Saturday, January 31, 2009

Laughable Douche Bag

I had a guy almost start a fight with me last night. Here's the thing, he was so drunk that I politely agreed with him about some band he was talking about, yet he acted like we were having a fight. It was so funny. And nobody around me was paying attention to enjoy it. We were standing in a bar line at the Blue Post when we had this conversation:

Guy: Did you know Reggie's tavern quit selling PBR?

Me: No. I don't go up there much. Last time I went there was to see ASG and some other band. I don't know much about ASG, but I grew up in a small town with the singer. He's a cool dude, so I went to finally check him out. They were good.

Guy: That other band was Silver Judas. They're even better than ASG.

Me: Oh, that was Silver Judas? Yeah, they were good. I wrote an article on them once. Nice guys, they even sent me a thank you note. That was cool of them, nobody does that. I didn't realize that was them. It was all done over the phone.

Guy: Silver Judas is better than ASG.

Me: Umm, sure. Yeah, they're good.

Guy: No, you're wrong; they're not good. They're great!

Me: Oh, ok. They're great.

Guy: (Now edging up in my face a little.) I don't think you understand. Silver Judas is the best band ever! I'm personal friends with them.

Me: Oh, ok. I'll have to go see them again then. They sound awesome.

Guy: (Now really in my face.) No! You're wrong. They're not awesome! They are a full-on experience!

Me: OK, they're great. I believe you. I'm sure they rule.

Guy: (About to hit me any second now, I was sure.) NO! I DIDN'T SAY THEY RULE! I SAID THEY ARE A FULL-ON EXPERIENCE!

Me: (Trying to squeeze by this guy who didn't want to let me leave.) You got it dude - "Full on experience." Speaking of full on experience, my bladder is having a full on experience, I better hit the wizzer.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

End of conversation.

I didn't really have to pee, I just didn't want to get in a fist-fight over a subject I really had no concern about. As I squeezed by this guy who was certainly about to hit me for politely agreeing with him, I headed to the bathroom, and I turned around once and realized he was glaring at me the whole way, like we had just had an argument. But we hadn't had an argument, he spoke passionately about something I didn't give a shit about, and I went along with it to keep peace. What the hell? That guy should give up drinking and take up drugs. Douche bag. Laughable douchebag.

'Roids! They're all the rage!

It's 5:30 a.m. and I'm probably sober now. Here's the thing: I'm am so 'roiding. I am now on steroids for a sinus and ear infection that is so bad that the first bout didn't even crack it. So I'll give you a hodge-podge before I pass out. This will be an update but no good story (I think), but you never know.

First off: I've been so busy (read: poor manager of time,) that once I write I haven't had time to read the fine works you fine folks compose. So I feel like a dick because I haven't read anything from you nice folks who read my crap. I promise to reciprocate soon with comments, since I love yours so much. It's no fun to write without a response... writing for yourself is a diary and that's tragic. Think Ann Frank. She wrote a diary, and they killed her.

Second off: As suggested, I shall provide a picture that isn't an Easter marshmallow soon. But I'll warn you. I am pretty. You might have a narcississ effect when you look at me. You will think my picture is you, and you will subsequently stare yourself to death. Just kidding, I'm a dude, we all know the prettiest dude is still grosser than the fugliest girl. Yeah, you girls can pretend to disagree. But you know if some third-gendered aliens with no pre-dispositioned sexuality came to Earth, the first thing they would do would be to ignore our men and impregnate the girls. You dames are just prettier. Deal with it. (Yes, I'm even rude when I'm nice. And I use antiquated words like "dames." Sorry if I sound like Cary Grant. I'm even prettier than him. By the way, he tripped acid like 70 times under a doctor's prescription to deal with his childhood. Pussy. Do it to get high. Don't do it to find peace from a Daddy who never said "I love you." By the way: I've never done acid. It scares me. I'm not suicidal, but I fear I'd slit my wrists as a joke and die. I'm that funny. Anything for a laugh.)

Third off: This is the second time in my life the doc has put me on the 'roids. I'm still not sure what they do. I do know this: they turn me into a dick. You know the funny part. In my day to day life when I'm on 'roids: girls love that dick! I tell them how it is... and they agree! It's stupid. I hate the guy I am when I'm having roid rage, but chicks dig that asshole! What is wrong with yall! I hate me right now. And I hate you more - for loving me! Kick me in the balls or something! (Remind me to tell you the story of the first time I was on steroids and I walked some girl home and she rejected me when I tried to make out with her on the sidewalk. Five minutes later when I got home, I called her and said, "I'm not done with you! Get'cher ass over here!" Guess what? She got her ass "over here." I couldn't believe I said that, but more so, I couldn't believe she listened to me! And I was dropping her off at her douche-bag boyfriend's house! And she's smart. And I respect the shit out of her then and today! I still ask her advice on everything all the time these days. But what in the hell was wrong with her? Bad Roth Wriscey, apparently, is also Fun Roth Wriscey. But the whole time I was thinking, "Man, I really suck. I need to get off these roids." But then I realized there was a naked 22 year old girl in my living room who was waiting for further instruction, and I thought, "Man, I really suck. I need to STAY on roids." OK, never mind, don't remind me to tell you this story - since I already just did. I love naked girls. I should get back into that life. It's fun as hell. Even if every time you pee, you say to yourself, "This has to be the time my streak runs out. I've got to catch something sometime, it's probably today. The pendelum will finally swing against me this time." Then you promise to be good and settle down and be good, and make a deal with the Lord, and then you realize you don't have anything afterall, and you say, "I'll be good later. Where the hell are my roids? And where are the naked chicks? In fact, it's kind of rude of me not to be the asshole these potentially naked 22 to 32 year old girls have suddenly come to know and love!" And then the next thing you know, the 'roids run out, and I'm a nice boy again. And girls only like me because I'm a charming dork who tells girls how pretty and smart they are. (Which I only say when I really do mean it, but it's still boring to them and me. Wait, no girl gets bored with being told she looks like a candy bar on a rainbow being licked by a unicorn. Man, I'm hungry now. Oh well, at least I'm not horny. Wait, yes I am! Get'cher ass over here right now! And if you're not naked in my living room in five minutes, I'll find someone who is! Man, I sure hope it's not a dude. Even aliens don't wanna fuck those guys!

Dammit!I really need to hurry up and get off the 'roids. Or not. They're fun. But I'm not. I suck. Quit encouraging me. Don't be here in five minutes. And don't be naked in my living room. But if you are, be ready for further instruction.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Give me a rag. Judas Priest just came on my radio.

The fun thing about being a newspaper reporter, even if it's in a small town, is that you get free lessons and advice from people you interview all the time. For example, I remember that about a year ago I interviewed a writing professor who told me that not wanting to write was no excuse for a writer to quit writing even for a day. He said, "What makes you think you can sit around forever waiting for inspiration to strike? It may never strike! If you want to be a writer, you have to even write when you don't want to write, and make something happen."

Let's see if he was right. I haven't wanted to write much lately. I haven't felt funny, and I'm in a really bad mood today. Lucky for the world, I have spoken to exactly one person face to face today, so they were spared. I can be a dick. Still, I'm very nice. Anyway, I don't want to write, but I'm still going to write. And I'm gonna try my damndest to make it funny. Man, I really don't want to do this.

What the hell shall I write about it? Maybe first I should turn the radio off, because some jackass on talk radio is talking about teenagers are sending each other panty pictures over the phone these days. And there's no way I can concentrate when I hear the word panties. I'll be back.

There, now I've turned off talk radio and replaced it with the wonderful music of Captain Beefheart. If you think you've ever heard the weirdest man make music ever, you're wrong unless you're talking about the Cap'n. He's so weird that Frank Zappa wished he was him. Yes, the Cap'n even makes that hairy toilet-sitting Jew's music sound as blandard as a Papa Roach song. Did I just say "blandard?" Ever since the annoying "ginormous" set off this stupid word hybrid trend, I've been against them, but blandard does save me the trouble of saying both "bland" and "standard." And then I subsequently wasted the freed up time spending three sentences explaining how I did it. I never made the honor roll.

You know who else was weird and I actually knew them? No one that I can think of. Well, no one that I can think of that I haven't already written about. That's my problem. I have written about everything I know that has ever happened, and during that time I was so busy writing and behaving that I didn't make any new stories happen. I really need to fuck some shit up. I mean REALLY fuck some shit up. Then again, most of my best stories aren't about me making it happen, they are about dumb shit happening around me without my permission. Still, I could increase my odds of adventure happening by standing on a street corner naked or by prank calling the police.

Speaking of being outside naked. I have often thought about this. If a woman laid out in her front yard naked, it would only be a matter of minutes before she woke up with a dick in her. It could either be a dick from a guy she approved of, or a dick from some weirdo rapist that she totally didn't approve of. Either way, if a woman lays out in her front yard, there's a dick coming.

However, if a man lays out in his front yard, the same thing won't happen. Actually, I take that back; the EXACT same thing will happen to him: he will wake up with a dick in him. It could be a dick from a guy he approves of, or most likely from some weirdo rapist that he didn't ask for a dick from. Either way, if a man lays out in his front yard naked, there might be a dick coming. But we all know what is never coming to the weird man who lays out in his front yard in his home-made nudie suit: a nice piece of woman-ass. Hell, he's not even getting an ugly piece. If anything, he's getting a cod piece. And who wants what they already have? Oh right, gay people. Speaking of gay people, do you think lesbians fight over who gets to use the good dildos? Yeah, me either. I wonder if lesbians have nightmares that their dildos will turn into real penises with live men attached to them and chase them around asking them to look at their record collection. Yeah, me either.

You know what I hate about lesbians? Not much. As long as they are hot. No seriously, I hate seeing one type of lesbo couple. This one: the full-time lesbian with the just-this-one-time lesbian. The full-time lesbian always bosses around the new lesbian, and the new lesbian takes it because she's just excited to be with a "girl." But you can always see the crystal ball for both of the them. In ten years, the just-this-one-time lesbian will have given into her biological urges and married a man and had kids, while the full-time lesbian will be ten years older, but still preying on new temporary lesbians who are exactly the same as the previously mentioned just-this-one-time lesbian. Speaking of homos, Judas Priest just came on my radio. I bow to the Priest with their super-gay lead singer. Man those dudes still rule. Rob Halford sings so hard that one time he was twenty-five feet away from me at Ozzfest, and I could feel his voice pounding my chest. It wasn't the speakers, it was the direct soundwaves. I could hear him separately from the speakers. (Don't think it was lost on me that I said "came on my radio" or "on my chest." I noticed, but I was in the middle of a dumb story. That Priest show was so cool, except when he started making dirty faces at some dude in the crowd that he liked. You know what else is funny? The song that is on is Painkiller. And I just took a painkiller. I don't take a lot of painkillers, but I have been battling an unknown painful scary-as-shit illness for two weeks and also a brand new minor skull injury for about five days. Hey, I'll write about that in my next post. It's my snow-tubing story. Judas Priest is the shit.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

You don't pay, I take your stuff


A fun letter to stupid roommate from last week (I'm never renting to someone under 25 again. The note to readers at the end is more fun than the actual letter):

Here’s where we stood:

You have decided to stop paying your bills like you agreed to. You did not mail us a check like you told me you would on January 4th when I spoke to you by phone.

You have refused to answer or return almost ten calls from me regarding the matter. You have refused to respond to every text message from both F.H. and myself. You have also refused to read our myspace messages to you, even though your login dates show you are aware of them.

Here’s where we stand now: You still owe us money. In fact, you now owe us more money than before. And we expect to receive this money. Although you refuse to explain why you won’t pay us this money, an explanation no longer matters. I could speculate that you decided to quit paying us since you don’t ever stay in the house in which you agreed to rent a room. Whatever your reason, the reason doesn’t matter. You are allowed to stay wherever you want - you are technically an adult and you already have two parents, that‘s really none of my concern.. What you aren’t allowed to do is not pay people for things you agreed to pay them for. You don’t get to change an agreement midstream - especially without the consent of the other people involved in the agreement; because doing that would ruin the whole concept of an agreement since we never agreed to your sudden non-payment of bills. If you feel that you don’t have to pay for bills because you don’t stay here that much, I would counter with the fact that we would have rented the room to a different person who would be here to assume one-third of the utilities if you had told us that - but you didn’t tell us that. So this argument is dead in the water.

Here’s where we stand even beyond now: Since you won’t contact us, we have had to make a plan for you without communicating with you (since you have decided to avoid us.) First, I’ll even tell you what leverage you have.

What you have: You don’t have a clear legal obligation to pay us. Why? Because we were silly enough to trust you to pay your bills with no written agreement and no lease. Putting me even further in the hole, is that I covered your deposit and said to you, “Just pay me when and if you can.” We don’t need to cover the deposit issue since it doesn’t pertain to your unpaid bills. I just wanted to make a note of how we’ve been more than good to you before this still-unexplained 180 you’ve pulled on us. So you don’t really have to pay us. But a person of their word would pay us. (Note; I said “clear legal obligation,” because verbal agreements of up to 500 dollars are binding in North Carolina. If you want to say in court that you didn‘t make these agreements, then take your chances against perjury charges.)

What we have: We don’t have a legal obligation to let you set foot on this property. You never signed a lease to be a resident here. On top of not paying your bills, you didn’t pay me the full agreed-upon rent for the month of January of this year (You shorted me $50 dollars.) I have made consultations about what I can legally do to recover the money you owe me and F.H.

The is what we can do and this is also what we have done: We have changed the locks on the door. Anything short of full rent is the same as not paying the rent at all. At this time and for the indefinite future (depending on how this matter gets resolved) you are not allowed on this property. If you try to get in the house or even set foot in the yard, I will have you charged with trespass. I will treat you the same way I would treat a strange man trying to break in my windows. If you contact me and agree to show up to pay your bills, that is a different story, I would work with you on that. I don’t like what we had to do, but it’s the only recourse for collecting due payment from you.

Our leverage: We have your possessions in the house. Until we are paid, these things will remain in the house. I don’t want to take your stuff, I don’t want to sell your stuff, and I want you to have your stuff. But legally, you aren’t a resident here, and your things will remain here until we receive our money owed to us. Simply: You want your stuff? Then pay your bills.

I hate that it’s come to this. I hope you will get in touch with us and pay your bills. I don’t even care about this being personal. I will worry later about how and why I may have lost a friend, but emotions will get in the way of handling a business agreement, so I won’t harp on about how and why you didn’t pay me money you said you would pay during a time when I told you I would have to make difficult financial arrangements on myself if you didn’t. You didn’t. And you didn’t bother to tell me, but all of that is for a later time. We just want our money. Here is what you owe now.

You owed me 187 last time we spoke. (That was137 in bills and 50 of unpaid rent.) Now you can add 63 for gas and 37 for internet. Plus 23.45 for the new lock set I had to buy. (I only had to buy it due to your actions, so it is your responsibility.) That’s a grand total of 310.45 you owe me.

As for F.H., she just informed me that you owe her not 26, but now 56, since we got a new bill. That’s a total of 56 you owe her.

Just so you know, if you end up not paying me, I just had to tell F.H. that I’d have to collect half of your unpaid debts from her that I already paid. Although she completely understood that, it is an uncomfortable reality that your actions have caused.

Call us, e-mail or text us. Ultimately, help us resolve this. The only thing that we haven’t made a clear decision on is that you did agree to give us one month’s notice before ceasing rent payments, which you haven‘t done yet. We will cover that after we cover the bill situation. Not paying people for a house that has all your stuff in it probably wasn’t the most intelligent move.



(By the way, readers: We will be auctioning her stuff next month if you want a camera, a bed, a computer, and lots of furniture. There's also a cool hat rack that looks like a skinny English man trying to attack from around the corner. I know girls love hat racks. That will probably fetch more than the computer. If there are any creepy men out there, I'm sure there are some panties I can sell you if you want to sniff them, you sicko. What did your parents do to make you that way. Five dollars extra if they have period on them. Your the sicko, I'm the capitalist. )

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Marital Motwhoresteakcle Midgets

I either possess a really advanced or really primitive mind. I always think about things that others don't even contemplate. Others either don't do this because the issue is so easy to understand that it is already resolved by everyone but dumbass me, or because I am such a genius that only I am smart enough to ever noticed such things.

For example: why do married people buy each other presents? If you're married, the laws says you both kind of own all the same shit anyway. This includes your bank accounts. So let's say I was married to my wife named Daisy. (I just love the name Daisy.) And let's say Daisy bought me a motorcycle. My first question would be "Daisy why in the hell did you just buy me a motorcycle. I can't ride them and I don't like them. Couldn't you have just gotten me some steak or whores or something? No seriously, my point is, when the person you're married to buys you a gift, they have just spent your money for you without asking you first - or at least fifty percent of that purchase was made by you against your will. So if Daisy bought me a motorcycle, she really only bought me half a motorcycle. So in order to buy me a whole motorcycle from herself, Daisy would really have to buy me two motorcycles. And why in the hell would I want two motorcyles? I just told you I didn't even want the first one! Have you forgotten? I hate motorcycles! Steak and whores! Steak and whores! And I want two steaks and two whores! That way at least one of each actually came from my wife Daisy. Then again, maybe Daisy should have just bought me a half of a motorcycle, because I could ride that as much as I'd ride a whole one, and then I could take my half of the left over motorcycle money and get myself a half of a whore - a midget! And I'd share a half of a steak with her. I guess it would have to be veal, since that comes from little half cows. So there you have it. In case you didn't know, veal is good, midgets are short, motorcycles do nothing for me, Daisy doesn't even know me even if she isn't real, and married people shouldn't be allowed to give each other presents.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Crazy Fake Bomber Guy

That dude that is on the WECT website for setting up a fake bomb at the courthouse today is crazier than batshit.

I have no problem with the guy, but I have sat in a hot tub with him many times at the YMCA, and I know one thing: he shouldn't be allowed to roam freely among the human population. His behavior is so odd. I don't mean to trash him, I just don't think he's in control of his own mind.

There are a lot of weirdos at the YMCA, and he still stands head and shoulders above most of them as the craziest. I have a post-workout of ritual of soaking my muscles in the hot-tub for at least ten minutes after every time I visit the gym. I used to hate when I would be relaxing alone in the giant tub only to see that dude coming in. The thing is: he always seemed to think he was alone. And he would stare at the painted cinderblock walls and alternate between laughing loudly at them and then going into a rage where he would look at the wall like he was gonna kill it. Then he would laugh again, and then get madder. He would occasionally have the rare day where he would seem to be "all there" and he would converse with other people. I always wanted to interrupt and be like, "Careful, he's gonna snap any second." But I never did, and he never did. He must just hate walls and not people.

I remember the day that the Virginia Tech shooter went crazy and killed everybody. I remember because I ended up in the hot tub with that crazy future fake-bomb guy and some old also-crazy redneck lady. She didn't seem to care one bit that that Korean nut-job killed 35 people. She only cared to share her feeling that she hoped that the shooter stopped at the last second to repent and get himself into heaven before he shot himself. The crazy future-bomber guy just nodded and agreed with her. I'm not arguing the right and wrong of that, but how did two strangers find each other in a hot-tub and come to the same insignificant primary thought about a fresh mass murder? And why did I have to witness this inane conversation? I must've been something bizarre and sadistic in a past life.

Anyway, that dude also had a job. He was a bouncer at one of my least favorite places: Rum Runners (I call it Cum Guzzlers. It sucks. Dueling pianos are gay. Yes they are.) I saw him working their one night and said to my friend Anch, "That dude is a psycho. I don't know how he holds a job."

Anch said, "So now it all makes sense! One time, I was sober, because I had just gotten here, but he picked me up and threw me out because I tripped on a rug that wasn't placed proper and flat on the ground. It obviously wasn't my fault and I caught myself. It didn't add up. Now it makes sense. He's nuts!"

They must only hire lunatics at that place, because I got lectured a few months later by a different door guy there for being too drunk while I was waiting in line to get in. Here's the thing: I was sober, standing still, and not even talking. I won't go into great detail, but I'll say this: That guy will never speak to me that way again. And he will forget who I am. And he will not even consider speaking to me like I was a child again. Unnecessary punk.

Back to the guy who placed a fake bomb at the courthouse - he doesn't need a jail, he needs an institution.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Heh. Heh. I suck.

You know you're getting older when you can't remember a major chunk of a story that happened when you were younger. For example, I can remember when my friend Rodney slammed his finger in a door and it fell off, but for the life of me I can't remember if it happened at my house or his house. All I remember is that he slammed it in someone's front door, said "Ow! That hurt!," and he went on his way. Then about sixty seconds later he said, "Hey? Where's my finger?"

His finger was on the floor by the door. I just don't remember who's floor and who's door it was. Regardless, he got the finger sewed back on and went on to a career as a NASCAR crew chief (I think he currently works for Michael Waltrip racing. One time my dad accidentally slapped Michael Waltrip in a church league basketball game when they were both going for a loose ball. Dad didn't even know who he had slapped until I told him. Then he said, "Oh, I put the air conditioning in his house, but I never met him in person." So there you have it, when you grow up in Mooresville, the race car driver isn't just your race car driver, he's also a client. And a basketball opponent. That you slapped in the face. I had a point to all this. Oh before I get to that, I do remember that Rodney definitely almost died in my front yard when we were twelve. We were cleaning up debris from Hurricane Hugo when my big sister knocked a loose limb off the tree and onto Rodney's head. It knocked him out and he woke up in a child-like state. As the paramedics and the neighbors gathered around him we suddenly found ourselves with a guy who had reverted to being a three year old. He couldn't say his "r's" and he was calling his mom "Mommy" and saying how his "head hewwwts." It was very bizarre. It was also the first time I ever got to call 911. It was also the first and last time I ever saw my fat pervert neighbor hurdle a fence. He may have been a horny guy, but he was still a helpful guy. Oh yes, my point! It wasn't really a point, I was just wanting to touch on how, as time goes on, we forget the memorable moments of our lives. I will never see someone lose a finger again, yet I already forgot where it happened the one time I was so lucky.

Here's something related, but not. It's kind of weird sometimes to talk to people about working in radio. Why? Because don't get me wrong, I think it's cool. But I'm never quite entirely comfortable when someone else thinks it is cool. If someone just thinks that is the neatest thing that they are talking to someone who works at a small-town radio station, then I feel the need to let them know how much I truly suck, and how the job can still be a shitty as any other job. I appreciate the niceness of others, but I think some mild self-hatred gets in the way. I feel like saying to these nice people, "Look, I think I'm cool, but that's because I'm crazy. You, however, are too good to even for a second believe such a silly notion. Trust me, I suck. I just felt obligated to tell you, because you were going to find out eventually anyway."

Here's where I get back to the forgetting stuff topic. I can't remember who told me the following one time. In fact, I think it may be something I once said to myself. Isn't that crazy that I can't remember if something came from me or someone else? Either way, if it came from someone else then it was wise and if it came from me then it was freaking brilliant! Whoever it was said this:

"If you want to make it in radio, you need to have dueling mental problems. You have to, at the exact same time, truly and genuinely believe that you A) are the shit, and B) are just plain old shit. Yes, you have to love yourself and hate yourself all at once. You need to be your biggest fan and your biggest detractor all at once. And neither emotion can be contrived, you just have to have them both. That way, you have the confidence to do your job well and to sound great, but you also will always be getting better because you hate yourself for everything you've ever done because it wasn't worth shit in your mind and you work to improve it."

Whoever said that was right - I wonder if it was me. Ahh, life with a head-injury is more fun than you can imagine. I'll cover that one another time - it's purely memory and comprehension issues.

So here's the other weird feeling I get when I talk to people who are asking me about radio. Often times, they will say that I am the first person they've ever met who works in that medium (We are very few. There just aren't that many positions. So a lot of people never knowingly talk to a radio guy.) So when I hear this, I feel that now, for the rest of the conversation, everything I say is being said on behalf of the entire radio industry all the way back to when it was invented by that Tesla guy. So then I get worried. I'm like, "If I come across as a douche-bag then this person will get the impression that all radio guys are douche-bags. But then again, if I come across as too cool, then I will give this person the impression that all radio guys are nice, when in fact, slightly over fifty percent of those radio guys DEFINITELY are douche bags. What do I do?"

Yeah, I don't over think shit.

One final thing, and I'll shut up. I had a funny radio related thing happen last weekend. You see, I record my weather and news breaks for the entire weekend every Saturday and Sunday. So even if I only actually work at the station for 6 hours a weekend, my stuff runs every hour on the hour for 48 hours. In fact, I'm on the air right now even though I'm at home. So sometimes, I will be delivering pizza at night and hear my own reports on the radio. For some reason, it always strikes me as bizarre and futuristic that I am hearing myself in my car even though I'm not talking. I'm all like "where the hell did I just come from?" I never get used to it. And last week, I amused myself because I was listening to "Handle on The Law" when it cut from that show to my news break. As usual, I was startled to hear myself on my favorite station. But I listened anyway. Then when the weather report was over, I wasn't even trying to be funny, but I said to myself out-loud in a Butthead voice, "Heh. Heh. That was me." Then I realized that I just said "Heh. Heh. That was me," to myself and realized how much I suck.

BTW: One time this girl told me she would never sleep with me (like I even asked) for one reason alone: "Because you're a radio guy. That's just pathetic."

She kept her word. I bet she must have met other radio guys before.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Pop a what?

So for one of my jobs, I work at a chain we will call "Papa Juan's." You know what I didn't know? Papa Juan is a butt pirate. A turd surfer, if you will. (I made that one up. Please feel free to use it if you like it.) But yes, according to my sources who know the guy, Papa Juan is a total dooky donger. I don't give a damn one way or the other, but I decided to fuck with the other guys at work tonight.

With our new found knowledge of Papa Juan's preferences, I started pontificating to the other guys at work.

I said, "Have you guys thought about the fact that we are making money for a man just so he can stuff it into other dude's g-strings? Yes, we are responsible for this. Every weird fetish that this Papa Juan character might have is only made possible because guys like us work for him and make him rich enough to be as super-gay as he feels like.
For example, say Papa Juan picks up a street tranny and pays him to suck his dick while he punches him in the face and calls him names. Do you know who made that possible? We did. Without us, he has no money. So in a way, we are enablers, or maybe the word is "engayblers." I'm just saying, if Papa Juan ever gets AIDS, it's sort of our fault. I hope you guys can live with yourselves. Ya'll disgust me. You guys are more disgusting than the stuff Papa Juan probably does on a Saturday night."

I'm funny.

Please feel free to make Papa Juan's jokes, now that you've been told that he is dude dude doo doo dude. If you need help getting started, I suggest making a play on words with "Papa's Sweet Treats." G'day, you readers

Ow Chihuahua!

So I got bitten by a chihuahua last night. But really - I had it coming. Here's the deal. Pokey Pants has a little brown chihuahua named Hungry Hungry Pippo. Pippo thinks I am the shit, which is really funny since chihuahuas are the most self-centered narcissistic animals on earth. I love them, but they are full of themselves. Pippo is no exception. It's her world. But here's the kicker: she thinks I am God. In fact, she would argue face to face with the real God and tell him that he couldn't be who he claimed, because the real God was this dumbass that is typing words for you right now. She just thinks I'm so cool.

I mean, that dog stares at me almost 100 percent of the time we are in the same room. She watches me sleep. She watches me take a dump. She just watches me hoping I will acknowledge her. I think that dog really thinks I'm her boyfriend. She thinks everything I do is the coolest thing she's ever seen. I make her choke on her own breath with excitement when I walk in the room. She begs me to throw her into the pillows on the bed. She bucks like a rodeo bull when I scratch her back. She even lets me fart in her face. Yes, she even thinks that is cool.

But her favorite part of me is the taste of my skin. That dog loves to lick me all damn day. She especially loves to lick my hands, and her favorite is my right hand. Sometimes she will be licking my left hand because the right hand is doing something or maybe it's behind my own head, but whatever the case, Pippo will bark at me and motion for me to give her access to my right hand. I don't know what makes that hand so tasty but she has licked it for an hour before. She even licks it while I sleep.

Last night, when Pippo was licking my hand, it got me thinking. I said to Pokey Pants: "You know what? I think that Pippo thinks my hand belongs to her. You know how she tries to bite at us when we pull at her chewtoys when they are in her mouth? I bet she thinks my hand is her property - so much so that I bet if I put my face down beside her and joined her in licking my hand, that she would bite the shit out of me for encroaching on my own hand - which in her mind is her hand. Let's see."

She bit the shit out of me! For licking my own hand. She bit me so bad that blood gushed out of two sides of my top lip for twenty minutes. I looked like Andrew W.K. did on the cover of that album he made about getting the party started. But this was no party. Still, I was laughing. A chihuahua bit all the way through my lip. Who can say that? I can. That'll teach me to lick myself.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Asshole Ghost, please guide the way

I guess if you're completely satisfied with your job, then you're completely stupid. I like all three of my gigs, but none of them are quite what I want to do.

Let's examine this in a potentially entertaining manner.


What do I do?: Write the news, then read the news.

Good part: I love to tease each story with comical introductions that do a tight-rope dance on what is considered "the line."

My tone makes people say "Maybe that news guy didn't know that what he just said had a hilarious double meaning. He sounded too serious to have actually meant for that to be funny. He must not know what he just said."

People who know me know that I know exactly what I just said.

Bad Part of Being a News Guy: It's not commentary. I would be so much better just taking calls and being up front about how funny I mean to be. There's still a line when you have an opinion show, but that line is moved way further to the funner-side than when you read the news. You get to lose your objectivity and get to say the fun stuff that people really tune to hear you say.


Good Part: I love when the angle of the story hits me in the head and makes me write it. When I go to an assignment, I ask a lot of questions and I learn how to spell everyone's name, and I get a lot of information that I mostly won't use and I take a lot of pictures that my editor will mostly hate. Still, the story rarely appears to me while I'm on location. No, it happens hours or days after the story ended. I don't get to pick how I write it - it tells me. It's like the story is an asshole ghost who shows up when it finally feels like it and says, "All right, motherfucker! Here's the way I'm gonna be written: Start with this intro, plug these quotes in there, cut that shit out since it's boring and save that shit over there for the caption and when I feel like it I'll give you one hell of an ending - but then again, maybe I won't. Nah, I'm just kidding, I'll give you the ending, but you gotta meet me halfway and start typing what I just told you. And do it now before I disappear and you forget what I say, asshole. You'd be nothing without me!"

And whoever that asshole story-writing ghost is - he's right. I appreciate him. He does all the work. I'm just his secretary taking dictation and signing my name to it. Maybe he's broken me down, but I really do believe that without him, I'd be nothing. So when he finally shows up only to abuse me, I still am just glad he's there - because even though he'll abandon me again, he at least leaves my untalented ass with a story to tell.

Bad Part About Newspaper Reporting: I hate waiting on that asshole ghost to show up. One day he may change his mind. I also feel that I will never learn punctuation (So does my editor.) Finally, I don't feel reporting is my calling. No, I take that back. I always hope to do some reporting. It's actually fulfilling to tell a story - especially to tell a story truthfully, but still better than the other reporters at the same event who are also telling an also true, but somehow lamer story. (If that didn't make sense let me simplify: lots of stories happen at one event: the goal is to pick the best one that other reporters missed.) But I really feel I'd be a much better writer if they just let me write books with chapters like "If I Only I Was Asian, I Could Pull Some Great Pranks!" Remember that one? That's more fun to read than my Rotary Club meeting stories. Still, it is a challenge to sex-up the Rotary Club.

Delivering Pizza

1. The Good Part: (Yes, this is a shit job, but still it is one of my current jobs and it pays well enough to let me slowly work my two media jobs, so I'll cover it.) The good part about pizza delivery is that I spend 80 percent of my time driving around by myself getting paid to rock out and listen to talk radio. The only challenge of the job is to charm customers on the phone to keep them from cussing me out. I only do this so they won't get mad when I screw up their order on that primitive computer that I still can't understand.

The Bad Part of Being a Pizza Driver: I hate my friends seeing me. I also hate my friends trying to tip me money. I hate that people don't try to tip you in drugs and booze like they used to when I was a teenager. But I will say this: I'm glad that the women who order in my delivery area don't try to hit on me at the door. Why? Because I deliver in the ugly part of town, and my legs are too sore to have to run from those Attilas. Seriously, about 80% of the women that order in my area are dog-faced gremlins who want a comical diet coke to go with their meat-lovers. I'm just glad they aren't trying love my meat. Gotta run because Red Eye w/ Greg Gutfeld is on. I would love to host a television show like that. I've never spent a lot of time on camera though - not sure if I could conquer that one. I hope I get to one day find out. Shit, I haven't conquered any of these ones, yet. When am I gonna figure out which direction to go? Oh who gives a shit. I don't need to worry about that right now. Times are good, and I'm sure I should just wait around until another asshole ghost shows up to guide the way and tell me what to do.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Rappers are Stupid

I have spent the last 2 hours with VH1's 40 greatest songs of hip hop on my television while I read the latest Ann Coulter book, and I've come to a daring conclusion: rappers are very stupid people.

Very stupid people.

1. It's - If I have to hear one more of them use the word "it's" when the words they should be using are "there are" I'm going to go AK on my television.

Example of how you should say it: "There are quite a few people here tonight."

How a rapper would say it: "It's a lotta people up in here tonight!"

No "it" isn't a lot of people - there are a lot of people! All rappers use the word it's at the wrong time.

2. All Bid'ness- What else have I learned from hearing rappers talk on television? Oh yes this: the dumber the rapper the more he uses the word "entrepreneur." The guys who do this always look at the camera with such self-satisfaction each time they use the word, so as to say, "Yeah, look at me sounding smart with my big word."

First off, it's not a big word. And second off, if you were smart, you would explore the use of synonyms. Maybe after one "entrepreneur," go with a "businessman" and follow that up with a "capitalist."

3. Lick Lips Cool James -
I'm so sick of all you predictable white girls who go ga-ga every time L.L. Cool J licks his own lips. Don't you know it's contrived? He heard that girls like it so he does it on purpose. Plus, it's actually kind of gross. And since you know it's deliberate, you can't be attracted to him anymore, because we all know that men can't try to be sexy on purpose - it turns women off. Only women can be sexy on purpose.

4. Pave Yourself - If I have to hear one more dumbass rapper say "If it wadn't for (insert old rapper name here) there would be no me. He paved the way for my music to come out."

That's a stupid statement, it's also a worn out cliche', and it's probably not true. Could you imagine if writers said such inane things? Picture Hemingway saying, "If there was no Mark Twain there would be no me. He paved the way for my work." No he didn't. Ernest Hemingway still would've written books if Mark Twain hadn't existed, and Nelly would still be making songs about girls' fat asses even if the Sugarhill Gang had never come out due to getting shot in some sort of sugar hill gang bang.

5. Stuff that was going on? - Every damn rapper compliments every other damn rapper by saying, "That song was fah'real cuz they was talking about real stuff that was going on!"

OK, this sounds good at first, but it also is a very dumb statement. Rap songs always just say generic shit about how hard it is in the streets and how they "gotsta play the game to survive," but they never really say anything of substance - which would be fine if they didn't later claim they did. Chuck D is the biggest offender. They act like his songs were so clear and smart. But admit it, you don't hear a Public Enemy song and really know what in the hell the intended message was. Message through song is a stupid idea, the music drowns out the words. If you really want to express your opinion give a speech or a write a book. Music was meant for butt-shaking not talking about whatever the hell they claim they were saying was so important. Shut up, Chuck D.

6. Whoever Amanda Diva is might be the dumbest person in the whole show.

I am dumber for what I just watched.

Faggoty Andy and the Werewolf

My boss, Faggoty Andy, told me the funniest story about how he really fought off a werewolf one time. (Andy isn't gay, it's just a funny name I gave him because it rhymes with "Raggedy Andy.")

Let's get to this hilarious story.

It was the 1980's and Andy was just old enough (maybe nine years old) to be at the house by himself.

Andy was standing in the living room when he heard something behind him. He turned around and there stood a real life werewolf. And boy was it pissed!

He started chasing after Andy through the house. Andy ran like hell into the laundry room and held the door shut. The werewolf started pounding at the door and howling. So Andy grabbed some stick or something that was laying there in the laundry room and started opening the door just enough to stab at the werewolf. He would stab a little, then shut the door back and yell, "Leave me alone, you werewolf! You're not gonna get me! Go away, werewolf!"

After a minute or two of the standoff at the laundry room door with the werewolf, Andy opened the door, stabbed at the werewolf one last time and made a run for it.

Here's what Andy didn't know: his gymnast brother that was like ten or fifteen years older than him had recently been hired to be a stunt double in a Stephen King movie that was being filmed in town called Silver Bullet. He was hired to do some crazy flips and stuff as the Werewolf. I've never watched that whole movie, but if you look that Werewolf up online, it is the scariest shit you will ever see. And that thing really wanted to eat Corey Haim in that movie. So Andy's brother had talked the director into letting him wear the suit home just to scare the shit out of him.

As Andy ran out in the yard to escape the Werewolf, his mom pulled up in the car and was alarmed to see her kid running out of the house. When she asked him what it was, he was all like, "It's a god damned werewolf in there chasing me around! It's gonna get us. Go! Go!"

Luckily, his mom didn't believe in werewolves and told her other son to take off the outfit. Still though, Andy knows something the rest of us don't: for 2 or 3 minutes of his life he got to know what it felt like to really think he was face to face with a mythical creature that was trying to eat him.

Friday, January 9, 2009

You people really do this every day?

Do you people really get up this early every day? Holy fucking shit it's early. It's like - before 11. Why the hell am I awake yet? And how in the fuck do you people do this all the time? I do this like twice a year by accident and I fucking hate the hell out of it! I shouldn't be up for three more hours. Why did I wake up? I hate everything. Don't get me wrong - nobody enjoys living more than I do. I am easily amused by earth living. But I can't get into it until like 4 p.m. I spend the first few hours I am awake begging God for a nuclear bomb to land on my face. I hate waking up. Once I've been awake for two hours I'm cool but right now - what in the fuck! How do you people do this all the time. And shit, most of you have been up for at least four hours already. Do you people hate yourselves or something? Oh yeah, this schedule doesn't bother you amazing beings. Not me, man. I think I chose the careers I did not for the love of the work, but for the convenient hours. I'm serious. I probably wouldn't mind being one of those rich business douche-bags in a suit at an office, as long as the day didn't start until 5:30 p.m. That's the same reason I don't have kids, yet. I love kids and would be great with them, but I've heard the little fuckers wake up with the sun and jump on your bed and don't know what hangovers are and demand cereal and cartoons before the roosters have even rubbed one out. Do they even do Saturday morning cartoons still? I don't know. I'm never up that early. This sucks. I'm going back to bed. I should have gone with Irish Pat to get a hot dog on the street last night. Maybe I woke up because I'm hungry. Screw mornings. Screw early. And screw all of you!

I'm sorry. I don't really mean that. Wait, yes I did. I'm a hateful son of a bitch until about two hours after I wake up. Call me at four, and I will call you all darlings. I'm going the fuck back to bed.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

The Day the Feds Paid Me a Visit

26 Sep 2007
The day the federal agent paid me a visit
So the Feds paid me a visit at home today. What? They really did. Welcome to another day in the life. Fortunately or unfortunately I wasn't home. So instead, I recieved a note stuck securely to my door from The U.S. Office of Personnel Management Federal Investigative Services. It requested that I call the agent named on the card and blab my opinions about an unspecified person that I knew that was "being considered for a position of trust with the U.S. Government." I figured it was a trick. First, I checked my house for forced entry of spies (what if they were already inside), then I checked out the window to the road for surveillance cars. I saw no one.

I wasn't going to call them back. I hate humans and I hate authority. (Don't make me again bother to explain how I can love individuals but genuinely hate the entire human race. It's possible, but I don't have time to persuade you.) The government was gonna have to keep dreaming if they thought they were gonna get a call from me.

Then my unselfishness (shhhhh!) took over. I thought "What if this person applying for a sensitive federal job needs me as a character witness? I should at least look of the U.S. Office of Personnel Management in the phone book to see if they are real." They weren't in the phone book. I wasn't about to call them. It could be a scam. What if it was some criminal organization posing as the government trying to get dirt on my friend? Hell no! Roth Wriscey ain't no snitch. I wasn't about to call the government. It had to be a trick.

Then I thought, "but wait! This government organization is definitely real!" (I can't tell you how I knew just yet. Keep reading.) I decided I would call the agent. But I was gonna call her from outside in my yard. Because what if the sticker on the door with the number was a trick? What if as soon as I called them, they would know I was now inside my home and storm in and kill me? I wasn't going down, especially without witnesses.

Just to be safe, I called the Feds from my front porch, that way if someone approached, I was gonna run to my car and begin a high speed chase. These bastards weren't taking me alive.

So I dialed the agent from my porch and it started ringing. As it rang, and no one answered, I thought, "What if this is the cue for a sniper across the street to take my ass out? Sure, I haven't done anything deserving of sniping. And I don't "know too much." But what if they ran a generic personality profile on me and found that I'm the most likely American to one day overthrow the government. Then they'd feel just cause to take me out preventatively." Just to be safe, I moved behind the brick column on my front porch, just to be a pain in the ass to my would be sniper. The agent never answered. It must be a trick. She must be on her way.

I went back inside. Then my phone rang. Of course! They want me back inside. So I went back outside, and made sure I had a clear path to my car. Mexico if I need it, bitches!

The agent and I spoke for a couple of minutes about mundane details about a neighbor of mine who applied for a federal job. This applicant wasn't that important to me and I didn't have much to offer about him/her. Then I decided to have fun with the agent. I told her that her department wasn't in the phone book and that there was only one reason I called her back.

"Because I already know you."

That's right. I knew my agent. And she didn't know me. Welcome to a day in the life. I remembered her by her very bizarre last name. I could tell she wasn't used to being on the less knowledgeable end of a conversation with another person. We had met one time through a friend 2 or 3 years ago for about 2 minutes outside of the radio station when she was picking up my co-worker to go get drunk.

Just for my own amusement, I was gonna fuck with her further and tell her the few things I knew about her; but then I realized that doing that would just make her investigate me and fuck with me harder. No point in me starting a game I can't win. So I explained how we had met, until she finally remembered me. Then we laughed and spoke about our common friend. Part of me wishes I had fucked with her harder, but the other part of me just takes joy in knowing that for one minute I had a Federal Agent's head spinning because the agent for once felt like the subject knew more about her than she knew about him. I hope they don't come kill me after they read this. Wow, I sound like the Unabomber mixed with Walter Mitty and Don Quixote.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

That girl turns those men into pissed off little girls

There is nothing more fun than to watch the behavior of the mainstream media whenever Ann Coulter goes on a media tour promoting one of her new books.
She's been on every television and radio show this week pushing her new book "Guilty" which is mostly an indictment of the media and it's left-wing agenda.

There is no conservative writer that the MSM loves to hate more than Coulter, but I've noticed their angle of anger directed towards her has changed slightly for this particular book tour. They are no longer presenting serious challenges to the validity of what she says in her books (if they even dare let her speak about the book at all!) Instead, they are basically asking this woman where she gets off being funny. Yes, they are chastizing her for using one of the best parts of human communication: humor! They have suddenly decided that she should apologize for being funny. I don't know when being funny became a taboo trait for a human to possess - oh wait yes I do - only when Ann Coulter writes another best-selling book! Not only have these reporters shied away from debating her point of view on the issues, some have even claimed to agree with it; but only for one second before they tell her in a condescending tone that they then had to change their mind about agreeing with her due to the fact that she had the nerve to mix some hilarious jokes into the point she was making. This seriously translates into a supposedly serious journalist saying, "Ann, you were right about the subject, then you added a joke at the end, so that makes your original premise now wrong." So if she left the joke out the factuality of what she said is now reversed? Is anyone else's head spinning? Is anyone else looking up the definition of "logical" to see if it was recently changed?

I don't remember seeing the MSM trying to get an apology out of Al Franken or Michael Moore for being funny in their books. Then again, that may just be indicative of the quality of the humor coming from those two beefcakes. So I guess I have to cede the point to the media on that one.

The bottom line is this, I don't mind when Ann Coulter comes under assault by the media: she's a tiny lady with a big brain who holds her own quite well against them. But when they go after comedy - sacred comedy, which has been around for thousands of years, then I just can't sit by idly and watch. People who apologize for telling jokes are apologizing possessing a virtue. That's like saying, "To anyone I may have offended, I am very sorry for being a loving father, a hard worker and a charitable soul. It was a stupid decision and I promise to change my ways." That's just insane. So if there is anyone who needs to apologize, it's the mainstream media. They need to say, "Sorry, Miss Coulter. We were wrong. You ARE funny. But you have to admit, our silly reaction to your existence was even funnier."

I will never apologize for any joke I tell - unless in retrospect, I realize I could've written a better punchline. And I will never apologize for enjoying Ann Coulter, unless of course she apologizes for being hilarious.

That man done sent me a hurricane (From the archives)

From my self-proclaimed Greatest Hits File: here's something I wrote a while back about conspiracy theories.

Will you Bush haters make up your mind? Is he and idiot or an evil mastermind? He can't be both. Look, he's not the President I want either. Boortz, Sowell or Stossel would suit me just fine.. And you think ya'll hate Bush! Boortz would make me laugh and make most people cry. Anyway, me and my main man "Mobster" or "Wobbly Mobley," as I call him, were discussing how these mentally unbalanced conspiracy theorists can blame George W. Bush for everything from blowing up buildings to starting hurricanes! Who do you think he is, Gargamel? He's the president - he doesn't have time to chase smurfs all day.

Anyway, I said, "Mobster, I bet you and I could make up some wacky conspiracy theories right here off the top of our heads and shift all the blame for these things from George W. Bush back to Bill Clinton. Sure, what we say won't be true, but it still won't be anything more ridiculous than "George Bush controls our ecosystem!" Here are our "Blame Bill" Conspiracy Theories.

The Plane Crash into the Pentagon: Let's see, who was on that plane? Barbara Olsen! The same Barbara Olsen who had a book coming out later that month. A book called "Hell To Pay: The Unfolding Story of Hillary Rodham Clinton". The Clintons wanted her dead so she would be permanently silenced and any other people thinking of writing books that weren't kind towards the Clintons would think twice about it. So the Clintons recruited some more-than-willing Islamofascists to drive her plane into that building. This also killed two birds with one stone, because it sent a message to Barbara's husband, Solicitor General Ted Olsen, the same guy who successfully argued George W. Bush's case in the Supreme Court against Al Gore. By killing Barbara, they were saying, "Ted, if you don't shape up, you're next!"

Flight 11 into the World Trade Center: The Clinton's thought that just downing Barbara Olsen's plane would be suspicious. So they decided to have three more planes hijacked just for a distraction. As they scoured passenger lists, they noticed that David and Lynn Angell would be on Flight 11, that ultimately was the first plane to crash into the Twin Towers. Who is David Angell? None other than the executive producer of legendary sitcom Frasier! Frasier, which stars conservative Republican Kelsey Grammer! The same Grammer who constantly speaks of going into politics. This was the Clinton's coded message to Grammer: "We've just killed your producer. You wanna be next? You keep talking that talk about running for Senate one day, and we might just find out what plane your taking to the debate one night!"

United Flight 93: Oh, this one's just too easy. You see, nothing is more lonely than running for office as a Black Republican. The Clinton's originally intended to have this plane crash into the home of Virginia Senatorial candidate Michael Steele, a black Republican. However, once the passengers tried to form a mutiny, a Plan B was established. The Arab Hijackers were then ordered over the radio by one of the Clintons to try to crash the plane into the home of Pennsylvania Gubernatorial Candidate Lynn Swann, also a black republican (and notable one-tme guest star on Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.) They came oh so close, but ended up in a field instead.

You see, any nut-job can come up with a conspiracy theory; even this one! So if one more of you Looney Toonzies tries to convince me that no plane went into the Pentagon and cite that stupid unconvincing grainy video, and if one more of you states that Barbara Olsen and her fellow passengers just starved to death in some secret location inside their plane that still hasn't been found, I'm gonna throw bananas at you. Look, the government can't cover up a picnic table, so don't tell me that "Idiot George Bush" occasionally becomes a "Mad Genius George Bush" and gets thousands of bureaucrats to secretly agree to blow their countries most famous buildings and all say "shhhh!" to each other at the same time. It just didn't happen that way. There are religous freakazoids called Islamofascists that hijacked some planes and flew them into buildings. It's boring, but it's true. These people won't be happy until our girlfriends are in burkas. And don't give me this moral equivalency crap about the Crusades that went on hundreds of years ago. That's just stupid; almost as stupid as "George Bush sent me a hurricane."

Monday, January 5, 2009

My Subjective Correctness

I just claimed in the last blog that I'm right about everything. I wasn't kidding. I'll even tell you the facts about subjective things! The difference between my opinion and other opinions is that my opinions are correct. Here's a short list of indisputable facts.

1. Ric Flair is the greatest wrestler of all-time. "To be the man, you gotta be the man!" And nobody can beat that man.

2. Coke is the greatest soft drink ever. Sure, my selection just as boring and just as undaring as saying the Beatles are the greatest band ever. But nevertheless, it is true. Coca Cola rules.

3. The greatest food ever is the onion. I will throw my food at you if you forget to add the onions. I go through 3 pounds a week.

4. You will never win an argument with Dr. Thomas Sowell. His columns are the most rational words ever written.

5. Pete Rose does not deserve to be in the Baseball Hall of Fame. This, coming from a weak kid who modeled his batting stance after Ol' Charlie Hustle. He played the game harder than anyone, but that didn't give him the right to disrespect it like that. No man is bigger than the world's greatest game.

6. That's right. Baseball is the world's greatest sport.

7. The greatest card game is rummy or cribbage. Take your pick.

8. The Who makes very boring songs.

9. It shouldn't be a crime to have sex with 16 year old girls. However, you still shouldn't try to have sex with 16 year old girls. A guy should have enough self-control to run from each and every 14 year old girl on Earth. But I could hear a man out if he tried to explain why he couldn't escape a very determined 16 year old. And if you're a woman, you are not allowed to have an opinion on this subject at all. You've never been a man. And until you have been a man, you will never know how it can be - where you are saying, "I don't want to do this, but I absolutely have no choice but to do this. I am such a slave to forces beyond my control." (See, now you girls know how annoying it is when you say, "I don't want to hear any man have an opinion on this." Usually when referring to abortion. If you can't let us have thoughts on abortion. Then we won't let you have an opinion on the criminality of banging 16 year olds. And no, I don't do that and I don't advocate it. But I would never throw a guy in jail for it.)

10. It is ok to make judgements on someone due to their weight. Sometimes, someone's heaviness is an indication that they lack control in other areas of life that will affect you. It can be a red flag when dealing with them. Calm down! I said "CAN be," not "always is." And besides that, I get fat sometimes. It tells you something about me: I have fun and I'm lazy.

11. Short girls are more daring in bed.

12. Tall girls are more daring with conversation.

13. Black girls with green eyes are the only black girls that ever flirt with me.

14. If you're constipated, go to Elizabeth's Pizza. It's good. But it doesn't live in you long.

15. Tom Q. Vaxy is not a funny pseudonym... unless you ever took a drafting class.

16. If a song on acoustic guitar is based around the C chord - then it is some faggoty song by some faggoty guy trying to act like he's sensitive so he can bang you. Never trust those C-chord guys. Ever!

These are just 16 of the amazing things I know. Don't argue. I've seen some things, man. OK, I've only ever lived in two towns, but I'm still right.

Hammer Time

I normally don't buy into trendy stuff, but I think I really could use one of those life coaches. I need someone to help me get my shit together. I think in order for someone to be an effective life coach (when dealing with me), it would require some specific tools.

Here's what you'd need.

1. A Hammer

I do not get tired until I am completely exhausted. Drugs don't work. And laying in bed at a reasonable hour doesn't work. It won't make me fall asleep, it just makes me waste the precious late hours I could be up doing productive stuff. You will have to hit me in the head with the hammer at night to knock me out.

2. Another Hammer.

When I'm asleep, I don't wake up until I'm completely recharged. I can sleep for 15 hours without moving after 25 hours of doing nothing but moving. You will need the second hammer to hit me in the head in the morning to wake me up.

3. Logic

My logic comes and goes by the minute. You will need to explain obvious things to me. You will need to spell out for me why things make sense. Things like, "Why you really don't need two hammers to get hit in the head with, since one hammer could do both jobs." Without a logical life coach, I'd end up with too many hammers and not enough money.

4. A pocket-sized book of facts

You see, I really am right about everything. I am never wrong. You think I'm kidding. I'm not. You see, you were already wrong about that! And I wasn't. My life coach needs to keep this book of facts on hand, because (for some reason) people don't just take me at my word. However, people are easily convinced that I am in fact right about something, when they see the same thing written in print in a book by some guy somewhere that they've never even met before. Also, make sure this book of facts has a detailed section on hammers, because I'm still not totally convinced that I don't need two of them, yet.

5. Caffeine.

Gosh, I love that stuff. My life coach will have to keep lots of this stuff on hand. It makes my brain feel good. I just get, eh, mentally hammered off of it. Just no energy drinks, please. I kid you not, energy drinks make me so tired I could take a nap minutes after drinking one. I'm always backwards with drugs. It's not that caffeine doesn't get me phyiscally jacked. In fact, one time I quit caffeine and I started perpetually bouncing off the walls with energy. I just like caffeine because it makes my brain work faster. Real fast. It makes me go from real time to hammer time.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

More Silly Celebrity Stories (I have nothing of substance to write.)

I think I stood behind Ray Liotta in a Lowe's food line once. I'm not really sure.

I'm pretty sure I saw Jack Osbourne at Target a couple of days before Christmas. I figured the guy just looked like him, but then a few days later I remembered that he used to come here to be on Dawson's Creek so maybe it was him.

My plumber was late one time because he was on jury duty that day deciding a case where James Van Der Beek sued someone over real estate. I only ever saw that dude once the whole time that show filmed here. I saw the back of his head at a breakfast house.

I saw Julia Styles eating dinner in a window once last year. My friend said, "So you saw Ben Stiller to then? I walked by that same window that night and they were eating together." I said, "Huh? I didn't see Ben Stiller. When I'm looking at girls I don't notice the guys around them. I'm way to focused."

I saw the oldest brother from Home Improvement walk by me on the beach carrying a surfboard.

My friend Kat saw Niles from Frasier in her rear view mirror one time. He was pulling a boat. He had a nephew that was in a bar band here. He would fly in just to watch him at Lucky's Pub.

A girl I knew waited on Donald Sutherland and tried to bag him up with free bottles of wine as he left. He told her he didn't drink, so she told him to take the shit anyway and give it to his friends. I would never give celebrities free shit. They should give me stuff.

All the actor guys in this town go to the liquid room when the get horny. It's not a strip club, it's a club where you can find nineteen year old girls who might strip for you later. A man is too old for that place at age 25. That Mr. Big guy was in there last year. Isn't he like 60? My sister saw him in Hawaii with his girlfriend and took boring pictures of him packing his car with luggage.

Martin Lawrence would stay in his hotel room at night but send his goons out to the bars to find strictly blond sluts for him under this premise: "Aye, girl! You wanna meet MaHH-INNN? Then come back with us to'da HILT-INN. He waitin' fuh ya."

Martin also had a basketball court built for him on the set of Black Knight and made the production company pay to bring Hooters girls to play basketball against him all day. Yes, I wrote that right. It's as dumb as it sounds.

He also didn't learn how to ride a horse for the movie like he promised but didn't tell the crew that. So they had to scramble to find "The World's Foremost Fake Horse Builder" to make a robot horse for Martin to ride in the movie. That one, too, is as stupid as it sounds.

Martin also had a "assistants aren't allowed to look me in my eyes" policy on the set.

Carrie Underwood: supposedly mean to little girls at the airport who just wanted an autograph. She signed it, but was visibly "bothered" by the whole thing.

A radio DJ told me that the rudest celebrity he ever saw was Ashley Judd. She flat out told some eager little girls that she wasn't signing anything for them.

Andy Griffith lives here. I've never seen him. I have heard several people say (brace yourself) "Andy Griffith is the biggest piece of shit you will ever encounter in your entire life. He's an awful, awful man.)

I tested this rumor on the radio once. I said, "I bet Ol' Andy of Mayberry isn't as bad as they say he is. I'm taking calls live on the air from anyone who has had a positive experience with Andy Griffith." Not only did nobody call to say that he was a good guy. Several people prophetically called me and said, "You are not going to get one call tonight from one person anywhere who has a nice thing to say about that guy. He is a vile person. He abuses his help." They turned out to be right. Not one nice call came in about him.

Those are my vapid celebrity stories for the night. I hope my mindless writing has entertained you.

More Celebrity Stories Why Not?

My study partner in college once showed me several polaroids of him making out with Katie Holmes. This was in about '99 when she was his neighbor in Ashton Place living here for Dawson's Creek. I can't remember the guy's name anymore. The secret name that Hawaiian Bryan and I had for him behind his back was "Arvid" because he was such a nerd.

So when he showed the pictures to me, I said, "Dude, why haven't you sold this shit to a tabloid, yet? Make that money, man!"

He said, "Hell no. Can't do it. I'm an aspiring actor. I've got an audition out in L.A. for Freaks and Geeks next week. If I set Katie Holmes up, I'll never get an acting gig again in my life. She'll fuck me up. And besides, I wasn't really making out with her. We just posed for the camera with our lips pressed on each other in every single picture. I never actually hooked up with her."

Of course he didn't, that dude was a nerd.

And I don't care what anybody says, Katie Holmes was even more gorgeous in person. I know she drove a green del sol the entire time she lived here and that she went to the Catholic church by the beach and that she loved Target (What girl doesn't?). Oh, and one time my friend Benzo went up to her in a movie theatre and confronted her during the previews.

Here's what happened: they were the only two people in the theatre preparing to watch a matinee. They didn't go together. They were both there alone. (I guess actors still like watching movies so much that they will go alone.) Anyway, Benzo grew up around famous musicians all his life, because his dad was a blues producer (He once called Dr. John at home to ask him if he would record my voicemail. Unfortunately, his wife answered and said Dr. John was out with his boyfriend - the younger black bass player in his band. Benzo also was around the night Albert Collins died. He got to have fun as a kid.), so he's never been star-struck at all- and I have no doubt Benzo did what he said he did.

He went up to Katie Holmes and had this conversation. Mind you - he didn't even say hello.

Benzo: You're a liar.

Katie Holmes: Excuse me?

Benzo: You're a liar.

Katie Holmes: OK, please tell me why?

Benzo: Because I saw you on your E! celebrity profile show thingy talking about how it's so hard for you to find a date. You were complaining how guys never ask you out. That's B.S. because I know for a fact that my good friend asked you out last week and you said no. So that makes you a liar.

Katie Holmes: It's called show-business, buddy. What do you want me to do - go on their and be all like "My life is so great. I'm on a TV show, and men are falling all over me asking me out all the time! I have everything I want!" Wouldn't I sound like the biggest bitch ever? Everyone would hate me. So you have to lie and say that you are lonely on those shows.

Benzo: I agree. But you're still a liar. And my friend is cool. You should've gone out with him. Oh yeah, American Pie - forgot about him.

And I think the whole world now has forgotten about him.

Tales from the Mobster.

My old radio boss, Mobs, told me a funny story about a time he was drinking at Wilmington Hilton Riverside Bar. Mobs said that he looked over and saw a guy rolling around on the floor of the bar just babbling nonsense. People that didn't even know the guy were trying to pick that fat old guy up and get him wherever the hell he needed to be. But he just kept rolling around and saying senseless dumb shit.

Mobs said to himself, "Damn, that drunken asshole on the floor sure looks a lot like Nick Nolte."

Then he said to himself, "Damn, that drunken asshole on the floor IS Nick Nolte! He really is the way they say he is. That's hilarious."

Mobs also told me that he knew Julia Roberts' limo driver when she was filming a movie here and that she smelled like ass all the time and never bathed.

That's why I love Wilmington. We get to see celebrities be the retards we heard they were. Did you know that Dr. Cox from Scrubs really is a cock. My girl Pokey Pants told me that her roommate was his assistant on a movie a couple of years back and that he tripped on some metal stairs coming out of his trailer all by himself, but looked at his assistant right after it happened and said, "DAMMIT, CHRIS! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!"

Yeah, Chris, why did you do whatever you did - witness an actor make himself fall I guess.

Motley Who?

Girls think they have a curse because they hear that tick tick tick all the time. But being a man is also annoying because you never hear that triple tick ever once.

My point is: there's always another good 2 or 3 years of fun left... eternally.

I enjoy the fun. But I think one day I'd enjoy the fun of boring life and having daughters with one girl that I'm ------whatever.

That's why I'm not married right now. I still haven't lived my stupidest moments. And living stupid for two is impossible to do. It just slows you down. It kills your "get up and go," you know. You always get asked annoying questions, and you can't just hop a flight without hearing "why aren't we both going?"

Because I can't affort to pay for two lives all the time! That's why I'm not legally married!

I'm just saying, my life doesn't have enough regrets yet. I don't want to be the fifty year old guy with the 33 year old wife. But I think I will eventually have to be. (Lucky for me, my 31 year old ass still gets treated like I have a fake ID when I try to buy beer. I won't lie - I love it.) I just have too much dumb crap to do, and when I'm done, all the girls my age will be on their 3rd marriages., so I'll have to one day be the old guy with the young wife who doesn't get my "Diffrent Stokes" references or understand my stupid love for Motley Crue.

Funny, I didn't know how to end this, and then I realized a cheesy Billy Joel video is on. That guy's wife is like really young. And he's really old - and HOLY SHIT, now Motley Crue is on. Kickstart My Heart! (Mick Mars is the only talent in that band. I have two personal stories about Vince and Tommy separately but that's for another time.) G'nig

Saturday, January 3, 2009

The girl I'm currently banging

The title is a little bit misleading. I may talk about a lot of things, but I’d never write about who I’m banging. Heck, I don’t mention when or if I’m dating a girl. (You won’t believe how many times I’ve heard this nag: “How come you never write anything about me? Funny stuff happens to us. You should write about us.” Hell. No. I’ll tell you why. For one thing, not writing about current lovers is the only shred of near-classiness I have left, so I’m clinging to it. Also, writing about girlfriends bores the ever-living shit out of your readers. It’s as nauseating as watching a stand-up comic who one day has children and lets his once edgy routine suddenly turn all Full House on you when he trades in his coke jokes for jokes about baby carriages.. Besides my current relationships, everything else I consider to be “writable,” but when it comes to girls of recent times, I usually won’t even describe what ladies I have even taken in a movie with. No good ever comes out of that shit. I only stand to lose

That being said, let me tell you a story that happened at a time we won’t call “last night.” I’ve never been a big substance user. I like the drink, but every blue moon or so, I dip into the milder recreations. (Read: I’ve never done crack, x, coke, heroin, acid, mushrooms, or meth. Now think of the things I left out. Those few minor-league things come into play about 2 to 5 times a year.) This night in question was one of those nights. I was having a green day. That crap makes me so hyper. I know it’s supposed to mellow you out, but substance often has opposite effects on my weird ass. For example, Xanax makes me hyper, too. It makes me do a stand-up comedian for all my friends. Drinking makes me a damn hippy peacenik who never wants to fight anybody unless of course they hit me first. Benadryl? That shit never makes me sleep. Hydrocodone gives me boners. And it also makes me smoother than a lounge singer. When I take take the codeine, I can hit on three girls at the same time and they will all love it. I’ll be making a drink for one, lighting a cigarette for another, and telling a hilarious one-liner all Groucho Marx style to the third one - all at the same time. It makes me so 1940’s. And adderol makes me have sex on my front porch standing up in the daylight in front of traffic in my downtown neighborhood. (I wish that was an exaggeration.) (No, I don’t.)

So here’s the thing with substance: it doesn’t make me make crazy things happen, it makes crazy things happen to me. For example, on this night we will once again call “not last night,” I met my friends at the bar down the street from my house. None of them ever have green days. And I only have like five a year at max. So of course, what were they talking about for the first ten minutes when I met them there: green days! It was really weirding me out. They even pointed out how none of them do that, and how I almost never do it. But I could tell that they didn’t know I was currently green. So I finally said, “You guys are weirding me out. You guys never talk about this subject. And the one time I’m “on the subject,” you’re talking about it.” They were like, “You’re currently ____?” Wow, we couldn’t tell…until now.”

Then when I got home the night got greener. And SOMEHOW I ended up on the phone with a girl I’m friends with but haven’t seen in forever. She’s crazy. I mean for-real crazy. But she manages her crazy just enough to make her cool. She knows she’s nuts and she doesn’t run from it or use it as a crutch. She also was currently on powder. So she did all the talking. And because I was green dayed, I was completely cool with doing all the listening. It was a match made in heaven. Then she started saying stuff so funny and weird that I thought maybe I was so fucked up that I was hearing her wrong. But I wasn’t hearing her wrong. Remember - when I’m zonked, other people do the crazy stuff. Here’s what she said to me:

“Dude, we are totally fucking by the way.”

I said, “Are you saying you’re trying to arrange this?”

She said in her coked out pace (so read it fast), “Oh, hell no. I’m never sleeping with you again. But since you were the last guy I had sex with - which was like forever ago, I picked you.. By the way, why would you even want to sleep with me again? You know I give boys bad sex on purpose? You didn’t? Yeah, I totally do. That way they won’t try to love me and be with me afterwards. Because I don’t want to be loved. I can’t handle it. I’m crazy. What? You thought I was good? That was me trying to suck. Here’s what I was getting at when I was saying that we are fucking: I don’t have sex anymore. But it makes my life sound boring and it makes men think they can approach me. So when people around town ask me if I’m doing anybody, I say: “Oh yeah, totally. There’s this guy name Roth Wriscey. We fuck all the time. But only when I feel like having him around. Then when he gets annoying I kick his ass to the curb for a while. That‘s who I‘m doing.” So if you ever hear from anyone that you are currently fucking me a lot, it’s because I told them that. I don’t know why I picked you for my fake-fuck guy, but you just seemed like the right choice.”

Yeah. Imagine hearing that while you’re baked.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

What about a karaoke funeral do you not understand?

At my 90 year old grandfather's funeral last month, I was getting alarmed at how normal it was going. The only awkward moment was when the preacher said, "Now Bill did have ONE bad habit." We all tried not to laugh because we were also in suspense about which bad habit of Granddaddy's that Ol' Preach knew about. (By the way, I admire Granddaddy. I just told you he had bad habits. He ruled!) The preacher only touched on his cigar smoking habit. And I never knew that Granddaddy traveled to Cuba twice. Once pre and once post Castro.

So as the funeral was about to wrap, it got good. And by good, I mean embarrassingly bad. The preacher said, "Before we depart, Bill's oldest son - Bill Jr. would like everyone to hear a song that he sang for his dad while we all reflect on Bill's life. " In case I haven't told you (and I haven't) My dad decided six years ago to be one of those sing-every-night karaoke guys. He's pretty sure he's going to be the next new star in Nashville. He's almost sixty. He walks with a cane. But I wish him well on that. But I will admit that throughout the three minute song that felt like 300 minutes, I kept my head down, because I could feel my family looking at me thinking I would be touched, since the song was inadvertantly about how I was such a lucky boy to have such a dad. You're about to see why:

Dad didn't get up to perform at the funeral. He had a CD of him singing a cover of that 1980's country song about how "Daddy's don't just love their children every now and then, it's a love without end, amen." It's a song about how some guy's dad teaches him to also be a great dad towards his own son. Here's the funny part: He hadn't seen one of his daughter's in four years. He hadn't seen his only son (me) in six years! But he was playing a cd of himself singing a song about how he's a great dad. I wish him well on that. The best part was that we never had a fight. And he lives somewhere within ten minutes of my mom. He just likes to be by himself and do his own thing. I kid you not: when I saw him last month at the burial for the first time in six years - I bet he thought it had only been six months. That's cool. I don't let him get to me. I like the guy. My mom said that I was the only one of his three kids that didn't get affected by his nearly complete-departure, because I had already figured out at a young age that he wasn't a big fan of me and that he just tolerated me. My sisters both got hurt in adulthood, because he actually used to spoil them from time to time, so the were set up for a let down. I was already shrugging my shoulders at his being annoyed by us when I was five. Hey, he worked hard to pay the bills and he didn't beat us. I'm cool with that. I wish him well. He's a nice guy.

Gimme back my garbage can!

OK, first off. Who in the hell stole our gigantic government-issued garbage can last night? And why in the hell did they steal our gigantic government-issued garbage can? It even had garbage in it! And they took that, too! I thought maybe someone was using it for a new year's eve party and would return it today. Then I remembered that someone that cool wouldn't steal my can in the first place. And I also remembered that people that cool rarely exist, either. And why did they take one of my porch-chairs and turn it upside down and put it where the garbage bin used to rest. This is making my head explode. Not because they they stole it - but because I don't understand the motive. I don't admire them.

I do admire the person who stole the halloween candy that my roommate left out. Why? Because my roommate left a note that said, "Please be nice and only take a few pieces so everybody gets candy tonight." The thief responded by taking her note and writing this on the other side: "HA HA! WE JUST TOOK ALL YOUR CANDY. SUCKERS!"

That's my kind of evil. I'd buy that person dinner. They may have stolen from me, but they also made me laugh. Get your evil right, people. And give me back my garbage can.