Archive for March, 2012

Imagine me sitting in a chair, possibly dressed nicely. I have a tie on because ties let you know that a man doesn’t have to treat a woman nicely. He can pay for sex if he wishes. That’s how much of a hot-shot I look. Perhaps I have a Bluetooth on too. I’m not talking into it. I’m too stupid to figure out how to use it. Sometimes I go out and walk around the park pretending I’m talking to someone. My made up friend Rico isn’t on the other end and the joke I’m pretending to laugh it doesn’t exist. I’m a crazy person trying to look cool. My pants are fancy, my shoes actually laced, and I’m wearing false teeth over my real ones to look more presentable. Try getting into an argument with dirty natural teeth. You probably won’t win. You need some milky whites to attain a flawless victory.

Why am I dressed up so fancy? Well because today is a serious day. One year ago today my mom passed away. I’ve been debating for a while whether I should write anything about it. It doesn’t really go with the theme of this blog, you know, shit humor, but if there was anybody who appreciated shit humor it certainly was my mom.

I didn’t know exactly what it was that I wanted to write about here. I figured it was a safe bet to write about some of her favorite things. Mostly what we enjoyed together or that one of us pretended to like more because it gave us some bonding time. Or in some cases we really didn’t just want to say how stupid the other one was for having awful taste.

Professional Wrestling

I don’t know how much my mom really understood about the WWE. At times I think she didn’t realize it was scripted or that The Undertaker was not dead and actually named Mark. She’d yell at the TV that what the bad guys were doing wasn’t fair. She always rooted for the good guys which annoyed me because I’m a smark, someone who roots for the bad guys. I’d almost want to punch her when she’d clap for HHH beating someone else. I hated HHH. His nose is gigantic and he’s a backstage goon who refuses to lose. Her favorite though was The Rock which I can’t argue with. Weird thing is neither of us watched wrestling when The Rock was popular. I think she mostly was into looking at him in tiny underwear more than anything else. One year for her birthday I got her a set of action figures of The Rock. Her last birthday 2 years ago I bought her a collection of “The Best of The Rock” a 3-DVD set. I mostly bought it because I wanted to watch it first then give it to her. I don’t think she ever did watch it, but that was probably a good thing. I never realized how much he lost. Mostly to that big nosed asshole HHH. Fuck you and your initial moniker.

 (Next year Wrestlemania should take place inside his right nostril)

Baseball

This was another thing my mom paid attention to because I want into. We even got a dog and named him after Mark McGwire we were so into the 1998 season. More on that piece of shit dog later. We’d watch Phillies games together all the time in the late 90’s. During those years the team would lose about 100 games a season. You don’t need to know a thing about sports to know they weren’t very good. Her favorite player was the Jewish catcher, Mike Lieberthal. I’m not saying the team sucked because they had a Jewish catcher and their star pitcher was a Republican whose son had ALS, but I don’t hear it argued enough that they probably should have signed more Puerto Ricans. The last baseball game we watched together was during the 2009 World Series. I so totally could have hooked up with a girl that night who was into me, but I couldn’t let my mom down. We needed to see the Yankees buy their way into another championship. I don’t regret it at all. That hot chick probably would have tried to change the way I dressed. My mom once told me she was proud of me because I always wore clean clothes. It didn’t take much to impress her.

 (Mike Lieberthal rookie card)

The Popcorn Zoo

Last year on Mother’s Day my sisters and girlfriend (my girlfriend, I don’t share her with my sisters you creep) went to the Popcorn Zoo. I’ve mentioned it before, but I will repeat to you that it is a zoo of abused animals where you get to feed them popcorn. I know, holy fucking shit right? This exists! You can throw popcorn at bears and watch them eat it. The best animals there are the deer. They used to have some that had three legs. I have fed three-legged deer movie theater snacks. How many people can say that? Probably like a couple million because the zoo has been around a long time, but still I bet no one in Australia has ever done that. Have you ever seen a map? That’s a big place. I have done more in my life than everyone in Australia. My mom’s favorite animal there was Ferdinand the cow. He sent my mom a postcard one time because she made a donation to get him a bell or whatever it is cows need donations for. Feeding animals and not having to pick up the poop afterwards is one of my favorite things to do. That’s why the Popcorn Zoo will always be a place near and “deer” to my heart. Get it? Because I mentioned deer–

(Me feeding a goat a nutritious snack)

Reruns

My mom would always rush home from whatever she was doing to catch the reruns of her favorite shows. I don’t think she watched a first run television show since the Ron Perlman shows Beauty and the Beast was on while I was born. Her favorites were King of Queens, Two and a Half Men, and Wings. What a Three Stooges combination of mediocrity. Strangely enough the only one of these that I ever watched a lot of was Wings. I kind of got into it too. It’s about two brothers who work for an airline on Nantucket. I know this sounds like the beginning to a dirty joke, but I swear it was a pretty tame show. Basically it was Taxi but with airplanes. They even had a silly repairman played by the bad guy from Spiderman 3 who was also the bad guy in George of the Jungle. Isn’t Thomas Haden Church also a prick in real life? You’d think with the last name church at worse he’d be a con-artist.

 (This is what cool people looked like in the early 90s. Y2K should have destroyed us)

McGwire the Dog

Lovable, sweet, adorable, and exciting are a few words I would never use to describe McGwire the Dog. When my mom passed the family was left wondering what we should do with McGwire. It was unanimous that we’d put him in the garbage disposal and blame it on a black guy who broke in. Then we realized none of us are fancy enough to own a garbage disposal so he came to live with me. He’s okay I guess. When I came home last I could smell him immediately. Sometimes he smells so bad I want to pour sour milk on him to make things better. And to torture him a bit for waking me up and being an overall fatass. He licks my couch a lot for some reason. It’s not even like there are food remnants there. I think he’s just trying to annoy me for when I sit down and my arm rest is soaking wet. But I guess he’s all right. He snores really loudly which gives me some background noise. It helps me avoid from being able to think. It helps keep away some demons.

(He looks like a fat deer on a giant lesbian shirt)

Those are just a few of the things my mother enjoyed. I could go on forever really. She liked bounty paper towels, Leslie Nielsen movies, and not using the Internet. Really, my mom probably didn’t go online since 2004. She used prepaid phones like a drug dealer and had no clue who the Chocolate Rain Kid was. She lived very simply. The only thing more I could have wanted from her was more time. One more conversation, one more trip to the movies together, one more blabbering voicemail that went on for 6 minutes about a joke on the Nick Swardson show that I didn‘t know existed, and one more of everything else I loved about her. I have a good memory and not much had to be blocked out involving her. She yelled at me twice that I remember and apologized after both. One time was because I was eating chicken instead of helping with the Christmas tree setup and the other was because I couldn’t match up a pair of black sweat pants with the black tuxedo that Alfred the Butler wore on a shirt I had which contained all of the Batman characters. I was only really nervous one time about sharing something with her. It happened when I was suspended from school for 9 days my junior year of high school for making a parody of the school newspaper. To be fair it was a book that she gave me that inspired my troublemaking ways. When she found out that I had been suspended from school there was no yelling. She high-fived me instead. That’s how I knew I had an awesome mom. She had never met the principal and even she knew he was an asshole.

Over yonder in New Jersey, our license plates have the phrase “The Garden State” on them. That’s what New Jersey is known for most. Gardens. It’s true. If you’ve never been here, you can’t dump a dead body somewhere without stepping on a tomato in a garden. There’s a potted plant in front of my apartment. I don’t know who put it there or why it’s filled with cigarette butts. That’s still a garden though, by our standards. You know that much about New Jersey. What you may not know is that the one thing we have more than gardens are hacks.

Webster defines a hack as someone who lacks talent, originality, and has at one point gone by an alias. Webster of course being my black neighbor Jerry Webster. He so smart! I’m a firm believer that outside of Branson, Missouri no place has more entertainment hacks available to the public. You name it, New Jersey has a worse version.

(This isn’t my neighbor Jerry Webster but I’m racist so all black men look-alike to me)

I’ll start with comedians, something I know all too well. Go to just about any comedy club in New Jersey’s website and look at the upcoming schedule. If you recognize someone’s name you’re a pretty big comedy fan. We have guys with names like Bob-O, Spitzy, and Richard “The Human Pretzel” Ramirez. At least two of them use a dummy or a strange instrument in their act which drives the crowd wild. These are the stereotypes of hacks in the comedy world. They do goofy voices, invite audience members on stage, and have headshots older than I am. Yeah, they were on HBO. That was 1991 and it was as an extra on an episode of Tales from the Crypt. I don’t have a problem with exaggerating your credits. It’s hard to convince people to see a comedy show when they could do more fine things like go to a poetry open mic or circumcise themselves. I’m mostly annoyed that no matter what comedy club I look at I see the same damn names over and over again. New Jersey, if you haven’t made it here, try another 15 years. Bookers don’t have time to look at anything new. They go with what’s familiar to them.

(These guys do a great bit about Roosevelt’s “New Deal”)

Professional wrestling is pretty big here. The film The Wrestler actually took place here. It’s a pretty realistic story. You can’t go to a VFW without seeing a poster for an upcoming wrestling show. Why do I go to VFWs you ask? To shout “Baby killers!” at everyone inside. Thing is, these wrestling organizations involve everyone on their way up and then on their way down again. You can see the evil German Jack Fritzenstein take on someone like Jimmy Snuka on any given night. Of course Jack is going to lose. His real name is Ted Hall and he lives in East Orange. He’s just a kid trying to make it in the competitive world of gay sports theater, wrestling. I’m not sure who actually goes to these shows. Probably drunks and weekend dads lying to their sons saying that they’re watching the stars of tomorrow, today!

(If you turn your head quickly and are color blind you might think The Rock is the guy in the upper right hand corner. Thankfully we know better)

The biggest city of hacks is also located in New Jersey. It’s called Atlantic City. Sure, there are some big acts that play there once in a while. But for the most part, you’re stuck seeing people who couldn’t make it in Las Vegas. I’ve been to AC twice. It wasn’t as crummy as everyone made it out to be. Yeah the beaches looked gross and the only person performing whose name I recognized was Liza Minnelli (oh joy!) but it still had some charm. It has a boardwalk where Asian women yell out at you demanding they give you a massage. The security isn’t even all that tight. I could have easily walked into a “member’s only” swimming pool. But why would I do that? I’m too much of a pussy to screw around with anyone’s business.

(All of Cindy’s fans friends showed up to show her some support as she watched her hopes and dreams slip away)

I’ve only lived in one area of the world so I don’t know what it’s like where you live. Are you too surrounded by hacks? I can usually spot them. If you know a musician who sounds quite a bit like someone more famous, they’re a hack. It’s not being a hack being a cover band though. I like to call them rip-off bands because that usually pisses them off. Learn something original asshole. If Lifehouse can play Lifehouse songs, anyone can play Lifehouse songs.

It seems like every time I visit Yahoo or try to engage a prostitute in small talk after sex I find out that a new celebrity has died. It’s amazing how many of them are dying. I’d explain to you why it is right now, but then this would be one paragraph. Let me try to put together a few more before giving the obvious answer to a lame question.

The reason why celebrities seem to be dying so frequently is that everyone is a celebrity now. More than ever you too can become famous. Back in 1920 or so, there weren’t nearly as many celebrities. Charles Lindbergh, Woodrow Wilson, and Kaiser Wilhelm were the top names to grace the covers of the celebrity gossip magazines. With a limited amount of media back then most celebrities were politicians or people who actually achieved something. Now all you need is a popular YouTube video or to share a last name with someone with a popular YouTube video. No longer does blood need to be shed for you to be wildly known. Why do you think John Wilkes-Booth killed Lincoln? Was it political? No! He was an actor trying to get his name out there.

(What a bad headshot. Doesn’t he know all actors are supposed to smile and be outside during one?)

Dead celebrities are no longer a taboo. It’s fine to make fun of them. I’m guilty of it for sure. When I hear a celebrity died the first thing that runs through my head is “What joke can be made about this” then it’s “I hope someone else doesn’t think of something better.” There was a whole television show based around them killing each other in claymation form. I had a video game of that show. Only in America can we have so many famous people that we need a television show where they fight to the death with each other.

(This is what clay was made for. And pottery for the Native Americans)

There aren’t any celebrities I’d be all that upset about dying. I don’t get attached to them very easily. They’re just entertainers. Monkeys with symbols clanging together. Let me take a moment to insult Dick Clark for no apparent reason other than he popped in my head. When Dick Clark dies people are going to be upset. Why? He never really did anything. He talked while a bunch of teenagers got together and danced to the latest tunes. He’s a glorified chaperone. Dick Clark is known as the world’s oldest teenager. Or he was until he had a stroke. Now he’s the old guy on New Year’s Eve we all feel bad for. He’s slobbering and he’s not even drunk. I swear, that poor old man is going to die on live television one December 31st. He’ll mess up the numbers like always and have a heart attack out of embarrassment. Please Dick, find something more appropriate to do on New Year’s Eve. Like finding a nice place in the woods to die in.

(This looks pretty nice)

Making fun of a celebrity death gets a lot of groans from massive amounts of people. I never got this. If some child star died, sure, groan. If one of the Olsen twins had SIDS while on Full House that would be sad news. Good news for the quality of entertainment, but sad news in the grand scheme of things. But when someone like Amy Winehouse overdoses she’s free reign. Shit, even if she died saving Catholic orphans from an overturned vehicle I think it’s fine if she was open season on ridicule. Part of being celebrity is letting things roll off your back. You can’t let every bad comment about you stick. Us non-celebrities get picked on all the time. We man through it don’t we? Celebrities can do the same thing. Personally I’d love if the tabloids were saying things about me. I doubt they ever will. I’m not nearly fucked up enough for anyone to believe I’m having a sexual affair with a coworker and find it shocking or interesting. Sure Cathy in Accounting isn’t bad-looking, but I doubt anyone would write home about our loud moans.

 

(Cathy in Accounting. Look, we gave you the right to vote. Please treat our man inventions with some respect)

What I really want to say about dead celebrities is that they’re going to keep happening. Eventually we’ll have so many of them it’ll be every day. I imagine when I’m older that I’ll have to explain to my kids who some celebrities are. Something will be all over the news about Joel Gosselin dying in a motorcycle crash. I’ll have to explain to them that he was on a show as a baby where his mother bossed around his father, the father got revenge by acting out, and things ended poorly between the two. Joel Gosselin is a celebrity whether he likes it or not. And he’s going to be dead someday. It’ll make headlines too. It’s fine to mourn for anyone’s death. Just don’t ruin the fun of others if we thought they spent their life as a hack one hit wonder.

Who am I? What’s the meaning of life? Why are people always whispering and laughing as I walk by them? Questions I ask myself every single day. Let’s stick with the first one. The other two are difficult. The meaning of life could be as simple as there is no meaning. That’s a bummer. As for why people are laughing and whispering around me, jealousy. Yeah that’s right. They’re talking about how great I am and don’t want to say it out loud so it gets to my head. It’s cool. If I was always being told by every female admirer how sexy I was I might have syphilis. Mostly girls with syphilis find me sexy. Something to do with it causing insanity.

(Al Capone died of syphilis. I so could have gotten him in bed)

When someone asks me who I am, usually I say “Fuck off” and they beat me with their gun again. “You ain’t getting a word out of me you pig with a badge” is what I say next. It’s a much deeper question than that though. For a moment, I want you to think of your name. Whatever it might be. Sherry, Lewis, Bram, or one of the other names that human beings have. Doesn’t that blow your mind? What your name is and what it represents is you. Everything. It’s all encompassing and it’s you. This works best while late at night and in bed. Try it. You’ll be fearful of going to sleep based on all of the bad things you have done or years you’ve wasted.

Certain words can define a person. Certain characteristics can as well. I’ve narrowed them down for you. I’m all about self-discovery and helping others reach inner peace/demons.

The first identification you can have as a person is whatever you job happens to be. For instance if your job is police officer then you might at times identify as one. The movie Taxi Driver had a line from my dead brother Peter Boyle. His character Wiz said something like “You have a job. You become the job.” I agree. I think that’s a really good route to happiness. As the Geico advertisements I hear on the radio say quoting Mark Twain “Make your vocation your vacation.” If you don’t like your job you’re fucked. It’s so easy for Mark Twain to say that too. All he did was sat in a cabin and write books. He wrote children’s books with the N-Word in it. What an asshole! You know you’ve got leverage when you can get away with that. Go to the book store and get a Paddington Bear book. I’ll bet you anything there’s not a single racial slur in it besides the first page. Hey, even children’s books have to start off with a bang.

(“Paddington Bear was late to work yet again because that towelhead refused to pick him up. Paddington promptly flipped him the bird” – First Page of Paddington Bear Takes Manhattan)

You can also identify yourself by your religion. I hear people say “I am a Christian.” This bothers me because I think you should give yourself more credit. You’re more than a Christian. I don’t think faith should ever be your number one identity you have for yourself. It feels to me waving your religion around is a little flamboyant. And doesn’t the Bible hate flamboyant people? It’s great that you have faith and are happy with it. I just don’t need that to be the main thing I know about you. Being a Christian, a Muslim, or even an Atheist (I forget the other types of religions out there) doesn’t make me have any idea of who you are. Some of all are good and some of all are bad. Faith isn’t a card where you get to do whatever you want. Most people don’t really want to know what you do with your Sunday mornings. Find something more important to identify yourself with like “Good Person” or “Curer of Cancer.” When religion is the first thing someone brings up to me all I know is that they’re a recovering addict or have been boring their entire life.

(Or you could be like Stephan Baldwin and be both)

A third way to identify yourself as is your relationship to others. You can be a father, a mother, a child, a brother, a sister, you know the rest. I think it’s mostly mothers, fathers, and grandparents who identify themselves in this category. Who calls themselves a cousin? Everyone in the world except for me has a cousin. It’s not a special thing. This is probably the most dignified way to identify yourself as. Anyone can become a telephone repairman and it’s very easy to show up to church then call yourself religious. Becoming a parent is easy. Being one is the tough part. I’m not a parent nor will I be any time soon barring a big mistake, a new direction in life, or alien abduction. I was told the other day that aliens are going around raping people and that this is common knowledge. I must have been hiding under a rock of logic when this was discussed in school.

(E.T. tell you not to phone home. This be yours and his little secret)

Of course, the best way to identify yourself is as an individual. You don’t really need a tag. Sure, I’d love to have a great job where I could say what it is and identify myself as. Right now that’s not the case. I’m probably not going to see Jesus in toast any time soon (I don’t eat much bread) and even if I did I think I’d have more important things to take care of before gloating about my faith. You know, like helping others. Someday maybe I will be a father. I could see myself identifying as that. Even so, I’ll need some other kind of identification for my kid’s sake. No kid wants to be able to brag to their friends that their dad is a father. They want to be able to say he’s an assassin or a rock star football player. For you non-existent child, I will do my best to discover who I am and put a simple one word label to it.

It amazes me that the best detectives of all-time have been men. Sherlock Holmes, Dick Tracy, Inspector Gadget have all had penises. Sherlock Holmes was probably the only one with foreskin as he was a British man from the early 1900s. All I will say about Dick Tracy is that he’s named Dick for a reason. It’s big. Finally onto the topic of Inspector Gadget’s genitals. I’m sure if need be it could have opened up into a parachute or life raft. I was never much into Inspector Gadget. A half-man, half-Swiss army knife solving crimes with a niece named Penny? The name Penny is on my list of horrible names. Nobody likes pennies. They’re cheap and almost always have something blue on them. But there’s one thing these crime solvers all do have in common despite their differences in the front of the pants. All three are men. More than likely, men who cannot take a hint.

(Penny has grown from a tiny little coin into a big fat half-dollar. I’m thinking she ate that Marmaduke imposter she calls a dog)

You see girls, us guys sometimes have trouble understanding your intentions. Not me. I know immediately when a girl isn’t interested. I had a friend who didn’t have that DNA strand in him. While scavenging for women one night, we came across a drunk one next to a doorway. He asked her if she needed help. She said that her boyfriend would be back any moment. He asked if she wanted to go somewhere for a dance. That’s when she got violent and started slurring louder. We left and instead flirted with some girls who were hanging with their aunt. Aunts ruin everything. Nobody’s ever said “I’m going to bring my aunt along” and things turned out better. I’m so glad I don’t have an aunt. If I did I’d make her pay for the sins of all other aunts. There’s a reason why you’re named after an easily killed insect.

I can never knock a guy for trying to get with a girl. It can be a lot of effort at times. But when you start to break a sweat, that’s when you should call it quits. Please note, if you’re in a bar and a guy won’t stop harassing you, you asked for it. You’re in a bar. You’re surrounded by drunk people and you’re probably drunk yourself. If you expect to get home safe and happy, you’re fooling yourself. More so I would like to discuss when guys harass girls in more public settings like a train or a dog food factory.

The first hint a guy needs to know in not pursuing a woman is when she mentions her boyfriend she’s doing it for a reason. I always make the mistake of mentioning my girlfriend because I’m a nice person. I probably shouldn’t. That really is a punch to the ovaries of a flirting woman. But like I said, I’ve got a moral code I live by. A code that will probably lead to me dying alone. It always breaks my heart when a girl mentions her boyfriend or fiance. Even when I know I don’t have a chance I feel like she’s been lying to me the whole 2 minute conversation. Does she not realize how quickly and easily I fall in love? I figured that ring on your finger was a reminder to keep yourself pure! Cut this purity ring crap. If you really don’t want to have sex put on a chastity belt or eat a lot of pizza so nobody wants to with you. You’re on the same level of cool as the Jonas Brothers. And all three of them were replaced overnight by Justin Bieber. How’s that make you feel?

(Even with a coke addict cutter thrown into the mix, the JoBros still don’t amount to one Bieber)

Not even for guys, but everyone in general, when a person responds with one word answers you know it’s always a bad sign. There’s this guy who always tries talking to me. When he does, I say as little as possible. I also avoid eye contact. I’m pretty sure he has a crush on me. He’s gotten close enough to me where dandruff has flown off of his shoulders onto my nose like a Disney snowflake. Men only get that close to each other during muggings and naked wrestling matches. I checked my wallet and everything was still there so I can use my imagination. Even worse than the one word answers are the blank stares. I had two German girls do that to me. Their stupid Aryan grins smiling at each other as they knew I was crashing and burning. I hated it. I wanted to remind them how their Final Solution failed. Fuck those chicks. I thought the one had a lip piecing but it turned out to be a cold sore.

A little something different here, do any girls ever like pictures of guys flexing in the mirror? I’ve never encountered a girl who liked that. I talk to smart girls, dumb girls, tall girls, short girls, fat ones, ugly ones, all kinds. Not one has ever claimed to like these pictures. Why do guys think this will attract a woman? Haven’t they seen the memes making fun of guys like them? Here’s a hint for those guys, hide your nipples. Yes, you’re in great shape. We can all tell that from you in a shirt. For everybody, if there’s a certain type of picture that you’re taking that you can’t ask someone else to take of you, maybe you shouldn’t take it.

(I really hope this is a parody. If not this man deserved to be the first image to pop up when searching “flexing douche”)

In the end what I’m trying to say is have some intuition into what other people are saying. If a girl is overly friendly with you, she probably likes you. If she ignores you, you’re not something she’s interested in. Girls are very judgmental and will slit your throat in a second. They know immediately if you’re a viable candidate to accidentally impregnate them. Give women some credit. It’s not like they ever seem to always be dating criminals, unemployed slobs, or assholes over and over again.

I was getting off a train recently when I had a personal revelation. No, I didn’t discover I was gay. This isn’t some weird fan fiction where I make out with one of your favorite Harry Potter characters. If I had to make-out with a male character from Harry Potter it would definitely be Snape. Alan Rickman is older which means he is more experienced. He’s kissed so many women he’ll be eager to kiss a man. Not to mention, I know of at least two people reading this who are in love with him. I know that fact for a fact. So my lips touching his will not be something I will discuss today nor ever. I’m not going to go into how he might gently hold my back, rub his rough facial hairs against my chest, or how his voice might sound whispering warm air into my ears. That will turn this from a family friendly blog into some creepy word-porn.

(He can take over my Nakatomi Plaza any day)

As I walked down the stairs I looked around me to take in who was there. It was mostly gang bangers. Maybe they weren’t all in gangs, but for the sake of sounding shocking I will call these tattooed thugs in gold chains and baggy pants gang bangers. I guess if they were all in gangs they would be more of a nation. These were the guys getting off the train. The people getting on the train were a lot different. They were girls with high butts. Not big butts or necessarily nice ones. Just high ones. Asses placed a little too out of reach for a child to grab onto. Midgets couldn’t sexually harass these ladies. I’m almost certain one of the girls had an ass on the back of her head. Try imagining that with a ponytail. Yuck.

What exactly was my revelation? It’s simple. I am more of a gang banger than I am a girl with a high butt. Everything about my life is closer to these gang bangers. These hardened criminals. Section 8 dwelling, gangsta rapping, wearing a baseball hat of a team I don’t even know the name of gang bangers. It’s more than the fact that both of us decided that our nights should be over with on a Saturday night at 10 whereas girls with high butts are just getting started. It’s much deeper.

(Deep like this, the remains of Ground Zero, NYC. Yeah, I always thought the Twin Towers were much bigger too)

Girls with high butts are fantastic to look at. If you’re one of these girls, please continue making your ass looking so incredibly high that it’s a target to have a plane flown into. I would love to date a girl with a high butt. Even if people are constantly jumping off it to their deaths, there’s something sexy about a high ass. How many more things that are high in the sky can I make a reference to? I think what I love about high butts is that it makes legs look longer. I love a girl with long legs. Ones that could wrap around me like a python. These girls do need to know one thing. You’re not smart. Sorry, but God gave you an ass so close to heaven that and above the clouds so you didn’t need to ever have an intelligent thought. Be happy with what you got. And stop thinking your take on life is unique or interesting. You have a high asshole. The only thing you should do at parties is shit out of it onto all of the heads of the people below. Get it? Because the ass is so high that–forget it.

What do I have in common with gang bangers? Nothing really. I’ve never been to jail nor do I hate people because of a certain color they might wear. Except yellow. Nobody looks good in yellow. I do believe however that I can relate more to a gang banger than a girl with a high butt. Most people join gangs because they’re lonely, want friends, and are easily bullied into things. Sounds like me! Girls with high butts only care about one thing. Themselves. I never understood anyone who doesn’t start their evening until 11pm. Unless you work at Staples, you’re asking for trouble not going out until then. One time at a Manhattan Subway at 3 in the morning a scary black guy ran in, grabbed a skinny Spanish guy’s phone and broke it on the ground. Am I really supposed to believe that their evenings began around 7? No way in hell. They didn’t even start to do their hair until around 8. Nothing good ever happens when it’s dark. Have you ever heard of an afternoon rape? That’s what lunch is for. It keeps rapists occupied for a half hour every day.

(After eating an apple, a half pint of chocolate milk, and whatever other goods are in that brown bag, nobody feels much like raping)

I’m not sure what exactly it is I’m trying to get across here other than I can’t see myself ever getting along with a girl with a high butt. Only certain girls like me. They’re always a reject of some part of society. Girls with high butts are never rejects. They always belong. Gang bangers are also better than they are because at least a gang banger has story that doesn’t start with what the office clown did and end with her carrying a broken high heel chasing after a taxi. If you’re a girl with a big butt, I hate you. You have no purpose in my life. I will forever choose a conversation with a gang banger over you. At least they’re not loud and obnoxious. At least they will never give me an erection and completely ignore me when I smile at them.

Life isn’t easy. There are twists and turns. Literally. Most buildings have corners you have to walk around. This seems to be problematic for lots of people. Today, an instruction guide on how to properly walk without crashing into me.

In America, we drive on the right side of the road. What that means is that we walk on the right side of wherever it is we’re walking. I’m sure in England they do the same except on the left. It makes more sense to me the way we have it in the United States. Drive on the right, sit on the left side of the car. That’s probably why you never hear about famous British musicians beating people up in cars, because most people are right-handed. Had Chris Brown been English, he would have had to beat Rihanna with his left hand. He’d look awkward throwing punches with it. So there’s good where there’s bad.

Even with these rules written, I find myself getting into those awkward games of chicken with other people way too often. The joke where you can say “you go right, I go left” then you laugh as you realize your left is their right moment. What happens with these is that we anticipate where the person is going. We think they look like they’re about to shit so we might go left even though we know we should go right. The bathroom is on the right. We’re trying to be nice and allow them to shit quicker. A simple way around this that I found, stop and stand still. Let them walk around you. Become one with nothing. This is actually fun in big crowds. Everyone is forced to walking around you and it causes more of a foot traffic jam. But you’re safe. You’re in the middle of it all. It’s exhilarating in a sad sort of way.

(Like here, where my friends Milton and Wilma are blocking traffic. Times Square is nothing but 4 walls of advertisements. Stop getting your picture taken there random people I found on the Internet and gave fake names to)

Doorways seem to be another problem for people. I guess the rule is “ladies first” which I try to do. But what if it’s too ladies? Does the one with the bigger tits get to go first? Yes. But what if it’s two men? You can’t necessarily go by genitalia size. That involves too much assuming and racial profiling. I say, if two men enter a doorway then you fight it out. Run right at each other. Prove Charles Darwin’s theory to be true.

Most importantly, and you know it’s important because I made a diagram, is how to properly walk around a corner. See below:

Ignore the yellow sun (if you can even see it)  that I added in for flavor. The picture felt like it was lacking something. I figured sunshine always makes things better. Except for skin cancer. Sunshine makes that worse. The black represents the corner. The red represents paths that should be walked. Take note of the arrows. That represents the direction being walked. Why am I talking to you like you’re retarded?

Anyway, it’s courteous to make a wide turn when going around a corner on your left. I call that a “fine ass” turn. You should walk in the shape of an ass that is fine. When the corner is on your right, please do hug the corner. Keep as close as possible. Stand your ground. Don’t let these people who don’t know how to properly walk into your path. Way too often am I bumping into others who turn left and hug the corner. I don’t mind bumping into people when they spill something on themselves. But when we have to bump and one of us mouths “excuse me” and the other makes a weird noise is a bother. It’s too easy to avoid.

By the way, the same goes for people in wheelchairs. Follow the same rules. You also have another rule, don’t wind up your wheels and let yourself glide. I don’t know if anyone actually does this but that seems really dangerous. If I’m not allowed to sit on a swivel chair and shoot a fire extinguisher for leverage, you’re not allowed to have fun with your handicap.

(This is why we cannot allow the disabled to leave the house)

I’m sitting in the car in who knows where New Jersey. To give you a time frame of when this took place, a new song by Audioslave plays on the radio. It’s a bad one. Chris Cornell needs to hang it up. I forget where I was originally going. I think Seaside. But I’m not there. I took a detour into the woods and saw a random couch. This was in the Pine Barrens. Home of the Jersey Devil. Nowhere near the hockey team. But now it’s nighttime. My friend was doing the driving and we’re nowhere near Seaside Heights, location of Jersey Shore if you’re not familiar with historic landmarks. We can see it across the bay. Instead we’re at some other shit place. Alone, at 10pm at night near a bay with an overturned trash can. How did it get overturned? I kicked it. I’m an angry teenager. It’s what I do. My friend decides to open up to me. He tells me that there’s a girl he’s interested in. He likes her. She likes him. Then comes the moment where he whips out his camera phone to show me a picture. He prefaces it with “I know she’s a little big, but–” And I immediately make a bet that this relationship will not last.

(I’d also like to place a bet that at least 3 of these girls have herpes)

Yes, she is a little big. Upwards and sideways. That wasn’t a necessary prologue to the picture. It was my first thought seeing the picture. Of course the relationship didn’t last. He was embarrassed of her. The first sign that you hate your girlfriend, you insult her before I even see a picture.

To be kind, this friend in particular isn’t the only one who has done this. Sorry ladies, but guys do this a lot. I never have. I haven’t had a camera phone for even a year yet. You see, I’m old fashioned. I don’t openly insult someone I’m dating unless they deserve it. I also don’t wear buttons because they’re too fancy. How do I get my pants off if there’s no button? You’ll have to come over to find out.

I can think of a few other instances where I was presented with pictures of girlfriends of friends and they said something pigheaded about the girl. “I know she’s a little heavy but–”, “I know she has a weird nose but–”, “I know she’s Jewish but–” and almost always following the butt is a comment about how she has a great sense of humor or pert rack. I think it’s a silly thing though to have to defend who you’re dating. You shouldn’t have to do it. I’m not some oppressive father. I’m not going to judge you then beat you for attempting to cancel out our pure bloodline. Starting off with something negative makes me automatically assume the worst. You’ve open the flood gates of insults forever. And trust me, if I don’t like her, I will never hold back.

The thing about it is I never knew how to react when these situations popped up. What do I say “Yes, she sure is fat. Looks like you’ll be going on a lot of dates to the Chinese Buffet around the corner.” Around every corner is a Chinese Buffet where I grew up. Never a Chinese person. But if a large group of Chinese people ever did enter the town, there would be plenty of food for them. Usually my response is to defend the poor girl whose boyfriend hates her. I guess I don’t defend so much anymore. I’ll say things like “Meh she’s not bad-looking though.” Then he’ll agree and feel better. Sometimes I get into discussions that she would look better if she lost some weight. Well who wouldn’t? But then there are some people who would still be ugly. They have weird chins or improperly dried faces. You know, faces that look like they weren’t supposed to be put in the dryer but were. I wish I could think of an example outside of someone I went to school with. Think the old guys from the Muppets, sort of.

(Statler and Waldorf, they look exactly like half the girls guys I know have dated)

I’ve never shown pictures of my girlfriend to anyone. Not that I’m embarrassed of her. Just I have no one to show them to and most of the pictures I take of her on my phone are of her butt. Sometimes she likes pictures of her butt taken. Other times I have to trick her and say she dropped something. Nevertheless, if my phone ever goes missing they will know how much I like butts.

(Shouldn’t he be falling through the asshole of this butt?)

I did show two friends a picture of one girl I was sort of dating once. They didn’t believe me that I even knew her. We were in a Barnes and Noble parking lot arguing about it. I pointed out the girly handwriting on the back and they said I probably had my sister do it. What kind of sick person would have his sister write a fake note for him on the back of some pictures? Maybe the same person who carried around a picture of someone he didn’t even know claiming she was his girlfriend. I swear, when I did that I had a really good reason. I can’t remember what it was, but back then it made perfect sense.

Sharing pictures of your girlfriends is fine. I love seeing pictures of girls. All kinds of girls doing all kinds of things. When you do it, I almost think you’re saying in a secret way “Hey, if you’re ever bored or anything, you know, give her a call. I’m not very good at pleasing her.” Which nobody ever actually says. My life isn’t that perfect. But be courteous to your girlfriend. If you’re going to go around showing pictures, brag about her. Say what feature on her body you enjoy most. Maybe I can agree with you and you can have a creepy cuckold fantasy of watching me with her. I don’t know. I’m not in your head. I can’t decide what it is you think about in your spare time.

(But they can)

I am near black belt level of remembering the people I meet in life. Sometimes their names escape me. They will forever be known by other things like “gay kid from sports camp” or “gay kid from baseball camp.” As you can see, I went to a lot of camps and made a lot of friends with gay kids. Whether it was general sports or a more niche one, campgrounds are filled with little homos offering a trade of “show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

Going through my Facebook, there are some people I have no clue who they are. Thing is, I never knew who they were. They were random people who added me. It’s different with Facebook than it was with Myspace. Myspace was about meeting new people. That’s why it was so great at first. Do I need to remind you how many girls offered themselves to me on that website? Well, 4. Half of them were underage. Still, that’s more than Facebook. Myspace was awesome because you could spy on people and they could spy on you. A random girl could be browsing, look at my profile, then think that I was awesome. Then we could talk a little more and she could realize I wasn’t that great. At least I knew where I stood. With Facebook I’m lost in the woods.

(Facebook makes me feel like the Blair Witch is after me. I have no idea what’s going on and my nose runs a little too much)

I wonder this about random Facebook friends, who the fuck are they? They usually don’t have very many friends in general. Or they have a lot. I’m not referring either to the people you have a few friends in common with. Usually these are just friend whores. Instead I’m focusing more on those completely random out of the blue can’t find any connection with individuals. They baffle me. I need to find out more.

The thing about this phenomenon, yes like the John Travolta lightning movie, is that they’re almost always men from Eastern Europe or the Middle East. Something happens on that side of the world. Maybe they’re friendlier. They’re more willing to take risks because their lives in general involve more risk. There’s that and then there’s they’re perverts. If you’re a girl and a random guy adds you, he’s a pervert. I added one random girl on Facebook ever. We were Facebook friends for 23, yes like the Jim Carrey number movie, minutes. We had two friends in common. Why did I add her? She was hot and had very large breasts. I was lonely and felt like rolling the dice. I didn’t get a chance for her to say to me “Do I know you?” and for me to reply with “Yes” and freaking her out. I have since avoided adding random people. Unless you count the cute waitress I stalked and tried to add. But I mean c’mon, she must have seen me 50 times and even said hi once. It can’t be that creepy. It’s not like I post pictures of her on my blog…

(This isn’t a picture of the girl I tried to add on Facebook randomly. She’s just some random Google Image who came up from searching waitress. I wanted for a second you to think that I really would post pictures of random people I stalk)

I did have a girl add me randomly on Facebook. Her name was Nena Fitriyani or something very similar. She was from Indonesia and always called me Mister. She deleted me after I took one of her random pictures of her singing karaoke with friends and tagged friends of mine in it. I guess Indonesian humor doesn’t involve practical jokes. It’s more about tsunamis and–what else is Indonesia even known for?

(Didn’t a man with funny hair and a bad reality TV show say Barack Obama was born in Indonesia?)

I wouldn’t mind random people adding people if they had something to say. They never do though. They add you then never do a thing. This always throws me for a loop. I hate when people try to make a connection with me and don’t say a thing. I feel like a prostitute. You’re using me as a number to boost your popularity. At least say hello or like something I posted. Otherwise you’re clearly spying on me. You only added me hoping you could find out that my life was worse than yours. The joke is on you. I don’t post enough about how much my life stinks on Facebook. It’ll remain a constant mystery for you unless you’re reading this. In that case, my life rules.

I’m now led to the idea that there are others who have at some point seen me on their friends list and thought “who is this guy?” That’s a pretty shitty feeling. I don’t add people I haven’t met in person. Unless they’re some sort of celebrity. I’ll always add a celebrity. I have this fantasy of a celebrity seeing something I posted and making me famous. Or having sex with me. But isn’t having sex with a celebrity kind of like becoming famous? Or are you just another number to boost their popularity? I will never understand a thing about the beautiful and successful people of the world.

(Malin Akerman, I don’t get you, but I love you and you are the inspiration for everything that I do. More on that to come)

What makes a random person add someone on Facebook? The only thing most people can see about another is the main picture. Was I that attractive to the Iranian guy who decided to befriend me? Does that skinny old man who added me named Romes Forel have some infatuation with my image? I guess I should take what I can get. When a random person adds you on Facebook, it’s reassurance that you look like a friendly person. At the very least, you look like someone who could easily provide them with some sick torture fantasies. Look at the random friends you have on Facebook and tell me you can’t imagine them starring in a torture porn. On the rubber end of the knife too.

The world is filled with a lot of hate. It’s safe to say I am responsible for about 10% of the hate. I’m very hateful. When someone says “hate is too strong a word” I hate them. I hate them so much. I try not to be so hateful. It’s really hard. It makes me hate myself. Hate!

Something about haters that I have been wondering. Are there people out there who hate me? There has to be. I can’t imagine there not being someone who secretly hates me. It’s impossible. I hate people for such stupid reasons that there must be someone who hates me for a stupid reason too. This is my search. My search for the person who hates me most.

(You can’t see it, but I’m pretty sure her hat says “Mooselicker stinks”)

First I must think about who I hate most and why I hate them. I hate this one guy I see a lot. He’s so handsome and confident. It really pisses me off. Well-put-together individuals always strike up hatred in me. Anyone who seems to be happy with their place in life gets my blood boiling. He’s in shape, suave, probably knows more than one language (is it racist to assume all non-white people are bilingual?), has good posture, is probably twice my age yet has nicer hair, and doesn’t look terrible while wearing sweaters. What the hell! Where was I when lives were being selected? I want to be this guy. I never will be though. At least I make more money than he does. But that doesn’t bother him. Fuck this guy!

At one point I hated a friend for how he drank water. The way he twisted the lid. The slurping sound he made. How the bottle always popped afterward. He seemed so refreshed after drinking his water. I would have only saved him from drowning because it would be too painful for me to listen to him take all that water into his lungs. I bring this up because I can’t be this completely critical of little things about others. Someone else must be picking up on things like this about me. And it must make them hate me.

What are some little things about me that someone could hate? I almost always roll up my sleeves. That’s got to piss someone off. I do it for a very specific reason too. My forearms are way too skinny. My wrists are incredibly tiny. I’ve fisted women and they didn’t notice. With these suckers my true calling has to be giving prostate exams. I have the same problem with my calves. They’re too damn thin compared to the rest of my body. At least I know I could never get my forearms or shins stuck between two rocks. Most children’s books are thicker at the spine than these two parts of my body. Perhaps this is why 127 Hours didn’t impress me. That and how can you feel bad for a young guy who had a chance at a cave pond threesome but instead chose to climb rocks instead?

(Would have been a much better film if James Franco spent less time growing a Dirty Sanchez and more time violating hikers)

A retarded midget once came up to me and said “What’s the deal with you? You never talk to anyone.” I guess that means my quietness annoys people. I’m never really loud in any situation. I don’t like being the center of attention. Well, in a modest way, yes I do. I’d rather a bunch of girls get together at a slumber party and talk about how cute I am than to actually be out somewhere with this girls having to entertain them. I used to always have this one strange fantasy where all of the popular girls in school would get together. They’d play a game called “Would You Fuck” then toss out names of boys in their class. A mean girl would throw out my name and all of the girls would laugh. Then one girl said she would. The other girls would think about it and then they’d agree. I’d become popular overnight without knowing it. Of course that never happened. Most popular girls knew me as “the kid who was good at math and would help them if they asked.” Then I started to suck at math and was simple known as “the kid with pictures of dogs on a lot of his shirts.” Why the fuck did I have so many shirts with dogs on them? That never got me anywhere.

(If a shirt doesn’t have sleeves that doesn’t automatically make it a muscle shirt)

Basically, all I’m trying to say is that there are probably 200 people out there who I secretly hate. I despise them. They would die and the first thing I would think is a mean joke about them. I know, it’s wrong. But I have come to the conclusion that there is someone out there who has a secret hatred of myself. It could be for a million different reasons. What I know for sure is that my name or presence itself makes some people cringe. It’s not even anything I did. Existing itself makes them hate me.

Do you hate something about me? Do you hate something tiny about someone else? What do you do that other people really hate?

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.” – Basketball players who give bad advice