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.

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.

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.

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!
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


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...


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


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.


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:

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."

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.

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.
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