Sunday, June 28, 2009

Intuition is a buzz kill. Part 2.

If you haven't read "Intuition is a Buzzkill - Part 1," do that first. I wrote it two weeks ago.

I went to Wal-Mart again tonight. I planned to spend twenty bucks. I spent ninety. It only would've been shocking if I had spent what I planned; which tells me I should just quit planning shit all together.

About 50 dollars into my trip, I made my way to the cereal aisle. I had planned to buy one of those cereals that are made for people like me who are still young but are no longer retard-young. If you don't know what retard-young is, it's this Someone who is retard young is at that age where he can be acting like a complete idiot in front of older people, but the older people don't get completely offended, they just look at him and think, "Yeah, he's acting like a retard, but he's young. I guess he doesn't know any better, yet."

I'm not that young any more. I do know better. Sure, I look that young, but I'm not. I actually now crave these cereals with yogurt and twigs and shit in them. Don't get me wrong, I'm not eating straight up fiber like a grandpa. I still make sure there's dried up and cranberries or maybe some honey mixed in the bowl, but I'm at the point where I just can't eat Lucky Charms every day. (Every other day, maybe.)

Once I thew my cereal in the cart, I rushed down the aisle to get out. But before I could escape, something stopped me. It was that damn Fruity Cheerios section, again. The Fruity Cheerios that promise an ATM card full of money in one out of every ten boxes. The last time I battled these boxes, I won. Due to the fact that some psychotic random guy named intuition jumped out of my head and appeared as an invisible hologram beside me telling me which box to pick. Was he to appear again? I didn't know if he would show.

"Hey, asshoooooooole! I'm beeeeeyack!"

It was him. He was back. It was the guy that lives inside my brain that is never wrong. There he was, invisible, standing beside me, ready to tell me that he knew something that I needed to act on, but only if I had complete faith in him.

Me: Oh great, you again. Let me guess, you're gonna tell me which box to pick.

Guy Living Inside My Brain: Well, do you want money or not?

Me: Yes. But you are really annoying about telling me stuff. Can you be fun this time?

Guy: No I can't. I am two things. One, I'm a dick. And two, I'm a dick who is never wrong. Now take the first box.

Me: You meant to say you were three things, because you're also boring. Lately, all you do is tell me to pick the first box. That's lame.

Guy: Lame? You always win don't you? You wanna call that lame. I could quit showing up and showing you the money. Would you like that?

Me: No, sir. I'll take the box. Even if it's the boring first box.

Guy: Hey, if you don't want money, I'll take it.

Me: What do guys in my head spend money on?

Guy: Hit men.

Me: What?

Guy: Nothing. I gotta take. Enjoy your five bucks.

Me: Hey, you fuck, you didn't tell me it was gonna be the smallest prize again. How come you never tell me where the 25 dollar prizes are.

Guy: (As he was fading away into the air): Maybe because you never thank me for what I do give you, you priiiiiiiiiick!------------------------------------------------------------------

So when I got home to unload my groceries, I unpacked in the kitchen while my roommate was in the room cooking burgers. I hadn't opened the cereal in front of him. I wanted to make a big show of it. He doesn't believe in ghosts or blind intuition; much less invisible brain-jerks that tell you how to win. So I decided not to mention the guy in my brain. Instead, I gave myself all the credit before it happened. I said, "Kev, I've done the math. The odds of me picking a box with one card in it are obviously 1 in 10. But the odds of me doing it twice in two tries are only 1 in a HUNDRED. My man - I said, MY MAN, are you ready to witness one in a hundred?!"

Kev, said, "Man, you're selling this so well, I'm starting to believe it might happen. Open the box!

I said, "All right, but I'm already telling you ahead of time. I'm winning money again."

I opened the top of the cardboard, pulled the bag of cereal out of the box and threw it onto the floor. Then I turned the box completely upside and dumped a rectangle covered in foil on the floor and yelled, "Boom, Beee-yotch. And there is the money I promised you!"

I still had to open it up the foil to pull the ATM card out. As I opened it, Kev said, "You think you're gettin' 5, 10, or 25 bucks?"

I said, "Oh, don't get excited it's gonna just be five. I know."

And then I pulled out the card and showed him the five bucks I had one. He was impressed that I told him I was going to win and then actually won. I couldn't bring myself to tell him I cheated. Some invisible hologram-guy from my head told me.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

I'm not bright enough to figure it out!

A guy who purposefully gave me a bad haircut in high school just hit me up on Facebook. Guess what? He's bald! You mess with mine, you end up losing yours.

At the time I thought he just wasn't as good as he thought about cutting hair. Years later, he confessed that he did it on purpose because he secretly hated me. I'm going to enjoy the irony/punishment for five minutes, then I will revert back to considering him forgiven. Hey, at least he owned up to it. He didn't have to. I would've never known it was on purpose if he didn't tell me.

I never care if people hate me. But am always perplexed as to why so many people volunteer me the information that they used to despise me. If I had a nickel for every time I've heard, "Man, when I first met you, I hated your guts. And I stayed that way for years!" Quit telling me that - you don't have to! I'm not bright enough to figure it out on my own.
I got pulled over last night. The cop was a young midwesterner girl with glasses. She was nice, but I knew I hadn't done anything wrong.

Then she told me I was being served a warrant for criminal charges.

What the fuck?

"Wrong guy," I told her.

"Right guy," she told me.

She was right. They wanted me.

I will tell the story today or tomorrow. I'm too hungover to tell the whole thing. So I'll give you the long story short:

In April, a bouncer thought he could fuck with a guy who knows the law and knows it all. (That's me.) In the end, I was right, but I still got my ass tossed onto a sidewalk into a random black guy's ankles. Then the cops covered it up. You haven't lived until you've tried to call the cops on the cops. Southern mafia is so obnoxious. At least Yankee Italians charm you and feed you before they fuck you over. Anyway, a guy who assaulted me in a case of "100% his fault, 0% my fault," filed 2nd degree trespass charges on me back then, and I got informed of it while driving home through a black neighborhood last night.

As the officer served me my charges last night, she twice said to me: "This looks like complete bullshit to me! You should get off. I'd fight this."

She's right. I was gonna let it go, because it would cost me money. Now the Sleeping Nice Boy here is no longer sleeping and no longer nice. They just screwed themselves by screwing with me. This will be fun. It's especially fun when you're right. At least three people are gonna have their own bullshit come out in the wash. Dumbasses, they should've left me alone.

P.S. If I ever get murdered. Officer Crawford did it. I don't know shit about him, except he's corrupt, for what I don't know. Why he's so serious about messing with me, I can't say. Douglass (with two "S's" -lame) is also involved, and Diesel nightclub management conspired.) When I tell you the story, you'll say, "Really? Over that?" Yeah, people hate me. They hate me for standing there. They hate me more when I smile. It's a phenomenon like you'd never believe. My friends can't believe it. They see it. They acknowledge it. But they still can't believe it. (At least once a week they explain me to others like this: "He's not crazy. People who don't even know him, see him once and they make it their life's mission to get him. It happens all the time. We can't take him anywhere. And he never does shit to provoke it." I can bring hate out of people in extreme ways for not doing a thing. I find it funny. But it's also a pain in the ass. And now that these fucks have fucked with me, I'm gonna be a pain in theirs.

producing a show.

I'm producing a show right now called the Retirement Environment. I doubt I'll chime in, but you can hear it live until noon eastern today on (Click the listen now button.) After I post this, I'm going to write a nonsense post as I do this show. Hopefully, it will be fun. Until then....

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Your biggest hater.

Have you ever wondered who in the world hates you the most? I mean, think about it - six people might hate you, or maybe six MILLION people might hate you. Regardless of the actual number of people that dream of stabbing you with a knife just after they have farted on it - one of them hates you just a special bit more than the others. I guess that person gets the boring, but accurate, title known as: "Person In The World That Wants You Dead The Most!"

If you know who hates you the most, I am jealous. I have no idea who my person is. I haven't been through a bitter divorce or thrown someone's baby into a volcano, so I don't really know who is my Most Supreme Hater!I do know this: lots of people hate me. And I also know this: I don't give a shit. If I gave a complete shit about what people thought, I'd say what I thought everyone wanted me to say. Let me prove my point:

I would accept an opportunity to get dizzy-busy with extremely elderly (and Canadien) talk show host Sue Johanssen just for the knowledge I might pick up from getting raunchy with that wrinkly old sex expert.

That wasn't what you wanted to hear me say, was it? But I said it because it was true, not because I want you to approve of me. So there. Now can we get away from the argument that I care about my hater because I want him or her to love me? I don't. I'm just fascinated and amused that there is possibly someone out there that gives enough of a shit about me to actively hate me. When I start to hate people, I usually just delete them from my mind and move on. But some people can't do that. And as I established just a moment ago, it's a near certainty that we all have a Supreme Hater. But what bothers me is that I don't know the identity of mine. I want to know who it is so I can laugh at them. I want to know who it is so I can annoy them even worse. I want to know who it is so I can possibly call them and agree with them about why they should hate me. But most of all, I just want to see her house. (C'mon, let's be real. We all know it is likely a "her." Girls love to hate me. It's just because I'm fun. They love me because I'm fun. And then they end up hating me because I'm fun. That's another story -that I'll never write.)

But back to the point I just stumbled on. Wouldn't you really love to see the home of someone who hates you more than anyone on earth? It might be incredibly awesome. I would love to walk in the home of my hater and see my picture on a dartboard. No, I'd rather see a picture of myself giving a smile while flashing some metal to the camera - only to find that my hater has taken a Sharpie and drawn a swastika on my forehead, Satanic pentgrams on my cheeks, and a swirly 1930's aviator mustache on my face that is supposded to be mean, but actually looks kind of cute. If I saw that, I'd beg her for a copy.Ooh, what if my hater is a real psycho and every day she bakes a cake with my face drawn on it in icing. But instead of eating it, she cools it on a window and then slits my cake-throat with a knife and screams "I hate you I hate you I hate you, Cory Withers! I hate you die!"That would be awesome.Or wouldn't it be just too much fun to sneak into your haters home and see a voodoo doll of yourself! But not just a regular voodoo doll of you - A LIFE SIZE VOODOO DOLL of you! (Complete with your real hair shavings that she bought from your barber. That would be killer.)

I'm just saying. I think it would be fun to know your biggest non-fan - the person who thinks you can do no right. I do know who once was my biggest hater, but it doesn't count because I only found out after she quit hating me. And she quit hating me because she realized that dating my dumbass may have actually been the reason she ended up with her also-dumbass husband that she thinks is so cool. I think she reluctantly thinks "thank you" in my direction every once in a while. And she did tell me that even though she kind of still hates me some, that I still am kind of fun. And she wasn't even eccentric or entertaining enough to try to slip diarrhetics into my coffee or to try to place an IED in my driveway, so she doesn't count as my Supreme Hater. I don't know though.

Mabye I'm wrong about the whole thing. Maybe I should hear from those of you who abslolutely do know who your biggest hater is. Maybe you know who your hater is because you did something really bad; like banging your dad's wife... which is your mom! Or maybe you put slugs in a blender, then poured them into a baster and then squirted their liquid-slug-remains up your roommate's rectum while he was sleeping. If you did someting on that level, I'm sure you know the identity of the person that hates you most on this planet. What's that like?Is it as fun as I think it is? Or am I better not knowing?P.S. If you are this person, please reveal yourself to me. I want to know what drives you. And I want to laugh at you. And dammit, I want a replica of that voodoo doll!

Saturday, June 20, 2009

I wasn't a wanker, it was the anchors!

I love writing on this sight because it's the one place none of my Wilmington friends know about. I do re-post some of these writings elsewhere. But not all of them. Not this one. Here goes, enjoy.

Pokey Pants got pissed at me the other night. I didn't know it 'til we got home. She bitched me out. And I didn't even do anything! (Maybe using the phrase: "Look! I can't help it if I'm so damn charming!" wasn't a good response, but other than that, she was way out of line.)

I'm not mad at her, though. She doesn't bitch at me very often. Hell, we never bug each other. And even during her "end of the night I hate you right now" tirade, she even beat me to saying what I was going to tell her. She said, "I don't bitch at you very often, but dammit, I'm pissed!"

She said that at the exact moment I was about to say, "You don't bitch at me very often, so I'm just gonna let you run with it. Get it all out."

You gotta love a girl who even says your lines for you in a fight. Because no man ever really wants to talk during a fight anyway. So I just let her rapid fire me with words while I layed on the bed with my feet on the floor and looked at the ceiling. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't looking at the ceiling to convey that I was ignoring her, she knew I was just tired but still listening. So what happened?

We went to a bar. I'm an extrovert. Pokey Pants is not. I recognized some TV news people and started talking shop to them. I tried to include Pokey in conversation the whole times. I tied every topic to her and her hospital job. (Example: If me and the news crew talked about a fire, I would ask Pokey to explain how you treat burn victims when at the hospital.) The problem with Pokester is that when you lead her to telling a group story in a circle at a bar, she inevitably speaks in a quiet voice and turns to just me. I KNOW THE FUCKING STORY! TELL EVERYONE ELSE. I'M INCLUDING YOU, BABY! I SHOULD BE THE ONE BITCHING - WE JUST LOST THE WHOLE CIRCLE BECAUSE YOU CUT THEM OUT OF YOUR STORY!

Still, I didn't complain. That's not me.

So what was Pokey pissed about? I'll tell you the real answer, but you'll think I'm being an arrogant dick. I'm not. It would be more disrespectful if I tried to bullshit you and faked some humility. So here's what she was pissed about:

I couldn't help it if I was so damn charming.

That's it.

It's true. I'm sorry. I was on. I mean, on. I wasn't flirting. I was just amazing. Every word came out of my mouth right. Every punchline was incredible. Every response was so quick you'd think it was scripted. I was the funniest guy on Earth. And that's what pissed Pokey off.

She was pissed because our new news friends consisted of a dude reporter (who was cool) and a super hot weeknight news anchor and an also super-hot weekend news anchor. And they loved me.

Is it my fault that the weekend girl was constantly touching my arm and saying, "You are the funniest guy ever! Seriously!"

Is it my fault that the weekday girl was saying, "You are an absolute character... I mean it!"

And is it my fault that the weekend girl wasn't just touching my arm - she was also always walking over from five feet away to touch my arm while I was standing with Pokey when she would say it? I mean, what was I supposed to do say, "Please don't touch my arm." That would've been weird. And besides, I was with Pokey, she should've known I was only going home with her... unless of course she wanted to give out "join us" invitations. (That'll be the day!)

Look, did I like the attention? Fuck yeah. Did I do anything out of line? Certainly not. Should Pokey have been at least a little flattered that young hot TV girls were messing with her man? I would think so. (That means I'm worth something, right? Which by associative property means she's even better than those chicks since I'm with her and not them? That's how I see it.)

But the way I saw everything about that part of the night was entirely not how Pokey saw it. So I let her bitch, and bitch and bitch. And when she apologized, albeit half-ass, I dismissed it and told her she shouldn't. (Although, I was secretly glad she gave one she didn't mean.)

I love my Pokey. And I know you do, too. And I know you hate me. I know that any girl reading this right now hates me. You know I'm right. You know on paper, by law and by every technicality I am not in the wrong at all. But for some reason there is an unknown, unexplained and physically undetectable part of the woman's psyche that doesn't give a shit about proof and fact, it only knows "feel." And it feels like saying "You're a dick, Roth Wriscey. Fuck you. Pokey is right. You don't deserve her. If I ever meet those anchor bitches, I'm gonna smack them. No, nevermind. While they deserve a smack, I'm gonna transfer my empathetic anger for you and all men and smack you, Roth Wriscey. This is for Pokey. This is for me. And this is for all girls everywhere who get mistreated by men - which is all of them: "SMACK!"

Yeah, go ahead. Get it all out. You don't smack me very often. So just smack away. But at least just let me lay down while you do it, so I can lay down and look at the ceiling.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Intuition is a buzz kill.

Intuition is just some guy. He appears to your side without invitation like a hologram you can't see and he tells you what is up and how it's going to be. My guy is a dick. He's usually right, but he's a dick about it. He just shows up and tells me how he's right and how if I argue with him, I'll just end up later admitting he was right. He doesn't know everything, but he tells me all he can. It happened last week in the Wal-Mart cereal aisle when I came upon a box of Fruity Cheerios. The fucker just appeared all invisible-like and started telepathically telling me what was in the box.

Me: Wow, it says "One in ten boxes wins money in the form of a bank card!"

Intuition: It's in the exact box you are reading.

Me: Dammit, you scared me. Can you ever say hello when you show up?

Intuition: I don't have time for that, I'm trying to help you.

Me: And just how are you going to help me?

Inty: I'm telling you which box has a winner. It's in the first one you saw.

Me: That's boring. Wouldn't it be more fun if I looked at all these boxes and picked one out besides just grabbing the first one I saw?

Inty: Sure, it would be more fun now. But it will suck when you get home and open, because you probably won't win. It's in the first box.

Me: It says the cards can be worth 5, 10 and $25. How much is in that box you're telling me to pick?

Inty: Five bucks.

Me: That sucks. I'll be winning the smallest prize.

Inty: Yes, but at least you'll be winning something.

Me: There're like 50 boxes here. And one in 10 are winners. Where are the rest of the winners?

Inty: I don't know. I never claimed to know everything. All I do know is that the first box you looked at is a winner and it will net you five bucks.

Me: But I have to buy the three dollar box of cereal. That means I'll only net two buck.

Inty: Gosh, asshole. Do you want to win or not? And won't it be fun to have a really cool ATM card with the Trix Rabbit on it?

Me: That is pretty cool. But where is the suspense now that I know I will win, and I know how much I'll win?

Inty: The suspense will be between now and when you get home and open the cereal. You will be wondering if I am misleading you.

Me: No I won't. You're almost never wrong, Intuition. You're even more reliable than my friends "Gut" and "Hunch."

Inty: I know. I was just trying to be humble. Now get that damn cereal, I have to piss.

Me: But your not a physical being.

Inty: Don't inquire on what you can't understand. Just grab the box.---------------------------

So I got home with my groceries, put all of them up but the cereal, opened the box, pulled out a ATM card, noticed that it was worth five dollars and had a picture of the Trix Rabbit on it, shrugged my shoulders indifferently, and said, "Wow, big freakin' surprise. My friend helped me cheat." And I went to bed.

Intuition, you sure can make fun things boring.

I hate Jimmy Fallon more than I hate the person I hate the most (which is Jimmy Fallon.)

There's a lot of serious crap going on these days. Terrorism, Marxism, Ignorancism. You name the 'ism' and it's been shooting it's jizm. But I'll tell you the global threat that has been bothering me the most: Jimmy Fallon is still on television.Don't get me started on how much that guy sucks and how much I hate him. Oops, too late. Here goes.Originally, I felt like the world's smartest guy, because a year ago I proudly stated that whoever picked Jimmy Fallon to host Late Night on NBC had to be the world's biggest moron. While this statement has been scientifically proven (by scientists, no less!) to be true, I then remembered that I was already the world's smartest guy, even before I proclaimed that Jimmy Fallon would be the worst talk show host in the history of talk show hosting.The thing that puzzles me is that this dork is still on the air after three months. He must have a picture of the CEO of NBC putting DDT into the IV's of babies in the ICU. All acronymic fun aside, I'm pretty sure this Jimmy Fallon has some Denzel (black male) on someone in charge of whether his show lives or dies. Otherwise, it would have been cancelled before it began. Unless, UNLESS, today's college kids are so stupid that they actually watch this turd-tard and think he's funny. Are the youth of today really that dumb? I mean, I know that most girls this age talk like they're girls on The Hills and most guys this age talk like they're girls on The Hills, but even people this dumb can't think that Jimmy Fallon is funny, can they? No way. Anyone that dumb would have already choked on a glowstick by now. And I should know, because I just typed the word glowstick. (What?) I don't know, either. Let's get back on our subject: how Jimmy Fallon blows toad choads on gravel roads until he fills his nodes with their loads. (If you disagree with that last non-non-sequiter then you sir, have never seen his show. It's that bad.)Late Night With Jimmy Fallon is the worst show I've ever watched on purpose. It is Must-shaudenfruede-TV! I watch him to watch suck. And he sucks as bad as my spelling of "shaudenfruede." He's so bad. He makes me feel like the Randy Quaid character in Major League who sits in the crowd and boos the Indians the whole movie, since I only tune in to watch him fail. But at least that Quaid character, deep-down, wanted the Indians to do well - he had just had his heart broken for too many seasons to open himself up to belief. This is not how I feel about Jimmy Fallon. I want him to fail. When he sucks, he deserves it, because he's too up his own ass to even realize how much he sucks. On the occasional moment that he is actually funny (about once a week for one line), he makes me even madder, because it reminds me of that "even a broken clock is right twice a day" theory. Then I look at my actual broken clock and get more pissed because that one is only right zero times a day. (It's a digital clock, people!) And there' s no way that Jimmy Fallon is funnier than my broken alarm clock. That would be down right "ALARMING!" (Puns. The worst form of humor... except for any form of humor that comes from Jimmy Fallon.) One more thing about my broken alarm clock. The only way it could ever be right would be if there was suddenly no time at all, which would hopefully mean there would at least be no more Jimmy Fallon Show. Sure there would be no you and there would be no me, and there'd be no we. But at least there would be one thing that we (you and me) would not have - and we'd not have it together! And that thing is the Jimmy Fallon Show. He's so not funny. I'll give you a quick list of run-on reasons why he is the worst talk show host of all time. His jokes aren't funny. When the joke bombs (and it always does), he's not skilled enough to make a joke about how the joke was a terrible joke. (That's comedy 101. Hell, that's comedy One-Oh-Dumb.) He says the word "awesome" way too much. (And I used to love that word. Me being actually awesome and all I had to use it all the time. Now I've had to synonomize and describe myself with words like "superior" just to distance myself from JiffyPop Fallon. (Why did I call him Jiffy Pop? Because I want to wrap his show in foil, place it on my stove and make it explode. Then I want to put in a bowl and serve it to my friends, but just the ones that like Jimmy Fallon. Just kidding - I have already defriended - in real life- everyone who likes Jimmy Fartknob.) His skits suck. He thinks his already crappy skits would be enhanced by putting audience members in the mix. When your skits suck with professional actors in them, what makes you think putting non-actors in them will make it better? Retardation, that's what. Jimmy Fallon is, himself the worst actor ever - and he, according to SAG, is a professional actor! I am so sick of the way he thinks it's funny to break character and giggle at himself. It's only funny if you absolutely can't help it. Not only can he help it, he thinks we're too stupid to know that. We're not that dumb. You know why? Because we're not Jimmy Fallon. I can't believe how proud he is that he can't act. He's an actor. That's shameful. I can't act, either. So you know what I don't do? I don't act. It's the same reason that John Goodman doesn't model speedos and Evander Holyfield doesn't practice law: because they'd suck at it. And this is the same reason Jimmy Fallon shouldn't be on television. I can't believe I'm about to say this - get ready: JIMMY FALLON IS EVEN WORSE THAN CARSON DALY.There, I said it. This concludes Why I Hate Late Night With Jimmy Fallon: Part 1. (Yes, it's only Part One. Now stop picturing Dan Connor in man-floss, you perverts.)

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Ran Dumb

I usually write with at least the mildest structure and mildest plan. Today I don't. I'm going to write what I want and let it spill out. I have no idea what's coming, either.

I wonder what Stephen King is doing right now. Probably something boring - like writing. Did you know he only takes off his birthday and July 4th. Every other day he is required to write six pages.

When I'm on a plane I look around for what girl I want to share a raft with if we crash. Then I remember that we are flying over land and I get all pissed off. Then we land and I'm even more pissed off. I pee a lot on airplane flights. That's because I drink a lot on airplane flights.

I think Marth MacCallum, from Foxnews, would be the perfect lady to replace that other lady who has been the spokeswoman in all commercials for all products involving women in the last fifteen years. I know you know which lady I'm talking about. She is about 45, tall and thin, and has long wavy blond hair. And she is always standing on the back of a sterile white stage with the product sitting to the side on top of a white mantle. When she speaks, she slowly starts walking towards towards the camera, usually in white pants. She hocks everything from yogurt to tampons. Unfortunately, she's getting old enough that she will soon be shilling metamucil and boniva. She seems like a respectable lady, but time gets us all, and it's time to pass the torch to someone like Martha. I'd buy a brand name folic acid pill if she recommended it. (Oh, if you still don't know who that long-time hot soccer mom spokeslady is for the last fifteen years, she's the one now doing commercials promoting the oil industry. She's pretty, but I don't wanna fuck'er. And I don't not wanna fuck'er, either. I just like her. But it's time.)

I'm confident that I can comprehend the word "myriad" when someone else uses it. But I'd be nervous to use it myself. I'll just stick with "a whole buncha."

Shooting at the holocaust museum today. If it turns out that people die in there today as a result of anti-semitism. Couldn't they just leave their bodies where they fell as a fitting, and also convenient, tribute? I can say that. Not cuz I'm a Jew. But because I love Jews. Except for their food. Sorry, John, I don't care if your a master chef - gefilte fish is still gefilte fish. I'd rather eat my own ass... while dooky was coming out of it.

My family has a Jewish Sadr every year. (Don't get on me about the Jewish spelling. Remember: Not an actual Jew. Seriously, my family is a mix of Baptists, Presbyterians, and Methodists. And we're all Southern. Every damn one of us. Except one. So why do we have a sadr? Because my my cousin Lewis has a "domestic partner" for the last thirty years who is from Manhattan and is very Jewish. He gets lonely for some Hebrewness down here. So every year, he cooks the Sadr and we are all Jews for a day and celebrate like hell. I hope Jesus isn't mad. Wait, he's a Jew. I bet if he was walking around today, unclever little college girls would all deem themselves clever everytime they called him "Jewsus." I hate hybrid words.

Know what I do like. Girls that flirt. Girls don't flirt like they did in the 40's. I wasn't around then, but I've seen the movies. I guess the language was more colorful, because the background wasn't. Everything was black and white: except for the sex. I'm sure Sammy Davis got honkified backstage, but I bet he had to keep a low profile about it.

I'm glad I'm not married. But I'm glad I've got a girl around that's always cock-blocking my fun, too. Because, these last few years, I was getting really good at being really bad. It wasn't so much that I was good. It was that other men had gotten really dumb, and were making me look really good by comparison. They had lowered the bar so far, that all I had to do was show up in public and not piss on a jukebox or speak in some trendy fem-guy voice about how sensitive I was and I'd be golden. I'd hate to be a girl. Even the best guys suck. I know. I'm one of them. I suck ass. But I'm way better than so many other guys. Those dudes simulataneously, and accidentally, make girls cry and leave themselves celibate. Dumbasses.

I wish I was a baseball player. I'd play first base for the Braves. I loved First. I love baseball. I would have been one hell of a second basebman or shortstop since I like to dive around and get dirty, but God made me a lefty. Lefties can't be catcher or play infield, except First. Maybe First prepped me for radio. When you're chatting with a baserunner that you're holding on first, you have a short time to get your point across to a guy who is about to runaway. And while you're chatting him up, you both understand that you're really out for yourselves: he wants to score and you want him out. On radio, when you talk, they want change the dial, and you want to go work for a different station. That was a stupid analogy. I could talk about baseball for hours. It's like pussy, without all the distracting pussy.

Yeah, I said "pussy." I think the word looks more vulgar in type than it sounds when you say it. I kind of sound like a redneck when I say it: "Puuuuuh-see." Why is that? I refuse to say "titties." That is a super redneck word. Every hick I know cannot say "strip club." They have to say "titty bar." I don't like strip clubs. All the men around me look really pissed at the strippers. Why? They are naked. Love them. Girls that go to dick bars don't do that. They scream and yell and giggle at wieners and try to figure out which guys on stage are real life wiener-wanters.

Patty Duke played twins on that show. Now she's bi-polar. Is that ironic? Or was it conditioning? I don't really give a shit. Is Mackenzie Astin gay? Why do girls like him? And Scott Bakula? And Giovanni Ribise? My sister watches dream for an insomniac every week. I bet it's gay. Does Jennifer Aniston only play "Jennifer Aniston" in movies? She's never put on a big fake nose or portrayed a crack-whore in Victorian times. Good, I wouldn't watch that, either.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

My Friend The Ass Grabber

I was walking with a new friend from one bar to the other last month. As we were managing our way through the crowded street, he said, "Dude, I almost had a random ass grab go down!"

I said, "Really? Some girl tried to grab your ass and missed? Usually when some strange girl wants to get my ass, nothing stops her from getting her way."

Dude looked at me all confused and said, "No, I meant that I was almost able to grab some random girl's ass that was walking by, but I couldn't quite reach her. Really? Girls you don't even know grab your ass?"

Ok, by this point, we were both confused by each other. Dude couldn't fathom that random girls I have never ever met have been squeezing my bum without asking for about 15 years. And while (for reasons unknown to me or my ass) that's very true, the more imporant question was: "How in the fuck did I get to be friends with a guy who grabs girls' asses on the street?"

I'm sorry, but there is an acceptable double standard here. You know why? I'll give you the core answer as to why it's okay for a girl to butt-squeeze some unknown guy; but it's not okay for guys to approach girls the same way. Here's why:

All men on earth want to be touched everywhere on their bodies by all girls at all times any where on earth at any time of day.

And women know this. So if they feel like being so nice and putting a grab on a gluteal, everyone's gonna be happy.

But girls for some reason have this thing called "morality." They also have something called "self-respect." And most of all, they have something called "I just don't get off by having men I don't know squeezing my ass without my blessing." Prudes.

But seriously, not grabbing strange girls asses is a policy I have always abided by. Not because I'm great, but because of a thing called "THAT'S HOW YOUR SUPPOSED TO FUCKING ACT!"

Do I want to grab every girl's ass I see? Just about. But do I? No. And that's why I couldn't believe that I was hanging out with a guy who is one of these people. I'm used to always having to oppose the strange douche bag grabbing one of the ladies I'm with as we walk on the street. Suddenly, I was accidentally on a team with this guy!

Rather than take the time to explain to Dude how many nice girls there are out there that will not only LET you grab their asses, but will also let you hang on to their asses and do all sorts of other dirty stuff to them (provided you buy them shit, give them compliments, do stunts for them and listen to what they say at least 9% of the time) - I instead just tried to politely ask him for sure. I calmly said, "Dude, are you really one of those guys that grabs girls asses on the street?"

Suddenly realizing that he had sorely misjudged my take on grabbing stranger ladies, he tried to water it down by saying this: "I mean, I was only gonna grab her in a way where she wouldn't think it was on purpose. She'd think I was just trying to, you know, slide by in the crowd."

That's even worse! If you are gonna be an ass-grabber, you should at least remove the greasy-residue-doubt that is left on and in a girl when she is left saying to herself: "Wait, did that guy, or did that guy not, mean to grab my butt? Now I'm even more disgusted, because I'm not even sure if I should feel icky or not! Why didn't that asshole at least look me in the eye like a weirdo and say "Yeah, Baby! You like that!" Now I'm just left to wonder. It couldn't have been an accident. Could it? No? I don't know. DAMMIT!"

(At least that's how I'm guessing how girls would react to an unclear maybe/maybe not cop-a-feeler guy. I could be wrong. I've gotta be wrong one day.)

So rather than just end the friendship, I made our new relationship clear. I said, "Look, I've got your back when we're out together. That's how it has to be. If someone fucks with you, they have to deal with me, too. Except for one thing: If some dude or some girl punches you for a random ass grab that you pull on her... then you had that coming. I cannot defend you over that. With that one, you're on your own."

He said that was cool. So I guess we're cool? Maybe? Maybe not? I'm not sure how I feel about it. I feel kind of icky over being friends with an ass-grabber guy.

Monday, June 8, 2009

My Married Cartoon Show

Does anyone know how to create animation? I want to create a cartoon. Before I sell you on the premise. Let me tell you how I got the inspiration.

I was sitting on the beach with a bunch of friends two weeks ago. A third were married, a third were dating and a third were thrilled with life. It's the married third that caught my interest. While all these people are nice and behaved and generally fun people, I noticed one characteristic that only the married possess.

The desire to murder.

Every once in a while I'd catch one of the wives looking at her husband (and occasionally one of the husbands looking at his wife) with this stare that said, "I want you dead. I'd volunteer to do it. I know how I'd do it. And I'd enjoy doing it. You really have to die, spouse."

The best part was that they would usually be giving this look while their current-lover/future-victim was blissfully unaware. I saw Marina giving this stare to Ken, and Ken's dumbass had no idea that she was giving it. He was just chatting away with Ray about this awesome move he did on his jet ski one time. And, of course, because Ken wasn't even aware of his wife's death stare, I could see that this only made her want to kill him more. This gave me an idea for a cartoon. Here's the pitch:

I want to do a cartoon about a married couple. A married couple that is always trying to kill each other. The beautiful part will be that the husband will constantly be trying to kill the wife, and the wife will constantly be trying to kill the husband! But because both of their dumbasses are so entrenched in their own murder plots, neither idiot knows that the other one is trying to kill them right back.

This cartoon will be much like Tom & Jerry, but with a twist. Both characters will think of themselves as a covert Tom, but neither one will know that he/she is also a sitting-duck Jerry. The hunter knows not of his own hunting. Ya dig?

And here's the beautiful part: they will both always fail. Often their murder plots will precisely cancel each other out. And their mutual punishment for being bad at murder will be this: they're still married to each other for another day! This will be like some really sick Lockhorns shit brought to animated life.

I have an idea for one episode where the husband is about to drop a running blow dryer in the bathtub that his nagging wife is sitting in. And when he drops it in - every thing goes black and silent, which would lead you to believe that he finally electrocuted her and the power shorted out as a result. But then, just when you think it's over, you hear a voice from the bathtub say, "YOU NO GOOD BUM! YOU FORGOT TO PAY THE POWER BILL AGAIN, DIDN'T YOU! I ASK YOU TO DO ONE SIMPLE THING AND YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" (And of course, she's nagging so hard, she doesn't even notice the blow dryer he dropped in the tub. Nice try, trying to poke holes in my plot.)

We also had ideas for a classic drink poisoning scene. And maybe one where the wife keeps pretending she's trying to kill bugs with a frying pan, but she's really trying to knock the asshole out. And the husband using that as an opportunity to "spray" the bugs - but he's really trying to spray poison in his wife's face, but she keeps accidentally blocking the spray with the pan.

So because I am exactly who I am, when this stroke of lightning hit me, I immediately asked my married friends if they fantasized about killing each other. Ken matter-of-factly said, "Oh, Melinda wants to kill me all the time. I know the look. I sleep at my own peril. It's cool." Melinda agreed.

But the best part of my cartoon idea was that my married friends had tons of ideas for the show! And they swore to me, if done right, they would make that shit some must-see appointment TV. So if anyone knows how to make cartoons, or has an idea they want to share about how they are comically planning to kill their spouse, let's do this dumb thing.