Middle America Sucks

Empty promises...

2006-01-10T10:48:00.000-05:00

I'm currently smack dab in the middle of trying to find some sort of gainfull employment so that I can afford to spend "leisure" time writing here. If you know of something that's available or have any leads in any way in GR on possible places of employment, PLEASE contact me.

Being unemployed sucks. It takes the comedy right out of things.

I haven't died. Yet. But I might.

2005-12-17T01:46:00.000-05:00

This blog will live again. I promise.

My mom made me stop. Actually, angry calls from my mom on the phone made me stop. Despite my warnings and disclaimers she read anyhow and the predictable results (ie. a fan clogged due to shit hitting,) quickly caused me to second guess myself.

I've now decided, (seriously,) that I enjoy writing to the point where I want to do it all the time. Hopefully someday someone will pay me to do it. Until then, I'm going to do it on the internet. (Yes, we're still talking about writing. Any similarities to actual porn or artificial porn are probably unintentional. Probably.)

New material will commence "soon."

Also, I wanted to take a minute to address the "Anonymous" poster who's been leaving tidbits on my comments pages while I was on hiatus... Eat shit. I voted for Kerry. I have a girlfriend. I'm intelligent and a reasonably likable person.

I now know a few important things about you though:
1. You're fat.
2. Number 1 is all that matters, and as I've said in the past, nobody loves you.
3. If you're still reading this list you're fat AND enjoy being ridiculed, meaning you're a self-loathing fat person and one that probably needs help. I'd offer you help, but I don't want to. You got fat by yourself, so you go get help by yourself.

Birthdays and other painful celebrations

2005-09-07T15:50:00.000-04:00

So I had another birthday on the first of this month. Not that it's anything significant or spectacular, or even a birthday worth looking forward too, but it came, I had it, and it's gone.

I'm pretty sure that this is the "adult" patterns for birthdays. They're non-events now. If anything, they're a reminder that yes, dammit, it's still illegal for you to sleep with a highschooler.

Remember when we were all kids and birthdays were something to look forward to? We'd count down the days, come up with a birthday list and even drop subtle clues when telling others our age. "I'm seven and a half," we'd say, hoping that in six months they remember and shower us with cake and adoration. When did all of this cease to be a part of the birthday regimen? I certainly don't walk around telling people that I'm twenty three and a half any longer, and I haven't made a list in years.

What's worse is, we get shitty gifts now and think that they're good. Remember what happened when you got a new shirt for your birthday as a kid? That fucking sucked hard. You get all excited for the new supersoaker 7000 and you end up with a shitty shirt that you'll have to wear to school, another place that fun dies. Now, whenever we get a gift like a shirt or a new pair of pants we get psyched! "Sweet!" we think, "now I can match when I wear my brown belt and my new khakis." Someone should shoot me in the head for thinking that. Ever. I HAVE thought it before, and if you're over the age of 18 so have you. I say we dial back the maturity a little bit and demand that we only get plastic electronic toys that have more buttons and sirens than we know what to do with and will drive our parents/roommates insane. I would have shot my own mother for a chance to have one of those electronic noise-making key chains. The ones that made the sound of a bomb falling, a car crashing, and if there was a God in the sky that loved you, sometimes a fart. Hell I'd still probably shoot my mom for a fart machine, and that's the way it should be.

Birthdays should be more about what you want, not what you need. A free pass on that loan from your parents isn't a good birthday gift. A dozen snap bracelets with dayglo green stars is. Candles that make your room smell less like beer and man-stink and more like babies and springtime is not a good birthday gift. A waterballoon launcher and a bag of tennis balls is. A nice decorative rug to match your new comforter is a horrible fucking birthday gift. A new model rocket that takes size DDD engines and needs to have FAA clearance is a mother-shooting good birthday gift.

The only tradition that seems to have held itself over from childhood to now is that of surrounding yourself with your closest friends and ingesting things until you're sick. Then you go swimming. When you're younger you were hogging down cup cakes, or if your parents actually loved you, an ice cream cake. Then you went swimming. Now at birthdays you're all sucking down as much alcohol as humanly possible before deciding to throw the birthday celebrant into the nearest body of water. Or standing him up in the shower and trying to get him to sober up because he just picked a fight with a houseplant. ("Quit touching my ear, you queer sonofabitch!") Not exactly like the voluntary leap into the pool that you took when you were little but the evidence says it's close enough. In both cases you had too much of something, are soaking wet and have a high probability of throwing up all over everything. That's enough for me.

On random thoughts

2005-08-23T16:36:00.000-04:00

-editorial aside-
****[I noticed that I actually got my first comments. It's weird knowing that someone I don't know is reading this, but also kind of liberating to know that you liked it enough to say something. If anyone else out there reads this and has any input/suggestions/ideas feel free to drop me a comment or an email. I'm all ears. Ok enough serious shit. Back to bullshitting.]****

During the course of the day, some really insanely random, crazy and highly inappropriate things occasionally flash themselves through my mind in the “what if I...” category, often causing me to squirt milk out of my nose.

I’m not sure if this is a universal thing or if it’s just a symptom of my insanely overactive imagination, but I supposed I should iron this thing out before I start trying to up my dose.

I’m not talking like, “the neighbor’s dog is telling me to murder kittens,” type crazy but more, “I wonder what would happen if I really ripped one right now,” while sitting in a meeting. Or, “I bet if I jumped off the roof of our house I could reach that tree in the yard over there.” Or what about, “I wonder if I hit a tree going 12 miles an hour if I’d be able to set off my air bags. That’d be sweet.” Or even, “how pissed do you think the waiter would be if I just kicked him in the nuts and ran out of the restaurant?” (Coincidentally, the answer to that last one is “very angry.” Steven, if you’re reading this I’d like to be allowed to see in inside of a Friday’s at some point in the future. I promise I won’t do it again. To you.)

Is this normal? Do other people have this as well? This may be part of the reason why I spent the better part of my younger years in detention and why I’ve now been to rehab not once, but twice. You really do need to go back for seconds to get the full feeling for how much you hate your parents. (That’s right ladies. I’m dangerous. I get drunk and say bad words. I also don’t smell like pee. Someone should date me.)

My whole life I’ve had to exercise an extra large amount of self-control. I tend to say/do things that can be really spontaneous and funny, but also horribly offensive if I don’t watch it. Like everything else in my life, my humor tends to run the line between appropriate and inappropriate, and sometimes I like to trip that little bitch and watch it fall flat on its face right in the middle of a huge pile of inappropriate.

This past Sunday when myself and some of my room mates attended a minor league baseball game is a good example of this. I’d spent all day Friday and Saturday in important work-related company, and as such had to bite my tongue often to keep from offending someone who I might need a paycheck from or who’s wife I’m trying to boink. (Not really. My Mrs. Robinson fantasy will never realize fruition. I’ve come to accept this as a fact and will simply resort to living it out in my head over and over and over and over an d ove efr

Sorry, I had to run to the bathroom for a few. I’m back now though. Anyhow, I acted civil all weekend and by Sunday I was ready to pop. Going to the game was just what I needed. There was plenty of low class low income fodder about for me to pick on, and plenty of beer to grease the tracks. (I was there with a buddy who’s work was sponsoring some sort of company outing. I ate AND drank beer for free.) Even on the car ride there I started to wind up.

Me: Hey dude, do you think fat chicks know that nobody loves them?
Friend1: Wha? What the hell?
Me: Seriously, I’d be willing to be that most fat chicks know that nobody loves them. Except for the ones that go to the beach in bikini’s they don’t know.
Friend1: Oh my god…
Me: Seriously though, I hate that, I always want to run up and slap a big flap of skin and then laugh. It’s soo gross.
Friend1: That’s horrible dude.
Me: Not as bad as being so fat that you make baby Jesus cry. Jesus hates fat chicks too. He was a dude, he knows what’s going on.
Friend1: I did not just hear that. (moves away from me.)
Me: Where you going?
Friend1: If God strikes you down I don’t want to get burned by the lightning.

So, that’s what kind of day it was. Funny but not fit for anyone other than me to hear.

Let me go right out on a limb now and assure you that I am the farthest thing from a true racist that you will ever find. I actually had a best friend who was black for many, many years and never thought twice about it. However, if there’s one thing that I hate, it’s politically correct bullshit. Being “p.c.” is an invention of our generation, which in case nobody has told you yet, are a bunch of sandy vaginas with credit card douchebags. My dad got beat up by riot cops for protesting Vietnam on campus. I got a letter sent home because I got too drunk and puked all over my RA’s bathroom before peeing in his closet. Big deal. Twenty years ago, in some of the Pink Panther movies he would refer to his asian sidekick as his “little yellow friend.” That’s some funny shit right there. Asians ARE short and they ARE yellow, we just aren’t allowed to talk about it any more.

My job on this earth is to break the P.C. boundaries for you, because nobody else is going to. Plus the looks that you get when you openly say something that everyone else is thinking are hilarious. And chicks never have really dirty sex with nice guys.

*edit* I cleaned up the comments section and turned on some of the safety features so I don't get junk comments again. Enjoy.

Things not to do on your weekend

2005-08-15T11:03:00.000-04:00

Sorry about the lapse in new material. I'm still new to this whole "posting with a purpose" thing and need to get better at coming up with material and a more consistent basis. With that in mind, here it is.

Things not to do on your weekend:

1.Get drunk enough to break a chair and then throw the broken chair across the room.
2.Get drunk enough to break a chair, throw it across the room and then not remember any of it in the morning.
3.Get drunk enough to spend the entire day following the alleged “chair incident” either throwing up, or looking for places to throw up, or finding something soft to eat so you can throw it up again later.

Now I’ve had my fair share of testing my limits in the past, and generally know exactly where I stand in regards to them. What I mean by this is, I’m more often than not, under control of the situation that I’m in, even while drinking alcohol. I pride myself in not having many (as in I can list them on one hand,) experiences where people would say things like, “holy crap, remember when you got drunk, lit a cat on fire and then rode the neighbor’s German Shepard bareback down the street while peeing in mailboxes?” However, unfortunately, I had one of those weekends this past weekend. Lucky for the German Shepard, it was hit by a car recently and won’t have to carry me any longer. Unless I get really really drunk.
Let me say right off the bat that this alcohol consumption isn’t something that I’m proud of, nor is it something that you should strive to achieve. Mostly, because I’m much more of a man than you are, but also because you feel like human garbage soaked in alcohol the following morning. I learned very early on in my relationship with mister alcohol that to spend too much time with him is not necessarily a wise personal move. As funny as those stories are, you aren’t going to stand an asian’s chance at an indy race of scoring with the chicks if you keep peeing in people’s mailboxes.

I think my undoing was the white russians that I was drinking all night. Actually, I KNOW that my undoing was the white russians that I drank all night. I don’t exactly have any numbers as to how many I consumed because, due to goading by one of my room mates, who will remain nameless but whose name rhymes with “Len” and starts with a ‘B,’ played a mean trick on me wherein I ended up drinking a large quantity of white russian late in the evening, and far too quickly. After this, things degenerated rapidly.

I know for a fact that I had a pizza in the oven at the point-of-no-return “Len” trick. I don’t know:
1. Who took the pizza out of the oven.
2. How I managed to eat ¾ of it at two in the morning while full on milk and alcohol.
3. Where most of it ended up in the hours following.

But there is “evidence” of this pizza’s existence and consumption at various places in the house. As well as some corn, which I don’t remember eating either. (No seriously.) It was while I was consuming this pizza that I don’t remember,r that the alleged chair breaking and throwing occurred that I also don’t remember. To be fair, the chairs we have around the house aren’t that strong. However, I’m not a little person and was also several white russians and three quarters of a pizza into an otherwise decent evening. In any case, the chair’s demise came about (allegedly,) through me sitting down “heavily” and the having it dump me unceremoniously onto the floor after cracking and breaking in more than one place. I, feeling badly for the chair, then attempted to piece it back together with nothing but my wit and bare hands. Maybe some pizza sauce was involved, but by and large I don’t think I had any tools with me. After failing to fix the chair, I’m then told that I launched it across our dining room and into the living room.
Content that I wasn’t going to drink any more or kill any more furniture, anyone who was still awake must’ve gone to bed at this point. Another one of my housemates who claims he got home at “four or five” in the morning, reports that when he walked in the front door, I was still wandering around the upstairs, alone, drink in hand and ignoring everything he said to me.

So, this weekend, if you happen to swing by our house and see me with a white russian in my hand, slowly back away and make sure that I’m not eating a whole pizza. I don’t ever want to have to wash pepperoni out of the dog’s hair ever again.

Wedded Bliss

2005-07-28T13:30:00.000-04:00

The topic of the weekend is weddings. Namely, that I'm not having one, and everyone else is. Although at one time in my life I had assumed that by now I would either be married or at least planning a wedding (*ahem* awkward pause here) I now realize that the fact that I'm actually not getting married anytime soon is probably a good thing. I wonder if you ever actually sit around and say to yourself, "yep, now's the time. I'm about ready to get hitched." Because I honestly can't say that I feel like I'm ready to commit myself to someone a hundred percent for the rest of my life. This "not readiness" is probably due to the fact that I am technically sans a fiance, or anyone willing to step into that role, but that's another post entirely.

The whole thing about weddings is, they're supposed to be about the people getting married, and granted, they get the most attention that day, but there's a lot of things going on under the surface that nobody really notices. First, on wedding day, any girl who is actually at the wedding and single is furtively glancing around wondering if one of the guys at the wedding is "it." If no male present can fit the bill, they immediately start doing a mental inventory of all of the things with weiners that they know and trying to decide which one they could spend eternity with and hate the least.

Single men at the wedding, are aware of this fact, and generally spend their time getting hammered and hoping that a cute wedding-hopeful female will tag him as "good enough" for the evening. What they don't realize at the time is, "good enough for the evening" actually means, "I want you to bear my children." Single guys should proceede with caution from this point forward.

Couples who happen to be at the wedding, are also going through their own mental olympics. Invariably one of them is sweating profusely and wondering if there's any way to tell the other that, while they enjoy their company, he/she won't be walking down the isle any time soon. At least not with the present company. A second scenario is one when they couple is genuinely happy to be there and to be together and they fully intend to get engaged/married some time in the near future. While you would think otherwise, this is equally as painful as the first scenario for the male half of the equation. Every time the woman's eyes land on something "pretty," which should be a synonym with "expensive," the male is slowly crapping his pants as he realizes how much this is going to cost him. Everything from the cake, to the place settings to the open bar cause him extreme amounts of discomfort because he knows that the girl is making a mental checklist of all of these things and secretly planning something bigger and better for her wedding. (Yeah we're all friends, but I'll be damned if you're flower arrangement is going to have more white roses than mine.)

While all of this is going on, the adults at the wedding are also looking around and trying to decide which of their kids would breed the most successfully with which of the guests present. While love is certainly important, having grandkids without a hook-nose or crow's feet is paramount. That "there are no ugly babies" saying is a myth and we all know it. Everyone has seen an ugly baby. You just don't say anything because the mother of said ugly baby will stab you to death with her stiletto heels in a fit of hormone-induced rage.

The newlyweds probably have it the easiest. The hard part for them is over. Now all they have to do is get through with the formalities, make sure that uncle ron stays away from the open bar, and look forward to a night filled with guilt-free, god-sanctioned christian sex.

Man Bathroom Rules

2005-07-22T13:33:00.000-04:00

So today while I was sitting in the bathroom at work contemplating whether or not I could crank one out real quick before I went back to my office, something occured to me. There needs to be rules written about how guys are supposed to behave in the bathroom and how men's rooms are to be built. It only makes sense. That way when you're standing at a urinal aiming for the septic-scented pink wafer at the bottom and the guy next to you pipes up and starts talking about the chick he's at the bar with and trying to bone, you would clearly be within your rights to punch him directly in the face, literally with his pants down and everything. It's in the rules man.

1. When selecting a urinal, you must always have a one urinal "buffer zone" on either side of you between yourself and the next person. If every other urinal is in use, you must go all the way to one end of the wall and use the kiddie urinal. Try not to piss on your own shoes.
2. In the event that the bathroom is really full or busy and all of the toilets, sit-downs and urinals alike, are being used, you are not allowed to use one of the stalls to take a shit. We're men dammit, we don't stand on line to pee and you're fucking up the program. If you DO shit whilst others need to piss, we are allowed to laugh at your noisy bodily functions and throw paper towels filled with soap over the dividers and into your stall.
3. From here on out all stalls in all of the bathrooms should be handicapped stalls. I will make someone in a wheelchair shit their pants waiting for me if I'm crapping in one. Men NEVER shit in the little stalls when given the choice between a regular stall and a handicap stall. They're bigger and have railings on the sides. It's like shitting in luxury.
4. Stalls without doors in locker rooms are banned. I don't want to see someone with dropped trou taking a crap while I'm changing to go work out (yeah right.) Neither do I want someone eyeballing me while I'm making my purple face and pinching a loaf.
5. Trough urinals, like the ones that they have at stadiums, are also banned. Nobody likes to stand directly next to a drunken BoSox fan who reeks like sam adams and "clam chowduh" while trying to piss into a large metal trough with one drain in the center of it. The only thing bathroom related more disturbing than having to do that is the fact that you made your mom wipe your ass after a good shit until you were seven.
6. Urinals will all be the full-sized ones that reach all the way to the floor and all of them will have metal dividers that are high enough that you actually can't see the other person's face while they're pissing. Full sized urinals are way cooler because flushing them is like turning on your own personal waterfall for roughly thirty seconds. Dividers are needed because I hate the waist high ones that don't do anything other than make sure that if the guy going next to you has a seizure there's a 22% chance that he won't get any of it on you. Also, being able to smell the breath of the sweaty trucker standing beside you at a rest stop kind of has a tendancy to induce performance anxiety in lots of people. Not me, I'm just saying.
7. Everything in a bathroom should be automatic with motion sensors. Every guy friggin loves to wash his hands in a sink with sensors because we're idiots and are impressed by such things. Sensor technology does need to be improved however, otherwise we just stand around wiggling our hands around under the faucet like a blind four year old attempting sign language.
8. There are no longer allowed to be any baby changing stations in men's rooms. We didn't pop 'em out, we don't have to clean 'em. Besides, women enjoy that shit.
9. All of the floors in bathrooms should be made out of one big drain. That way, when the shemale before us forgets about the operation and pisses all over the floor, we don't have to do the awkward "what the hell is this puddle on the floor" dance. Even if it's only water, we'll stand on our tiptoes and attempt to perch on the only dry tiles left in the area.
10. Any little kid who comes into the bathroom to piss must use a stall if they're going to use the "pull the pants all the way down" stand up and pee method. Obviously they haven't mastered the art yet, and as such shouldn't be allowed to use the "big-boys toilets".

That's all I've got for now. Tune in next week when I'm sure I'll waste another hour or so at work and type another one of these things.

First Post

2005-07-20T14:30:00.000-04:00

So this is it. The beginning of what I'm sure will be a wildly successful tale of internet celebrity littered with money, women, booze and rife with regrets. Or, probably just an anonymous rant in an obscure tucked-away corner of the internet.

Remember back in the day when "blogs" were still cool and hadn't become yet another catchphrase that makes my ears bleed. (If someone uses 'uber' in a sentence around me one more time, so help me I'm uberly going to uber kick their uber-ugly ass.) I'm talking about freshman year when we all found "the best page in the universe," thought that Maddox was a comic genius, and immediately opened up a xanga account so that we too could achieve mediocre levels of internet celebrity within the beer-guzzling college circles. So full of youth, vigor and cheap vodka were we. Now here we are all looking down the barrel of responsibility at the bullet named "adulthood" and praying to god that we figure out what the hell we do with ourselves to earn money before someone pulls the trigger.
Screw that. I like pointless internet-based rambling. It's like the pulp fiction version of real literature. Sure we're all writing stuff down, but it's only entertaining for one read through and then it's over. Nobody's going to be saving this for the future generations of America to learn from,
and I don't care.

On a much more lighthearted note, I'm going to wander aimlessly around the hallway and hope that I bump into the cute girl who works at the law firm on our floor.