Tuesday, December 7, 2010

___sidebar.

Oh, hey there. Well, I've been a bit of a deadbeat dad of a blog writer as of late. To be honest, I'm lazy. But, if you didn't know that by now you might need to be checked for retardedness (which is usually sexually transmitted). Anywho, I've been busy with a bunch of random crap over the last few months. I'm finally graduating from college after six and a half years! My parents aren't really proud, just kind of surprised that I finally achieved a degree which I started on before Facebook was invented.

Another reason I haven't been writing lately is that I do not have internet. Yes, I live in the 21st Century and do not have access to the world wide web or any type of porn. Its sad, really, and writing and editing blogs at the university library would not be too difficult if it weren't for the formidable stench of hobo urine. Its not like I've run out of crass ideas to write about, its just that I haven't had the time to put my ridiculous and sometimes humorous thoughts onto (into?) the internet machine. I have had several ideas brewin' in the ole gutterbrain, though.

Starting sometime soon I will be writing regularly again, probably once a week, but maybe more to make up for my apathy. Like a deadbeat dad I will make promises I cannot keep, take you to a ballgame and forget to buy tickets, and then get drunk and beat the shit out of your mom. See ya soon!

paddy.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

No. 128 "Places That Should Be Open After Midnight."

Oftentimes while I'm out drinking with my buddies, (or one of my friends and several of his lame friends) I feel the urge to venture somewhere other than a seedy strip club or suburban house party. The only problem is, that most gratifying venues close after midnight. Growing up, my dad always told me that nothing good ever happens after midnight. Obviously, he has never gone out with reckless or adventurous people, nor experienced the breath of drunken tomfoolery. I bet he still imagines muggers and rapists hiding behind corners, waiting to steal the birthday money my grandmother gave me while using blasphemous language as they run away. Anyway, back to my point. There needs to be more fun places open once the sun goes down and the skirts come off. Here are a few ideas I've come up with.

The Zoo:
As children, the zoo is a magical place to pet see exotic animals from all over the world. This can be recaptured in your twenties, while twelve shots deep. Most zoos close up shop around 6 PM, which is unfortunate because most of the cool animals come out at night. No one gives a shit about a bunch of birds or geckos; we want to see animals that could single handily rampage a Bar Mitzvah. Imagine visiting the zoo late at night with a bottle of whiskey. None of the employees would be there to yell at you, so it could be a free-for-all. Riding giraffes throughout the park bareback, boxing kangaroos and feeding gazelles to the lions. What fun it could be.

The Library:
Otherwise known as the poor man's internet. The library can be a fun place when you're drunk, especially when you're surrounded by your dipshit buddies. There is a bounty of books in the library for you to make fun of. Whether its a double entendre title or a silly name of an author, everything becomes hilarious when you're loaded. E.E. Cummings? I wonder if his sister's name is B.J. Jizzings! You could also harass the nerds busy laboring on term papers and projects on a Friday night. Harass all you want, nerds have weak arms.

Brookstone:
Whenever I'm at the mall, after I hit on high school chicks I make sure to stop at Brookstone. I usually feign interest in smaller items while the employees are watching me, then hit the massage chairs once the large woman of color gets off the chair after thirty fucking minutes. They also have nifty gadgets to break play with. Just picture the fun you could have at Brookstone with all these futuristic gizmos. Anything that stimulates the sober mind is tripled in awesomeness once alcohol is involved. I heard they even have a hover board.

Supercuts:
This is my favorite hair salon for three reasons: general cheapness, adequate magazine selection, and they don't fuck up my hair 70% of the time. Impromptu haircuts are very popular among degenerate bar hounds; but the end result is rarely becoming the next morning. A Supercuts that is open late at night could solve this problem. While waiting for your haircut, you can point out girls you want to bang in the latest issue of US Weekly, and you won't look like Gary Oldman from The Fifth Element once your stylist is finished.

Car Dealerships:
What is more fun than barreling a Ferrari down the highway going 120 miles per hour with a salesman frantically calling the police from his dealership-issued cell phone? Car dealerships are basically go-kart rentals, and the city limits is the track. All you have to do is pretend to be interested in a specific sports vehicle, mock up some false credit reports and bank statements; then you're off to the races. After you crash the car through the dealership entrance you can sober up with complimentary doughnuts and coffee.

Museums:
Generally, museums are pretty boring. But, I once saw this movie where the artifacts and dinosaurs came to life; I think it was called Ben Stiller Gets Drunk At Work And Fights A T-Rex.
And that had to be based on a true story. There would be countless cultures to explore and mock. Not only would you be acquiring information about the vast history of our world, but also learn camping tips from cavemen and beat the shit out of Redcoats. And afterward you could get high on peyote with a bunch of Indians.

Chuck E. Cheese:
Most of us haven't been to Chuck E. Cheese since the age of twelve. But, that doesn't mean it can't still be a blast. From the outdated arcade games to the ball pit filled with mono and chicken pox; the fun is endless at Chuck E. Cheese. I also think that kids should be allowed in past midnight. This way, you could gain a sense of accomplishment after dominating some snot-nosed eight year-old at Whack A Mole, then ridicule him until he runs to his mommy in a heap of tears. And once you get hungry, everyone can sit down for a traditional gourmet Italian meal.

The Opera
The Opera is an elegant abode for cultured individuals to take part in the majesty of libretto coupled with classical music, costumes and caviar. Basically, a place where drunk morons should be excluded; and that is what makes it so great. Offending pompous aristocrats with fart noises and dick jokes is an experience all should engage in at least once. The Galiliean binoculars can help you in your effort to check out that cougar's juggs from across the theater. And, if you grow weary, your group can always jump on stage to reenact scenes from your favorite Rob Schneider films.

You see, late-night activities can be much more entertaining if these added places were open past midnight. Our choices for drunken entertainment are deficient, and I believe opening more businesses will help stimulate our rotten economy. But, the be safe we should give this idea a test run in Mexico; where all deranged ideas are implemented. There should be more places to spend our hard-earned money recklessly than bars, whore houses and Denny's. Plus, you can't get away with wrestling a shark or making a small child cry when you're sober.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

___sidebar.

I haven't written a sidebar in a bit, so I decided to let all my reader(s) in on whats been going on in my life the last couple weeks.

As of late I've been dealing with a laborious Lazy Susan of incompetence from inept receptionists, administrators and faculty with butch haircuts. As soon as I think I have one obstacle finished, I'm tripped over the hurdle by a cattle prod of clerical mistakes. A process that should have been finished in a few hours time has taken almost a month due to idiots with power.

This really motivates me to become obnoxiously rich. That way I could carry around one of those sweet silver suitcases full of money with me. Ya know, the same kind drug dealers have. I would just casually open the suitcase and feverishly throw hundred dollar bills at the people wasting my time until they signed or processed whatever I came there to accomplish. I could also make it rain whenever I was bored on a balcony.

Anyway, I've been brewing up some new blog ideas in my gutter brain. I think I'll start writing a new post tonight, unless I get distracted by You Tube videos or Boy Meets World reruns. I should have something new up this week.

Mar sin leat,
Paddy.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

No. 127 "Rejection."

No one likes rejection, especially when it comes to chicks. Some guys have the ability to write it off with a simple "bitch was probably a lesbo" comment to his buddies after he makes the shame-ridden walk back to his table. Others loath rejection to such a point that they do everything in their power to avoid it. Jessica Alba could be sprawled out naked on their bed, using empty beer bottles to pregame her pussy and they would still be apprehensive about making a move. I put myself somewhere in the middle. I hate being rejected, but at the same time know how to read a girl to an educated degree.

During my formative years I didn't have to deal with rejection since I was the most popular kid in high school. Cheerleaders, hot teachers and Hispanic custodians would throw themselves at me regularly. OK, that's completely untrue. I wasn't exactly a Lothario back in my high school days. In fact, rejection was not even an issue since teenage girls weren't interested in short, pimple-ridden sixteen year-olds without a car.

Every time I swooned after a girl I liked I would be immediately put in "The Acquaintance Zone." This was similar to "The Friend Zone," except I was never greeted with boobs-to-chest hugs or invited to themed parties. I would just see them at school and waive while they smiled and made a comment to one of their hot friends that probably went like "Ugh, there's that weirdo from my English class." Perhaps I'm remembering my years in high school a bit rougher than they actually were; but that is how it felt back then. I can look back on it with a smirk now, knowing that all the girls I had a crush on way back when are now single mothers or have serious drug addictions.

In college I was able to make the transition into the person I am now. The added six inches in height, Accutane medication and development of a personality helped. Plus, I had a car! This was new territory for me, and it was quite awesome. Instead of sitting in Chemistry class staring at girls' thongs from my chair I was able to talk to chicks without peeing my pants and running away while crying uncontrollably. And of course, alcohol helps.

Alcohol is the single best innovation to get past rejection. Going up to a girl dead sober without an established skill set or boy band looks is almost always met with hostile eyebrows and a cold shoulder. Its like tightroping with a safety net. You know the net is there in case you trip and fall. The same can be said about alcohol. You can blame the unsuccessful proposition on your lack of sobriety, slurred speech and vomit-stained cardigan. Also, memory loss is a side effect of alcohol, so you might not even remember it the next day. Win! Girls are much more approachable in social situations and sparking a conversation can be quite easy. If your cards are played right, you could be using the guest closet as a romping room in mere minutes, depending on her social graces.

During my sophomore year I had developed a perfect record of non-rejection. I still had a bit of apprehensiveness and only went for the kill when I knew the success rate was close to 100%. But, I had never been shut down whenever I attempted a shy kiss or sloppy make-out maneuver. A certain amount of arrogance was gained on my part and I was positive my chick-reading abilities were atop the national rankings. I even thought about developing t-shirts that read "Mr. 100%," but a screen-printing machine was not available to me at this time. In hindsight, I probably would have been mistaken for an excellent student with a shirt that read the aforementioned slogan. People would request tutoring and notes in my classes, and I would have to begrudgingly explain the true meaning of the shirt.

I had little room in my dorm due to my collection of trash and dirty laundry


This all came to a head when I met a girl. Lets call her Tracy, since I don't know anyone by that name. I had met Tracy a few weeks earlier and developed a fondness for her. By "fondness" I mean that I wanted to frantically titty-fuck her on my futon. We would text and AIM (I'm dating myself with that one) every couple days. These texts were filled with "LOLs" and winky faces, so I knew she was into me. Tracy was a bit above my pay grade looks-wise, but was a naive freshmen so I thought I could coax her into blowing me.

I would occasionally drop by her dorm to hang out and watch movies I had no interest in viewing. Lamentably, her obese roommate was always roaming around eating and cock-blocking me; sometimes at the same time. This made it nearly impossible to swoop in and make a steadfast advance on Tracy. Eventually, her roommate wasn't around the next time I came over. She was probably at some sort of hot dog eating contest or chili cook off. I finally had a window to make my move.

Tracy was complaining about back problems; probably due to her glorious ta-tas. So, I did what any red-blooded male would and offered a free massage. So far this was going swimmingly. She took off her shirt and I began to give her a half-assed massage; which was basically me focusing on her butt for ten minutes. Then, quite slyly I went in for a momentary kiss. This is how it went down:

Tracy: (Perplexed look) "Uh, what are you doing?"
Me: "I, um... Shit, well..."
Tracy: "Did you just try to kiss me?"
Me: "Yeah. What's wrong?"
Tracy: "What gave you that idea?"
Me: "Just going with the flow, I thought you were into it."
Tracy: "No. I'm not."
Me: "Well, fuck."

I then went off on a vitriolic tirade where I called her not-so-generous names such as "a mind-fucker," "cock tease" and "bitch." I had never yelled at a girl previously; with the exception of my mother whenever she grounded me or my sister for unplugging my video games. After I was done assuring that every girl in her hall thought of me as a misogynistic dickhead, I slammed the door and stormed out. I felt concurrently jilted and aggrandized. This feeling lingered until I realized I had left my favorite jacket in her room.

Tyler Durden's jacket can't hold a candle to mine

If this was just a regular jacket I would have abandoned it at her place where she would eventually throw away weeks later. But, this jacket was fucking sick. I just had to add that. Anyway, I had to go back up the elevator, walk to her room, apprehensively knock on the door and request my jacket back. My storm out was nullified a bit, and I'm sure she got a chuckle out of seeing me come back with my tail between my legs. Even though I just grabbed my jacket and left without saying sorry.

Since then, I've been rejected numerous times. I like to compare it to a swift kick to the balls. Sure, it hurts for a couple minutes, but if you wear a mental-cup you won't get hurt. Rejection is something we all have to live with; like the fact that Justin Bieber is still breathing. Being rejected isn't that big of a deal and we all handle it differently. Whether its by calling the rejector a dumb skank or taking a swig from your beer and casually moving on to the next girl. For me, I've learned two lessons over the years: Don't throw a fit over superfluous situations, and leaving your jacket in a hostile environment really ruins a sweet storm out.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

No. 126 "Turning A One Night Stand Into A Relationship."

We all enjoy one night stands. They're uncomplicated no-strings-attached boinkings based on momentary or alcohol-induced attraction. There are certainly a fair share of these that should end the next morning, or in some cumbersome situations; directly after coitus. But, intermittently a cosmic spark is felt, and one night is not enough. You want to expand the relationship past the morning. Here's how to do that:

Stare At Her While She Sleeps
This will be a loving way for her to awake from your evening of emotionless and orgasm-free sex. She may act freaked out at first, but a gentle caress of her cheek and whisper of sweet nothingness will cure that initial response. If she calls you a weirdo, its just the beginning of the feisty rapport the two of you are creating.

Breakfast In Bed
There's nothing more romantic than a freshly prepared breakfast in bed. If you don't have a proper serving tray, just throw everything on that piece of plywood you use to catch excess oil from your car. When thinking of a dish for your mate, go for something original like fried Lucky Charms. Once you extinguish the grease fire in your kitchen, call McDonalds and have a couple sausage Mcmuffins delivered.

Texting
After your soon-to-be significant other flees leaves your home, you don't want her to forget about you; so use the power of technology to keep your bond deep. Forget about banal texts like "Last night was fun, we should hang out again." That's just prosaic. Instead try: "I'm writing a poem about you right now," "Do you want to meet my mom?," or "You... You complete me. Lol" If this is met with a disquieting response, just pretend you were trying to text someone else.

Show Up Unannounced
Find out through friends where she lives, and then trick her apartment manager into letting you into her place. While waiting for her to return from shoe shopping, scatter rose petals across the hallway and help yourself to anything in the fridge; you could be waiting a while. Once she returns home, sneak up on her and pretend to be a murderer. Girls love a guy with a sense of humor.

Facebook
The internet is an boundless medium for social interaction and expressing your feelings publicly. First, change your relationship status to "In a relationship," then update your status to "I think I met The One." From there you can create a photo album simply titled "♥" consisting only of pictures you took of her from afar while she was jogging earlier that day. She will log onto her Facebook and be overwhelmed with affection.

Jealousy
Chicks dig guys that fight for their love, so you should do the same. Sucker punch any male that attempts to initiate a conversation with her, including her uncle in a wheelchair. This will prove to her your commitment, and show off your awesome punching skills. Don't worry if Uncle George stops moving; he's an over-reactor and just trying to get attention.

Mix Tape
It sounds corny, but can pay off big if constructed properly. She probably has an iPod full of songs she already enjoys, so create a playlist full of your favorite tracks. This could range from death metal to Aboriginal tribal chants. It will expand her musical horizons and there is no way she'll throw it away. Especially after its explained that you spent three hours designing a sweet CD cover with a photoshopped picture of the two of you canoodling on a beach in Fiji.

Save Her Life
This will be your last-ditch effort to win her heart. If action movies have taught us anything, its that once you save a damsel in distress you'll have her forever. Start by cutting her brakes while she is at work. Then, follow her in an unmarked van as she gets onto the freeway. As soon as she begins to swerve uncontrollably, steer your stolen van in front of her to prevent a crash. Heroically rescue her from the near-accident and attend to any cuts or bruises. She will have no choice but to become your girlfriend. And if she perishes in a fiery wreck, there are always plenty of fish in the sea.

If I'm trying to express one sentiment in this post, its to be subtle. Sure, there are copious amounts of one night stands that go by the wayside without emotion or returned texts. But, when you get that feeling deep in the bowels of your soul, you have to take action in order to ascertain a meaningful relationship. And chicks say guys aren't romantic...

Monday, August 23, 2010

No. 125 "Celebrities I've Met."

Throughout the twenty four years of my life I've met a handful of celebrities. I'm not one to scout clubs for reality TV stars, and don't live in Los Angeles; where running into celebrities is commonplace. Also, I am not a female. So using my pussy or surgically-enhanced breasts as bait to accost C-listers is out of the question. However, I have had a few run-ins with famous people. I don't start convulsing or wail out guttural screams when I meet someone whom I've seen in television or movies. Nevertheless, it is always a cool story to brag about to friends. And, of course exaggeration and straight-up lies help elicit unbridled jealousy from said friends. If I met Leonardo DiCaprio it would be a pretty big deal. But, if I amended my story to include him inviting me to private party where we railed lines of coke and Eiffel-towered a bunch of Swedish models, it would be grandiose. So, without further ado, here is a list of celebrities I have met and how it went down.


JT being cooler than everyone on earth.
Justin Timberlake
I met JT (we're on a nickname basis) a few years back while I was vacationing with friends in Los Angeles. Well, it wasn't "vacationing" as much as it was driving to California in my shitty car and crashing on my friends' sofa for five days. And, I didn't really meet him. I was outside of a club in Hollywood when one of my buddy's pointed out that the dude in the Trilby hat a few feet from us was in fact Justin Timberlake. We were apprehensive about talking to him, fearing that he would kick all of our asses and write a hit R&B dance song about it. I did however yell out "Justin!" to at him, to which he shot me a brusque look and escaped into a limousine that I was positive appeared out of thin air. My friends and I licked our wounds of persona non grata by exchanging disparaging remarks about his sexuality and stupid fucking hat. Either way, it was pretty cool being twelve feet away from the guy that popped Britney's cherry.

I'm 36!
Steve-O
I actually talked to Steve-O, and unlike Justin, he didn't run away from me like a bitch. While perusing around the city, I stumbled upon the Jackass alum, who was wearing a lab coat for some wacky reason. He was accompanied by a chick I had never heard of, but resembled a Rock of Love contestant. When my buddies and I approached him, he was very friendly. This could have been due to his severe inebriation, but he was a good sport. He inquired if I "had any coke," and I kindly acknowledged that I was more of a Pepsi guy. I did offer him some of my Seagrams whiskey that I was carrying in my back pocket, though. Before I could even remove the cap, he grabbed the flask and gulped down three swigs of the lukewarm liquor. I took a pull as well and immediately regretted my decision to swap fluids with a guy that probably has an alphabet of Hepatitises.

Manning about to turn the ball over.
Danny Manning
When I was eleven, my parents signed me up for Danny Manning's basketball camp as a way to get me out of the house for several hours a day. If you don't know who Danny Manning is, I don't blame you. He played for the Suns in the mid-90's and won the Sixth Man of the Year award. That's it. He was the sixth best player on a mediocre team. But, at the time he was godlike to adolescent white kids who had delusions of grandeur about making it to the pros. During the three-week experience, Danny would occasionally show up to camp, shoot a couple jump shots, then collect his check and go back to his gaggle of hoes. I didn't get to meet him until the last day of camp, where the other three hundred rich white kids campers and I waited in line to get our memorabilia signed and perhaps take a picture with the man. When I finally got to the front of the line, Mr. Manning promptly ran into a back area and started throwing up. I'm not sure if this was due to a bug that was going around or his contempt for my sweet bowl cut. Eventually, he returned and signed my ball, but refused to shake my hand. I tried to take a picture, but one of his cronies escorted me out before I could. I then forgot my signed ball at the camp and cried for the remainder of summer '97.

Dane Cook acting CRAAAZY!
Dane Cook
I met Dane Cook in 2005, right before he got all famous and douchey. I was a very big fan at the time and went to one of his stand-up shows. It was at a smaller venue, and a cocktail waitress notified me that he always met fans after his show. Once the show was over, I walked down the stairs and saw Dane greeting every guest as they shuffled down the hallway. I tried to think of something funny or memorable to say to him, but as soon as I came up to him my reflexive response was "Uh, you're awesome, dude." He was really nice and said in his over-the-top verbosity "No, YOU'RE awesome!" He then invited everyone to an after party across the street. It was at a bar, and being nineteen at the time I had to find a way to get in without being mocked by security. I covertly snuck into the bar while the bouncers were being distracted by scantily-clad hoochie mamas. While I was switching between standing around awkwardly and looking like a lost child, I saw Dane on the phone, but didn't approach him and decided to leave. At the time, I regretted this move. I didn't see him again until I rented a film entitled: Employee of the Month. In hindsight, I didn't really care to hang out with him again.

I bet you could fit a ton of jungle juice in that cup.
Wayne Gretzky's Son
Alright, maybe he's not a celebrity, but his dad is "The Great One," so that should count for something. I was at one of my friend's parties and needed a beer pong partner since my cohort at the time was busy performing cunnilingus on the toilet after five too many shots. A spry young chap came up to me and offered his pong skills. I accepted, and we went on to win twelve games in a row (fine, it was four). He was considerably skilled at the art of pong and seemed like an overall cool dude. After we finished the game I made him a beer bong filled with jungle juice, which he chugged in record time. He ended up having to leave around midnight and I went on doing my own thing for the remainder of the night. The next morning, I awoke from the kitchen floor and participated in the routine morning-after "what the fuck happened last night" conference with my friends that had stayed overnight. It was then explained to me that I had gotten my new sixteen year-old friend so drunk that he barfed all over the front porch and had to be carried into his buddy's car. Oh, and he was Wayne Gretzky's son. Whoops.


Those are just a few of the celebrities I've met throughout the course of my life. I'm sure that plenty of my friends have met and/or fucked much more famous people than I. Hopefully one day I will meet an A-lister and become their best friend. That way I won't have to hold a job and can reside in their pool house while fornicating with the leftover models scattered across the property. Until then, I'm perfectly content running into random pseudo-celebrities while I'm visiting the City of Angels, crashing on my buddy's couch.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

___sidebar.

Happy Tuesday kind blog readers! Summer is almost over, which means we'll have to pack up all of our swimsuits, beach balls and self tanner and replace it with muted-colored cardigans and fucking hot cocoa. I'm not a big fan of Fall, it just seems so blah to me. Winter has the holiday season for all God-fearing Christians to skip and sing together. Spring brings bikini season and vacations to exotic lands where strangers can exchange sexually transmitted diseases. And, summer is the best three months of the year. The only good part about Fall is Halloween, aka every girls' excuse to dress as a prostitute for a night. And free candy.

Anyway, I begrudgingly labeled all my blogs so it would be easier for people to find the types of blogs they like. Oh, the things I do for the seven people that read my unbridled and inane ramblings on this crazy world of ours. I should have a new blog up some time later this week. Until next time...

Paddy.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

No. 124 "Bon Appétit."

Lately, I've been getting into cooking. For years I've been able to man a grill like a pro, and consider myself an artist when it comes to microwave cuisine. But, I wanted to challenge myself and become a more well-rounded individual. I could have taken a cooking class at the community center near my house, but did not feel the need to congregate with an endless array of old maids and fat chicks. I decided instead to use television and the internet to master the craft like a normal American.

My new found affinity for cooking arose after watching a reality television program, where a dapper gentleman prepared a three course meal for his date instead of spending money at an expensive restaurant (I really just wanted to save money on dates.) This pleased his lady friend to a great extent. Towards the end of the episode, after giggling nonstop and feeding each other, they both walked into a dark bedroom, hand in hand. Since the episode ended at that point, I can only assume they played a board game or talked all night.

I would utilize my skills in the kitchen to woo attractive women and distract them from my lack of bedazzled t-shirts and steroid-induced muscles. It is also important for men to learn how to feed themselves since women aren't willing to cook like the good ones from yesteryear. I'm sure my future wife (who is probably entering kindergarten this fall) will be a poor cook due to the many commitments of her modeling career. Therefore, I'll have to fend for myself in he culinary department.

While I was flipping through episodes of Emril Live! and 30 Minute Meals I began to ponder about where my inner chef came from. My mother was always an adequate cook, but never won any accolades other than a "World's Best Mommy" award I gave her when I was four. The award was made of macaroni and far too ambiguous to specify her cooking aptitude. My father tried his best to stay out of the kitchen, but was a master of the grill. He even let me run the grill when I was younger, until I tried to throw the neighbor's dachshund on top of the grill in order to cook "hot dogs." Give me a break, I was sixteen.

All of these memories brought me back to where I consumed the majority of my meals growing up - public school. I shudder even thinking about the troughs of penitentiary-quality fodder that were served to my fellow students and I during our formative years. I distinctly remember the smell of my elementary school cafeteria. It was a combination of old bread pudding and disappointment.

Elementary school food was the worst of all. The menu was very simple. Each day the students had three choices for lunch. This usually consisted of a fried item made of chicken, although it could have been whale blubber for all we knew. Then they had an "Italian-style" dish that would make the entire country of Italy spit out their Chianti in disgust and declare war on my elementary school. And finally, there was the mystery meat. I never tried it, but I once heard a kid died of Polio after consuming it. There was also a salad bar for the sad sap vegetarian eight-year old children who quivered at the idea of meat, but would happily chow down on the rancid salad bar, accompanied with a sampling of cottage cheese that I still have nightmares about.

Serving these elegant dishes were a group of grumpy, child-hating women who shunned questions and lacked the ability to smile. Most of their names' fit their attitudes. Gertrude, Blanche and Bernese. I could picture all three of them setting up a meeting in which they planned to poison all the food and run off to Branson, Missouri, cackling and hissing the entire way.

(Pictured: Gertrude)

Middle school saw a limited improvement on our uninspired fare. Instead of milk, we had the option of soda. This was very important to the average thirteen-year old. Most parents disallowed or tempered the availability of fructose-based beverages. It was a grab-and-dash of sugar water for the entire 7th grade class. Many times I would use my lunch money to buy four bottles of Wild Cherry Pepsi instead of using it for a hearty meal.

Two newer items were added to the cafeteria repertoire: pizza and french fries. These were two of the easiest types of food to make. But, somehow the cafeteria ladies had the proficiency to fuck it up royally.

The french fries were soggy morsels of starch that somehow became cold within seconds of being served, even though they just came out of a scalding deep fryer. Most of my middle school mates would use the fries as tripping mechanisms instead of eating them. By covertly laying a few fries near a door and then smashing them repeatedly, one could create a slippery surface. From there, we they would gather around and watch as unassuming classmates tripped and spilled their plates of food onto themselves. Who needed lunch when you had sophomoric entertainment?

The school's version of "pizza" was nothing less than an abomination to mankind. Class-action lawsuits should be filed against any school that serves rectangular pizza. Somehow, this misnomer of a meal created by the award-winning chefs at my middle school was both burnt and undercooked. Its like they cooked the entire pizza with a rusty blow torch. I often wondered if the faculty was intentionally fucking up the pizza just to deride our generation.

My entire schooling career was built upon the facade that high school food was amazing. I had dreamt about finally making it to high school, where I would be treated like a king. Braised short ribs, filet mignon, and fresh lobster flown in daily. I had heard stories for years, and was very much prepared for this sacrosanct feast.

This was not to be.

Instead of a quartet of violinists playing while I ate lunch each day on a marble table with polished silverware, I got a very slightly improved version of the same shit I had experienced over the last ten years. Sure, now they had Taco Bell every Friday and brought in real pizza twice a month, but it was all very disappointing. The same group of burnout, teeth-deprived women served us our processed meals daily, the cafeteria still had the same distinct stench of sadness, and a cauldron of decomposing cottage cheese was readily available for suicide enthusiasts. But, they now offered a snack bar, with their most popular dish: Fritos Bag O' Filth.

Just add hot garbage!

This was an ingenious concoction devised by the gallant group of illiterate individuals working in the shadowy backrooms of the school cafeteria. The Fritos Bag O' Filth consisted of a large bag of original Fritos, a generous helping of greasy ground "beef" that had been sitting in a van for the last week, and finished off with a dirty spoonful of nacho cheese. This was all served in the bag. No bowl. No plate. Bag. The meal would be handed to you by one of the downtrodden workers with a spork, and that was your lunch. Students also had the option of washing down their meal with a thirty-two ounce Pepsi for good measure, but that was an additional charge.

If the school's cuisine was not to one's liking, you could always bring a sack lunch. I would do this intermittently whenever I needed to save my lunch money for new bike pegs or drugs. With sack lunches I could create whatever I wanted instead of having to settle for my school's definition of "food." The only problem with sack lunches was that they sat in my backpack for several hours before I could enjoy them. This more often than not led to many crushed chips and flattened ham sandwiches. That is, if my lunch wasn't already stolen by a pack of ruffians, who would savagely stomp my lunch in front of me as I attempted to contact an absentee faculty member.

Looking back on my schoolboy memories, I feel an even greater need to become an established chef in order to revamp the system. Maybe I could influence schools to serve healthier, better quality food to the next generation of children. Instead of rectangular pizza, kids could be eating glazed salmon and protein-rich carved turkey. I could turn the machine around. I could become an icon. I could save pizza. Eh, fuck it.

I'll just take up racquetball.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

___sidebar.

Become a fan of my blog on NetworkedBlogs. (To your right) It only takes a second, and makes me look way cooler than those other idiot bloggers who write about their indolent children or "100 ways to make money from home!"

If you could just do me this quick favor, I'll be forever grateful. I promise to vote for you in whatever singing and/or dancing competition you compete in anytime down the road. As long as its not salsa dancing, because I had a bad experience with the Latin craze when I was younger.

Anyway, I should have a new blog up sometime this week. Thanks for reading.

Paddy.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

No. 123 "Party Pooper."

When I was twenty, I lived in my first house. Well, it wasn't a house as much as it was a Soviet-era duplex being shared with friendly, albeit scary drug dealers. Nonetheless, I was now out of the dorms and able to throw P. Diddy-style parties without pesky RA's breaking it up before the women got drunk.

I lived in my domicile with three friends who also enjoyed the concept of partying, but did not like the mess that drunk, often manner-less people left after the party had come to a close. Since I was the self-proclaimed "party master," it was my bathroom that would be used by the hundred or so patrons who made their way to our humble abode for a cocktails and loose women.

Each bedroom had its own bathroom, so whenever people needed to use the toilet, they had to go through my room to make it to the pisser. This made it difficult to court inebriated women to my sanctuary for private all-night make out sessions. At first, it didn't seem like that bad of an idea. I figured people would know that it was my room, and respect my property.

I was incorrect.

After either the third or fourth social get-together, I woke up to alleviate myself after another successful, albeit hazy party. While pissing and unsuccessfully aiming for the toilet, I saw that my shaving gel had been misplaced. Then, I noticed that someone had used the shaving cream to write various gang symbols all over my door. I did not recall inviting any known gang members to my pajama party. Nor did I believe that youth toughs would use shaving gel to promote their gang on my bathroom door. This was the work of drunk morons. The predominant demographic that attended my social gatherings.

Although I was a bit pissed, it only took a couple minutes to clean off the creamy graffiti scattered throughout my bathroom. I was actually more upset about my now-empty bottle of shaving gel, realizing how my scruffy look was beginning to take a turn for "homeless."

Utilizing my apt detective skills, I questioned my roommates about the vandalized door. They were unhelpful in my investigation, and were more concerned about my lack of pants. I came to the realization that whoever disgraced my bathroom would never be caught, but came up with a plan to guarantee this did not happen again.

Using my porn machine computer, I created a sign for which I would display several rules of the bathroom. The list was simple and to the point, just clarifying what guests could and could not do while in my bathroom. It went something like this:

My Bathroom Is For:
-Pissing
-Shitting

My Bathroom Is Not For:
-Graffiti parties
-Railing lines of coke
-Sexual Intercourse
-Vomiting violently
-Eating ham sandwiches

I proudly displayed the sign, and even thought about laminating it so I could bring it with me to my next home and eventually have it displayed in the Awesome Signs Hall of Fame after I die. The next few parties went off without a hitch. People saw the sign and knew I meant business. Thus, there were no more problems in my bathroom, and I didn't have to mop up a collage of barf, drugs and glitter the next morning.

Unfortunately, this story does not have a happy ending. I would have loved if I could have carried on through the next semester without any restroom dilemmas. But, God hates me.

Once the fall semester came to a close, I went back home to Scottsdale in order to spend time with my family and sober up for a couple weeks while eating meals not created via microwave. When I left, I locked my bedroom door, fearing that burglars may break into the house in order to steal my collection of ironic t-shirts and faux-vintage blue jeans.

While away, I received a drunken call from my friend Jose. He had heard there was a topless photo of one of our mutual friends (who will remain nameless) on my computer, and just had to see it. Originally, I notified him of the existence of the Internet, where there were literally dozens of photos of naked women waiting for him to salivate over. He was unrelenting, as he needed to see this stupid picture.

I told him that my room was locked and I had the only key with me down in Scottsdale. He somehow convinced me that he was a skilled locksmith and could get into my room without creating any damage to my door frame. Since he was Mexican, I figured he had done this a time or two before and agreed, as long as he didn't break anything and promised to never call me again.

Winter break came and went, and I was ready for another fun-filled semester up in Flagstaff. Once I arrived back to my loving home, I instantly caught a whiff of a disgusting smell lurking near my bedroom. I had forgotten about the whole "Jose incident" since it was about three weeks beforehand.

Then I saw it.

I walked into my room and surveyed a sea of toilet paper, water and liquid shit seeping through the bathroom door and into my room (which was carpeted.) Apparently, Jose had decided to use my lavatory to take a shit of epic proportions after consuming rank Indian food. Since the shit exceeded what any human should have coming out of their body, my toilet did not comply and overflowed. Instead of grabbing a plunger and cleaning up his fecal-filled mess, Jose decided it would be better to close the door, re-lock my room and let the liquid shit monster in my room ferment for three weeks. Either that, or he was drunk and forgot about it. But, it felt planned.

So there I was. Standing next to what looked to be a knocked over Port-a-Potty laying in my room, stinking up all kinds of stink. I didn't even know where to start, as I was very inexperienced when it came to three week-old shit-cleaning procedures. I thought about taking all of my belongings and switching rooms with one of my other roommates, then putting all of their stuff in the "poop room." When questioned about the sudden room change, I would pretend that I had no idea what they were talking about and mention that they should probably clean up the smelly mess coming from "their room." Looking back, I wished I had gone through with that plan.

Finally, I accepted my fate and began the BP-style clean up. I went to the store to purchase an economy-sized pack of paper towels, an arsenal of cleaning products and a silo of Febreze. I had to give this shit monster all I had, and wasn't going down without a fight. By the time I got back to my house, the rest of my roommates had arrived and took turns heckling me for my abortion of a room. I had to clean this up, pronto.

After several hours of scrubbing, spraying and wiping I had only finished about half the job. It seemed never ending and I strongly considered calling Health and Human Services to have them finish the job while I watched Boy Meets World reruns. This was not to be. Exhausted, I went to bed, only to be tormented by the smell so greatly that I had to sleep on the nasty couch in the living room we bought for ten dollars at The Salvation Army. It may have been stained with hobo jizz, but at least I could get some shut eye.

The next day, I skipped school like I normally would on a Monday and spent the entire day cleaning up the mess. From time to time, my roommates would pop in to mock me endlessly, and offer some desultory advice while I was on my hands and knees scrubbing. These ranged from "I knew you were good on your knees," to "You missed a spot." I contemplated murdering all of my roommates while they slept, but changed my mind when they all made me dinner later that night.

By the third day, I had finally finished the job. To some degree. My carpet was still wet with nasty poo-water, but the rest of the mess was gone. I somehow came into possession of an industrial fan (after stealing it from a store in the middle of the night). I planned to use the fan to blow out all the nasty smells circulating in my bedroom, and to help dry up the moisture deep in my carpet. This made it impossible to sleep in my own room since the fan sounded like a 747 and routinely frightened my roommates' dogs.

The smell lasted another few weeks, and when my supply of Febreze ran dry, I decided to use AXE body spray to camouflage the stench. I also borrowed a couple scented candles from my roommate to disperse throughout my room. This created a potent aroma of flowers, cologne and fart. But, at least it was getting better.

One night, when coming back from a debauchery and distilled spirits-filled evening, I stumbled into my room to get a good night's sleep. While clumsily taking off my pants, I tripped and hit my head on one of the many glass candles laying across my floor. I was knocked out cold. The next morning, I woke up to one of my roommates looking quite perplexed at the sight of myself laying on the floor, covered in wax with my pants at my knees. Surprisingly, they had seen me in worse situations after a drunken night.

For a moment, I wondered what it would be like if that blunt force trauma caused by the candle killed me on impact and I died in the aforementioned position. I thought of how embarrassing it would be for my mom to explain to friends and family how I passed away. "Well, he got too drunk to take his pants off and hit his head on a girly candle while laying just inches away from a plethora of human excrement." There really isn't a good way to explain the situation.

Over the next month, through various cleaning methods I was able to eradicate the smell and overall mess that had permeated in my room for the last few weeks. It was a huge, smelly monkey off my back. There was still a large brown stain next to my bathroom, but I would just tell people that I had dropped a bowl of delicious chocolate pudding on the floor. Sometimes its better to lie in certain situations.

The remainder of the semester continued without incident, and I was able to reclaim my "party master" position in the community soon after the clean up had come to a close. I could now go back to throwing carousals without various guests having to step over a river of shit in order to use my restroom. But, summer was well on its way and it was time to move out of our detestable domicile for good.

Needless to say, I didn't get my security deposit back.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

No. 122 "Chew Chew Bones."

Cowboy:
This is Cowboy. He is old, but very sweet, even though he still calls my black friends "coloreds." (I'm not sure where this came about, since he has been color blind since birth.) In his spare time he enjoys napping, yelling at me for waking him from naps and Australian rules football. Since he is old, he is not a fan of mountain biking or deep sea diving. His biggest fear is me slamming the door on him when I let him outside to pee, even though I only did that once when I was thirteen.


Buddy:
This is Buddy. He is a bitch. Let me rephrase. He is kindhearted. He is much younger than Cowboy, so he looks up to him like a grandfather who might leave him some money in his will. For fun he enjoys laying on expensive leather furniture until someone tells him to "get the fuck off," and staying as far away from water as possible. About a year ago I had him neutered, since I did not want him fathering any children seeing that he can not hold a job. His favorite band is Creed and he is a devout Christian.

The best part of my dogs' day, other than tearing up my personal property, is chew chew bone time. I'm not exactly sure where the term came about, since the biscuits I steal purchase for them are clearly labeled: Iams Dog Biscuits. Maybe its just because dogs tend to ignore consonants or the reason all dog names end in a vowel, otherwise when you call them they'd just run into walls all day. Even if my aforementioned dogs were trapped in an abandoned well somewhere in the outskirts of Idaho, they would find their way to the kitchen, Homeward Bound-style to devour their delicious chew chew bones.

I'm not exactly sure how their obsession with chew chew bones developed. It certainly isn't because of the taste. I've tried them myself, and they're far too salty, and from what I've read, extremely unhealthy.

I've found that this has a similar effect on humans as well; à la my dipshit buddies. If I were to text a few of my friends and include the words "beer" "chicks" or "ribs" I would attain a similar response. Every now and then I try this trick out, just to see if it works. I'll be sitting at home doing nothing and casually text a few of my slower-minded friends a single sentence. Whether it be: "dude, tons of hot chicks here" or "free ribs and beer at the vacant lot next to the cemetery." I bet at least seven of them would show up, panting and salivating, expecting "mad pussy" and "free shit." I may be wrong, but I do know that it will always work with my loving, although dim-witted dogs.

Since I'm an asshole, I enjoy fucking with my dogs. It gives me a certain sense of hegemony. I try not to hoodwink Cowboy, since he's really old and I drum up a feeling of abusing the elderly. But, I have no qualms duping my younger dog, Buddy. I'll say the magic word and immediately give Cowboy his treasured biscuit, then walk away as Buddy gives me his "but, I'm so adorable" face. After several minutes he switches gears and turns to the "I know where you sleep face," becomes angry and begins to rummage through my collection of crocodile skinned shoes.

I eventually go into the biscuit box and show him his prized bone. But, he has to earn it first through a series of calculated tests. Sit. Shake. Back flip. I will try to fake throw it across the room, but after several attempts he learns not to fall for the trick and gives me his "I may be a dog, but I'm not a fucking idiot" face.

He has many faces.

Ultimately, I'll grow tired of harassing my dog and throw him the chew chew bone. But, most times, due to my super-human strength I end up tossing it into the pool, which he is deathly afraid of. Then, solace sets in, and I end up cooking him a steak with all the fixin's.

Every now and then I'll go into the pantry to retrieve a couple bones for my dogs to appease them after I have done something to piss them off. Most of the time this is due to me sleeping past noon and forgetting to feed them, or accidentally stepping on their tails before putting in my contact lenses. I feel a need to redeem myself from this faux pas. But, intermittently when I reach in for the chew chew bones I realize that the box is empty and feel bad about creating all this ruckus for a nonexistent treat. At this point I have to give them a treat or else I'll feel like a sack of shit for the remainder of the day.

Now I must create a treat of my own to give them, since the boxed goods have run dry. Having never taken my dogs out for a gourmet meal or quizzed either on their dietary restrictions, I have to wing it. I know that dogs can't eat chocolate, so sweets are pretty much out of the question. I also have to worry about their health, so high cholesterol foods are a no-go. And both dogs openly mock vegetarians, so that's leaves me with little options.

Finally, I just scrounge up a bowl of cheese, graham crackers and leftover piaya, then serve it to them à la mode. That way I can get through the rest of my day not worrying about my dogs diminishing respect for their owner, or gossiping about me while I'm out fraternizing with concubines.

If I've learned one thing in my convivial but otherwise aberrant life, it is that dogs and humans are quite analogous. Sure, there are a handful of delightful differences, and my dogs lack the ability to text due to their contempt for the English language. But, the picture remains the same.

Fucking with people and/or dogs is fun.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

___sidebar.

Hey guys. I'm trying to update my blog more often, even if its with shorter, more concise posts (like "Microwavable Meltdown.) But, I've been working on a couple other narrative, "sort of based on actual events" posts. I'm trying to get something finished by tomorrow, but recently decided to obfuscate my dogs. This game is actually quite simple. I grab one of their toys, then pretend to throw it and watch them run after nothing. After several hours of this I tell my dogs that I'll give them their prized toy, but decide to throw it on the roof, and then make myself a sandwich. If I end up missing in the coming weeks, have the police question my dogs. They were probably involved.

Anyway, I'll have a post about either an ad I made in my economics class that got me in trouble, old people, my stupid dogs or public service announcements up tomorrow at the earliest, Friday at the latest. Whichever post I'm able to finish first. That's all. Now, go back to your porn.

Paddy.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

No. 121 "Microwavable Meltdown."

The following are directions on how to make a microwavable meal. Enjoy.

  • Grab the packet of food you want to poison yourself with out of your roommate's refrigerator.
  • Read the intentionally ambiguous directions. If they are not in English, contact a landscaper.
  • Experience trouble with the wrapper.
  • Use a sharp object to cut yourself with accidentally while attempting to remove the packaging
  • Curse God.
  • Place the fodder into your microwave for the median recommended time.
  • Wait while your food cooks for what seems like an eternity. During this time you can either stare at your meal as it revolves in the microwave or walk around your home aimlessly.
  • Remove from microwave. Not forgetting to burn one's self with the food itself, or the plate you used to cook it on.
  • Never let item stand for two minutes to cool down.
  • Take a bite of your meal, only to realize that it is still cold.
  • Microwave for an additional forty five seconds.
  • Read the nutritional facts. Consider a new workout regiment
  • Attempt another bite. Decide that it is done and sit down to watch a reality program.
  • Half way through, realize your meal still isn't fully cooked.
  • Microwave for an additional thirty seconds, not forgetting to push the buttons aggressively.
  • Remove item from microwave once again. Take a bite and immediately be burned with scalding, radioactive goo.
  • Be rushed to the hospital with third degree burns.
  • Die.

Monday, July 19, 2010

No. 120 "Men Are Scared of Spiders, Too."

There are an abundance of stereotypes out there. Whether it be that black people are the best barbers, Puerto Ricans throw the most festive parades, or that women suck at driving. The truth is, many of these are unfounded. But, the greatest fallacy of all, is that men are not afraid of spiders. You ready for the truth?

We are.

Now, I could discuss the fact that spiders are basically miniature monsters that kill dozens of people each year. It's not about that. Spiders are just fucking terrifying. They have eight legs; which help them run faster than humans or slow automobiles. They are poisonous; a legitimately health concern. And, they're icky.

A few months back, my girlfriend that I made up for this story screamed like she was being attacked by malnourished grizzly bears. At first I ignored her since I was in the middle of an intense game of solitaire. After the fourth or fifth shriek I closed the door, as she would frequently seek my attention for the most mundane of tasks, and I did not feel like dealing with her. Eventually, I feigned interest and walked over to the living room to see her atop a chair pointing towards the ground.

She began to berate me for my indolent response time, and not doing the dishes like I promised I would earlier in the evening. Then, she saw something move and remembered why she called me over in the first place. Apparently, a spider had broken into our apartment and was harassing her while she was watching The Real Housewives of New York. No one can torment my girlfriend, except me! I immediately ran over to the spot where the spider was attempting to make a home and/or redecorate.

Then, I saw the spider with my own eyes, lets call him "Steve." I expected to see a tiny insect that I would haphazardly squish with one of her stilettos, then pick up using an old In Touch magazine. I was nonetheless incorrect. This motherfucker was bigger than my car. The only explanation that I could come up with at the time was that one of my enemies had caught an average sized spider, attended medical school, became a mad scientist, genetically engineered the spider into a monster, and then had the wherewithal to sneak him into my home years later. Looking back, this was probably not the case.

When I advanced upon Steve, I promptly leaped back and let out a very girly yelp. I pretended that I stepped on a tack, as to dissuade my girlfriend from thinking less of me, but then quickly realized I was wearing closed toe shoes.

The feral creature stared at me with his eight beady eyes as I tried my best to keep from soiling my cargo shorts. It was at this point that I considered packing up all of our belongings and fleeing the city, leaving my landlord to deal with Steve and eventually be eaten in front of her family. Then, I remembered that I had a non-refundable John Mayer tickets the next night, and came to my senses.

As my girlfriend attempted to build a makeshift fort out of blankets and decorative pillows, I called Animal Control to help deal with our situation. They were quite unprofessional, to say the least. The woman I talked with mocked me incessantly and insisted on calling the "Pussy Police" for me. No help there.

Left for dead, I had to fight off Steve without anyone's help. I searched the apartment for a weapon to defend myself with. There were a few steak knives, but I decided against using them since I am not trained in close-quarters combat, nor do I want to get spider guts all over my nice steak knives. The best ordnance I could come up with was a bottle of AXE body spray and a lighter.

This improvised flame thrower would undoubtedly take care of our "Steve problem." I would be proclaimed a hero and be given a victory blow job by my girlfriend. However, I ran into some problems along the way.

When I came back, clenching my provisional flame thrower, Steve had mysteriously disappeared. Maybe he had heard me searching for weapons and ran away like a little bitch. That could be the case, but then again he might come back with his bigger, meaner spider friends to rape and kill me.

Then, I looked up and saw Steve crawling along the wall. I was unaware that spiders were capable of scaling walls without a rope and pulley or advanced parkour skills. I did, however, begin to fear for my life. I didn't want to spray my weapon at him while he was on the wall, dreading the idea of repainting the entire living room. It was at this point that I was ready to give up.

While hiding in my girlfriend's spider-proof fortress, I came up with a solution. I would cajole Steve into a trap using spider food as bait. I came out of the fort and began to ponder about types of food spiders enjoy. Having never seen spiders eat in their natural habitat, I microwaved a Lean Pocket and placed it on the ground. I then created a trap that would capture Steve right when he was about to chow down on spinach artichoke chicken flavored pocket.

And, so I waited.

After what felt like seventeen minutes, Steve hadn't fallen for my trap and instead took what looked like a nap. I was growing increasingly frustrated and hungry. After eating the lukewarm lean pocket off the floor, I came up with another idea. Steve would just become our pet. Whenever guests would come over, we could tell them that he was a rare dog breed from China. We could get him a cute collar and buy him gifts for his birthday. I could even take him on walks and scare the elderly whenever I grew bored. The girlfriend was not on board with this notion.

I had no choice but to go head to head with Steve. Again, I couldn't find him and began to search the apartment for him. While in the kitchen, he ambushed me and jumped on my back using Sun Tzuian battle tactics. I ripped off my shirt and got into a jujitsu fighting stance. Steve tried to run away, but I grabbed a fork and threw it at him. I only missed by a couple yards, but Steve had again escaped.

Steve ran into the living room and attempted to encroach upon my girlfriend's blanket fort. This was a smart move on his part, since she is much weaker and tastier than I. She began to scream and curse uncontrollably as Steve crawled on her cotton guarded citadel. Not wanting to puncture my girlfriend with polished silverware, I decided against throwing sharp objects at Steve. I determined that I would have to bite the bullet and remove him myself.

I opened the porch door, so when I did grab him I could toss him out of our home without having to struggle with the troublesome sliding door. As I approached Steve, I began to sweat like a sorority girl waiting for test results. I needed steadfast precision in order to pull off this feat. I reached over and grabbed Steve by the back. He tried to claw on to me with his hairy legs, but was too late. I drop kicked his ass over the balcony and slammed the door.

Our apartment is on the second story, so he probably survived the fall. But, Steve was not my problem anymore, as he would probably find a new group of people to terrorize, or just murder that annoying cat across the street.

I proclaimed my ascendancy over Steve the spider and knocked down my girlfriend's fort to signify my triumph, and because I enjoy dismantling forts. She asked if Steve was gone for good, and I assured her that I had kicked the shit out of him and tossed him over the balcony like a used condom. I had saved the day. She was immediately relieved, but then instructed me to clean up my dirty dishes in the sink as she went back to watching her television program.

No victory blow job for me.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

___sidebar.

I will be going in a new direction with my blog. Instead of composing ways to spot sluts or giving advice on how to get yourself killed via lawnmower, I've decided to dedicate my blog to the less fortunate. So from here on out, no more dick jokes or ways to disappoint your parents. I will be detailing my life as a member of a local church group traveling throughout the world to destinations no one vacations at, sharing my experiences with others and...

Just Kidding.

I am, however, thinking about changing the style of my blog posts. For the last few years, the majority of my blogs were laid out the same way: 1) Introduction, 2) 6-8 highlighted topics that had to do with the overall subject of the blog, and 3) Conclusion that wraps everything up with a couple misogynistic or ethnic jokes.

Now, I enjoy writing these types of blogs because there is an almost never ending supply of subjects that I can write "how to" style blogs about. I will continue writing these types of blogs no matter what because its my niche and people seem to enjoy them.

But, I'm going to start experimenting with a more narrative form. I've done it a couple times with posts like: this, this, this, this, and this. I prefer this style, since it gives me more room to be ridiculous and not have to stay in a predetermined structure. I can also write about real life experiences that I mix with lies, exaggerations and dinosaurs. I feel that my blogs will become more organic and (hopefully) funnier. Maybe even a little bit poignant.

Probably not.

These new posts will most likely be 90% made up, although some of them will be based on actual events or people who will remain unnamed in order to protect the innocent.

I want to know your opinion on this, so vote on the new poll I put up. Or be a dick and don't.

Paddy.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

No. 119 "Running Into Exes."

Much like sharting, running into exes is something that everyone tries to avoid. You can go to different coffee shops or buy nick nacks at the "other mall," which is usually frequented by escaped convicts, but you will ultimately run into your former flame. Hopefully you will be thinner, better looking and holding hands with a super model when you encounter them, but that's not something I can help you out with. What I can help you with is how to handle your ex when that vexatious and awkward moment comes. Here's a grab bag of tips that both guys and gals can use.

Hide:
This can only be accomplished if you see them first. So refrain from wearing giant sombreros or chicken costumes while out in public. Those tend to draw unneeded attention. Large plants and park benches are effective hiding devices when attempting to be hidden. You could also try to escape into a large crowd and skedaddle away. But, most of the time he or she will just end up noticing you ask why you are underneath a Chevy.

Lie:
This is one of my favorite activities, and can really come in handy when trying to one-up an ex. When asked "how's it going?" Reply that your garage band just got signed to Capitol Records, you now drive a Mercedes and that you just started dating a famous celebrity that they have always had utter disdain for. They will probably be too nice to call you out on your obvious lies, but that doesn't mean that you still can't call her an obdurate bitch.

Pretend You Don't Know Them:
This game plan is only for the narcissistic and potentially sociopathic. Once your former lover comes up to you, look at them strangely and say something to the effect of "Um, I'm sorry, but do I know you?" This will enrage them since you two dated for over three years and have mutual custody of a dachshund named Bilo. Keep the game going and call him or her by a different name to enrage them further. Eventually they will just punch you in the face, but it'll be worth it.

Fake Phone Call:
Once the small talk has begun and you are sure that make-up coitus in the parking lot is not a possibility, you need to get out of there quickly. Pretend your phone is vibrating and answer it while they are in the middle of some topic that you don't care about. Then, act shocked or concerned while fake talking. After that, all you have to do is come up with some excuse about how your grandma got attacked by radioactive seagulls or that your car has been broken into by Japanese businessmen. Leave immediately, get out of his/her sight and continue shopping at Sam Goody.

Run Away:
Some may say that this is the easy way out, and they're damn right. But, usually the easy way out is the best decision. If there is a fire in your home, do you search for a blunt object, climb the stairs, break your attic window and jump three stories? No, you run out the front door and scream until a firetruck shows up. This situation is nearly identical. Once you see your ex, knock over the townspeople in your way and run like a dead-beat dad from child support. That's probably what she's looking for anyway.

Distraction:
There's an array of divergent methods to get away with this little trick. Simpletons can always use the celebrated "Holy shit! Look at that!" method of distracting an ex to avoid circumlocutory conversations about his or her pet that you couldn't care less about, or sort of hoped was dead. For the more advanced, I would recommend carrying a hand grenade on your person at all times. This way, if you run into that concubine or dickhead who you formerly dated, you can just throw the grenade in the air and create the best distraction possible: explosions.

Rent A Model:
This could get costly if you don't run into your ex for several years or they died and no one told you. Nonetheless, it is the best way to look cool when running into an ex. One can easily find a model on legitimate websites like Craigslist. Every time you go out, call up the bimbo or bimbro and have them join you while you go to the movies or donate your time to special-needs kittens. Once you eventually run into your ex, they will be so distraught with jealousy that they will have no choice but to kill themselves or at least sob uncontrollably for several minutes. You win!

Be Cordial:
Fuck it. Tell the bitch off.

So, whether you run into your ex while crying outside of her home late at night or while driving your car over him, you now have eight new ways to deal with a potentially maladroit situation. Of course, there are other ways to deal with the issue. One could always flee to another country or undergo extensive plastic surgery. But, it is rarely worth the time or money. Just go for vainglorious embellishment. Works every time.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

No. 118 "Bored Housewives."

Since exactly 0% of my readers are housewives, I thought I'd dedicate an entire blog to them. These hardworking women deserve to be applauded for all the things they do while their husbands work tooth and nail so they can have another tennis bracelet. But, many of these housewives get bored during their days alone at home. So, today I will compile a list of entertaining activities for them to help pass the time.

Read A Book:
Sounds boring, but I guarantee once you get into a good book, you won't be able to put it down. Romance novels are quite popular with the average American housewife, so start there. These novels are easy to find since their covers are usually of shirtless men with long hair and wounded eyes. These books can help you escape to the beaches of the Caribbean, or the streets of gay Paree. Whatever gets you moist.

Fuck The Gardener:
He's in good shape, always smiles at you and is probably over 18. Why not? Your husband rarely touches you anymore and he was short with you this morning, so he deserves it. You can have fun seducing him and helping him undo your bra. "Push, then pull. Good job Javier." And once you're done with him, you can move on to the pool guy.

Go Through Your Husband's Shit:
Women have a natural obsession for searching through shit in order to find some dirt to use as a bargaining chip. Everyone has had their mom find their stash of weed while away on a long weekend. It's just in their instincts. Play on this instinct and rummage through all your husbands drawers and boxes. Eventually you'll find something that upsets you, and then you won't feel so bad about banging the gardener.

Daytime Television:
First you have your soaps, where you can develop your skills in horrible acting and bitch slapping. After that, the judge shows come on. Pretend to be Judge Judy or that other black judge and see if your rulings align. And finally, that fat, narcissistic bitch Oprah is on. Learn about the latest household gadgets or maybe you'll get lucky and see a "very special episode" about some lady getting abused. Either way, it's the best television out there.

Tennis:
You remember the matching tennis racket, clothes and shoes you begged your husband for three years ago? Well, now you have an excuse to actually use it. Find a tennis court close to your home and improve you game. Tennis is great exercise and a convivial way to meet new people. Or, you and your fellow yentas could just agglomerate at the tennis club to gossip and reticule others while drinking appletinis. It's up to you.

The Internet:
The world wide web is a crazy place. There are so many websites for just about anything in the world. Have fun with it. You have online shopping, gossip websites, and of course Facebook to link up with ex-boyfriends that are doing well financially and still have their hair. Just remember to lose all your husband's hard earned money through various online scams and pyramid schemes. You totally thought that email was from the prince of Nigeria. Not your fault.

Painting:
Who said that art degree would get you nowhere? Express yourself through this storied art form. If your first few paintings don't look how they are supposed to, just call them "abstract." You can paint whatever your heart desires, and if that happens to be thirty eight paintings of your bichon frise Mimi, then so be it. Your husband will totally to love them, and use words such as "interesting" and "nice" to describe them. Then he will hang them in that room that no one goes in.

Cook and Clean Because You're A Woman:
Self explanatory. Make me a sandwich.

And, there we have it. I just came up with eight different activities for housewives to delve into during their boring days at home. Whether you enjoy fornicating with the pool boy on your husband's favorite recliner, or expressing backhanded compliments to waitresses at the country club, there's always something fun to do while your husband is away at work. There are many other activities you could get into, or you could always just get a fucking job. Toodles!

Thursday, June 24, 2010

___sidebar.

No more ads. They were lame. Other than that, I've been writing a little bit and should have a new blog up Sunday or Monday so stay tuned.

Paddy.

Monday, June 21, 2010

No. 117 "Summer Activities."

Summer is upon us. The wonderful time of year where you don't have to worry about anything except for who's buying the next twelver of Corona or when the next group of bikini clad women will be frolicking by. Its a time when you burn your neck on your seat belt and blister your feet on the concrete. But, somehow people always get bored during the summer. That's why I've compiled this list of fun and safe activities to participate in during your three months of sun-burned fun.

Beaches:
No, I'm not talking about the cinematic masterpiece starring Bette Midler. I'm referring to that big, blue wavy-thing that kills 3.5 surfer douches every day. Many of us aren't fortunate enough to live close to the ocean, so a road trip may be necessary to get your ass in the sand. But, once you reach the beach, all your problems will float away (except child support payments.) While at the beach you can embarrass yourself at sand volleyball, harass lifeguards or litter the beach with cigarette butts and broken beer bottles.

Sun Bathing:
Kind of a confusing term since water is not involved. But, what is involved is laying on a deck chair and sweating your balls off for hours on end. This isn't an actual "activity" since it is usually done by attractive chicks alone, who refuse your help at applying tanning oil on them and threaten to call the police. One must be disciplined to sun bathe, as it takes time to develop a nice tan. Most of us pasty white folks end up giving up after fifteen minutes and supplant our asses inside to watch Wild On! reruns.

Pool Parties:
If you are lucky enough to be invited to a pool party, make the most of it. Show up four hours before the scheduled arrival time and cannon ball into their pool several dozen times so you can perfect your technique for all the guests. When everyone arrives, break your beer bottle on the deck in celebration and throw as many of the party goers into the pool as you can. Who needs cell phones? And, before you're asked the leave, take a shit in the jacuzzi. Who doesn't love pool parties!?

Convertible Driving:
There's nothing better than a summer breeze in your face while drunk driving throughout the city. When driving a convertible, make sure to wear trendy sunglasses and a cool hat to nonchalantly toss into the air as you speed away from a hit and run. You don't own a convertible? Well, you're a loser. But, you could always use a hacksaw to remove your roof and vamoosh! You got yourself a sweet new convertible!

Baseball Games:
Who says baseball is boring? Everyone? Well, at baseball games you can drink beer and eat hot dogs. Not so lame now, huh? Most baseball stadiums are outdoors, so you can enjoy the summer sun and as many $9 pretzels as you want while watching a bunch of out of shape Dominicans play catch for three hours. And, hell you could even get into a brawl with someone over a foul ball that's worth less than your beer.

Water Guns:
Remember all the fun times you had as a kid shooting your friends in the face with your SuperSoaker 3000? You're not too old to still have fun with water guns. All you have to do is purchase a couple water guns, spray paint them black (so they look cool) and go to different stores scaring women and children. People will seem frightened at first, but once you spray them, they will have no choice but to laugh and giggle the day away. And if you're too poor to buy one, you could always just splash some kids in the fucking face with McDonald's cups filled with water.

Jet Skiing:
There are very few things in the world more awesome than a jet ski. If I had it my way, I would flood the entire United States so the only way people could get around would be via jet ski. Sea Doo would love me and it would subvert our dependence on foreign oil. Take that BP! Jet skis are also amazing because you automatically look cool when you're riding one. You could be a homeless tranny with no Facebook friends, but everyone would just see a cool chick-dude shreddin' some gnar.

Gardening:
Just kidding. Unless you want your summer to totally suck, I would not recommend gardening, or even talking to those who garden "for fun."

So go out there and enjoy your summer! There are many other activities I've failed to mention that probably won't get you arrested or beaten, but they are much less awesome. Ruin a pool party by skinny dipping, or crush some kid's sand castle with your Birkenstocks. Just remember to always wear sun screen and obey pool and beach guidelines. Summer only lasts so long, have some fun.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

___sidebar.

Happy Father's Day to all you lucky dads who forgot to pull out. I have added some new "features" to my blog that I wanna tell you about. Well, first of all I finally became a sell out and added Google Ads to my blog. This may be temporary if it doesn't make me any money, but I am super cheap so if I can make more than $1/month then I'm a happy man. Other than that, I added a new Facebook and Twitter share button, so use that to help promote my blog, or to show it to your grandma. And finally, I added a Live Traffic Feed that tells me where people are reading my blog from. Its pretty crazy. There's people from Canada, Philippines and even a country called Jakarta Raya reading my blog. WHAT UP JAKARTA RAYA! So go ahead and check out all the new gizmos on my blog. I'll have a new blog up tomorrow so check that out as well. Shit, I can't think of a funny comment to end this sidebar. Whatever.

Paddy.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

___sidebar.

Hey guys and gals! I hope everyone's summer has gone swimmingly so far. And by "swimmingly" I mean that I hope everyone has used proper pool safety and followed your lifeguard's directions so no one ends up at the bottom of a pool with all the spare change and used band-aids. My summer has been tons o' fun so far. I've been tanning, and my skin color went from translucent to Larry Bird white. One step at a time, people! Eventually I want to get to Wesley Snipes black, but that could take several weeks. Other than that I've just been YouTubeing videos of monkeys and spent time developing my break dancing skillz. That's why I've been lazy about updating this blog that I must never let my future children read. No worries though, I posted one about stoners yesterday, so read it to your favorite pot head (since they are unable to read words that aren't on burrito labels.) I might even post another one within the next couple days. Well, unless I perish at the bottom of a pool.

Thug Life,
Paddy.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

No. 116 "Intervention For A Stoner."

We all have friends that smoke the evil and dangerous hard drug known as marijuana. It ruins lives, but more importantly ruins fun times and parties. How does one know if their friend or family member is addicted to marijuana? First, you must answer these three simple questions. 1) Do they frequently eat large quantities of your food and then "forget" about doing so after lightly chuckling? 2) Will they ask if you want to "chill" at their place of residence, and then have no planned activities or board games laid out? 3) Do they have trouble comprehending your sarcastic comments or sophisticated jokes? If the answer is "fer sher," then you must have an intervention in order to save them from themselves. How does one do this? Read on.

Step 1:
Call up all of their close friends and family members to notify them of your friend's drug use, then set a date and time to arrange the intervention. It is OK to exaggerate just how bad their abuse of drugs is, so spice it up a little bit. Maybe they ran over an elderly woman while driving a lawn mower across the city. Or, perhaps they lit a Babies R Us on fire during their semi-annual sale. It's all up to you. The more elaborate, the better.

Step 2:
Get them to come over to the intervention meeting area by tempting them with things they enjoy. This way you can assure they will show up and not have to start searching local head shops for them. For example, you could say that you are playing Call of Duty and ordering pizza and root beer. As long as you combine some sort of activity that can be played while sitting on a couch and a high calorie food, you'll be set.

Step 3:
Have a friend sneak into their house apartment and gather all their drugs and paraphernalia. Stoners may think that they are very good at hiding, but everything will always be in the same place. Their bong will be next to their bed, pipe in their second drawer behind their socks, lighter in their pants laying on the ground, and marijuana in that small box their grandma gave them above their dresser. Once all of this is collected, throw it in their Bob Marley backpack and bring it to the intervention site.

Step 4:
This is where he arrives and everyone is sitting in a circle waiting for the intervention to begin. He may act confused and question where the XBOX is and when the pizza is going to arrive. This is the time to let him know that he is here for an intervention, that you all care about him and all that bull shit. You may have to explain this several times since stoners have a hard time understanding things people say the first time. This is when you bring out his bag of bongs, pipes and other smoking devices and beat it with a aluminum bat. Then, he should understand.

Step 5:
Now that he knows what is going on, have everyone that came tell a story about when he was stoned and how it affected them. It could be the time he got high and fell asleep on the couch so you could hook up with his sister in his room. Or, when he was too blazed to go to the football game and gave you his tickets for free. And of course the numerous times he drove everyone home from parties because they were too intoxicated to drive. You know, gut-wrenching stories.

Step 6:
This step involves their side of the story, where they can attempt to explain themselves, and why marijuana is not negatively effecting their life. But, there are a few rules set in place. They cannot use the words: "bro," "totally," "uh," or "Phish." This will make it almost impossible for them to get through a sentence, and eventually they'll just give up because stoners are not very talented linguists. Unless it's about dreams, the purpose of life or outdated weaponry.

Step 7:
We now want to alleviate his downtrodden attitude and come up with a solution for his addiction to this menacing stimulant. It is difficult for many stoners to quit their drug cold turkey, so advise him to try other drugs in order to ween himself off of marijuana. Cocaine, PCP and black tar heroin will surely help in this effort. Have the community drug dealer present at the intervention in case he has any questions.

Step 8:
Redesign their apartment. Instead of multi-colored bean bag chairs, buy them actual furniture like chairs or couches. Replace their beaded door curtains with actual doors that don't poke you in the eye every time you walk through it. Those random exotic animals that he owns? Throw the snakes, geckos and parakeets out the window and buy him a cute puppy named Spike, not Blaze, Marley or Toke. Next, is his wardrobe. Discard his beanies, ponchos and hemp-made clothing. Substitute his stoner-wear with clothes that have collars and buttons. And finally, supersede his collection of horrible reggae records with books, which he could eventually learn how to read.

Do not forget that this will be a long and hard process, which will be met with resistance. He might even attempt to fight you. But, that should not be too much of a problem for you since stoners are usually too busy to go to the gym. Most stoners relapse within three months, or immediately after listening to a Pink Floyd album or seeing any Cheech and Chong film. In the end, your friend will be less annoying, lazy and dumb. And most importantly, stop eating all your fucking Cheetos.
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