame for things I don’t understand.

(It’s Ron’s fault I couldn’t find my car in the parking lot the other day)

Starting a revolution means a few things. For starters, lots of people are going to die. I mean a massive amount. At least a third of us would have to die to just prove a point. I don’t know if that’s really worth it. I’m not willing to die so that people who don’t exist yet have even more rights than they would already have in today’s world. I don’t think you would be willing to either. Some countries do need bloody violent revolutions. That’s because in those countries they live in huts and can’t have their late night talk show hosts do parody interviews about their leaders. Have you seen an episode of The People’s Republic of the Congo’s “Late Night with Dirikeyumbo Mononotouba”? It’s all dick jokes. That one mention of how oppressive the dictator is. The second thing that I will mention about revolutions in this paragraph is that there are too many damn people in the United States for it. We’re too big and too spread out for it to ever be successful. What will end up happening is we’d break up into little territories. We’d basically become Russia. Nobody wants to be Russia. They’re so 80s.

I really don’t even know what there is to complain about politically in this country. Yeah, the distribution of wealth stinks. Families hoard all of their money and for generations their spoiled kids go on to be wealthy and successful too. The only way to stop this is to stop fucking these people. If you meet a Kennedy, do not sleep with them. Don’t let the Carnegies, the Bushes, and the Rockefellers of the world into your pants. If we stop having sex with them then they stop existing. Think of them like pandas. Let’s make those tycoons extinct by forcing them to have sex with each other only to produce inbred children with ears for legs.

I urge you, don’t start a revolution. Leave your Muse songs or your Rise Against music in your file of music title “Good idea, bad approach.” Yeah, the government stinks and they could probably do more to help us out. I just don’t think things are so bad when the worst thing that happens in your day is that your iPad has too much grease on the screen.

Starship Troopers was one of my favorite movies while growing up. Easily it would have won a lot of awards if it hadn’t come out the same year as Titanic. Titanic actually won the award for best special effects. I mean, come on! The only special effect in the whole film was watching violin players fall off a boat. Starship Troopers had bugs getting blown up by Jake Busey and other South Americans who for some reason looked very white. Am I remembering that correctly, did they not all live in Brazil? That always confused me about Starship Troopers. How Denise Richards and Neil Patrick Harris could be Brazilian. It’s not like they can say their white parents moved there. White families don’t move to Brazil. At least, not without black masks on after being kidnapped then held for ransom.

(How a white woman moves to Brazil)

Bugs disgust me. Every single one of them. I never like a person who refuses to kill bugs. It’s a bug. We call humans we don’t like bugs as a comparison. Bugs bug me! Scrooge would say Bah Humbug. Key part of that, bug! Please kill every bug you see. They’re disgusting creatures.

Ants – These are one form of bug that I don’t mind until they get into my home. My current apartment hasn’t had any ant problems. My old home was filled with them. I’d spend summers seeing how many I could kill. I’d fill up a squirting bottle with water and soap and squirt them to death. Sometimes I’d waste a paper towel on them. Ants are supposed to be these brilliant soldiers. If that’s the case then why don’t the survivors tell the queen “Hey, we lost a lot of men out there today. Let’s move onto somewhere else”? I hated ants so much when I was younger I would kick in their ant holes. When I learned more about them I stopped doing it. I realized most ants only live a few days anyway. I’ll let them die of natural causes like being crushed by a piece of picnic bread.

Bees – When I say bees, I mean all of those flying yellow pests. Wasps, hornets, yellow jackets, all of them. These are the worst. The sound of their buzzing makes me sick. I’m glad that the bees are dying. Even if it means the Apocalypse is closing in because of it I don’t care. I feel partly responsible. At recess I used to go around with friends stepping on bees while they fucked flowers or whatever it is they do to them. I heard a bee buzzing one time and it made me cough. It took 6 months before the cough went away. I got my revenge one time when a bee was hiding behind a curtain and I punched it to death. That must suck to be a bee and die with your stinger still inside you. It’s like dying a virgin. Is that true that bees die after they sting you? That’s a pretty shitty defense. Bees are the Arab terrorists of bugs.

(Allah-Ak”buzz” – Arabian Bee Prayer)

Slugs – I don’t know if slugs qualify as a bug. I’ve killed a lot so they do to me. Slugs always seemed to be hanging around my back and front yards. The amazing thing about slugs is that they melt if you pour salt on them. You don’t even need a lot. I can’t trust any species who melts from a soft pretzel. They’re so big and fat and slimy. I think their purpose to exist is to help eat garden bugs. What happens when you don’t have a garden? My yard barely had grass in some places. What’s weird about slugs is you never see a dead one just lying around being a douche. One time I found a slug on my dog. Another time I found one on my kitchen floor. I put it in a bag and chased my sister’s boyfriend around with it. I’d love to cut a slug in half with a knife just to see what‘s inside. I’ve done it with baseballs, why not slugs?

Grasshoppers – The best thing about grasshoppers is at least they kind of keep to themselves. Other than being chirping idiots like their brothers from another mother, the crickets, I don’t have much against grasshoppers. There are these random bugs I find in my apartment every so often though that are similar. They hop fast and when I don’t kill them in time they hide behind my refrigerator. I’ve gotten really good at killing them. So good I rarely see them now. The message has gotten across to them. They’re not nearly as cute as Jiminy Cricket. I’ve never seen one of them holding a tiny umbrella. Even if I did I might have to kill it with a roll of paper towels. I could always get a margarita and get some good use out of the tiny umbrella.

(A beloved Disney character was killed so a gay man could enjoy a fruity drink on a Florida beach)

Flies – I saw a fly on a train one time and I thought to myself “Ha Ha! He’s going to get off the train and not have any idea where he is or how far away he is from his family.” Then I remembered how stupid flies are. A 15-year-old with perky breasts (I was 13 at the time, it’s okay if I noticed these things) told me that every time a fly lands it pukes and shits. I don’t know if this is true. I’ve let flies land on me and didn’t see them leave anything behind. That’s a pretty lousy existence. You have to fly around then you shit and puke. How about you stay still and you won’t be so damn dizzy. Flies are very difficult to kill. We used to get so many of them in our house that we had some amazing contraptions to kill them with. One was shaped like a gun and would slap two swatters together. Nobody likes a fly. That’s why the thing on the front of a man’s pants is called a fly. It’s to turn women off of sex. Thank you very much Catholic Church.

Spiders – I think every home is infested with spiders. Every corner seems to have some piece of a spider web clinging to the wall. For some reason I have it in my head if there’s one bug I’m not going to kill it’s going to be spiders. I bought into the propaganda that they eat other bugs. I’ve never seen this happen. I have seen other bugs stuck in spider webs though. How dumb do you have to be to get stuck in a spider web? Very. It’d be like if I stepped on a Vietnamese landmine. I’ll never be in Vietnam for any reason ever. And if I was, what would I be doing walking in a mine field? Spiders are very fascinating though despite being pretty easy to kill. All you need is a tissue. They have evolved into having 8-legs, the ability to build booby-traps to catch their food, and can walk on basically every surface yet the same thing I blow boogers into is their version of a hydrogen bomb. That doesn’t seem fair. Further prove that God is not a spider.

I guarantee one person from my Facebook who attended Rutgers University clicked on this. Thank you for doing so. Thank you so much for never reading anything I have written and only clicking on this because you saw your alma mater here. I so appreciate you thinking outside of yourself.

For those you not familiar with Rutgers University, consider yourselves lucky. Let me explain to you what it is exactly. I’m sure you can relate. Basically it’s that one college in the area that everyone seems to go to. I’m sure you have a version of it near you. A college that everyone seems to go to and nobody ever seems to go onto anything better after graduating? Basically it’s that college where you know the people only got in there because their parents could afford it over sending them to community college.

The main nickname people have for Rutgers is Slutgers. It’s clever because you see, it rhymes and sluts are bad. The only girls who ever call someone a slut are sluts themselves. The only guys who ever call someone a slut are guys who never get laid. To be fair, it does have one of the highest rates of sexually transmitted diseases of universities in the United States. That’s quite an accomplishment. Do you know how much sex must go on there for that to happen? I take it back. Calling it Slutgers is the most accurate thing you could ever call it.

I know a lot of people who went to school there. Most of them gave me that old “Hey, I know you’re going to community college and all, but I want to keep in touch! I’ll make my way into the inner circle of a group of college friends and then invite you to parties. We’ll be friends forever.” and then they never talked to me ever again. The school was maybe 40 minutes away, if that. I couldn’t get invited to one awful party and flirt with one obese girl at a party? I still like to tell myself nobody invites me to parties because they know I’d totally be the center of attention. You could only tell yourself that so much until you start to realize that’s a false idea.

But this isn’t about a college of mediocrity. A college where if the teams finish with an even record it’s considered great. This is about the bumper stickers on the backs of cars. Maybe because I never went to a University I never felt the need to share my life with others on the back of my car. Especially not the need to brag about where I shelled out $30,000 a semester. It’s one of those things I will never understand. The need to let strangers know about you. That’s how children get kidnapped! We were always told never to have your name on your book bag because a stranger would see it, say “Hey Tim, your mom was in a really bad car accident. I’m her friend, Bruce. She wants me to take you to her.” Of course I would never fall for this. The first is that my mom never picked me up from school so why would she send some friend I had never heard of before to do it? The second is that my mom was an extreme anti-Semite. She would never befriend a creepy Jewish man named Bruce. Nice try pedophile. You’re not diddling me any time soon.

I see a lot of cars around my work and hometown with Rutgers bumper stickers. Not so much where I live. I don’t think people where I live ever go to college. Or get off welfare. For some reason everyone with a Rutgers bumper sticker thinks they’re hot-to-trot. They drive fast, they don’t use turn signals, gonorrhea seems to be shooting out the windows of their cars. There’s some stigma about them. I know not everyone from this college is a total waste of space. It’s only the ones with the bumper stickers. The big red R’s. I hate them so much. I won’t go into a big thing about how their nickname is The Scarlett Knights and then point out the obvious that a Knight wearing the color Scarlett never once in the history of the world stood in New Brunswick, New Jersey. Or I just did.

The only good thing about these bumper stickers are that they’re a warning to stay away. I know to expect sudden stops. Left hand turns at signs that say “No Left Turns” are imminent. To these people, Yield means stop completely and hold up traffic. What are they teaching people at this school? This is also the same school where I think it was about a year or two ago that a gay student was filmed by his roommate having gay sex with another man. It was broadcast online. The kid proceeded to jump off a bridge due to the embarrassment. Sure, it’s embarrassing. But now you don’t have to go through the harsh moment of actually saying the words “I’m gay” to people who won’t accept you. Nothing could be more brave than to continue living your life. Letting yourself get distraught over this sends a really bad message to others in the same situation as you. It’s like saying “I’m gay and I know it’s wrong.” They’re also trying to convict the two students responsible for filming it. I won’t get into a long rant about how shitty that is and that it’s not their fault that someone else is so embarrassed about who they are that they’re willing to kill themselves over it. What if it was a straight guy was filmed having sex with a fat chick? Eddie Murphy got caught with a transsexual. What’d he do to make us forget about it? He made a lot of bad movies ever since. We forgot about it. Get over yourself. You live in a country that is so wonderful that you can have gay sex and not die be killed because of it. Other parts of the world you’d be stoned in the face. Quit complaining. Children die of starvation every day. You call yourself a “liberal” and “open minded” yet all you care about is yourself and your own wants and desires. Go fuck yourself college kids. Rutgers or wherever it is you go.

I didn’t stay much on topic which is probably for the best. There wasn’t much to say about a lousy red bumper sticker in the first place. All I wanted to really say through all of this is that I don’t care where you go to college. It doesn’t make you better or worse than anyone else. We all end up dead. Having a class ring from a certain place isn’t going to do you much good then will it?

What was it that Izzy used to say?