Thursday, July 23, 2009

Writers Block

I’m sitting here banging away on my laptop, praying to God that I can write something legible, humorous and with at least an ounce of literary merit. The problem is I’m in a funk, and although I can think of topics to write about I either can’t express these ideas clearly and humorously, or I just can’t finish what I started. This lack of production has really gotten me down and I’m desperate to turn things around. That being said, I think I have an idea on how to regain my confidence and sharpen my edge. I’m going to do what all the great writers before me have done. Writers like Thompson, Camus, Burroughs, Poe and Wilde. That’s right… I’m going to take lots and lots of opiates.

I know what some of you are thinking, “Dan, you sexual idol, you can’t take drugs. You can’t. You just can’t! Think of the children! Think of your mother!” I’m sorry ladies (I’ve long since determined guys don’t read my ramblings) I’ve made up my mind. I’m a perfectionist, and I’m determined to give you a product worth your valuable time. I’ve weighed all the options, and this is by far the best way for me to give you what you deserve.
Let’s face facts as well; this is going to be the most fun way to solve my writer’s block. Of course let’s hope I don’t over dose, have a heart attack or have some jackass drug dealer swap my mushrooms with marshmallows dipped in LSD. I think if everyone holds up their end of the deal (I take the drugs. My dealer gives me good drugs. My friends make sure I don’t choke on my own vomit) we’ll get out of this whole experiment with some really awesome essays, some great stories and no lasting addictions.

I don’t want to sugar coat this, things could get ugly. Like Thompson and Burroughs I might begin to develop a fascination with military grade weaponry. I may also decide to travel with a Samoan attorney, I’m not sure. These are things that the drugs will decide. All we can do is speculate and come up with contingency plans.

Let’s set up some ground rules. If I start to develop eccentricities, such as referring to myself as the Emperor of Wisconsin and Protector of Mexico, let it slide until I start printing my own currency. Everything I write while on the drugs needs to be saved. To you it may seem like crazy babble, but to existentialists and aged, drug ravaged hippies it maybe a new religion (cults are big money). Keep Yoko Ono the fuck away from me. If I say I’m going to cut you, I’m going to cut you. And finally if I begin to find myself in homosexual orgies, please get me into rehab right away (especially if it looks like I might be a bottom).

All right, let the adventure begin!

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Network Chaos

So our computer network is down, which means the only thing I can do on my computer is make rambling Word documents and baffling spreadsheets. None of this would be so bad if it wasn’t for my desire to avoid actual work and cruise the Internet until someone of authority noticed. Looks like for the time being I’m stuck shuffling papers around on my desk while crunching mercilessly on a stale bag of BBQ flavored trail mix.
It’s times like these when I wonder what our pre-Internet age counterparts did in the olden days of 1964. I bet they just puffed on smooth cigarettes and told misogynistic jokes to each other. Surely productivity was an invention of the Internet.
So here I sit, pecking away at a $700 typewriter debating if I should dust my desk with the Chlorox wipes or the Windex. A few of my co-workers have chosen instead to binge eat on whatever morsels are lying about the department. I sense this is how crack addicts cope when they’re unable to achieve a fix. Little does anyone know that I have a closet full of candy. If this outage persists I may be able to exploit this advantage and become their god.
I’ve begun to sculpt plastic figurines depicting my godly heritage to quell any heretics. Thankfully I’ve been able to mine the plastic from the laughably anatomically incorrect skeleton near my desk. Seeing as how only I have this valuable natural resource in abundance I am able to hold a monopoly on idol creation. Yes, yes, I and only I will tell them who to worship. I am the prophet god Dan!
Blasphemy aside I’m searching for meaningful things to do. I’ve taken to randomly texting my friends the details of my current situation. Sadly none of them are awake. I need to get new, not so sleepy friends.
I wonder what other people are doing to keep themselves occupied. They’re probably building fortifications. I should build a fort as well… and weapons. I must arm myself to defend against marauders who would love to do nothing else than steal from my candy closet. I could make a weapon out of my stapler, but I feel that’s what they’re expecting me to do. I wonder what sort of weapons I can create with what I have on hand: White-Out, canned air and butane lighter.
I’m beginning to flesh out the creation story for my new religion. I’m not sure what angle I want to go with. Is everyone the byproduct of my wrath and vengeance against a pantheon of gods, or is everyone a deliberate creation? I’m not down with the whole free will thing, though. That garbage is getting left by the wayside. I think for my flood story the protagonist’s name will be Alfonzo, and the flood won’t be caused by man’s wickedness, but because I forgot to turn off the water for some do it yourself plumbing. There’ll be a moral in that: Thou shalt always check to see if the water is turned off before removing a faucet. My new religion will be pretty practical. A few other commands will be: Always put the keys on the key rack turn off the lights when you leave the room, and always tip you waitress.
Oh, hey, the network is back up. Lata skaters.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Dream Malady

I have this dream where I throw this amazing party, and amidst a hushed ambiance I descend a staircase in a flowing formal gown. Serves me right for falling asleep during a "Pride and Prejudice" marathon.
I absolutely hate it when you have a very realistic dream in which you accomplish a lot of stuff. You dream you worked hard on a project or you flirted with this cute girl, and got the nuts to ask her out on a date, and had an amazing date which culminated on a bridge somewhere overlooking the sunrise. Immediately after the dream you want to test out and see if any of the crap that happened in the dream "took" in real life. Sadly you realize that all that work in the dream translates to jack in real life. Or maybe you decide to take some of the things that did happen in the dream and try to make them happen in real life. For instance let's say that in your dream you have this solution to a problem at work and your solution was greeted with enthusiasm and praise in the dream. But when it comes to real life your solution is met with baffled looks and your boss puts her head in her hands and mutters, "you fucking moron" under her breath.
I wish that life had a free dream pass. Like once a year you're allowed to document what you accomplished in your dream and are at least given partial credit. Like if you did have an amazing date with a girl you can tell her without her thinking you're a creep-o. Or you can tell your boss that you worked really hard on this looming project in your dream and that should definitely be considered in your next review.
It's about damn time that we get credit for the thought, since isn't it really the thought that counts? Everyone has these dreams, it's only fair we are allowed the chance not to feel so damn pathetic after having them.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

New Tattoo

I've been asked on multiple occasions what sort of tattoo I'm going to get. I guess everyone has a tattoo, so it's not a huge stretch to assume that one day I'll join the crowd and get one. But what sort of tattoo should I get? Aren't all the cool one's taken? Won't I look retarded with a tattoo? And how long will it be until the tattoo stops being cool and starts to look like a sad old man?
I'm certainly not going to get a tribal arm band, or barbed wire or some stupid Chinese/Japanese/Korean/Sanskrit symbol. I'd like to get something that means something to me personally, but something that will compliment my body and not look like I'm an abandoned train in Detroit. I also want something that I'll be proud to have on my body in all the stages of my life. So a naked lady throttling a spaceship is totally out of the question. Then there's the issue of wrinkling. Right now I have a well build shoulder area and decent arms. Yet, what happens if I stop working out or, heaven forbid, make it to be 80 years old? I doubt the imposing Celtic cross on my left arm is going to look that awesome when my arms turn into cottage cheese and beef jerky.

I think I'd look dumb with a tattoo as well. For those of you who don't know what I look like, I look pretty freaking innocent. Would you put a tattoo on a baby? Would the baby even look remotely bad ass? No. It'd look horrific.

I think that if I was going to get a tattoo, it'd have to be somewhere nice and quiet, someplace private. Since I would have to limit the tattoo to a small region in comparison to the rest of my body it'd have to be an epic tattoo.

Conversely I want a happy face on my penis. Not just any happy face. I want a happy face giving a thumbs up, and on the other hand giving a hang-ten. He should also be wearing a rainbow wig, and the underbelly of my penis I should have something like John 3:16 written on it. I think the top part of my shaft should say something like, Insert into Slot A, or have an arrow pointing outwards. I haven't decided. Maybe I could put that scene from the Sistine Chapel where God and Adam are touching fingers on my crotch. Except instead of Adam it'd be a naked chick riding a motorcycle and instead of God reaching out to her with his finger he'll just be jamming on his bass guitar.

Yeah, yeah that's the tattoo I'm getting.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Pregnant Midgets

I fear very few things in the natural world. The things I do fear aren't the normal sorts of things people are fearful of, like lions and tigers and bears. No, my biggest fear are angry midgets and especially angry pregnant midgets. Let's investigate the reasons behind this very rational fear, shall we?

First and foremost let's examine the anatomy of a midget. Essentially they are a lot like we people, except they tend to be much, much shorter and have tiny little disproportionate limbs. Midgets are hard to pick out in a crowd due to their inhibited stature. They also try to hide due to their very rational fear that someone is going to steal their gold.

As a man I have something most scientists call genitals. These genitals, though glorious, are quite sensitive and rather low on my body. Because of their lowness they, sadly, are within the punching reach of a midget, or small child. Suffice it to say midgets are a walking nut punching machine. Like most men, I like to keep my testicles safe against most kind of harm, so you can understand why I'm so fearful of midgets.

I hear you asking the question "but what about pregnant midgets. Why are you more afraid of them?" Well, chum, because pregnant midgets more often than not tend to be females. Females tend to be irrational, as will be proven by all the angry comments I get on this note. Not only are they females but they also tend to have little things growing in their bellies that will one day come out of them. If you've ever had a tape worm or a wood tick you'll understand how uncomfortable it is being pregnant. Compound that with the pregnant female being a quarter the size of an actual human-being and you got yourself one really pissed off ball of tiny fury.

There's a few other things I'm afraid of, such as granny panties, that I'll talk about later. Until them enjoy, and ladies, please remember that children read these notes so keep your derogatory comments PG-13.

Love, Sex, and Mental Handicap

An adoptive mother in the UK is pleading for a woman to have sex with her 21 year old son with Down syndrome. She feels that her son should be able to do the same things other people do; such as enjoy sex and find love. She feels compelled to get his V-card punched because, "If he doesn't get a girlfriend, I will feel really bad, because I have sold him this thing that he is like everybody else. That's why I'm working overtime to get this sorted for him." Otto has said that he's tried getting himself a girlfriend for a few years now and has had no luck, as well.

In my opinion this lady is off track. She wants Otto to feel loved, to feel a connection, but the thing is she's not asking anyone to fall in love with Otto. She's just asking someone to have sex with him, which isn't love; it's a result of love.

I think by getting Otto laid he's going to be let into a lot of harsh truths. He's going to realize that sex isn't love; he's going to feel empty. He figures that sex is the solution to feeling lonely, when it isn't. It can further complicate a person, especially a person with limited cognitive ability.
Otto needs to earn love, not be given a girlfriend, or a sex partner. He needs to deal with the rejection that people who don't have special needs deal with when it comes to love. He needs to grow from those rejections. But that's the focus of this, isn't it. In the quote above the adoptive mom says outright that she feels compelled to get him laid because the whole time she's told Otto he's just like everyone else.

This woman's lying to Otto, and she's willing to lie to him again (by showing him false love) to cover up her lie that he's just like everyone else. I'm not sure if this is something I should break to you people, but people with Down syndrome are not just like everyone else. They have a cognitive deficiency. They lack certain things that can allow them to develop; they lack things that allow them to socially interact. Otto is different.

Otto says he's tried to get a girlfriend for three years. I've tried for longer, it's part of life. Maybe he should realize that even though it's something he wants, a girlfriend doesn't mean it's going to be something he's capable of getting. And, who knows, maybe there is a girl out there for Otto, but this isn't the way to get a girl.

What does this teach him anyway? Can't find a girlfriend? Well, mommy will just have to ask strangers to have sex with you

I'm that Dude

Ever watch Cops and laugh at the silly excuses the perps give to the police when they're caught with a VCR under their arm? "I didn't steal it. I mean it. He gave it to me. It was a present!" Today I found myself in a similar situation. I was doing something that seemed really sketchy, and my excuse for doing it, and being in possession of a few select items, would have just been as believable as the VCR stealing thief.

It started out at work today. We were running low on Diet Coke and I was told to go fetch some 24-packs from the nearest Copps. Normally this wouldn't be a big deal, except my purchasing card expired and I wasn't issued another. Also, I didn't have a car that day. So the education coordinator, my boss, decides to give me her debit card to purchase the divine soda. Then the program director, my boss' boss and a doctor, decides to lend me her van.

Now, it's awkward enough buying stuff with my boss' debit card, and driving the program director's van, but I decide to do it. I notice a catch though when I realize the program director parked in the parking garage. So I just ask her if she wants me to park elsewhere. She exclaims, "thanks Dan. Good thinking" and hands me all three of her ID badges for various hospitals.

So here I am, my boss' debit card in one pocket, all my program director's ID's in another and her gigantic set of keys in my grubby little mitts. Sadly, this isn't the first time I've had to borrow a doctor's car, or used my boss' debit. But it was the first time I did it all at the same time.

The entire trip to Copp's I was thinking to myself how awful it would be to get pulled over by a cop and have to explain why I had a debit card that wasn't mine and 3 forms of identification belonging to a doctor whose car I just happened to be driving. "No, officer, I work with these people. They just gave these things to me to buy diet soda. No, the ID is to get into the parking garage...I don't know why there's a check laying out in the open on the passenger seat. This isn't my car; but I belong here."

When I get to Copp's I decide to lay low and not draw any undue attention. Unfortunately it's hard to do that when you're in a crowded line trying to decipher a post-it note with a pin number on it. I was just waiting for a customer to go, "is that your card? Is THAT YOUR CARD!?" or have the cashier call over her manager and detain me.
I decided to act smooth and talk up the cashier. Then I realized that's just how a con-man would do it, so I cut it out. I started to strategize how I was going to react if I was caught. I decided the best way to do it was to punch the pregnant cashier really hard in the face, shove the elderly woman in line into the gum rack and run as fast as I can with my supplies. Thankfully it didn't come to that.

On the way back, I had one more sketchy thing to do: I had to park the car. Now, I hate parking cars that aren't mine in parking ramps. I'm more than happy to park on top of the ramp in the lamest spot available, but this was a busy doctor's car...and they also had "Doctor Only" parking.

So I fulfilled a life long dream and parked in the "Doctor Only" parking spot. I was so happy, but cautious, just in case someone tried to call me out. I wasn't sure what I'd do if someone tried to call me out, though. I mean, I did have a screwdriver and ice pick handy...

Vagina Monologue

I have a over a thousand dollars worth of fake vaginas in the trunk of my car right now. I spent an hour in the Birthing Suites yesterday scrounging all the fake cervixes and lady bit models I could find. I don't care what those lesbians say in those Vagina Monologues, they are not beautiful. They're a disaster. Nothing but pain and misery comes from them.

Not only did I have to face the indignity of looking for fake vaginas but I also had to walk the long way back from the Birthing Suites to my department in a very busy hospital. Try sitting in an elevator with a model of a very realistic bottom portion of a woman. You'll get stares. It didn't help that they were selling cookies, because my boss, whom I was helping, decided to pick up some fresh cookies for the department. There I sat at the cookie kiosk with all the unpleasantness.

What disturbs me the most is that now I'm desensitized to it. I was trying to get one of the models out of a bag and wasn't getting any leverage, so I stuck my whole hand up the va-jay-jay grabbed the baby inside the womb and used it as a class three lever to shove the model out of the bag. They don't teach you that at medical school, kids. They don't even teach that at serial killer school.

Things aren't so bad though. The reason why I have to cart around a bucket full of vulvas is because we're having a procedure fair at the medical school. A procedure fair is a lot like summer camp. We get to show medical students how to suture pig's feet (severed), and we get to put casts on each other and saw them off. It's like medical arts and crafts. And during this time I get to hit on girls who are better than me, but don't know it yet. I get to pretend I'm someone important.

Maybe this year I can convince them I'm a doctor.

My Exploits of the Day

Today I saw a girl that I thought was very pretty. I decided that I would kiss her. So after building up the necessary courage I walked up to her and kissed her on the lips.

She didn't look too happy and neither did her boyfriend. Her boyfriend was kind of big and I was starting to regret my hasty decision.

I decided to play the whole thing off as one of those cultural misunderstandings you always read about in Readers Digest. So I started babbling in a foreign accent and told them that open mouth french kissing is how my people greet strangers.

Realizing this ploy wasn't working to convince them I decided to bring out the big guns. I closed my eyes and gave her boyfriend the biggest open-mouth kiss ever.

Immediately afterwords I broke character and put my hands on my hips and said, "oh, God". Thankfully the boyfriend was also incredibly shaken. I decided to take that opportunity to sucker punch him and run away screaming like a woman.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever find the right girl.

Monday, March 23, 2009

3AM Phone Call

This is the transcript of a phone call I made to a girl at 3AM on a weekday. I wasn't drunk. Her name has been changed to Peggy per the court agreement.

Peggy: H-h-hello?

Me: [in a whisper] ...croutons...croutons...c

P: Who is this? What

M: There's a crouton conspiracy, Peggy. They've devised a way to steal our shoes.

P: ..........

M: Do you want to know how I know? I have the powdered donuts cornered. They told me everything...

P: Dan? Is that you, Dan?

M: I need help Peggy. I'm going to eat the donuts.

P: So eat the fucking donuts, why did you call me? It's 3 AM. I have class in a few hours.

M: I don't want to eat them! They made me do it! Oh God. Peggy! Peggy, how many trans fats are in powdered donuts? How many crunches do I need to do to burn them off?!

P: I don't know.

M: ......c-can you at least look?

P: Dan

M: What are you wearing?

P: My, sweatpants and a green t-shirt

M: Pretend this is the 1800's, and I'm a conservative gentleman

P: Fu, sigh. I'm wearing a black, shapeless dress with a white bonnet.

M: That's hot. Are you incorrigible?

P: No.

M: Ooh. That's hot.

P: No, no stop, this is weird. We aren't doing this. We aren't doing whatever it is this is

M: Don't get so worked up malady. Have a scoop of warmed whale blubber to calm your...

P: I'm going to...I'm going to call the cops and they're going to shoot you in the face.

M: Oh.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Waste of Life

Remember in lab when we were discussing why your boy friend hated me? You seemed to think that the reason why he hated me was because I was an asshole. Every time you said it was because I was an asshole I rebutted you, and said "there was a good reason why I was an asshole".

Let's forget for a minute that the real reason why your boy friend hates me is because he is an irrational, controlling, selfish, ugly asshole who is incredibly jealous and lacks basic human empathy. I mean, the guy told you to stop being my friend, for God's sake. The people in our lab agreed: no boyfriend should tell a girl who should and should not be their friend.

Unless of course that girl is a person who has the emotional maturity of a spoiled five year old, who also lacks empathy. See, the real reason why I was an asshole to you wasn't because you didn't decide to go out with me when you broke up with your other boyfriend. No, it has a lot to do with the fact that the night you did break up with him I followed you around like a puppy. I helped you move some clothes out of the apartment the two of you shared, I helped you get settled, did some quality shopping with you as well...during a fucking snowstorm, mind you.

I admit, I wanted you while you were still going out with your other boyfriend. But I thought we had a connection, so I stuck around and listened to you as you told me how big your boyfriend's cock was or how much he didn't appreciate you. I wasn't trying to break you up, I actually gave you sound advice. I wanted you, but I didn't act on it because you were spoken for, and I'm a classy guy.

That's why, the night of your break up, as we stayed in your friends apartment and I messaged your legs and back I didn't try to go any further. I really cared about you, and wanted to be there as a friend first. Then, maybe after a month or so, I was going to ask you out. I wasn't going to rush things.

Sadly you were going to rush things in the lamest of ways possible. The same night, the very same fucking night you broke up with your boyfriend, the same night of the snowstorm, the same night we moved you out of your boyfriend's luxury condo you decided we had to meet up with this one guy. Did I mention there was a snowstorm, biggest snowstorm of the year?

I pressed you, and asked who the guy was, and why we had to meet him. You were insistent that we meet this guy. Me, being the stupid gentleman that I am, wasn't going to let you drive alone in the blizzard to Bowl a Vard to meet this guy. I decided to drive you.

Little did I know I was driving you to meet your future boyfriend. Little did I know that in less than 72 hours you would be shacking up with this guy. Little did I know that this friendship, and my whole concept of who you were would be shattered within those 72 hours.

We hung out at Bowl a Vard for a while until it was decided we should go sledding. On our way to the hill you told me that the dude who would be your boyfriend in 72 hours asked if I would be "competition". You laughed it off and told him that I wasn't going to be competition. I can't believe you told me that. It's okay to tell him that, I guess. It's sad though that I really thought you cared about me, or at least maybe was capable of looking at me in that way, if only for a moment. You weren't though. I should have kicked you to the curb then and there. Sadly, I'm a fucking gentleman.

Sledding was fun that night. A group of people had gathered and it reminded me a bit of grade school. I bundled you up in some of my old jackets and sweatshirts. I gave you my extra hat and mittens. You looked like a Frankenstein LumberJack. I should have known something was amiss when you were chasing your future boyfriend around, and when you decided we should abruptly leave shortly after he left the hill.

After that night, we were both soaking wet. Thankfully you had a change of clothes and warm blankets set out for you by your new roommates. I didn't, however, and I was left to sleep in a chair in my soaking wet clothes. I didn't mind that so much since I was with you...although I did mind the constant texting between you and your future boyfriend that kept me awake.

Well, the next day you insisted on getting a new cell phone and I, still being dumb, obliged and drove you all over Madison...during a snowstorm. Later, at Chili's I told you that I wish you didn't just look at me as just a friend. I thought it was a cheap shot that you told your future boyfriend that I was no competition. I mean, shit bitch, I'm a fucking man, way to neuter me.

Your mind was made up and a day later I went on a breakfast date with the pancake house your future boyfriend worked at and had him serve us. That was real classy, especially after I told you I liked you. The next day you called me on my last day of class to see if I wanted to go with you to the pancake place and see your future boyfriend with you. Obviously, I was in class so I couldn't pick up, but I called you promptly when I left class 15 minutes later. You told me that you would call me in 30 minutes. I waited in Madison for four hours for your call. Awesome.

Well, that was the last time we really carried on a conversation for the whole part of Winter Break. You were too busy occupying every waking and sleeping moment with your new boyfriend. Apparently by that time you had already moved in with him, which was something you said you were never, ever going to do. I guess a lot changes in 72 hours, huh?

You're so pathetic. You need to be with someone to validate your own existence. You don't feel loved unless you're the center of attention. You're willing to stop being friends with someone for a guy you've only been dating a week.

Mostly you're pathetic because you can't live on your own. Your last boyfriend broke up with you twice. The first time was because you were dating him for a month and you wanted to move in with him. He refused and broke up with you because, well let's not sugar coat it, because you're fucking crazy. Then, when the two of you got back together you forced your way into moving in with him. You stayed at his place every night, and slowly but surely all of your shit was at his place. Same thing with this guy. You've barely had been going out a week and you were already practically living with him. In fact a month ago, the two of you moved into another apartment and adopted two cats.

You claim that things are different, you excuse this bad decision because you think this relationship is way different than the last. You're a complete moron. I'm glad I know that now. This relationship is just as bad, your boyfriend is jealous and controlling.

Your boyfriend is so jealous and fearful that I'm going to steal you away from him that he's forbade you to talk to me. Although, he's still allowed to talk to this chick he fucked and had a relationship with. In fact, and you told me this, your new apartment is right across the hall from his former fuck buddy and he goes over there to smoke weed with her when the two of you get into arguments. Hmm, sounds like you should be the jealous one, right? I mean we never fucked and had a relationship quite like theirs.

Back to me being an asshole. I think I was justified in being an asshole. You lead me on, you took me on your first few dates with your new boyfriend even after I told you I liked you. I went because you made it seem that there was a chance I could convince you to like me. But, you already made up your mind, it was just a nice little lie to keep me from leaving.

I was an asshole because you chose a guy over our friendship, a friendship which you claimed was deep and lasting. I was a jerk because the day I went to a friend's funeral you decided to meet me at the mall and shop for shirts...never once asking me about the funeral. In fact, your crazy ass even had me try to come up with an epithet for some stupid gold angel you were going to put on your friend's grave. Classy. I remember giving several heartfelt epithets and having you degrade them. Wow, you are an enormous bitch.

The same day, after I reminded you I had just been at a funeral, you decided to go to dinner with me and finally talk about why you were ignoring me. Except there was a catch. We had to go to the restaurant you work at, and be served by your boyfriend. Wow, really set the mood to talk, didn't it.

So the entire time I was trying to spill my guts and understand why you threw our friendship under the bus, why you lead me on, why you never seemed to care about me you were waving at your boyfriend, writing love notes and drawing cute pictures to him. Every time I was comfortable to continue he would come over and flirt with you.

I fucking hate you. You told our lab that the reason why I stopped being an asshole to you was because you had "called me on it". Sorry, bitch, the reason why I stopped being an asshole was because I realized you're worthless, you're not worth my time. You had something great: me as a friend. But you threw it away for an ugly, controlling and jealous boyfriend.

You still have an affect on me though. I don't trust women as much as I used to. I have a hard time being kind to them. I question every little move they make, always fearful that I'm going to get hurt by them. I'm fearful that one day they're just going to stop talking to me. I don't feel like I have much to offer these days. The only thing I had to give was my friendship, my kindness and love for you. Not romantic love, but the love friends have for each other. You threw that away, and now I'm having a hard time putting myself out there again.

Fuck you for being such a waste of life.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

You Wanna Know What Grinds My Gears?

Maybe it's a good thing that Spring Break is a little more than a week away. My fellow technical college students are starting to drive me insane with their rude behavior, poor hygiene, and general dumbfuckery. I've been taught to be respectful of people either in authority or people who are speaking. General ways to be respectful are to not talk when others are talking, and to, at the very least, pretend to pay attention. In this note I'd like to go over a few of my pet peeves, as well as focus on some of the perpetrators.

A huge pet peeve of mine is when class has begun and the instructor (mind you at MATC there are no professors) is in the middle of his or her lecture and a tardy student walks in and decides to walk in front of the teacher to get to their seat. What's especially infuriating is when the tardy student decides to do this in a room that has two doors on either side of the room meaning they could have easily entered the room through the other door so they wouldn't pass in front of the speaking instructor, but are too ill mannered to figure it out.

Something along these same lines is when someone in the front row of a room decides to get up and sharpen his pencil during a lecture. This is especially ridiculous when the front row is a mere 3 feet from the instructor, as well as when it happens every lecture for three weeks straight. Have you ever heard of a mechanical pencil, or maybe a pen?

Another thing that pisses me off are cellphones and things that go "boop". I find that texting during class is insulting to the teacher. Look, we're college students, we aren't doctors or police officers, life will go on without us if we don't respond to our text messages for 50 minutes. Put the thing on vibrate and forget about it. I think it's insulting and pretty stupid because we're paying the teacher to go up to the front of the room and teach us this stuff, and all the while we're sitting at our desks ignoring them and furiously texting our friends, significant others, and crack dealers.

This is so rude. The instructor put time and effort into making this lecture, and you're paying for this lecture. Pay attention, or at least be considerate enough to pretend to pay attention. How would you like it if you were giving a presentation that you worked hard on and the audience wasn't paying attention, or was texting? How would you feel if your date was texting during dinner? Oh wait...we all know how that feels. Stop. Bloody. Texting!

The other thing that goes along with electronics is these weird noises. The random beeps and melodies during lecture really grind my gears. How fliptastically hard is it to turn the thing on vibrate or silent before class. It really can't be that hard to implement in your morning routine a little time to turn your phone on vibrate, can it? No, it can't it was a rhetorical question you moron. Oh, that's right, we're going to talk about morons now...

...I'm baffled by how many morons there are going to this technical college. I shouldn't be, I mean it is a technical college. But still, I remember when I first started going a few people knew who the hell Huck Finn was. I cringe anytime an instructor makes some of the students read out loud. Simple words like "cloister", "epitaph" and "knew" baffle these morons. One girl, the same one who didn't recall Huck Finn, didn't understand why this was a run-on: Dogs are good pets I like cats.

These people are takers, they don't want to work for their education either. The teacher will dole out a rather tough assignment, and instead of taking it on and trying to challenge themselves they bitch and moan that it's too hard, or too long. They don't get that they're in college, and life isn't going to give them something for nothing...oh wait, I guess it is nowadays, isn't it?

What's with smelling horrible? I can understand coming to class once in a while a little disheveled. I get that alarm clocks get ignored sometimes, cars break down and all that jive. But it becomes a problem when every time I see a certain person they're disheveled and smell like body odor, or smell like they didn't wipe their ass enough. What's even more perplexing is when they come to an 11 AM class looking like they just got out of bed and sped off to school in a mad rush. Oh, wait a tick, that's because that's exactly what happened.

There's this one kid in my Environmental Science class, whom besides being completely off the wall weird, comes in 20-25 minutes late, disheveled as hell and smelling abhorrent. I few things come to mind. The first is that this person needs to wake up sooner. The second is that why the hell is this person even bothering to show up? It's 20 minutes past the start of class. Dude, just freaking hit the snooze and try again tomorrow. The last thing that comes to mind is, why do you smell still? Throw some deodorant on, take a scented bath after a dump, do something so you don't smell bad. You're the least liked person in our class...which is sad because most of the class is filled with ugly people with similar hygiene problems and a penchant for being annoying.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Girls Have it Rough

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I could never be a girl. If, one day, I woke up and was magically turned the female persuasion I think I would just curl up into a little ball and cry. Being a girl has got to be the most frightening experience on the planet, no joke. I thank God every time I go to the bathroom standing up; I thank God after every non-invasive physical, I thank God every day my wiener doesn't bleed.

Guys this is no joke, girls have it rough. You don't think so? Well, did you know that you could have been a girl? We men folk started out not with our testes but things that were more like ovaries. One could say we were girls for a few months in our mom's cozy womb. Only by an extreme act of pure mercy were we granted the right to have our 'ovaries' descend our abdominal staircase into our testicular basement (aka Das Sack).

Okay, I watched a lot of WE (Women's Entertainment) back in high school. I learned a lot about women by their very graphic and educational commercials. Let me just highlight a few interesting facts about being a woman:

First off, everything starts off great until the girl hits puberty. That's about when she has her first period. We all know what periods are, I refuse to explain. But the thing is girls actually are out in public during their cycle. Not me. If my vagina or wang were bleeding I would make a diaper out of a trash bag and sit in my bath tub and cry. Not girls, nope, they just put a cotton ball up themselves and walk around as if its only a Tuesday. Despite cramps and consistent blood lose they just keep on keeping on. I know that after my first period I would either put a band aid on it or try to sew it shut.

Now, we guys think our physicals are tough when we go to the doctor...well, girls have it a million times worse. They've got a lot more plumbing down there and doctors have to investigate with metal tools. Its like going to the dentist but instead of violating your teeth they violate your man hole. I know that one time after a 'routine' physical for football I came out of the exam room traumatized. I couldn't imagine what its like being a girl.

What about pregnancy? Good God that's got to be terrible. You've literally got something growing in you...feeding off of in you. Now, once you get past that there's the comfort factor. I could never get comfortable with a baby in me. Anytime I'd try to get comfortable baby would move or kick my kidneys and I'd be uncomfortable. I know sometimes I just want to be left alone...but babies are always there with you 24-7 holidays and weekends for 9 months. You can't just take the thing out and ask for someone else to incubate it for a few minutes while you grab a Coke and sit in a pool of ice.
Then, I bet there's a lot of swelling and such. Oh, and then you basically be a turtle for 9 months. Try getting a seat belt on or putting pants on with a 20 pound ball of goo on your belly...not gonna happen. Then there's the general weirdness of being pregnant. People that say pregnant women are beautiful are clearly morally deprived. They're basically normal people with these hideously freakishly round bellies that defy gravity and logic. Clearly I'm disturbed by that.

It sucks to be a girl too because its hard to lose weight what with all that jive going on in your woman body. All I have to do to lose weight is run a lap around a street light and eat a Powerbar. You could run 500 marathons and gain weight. Its fucking easy being a guy. I remember telling JeR once that every month I'd give my wife a rose because of some of those reasons. So guys the next time I see you being an asshole to a girl, or not holding a door open for them or not offering to lift something heavy for them I will kick your balls into your chest.

I'm Gay Men's Currency

I find myself in a lot of bizarre situations. It's not like I look to get myself into strange situations, I don't go looking for them, things just sort of happen. I'm like a leaf, pushed in the wind. Nothing happens to me because I necessarily want something to happen. It just happens out of coincidence or in spite of my apathy or ignorance.

On my birthday such a situation arose. I was at this bar, which actually turned out to be a gay bar, and I was a little tipsy. I decided to go to the bathroom and while in there I must have done some secret dance or gave some non-verbal clues that said, "hey, I wanna make out with a dude". Well, this large black man decided to take me by the wrist and lead me to an exclusive and remote location.

While he was leading me I thought to myself, "this is going to lead me into another one of those situations I bet". And it did. There I was with another man kissing me with his hand down my pants. I had been in this situation before.

Alright, okay, never have I had a stranger do this exact thing. But I've had men try to kiss me, and there's this game my friend Joe's bisexual roommates play with me where they grab my naughty bits. However, they never go down my pants to grab my bare naughty bits. This was different. But what can I say, this sort of thing was bound to happen. I am gay men's currency, really.

I think I have this potent combination of perceived innocence and adorableness as well as a kind of muscular frame. Essentially I'm like a pig covered in BBQ sauce surrounded by a bunch of Tyrannosaurus Rex's in tight mesh shirts.

Anyhow, back to the molestation. My body language was pretty clear. I didn't push away or anything, but I certainly didn't encourage anymore exploring. I just stood there passively, trying to think of a cool way to say, "sorry man-bro, I'm not attracted to men. No convincing will encourage me from this philosophy". He then explained to me that he and the bartender were renting a room at the Super 8. He told me I should join him with my girlfriend.

I don't have a girlfriend, but I did bring a girl with me. I decided, for the sake of making things less awkward between me and the gay black man, to claim that the girl I brought was my girlfriend. He put his arm around me and told me to bring her. Then, my friend James appeared and rescued me.

I walked towards the bar, not really shaken by the experience (I mean, really, it takes a lot to disturb me) but in need of a womanly embrace. So I walked up to the girl I brought with me and leaned on top of her and gave her this half ass bear hug. I just needed to be close to something that wasn't going to try to penetrate me. She, not knowing what I had been through and why I was all of a sudden clingy, told me to "give [her] some space". I chose not to give her any space and squeezed tighter...I need to grow a mustache.

My Grocery Experience

So here I am standing alone in the brightly lit baby food aisle at my local Copp's food super store. I'm debating on whether or not I should try the baby food version of applesauce, or go for the Mott's adult version many miles of aisle over.

I determine I need to weigh the pros and cons to make the best, most educated decision. I surmise that the baby food version of applesauce is probably healthier since it's made for babies. On one hand it probably has breast milk in it, which is great for protein and developing post fetus immune systems, so why wouldn't it help me. Also, I figure, there's less likely of a chance of poisonous or bacterial contamination with this sauce compared to the adult sauce; who wants to poison babies, besides Roseanne Barr?

I'm hastened a bit by a very pregnant woman with an impatient little post fetus tugging at its mother's already taxed maternity blouse. I look at them, then look back at my applesauce, then back at them. I decide to break the ice with the pregopotomus and tell her why it's taking me so long. "Ma'am," fat women like to feel empowered, "I'm trying to make a choice between which applesauce to get. Either I'm going to get this incredibly healthy, breast milk infused variety or the generic run of the mill adult variety. I'm wondering, though, if the benefits outweigh the negatives. Although, as I stand here talking to you I'm gaining some ideas on what I can do with the leftover glass containers of baby food. I wonder if Jung Garden Center still sells seeds this time of year?"

The pregopotmus shifted in obvious anger. I looked up at her. My attention was thrust upon her because of her shifting. "Miss" never assume a hippo is married "I notice that you are growing impatient. I assure you that I will soon be done and that this will all be over sooner if I don't feel hurried." She was about to speak, and realizing that if she spoke it would set a precedent thereby giving her the faulty notion that she was allowed to talk in my presence.

"Listen I don't care that you're a pregopotomi, I have just as much right to this product as you do. I have a weak immune system. I get colds like Shaft gets bitches. So if you don't mind taking a few steps back your large shadow is blocking what ample light we once had; that is until your pro-bese ass decided to pester me".

Pro-bese is a combination of being pregnant and obese.

This didn't leave the beast in a particularly happy position. It did, however, get me free applesauce; for during the commotion between myself, pregnant-Hitler and the store manager, I managed to steal me some of them tiny containers.

Mmm, I can taste the breast.

Saturday, February 28, 2009

The purpose of this blog

DS was born with a mother who knew her child was the spawn of satan.

I am not the one doing the writing for this site (that may change in the future), but rather am an instigator to let him further his writings beyond facebook. Until he stops being lazy and accepts his birthday gift (this blog), I will have full control over it.

Motherly Quotes

Here are some things my mom said to me growing up. Some of these things are just cute phrases, others were words of advice.

"Pity isn't something to base a relationship off of; but with you, it may be all you got going for you"

"If you're ever down on your luck, and you absolutely have to sell your body to make ends meet, don't think that you can pass as a high class hooker. I'm your mother, and I love you, but you're only pretty enough to turn tricks for, at most, 15 bucks."

"You were a mistake. A happy mistake for me. Not for your dad though."

"Remember your favorite horsie, the one you used to play on all the time? Well, I told you we sold it to a happy family when, in actuality, I threw it away because you pissed me off."

"You inherited two things from me, son. The first is my nose. The second is my effeminate figure. I've never been more disgusted in my entire life."

"I never understood parents that had trouble putting their kids to bed. All we had to do was put a pillow over your face until you stopped squirming. The real trick was to hold it on just long enough so you'd pass out for a few hours, but not long enough to make you a retard."

"As a joke we taught you everything backwards. You used to think the letter Z was the letter A; you thought the sky was green and the ground was blue; left was right. Sigh, your kindergarten teacher thought you had a learning disability so she held you back a year. Man were we baked"

"If you don't eat that you're going to turn into a skeleton. Uh-oh, I can see the bone growing out of your ear. You better hurry up and eat it or else you're gonna be a skeleton" Oh yes, she really did this one.

"If you don't behave I'm calling child services and they're going to take you away! That's it, I'm picking up the phone..."

"If I catch you misbehaving in church I'm going to tear off your little arm and beat you to death with it in front of Jesus. You want that to happen? You want to make Jesus sad?"

"Why are you still here?" I was eight

"A lot of parents want grandkids, and so do I. But I don't want them from you. Let Nathan and Tami have the grandkids for me. You can just wait until I'm dead to have your own kids, okay?"

Friday, February 27, 2009

Cleavage Season

It's Cleavage Season!
Although it isn't quite Spring yet, for some people it is cleavage season. For most ladies cleavage season begins when the temperature maintains a 50 degree average; yet for larger women cleavage season begins much, much earlier. Usually it begins when the average temperature is only 30 degrees. Although for much larger women the average temperate is lower and it keeps going down as the individual gets jollier and jollier. (Women that have hit menopause are even more confusing)

The reason why this happens is because jolly women who have cushion for pushin' tend to be wonderfully insulated. This means that they can display the "goods" in cooler temperatures, much how polar bears and whales use their blubber to exist in cold climates.

So when you see a sweaty ball of giggling flesh shoved into a tiny lycra tank top, covering only the slightest of the naughtiest of bits, please keep this in mind: don't look at them, because no matter where you look you're looking at their cleavage. Fatties are completely surrounded by titty, thereby making it impossible to look at any innocuous part of their anatomy without getting an eye-full of sagging cleavage.