Archive for June, 2012

I forget what year it was. Maybe 10th grade? A girl who looked like a frog walked into my class and told me to smile more, life‘s not so bad. I didn’t listen to her. What does she know? She’s a young teenage girl. She bases her favorite music on which bands have the most bleach tips in their hair. Her favorite movie is whatever she saw this past weekend. Everything else has slipped her mind. Looking back now at everything she had a point. Life’s not so bad. I should have smiled more. Even if the teacher would frequently forget my name, the one kid who I tried to make friends with was afraid of me due to my largeness, and only the Haitian girl in class showed me any friendship, there was plenty to smile about.

(Thank you friend. Your advice has stuck with me through the years)

Frogface is not the only person who thinks smiling is a good thing. I have read online articles about it too. They claim smiling can help you attract a mate. It’ll help you land a better job. Smiling helps form rainbows. I believe smiling is positive because it lets others know you’re happy. I want to be happy! I want to be around people who are happy too. Not super happy. People who are only happy enough where they enjoy their misery. That level of happiness is where I want to rot away and die alone with. When you smile you let everyone know you’re not thinking about brain tumors. Who wants to talk to someone who randomly thinks about brain tumors? Not me. Too depressing.

I think I have a nice smile. I think it so often then I take a picture of myself scowling and I’ll think how badass I look. I go through a phase of never smiling after that. Children cower. Renegade bikers dive into alley ways to avoid me. Police officers quit their jobs. There’s no serving or protecting with me around. I’m a one man army. After a while I’ll smile again. The process repeats. I cannot stop smiling. Usually it’s thinking about the pain of others, but it’s still smiling. Still, charming. Still, helping to light up the world and warm the oceans a little bit more.

 (This is too precious. Even though he hates dogs, every time Michael Vick is sacked or throws an interception, this cute little kitty gives us this image)

Unfortunately not everyone has a smile that could impregnate a virgin beaver like I do. A bad smile is usually in the teeth. People with big teeth, gross teeth, yellow teeth, whatever kind of teeth not perfect will have bad smiles. Lack of dimples hurts too. Everyone wants to kiss someone with dimples. I have amazing dimples. I could squeeze a quarter in there. A good smile is one of those things which can make or break a person. On a shallow level of course. But when have I ever not been shallow? A good smile is the difference between overlooking other flaws or not. Who wants to date someone with a bad smile? That’s only a good idea if you plan on making them miserable. Didn’t Seinfeld date a girl with a bad laugh? I’ve only seen the show sporadically. I know he’s real into women with shoulder pads.

(My favorite Seinfeld episode was the one where he got his date confused with Brian Urlacher due to the similar size in shoulders)

When a girl smiles at me I smile back. It’s something I don’t even think about. It just happens. I know, you’re thinking I’m always being smiled at and whatnot. I’m actually not. I chalk it up to being so intimidating. I’ve got shoulders Atlas would be jealous of. And he has a shoulder muscle named after him! I’m one of those people who enters the room and everyone shushes. They turn to each other and with whispers inform each other who I am. A few bow. Others hound me for autographs. Okay, so I’m exaggerating. With the popularity of 50 Shades of Grey I’m thinking about writing my own fan fiction to please myself. The story centers around everyone being amazed and wanting to touch me. Sounds bad? They said the same thing about Timecop and that was the highest grossing Jean Claude Van Damme movie when it came out.

 (The best part in Timecop. When the Michael Rapaport bad guy look-alike gets his arm frozen then kicked off. This actually took place on my birthday so it’s pretty near and dear to me)

My aim is to try to smile more in life. I do not come off as a very friendly person. Ever. I actually am not friendly either. I’m nice. Just not friendly. The difference is a friendly person will go up to you and say hi. A nice person doesn’t poop in your shoe when you’re showering. I could never poop in a shoe. I’d feel like I would have to fill up the whole thing. Mighty large work! So with that said, maybe I should not smile more. I should probably smile the same amount I have always smiled. If I’m always smiling people will think I’m friendly. Then they’ll be upset when I make analogies about shoe pooping. Friendly people don’t poop. They’re so full of shit.

“Smile, you’ve got French’s!” – advertisement for French’s mustard and what Eva Braun would tell Hitler when he was feeling down for not fully controlling Europe

Terrible things happen every single day. Every day someone’s best friend dies. Can you imagine? All 364 days in the year (I’m not buying into that Roman 365 days crap) someone loses their best mate forever. Other bad things happen too. Countries get invaded. Pets get sucked into airplane propellers. Cell phones drop in toilets. All devastating, but all occurring on a daily basis. My vow I plan to take, no longer asking for pity from others.

It’s tough. I’ve always been one of those people who tries to “one up” the others in how bad their life is. My whole family is the same way. It’s like that one scene from that one Lethal Weapon movie when they compare scars. When my family does it things don’t end on hot, compassionate, violent sex. Most the times at least it doesn’t. What makes someone try to make their life sound so bad? Well, it gets pity. Pity gives an emotion. Having people feel bad for you can be a drug. It’s a childish thing. To want to hear “Awww” then be hugged because you ordered something spicy at a restaurant and don’t have enough beverage to chase it. I use that example because it is one I’m sure someone in my family has tried. We really are a bundle of Non-Joyful Debbie Downers.

(I make way too many Lethal Weapon references despite never actually watching a whole one through. I blame the Six Flags stunt show)

My clan is not the only guilty party in this. Oh no child. Lots of people are. The one which really gets my goat is when people complain about work. Either their boss is a dick or they cannot go out and party because their schedule was changed last-minute. Your life is that fantastic your biggest complaint is you have to make more money? What would you have done with that time anyway? Gone out to eat and gotten fatter? At least now you have a few extra bucks. But of course you will be cheap anyway when people ask you if you want to actually do something interesting. Maybe it’s me, but I’d rather do one amazing thing per year than a lot of time-wasting money costing events. I’d give examples, but I am the last person who should give examples of things that are not fun. I think I could fall asleep looking at earth from outer space.

 (You see beauty and how precious life can be. I see an ice-cube or cracked nail up close)

Sympathy is something I have also had a little bit trouble understanding. Or is it empathy? I’m really not clear on the difference. Like alligators and crocodiles. I know one lives in salt water. But by the time I get close enough to sip the water I’m being chased by the alligator or crocodile and I forget which lives where. People try to get a lot of sympathy for the way they live their lives. They will make mention of how sick they feel or how little they have eaten lately. As much as I hate people who shop at Whole Foods, they take care of themselves. They only complain about ozone layer holes and other exaggerations. People who eat well and exercise feel really good. Physically and emotionally. I know I go crazy if I go a while without exercise, especially when my diet has been half brownies. So please, if you’re near me and you feel like shit and there is not a salad in front of your face, shut it.

One of my biggest peeves on this subject are people who try to get me to feel bad for them based on the people in their lives. Example, people who use their parents as a barricade. I know my parents were never strict, but I have a hard time believing someone who can vote, possibly drink, and knows not only what a Cleveland Steamer is but also where to get one, will allow themselves to get pushed around by someone three times their age. Yeah, some people have scary parents. I had someone tell me to call their dad sir. Unless you’re Paul McCartney’s daughter you have no reason for people to call your father sir. He didn’t earn a thing. If someone ever tells me to call them sir again I’m forcing them to call me doctor. When they don’t I’m punching them in the face. Who are the cops going to believe? A guy who goes around thinking he’s a knight? Probably not.

(All those years at medical school and Dr. Doomsday becomes a super villain. Imagine how the people he gave prostate exams to feel now)

I don’t own too many nice things. I find owning crappy items is a major pity plea. I kind of enjoy having such horrible outdated objects. When it breaks I don’t feel too bad. Words such as “just” are thrown before possessions to make them seem not so glamorous. Sometimes this is used as a reverse tactic. “Oh it’s just a 9883 Fender Gibson Les Claypool guitar. No big deal.” or whatever a type of fancy guitar is. The only time I use the word “just” in a negative way is when ordering water at a restaurant. “I’ll just have water” saying it as if anything else could kill me. Feel bad for me! My beverage has no flavor. I guess hipsters have made owning clothes with blood stains cool again. Hipsters of course being the biggest pity pissers of all. They make themselves look ugly so we stop and tell them they’re beautiful. I hate dark poets so much. How about picking a favorite movie other than The Crow? It’s really just Robocop filmed with a bit less light.

(Did I say “just” Robocop! I did it again!)

Now I will need your help to make sure I don’t turn anything into attempts at sympathy. Call me out on it. Mail a bomb to me. Do whatever you can to get me to stop. Being subtle about sympathy is not far off from fishing for compliments. Another societal problem, but one I will work on later to fix. With my vow I eliminate a lot of compassion. This may seem evil, but it is misplaced compassion. Better used on important things like truly lost individuals in need of help. If your tummy is bothering you because you got really drunk last night I will not flinch my face to make a false frown. When your parents boss you around and make you feel any sort of guilt I will tell you to act your age. Finally, when I feel like you send out a negative vibe on the state of your life for the sole reason to get me to say “Awww” I will simply stop listening. You have me in your life. Things can’t be all that bad.

Kids are mean. Other than maybe our parents, kids have supplied us with the majority of our emotional pain. It’s hard when you’re a kid to know who to watch out for and who to avoid. I am well aware children are much more advanced than they used to be. They’re having sex and reading blogs now. Perhaps a kid is reading this blog. Hi kid. Fuck you. Today I provide you with a guide on how to spot those bully classmates of yours. I could save your life with this post. You’ll grow up into an adult with no childhood trauma. Sure, you will be weak and unable to ever write a good book. But you will never have been bullied which I guess is a good thing if you want to never relate to anyone else ever again.

The inspiration for this post comes from a few minutes ago when I was walking to pay my rent. I usually walk to the main office to drop off the check because I enjoy black people hooting and hollering, shouting “go back to Europe white boy” from their windows. That is when I spotted a mean kid. I never saw him before. Yet I immediately could tell he would have a nickname like “Bruiser” or “Knuckles” before coming out of the closet. He rode his bike around the apartment complex. Bad kids always ride bikes. Bad adults do too. Have you ever heard of someone on a bike saving a baby from a car fire? Never! Lance Armstrong is a cheating fake. A kid in my neighborhood died years ago. I knew him somewhat. When my mom found out she said “Wasn’t he an asshole?” I said no. She insisted he was because he would ride his bike in the middle of the street, weaving in and out between cars. Maybe my mom was right. That does sound like something an asshole would do.

(Look at this criminal. They should lock him away before he learns how to speak)

Mean kids also sing songs which make no sense. My mean kid spotting on this day was no different. I could not tell if he was speaking Portuguese or was very unsatisfactory using his diaphragm properly to sing. It was like a sequel to Pop Goes the Weasel. He only apparently knew the hook because that is all he would sing. This kid was probably about 10-12. He was a white boy riding his bike in a black neighborhood (I’m only mentioning his race so you don’t think I’m racist) and being obnoxious. I almost hoped for a drug dealer to scream at him to shut up and learn the next verse. I spotted a black male with a Hispanic one walking toward the kid as I went back into my apartment. Maybe I was about to get my wish.

You might be asking what this mean kid was wearing? Creepy. Look at you, wondering about children’s clothing. Sick. He had on a muscle shirt, naturally. His skinny little white arms (I did mention he was white already so you don’t think I’m racist, right?) poked out. I never understood the muscle shirt. People can tell if you’ve got guns in a normal shirt. Why not dress that way? One time I rolled up my sleeves and a male friend of mine said “Wow, your arms are not as thin as I thought they were.” I asked if he wanted to touch them. Then we realized our conundrum. He had complimented me and I was there trying to take it a step further for my own self-satisfaction. Luckily we were able to get out of this moment by talking like pigs about all the women we encountered. If I had been a wearer of muscle shirts we might not have been able to get over this.

(Madonna has officially given up on caring about her clothing)

Hairdos can vary from mean kid to mean kid. A lot of them have partial mullets. Why is this? I guess I’d be really nasty if my parents gave me mullets too. Not to sound racist (like I haven’t already) but white people with mullets are rarely nice. Watch King of Kong for a prime example. Adult bully Billy Mitchell rocks a sweet one. Mullets of course being the only hairstyle that is rocked. Sometimes a mean kid will have things like Mohawks or other “tough in the 1970s” hairstyles. People who dawn these are rarely mean. They’re trying too hard. I had Mohawks for a while between ages of 19-22 so I can insult us. Mostly I wanted to separate myself from others. A part of it was wanting to look like Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver. Most importantly was I wanted short hair but also enjoy using shampoo. The perfect compromise for all my problems.

As far as mean girls go, they can be very obvious. There was a whole Lindsay Lohan movie about it. Girls who try to be what they think adults are will be the mean ones. Lots of makeup, accessories, and up-to-date fashion helps a girl to be mean. When a female has been pretty all her life she’s had everything given to her. Her dad bought her a bitchin car, her mom pays for her to get manicures by authentic Vietnamese people who still smell like Napalm, and men are constantly trying to charm her by stealing chicken burritos for them. I got that chicken burrito thing from reading the plot to Battleship. Really? Girls are impressed when you steal them chicken burritos? Alright then. I have been doing this completely wrong.

(“You thought you’ve been doing things wrong? I agreed to be in this piece of shite. I’m Liam Neeson. People used to respect me.” – Liam Neeson talking in 3rd person and saying shite like a Scottish person would)

I am terrible when it comes to interacting with children. I cannot even smile and wave at them. I need to turn and wave or stare at them menacingly until they shit themselves. You may have better ways to spot a mean kid based on how they look. The one thing you will always find is that mean kids are often misunderstood. Sure they make a lot of strange sound effects, think their desks are racecars, and turn me down to dance in 6th grade, but is it really their fault? Michael Winslow made a career out of making sound effects, racecar sounds are pretty cool, and no girl likes a timid fat kid asking her to boogy it to the latest Britney Spears song.* I don’t blame you mean kids for being so incredibly nasty. Someday you will make awesome DMV employees.

*No girl was asked to dance. They all seemed way too mean to even approach.

For a dumb kid, receiving a report card can be a frightening thing. I had some dumb friends. They would fret over bad grades. I never got bad grades. Not until I was larger than my parents. At that point what could they say? I could crush them with my thighs if I wanted to. Recently my older sister found one of my old report cards. Today we examine what an amazingly smart child I was and where everything went wrong.

(Any kid who owns a corduroy jacket is either evil or really loves Pearl Jam)

The year is 1998. I’m in Mrs. Hartbauer’s fourth grade class. Blow job jokes about Bill Clinton are popular among the teachers. None of the students get them. I’m fresh faced and ready to take on the world. Fourth grade was a great year. Hartbauer always was nice and I had a lot of friends in my class. I won soccer MVP of recess as my incredible goaltending helped lead my team to a very good record. We could only count up to 10 at this point. It was hard to keep accurate statistics after a certain point. Statistics are something adults use as excuses. Numbers politicians can finagle to make themselves less like a succubus. With my report card in my hand at this moment (it’s actually on the arm rest covered in dog hair and dandruff, but who are you to call me out?) I have real life statistics to prove my smarts.

I will start with attendance. First marking period I missed 3 and a half days. Second marking period I missed 7. Nice! I’m pretty sure this was the week I was sick the first four days then on Friday faked sick because I was getting really into Price is Right storylines. Plinko happens about once a week. They were due! Third marking period I missed 5 days. Finally the fourth I missed 2. What was I thinking? Only 2 days? My school had no air conditioning. Well, I don’t think my house did either then. It’s probably harder to fake a fever when it’s really hot out. Your mother will say it’s just global warming and to get your black ass to class. I was also tardy one day in the fourth marking period. I’m never late for anything. I’m not sure what happened on this day. I do remember everyone in the class thinking tardy was the teacher calling us retarded. With my accuracy at being on time, I’m starting to think maybe tardy is a cute way of saying mongoloid.

(Corky from TV show Life Goes On. He was often late to the set. Producers were too afraid to call him tardy. Their morals were too strong. I wonder if he thinks the baby he’s holding is real)

On each report card we were given “Skill Indicators.” A + meant Above Expectations, a check mark meant Meeting Expectations, an Upside Down V meant Progressing (because I guess you’re drawing your letters upside down but at least you’re getting the shapes correct), and (-) meant Below Expectations. First Marking period I got almost all check marks. I had to leave myself room for improvement. Over time I started to add a few pluses. I got better at “accepting responsibility”, “respecting rights/feelings of others”, and “working well independently.” My favorite thing about this is that I was able to go above expectations to work independently about 5 months before “cooperating with school regulations.” What the hell did I do not to cooperate with school regulations back then? The only time I ever got in trouble was when the random black recess aide told my friends and I to “Stop wrestling. Boys always be wrastlin.”

The only bad marks I got were two upside down V’s in music. “Demonstrates music skills appropriate to the developmental level” gave me two of these Progressing marks. I’m not quite sure what this means even today. Also, if I’m progressing at it, shouldn’t I be a music superstar today? Or was I so bad that I had plenty of room for improvement? I got high scores in writing, which hey, I am the bomb at, especially compared to music. If this teaches us anything it is that people’s skills are pretty much developed by the time they are 10. I know, that sounds like an argument a pedophile could make in court.

(If only Jerry Sandusky would have listened to me he might only be spending 250 years in prison, not 400 plus)

We also received letter grades. Overall I ended up with straight A’s. I’m like Stephan Hawking or something. The most B’s I received were in the fourth marking period. 3 A’s, 3 B’s. This was also the same marking period I showed up to most. How did I do the second marking period when I missed 7 days? Straight A’s. Yet another valuable life lesson here. You get smarter avoiding the situation and sitting home all day eating Ritz crackers.

Finally my report card contains actually written words from my teacher. Here they are in order:

“Tim is a well-adjusted 4th grader. He is very responsible and always very respectful. It is a pleasure to have such a nice boy in my class.”

See, I was good once.

“Tim is still doing outstanding! I’ve really enjoyed Tim’s writing this marking period-he has a way with words.”

I do. I’m sure Mrs. Hartbauer would be horrified by a few things I have written since. But she never said anything about my writing being respectful. Just that I had a way with the words.

“Tim continues to be a model student. He is doing wonderfully! He is always cheerful and fun to be around.”

Okay well this one I have to completely disagree with. I am rarely cheerful and even my girlfriend tells me I am not fun. Hartbauer, you have bad taste in men. At least she did say I could be a model. Or maybe I read that wrong.

“Tim is a wonderful, sweet gentleman. It was a pleasure having him in my class. He will be a pleasant addition to any class. Have a great summer!”

I started off as a well-adjusted 4th grader and left a wonderful, sweet gentleman. I kind of wish I had more little things like this. You know, to use in defense I could not possibly be an Antichrist.

(A more likely candidate. She gave away free cars to people who could not afford to pay taxes on them. Evil bitch)

In 8th grade my history teacher had us select songs to represent a battle in the Civil War. My partner and I chose Gettysburg because it was the only one we could pronounce. It also sounded a little Jewish. The song we chose was “We’re Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister. It was a perfect song to represent the battle. The North was getting their asses handed to them, but decided they would no longer take the anal pounding from the South any longer. Twisted Sister offers a lot of valuable advice in that song. Valuable advice that can sometimes backfire.

(One day Dee Snider’s dad let him wear a pink shirt to school. The next day, this happened)

It’s always good when someone stands up for themselves. I applaud anyone who can. Thing is, we all think we’re Rodney Dangerfield. For those of you born after the year 1988, Rodney Dangerfield was a comedian whose gimmick was about how he doesn’t get any respect. What made Rodney so successful was his ability to relate to the audience. Most drunk comedy audiences feel like shit. Probably because they are shit. I think most of us feel like we’re the underdog. We feel like losers who will never accomplish what we strive for. We’ll do things like find a scapegoat. Anything but take the blame for the problems in our own lives. It wasn’t our inability to look where we were walking that is to blame for our stubbed toe. It’s the fault of whoever snuck into your home and moved the walls into a position you are not used to.

A lot of energy is exhorted changing who you are and what people think of you. Lots of people say everyday that from now on they will speak their minds. They will not be pushed around. Very few do much about it. They may talk back to someone who doesn’t deserve it. Weak people are usually the targets of these randomly deciding to seize the day after 40 years of life people. You can’t change yourself over night. Even if you can, nobody else will change. You won’t be the person who is cool and confident all of a sudden. You’ll be the overnight asshole. There is a difference between standing up for yourself and being a jerk to friends out of nowhere. It’s a very fine line. Standing up for yourself would involve an immediate “No, I’m not going to do (insert heinous sexual act here) for you. I don’t care if it’s the anniversary of your mother’s death! I’m not doing it! I’ve got a dentist’s appointment tomorrow.” Being a jerk would go more like “No. Fuck you. Blow yourself.” If you stand up for yourself you have to explain why. Most people respond well when you tell them you feel like they’re treating you poorly. The rest are probably politicians.

(“Open your mouth like this then put it inside. You don’t even have to wear the goalie mask this time. I’ll be fine.” – an upset husband trying to get across to his slacker wife that he has needs too)

There have been moments in my life where I fantasize about becoming a total heel. Strangers will ask me questions and instead of answering them I will scream their flaws into their faces. Possibly in Spanglish. Anyone who speaks in Spanglish is a jerk-off. It doesn’t make you cool. It’s not like Elfish where you could actually get around Middle Earth knowing. When people speak Spanglish they always leave the good stuff in Spanish so I cannot understand. This always bugs me. And you wonder why we only masturbate to your Spanish language channels? See, I’ve wanted to say this to Spanish people before. Right to their faces. Possibly pushing their eyelids down hard with my thumbs. What I really wanted to say here was that you can’t go off always speaking your mind. Even people who claim to not have a filter, do. I heard the new thing for being an ass who says insensitive things is called Asperger’s. Finally, a label to give myself as a free ticket to insult others. I’m not a dick, I have a disease.

 (This is a popular children’s show for Spanish-speaking people. Slutty women reenact scenes from Spongebob Square Pants)

My whole opinion on people taking control of their lives can all be summed up in this paragraph. Sorry for making you read the rest. I’d feel like I was cheating you otherwise. You went through all that trouble unknowingly giving me your credit card information by visiting this site that I felt I owed you. Anyway, being someone who decides to be a take-no-shit fool is a problem when they run into another person who has decided to do the same with their life. What happens when two timid people who are pretending they aren’t rugs to be walked on clash? You end up with even bigger problems. You can’t have everyone saying things need to change. We end up with a bunch of bossy folk. One passive person pretending to be in charge will argue with another passive person pretending to be in charge. Truth is, neither really are very good at being the boss. They’re just two people like the rest of us angry about certain aspects in their life. They’re eager to change it, but there are better ways than to make a declaration about how you won’t let people treat you poorly anymore. I’ll let you know when I think of one. I’m sure it’s out there.

(We get a world of Angelica Pickles if we all start to aggressively push others around to satisfy our own needs. Be a Tommy Pickles. He’s loyal, clever, and probably has a learning disability from all the hours he has spent unsupervised)

The real message I want to get across is that life is not like some movie where you can start behaving a new way and get a positive result. You shouldn’t let people boss you around, but thinking if you treat people the way they treat you will fix things is not right. Maybe we can try being honest from the start with people. The first time they do something to piss you off, let them know. That way you won’t be in a position in your life where everyone seems out to get you. Your behavior will also be expected and not as frowned upon. Everybody wins. Nobody makes you clean a mess you didn’t make and they’re not shocked when you actually don’t act cowardly.

“We’re not gonna take it. No. We ain’t gonna take it. We’re not gonna take it. Anymore.” – lyrics written by Dee Snider, an ugly man who dressed as woman in the 1980s and still looked ugly. Some people are just destined to not be very attractive no matter what gender

So my last post was about how painful a conversation with an old person can be. What to me exactly is an old person? It’s anyone twice my age or older who also can be easily pushed over. Are you 48+ and have poor balance? You’re old! I want to lay off the octogenarians today. Instead my focus will go onto young people and recent events that have arrived into my life to make me hate them even more. What exactly is a young person you ask? Anyone within 10 years of me who deserves to die based on their personality. No wonder the Democrats always win. Our country is full of young people.

(Young people, always looking down at others like they’re the cat’s meow. Look at me, I have one black friend. I’m so cultured. I cannot until the government starts mustard gassing the Occupy Wall Street idiots)

I’ve always been a person who has gotten along better with older people. Actually no. Maybe not. I have had friends much older which always made me feel cool. Until they got a new friend who was younger. Then I felt like I had been replaced and I could no longer get away with being bad by saying W’s instead of R’s. “I’m sowwy” doesn’t work as an apology when you have a beard. Plus I get letters confused sometimes. I’ll say R’s instead of L’s to try to be cute. Friends will think I’m insulting Chinese Americans and get pissy with me. They’re young and full of white guilt. Insulting people from a nation who oppress their people is very insensitive.

One thing young people don’t seem to do is say “thank you.” They do say sorry. If instead of saying sorry girls had sex with me I would never have to venture into the city for a whore ever again. Why is it that a person might apologize but not say thanks? I think it’s a guilt thing. Young people hate being in trouble. I’m not quite sure what being in trouble really even means. Other than with the law. Why would someone over 18 be upset if someone else over 18 was mad at them? I get it if you’re a kid and your parents are mad or vice versa. But if your boss is mad at you? If the diners at Denny’s don’t seem to like you? Why care? I like being thanked when I go out of my way for people. I helped a girl out with something recently. I won’t say what or who it was because it wasn’t exciting and I’m not even sure who she was. Yes, I only helped her because her breasts shook as she walked. That’s not to say I wouldn’t have helped her otherwise. I would have been less eager is all I’m saying. Bitch didn’t even thank me! From now on when I see her I am farting in her direction.

 (My good friend Scarecrow informing me which direction I should fart in)

Young people also never follow directions or listen to others. I hate this. I mean yeah, if it’s an old person talking, ignore them. But when a fellow young person like myself gives you a warning, open your ears. Again, recently I warned a young person about a problem. Sorry for being vague. It’s pretty boring to tell you about how I had helped the big bosomed girl find some keys and warned this idiot how a computer may not work. He used the computer anyway. After a very stern warning from me. Then he acted as if he had no idea. Didn’t we have a conversation? Take your Colorado Rockies had and shove it up your ass. You’re not from Denver. You’re Spanish. They don’t have Spanish people there. Spanish people can’t breath in thin air. Your name doesn’t even start with a C. Don’t pass this off like a dumb rapper would.

(My basis on the populous of Colorado)

Drama is a word homosexuals use when telling you about their college major or young people use to describe what they hate in their lives. Anyone who says they hate drama is dramatic. Like people who hate ghosts. You only hate ghosts because ghosts follow you around. You probably are a ghost too. People who hate drama bring it upon themselves. My upstairs neighbor who is a year younger than myself is the most dramatic woman ever. What did I hear her complaining about today? Facebook drama! She has two children. She placed the body part of one, or very likely many, men inside of a certain place on her body and out came two large objects with similar DNA to herself. It’s silly to get all bent up over someone on Facebook telling you that you “have to get your life together” as she said throwing in a few motherfuckers like it was punctuation. “Who is she to tell me I don’t have my life together? Fuck that bitch!” she went on to say. If you get this enraged by what someone says on Facebook then you clearly do not have your life together.

The worst thing young people do is exist. Breathing in air I could be breathing in makes me hate them. I hate young guys who act as if they’re hot shots. You’re not. You have good posture. That’s all you have that I don’t. If I ever learn how to stand up straight then what will you have to gloat about? I hate young girls who act as if they’re princesses and I’m some smelly serf. I get it that I may smell and usually am plowing fields like a serf might do, but act as if I am present in mind and body. There is nothing more unattractive about a girl than one who never smiles. You’re a young white American woman. You haven’t had a problem doing anything in 100 years. You don’t even have to be good at singing to be a famous singer. Smile, look pretty, and treat everyone you meet like they’re worth something. Otherwise break a high heel and tear an Achilles in the process.

(Nancy Grace. Patient Zero containing vagina dentata)

This turned into more of a rant than anything else. I had not planned for it to be that way. I’m sure young people have something good to offer. We have already given you Lady Gaga songs, Zac Efron movies, and other amazing art that puts the Italian Renaissance to shame. I ask you, what is it you hate about young people? Is there anything to like besides smooth skin?

Throughout our lives we make memories. From these memories we get stories. Stories we share with unwilling folk who are way too polite to tell us to shut up. We’re boring them. I know I’ve been guilty of telling awful stories before. I’ve realized it six words in that my listening partner has no interest in hearing about my amazing adventure involving a screensaver. With that said I would like to call out the people most guilty of having horrible stories. Old people.

(I’m so lazy I use the first Google Image that pops up)

I know. You probably have met some old folk who have great tales to tell. My grandfather chopped off Japanese people’s heads in the 1940s during some famous war I cannot remember the name of because it involved Roman Numerals. Yet all he ever talked about to me was the weather or how his friends would go in a lake naked together and stick their dicks out as trains passed by. Thank goodness for video games and glue huffing. I have been unfortunate enough to never have a worthwhile conversation with an old person. With that out-of-the-way I can now tell you what it is old people seem to talk to me about. Avoid the sounds of oceans or rainforests. Just thinking about these topics could lure you to sleep.

Old people are very nostalgic. You would be too if you can’t remember where the adult diaper aisle is, but you can still remember losing your virginity during a Fireside Chat. I love nostalgia as much as the next person. The problem with old people is their nostalgia takes place during a time when I could barely wipe the spit off my own face. Old people like to bring up memories of younger people when they were children. This could be cute if they had more than three memories. It gets annoying too because old people enjoy saying the same lousy stories over and over again. Worse is when they talk about dead relatives you never met. We have more dead relatives than we have living ones. That’s a lot of names to remember. A lot of people with the same blood for us to also not care about. Maybe I’d be more interested if anyone in my bloodline ever did anything interesting. At least my one friend’s ancestor was the first person to ever be killed by the electric chair. My relatives alive around then probably were the dopes his relatives killed.

(Hey Rob, he totally has your same hair color)

Commercials are a thing old people love to discuss. Television shows, sure. Go ahead. Discuss away. But commercials? Have they not heard of TiVo, downloading, DVDs, or putting your fingers in your ears and saying “La La La” while those marketing demons run amuck on our screens? Young people cannot stand commercials. The colors are not bright enough. Miranda Cosgrove is not in enough of them. I’ve watched those “Best Commercials” shows before. What a dumb move by me. I should just get a Coca-Cola logo tattooed on my forehead and go by the name “TheBigBangTheory ThursdayNightsOnCBS.” Is that show on Thursday nights? I’ve never seen it. Why would I want to watch a show about nerdy guys who are actually friends with a hot chick? I can’t get a hot chick to ask me for help during a rape. Is my cheering too obvious whose side I’m on?

Whenever I run into an “adult” they always ask me about work. When I say adult I mean someone who could be my parent and we’re never fully honest with each other. Adults love talking about work. They say how they hate it, how they put in more effort than anyone else, and so on. Lots and lots of boring nonsense about work. When people ask me how work is I usually shrug and want to tell them that it exists. It’s work! If I loved it then you would have seen me smile at some point in my life. I never ask people about their work. Either their job is boring or so incredibly awesome I’d be jealous to hear about it. There’s nothing wrong with talking about your job when something groundbreaking actually happens. I get it. But finding a pair of scissors in your desk and not knowing who put them there is not mysterious. It’s a waste of breath telling me about it.

(The most exciting thing to ever happen here was when they hired that blonde for a week)

What do I think a conversation with an old person should actually entail? They can’t talk much about their childhoods with joy. A lot of old people grew up in dark times. When my generation was young we’d get Legos stuck up our noses. When my grandparents were young they’d get tuberculosis stuck down their throats. That’s probably why old people talk about simple happier things. They’re glad to be out of the dark times. All I ask of old people is not to talk about their children with me like I should be impressed. Your son is 34. He should be all moved out of your home.


Posted: June 17, 2012 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Remember when I asked you to help me out with a Mad Libs post? No? You’ve never read my blog before? You have some sort of forgetful disease? Don’t blame MTV for being so scatterbrained. Blame your own laziness. Below are the results. Thank you to all participants. I was going to actually place each of your answers into the proper place, but this would require work and I’m scheduling this ahead of time and would hate if someone felt left out. If you would still like to participate you can on your own. Here are the answers given by the participants. Some of them may need to be changed slightly to make sense. But that’s Mad Libs! All you have to do is plug them in accordingly to make up what I’m sure will be a whacky adventure!

To those wanting to participate fully on this journey, please go back to Mad Libs and start from there. Enough blabbing. Hopefully this doesn’t turn out as big a mess as it is seeming to be.

Evolution of Insanity:

Noun: Lily

Adjective: angry

Plural Noun: cats

Plural Noun: Witches

Adjective: alive

Adjective: quaint

Relative: sister

Verb: imagine

Noun: mouse

Adjective: relieved

Celebrity: John Cusack

City Name: Vatican City

Noun: bus

Verb: name

Noun: echo

Noun: box

Verb: drop

Adjective: black

Noun: teacher

Noun: neighbourhood

Verb: bites

Diatribes and Ovations:

Noun: Worm
Adjective: moist
Plural Noun: ninjas
Plural Noun: seedless grapes
Adjective: enormous
Adjective: spongy
Relative: Aunt
Verb: chew
Noun: albatross
Adjective: persnickety
Celebrity: Sir Elton John
City Name: Omaha
Noun: lollipop
Verb: sauté
Noun: squid
Noun: ankle
Verb: boil
Adjective: fat
Noun: blister
Noun: monkey
Verb: stab

Michael Cargill:

Poo for each


Noun: BreezyK

Adjective: Awesome

Plural Noun: Hipsters

Plural Noun: Investment Bankers

Adjective: Douchy

Adjective: indier-than-thou

Relative: second cousin, once removed

Verb: jumping

Noun: Nova Scotia

Adjective: serendipitous

Celebrity: Kim Kardashian

City Name: Toronto

Noun: peanut butter

Verb: complaining

Noun: sloth

Noun: cats

Verb: lazy

Adjective: creamy

Noun: computer

Noun: water bottle

Verb: drinking

A Gripping Life:

Noun: Flower

Adjective: unseemly

Plural Noun: houses

Plural Noun: cars

Adjective: gorgeous

Adjective: long

Relative: uncle

Verb: assault

Noun: blog

Adjective: crazy

Celebrity: Seth Rogen

City Name: Topeka

Noun: heaven

Verb: play

Noun: lips

Noun: wall

Verb: kiss

Adjective: hideous

Noun: muscle

Noun: floor

Verb: kill

Lily in Canada:

Noun: Pete

Adjective: pretty

Plural Noun:horses

Plural Noun: telephones

Adjective: yellow

Adjective: dirty

Relative: brother

Verb: toss

Noun: paper


Celebrity: Hugh Grant

City Name: Tallahassee

Noun: sidewalk









No Blog Intended:

Miley Cyrus.
High heels.
Toe nails.

Welcome to my 300th blog post! It took hard work. A lot of motivation. And a little help from my (noun). Much has been achieved since starting this blog. For starters, I have become a more (adjective) person. I thank you, my (plural noun) for that.

There are still a few things you may not know about me. For instance, I love to stare at (plural noun). (adjective) ones. My fascination started when I was a (adjective) boy and my (relative) would (verb) me on my cheek. My (noun) says this traumatic event is why I am so (adjective).

Since my blog started I have become somewhat famous. I even managed to have a brief relationship with (celebrity). It ended when we were caught engaging in a public sexual act known as the (City name) (noun). That’s when you (verb) the other person’s (noun). But things are back to normal now. I am in a healthy relationship with my current (noun).

What I really wanted to say today was I appreciate everyone who (verb) my blog. Whether you visit often, frequently, or only when you’re feeling (adjective), your presence is felt with warmth. Thank you again. Here’s to much more success with my and your (noun). Unless you’re one of those people missing a (noun). Then I guess you can just go (verb) yourself.

I drive a 2001 Gold Subaru Forester. Ultimate chick magnet mobile. It actually came with a condom holder it was designed to attract women so badly. It does not run on fuel. My car runs on Axe deodorant. If you see me driving without a hot babe beside me take a closer look. Her head is probably somewhere else. Yep, driving a long-lasting automobile is the way to go if you want to make a woman preen with sexual desire.

Okay, maybe no girl will ever fall for me over my car. I’m not even sure if it’s a 2001 or a 2002. I’m that unknowledgeable about these devices. I feel like a rhino could write Shakespeare before I could ever build an automobile. And the only thing rhyming with rhino is gyno or wino. Gynos can’t write poetry and neither can winos. Cars are not something that are very important to me. Sure, I’d love to drive a Porsche with a door that opens upward. I love things opening upward! Star Wars doors are fantastic. Or maybe I’m thinking of garage doors. Either way, both are badass.

 (I could totally see Storm Troopers blast out of that garage. The lesbian riding shotgun even has a Luke Skywalker hairdo)

My life has had two cars in it. My first was a 1998 Red Dodge Intrepid. Boomhauer from my post Weird Kids would always tell me that it was a Chrysler. I knew it wasn’t a Chrysler because it said Dodge on the back. I had a lot of problems with the car. My first day driving it broke down two blocks away from my house. Mechanics said it was because the previous owner was probably old and drove slowly. The computer must not have been used to the way I drove. Sounds like they’re confusing cars with girlfriends. They’re mechanics. Cars sometimes are the only women in their lives. I also went a few months with my driver’s door not working. I would have to slide across the passenger seat. I still managed to get my first girlfriend despite this. And she didn’t break up with me because of it! Thank goodness I was too out of shape and boring for her. I might have felt bad otherwise if my car was to blame.

The old car broke down quite a bit. Brand new engine and everything. Maybe it needed a new hemmy? I don’t know what a hemmy is. Men with large guts in truck commercials seem to get hard-ons talking about them. The current car runs pretty smoothly. It’s always been rather loud which can be a pain during a drive by shooting or child abduction. I get why gang members always drive new quiet cars and why bitter weekend dads keep up with their oil changes. You don’t want everyone looking at you before you commit the crime. It gives them time to let your face sink into the minds of those snitches.

(All smiles as Roy finishes up his oil change in preparation to kidnap his teenage children from his ex-wife with precise precision and not a sound)

As well as the car runs, things are not near perfect. The backseat is consistently filled with trash. If I had someone to impress or wasn’t so lazy as to bring my car trash can back out there then maybe things would be less of a mess. It’s really not that bad. I’m not one of those people with M&M shells lying around. I hate sitting in a car with M&M stains on the seats. That’s always a sign the driver is a diabetic. I’m not very good at keeping things clean. Neat I can do. It’s things like dust and hairs I’m horrible with. I think there are still hairs on my emergency break from before I last cut my hair in November. They’re pretty long and the only other people allowed in my car are members of the Aryan Brotherhood or lesbians who think they’re pixies.

 (Once Katie Holmes climbed into my car with a pixie haircut. She yelled at me to “Drive Elron Hubbard damn it!” Tom Cruise injected her with a needle and she agreed to do that Queen Latifah heist movie instead of the second Batman)

The Check Engine light is something I have come to assume needs to be flashing in order for a car to work. I was bringing my car in so often the mechanic told me years ago that it’s just something that will happen with older cars and not to worry. I was told by a teacher to tell this mechanic I was a student at the high school I went to. The mechanic’s son went to that school before dying as a freshman. Wouldn’t mentioning that I was a junior in that school make him sad? I never got a discount or anything. I did leave my student planner with the high school’s logo sitting on the passenger seat as a subtle way of relaying information. I did find a few tear drops on one of the pages. I felt so bad I didn’t mind paying $800 to have my windshield wipers replaced in order to fix my brakes.

A broken windshield is the only major thing I have had wrong with my car. Something large flew up and left a huge dent in my windshield. I was on my way to work. On a Saturday too. Then this happened. I had a man come to my apartment and fix it for me. He put duct tape on the edges to be safe. He said to take the tape off in 48 hours. I was so frightened I left it on for 2 months. The company even emailed a picture of him to me so I could know who to expect. That’s kind of weird. Am I supposed to care what my repairman looks like? If he’s a certain ethnicity should I be more weary of the job he’ll do? Safelite repair, Safelite racist.

The strangest problem I’ve been having with my car involves those racks above the car. Are they called racks? I might just be calling them racks because I’m constantly thinking about breasts. I may even post a picture of breasts below for your enjoyment! One of the notches had broken off at some point. Probably before purchasing. I’m not sure if they’re called notches either. I’ve just been thinking about belts a lot too. Anyway, what I guess happens is when I drive at highway speeds the horizontal racks go up and down. I only know this because several drivers have pulled up alongside me, pointed up, then imitated that action. Two people did it all of last year. Three people have done it this week. The yarn I used to tie it down must have only snapped off recently. That or people don’t care enough about my safety in the winter. God forbid they roll down their windows and let their heat escape.

(Chicken breasts are still breasts. Sorry if you were expecting something more satisfying)

What about your car sucks? Don’t say the air conditioner does not work. Nobody’s air conditioner works in their car. I’m convinced they were designed not to. Henry Ford enjoys the smell of sweat.

Once in a while I meet a new person. When you meet a new person you have to learn what they enjoy doing. Sometimes these people like doing adventurous stuff like surfing or hiking. Fans of surfing never have a thing in common with me. Other than we live on the same planet and remove waste from our bodies in a similar fashion. Unless they’re like that One-Armed-Shark-Attack-Girl who no longer can poop. The fans of hiking always let me know that the person is cheap and lives close to mountains. Why not go to the mall and take the stairs if you really feel like climbing? It’s air conditioned. The only bears are the husky gay men with Frogurt trying to pick up the twink who dispenses the sprinkles. Only once have I done something outdoorsy that you adventurous folk like to do. This is my experience.

I wrote a few blog posts ago about different school field trips. Well, in sixth grade they took us camping for a week. The place they took us is called Stokes. I’m not sure if that’s the name of the campground, the town, or a lie the teachers told us. Rumor had it this was the site where the first Friday the 13th movie was filmed. Another rumor had it that we were just in the same county, but not on the same campground of Crystal Lake. The truth remains a mystery to me. Mostly because I don’t care enough to do any research whatsoever.

 (At least they kept it accurate to New Jersey and smogged out the stars)

Before ascending we had to undergo training. The first part of this training was picking a partner. The day of partner picking was on a Monday, the day I normally faked sick for school. I was lucky to have a friend who nobody liked much so we became partners. Our training took place at a local park. The only activity I remember was having to transport a bucket of water across a jungle gym without walking on the ground. This was pretty dangerous as at one point a kid in my group had to sit on top of monkey bars about 15 feet in the air holding a heavy bucket. I’m pretty sure we got it all the way to the end before some girl tripped and spilt the water. Women–this is why laundry machines are inside. If they were outside of the house we’d probably have a lot more fires.

The bus ride to Stokes was unmemorable. We watched Aladdin, I think. Or Legally Blonde. I might be confusing it with our eighth grade trip to Gettysburg which I totally forgot to write about in my other post. The only thing memorable from that trip was I am still convinced a chubby girl in my class offered me a hand job while there. It felt disrespectful to all those who lost their lives so I stared at her and blushed without giving a solid response to her come on which I probably misinterpreted in the first place.

(I never realized Lincoln was so tall. He could probably sit on the flag pole. Maybe that’s where the rumors came from)

My cabin I stayed in was the reject cabin. Not because all of the other students in it were the biggest losers in school or anything. No. that was merely coincidence. We were the last students to choose partners. We even had the one “three team partners” who had no friends at all and had to become a triple threat. Our cabin was across the lake away from everyone else. We were a motley crew. A Star Wars obsessed nerd with holes in his shoes, a fat kid with pink eye, three redheads, a couple more fat kids without pink eye, and a fat kid who insisted he was Ra the Sun God. No relation to Joe Henderson who once signed my yearbook and believed he was a rival God to Ra known as Fireball. It was just that kind of school.

The trip was about teamwork and learning to hate yourself. I think it was only supposed to be the first one, but the other came naturally. My actual activity group wasn’t so bad. I liked most of the people in it. Even the girls were unintimidatingly cute. Sorry girls. You were all 5’s. Even our leader, who was a local high school senior as they all were, was a dud. He was the only one who was not athletic. He had glasses and a gut. Someone was keeping me among my people.

 (Even the number 5 seems ashamed in herself for being so average and hairy. Much like the girls in my group)

Activities we did everyday had to be done differently. Showering was not done alone. It was done in a room with other boys. Nobody showered completely naked. Some of us even left our shirts on. Then our cabin leader informed us not to be ashamed of our bodies. He gave a really great speech about how we’re more than what our bodies represent. We should learn to love ourselves for who we are on the inside. We showered in parkas after that.

Food was a pain in the ass. Each day one person from your group was forced to be something called a “Cruiser.” I think that’s Latin for bitch. We’d have to actually get up from eating and fetch people at our table food whenever they asked. Yes! They really had us do this. Garlic bread day was the worst. I didn’t even get a piece because Cruisers got food last. What did this teach anybody? I’m not sure. A teacher yelled at me for putting the spoon on the wrong side of the plate while setting up everyone’s silverware. I wanted to run away and cry. Or find out Friday the 13th was filmed here and that it was a documentary. A machete going through that guy’s face would have been delightful.

My only other good food memory was the night they announced dessert would be fresh fruit. A chorus of boos rang out through the entire cafeteria. I’m pretty sure a few popular girls were overturned in protest. We wanted a real dessert. Pears are not real desserts. After eating though us sickly children would have to go up to the nurse’s station and get our medicine. I was on nasal spray for my allergies. This was an actual woman who lived on the premises year round for all of the school trips. She was a stereotypical redneck. Her husband worked at a gas station and her infant daughter wore no clothes. How could I tell it was a daughter? She wore no clothes.

(Dessert does not grow on trees. It comes from a package of cookie dough)

As for actual activities that took place there was kayaking in water so shallow I could see the salamanders walking around. There was a blind folded rope climb across a river which I do not understand how it was legal. Teachers even shook it while we walked across. This was early 2000. We had just survived Y2K and now you’re trying to kill us on a blind folded rope bridge? We were supposed to learn trust. I learned that slutty looking teachers are not very nice. Our other activities were board games, a variety show put on by the teachers, and a couple of outdoor games like tug-of-war. I’ve always been really good at tug-of-war. Put me in the end loop at the back and watch me sit there like the heaviest object imaginable.

(This is how we were forced to play. Buff, naked, genitals tucked away, and with Lego haircuts. Pretend I’m the grey guy in the back with one arm)

I didn’t mind the trip overall. Some people I know hated it. I think it was because I imagined people being massacred a lot at that age and it helped me get through difficult times. That’s always what I used to do in long car rides. Pretend I had a machine gun aimed out and could shoot everybody. If it rained I would watched the drops race each other. Sometimes I’d combine the two and the rain drops would be racing blood drops. This is something called merging ideas.

P.S. Be sure to fill out your Mad Libs bracket if you haven’t already! Calling something a bracket always gets people excited.