Friday, November 4, 2011

No. 141: "Sunday Funday."

People often argue over which is the best day of the week. Some will go with Friday since it's the beginning of the weekend and your temporary freedom from the shackles of the work week are the furthest in your rear-view mirror. Others might say Saturday since you can sleep into the afternoon until your morning wood gently wakes you from your slumber. But, to me the best day of the week is Sunday. On Sunday you can reminisce about the horrible decisions you made over the past two nights, enjoy your last day of independence and watch football with your dumb shit buddies. Since I haven't written a time stamp post in nineteen months, I figured it was about time for another.

9:03 AM: Wake up from a dazed syncope after going out until you heard birds chirping; even though you told yourself you would take the night off to be fully rested for Sunday Funday.

9:04 AM: Punch yourself in the dick.

9:12: AM: Shit, shower and shave. In unison. That hole in the shower is big enough.

9:17 AM: Call dipshit buddies to confirm bar location and receive grunts and moans as an answer as they obviously just woke up as well.

9:20 AM: Check lineups for your seven fantasy football teams. Contemplate how much further in your "career" you would be without fantasy sports.

9:21 AM: Forget about that shit and drop Reggie Wayne cause he sucks dick.

9:30 AM: Drive to bar location feeling a wee bit drunk from the night before.

9:34 AM: Eh, it's OK. They don't give out DUI's during the day.

9:51 AM: Greet groggy friends at bar.

9:57 AM: Talk shit about friend that didn't show up like a bunch of conniving yentas.

10:04 AM: Early games start. Sunday Funday has officially begun!

10:08 AM: Order a bloody mary to cure your hangover.

10:11 AM: Regret bloody mary after receiving a sandpaper-like feeling flow down your throat. Tobasco was a bad choice.

10:15 AM: Order a light beer. Get made fun of by the bartender and your buddies for not ordering a Miller Lite like a true man.

10:23 AM: Talk about the previous night with your buddies and don't forget to mention numerous times "that one girl I almost banged" to save face from your six month dry spell.

10:33 AM: Think about all your religious friends that are at church right now.

10:34 AM: Look down and smile to the devil. You'll be acquainted soon enough.

10: 41 AM: See a girl with big tits. Nudge friend, share an acknowledging facial expression and slyly low-five under the table. Male bonding at it's finest.

10:48 AM: Root against your buddy's team until he starts crying. Rub it in by telling him about the time his girlfriend gave you oral pleasure.

11:01 AM: Make fun of the ditzy sideline reporter and mention how you know more about football than she does.

11:05 AM: Laugh at idiots who showed up late and have to stand to watch the game.

11:09 AM: Yell at men much bigger, stronger and more gifted physically than you to "stop being a pussy and run the god damn ball!"

11:16 AM: Look at breakfast menu, take half an hour to decide on what to order.

11:19 AM: Finish breakfast burrito. Remember to buy more toilet paper and a plunger for later tonight.

11:28 AM: Attempt to hit on hot bartender. Be shut down immediately. Sulk in your defeat.

11:34 AM: Big touchdown play! Cheer, high-five, take a chug of your beer and thank God that you're an American male.

11:38 AM: Get up to take a piss. Nearly eat shit trying to get out of your chair.

11:40 AM: Use restroom, pee on self a little. Be glad that your throwback jersey is big on you and can cover pee stains on jeans.

11:42 AM: Come back to find your chair taken by a big dude who could easily kick your ass.

11:43 AM: Stand for the remainder of the game with the "idiots" you were making fun of earlier.

11:44 PM: Contemplate stealing the crippled guy's wheelchair.

11: 50 AM: Crack wise at the kicker; even though he's in better shape than you and makes more money than you ever will.

11:51 AM: Finish beer.

12:00 PM: Watch as the redneck sitting at the next table tries to get the bartender to change the channel to a NASCAR event.

12:02 PM: Contemplate murder and it's possible repercussions.

12:07 PM: Check your fantasy matchup and begin to cry a little inside.

12:19 PM: Wear your sunglasses inside 'cause you're a G.

12:21 PM: Have trouble watching the games and remove sunglasses.

12:31 PM: Start to remember some of the things you did last night. Attempt to forget.

12:42 PM: Someone just ordered shots. I guess the whole "Three drink limit" is going out the window.

12:45 PM: Call out for work tomorrow. It's flu season, right?

12:52 PM: Watch as your parlay goes to shit.

12:54 PM: Call parents for a loan.

1:05 PM: Late games! This might be the only scenario where something that starts at 1 o'clock is considered "late."

1:10 PM: See a bunch of balding overweight men in their forties watching the game across the bar. Tell yourself you'll never be like that twenty years down the road.

1:12 PM: Realize that is your future. Order another round.

1:19 PM: Order lunch. You've been drinking all day, not moving and are now on your second meal in as many hours. It's all good, you'll work off the calories tomorrow at that gym you haven't signed up for yet.

1:28 PM: Walk outside and bask in the glory of Sunday Funday. Trip over a curb during your basking and skin your knee.

1:33 PM: Your buddy's girlfriend just showed up. Disparagingly explain the fundamentals of the game until she loses interest after seeing a commercial with a puppy in it.

1:40 PM: Give your friend a menacing look for bringing his stupid girlfriend.

1:47 PM: The wide receiver on your bench just scored his third touchdown.

1:55 PM: Attempt to chat up the hot bartender about the game. Realize within seconds that she isn't a fan of football.

2:01 PM: Make origami out of the bar napkins.

2:09 PM: Order a glass of water to help alleviate your drunkeness.

2:11 PM: Ugh, water tastes so much worse than beer.

2:28 PM: Bathroom trip #8!

2:31 PM: Contemplate installing a urinal in your home.

2:33 PM: High five a random dude in your team's jersey. Remember that you forgot to wash your hands.

3:09 PM: Blackout for a little bit. Try to figure out if anyone noticed.

3:17 PM: Get call from your mother. Hit ignore.

3:22 PM: Have a conversation outside with a drunk stranger. Try to find a pause in the conversation to escape.

3:26 PM: Make a couple racial jokes after scouring the bar for black guys.

3:31 PM: This bar has a punching machine? Time to break the high score!

3:35 PM: After ten dollars and a broken wrist, you have not beaten the high score.

3:41 PM: Talk to friends about non-football related topics. Realize you don't have much in common.

3:44 PM: Put down beer on bar.

3:45 PM: Forget which beer is yours and take the most full one.

3:48 PM: Contemplate building your own personal man cave.

3:51 PM: Check bank account online and forget the entire notion.

3:55 PM: Lackadaisically watch the remaining games that have already been decided. Pretend to care.

4:01 PM: Ask for your tab. Pray to the heavens they forgot to add a bunch of shit to your bill.

4:03 PM: $96? Fuck.

4:07 PM: Make your goodbyes to friends as you stumble to your car. No hugs or well wishing, though. Just tell them to fuck off and bro-hug it out. Men!

There you have it, just another successful Sunday Funday. There was morning drinking, football, suppression of feelings, unsuccessful contact with the opposite sex, bathroom visits, injuries, greasy food and high fives. What more could you ask for on a Sunday?

Friday, October 28, 2011

No. 140: "Beer Commercials."

I have a bachelor's degree in advertising, which means three things: I suck at math, I have mild sociopathic tenancies, and I understand the ins and outs of brand marketing. Whenever I'm watching strong man competitions, 90's action movies starring Nicholas Cage or shows about boobs and explosions I see a myriad of commercials targeted at my demographic: dude that drinks. Most of these ads are entertaining and humorous; but they take a bit too many artistic liberties. It just doesn't seem realistic. Keep reading and I'll explain.

Light Beer:
Main Brands: Bud Light, Coors Light, Miller Lite

Usually it will be set in a neighborhood bar at 2 P.M. on a Wednesday. It will be packed full of people who are not drunk as the floors are clean of puke and sloppy chicks aren't giving handy's in the back booths. Somehow, the patrons of the bar all decided to take a half-day from their job and partake in some day drinking. Whenever I go to a bar before five on a weekday all I see is a bunch of burnouts, truckers and my dad.

The dudes in these commercials all come from the same semi-successful-late-twenties-white-dudes-and-one-black-dude cookie cutter. They're not models, but aren't obese slobs either; although they're all rocking 5 o'clock shadows and wearing t-shirts, which is perfectly kosher in corporate America.

All of the chicks in light beer commercials are super hot and have a little bit of sass. Whether it's the foxy bartender who looks like she's 19 giving advice on what is and is not "manly" or the group of women who roll their eyes at the buffoonery of the dudes' antics. Chicks never look dumb in these commercials. Rather, they all seem like amazing girlfriends for dating guys well below their pay-grade that only hang out with their buddies and lie to them about going out.

It's not always at a happening bar. It could be a tailgating event, living room or pool party. Three things have to happen though: 1) A group of guys have to come up with a ridiculous idea that they think is amazing after drinking too much of the product featured. 2) The female(s) have to either insult or belittle the group of guys without seeming like a total bitch. 3) Everyone grabs a beer and cheers as a sports announcer-type tells you to join in on the fun! (and to always drink responsibly).

The Rest:
They never forget to show off their beer's insubstantial new cap, label, design that makes it easier to drink and know that it is cold. You know, since their core demographic would be opening warm beer with their teeth and drinking it upside down if it wasn't for these unprecedented "inventions."

Beer > Girlfriend that wants to have sex.

Regular Beer:
Main Brands: Budweiser, Coors Banquet, MGD

Generally shot at a dimly lit pool hall that "doesn't take kindly to" certain folks, elk's clubs with pictures of dead guys, or out in the wilderness where a man can have time with his thoughts. People that drink these types of beers enjoy life moving at a slower pace; whether it's fishing with your four white friends, building a deck with your four white friends, or shooting shit with your four white friends.

You'll see a lot of late-thirties/early-forties salty men of the sea in these commercials. They have the look of a man that has seen some shit. They're strong-willed, like to get the job done right and are racist true to their ways. Trade in the sports team t-shirts and fitted jeans for some flannel and a pair of dusty Dungarees. They don't talk much, as they're too busy building things and avoiding their family. Also, no minorities are allowed in these commercials. Evennay, especially Italians.

Not Applicable since all women have been reverted back to the 1950's in these ads. They don't have time to enjoy the Rocky Mountain water, high country barley and barreled hops that go into these beers as they are far too busy cooking and cleaning back home. Can't argue with this representation.

There will be shots of nature intermittently crossed with men (not dudes, men) doing manly things. A slow country song will be playing in the background as a grizzled voice-over describes yourself and your values in vivid detail. The bars are never crowded, but rather sparingly occupied by a couple men with checkered pasts.

The Rest:
Occasionally there will be beautiful horses galloping across the countryside in these ads. I'm not sure why that makes me want to drink their beer, but it does. Here is a short list of things you will not see in these ads:
-Bikini-clad women
-Anyone under 30
-Pool parties
-Polite conversation
-Sophomoric hijinks

Coors Banquet: Mustaches Mandatory.

Imported Beer:
Brands: Corona, Dos Equis, Heineken.

These commercials will regularly take place at some tropical or exotic locale since people that drink beer that is slightly more expensive seem to always be vacationing in Monaco or the Cayman Isles. Whether it's a gala black tie affair or a blue ocean beachfront; imported beer drinkers have fucking class. There are no sports bars or Double Deuce's in these ads.

All the dudes in these commercials seem to be some sort of James Bond prototype that are equally as sophisticated as they are charming. Which all beer drinkers believe they are after their ninth bottle. They use braggadocio to galvanize their female counterparts with regal stories of their adventures taming lions in South Africa, winning obscure sporting events and playing music for Norwegian royalty. Instead of just popping a roofie in her drink like most dudes who drink Heineken do.

The chicks in these commercials do not speak much. They are very attractive, and all seem to be some sort of hot race-hybrid that you can't put your finger on. It's like Jessica Alba and Nicole Scherzinger scissored and somehow were able to conceive offspring. For the most part, they will either be wearing bikinis or expensive cocktail dresses while giving you that "don't even think about hitting on me" look through piercing blue eyes.

I find it funny how many of these commercials are set at the beach. If I tried to bring a glass bottle onto the beach, I would be tackled and maimed by a group of over-juiced lifeguards. I'm not sure how all these people in Corona commercials are getting away with it. I also find it interesting how you never see a group of Mexicans in sombreros taking a siesta next to a saguaro with a beer in their hand. You know, since that's who 90% of the buying market is.

The Rest:
These beers will never be shown in cans, because cans are for cowboys and blue-collar individuals who beat each other with pool cues over paltry disagreements. Exclusivity and class are king for this nectar of the gods. Also, if you try to relax or have a good time without these beers, you will fail miserably and be looked down upon by upper crust-ian society-types. And that would totally ruin your day.


So, there you have it. With each beer bears certain commitment in how you carry yourself. Not every beer is for you. If you like to skip work on a weekday to hang out with your buddies, avoid your girlfriend and make a fool of yourself in front of college co-eds; grab an ice-old, never filling, always crisp light beer. If your weekend is filled with boat building, appreciating the outdoors and beating your wife for burning your dinner; sit down after a long day's work and enjoy the freshest hops and barley this side of the Mississippi in a regular beer. And, if exotic islands, dapper events and pouting supermodels are more your style; sip on some imported beer from your cabana on the beach or riverboat in the south of France. And always drink until you puke responsibility.

Friday, October 7, 2011

No. 139: "Awkward Moments."

Awkwardness is unavoidable in life. You can attempt to posture suave and smooth all you want, but eventually you're going to be put into a situation where even Keith Stone, The Most Interesting Man In The World and that dude from the Old Spice commercials can't help but feel embarrassed. There are usually only a few actions one can furnish once this awkward moment has arisen; and it must be done with fast-acting veracity. Well, I'm here to help. I find myself in awkward situations almost daily, but I walk away unmarred. Here are a few accessible tips to make those not-so-elegant moments less gawky.

The Most Interesting Man leaves out the embarrassing moments in his stories of masculinity.

Telling A Story And Having Someone Walk Away:

Solution #1
Continue telling story to the closest person around; like that cook at your work who doesn't understand English.

Solution #2
Follow them around, continuing with your long-winded story until they start running and knocking over newsstands to get away from you.

Solution #3
Just stop talking. Pick up the story when you two are alone again. Except this time lock the door.

The best way to avoid this problem is by having awesome stories that people actually want to hear (e.g. Lying). Then again, that's kind of like saying the best way to quit smoking is to never start. Some people just suck at telling stories. The best quick fix is to just alley-oop a story topic to a friend familiar with the story that simultaneously has social skills that you lack. The best solution in this scenario is #1. More often than not there will be some sad sap around that no one wants to talk to who would enjoy a little social interaction. Crossed-eyed Gary loves stories.

No One Laughs At Your Joke:

Solution #1
Wait a beat and then say "Awkward" in a sing-songy fashion to generate a cheap laugh.

Solution #2
Laugh at your own joke and feel the awkwardness grow exponentially.

Solution #3
Get pissed at everyone and leave.

It sucks telling a joke and receiving a cricket-chirping reaction. It happens to everyone, even that funny black guy who you think is your friend even though he always calls you by the wrong name. The worst-case scenario is telling a bad joke in front of a bunch of hot girls you just met. This will assure that every girl within fifty feet of the joke perimeter will check you off their mental list of people they will never fuck. Trying to explain the joke to people just digs you deeper, so just shut your mouth until someone tells an even worse joke. The best bet is to go with solution #1. You admit that your witticism wasn't comedy genius and show off your vocal chops.

Talking Shit About Someone Behind You:

Solution #1
Pretend you are talking about another "Rebecca."

Solution #2
Act like you're joking around and give them a friendly nudge to let them know that it's alllll good.

Solution #3
Punch them in the face and run away.

Getting caught "talkin' some mad shit" is always embarrassing. It can lead to hurt feelings, sobbing and smeared mascara. The best method for avoiding a tongue lashing or possible termination is to look around for the person you are wanting to verbally beat down. Once you have confirmed their absence, begin your vitriolic rant to eager co-workers; and don't forget to include a couple "cunts" for good measure. The best solution after getting caught is probably #2, though. Friends make fun of each other, and this will only help strengthen your non-existent friendship with Rebecca.

To be fair, Rebecca is kind of a cunt.

Waving At Someone Not Waving At You:

Solution #1
Put your hand down and continue walking while mentally kicking yourself in the head.

Solution #2

Pretend you're shooing away a fly.

Solution #3

Continue waiving like a fucking maniac.


This will happen routinely whenever you're by yourself walking to an adult bookstore or church gathering. From afar, everyone looks like someone you know, but once you realize the person joyfully waiving twenty feet away is doing so to the guy behind you, your entire day is ruined. There is no clear-cut way to assure that this never happens; other than demanding all of your friends and relatives wear matching shirts to identify themselves. Admitting defeat in the fact that no one wants to waive at you in public won't help. And, pretending to be attacked by a swarm of hornets will only add more attention to this awkward moment. So, the only way out of this is to feverishly waive like an escaped mental patient. Defecating yourself and throwing feces at onlookers might be taking it too far, though.

You Walk In On Someone In The Bathroom:

Solution #1

Slam the door immediately and never mention seeing that person in said position ever again.

Solution #2

Crack a joke about their dick and tell the rest of the party about what just happened.

Solution #3

Light something on fire.


I hate it when I'm at a party and see a door either closed with the light off or almost closed with the light on. Normally, I'll do that hackneyed slow-open to make it easy for the potential pooper to say "Hey! I'm in here, dipshit." This is one of those instances where it is equally embarrassing for both parties involved. Attempting to relinquish the image of your buddy straining to pinch a loaf while simultaneously picking his nose is hard to erase from your brain, and not making eye contact will only mitigate the relationship. Cracking a joke might help temper the moment, but it can only do so much. For this scenario, the only solution is to find something close by and light it on fire. By the time the fire department comes to put out the burning house, everyone will have forgotten about the awkwardness and just want to beat you with a pillowcase full of syringes.

A small oil fire can change the topic of any conversation.

Becoming Lost And Having To Turn Around:

Solution #1
Pull out your cell phone, act like you just read a text message, then turn around.

Solution #2

Circle the earth until you arrive at your destination.

Solution #3
Preform an impromptu spinning dance move and continue walking casually in the other direction.


I see this happen to people more than any of the previous situations. It's the most common social faux pas. You could venture in the same direction until you have made your way around the world without having to turn around, but you just don't have the stamina nor the kayaking skills needed to pull off a 'round-the-world trek. Breaking into a succinct dance could lead to further embarrassment due to your lack of experience in the dance trade and fair pigmentation. The best contrivance is to do what we all do when faced with this dilemma: Pretend to use your cell phone as if one of your friends just told you that the meeting place had changed to the opposite direction you were going. Just like Sex Panther, 60% of the time it works, every time.

I hope these disadvantageous pragmatic tips will help you conquer awkwardness in your everyday life. There may not always be a solution that leaves you unscathed from social woes, but at least it might help in making you come off as less of a persona non grata in society (save the kitchen fire). Just try not to walk in on your parents having sex. There's no solution for that; other than immediate suicide.

Friday, September 30, 2011

No. 138: "Girls Night Out."

Last year I wrote the definitive guide for every guy's night out, I called it: "Bro's Evening Not In." Being from the male persuasion, I was able to denote every fundamental aspect of a perfect night out with the boys. Well, I felt the need to indulge my female readers with a blog of their own (Also, I couldn't think of a new idea for a blog this week so I thought I might as well spin-off a previous post). We've all seen a group of girls having a night out on the town. Whether you're that creepy old dude peering at them from afar as you cunningly masturbate next to the jukebox or the suave bartender that will inevitably lay to bed one of the more "swallow-friendly" gals in the group. I will list a few axiomatic steps needed for a perfect girls night out.

Pick A Theme:
This is a vital element to a successful girls night out. Without a theme, your friends might end up getting confused and lose the party after talking on their cells phones outside. How else could they recognize their friends who they have known since middle school without ridiculously extravagant matching outfits to identify from a distance? You can go in any direction with the theme. Whether it's retro 80's or posh black and white. Just make sure the theme and outfits accommodate your fat friend Denise.

Denise has an amazing personality.

Take Forever To Get Ready:

This is one of the few things women are more accomplished at (other than giving birth and making sandwiches). If you've ever lived with a girl, you know that unless she begins preparations before the street lights go on, you're not making it to the bar 'til midnight. Find an outfit that says: "I'm fun and sexy, but I probably won't blow you unless you have coke." Use this three-hour period to text your girlfriends about how "EXCITEDDD YOU AREEEE!!! :) :)" While out at dinner, order a small salad and share it with a friend. Or, take the escape clause route and scarf down all the succulent fried shrimp you can handle since you'll be returning it in the bar restroom after that shot of tequila.

Be Fucking Loud:
You won't need much catechizing with this one; since you bitches can't shut the fuck up. Start the night off right by ordering a round of shots consisting solely of food coloring and sugar. Wait until all of your friends have finished texting and death-staring other girls before raising up your glasses and puncturing the rest of the bar patrons' ear drums with indistinguishable screams. It is also important to yell incoherently for no reason other than the fact that you're wasted after two appletinis. "Woo!," "Oh Mah Gawd!," and "Seriously? No, seriously?" are a few good starters. But, the most imperative time to be fucking loud is when "your song" comes on. Corral all of your girlfriends and explain how the popular song coming through the speakers is in fact "your song." Do this with every third song.

Talk Shit About Friend That Didn't Show Up:
Routinely, there will be one member of your clique that is unable to make it out for the night's events. This could have to do with their job schedule that requires more than fifteen hours per week or because they are pregnant again and the abortion isn't scheduled until next week*. Since they are not with the group, take this opportunity to discuss her flaws, douche bag boyfriend and other shallow topics de jour. But, remember to never say any of this to her face (unless you're black). Take a moment to wonder what everyone was saying about you last week when you did not partake in the last girls night out and then have another shot to forget about it.

Start Crying For No Reason:
Towards the end of the night it is mandatory for at least one girl from the group to start sobbing unprovoked. This could be triggered from a boyfriend who did not immediately text her back at 1:45 AM or a bartender that was mean to her. To help her in this dire situation, hurl compliments at her and help clean her smeared mascara. Label all men as "jerks" or "pigs" and then proceed to dance away the tears. This would not work for men, though. If one of my buddies began crying I would launch emasculating insults at him, punch him in the kidney and tell him to "man up" before buying him a shot and giving him a bro-hug.

"Why won't he text me back!?"

Abandon Friends:
After you are finished dealing with Sobbing Samantha, one of your friends will inexplicably go missing. Gather your mod squad of heeled hoochies and form a search party. Start yelling her name down the street and calling her phone that she left in your purse. Someone obviously kidnapped her, so call the police and file a Missing Persons Report. Make sure to allude to the obvious by yelling "She was right here!" every ten minutes. Eventually, you all will come to the realization that she went home with some random guy to contract a newly developed form of gonorrhea. Exchange disparaging remarks about her promiscuity and bid each other adieu.

Well, there you go ladies. I tried to write this post in the most mature and progressive manner possible. We really aren't that different, women and men. Men get obliterated and openly mock each other while you quietly hold hate forums for your absentee friends. Men watch other, more athletic men compete in athletic events while you text minutia to people you secretly hate. And men leave no stone unturned attempting to lay pipe while you thwart all attempts at conversation from seemingly nice males before leaving with "that one black guy" at the end of the night. I hope this post will encourage you to organize your own girls night out to escape from your busy and demanding life chock full of salon appointments and shiatsu massages. If you see me, say hi. I'll be the guy by the jukebox.

*That one even offended me. Sorry.

Friday, September 23, 2011

No. 137: "Places I Shant Go."

I try to stay open minded when it comes to most things. I have almost four black friends, listen to both parties' stances on political issues and pretend to tolerate children when around attractive females. But, there are a few places that I refuse to go to based on my predetermined perception of them. Call it ignorance or premonition, but I stand unwavering on this issue. So, here is a list of a couple places you will never find me at. (Although, if I am ever falsely accused of a crime, I will most definitely hide out in one of these subsequent venues).

Religious Goods Store:
I'm not even sure what all they could possibly sell that I couldn't find at a tourist trap in Rocky Point. There's only so many ways you can bedazzle a cross and embroider Mother Mary. I fear that an alarm would go off as soon as I entered the store and I would be kindly escorted to hell by a very nice old lady. I know they have a "wide" selection of books at these stores; ranging from: How To Turn Your Gay Son Straight With Jesus to Properly Baptizing Your Golden Retriever. I think it would be fun to walk into the store with a backpack full of hardcore porn and slyly place it between some of the selected religious readings. Hell, I welcome thee.

Food City:
For those not familiar with Food City, I will briefly explain their layout. Basically, Food City is a supermarket if it was based in Mexico. The floors are made of dirt, the produce has gone south weeks ago, and they do not have air conditioning. It is where you shop if the Dollar Store is out of your price range. Food City is a perfect place to witness an 8th grader give birth or contract hepatitis. Instead of a friendly courtesy clerk willing to help you with your shopping needs, they have angry chollos staring you down as their home boys jack your ride. They have a fine selection of meats as well. Whether you prefer house pet or donkey sack, the selection is almost limitless. It makes Wal-Mart looks like Neiman-Marcus. I'll take off my white hood now.

Food City's fine selection of produce.
Luby's Cafeteria:
I find it interesting how if a business abridges the "-teria" in their name they instantly become quaint and appropriate for people who own dress shoes. Whenever I hear the word "cafeteria" I am instantly relegated to my formative years as an elementary school kid eating gruel for lunch daily; but I've already gone over that. I'm not fond of any restaurant that serves food on trays, unless it's a Vegas buffet and I'm blackout drunk. I can't imagine anyone taking a potential mate on a first date to Luby's Cafeteria. Unless, they were trying to win a reality show where the goal was to see how little time it would take before your date "had to go because her friend needed her."

Boot Repair Store:
You'll see these in many tourist-friendly shopping centers throughout the southwest. I have never owned a pair of boots, since I live in the 21st century and drive a car to work, not a horse. The only time I will even think about wearing a pair of boots is if I am attending a western-themed party and need to complete my shit-kicker outfit. Even then, I'll still probably rock a pair of Converse. Another thought: How are these businesses profitable? Are boots being damaged this frequently? I have a feeling they're just fronts for backdoor meth labs.

Guitar Store:
First of all, I have absolutely no musical talent (just ask anyone who has seen me drunkenly perform "Don't Stop Believing" on karaoke night). So, I have no need to go into a guitar store in the first place. But, I have been to these types of stores before with friends who actually have talent. You'll be welcomed by a burnout in his mid-40's trying his best to ignore your presence. While you walk around and browse their selection of instruments, said burnout will tell you not to touch anything even though there are already five signs saying the exact same thing. When asked a question, the burnout who still thinks his garage band "is gonna make it" will use a supercilious tone to belittle you. You and your buddies will then walk out, exchange disparaging remarks about the burnout's lack of hair and never go back there again. You'll find better customer service at the DMV.

How's it going? I'm a dick.


Unless I'm trying to pick up twelve year-old whores in training I have no need to be within fifty feet of a Claire's (also, it is court ordered). When I look from afar into these "tween goods stores" all I see is useless shit that I will be forced to buy any of my three daughters and effeminate son down the road (payback from the man upstairs for being a blatant misogynist, I suppose). I'm certain that as soon as you walk through the door, a thick coating of fruity body spray and glitter is laid upon you as a later-day form of tar-and-feathering. Personally, I would have a better chance finding something I could use for myself at a blind German bookstore.

Indian Jewelry:
You'll see these in travel-through towns on your way to cities with running water and women with a full set of teeth. I'd rather my home be blanketed in baby poop green than have even a square inch of my humble abode be tainted with turquoise. Dream catchers, wooden sculptures and wool blankets covered in smallpox are not on my list of must-need items. Thanks, but no thanks, Running Bear. I guess I don't have the aesthetic eye for this segment of the art world. When I'm on the road, only two things will get me to pull over: a cop and beef jerky.

Christopher Columbus was not a fan of Indian Jewelry.

Vegan Restaurants:
Why would you want a delicious, filling meal when you could have diarrhea for two weeks? I can deal with vegetarians for the most part; as long as they aren't talking. But, vegans are the Westboro Baptist Church of the dietary practices. I do not consider anything a meal unless it has meat in it. That includes dessert. I'm not even sure what would be on the menu. All I know is that whatever they put in their food makes their customers immediately menstruate to a super-flow level. I think it would be fun to walk into one of these restaurants with an adorable bunny rabbit. I would hold a gun to the rabbit and force one of the patrons to eat a hamburger. After much crying and yelling, they would finally succumb to my threat and take a bite. I would then shoot the rabbit and quietly let myself out. Lesson learned.

Those are just a few businesses I refuse to go to. I'm sure there's people out there that are in great need of repair to their worn-out boots covered in buffalo stool or enjoy eating food that will cause a riot in their colon; but not me. I'd much rather eat a steak at a nice restaurant, shop at a supermarket that doesn't accept pesos and buy a metric ton of beef jerky from a man with a wooden leg. What are some places that you will never go to?

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

No. 136 "Living At Home."

A few weeks ago, my friend Bre inspired me to write a blog about living at home after she went on what could only be described as the funniest fucking rant my ears have ever had the pleasure to hear. So I will give credit where credit is due.

Many recent (and not-so-recent) college grads have had the misfortune of moving back in with their parents after completing their degree. Blame it on the shitty economy, the growing number of college educated young people, or the government; it's hard to find a career in your field nowadays. Personally, I blame it on the economy. I also use the economy as an excuse for just about everything else in my life. I get pulled over for speeding: economy. I forget to visit my grandparents: economy. I still act like a 19-year-old: economy. It's a catch-all excuse that I will exercise until that well has run dry.

Anyway, I thought it would be appropriate to write a post about something that many people my age (myself included) are currently having to undergo: living at home. Moving back in with the parents after being away at college for several years is a bit acculturating. Instead of calling your folks once a week to tell them that you are still alive, constant contact is unavoidable. You may no longer live by "your rules" and thus are reverted back to your teenage years instead of making the customary transition to mature adult. Per usual, I have highlighted a couple themes that make living at home after college a bit of a drag.

Waking Up:
Not having a 9-5 job means that many college grads will procure jobs in the restaurant or hospitality industry. Which equals not having to wake up until noon some days. As nice as it is to be able to sleep in, this is rendered impossible due to restless mothers. A peaceful slumber is almost always halted by our lovely birth givers. I'm not exactly sure if my mom is intentionally trying to be loud, but every morning I am awoken to banging pots and pans, even if she isn't cooking. Sometimes she changes it up and vacuums while mowing the lawn synchronously to create a cataclysm of noise to assure I can never go back to sleep. If somehow I am able to fend off her gallant efforts to wake me, I am treated to a SWAT team-esque door kick down. I do not remember my mom taking kickboxing lessons, but eventually my door became so scared of her dropkick wrath that it would unhinge itself and fall down on it's own intimidation after a few weeks.

Pots and pans make great instruments of torture.

Job Hunting:
Our doting mothers' hearts are in the right place, but they have not entirely accepted the internet as a vital resource in finding a career. Instead, many of us are treated to archaic advice that may have worked in the 1950's, but now is best labeled under: No, mom. That will not work. The "best" advice I received from my mom was to "just drive down to the corporate office and ask for the CEO. Tell him that you learn fast and will try your darnedest and I'm sure you will get the job." If I were to take her advice and actually go down to a business I was attempting to acquire a job at, it would not play out the way she saw it in her disconnected head. I would spend thirty minutes driving in traffic, demand to speak to the CEO of said Fortune 500 company, be told that he lives in New York, then hand my resume to the receptionist. In that two hour span I could have emailed my resume and cover letter to the hiring department and spent the next hour and fifty five minutes watching a Sandra Bullock rom-com UFC fights. Maybe my mom is just trying to be helpful, but "pounding the pavement" is ineffective in the 21st century; although it will help me land a job in the fast food industry; which would be a great way to use my bachelor's degree.

Somehow, we all revert back to our formative years as soon as we move back home. It is customary to be yelled at for leaving a plate in the sink; a problem that did not exist in college as you would be looked at as a raging dickhead if you told your roommate to clean up anything that did not involve their bodily fluids from the previous evening. I find it interesting how my mom will exaggerate messes that I had left. A single cup in the sink = "the entire kitchen is a disaster." Not making my bed = "your room is a pig pen." And so on. I half-expect to be grounded; which would work if I didn't have the ability to kick my dad's ass.

I see no problem here.

Bringing Over A Girl/Guy:
This task is impossible unless you are an unabashed individual who can casually deal with repressed embarrassment from said party and an awkward breakfast wherein your mom not-so-slyly hints at whether or not you used contraception and then requests your presence at the next Sunday mass service. As far as self-administered sexual activities go, all moms have caught onto the "door closed means open very, very slowly and ask if we're 'changing'." Everyone's sex life has been dramatically truncated due to their "home field" being occupied by their wellspring. It makes you want to finance a vacation for your parents so you can get a handy from a fat chick without stainless steel cookware hindering your che.

Although your diet has been ameliorated from your college days filled with microwavable concoctions and 3 AM burritos, the selection of your parents' newly healthy-option fridge is less than appealing. Soy milk, sugar-free ice cream and Boca burgers are a bit of a culture shock for most recent college grads. When one tries to prepare a midnight snack, it's hard to accommodate your needs for a PB&J out of cardboard gluten-free flatbread, organic almond butter and free-range jelly. An intermediate omnibus of food and drink would make the step to healthy living a bit more reasonable and taste less like bark. And the worst part: your dad now drinks Bud Select 55, so even his beer selection has been pussified.

Why drink beer when you can drink disgusting water that doesn't get you drunk?

Late Night Activities:
Every twentysomething has moved past the idea of inviting friends over for a social gathering and firmly planted their flag into the bar scene as the destination of choice. But, for some reason unbeknownst to me, mothers across America will still ask why "you don't have some friends over instead of going to bars all the time." Although this is probably a precursor for her not wanting you to drive around the city drunk, it is still annoying. They must still see us as 15-year old kids and expect a night with friends to resemble a couple games of Uno over Sunny D instead of a reenactment of The Hangover. I would have no problem throwing a party with a bunch of my friends, but it's not my house, or as Snoop Dogg would call it: Hizzouse. I would rather not replace your lladro collection that will certainly be destroyed by an impromptu whiskey-induced wrestling match. Also, I am fairly certain you and dad are not die-hard fans of dub step blaring until 5 am. We're really just looking out for you, moms.

Those are just a few experiences every recent diploma wielding individual will be forced to endure as they use their parent's home as a launching pad into their own fateful ascension descent to adulthood. Some other issues may arise when living in the same domicile as your forebearers. This may include but is not limited to:
-DVR recording priority
-Helping set-up and break-down bunko night events
-Having your arm broken for attempting to adjust the air conditioning
-Cleaning up dog poop
-Inability to take the lord's name in vain
-Feigning interest in your dad's newly acquired mid-life crisis hobbies
-Using a land line phone
-Sleeping on a futon when your aunt is in town
-Being made fun of by your successful friends

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

No. 135 "Back To School List."

It's that time of the year again, back to school season. Before the summer comes to a consecrated close remember to frantically work out for three days to attain that six pack you told everyone you would attain, break up with that clingy girlfriend who you met at Applebees and to sign up for the remaining available classes at the last minute (Women's Studies? Sounds like a great way to meet hostile lesbians chicks!) But, before you pack up and head back to College Town, USA, you must purchase back to school items. Here are a few ingredients to assure a great new semester:

Credit Card:
Otherwise known as free money. So what if your mom cancelled her card that you would "accidentally" borrow whenever you made a trip back home? It's about time you grow up and obtain a credit card of your own. 39% interest rate? What a deal! Having a credit card allows you to buy necessary items every college student requires; like slip-and-slides and remote control helicopters.

Useful for making sex less pleasurable and preventing babies from coming out of your long term girlfriend that fat girl you banged in your Prius. For those not good at sex; just scatter a handful of these jizz balloons across your desk to hoodwink guests into believing you're a Casanova.

Duct Tape:
You can use duct tape to fix just about everything, as long as you want it to look like shit. When not repairing broken lamps or limbs, you can use it to wrap your passed out roommate to his bed before you leave for the weekend.

Hunting Knife:
You don't have to live in the wild or attend Montana University (like Montana has a University, ha!) to brandish a hunting knife. Carrying a knife on you will establish a "tough guy" demeanor and persuade your professor into giving you an extension on your term paper. Also, to "kill" time between classes, you can stab hobos.

Expensive Electronics:
Use that newly minted credit card to treat yourself to some fancy integrated circuitry. These are perfect to show off to your friends until they are broken or stolen a week later.

I bet you can't wait to throw your remote control into me!

It can get quite cold in many apartments and dorms during the fall, so being able to curl up, find your most comfortable chair and use your many leather bound books to fuel a bonfire will prove very propitious come November. Until then, you can display your "nerd magazines" on your DVD rack to impress girls with glasses.

A Bunch Of Shit From IKEA:
Those user-friendly directions will be useful when you decide to put together your coffee table while knee deep in a plastic bottle of vodka. Also, your peers will think you are stylish and utopian since you decided not to adorn your living room with "gently used" furniture from The Salvation Army this year.

Attempt originality and buy posters that will make your bare walls stand out. Bob Marley, Salvador Dali, and Victoria's Secret model #762 will assure visitors of your unique and refined tastes.

AXE Body Spray:
This is a multi-tool in a spray bottle. It can be used as: Cologne, Insect Repellant, Deodorant, Burrito Induced Fart Concealer, Mace, or Flamethrower. It's a regular college Swiss Army Knife.

Also works as an attractive woman repellant!

Draw ironic mustaches on your hand so you can look like a fucking moron in pictures. Also, they can be used to draw dicks on people. Tons and tons of dicks.

Not for taking notes or printing out essays. That's what computers and free library access are for. Rather, the majority of paper you use will be for passive aggressive notes to your roommates about missing Hot Pockets and eleventh-hour toilet paper.

Running Shoes:
These will be used during your first week back until you realize that drinking beer and playing Xbox is much more fun than inclined jogging next to hot girls who give you dirty looks for looking at their finely sculpted asses. Instead, spray paint your cross-fit sneakers black and use them as dress shoes for job interviews you'll never go to.

Having Tylenol, Emergen-C and your Valtrex prescription on hand will be vital when all of the stores in your area have closed and you are in dire need. As for illegal drugs: It's college, do whatever you want! Do not smoke, snort or anally inject anything into your body, as it will create irreversible damage to you and disappoint your parents who love you dearly. Live above the influence.

Bike Lock:
Commuting to class can be a hassle with smelly public transportation and near nonexistent parking spots. A bike is an environmentally friendly way to get to and fro class without looking like a tool on a longboard. But, to make sure your $70 Huffy doesn't get jacked by a gang of troubled middle schoolers, a bike lock is necessary. Although in my experience, a bike lock is just an auxiliary strap to hold your your bicycle in place while it is beaten with large rocks.

My bike, Freshman year.

You're another year older, and even though you haven't given up on your binge drinking, you want to take a step in the mature direction and drink out of fine glassware instead of beer pong cups. Have fun stepping on broken glass every week and eventually returning to the unbreakable and indispensable red Dixie plastic cup after all of your pint glasses and champagne flutes have been destroyed.

Now you're ready to get back in the swing of things at your university/community college/trade school. Remember that school comes first, and to always show up for your classes at least five minutes early to have a brief conversation with your professor. If he refuses to let you retake the midterm, show your hunting knife as well as a few well rehearsed stabbing motions. Be creative, and see how many different shapes and sizes you can draw phalli on your fellow students' faces. And, always pay the minimum payment on your credit card.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

No. 134 "Everyday Items."

Look around your house, apartment or shanty and you'll find a myriad of items dispersed across your place. Most of these items are used just about every day. But, their uses change when you transition from childhood to adulthood to mid-life crisis. Here are a few examples of such:

Age 8: Daddy's punching juice.
Age 19: Virginity remover.
Age 40: Suicide prevent-er.

Van With No Windows
Age 8: Stranger Danger.
Age 19: Clam-bake mobile.
Age 40: Vehicle to pick up unsuspecting children.

Each 1994 Ford E-250 comes with three pounds of individually wrapped candy.

Tabasco Sauce
Age 8: Tummy ache inducer.
Age 19: Mace.
Age 40: Taken with a Zantac 75.

Age 8: Cook/Maid/Boo boo healer.
Age 19: Blow job machine.
Age 40: The devil.

Age 8: Untimely death.
Age 19: Awesome bedazzled t-shirt destroyer.
Age 40: Dead hooker crime scene cleaning agent.

Shower Head
Age 8: Microphone/light saber.
Age 19: Masturbation aid.
Age 40: Provisional power washer.

Canola Oil
Age 8: Gross Canadian drink.
Age 19: Makeshift sexual lubricant.
Age 40: Flammable liquid used to burn ex-wife's house down.

75% cheaper than Astroglide!

Age 8: Slumber party weapon of choice.
Age 19: Remove pillow case to create slapdash suitcase.
Age 40: Mother-in-law smother-er/inheritance subsidizer.

Vacuum Cleaner
Age 8: Pet terrorize-er.
Age 19: Not Applicable.
Age 40: Girlfriend.

Disposable Shaving Razor
Age 8: Mommy's mustache remover.
Age 19: Accidental throat cutter.
Age 40: Hobo beard prevent-er.

Age 8: Fun toy.
Age 19: Everyday apparatus/item lost almost daily.
Age 40: Temporary flashlight.

Cardboard Box
Age 8: Spaceship/race car/fort.
Age 19: Porn collection storage unit.
Age 40: Eviction/pink slip container.

This can turn into a spaceship at any age with the use of hallucinogenics.

Age 8: Sword.
Age 19: Drunken baton.
Age 40: Burglar beater.

Age 8: Useful tool for shoddy arts and crafts.
Age 19: Pubic hair sculptor.
Age 40: Creepy mustache trimmer.

Age 8: Something a woman makes for you.
Age 19: Something a woman makes for you.
Age 40: Something you make yourself.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

No. 133 "The Worst Day (Part 3)."

If the scrolly thing on your mouse is broken or you're just plain lazy, you can find part 1 here, and part 2 here.

So far my day had been a steaming pile of shit topped off with a hearty ladle of "I'm Fucked" au jus. I decided that a few potent potables would be just what the doctor ordered (if my physician was a drunk) and got ready to meet up with Jenny at her boyfriend Joe's house a few miles from my dorm.

Andre Young, M.D. wants your ass to get drunk.

I informed my roommate Jim that I would be back around 1 AM; which would give him a four hour masturbation window. More than enough for the average college-aged male with a broadband connection. I joked that if he had a girl over, to put a tie on the door as a signal of preoccupation. We both laughed at the notion of him even speaking to the opposite sex without going into anaphylaxic shock, and I was on my way.

While driving, I saw my arch-nemesis Gideon riding his fixie bike listening to his iPod. I wished I had a water balloon filled with urine to throw at him, but a conventional middle finger had to suffice. My day was already getting better.

Per usual, I got lost on my way there and had to make several phone calls to figure out if Jenny meant "second left" or "third right, first left past the cemetery, U-turn at dead end and E-brake out of frustration." Perhaps a writing utensil or short-term memory would have proven valuable, but I after a couple increasingly annoyed phone calls I was able to find the place and walked up to the door.

It was a very big house, and as soon as Joe let me inside, it was reminiscent of a Hoarders episode; if the hoarder only collected totally awesome shit that appealed solely to twentysomething college students. The entire house was filled with vintage rock posters and neon beer signs with no sign of cat skeletons. According to Joe, his aunt died recently and left him the house and a bunch of money; which I'm sure she specifically insisted be spent on high quality marijuana and kegerators.

Joe was an amalgam of every stoner/slacker you'd see in teen comedies from the 90's. He even had his own catchphrase. I would compare him to that friend everyone had in elementary school whose parents always got the best toys. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be actual friends with him, but he had a lot of cool shit I wanted to play with.

(Pictured: Joe)

After he gave me the tour of his sanctuary de hesherdom, we all sat down and listened to music on his record player. Joe offered me a beer, which I blissfully accepted. Instead of a Bud Light or Sierra Nevada, I was handed an unlabeled bottle. He informed me that he recently became a home-brewer and just finished a new batch earlier in the week. I figured beer was beer and took a big gulp.

Surprisingly, it tasted just like regular beer (if that beer had been sitting in an abandoned lot for six months). I feigned enjoyment of his gag-worthy concoction, but spit the gelatinous liquid back into the bottle as slyly as I could, like grandma Mema's mutton. As soon as Joe got up to use the bathroom, Jenny and I exchanged disparaging remarks about Joe's fermented fuck up.

Jenny asked how life had been treating me lately. Instead of going off on a self-demoralizing tangent about how my youth was about to abruptly end due to my girlfriend's overzealous uterus; not to mention the fact that I was probably going to fail out of college, I told her it was "alright."

After a few more drinks and harebrained theories from Joe about artificial intelligence, I was ready to call it a night and get six full hours of sleep before my alarm woke me up for a class that I would eventually skip in order to watch The Price Is Right. I made the obligatory female friend chest-to-boob-hug maneuver with Jenny and "nice to meet ya" bro handshake with Joe.

I insinuated that I wanted to be invited back to Joe's fortress of awesome by attempting to exchange phone numbers. This was not to be since he did not own a cell phone because of "the government." I decided that asking questions would only lead to a proselytising tirade and likely Power Point presentation on various conspiracy theories, so I let myself out.

It was just past midnight and I was the only car on the road as I rocked out to some popular song from 2006 that I probably make fun of now. I looked at my speedometer and realized I was only going 25 in a 35 MPH zone. Just as I was about to speed up, a beautiful kaleidoscope of blue and red peered into my rear-view mirror. It was not a discotheque on wheels, but rather a cop ready to bust my ass.

I pulled over into the McDonald's parking lot to get some cheap drive-thru snacks; as cops are associated with taking their damn time, and I was quite famished. I figured I could present the officer with one of my baked apple pies as a peace offering since they're two for a dollar and fucking delicious. I decided that this was probably not a good idea, and instead pulled over into an empty parking spot.

Nothing good ever happens at a McDonald's parking lot after midnight.

As I waited for the officer to walk to my car I realized that I was under 21 and definitively had alcohol in my system. I immediately searched my car for anything that could get me in trouble: illicit drugs, communism propaganda, dead hookers. After realizing that A) I didn't do drugs, B) Communism was so 1967, and C) I had buried that hooker in a shallow grave last week, I began a hurried quest for gum or mints to disguise my breath.

I could find no such winter-fresh savior and instead took a long draw from a Coca Cola bottle sitting at the foot of the passenger side seat. The taste was not that of the refreshing sweetness I had known as Coca Cola, but rather chewing tobacco spit that my buddy had left as some sort of cruel joke. Just as I was about to discharge it all over my front dash, the officer knocked on my window with his criminal beating stick baton. I swallowed the disgusting tobacco spit like an averse 18 year-old girl at a seedy porn audition.

I thought about booking it and leading a car chase, but I really didn't want to add prison time and broken ribs to my worst day ever. So, I did what anyone would in that situation: try not to say or do anything idiotic.

The officer went through the generic questions about how fast I was going and where I was coming from. He then requested my insurance, license and registration. Since I'm an unorganized moron, I only had my license with me. But, I four-flushed my way through Del Taco bags and notes scattered throughout my hobo-ridden vehicle for several minutes until I gave up on the hunt. He took my license and went back to his patrol car.

I'm entirely dubious to what police officers do back at their car while you're tweaking out due to the anxiety. Maybe they're just fucking with you. Perhaps they have some sweet video games built into their on-board computer. Or, it really does take 28 minutes to run a warrant check. Whatever it may be, laying in wait at 12:30 on a Tuesday night while you ponder about whether you will be driving home safely and snuggling in your warm bed or sharing a concrete cell with a pantheon of cockeyed transients is quite a daunting task.

Officer Refusetosmile came back to my car and asked if I had been drinking previously in the evening. This was my moment to shine. Usually, I am a terrible lair with many discernible tells. But, when it comes down to brass tacks, I'm a regular Titus Oates. I cleared my throat in order to use my indomitable deceit timbre and sternly, but calmly, gave him an auricular: "No, officer. I have not." He took a second to stare into my unflinching eyes and delivered a "You better not be lying to me, boy" look before he handed my license over and told me to get my tail light fixed. And just like that, he sped off to a 24-hour doughnut shop or ongoing bank heist or wherever cops go when they're not harassing taxpayers.

As soon as I saw his headlights dim into the night I screamed out an impassioned "FUCK YEAH!" then cautiously drove back to my dorm while bumping the eclectic rhymes of N.W.A. My day had been a roller coaster ride of infelicitous incidents that continued to descend until my dumb Irish luck got me out of a near certain DUI. I was on top of the world, and even though I knew I'd wake up the next morning to realize that my life was presumably fucked; I had won this moment and I was going to savor it.

This "moment" lasted a total of eight minutes, until I opened the door to my dorm and saw Jim raping his hand once again. Oh, well. At least I wasn't getting raped in jail.

Over the next few weeks, I found out that Ly Inghoe was not pregnant, but actually a lying hoe. So I continued my relationship with her for several months since I had no balls dumped that bitch. After a few extra credit assignments and genuine studying, I was able to secure a "C" in my Electronic Media class without the disobliging tutoring of Gideon. And, I never drove drunk again. Instead, I coerced friends into driving or passed out on vomit-stained sofas.

Friday, July 29, 2011


Happy Friday blog readers! It feels great to be back blogging and I've almost got my sea legs back after that nine month sabbatical. Recently, I bought a new laptop since I decided that my current one was not up to snuff. The former laptop might have been the shittiest computer in use for a variety of reasons.

1) It was pink. I am a man-child, and being seen with a fuchsia colored laptop is not exactly "manly." My current laptop is jet black, like my heart.

2) The fan was shitty. It would overheat after only 30 minutes and use my thigh as it's own personal flesh griddle.

3) The battery sucked. It was basically a desktop computer since the battery would only last for about 20 minutes before it passed out and became an ugly, heavy paperweight.

4) It was missing the letter "A" and the "Enter" key. These are probably the most popular keys used when typing on a computer, so having to hit the same key multiple times like an unruly stepchild became very cumbersome when attempting to write a blog.

5) It was a whore... in a technical sense. Adware, spam, viruses; you name it, it had it. It was used up and spit out. If my computer was a woman it would Courtney Love.

I am very excited to have a new laptop that runs fast and is not fucking pink. This will probably not improve my spelling or grammatical woes, but should make it easier for my to bust out blogs with references to genitalia.

Also, I added Disqus to my blog to make it easier for people to leave comments. This way you don't have to sign up for a Google account or punch in some strange phrase to prove you're not an evil spam robot. This gives you no excuse not to comment. I will be expecting between 100-150 comments on my next post, so do not disappoint.

I should have the final chapter of "The Worst Day" up early next week so keep an eye out.


Thursday, July 28, 2011

No. 132 "The Worst Day (Part 2)."

If you missed Part 1, check it out here.

When one hears the words "We need to talk" from a girlfriend, there are four possible scenarios:

1) She enjoys mind-fucking you, and only wants advice on which shoes she should buy.

2) She is about to break up with you for banging her sister/mother/truck-stop hooker.

3) She wants to reevaluate your relationship by having endless conversations where she goes off on tirades about how you never listen to her while you stare blankly at her tits.

4) She done be pregnant.

Alright, where were we? Ah, so I had just received a message via MySpace from my girlfriend, (who I'll call Ly Inghoe to maintain her anonymity) explaining that we needed to have a conversation. No context, no clues; just those four frightening words. So, I casually deliriously made my way to the telephone and called her to figure out what was going on. I got her voicemail and left a message trying to sound as cheerful as possible even though my trousers were now saturated in urine.

You ain't cool unless you pee your pants.

A few minutes later I got a text message from Ly, saying that she was late for her period. Relieved, I told her to hurry back to class so she wouldn't get in trouble for being tardy. Much to my chagrin, she was not talking about her English class. She made it decisively clear that she was LATE for her PERIOD. My stomach began to churn as if I had taken a shot of gasoline and chased it with a match. I took a second to let it all sink in and tried to say something reassuring about the situation, but all that came out was: "Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity Fuck." This was not the encouraging statement Ly was looking for, and she decided the current conversation was over. But, before she hung up she made clear that she was "keeping it."

I suppose that saved me from an awkward conversation where I slyly hint the option of a schmabortion before I'm beaten down with a definitive "No" as well as an upholstery hammer. If only she was a Wiccan...

A few minutes later, after unsuccessfully attempting to hang myself with a computer mouse, I received another phone call from my future baby mama/destroyer of dreams. I took this opportunity to inquire as to how she knew she was pregnant. I was not given scientific facts or positive test results; but rather nondescript ramblings labeled under: "woman feelings" and "nonsensical bullshit." This gave me a glimmer of hope, since she had not actually taken a pregnancy test due to fear of being grounded and her lack of a motor vehicle.

I then dialed my sister, who lived in Scottsdale as well, to help with my current situation. After trying to explain the whole ordeal through my jumbled monosyllabic rhetoric, I finally was able to convince her to buy a pregnancy test and drop it off at Ly's place of residence in exchange for three 24-packs of Diet Coke.

Diet Coke: The ultimate bargaining chip when dealing with teenage girls.

I pictured my 17 year-old sister going to the local Walgreens to purchase a pregnancy test. I could see her alluding that the test was "for a friend" while she drew rolled eyes and a chastising stare from the elderly cashier who promised to "pray for her sins." Now, if I had to buy the pregnancy test myself, I would mask my purchase by sandwiching it between beef jersey, a Sports Illustrated magazine and condoms (for celebrating negative results safely). But, I figure that's just me.

Through various back-and-forth phone conversations and surreptitious pregnancy test drop offs, Ly finally obtained her pregnancy test while I awaited the results like a crackhead anticipating his next fix. To kill time, I decided to watch my favorite TV show, Maury Povich. Per usual, this episode dealt with paternity test results involving one hoe and seven men of irrelevant ethnicity. It was simultaneously ironic and cathartic. I found myself rooting for the 28 year-old unemployed loser to win this game of DNA Texas Hold 'Em; and spontaneously break into dance as his not-anymore baby mama ran into the green room to dramatically collapse while Maury feigned empathy and told her it would be alright.

"I call this my 'Not Having To Pay Child Support Dance!'"

(Sidenote: I am fully aware that I am destined for hell. But, I'm from Phoenix and used to dry heat, so the upheaval shouldn't be too dramatic).

After I was finished living vicariously through wannabe rappers on Maury, I thought about how I should have used a condom instead of a Doritos bag. Back in high school, we were required to take a three week course on sexual education. The lectures were less focused on educating youth of the risks involved in unprotected sex and more about showing abhorrent images of infected vaginas and penises on an over-head projector until the room was overflowing with vomit. The school nurse made certain to emphasize the repercussions of STD's, but failed to mention the worst sexually transmitted disease of all: unplanned baby. We have ointments, medications and cocktails for the other, more "celebrated" STD's -- but rubbing a medicated liniment on a baby will not make it go away.

Ly called me back later that day and said she was going to wait until the morning to take the pregnancy test since she wanted me to basque in fear for another twelve hours didn't have to pee. I offered to ship her industrial drums of Gatorade to help her with the urinary process, but my offer was declined. I reluctantly agreed to wait until the morning to determine my fate.

While in my fugue state, I envisioned what the conversation with my parents might be like. I figured it would go something like this:

Me: Hey, mom.

Mom: How is my wonderful and perfect son? Oh, let me put you on speakerphone so your dad can say hi.

Dad: I'm not giving you any more money.

Me: Um, it's not about that. I just wanted to talk to you about something...

Mom: Yes, honey?

Me: Ly is pregnant.

Dad: Nice knowin' you, fucker! (click)

Actually, the conversation would probably be a bit more theatrical; with crying, yelling, and punching converging in this orchestra of disappointment. I feared revealing the unfortunate truth to my parents more than actually becoming a father at the ripe age of twenty. I had to get my mind off this subject before I spontaneously combusted.

Just then, I got a phone call from my friend Jenny who was in town for the night. She was at her boyfriend's place and invited me to catch up and join in on a few adult beverages. It was a Tuesday night and I had a full day of classes in the morning, why the fuck not?

Part 3 coming soon.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

No. 131 "The Worst Day (Part 1)."

It was Spring 2006. Failure to Launch was the number one movie in America for some odd reason, James Blunt wrote a song that would guarantee him poon tang for life and I was living in Flagstaff during my sophomore year of college. Life was good as I was making the obligatory transition from socially awkward teenager with bad skin to outgoing twenty year-old with an Accutane prescription. I was enrolled in courses that actually related to my major and involved in my first real relationship. My girlfriend and I had been dating since the previous December and the relationship was chock full of giggles and blow jays.

Who doesn't love a film whose title is a facsimile for erectile dysfunction?

Looking back, dating this particular girl was about as regrettable as shaving your balls. I'll illustrate for my female readers reader: Every man has made this mistake in his life; where he believes that curtailing his fun sack will make his man area more comfortable and aesthetically pleasing to the female eye. Be that as it may, it is not worth it by the second day where you are compelled to scratch your nether regions uncontrollably like a rabid grizzly bear with crabs. But you live and you learn, I suppose.

Anyway, said girlfriend was living in Scottsdale and I in Flagstaff so not only was I concurrently having my first meaningful relationship, but I was also doing it long distance. This is comparable to going into a boxing match with absolutely no training, drunk. But, that's another story I'll tell another time.

At this juncture in my life, immaturity was at the forefront of my existence, and I cared nary a bit as I was much more interested in finding burnouts to buy me booze and playing video games where running over hookers with stolen cars was the primary objective. Unfortunately, due to a lack of friends who would agree to live with me, I had to reside in the dreaded dorms for yet another year. These rooms were a bit larger than my freshman year living quarters. I shared a bathroom with three other people instead of eighty, so it was certainly a step up in the "did I just step in cum?" department.

I had a new roommate for the spring semester since my old roommate had failed out of school. He was a nice, unassuming Asian dude named Jim -- or Yim? I called him Jim, so that was his name. Within the first ten minutes of meeting him I realized that we were not destined to become BFF's and share inside jokes while we rode a tandem bicycle. I just prayed for him not to turn out to be insane; or worse, super religious.

By this point in the semester, it was midterm season and I was preparing for my exams by getting drunk every night and procrastinating so efficiently that it became ironic. That day I had my first midterm of the semester in my Electronic Media class. I decided not to study until thirty minutes before the test began and felt very confident in my ability to procure a C on the test based solely on my charm and good slightly above average looks.

Needless to say, I failed the shit out of the test. I couldn't have done worse if I tried to intentionally fail the test in some sort of bizarro world where ineptitude was rewarded. After I handed in my scantron, the professor didn't even take the time to grade the test; he simply wrote "F" with a big red marker and told me to fuck off and die. Or something like that.

This was the first "important" test I had ever failed. Flunking an exam in World Politics was no big deal since it was an elective and I could drop the class dexterously. This really got to me, and I almost began to break down and cry on my long, dejected walk back home. Luckily, I was wearing sweet sunglasses, so even if I started to bawl like a volatile chick during the peak of her menstrual cycle, I would still look fly.

Finally, I made it back to my dorm where I decided that a few hours of mindless Halo would dispel my woes and cheer me up. Unluckily for me, as I opened my door, I received a eyeful of my roommate jerking off to hentai porn. How did I know it was hentai porn, you may ask? Well, what other porn gives you brief epilepsy after only catching it for a quarter of a second? Plus my roommate was an Asian nerd, so do the math. I hastily slammed the door and fled for my buddy Branden's room to feverishly rinse my eyes with hydrogen peroxide.

After flushing the nauseating image out of my eyes, Gideon decided to stop by. Let me give you a little back story on Gideon so you can fully comprehend my disdain for his entire existence. He was a hipster before hipsters weren't cool. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, spoke in a matter-of-fact way that made most people who had even the briefest conversation with him contemplate the repercussions of homicide. And, he was in my Electronic Media class. For some reason, Branden was friends with this dip shit, and that almost made me want to terminate my friendship with Branden based on his sheer defiance.

Gideon in his natural habitat.

Our conversation that day went something like this: (Just picture Gideon as a low-rent Jason Schwartzman, and me as a handsome motherfucker).

Gideon: "Good afternoon, gentlemen. I was on my way to promote some band you have never heard of, but wanted to stop by to borrow a vintage scarf since I'm a pompous asshole."

Me: "Why do you talk like that? No, we don't. Go away before this room turns sepia."

Gideon: "Rats. Oh, Patrick, did you receive your exam results in EM?"

Me: "No. They're online? I guess I'll check it out later. Good luck finding that scarf. I guess I'll see you later."

Gideon: "I did very well on the exam, a 97% in fact. Why don't you look up your results now? There's a computer right here."

Me: "I'll do it later. Leave."

This went on for a few more exasperating minutes until I finally succumbed to his duplicity and looked up my certainly inadequate test score. I attempted to beguile Gideon into believing that the internet wasn't working by typing too many "W's" and ending the internet address in ".cum" but Gideon caught onto my brilliant plan and commandeered the keyboard from me. He reservedly brought up the test results himself, where I was greeted with a definitive 32% staring back at me from Branden's monitor. Lemon juice, meet wound.

My expression immediately went from "Maybe the Scantron fucked up and I got an A" to "Welp, I'm screwed. Now I'm going to have to murder my roommate so I automatically get all A's like in that one movie no one remembers the name of." Gideon couldn't hide his Schadenfreude and offered to tutor me at a discount.

After punching Gideon in his horn-rimmed glasses, I made the trek back to my room to see if Jim was "done." I cautiously knocked a few times and gave a full three-count before I slowly entered the room like an international jewel thief. The overall smell of the room was a hodgepodge of AXE body spray, tube sock, and dried semen. I really hate the smell of AXE. We exchanged awkward head nods as I walked in. Mine saying: "I know you just made your dick throw up, but I'm gonna pretend I didn't see what I saw and watch Sportscenter." And his saying: "I swear I wasn't whacking it. I just was readjusting my sweat pants and accidentally clicked on a weird porn site." We both decided that eye contact would not be necessary for the remainder of the semester.

I then made way to my computer to check out my MySpace account. (Remember, this was over five years ago, and it was totally cool back then, I swear). I logged on to see if anyone had commented on my new profile picture consisting of myself holding a beer and looking wasted. No new comments unfortunately, but one new message from my girlfriend. I expected a nice poem or cutesy message about how she missed me, but to no avail. Just four words that no guy ever wants to hear:

"We need to talk."

Part 2 coming soon.
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