Archive for September, 2012

Recently I read an article in the Huffington Post by Lily in Canada arguing against picking up dog poo. It’s sad to see such a nice young lady turn to drugs and come up with a crackpot theory. I’m not saying she’s doing crack or pot, I’m nearly observing how I think she’s doing them both at the same time.

(A computer’s prediction on how Lily in Canada might look in 3 months if she continues down this path)

You can read her argument here

Now that you’re all caught up let me say my argument in favor of picking up dog poo. First, let’s give you some background on who I am. I am a man who has picked up dog poo his entire life. My mom even invented a game called “Poop Patrol” which involved going out into the backyard with several plastic bags. Whoever picked up the heaviest bag (we didn’t actually weigh it, it was more done by sight) would win. The game wasn’t all that much fun because I was the only participant and it wasn’t so much a game as it was my only chore. I got older and realized if I didn’t pick up the dog poo then someone else would. This is an attitude I have continued to maintain. It wasn’t until I had to start taking care of my mom’s dog that I had no other option.

You see, I hate picking up dog poo. I like doing other gross things like cleaning out his ears then saying “Ewww!” in his face at all the gunk I get out. I do it anyway because it’s the rules. Lily in Canada would like to change these rules. Maybe in a perfect world this would work, but I do not live in a perfect world, I live in New Jersey. Lily argues that poop is biodegradable. True yet I have seen the same dog poop sitting outside by a tree for over a month now. I’m pretty sure it’s here to stay. I’ve named it Newton. By the time this poop biodegrades humans will have developed levitation powers. Perhaps this poop came from a special dog but until my dear Newton disappears into the soil, I win this one.

(Accept it Olivia Newton John, I named a pile of dog shit after your middle name. Get physical to that)

Lily goes onto argue people should look down to avoid stepping on the poo. This is fair but here’s some math, something you guys don’t have in Canada. My next door neighbors have three dogs. Each poops twice a day. That’s 6 poops a day. This adds up to 42 poops a week. Add in my dog who makes poops the size of those dogs and we’ve got an additional 14 poops raising the total to 56 poops every week. These are just the poops provided by two apartments. Add in the black family across the lot who never keep their dog on a leash, the black family around the corner who never keep their dog on a leash, and the black family who live in an unknown place who never keep their dog on a leash and we’ve got a number of poops approaching 100. I don’t know how gigantic your lawns are in Canada but if we didn’t pick up this poop then we’ve have nothing to step on but (no pun intended) the poop.

Present poop is a bigger issue than stepping on it. Poop is trouble to all the human senses. Who wants to look at poop? Unless it’s a big one in a toilet my friend has on his cell phone I don’t. Then there’s the smell! I know Lily is so incredibly tall that she has a better chance at smelling Saturn than she does poop on the ground so I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Us normal heighted people however are a nose scrape away from getting the stuff on our nose hairs. Touching poop is gross in itself and the sound it makes when you step on it is even worse. There’s also tasting poop. Some people are clumsy and always doing face first dives into the ground. With poop lying around there’s a chance they may get a mouthful. Nobody wants to eat poop. Not even me and I like Arby’s. Of course there’s also the sixth sense that poop invades. Imagine seeing a ghost and a pile of poop on your lawn? That’s too much to handle all at once.

(“I see dog shit. It’s everywhere.” – if The Sixth Sense took place where I live)

The main reason why I believe poop should be picked up is because not everyone has a dog or contributes to the problem. This is a bit of a Communist viewpoint, which I believe Lily in Canada is. Think about it, she once told me her favorite movie was Say Anything starring John Cusack. This came out in the 80s when the Russians were still a threat. She’s also never seen Hook starring Robin Williams. I don’t know about you but can you really trust someone who claims to have grown up in the 90s and has never seen a live action Peter Pan film starring Robin Williams? She’s also originally from Chicago. This is the home of John Wayne Gacy, Al Capone, and Lincoln Burrows, a fictional character who allegedly killed the vice president’s brother. Even Hollywood knows their made up characters are crooks. Ferris Bueller for instance, he got really good seats to the Cubs game last second. You don’t think he had to illegally buy those from a scalper?

(Even with the entire upper deck empty these are still really good seats on such short notice)

The verdict is simple, pick up after your dog because it’s just one of those things you do. The same reason you pick up after your dog is the same reason why you don’t take a dump on your own lawn. It’s just the way things are and that’s the simplest reason behind it.

Football season has started. This means people who like football talk about nothing but football and people who dislike football talk about nothing but disliking football. The latter are still talking about football. It’s such a popular sport in America that you can be a murderer, a drunk, a drug user, a wife beater, and still get a shoe deal. Because who doesn’t want to own the same shoe as the guy who slammed the accelerator of his car to run over an innocent pedestrian?

(Donte Stallworth was charged with DUI manslaughter on April 1, 2009; he surrendered to police on April 2, 2009, and was released on $200,000 bail.As a result of a plea deal, he received a sentence of 30 days in the county jail, plus 1,000 hours of community service 2 years of community control, and 8 years probation. He has also received a life-time suspension of his Florida state driver’s license.On July 10, 2009, Stallworth was released from county jail after serving 24 days of a 30-day sentence. Fucking lovely)

When most people think of Pennsylvania I don’t think they’re thinking football. What do people really think about when they think about Pennsylvania? At least when you hear New Jersey you can think about some idiot on a boardwalk. The thing about New Jersey though is we have no real identity. Everyone in my state either associates themselves with New York or Pennsylvania. We have one major league sports franchise that play here and actually admit to playing here, the New Jersey Devils. The Giants and the Jets play in New Jersey but they are so embarrassed they bought a PO Box in New York to deceive everyone else around the country.

Pennsylvania actually is a big football state. There is a city called Jim Thorpe after the old-timey player. He grew up in the area, I hope. It’s a middle of nowhere city with nothing to offer society. At least Hershey, Pennsylvania has Hershey Park, the only theme park based around high blood sugar. Even Chevy Chase, Maryland is better than Jim Thorpe City. If Chevy Chase can have a city named after him then I’m sure one day we will get Chris Kattan, Wyoming.

(This is the most offensive image I have ever seen. There’s a line to comedy, this is way over it)

The real thing I wanted to point out about Pennsylvania Football Fans is they have to be really loyal to stick with it. They also have to throw away any morals. We’re all well aware about Jerry Sandusky and the things he did at Penn State. Penn State is a gigantic evil force whose cult stretches across the entire state and beyond. It’s sick how loyal some of these fans and alumni can be to a school that could cover up such horrible crimes. The most egregious statements people make are defending Joe Paterno. There are few people I would defend forever. Most of them have seen me naked. I’ll never understand being able to stay loyal to a school that did what Penn State did. The Subway I used to go to raised their sandwich prices 25 cents and I boycotted going there. Suckers of the Penn State dick, what you used to love about the school has changed. Admit you were fooled by the douchebags in charge there and move on.

(“That’s right, I’m fucking you all over. And I’m so old and senile I don’t realize my hand should be turned the other way around to say ‘fuck you.’ Why am I dressed as a pilot? Why do people who give a shit about me after what a liar I was?” – Joe Paterno)

The actual NFL has a lot of problems in Pennsylvania. Quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers Ben Roethlisberger may have his name come up in spell check but he is still a massive asshole. The guy has been accused on numerous occasions of treating women like Jerry Sandusky treats the age of consent laws, with little respect. Big Ben’s worst crime was statutory rape. I’m always willing to believe a woman might be lying especially when it happens with someone with money. The erotic thriller Wild Things has proven to me to never believe anything anyone says during a rape trial. But seriously, was the pool scene in that movie completely overrated or did I get a copy of the film where it was edited down? That’s the last time I rent a movie from the library for the nudity. As far as Roethlisberger goes, he’s a womanizing ass and with as many accusations as he’s had, I’m sure at least one is true.

(Wonderful, I get the version of the film where the pool scene is almost completely cut out. I think I got the gay version because Kevin Bacon in the shower hanging dong lasted for half the film)

Of course there is still Michael Vick for me to comment on. I hate this guy. I’ve decided to follow this football season and become a fan of any player who injures him. People still defend the guy. I don’t live near Pittsburgh so I’m not sure how much Roethlisberger’s troublemaking dick gets brought up but Vick’s dog killing ways is a constant subject. There is nothing about Vick I find redeeming or feel-good. The media attempts to say he’s a changed man who got a second chance. A second chance? Nobody accidentally runs a dog fighting ring then drowns the losers. People accidentally call the wrong number or invade Iraq. The thing people say about Vick is that he has “paid his debt to society.” The guy never served a term for animal abuse. He went away to prison for the gambling. It pains me to know Vick is out there making millions of dollars and sucking ass on the field anyway. Please, any linebackers reading this, crush this guy’s skull into the ground.

(Redemption is when someone who was beaten down by the world rises up and accomplishes something great. Michael Vick’s story has nothing redeeming about it unless he ends up eaten by dogs. Please. Please. Please)

(Let’s pray one day Michael Vick ends up in this bag or one similar to it)

Football fans living in Pennsylvania, how do you do it? How do you find interest in a sport in your state when everyone seems to be a pedophile, a womanizer, or animal abuser? Maybe you should try hockey. The most well-known hockey player in Pennsylvania is Sidney Crosby. He’s a cry baby but at least I’m pretty sure he’d never hurt another human being with except with tears.

As much as I can degrade my high school the one thing I will never insult them was on their driver’s education program. In 10th grade instead of health class for the first marking period we had driver’s education. It was a very productive thing as no students from my graduating class have died from car crashes. Many have died from health related issues so maybe picking driving instructions over teaching us about how to live a healthy lifestyle wasn’t such a good idea.

(Class of 2006! Lets go Spartans!)

The process for learning how to drive in my school was simple. First you go to health class and learn all the stupid rules. Second you do something called “The Simulator” (I know, that sounds so incredibly sexy). The Simulator was basically a virtual driving test filmed in the 1970s. 12 students sit in fake cars and we have to act appropriately to whatever happens on the big screen in front of us. The computer scores if we reacted properly to each scenario and gives us a point value. The first week many of us got scores in the 70s, some much lower. By the end most of us were scoring consistently near 100. A few girls still after a month of this everyday were getting scores near 50. This means they were screwing up nearly half the time while driving. Luckily these girls all seemed so scummy that I doubt any will ever even be able to afford a car.

If you pass The Simulator then you wait around in study hall for your birthday to come around. Once your birthday does come it’s time to actually go out on the road. A vision test is required before you can participate in “Behind the Wheel” the program where you actually drive a real life car. I did very badly on the vision test. The school nurse told me to try again. I did poorly again. She pointed to the big E on the very top. I said “E” and she said “Good enough.” And that’s why I shouldn’t be allowed to drive without glasses.

(Will you look at this, I wasn’t even right with the E)

When Behind the Wheel actually came I was assigned a partner and a gym teacher to help me learn how to drive. My partner was the biggest NASCAR fan in the school. My gym teacher was probably the tallest teacher in school. We were a unique bunch and certainly we would all die together in some horrific crash.

There were so many birthdays in October that my first chance behind the wheel of a car was sometime in the winter after a big snow storm. I gave NASCAR Boy the first ups in driving. I thought for sure he would zoom out of the parking lot and make a left-hand turn without thinking. Instead we were treated to 3 miles per hour and the gym teacher/driving instructor telling him to “speed it along.” On the first day we drove through a local neighborhood and at a random point switched. I got behind the wheel of a car for the first time legally and managed to survive.

Behind the Wheel continued for another 2 weeks or so. Everyday instead of doing homework and trying to avoid the fat Spanish kid who always made fun of me during study hall, I would go out and practice driving. At one point I almost drove into a Blockbuster as I had no understanding of the term “ride the brake.” I also got stuck in a circle with many yield signs. Nobody had ever told me a yield sign means to move out of the way as fast as you can and rudely cut off as many people as you can. I thought yield was an old-timey word for stop. So I did stop. And that’s the time I got honked at by someone else for the first time.

(I can’t think of any other instances in life where yielding is necessary. Maybe cooking? Raping? I don’t do either much so only driving shall this word remain relevant)

I passed Behind the Wheel as did my partner. For the next few months I had my learner’s permit and would jump at every opportunity to drive with my mom, dad, or sister. I practiced parallel parking for about 20 minutes total and have done it properly once since. It’s much simpler to abandon your car and buy a new one than to try parallel parking in a pressure situation.

On the day of my actual driver’s test at the DMV I had to wait in a long line. My birthday falls around Columbus Day so things were backed up from the holiday weekend. I finally got to the front, nervous I might get stuck with the infamous black driving instructor who I heard was a real asshole. Instead I got with some fat woman who seemed equally as mean. They tried to trick me by putting a stop sign within the first 10 feet of where the test begins. Ha! You can’t fool me. Everyone already told me about that trick. Someone cut me off during my test and I spent the rest of the evaluation talking to the driving instructor about how much other people deserve to die.

(Every driver here deserves to die. Especially the ones with the stupid yellow tops. Are those rickshaws?)

It took one try and I got my license easy. I was blind and learned everything I knew from a guy who was a kickball teacher. Yet with these disadvantages I managed to get my license. And now I have to pay $20 to get it renewed. I’m pretty sure license renewals are just ways to track down wanted killers and people living off the grid. We can fake a moon landing but we still cannot make the DMV a fun place to visit. Life stinks sometimes.

I want to continue a subject I was talking about during my last post, people I meet at the bar I go to. This time however I do not want to make fun of drunks. They’re too sad and lonely. Instead we will gather around and mock the people who work in the hotel/bar that I frequent. Unlike the last post, I see these people way too often where I am able to get some photos for you.

Mean Jill: She’s the bossman, the big cheese, the duchess of evil. To save confusion from her and Bartender Jill, Rob and I refer to her as Mean Jill for the simple fact she is incredibly mean. Not really mean. Like she’s never done a single thing mean to us. She just has a redhead’s scowl. She’s in charge and wants everyone to know it. She’s been engaged to the same man for 8 years. I met her fiancé once and I swear she’s got larger testicles than he does.

Cleaning Lady: My new favorite character I see way too often. Rob walked in on her cleaning the bathroom one time. Instead of saying “Hey buddy, I’m cleaning here. Can you wait a moment?” She yelled “I clean!” I did the same thing about a month later. She again yelled “I clean!” at me and I was chased away. It’s happened a few times since and I think she’s starting to recognize us. She’s a chubby old Mexican woman who likes everyone to know what she does best, she cleans!

(“I clean! I clean! 5 minutes! Only you!” – the only English she knows)

The Penguin: This man works the late shift at the front desk. His nickname comes from his facial resemblance to a penguin. His voice is very “bird which cannot fly” as well. He seems like a nice enough guy. My only worry is one day I got shot with an umbrella gun.

(The Penguin I know looks a lot happier than this. Probably because nobody ever checks into a Princeton hotel at 2 in the morning)

Twisty aka Curly Boy: For some reason Bartender Jill always calls Twisty “Curly Boy.” This shows you that she has been working around alcohol for too long. Twisty got his nickname from the time he tried to open up a jar. We began to stare at him and he went into the back room to try to open it. Still he had no luck. Forever jokes about him being unable to twist anything open have flown around. We haven’t seen him in a few months now. Rumor has it he can’t figure out how to get past the doorknob.

The Waitresses: There are no real interesting ones currently but there was Fez, Dr. Nathan, Jimmy O’Fallon (a redheaded woman who looks very Irish), the ghoul (a very ghoulish looking girl with a pot belly), Samantha Scully (her real name, feel free to add her on Facebook, she denied me), and a few more without interesting made-up backstories.

Stoneface: A woman whose only job was to wear a white dress and never change her facial expression. She was definitely half Eskimo and half Easter Islander. I’m thinking her face got stuck in stone form after looking Mean Jill in the eyes.

(I haven’t seen Stoneface in a while. I think she’s appearing on Ancient Aliens now while Giorgio Tsoukalos insists she was built by extraterrestrials)

Brian Cashman’s Daughter aka Virginia: Nepotism reigns supreme here. A lowly waitress someone managed to become the daytime manager. How? She’s the general manager of the hotel’s daughter. After seeing her almost weekly for two years she never said anything to Rob or I until Clint Eastwood’s famous chair speech. All she said was how brilliant he was and that she too thinks chairs are people.

Trish aka The Elephant Man: She doesn’t look like The Elephant Man but boy howdy does she talk like him. Rob had a thing for her and talked to her a bit. She ended up getting pregnant and cutting her hand on a half-opened can when she tried to finish opening it with her palm. Something tells me her kid will be lucky to be anything like the Elephant Man if he has to deal with this nitwit as his mother.

(Apparently when Trish got pregnant it started to grow into her face)

CJ: Is there anyone in your life who is so incredibly friendly you always avoid eye contact with them so you don’t have to talk to them? This is CJ. He’s the only live music they ever have anymore which is okay because he’s not bad. He could learn more than that one Lifehouse song. I’m also sick of hearing The Counting Crows. If Ellen Degeneres was a male musician who received his payment in French fries, she would be CJ.

The German Lady: Sometimes a bartender, other times she stands around in the door leading to the kitchen not doing much at all. The first time I met her she had an English accent. The second time I did she had a German accent. Every time since, she has had no accent. Rob and I made up that her back story is she uses a different accent depending upon what job she is working. She’s a German bartender, a French waitress, and a Swedish chef. She’s so important in my life that all of my “passcodes” at work are inspired by her.

(Pimple scars and all, I don’t mind The German Lady. She’s probably best when she’s a chef but it’s still nice to see her work the bar on occasion)

Tell me about some dopes who work at a place you frequently go to. I recently purchased a plane and I’m going to fly them all into the sun.

In America the blood alcohol to be considered legally drunk is .080%. In England I think it’s 17%. One time I was pulled over for drunken driving. I had a blood alcohol content of .018. This is the amount of alcohol you can find in a single nose hair on an English baby. Get it? They drink a lot. Americans drinks a lot too. Different from our previous owners to the east, the English, Americans become even more obnoxious and incoherent when they drink. Nearly every Thursday night since May 2009 I have gone to the same bar on the Princeton University Campus. Here are a few drunken idiots I have met there.

Greg Mario: Bartender Jill said Greg Mario (you have to say his entire name) was a regular at the bar. I met him the first week in January in 2010. I haven’t seen him since. He gave me and my friend Rob hockey tickets. We wanted to thank him and before we did we asked him if he was “Mario.” He laughed, said no, then walked away only to come back later and apologize for being such a loon.

Big Daddy Tom: This man was visiting from some southern state. His son got into Princeton so he figured he would spend the night with a beer while his son was trying to pick up the overwhelming amount of Chinese girls on campus. BDT was special because he kept telling the same story over and over again. It was about something happening at 6:15 in the morning. After he told it a few times I started to tell it for him. He was a little amazed I knew so much about his life. This just proves how drunk he was.

David: I knew I didn’t like David when he was sitting in my favorite spot to sit. At first he seemed like your typical friendly drunk. He said to a woman who passed through “I watch Tinkerbell with my daughter sometimes but you are the most beautiful fairy I have ever seen.” The woman walked away quickly. He continued bothering women all night. It culminated when he was making a girl 30 years younger than he was look at herself in a shot glass. He finally realized we were mocking him and refused to say goodbye to us. Oh well. I never trust someone who goes to a bar wearing a polo shirt and shorts.

Name Unknown: I forget this guy’s name; he may even be two different guys. He owned a storage company in Florida and I found something online about him. His big claim to fame was spending an hour with him naming different celebrities and if he would or would not sleep with them. For a drunk guy he sure was picky. Possibly the most vulgar man I have ever met. And to think the first thing he said to me was a terrible children’s joke about a ghost with a band-aid called a “pumpkin patch.” That’s vulgar on a totally different degree.

The Sleeping Yankees Fan: She’s not a drunk but deserves a mention. She comes in almost every night, asks Bartender Jill to put on the Yankees game, and then falls asleep with her head back in the air. Probably the easiest buffoon to snap a picture of due to her drowsiness.

(I was told by Bartender Jill to not post pictures of Mrs. Holliday online. I have to prove at least one of these people exist. I tried taking a video of when Sigourney Weaver was eating with David Hyde Pierce last week but it just looks like an old beard out with her gay husband enjoying dinner)

Not Jeff Hanneman: Bartender Jill told us this man was from the band Slayer. Nobody knows the members of Slayer. They have one blonde guy so it had to be Jeff Hanneman. For close to two years Rob and I debated if it was him or not. I said there was no way. Finally we realized it couldn’t possibly be because Jeff Hanneman wears his watch on a different wrist than Not Jeff Hanneman and the real Jeff Hanneman had a flesh eating virus. I examined the fake Jeff Hanneman’s body in the bathroom with a flashlight. No signs of a flesh eating virus were discovered.

Captain Miles Standish: I almost forgot about this guy because he was a regular and no longer comes in at all. He was a short Indian man who could barely see over the bar. He never sat, always stood. He would bring homework in and do while I drank a glass of wine. His nickname is very simple, he stands. What else would we call him, Sting song?

The Two Black Guys: Forever Rob and I thought they were janitors because they always helped clean up some dishes. Turns out we’re just racists. They’re in there every time we are no matter what day it is so it was excusable. Last Thursday they had a random 16 year old French kid with them eating cookies. Turns out one of them coached an Olympic tennis star in the 1980s and the other drives a Ferrari. This is why I don’t like affirmative action.

Opera Lady: When women drink they become extremely obnoxious. I guess you can almost say they start behaving like me. This woman had nothing to offer other than whistling really loudly and singing terrible opera songs. She told a really bad story to everyone at the bar about how a train filled with Styrofoam caught on fire and the person at the front desk of her hotel did not work her to warn her about the fire. Fireballs were shot through the air. This apparently happened recently too. You’d think if a train exploded and shot fireballs all over the place killing people it would have made the news. Maybe it happened on 9/11 and it was overshadowed.

Freddy: This is the king of drunks. I think he’s a god in my eyes because he’s also the president of a bank and was the biggest drunk I have met. He even has a catchphrase, saying “What-What?” and pulling on his suspenders. He tried taking Bartender Jill out on a date but she doesn’t date bankers or fat guys who wear suspenders. She has specific taste. The last time she saw him he skipped out on the bill. The key to a woman’s heart is through screwing her on the tab.

Are there any lovable drunks in your life you will never forget?

Art at Pouring My Art Out wished for me to basically write a post devoid of jokes involving race, sex, religion, or abuse and it must not have any outlandish opinion to it. In other words, he wanted me to write something nobody would ever want to read. He did however say it should be about happy things or at least I think he did. So here’s a post about happy things without any insults to anybody. I feel like throwing up. What’s something that makes everybody happy? Animals! Here are some things about my experiences with certain animals. It’s completely appropriate for children too as there are no insults or foul language.

(This post can be enjoyed by everyone in this picture)


I grew up in a home with pussies. We had three pussies in total. The first two were named Stephanie and her brother’s name was pronounced “Stah-Shoe” which I am told is the Yiddish name for Stanley. I’m scratching my head too. The third cat we had was named Briscoe after the Bruce Campbell show Briscoe County Junior. At least we watched the show.

Stephanie’s strangest quark involved her sleeping habits. There were only two places she ever slept, in the “messy room” on an old air conditioner and on my bed. She shed a lot and I have always been allergic to cats so I always tried convincing her the air conditioner was better. Still, it was nice to know I had the most comfortable bed in the house in a room with a door that could not shut.

“Stah-Shoe” was a tough cat. By the time I could have memories he only had one good eye. He was always getting into fights with other cats in our old home in Edison, New Jersey which I am told was a tough neighborhood. He was a black cat who purred louder than anything else. He was probably the most cuddly of the cats I ever had ownership over. He also has the highest kill count if you’re scoring at home.

Briscoe was more my older sister’s cat. My mom did not like him very much. He always peed in the corner of the living room and was a general annoyance. In a lot of ways he’s exactly like McGwire the Dog, more of a pest than a companion. I think this is what happens when animals are overly babied. Briscoe was still a nice cat who never minded being picked up and swung around the room. At least, he never said it annoyed him.

(Little pussies are my favorite)


It seems like every dog I meet is a male dog, never a bitch. I prefer bitches. Female dogs usually like male humans more and vice versa. I had mastership over one female dog in my lifetime, her name was Baylee.

The first time I met Baylee was when I came home from school one winter day in 2nd grade. She was extremely thin at the time after the abuse she endured. Baylee sat on the couch and when I opened the door her head poked up. It was love at first sight. By far she was the coolest dog ever. She had bad hips yet was still a great athlete. I could throw balls to her and like Air Bud she would hit them up in the air.

Baylee was a great companion for a young boy. She even somewhat understood soccer rules. A dog comprehended that she was supposed to block a ball from going one way and that she was trying to push it in the other direction. McGwire the dog still doesn’t understand his heavy breathing is the least sexy noise to wake up to. I miss Baylee.

(Two bitches playing Frisbee together)


In America it’s illegal to own an ass. Asses, otherwise known in children’s books as donkeys, are not great pets. I’m not exactly sure why. Has anyone ever tried it? I think we need to give them a chance.

There’s not much I can say about these animals. Nobody goes to a zoo to see them. I know asses are important in some countries where they are used as transportation. In America their only purpose is to run for public office and screw over the kind people who live in this fine country.

(Check out these adorable asses rubbing together)


Some people wake up from the sound a cock makes. It sounds like “cock-a-doodle-doo!” I think we have all at some point in our life thought about quitting our jobs and working on a farm. I know I have. There’s something about living on a farm that seems so pure and beautiful. Your biggest responsibility is making sure you’re pulling your weight.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen a nice cock. Whenever I do see a rooster they’re always scary. Aren’t emus just giant roosters? Emus are the scariest animal on the planet and yes I’m including Megashark in this debate. I don’t know if I would ever want to wake up from a rooster cawing. I prefer my phone alarm because at least my phone doesn’t creep me out.

(Three cocks just hanging out doing their thing in a public park)

There you go. A nice post where I did not degrade anyone and managed to keep everything completely family friendly. If we learned anything here it’s to never trust me to grant you a wish with a positive result in the end.

What do sad teenage girls, Charles Manson, and you have in common? You’re all big music fans. That’s what separates you from me. I am not a person who can in any regards be considered a person who lives or dies by music. I never really got into any until I was almost 18. I’m not using this as an excuse or anything. If I grew up in Africa and never saw a blonde woman until I was 18 I probably would really like them. Music is far different from a blonde woman. For starters, music has never put a wet dog in a dryer. Blondes are so dumb.

(When a dryer isn’t available hang ’em outside and let the summer breeze do the work)

Despite being a music aficionado I still know enough about it. More so, I know what I associate different songs with. In college I made a statement in class that I associated “Jesus Walks” by Kanye ‘Closeted Homosexual’ West with the film Jarhead and military in general. The teacher told me this was a genius topic. He went onto give me a B for the marking period despite not doing a half the assignments demanded of me. The lesson I learned, don’t be an idiot like everyone else in class and you can slack off the rest of the semester.

“People Are Strange” – The Doors

I associate this song with when I first began driving. I got tired of the one radio station I knew and was flipping through different stations then came across this gem. Ever since then the radio station became my favorite, until 4 years later when I got sick of hearing Van Halen constantly. The first time I heard this song was when I sat in my car at a local park. I drove by my house and saw my mom’s boyfriend outside. I hated him so much I would rather sit in my car at the park watching a black girl cry while listening to 40 year old songs. I thought about going up to the black girl and asking her what was wrong. Then I remembered popcorn chicken was only available for a limited time.

“Winterlong” – Pixies

I cannot listen to any song by the Pixies without feeling extremely depressed. One I first moved into my apartment I had very little to entertain myself with. I bought a Pixies CD to listen to as I grew tired of listening to the Alice in Chains and Batboy The Musical CDs I otherwise owned. Winterlong was the last song on the CD. This signified an end to me. Once the CD was over I would have to flick it back on to the start and the cycle continued. Even though it makes me extremely depressed, at least I seem like a hip person for owning one of their CDs even if it is their best of which I guess makes me a sellout.

“Mr. Brightside” – The Killers

This is the one song by The Killers I cannot stand. It was extremely popular when I was in 11th grade and my least favorite teacher loved it. I remember this song coming on the radio when I sat in my car sweating waiting for my date with “Duck Face” to begin. She already had a boyfriend, wasn’t easily charmed by me, and looked like a duck. That’s the abridged version. Since I hate the original, here’s a cover.

Anything by Bruce Springsteen

Is “The Boss” popular anywhere outside of New Jersey? I don’t get this guy. I probably never will. He sings about old girlfriends and places he’s been to. He’s put blog posts to music. Sadly I associate Bruce Springsteen mostly with my mother’s “memorial service.” According to everyone who told me so, my mom loved Bruce Springsteen. I’m thinking they confused him with Bruno, Bruce Willis’s musical name. She actually owned a Bruno cassette tape. And to think, I always grew up thinking I didn’t deserve nice things.

“Whiskey in a Jar” – Metallica

Back when I used to listen to XM radio constantly, they tried out an all Metallica channel for a month. People responded by having it go away after a month because most Metallica fans cannot afford satellite radio let alone haircuts. This was a Thin Lizzy cover song of theirs I really liked. This point in my life was when I was taking one college class and the rest of my time was spent working or walking around Wegmans hoping a pretty girl would say I’ve been there too long and it was time for me to leave. Hey, at least she’d be talking to me.

“Angry Chair” – Alice in Chains

This was my go-to “Pushup Song.” Back when I was more out of shape and would spend literally all my free time sitting in front of a computer (now I have a laptop so the computer technically sits on me) I would take short breaks to occasionally do pushups. My Monday nights were the big pushup night. My friend Rob and I would start at 8 by watching Little People Big World and talking to each other online. During each commercial break we’d do as many pushups as we could. The fact I once got 100 shows how much I was probably cheating. We’d do the same during Monday Night Raw and continue it through the rerun of Jon and Kate Plus 8 at 11. During the commercial breaks I would pop on Angry Chair to get me a little more pumped because Matt Roloff’s voice couldn’t do it.

“Remedy” – Black Crowes

In 2009 I spent the year working in New York City at a comedy club. Most weekend nights the other comedians would go out drinking. I didn’t fit in much with them, or so I thought. One was going back home until he could afford to live in his friend’s crawl space again. The other guys were throwing him a going away party. One of the comedians said he would invite me out but I wasn’t 21. I was 21. I told that and he insisted he was sure I was 19. So I went out with a bunch of drunk people through New York City the next 3-4 hours for the first time bar hopping. We finally found a dive bar where we settled in and I remember Remedy coming on the jukebox. It was a good moment about fitting in and feeling included. Whenever I hear this song now I always think about how I drunkenly walked 20 blocks alone at 4 in the morning back to Penn Station because I was too cheap to buy a MetroCard. Finally, a positive song association.

If we determined anything with this post it’s that I only listen to music when I’m depressed.

Do you have any song associates?

During my time receiving cancerous rays from computer screens I have made many Internet friends. Don’t feel special WordPress bloggers, I’ve been making Internet friends ever since I was 13. I have more people willing to click “subscribe” to this blog than are willing to become friends with me on Facebook. More people will comment on this particular blog post than will spend my birthday with me. The Internet is where I seem to make all my friends these days. For a guy who carries around spare deodorant in his car I can’t be too smelly. It’s Axe too because that’s the one women murder themselves over you for.

(She smelt me once and fell in love. I turned her down. Her life is no longer worth living)

Sometimes an Internet friend becomes more like a real friend. I’ve talked to a few WordPressers outside of the blogosphere and some I consider a regular friend. Things remind me of you and I’ll even explain to police officers how a particular blog post of yours is what inspired me to light the fire. Most of us will never meet in person which is fine, it might be better that way. I do remember however one instance many years ago when I made an Internet friend who I accidentally ended up meeting years later with lackluster consequences.

When I first got the Internet I did whatever I could to find as many people I could instant message as possible. I searched AOL profiles for girls who went to the same school as me and baseball players who I could bug about nonsense. I actually did used to talk to a few baseball players online. The one I talked to a few times ended up having to retire and got a job at Old Navy. With the girls, I always kept secret who I was. If they knew it was the weird fat kid from gym class they’d insist the Internet was not a safe place to be.

(This kid is reliving my life)

I began talking to one girl who actually responded well to me. She went to a rival middle school. I don’t remember what it was specifically that made me instant message her. I think I was feeling courageous. We’ll call her Does Dallas because her real first name matches the main character in an old film about a woman who goes out and “Does Dallas.” I don’t want people to be able to figure out who she is as her privacy is very important to me.

(I changed my mind, I don’t care)

I’m not sure what we talked about exactly but Does Dallas actually would instant message me first a few times. I hid no secrets from her. I was exactly who I was in real life and she was responding well. She told me her sister got a new camera and she would send me her picture. Did Does Dallas have intentions with me I could only fantasize about? She sent me the picture and I was amazed at how attractive she was. All this really meant was I could never send her a real picture of me. Onto my computer, in search of the picture of a shirtless British kid I would send girls claiming it was me, I went.

I told Does Dallas how a classmate of hers was on my baseball team. We’ll call him At Night since his real first name is the first half of a Nickelodeon programming series taking place “At Night.” Well, a lesson was learned by me. At Night did not have kind things to say about me. Does Dallas came online and said how At Night told her about me. I asked what he said. She did not make it clear but the fact Does Dallas never spoke to me ever again does not bode well. At Night was a dweeb who asked a girl out once and when she said yes he thanked her. This was the guy who was cock-blocking me?

(“At Night” was a travesty to other men with the same first name. I won’t say it. I swear I won’t let you know what his name was)

Fast forward to high school. You don’t have to fast forward but I suggest you do to avoid the anguish in between I suffered from many other people. As rival middle schoolers do, they sometimes attend the same high school. Guess who I happened to share a graduating class with? Does Dallas, that’s who. We never had class together, but one time during a field trip she sat across from me. I wondered and still do if she remembers how she had fallen for me online. At the time she was pulling off the “hot nerd” look. I remember her wearing tight black striped pants on the bus ride to see Julius Caesar, the play not the politician. I was at my fattest and sat next to the fattest black chick in class. The two-seater was not made for two offensive lineman which is what we were voted most likely to grow up to become.

I never had a real conversation with Does Dallas. She was smart which leads me to believe she always knew exactly who I was. People always do that. They ignore any connections they used to have to you no matter how silly the circumstances were. The closest I ever came to talking to her was one night during senior year. My friend had a huge crush on her and they had planned to hangout. She cancelled. He asked his best friend to hangout. The best friend cancelled. I had nothing going on so we went out to what his best friend was REALLY up to. Parked in front of the house was Does Dallas’s car. We snuck up along the fence and my friend caught the love of his life in the hot tub with his best friend. Then her head went under water and his best friend’s eyes rolled back into his head. Use your imagination.

Long story short, thank you current Internet friends for not owning hot tubs and inviting girls I have crushes on over to your place or something like that.

Aretha Franklin is best known for having a first name that looks eerily similar to the word Urethra. Second on her accomplishments list is being a singer. Her biggest song was one called “Respect” where she spells out the word and chaos ensues. It’s a catchy song everyone knows. It also raises an interesting subject, what does respect mean to each of us?

(Hank Hill has a narrow urethra, not a narrow Aretha)

I’m not someone who demands respect. Sure, I’d like if people respected me more. Fact of the matter is I don’t respect myself enough to feel it necessary for others to respect me as much as they probably should. This is called self-respect. Whenever you want to figure out what the word is for something you do by yourself just add the word self in front of it. Mutilating yourself is self-mutilation. The esteem you have for yourself is self-esteem. Touching your private parts is called self-sex. Make sure you don’t have too much self-sex, you could go blind/lose respect for women.

Adults demand respect from younger children. In school I always heard about respecting elders and other nonsense I had no time for. The thing about respect is it means something different to all of us. To me respect is letting a person do what they got to do and not judging them or standing in their ways. To many people respect means bowing at their feet and treating them as if they’re gods. Behaving this way and making someone else more special than they really should be will make you lose your self-respect and in that way you are being disrespectful. So the next time some high and mighty dope tells you to respect them more remind them you respect yourself enough to never respect them.

I have a code I follow to help me remain at least somewhat respectful. I never disrespect someone in their home or houseboat. That’s their turf. I have no right to say anything degrading about their lifestyle even if their home is messy or their houseboat has a leak. I would not want someone coming into where I live and telling me I have to do things their way. If I’m at a religious person’s house and they pray, I’ll appease them and not make a deal of it. If I’m at a person’s home where they don’t swear, I’ll watch what I say. If I’m at a dangerous black person’s house, please call the police. I’m probably in danger.

(You think John Stockton ever buys Magnums just to fit in with his peers?)

Being respectful also goes both ways. It also means you should not live your life in a “My Way or the Highway” sense. Do you want to be like Limp Bizkit? Of course you don’t. Their singer is a fat Ginger. I’m fine with people having a set of morals they like to instill in others but at the same point to be truly respectful I think they need to allow and understand not everyone chooses to live their live the same way as they do. To be truly respectful you must let people be who they are even when you know they’re nuts.

(Wearing a red hat all the time qualifies to me as being a Ginger)

Musicians, sports stars, and other idiots seem to toss out the word respect a lot more than ever before. You never heard Jackie Robinson complaining about how no one respected him. The guy had to put up with more than any other athlete ever had to and not once did he go on Twitter complaining about how the fans don’t respect his ass. Demanding respect is the most pitiful thing on the planet and I’m including New Zealand in my discussion. Why should respect be demanded? Shouldn’t it, like everything else in life, be earned? If people don’t respect you they probably have a fairly good reason for it.

Who do I respect? I respect anyone who can be honest about their flaws. This is the one quality in people I always find endearing. That’s not to say someone who always whines about how much they suck has my respect. Whining never gets on my good side. I also automatically respect anyone who ever takes the time to make me feel special, important, or sexy. I can’t spend every day having self-sex, I need others to make me feel like I have more value than that. If you’re reading this you have made me feel special, important, and sexy. Thank you.

What makes you respect a person? Or better yet, who is someone in your life you could never lose respect for? I could never lose respect for Jared Fogle of Subway fame. The guy became famous for eating sandwiches. I feel like that was my destiny.

(Jared Fogle proves you can lose a ton of weight and still be incredibly gross looking)

Do you like being a big helper? I bet you do. There are three things I need help with aka am too lazy to research myself. In fact I am so lazy that I have forgotten what the third thing I needed help with was. Helping me out with my two questions below will make me forever in your debt and would be much appreciated.

1) In a month I will be going on vacation/holiday/an STD spreading spree to Los Angeles, the City of Gardens for the first time. I plan on moving there soon which will certainly make this blog a lot more fun as I am sure I will be best friends with Willem Dafoe and working as Megan Fox’s sex slave within a month. My question is for anyone who has ever been there; what is there to do there? Like in a touristy sense. What are some things I should check-out and do as a dumb guest before I feel obliged to try to fit in? Other than faking a drug overdose in front of The Viper Room ala River Phoenix, I’m dry on ideas.

2) I’m working on a masterpiece which takes place in the 1920s. The problem is I know very little about this time period as it is pretty boring. What are some important events, people, and other factoids from this era (1910-1940) that I should include? Here is a short list I have so far:


-Charles Lindberg and his stolen baby

-Amelia Earhart and her missing plane

-The rise of the Nazis

-Wally Pip and other silly baseball stories

-Bonnie and Clyde

-The Great Depression

-The Titanic

-WWI and Franz Ferdinand

-Kaiser Wilhelm

-Al Capone


-Al Jolson and the acceptance of blackface

-George Gershwin


-Stock Market crash

So please, if you know anything more, even if it’s a bit more obscure I would love to know it.

I wish I could remember the third thing I needed help with but I’m pretty sure I caught Alzheimer’s from holding a door open for an elderly woman the other day. Seriously, I’ve felt achy, mentally drained, and incontinent ever since. For now, these two things are all I need help with.