Since I've started to reply to everyone's Mosque post on facebook, but never actually post my comments because they get to long, I'll chime in with a note.
To quote everyone else, Bullshit, but there's bullshit on all sides of the issue.
Eternal vigilance is the price of freedom. White, Christian privilege is easily confused with freedom when all you see is mid-term election year yellow journalism from homogeneous, corporate media. Devil's advocate though, how different is this from liberal atheists demanding that schools/stores/towns not display Christian imagery around the holidays for fear of offending other points of view? The left has as much a slanted view of religion as the right. Instead of embracing ALL cultures and backgrounds, we would restrict them for those among us who would rather not have to confront and ultimately tolerate another point of view. I'm not justifying what's going on, just pointing out a problem with our self-righteousness.
Bullshit like this - and the facts show it is complete and total bullshit (regardless of what it is, its 2 city blocks away from the World Trade Center site, in a former Burlington Coat Factory) - is designed to turn us against each other, to create a THEM to serve asa focal point when the former majority party doesn't have any higher ground to stand on than the Democrats, and could actually be blamed for many of the problems our country is facing. The left does it to people whose religious beliefs dispute the existence of dinosaurs (LePage) and demand that women give birth to their rapistsbabies (Palin).
America, ideally, is the greatest nation in the world because of the freedoms we claim to stand for. We allow multiple points of view not just because it makes us stronger and makes our enemies look like intolerant, despicable assholes. We allow multiple points of view because it's the right thing to do and the only way to be free. I love this country, and would not hesitate to defend it to the death if I had to. Muslims are not a threat to our way of life . People stupid enough to disregard the First Amendment of the Constitution are a threat to our way of life. People stupid enough to attempt to curtail any innocent person's freedom are a threat to our way of life. People who would have Americans fight against other Americans for political gain are a threat to our way of life. Corporate media who buy out the competition, seek to control access to independent media through opposition to Net neutrality and donate money to political parties instead of reporting the truth and remaining politically neutral are a threat to our way of life. However, so are politicians who roll over and play dead or go with the flow instead of condemning yellow journalism and election year ploys for fear of losing votes, and there's been a lot of that going on on the left. So are people who would work against ANY right guaranteed in the constitutional amendment, regardless of how safe they feel restricting it would make them.
Fight the real enemy, not each other.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
THE FOLLOWING THINGS DO NOT MAKE YOU INTERESTING
Referring to yourself as "crazy"on a friday night instead of "an uncreative, twenty-something weekend alcoholic".
Wearing tie dye shirts on themed days at work or school, or in general, for that matter.
Expressing your fondness for Dave Matthews Band.
Cat-In-The-Hat or jester hats.
Granny glasses with different colored lenses.
Wearing a snake or lizard around your neck in public.
Juggling or playing with devil sticks.
Drinking excessively while broadcasting to the world that you are drinking excessively.
Playing acoustic guitar and singing in a forced, weird voice on a blanket in the park.
Knowing the words to “Fight for Your Right to Party”, but nothing else by the Beastie Boys.
Calling yourself “a spiritual person” without being able to elaborate.
Liking Coldplay.
Actually being Jamiroquai.
Wearing Harley Davidson everything.
Being able to hold a prolonged conversation about what happened on “Dancing With the Stars” or “American Idol” last night.
Making sure that people notice that you are reading the “Tao of Pooh” at Starbucks.
Considering the possibility of attending Burning Man.
Actually attending Burning Man.
Accessorizing your jeans and t-shirt ensemble with flair that tells the world that you enjoy smoking
Marijuana.
Ankle tattoos of Tinkerbell or the Tasmanian Devil.
Hanging a dream catcher from your rearview mirror.
Political bumper stickers.
Driving a prius or a hummer.
Stretched limos.
Being passionate about KISS.
Actually putting the sticker that came with your mac on anything.
Growing a soul patch.
Being Christian.
Informing the world that you are an atheist at the drop of a hat.
Convincing yourself that there are republicans in the audience who are going to have an epiphany and suddenly start giving a shit at a showing of a Michael Moore documentary.
Wearing sunglasses indoors and/or at night.
Wearing green, sequined top hats and shamrock glasses on St Patrick's Day.
Gluing shit to your car.
Yelling “Woo!”
Dating musicians.
Referring to one's participation in anything as having been “a long, strange trip”.
Doing blow or heroin.
Talking to sober people about politics while stoned.
Being a stripper.
Passionately liking the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Identifying with the cast of Jersey Shore.
Bringing up how long you've been sober at every single social gathering you attend.
Dancing on a bar to the Lenny Kravitz cover of “American Woman”.
Dressing up like the Crow and/or the Heath Ledger version of the Joker at every single party or function you attend.
Constantly reminding people of your coffee addiction.
Being old and wearing festive sweaters.
Alerting the world to your raging heterosexuality by telling everyone that Megan Fox is hot.
Carrying a tiny little dog around.
Reminding people who you voted for in the last election.
Caring deeply about the dolphins. Not all marine life, mind you, just the dolphins.
Telling people that you are studying marine biology so that you can swim with the afore mentioned dolphins.
Being an actual dolphin.
Playing in a Doors cover band.
Displaying stickers that let the world know that you (or maybe your bike?) only buy local and haven't willingly left the Portland Peninsula in several years.
Being brought to us by letters and/or numbers.
Being white and affluent.
Being the guy that wears the white tuxedo to the prom.
Paying money for a shirt emblazoned with an image of Che Guevara.
Making statements about being in touch with your feelings.
Doing that thing where you pantomime rearranging your face before doing an impression of someone.
Playing poker.
Wearing tie dye shirts on themed days at work or school, or in general, for that matter.
Expressing your fondness for Dave Matthews Band.
Cat-In-The-Hat or jester hats.
Granny glasses with different colored lenses.
Wearing a snake or lizard around your neck in public.
Juggling or playing with devil sticks.
Drinking excessively while broadcasting to the world that you are drinking excessively.
Playing acoustic guitar and singing in a forced, weird voice on a blanket in the park.
Knowing the words to “Fight for Your Right to Party”, but nothing else by the Beastie Boys.
Calling yourself “a spiritual person” without being able to elaborate.
Liking Coldplay.
Actually being Jamiroquai.
Wearing Harley Davidson everything.
Being able to hold a prolonged conversation about what happened on “Dancing With the Stars” or “American Idol” last night.
Making sure that people notice that you are reading the “Tao of Pooh” at Starbucks.
Considering the possibility of attending Burning Man.
Actually attending Burning Man.
Accessorizing your jeans and t-shirt ensemble with flair that tells the world that you enjoy smoking
Marijuana.
Ankle tattoos of Tinkerbell or the Tasmanian Devil.
Hanging a dream catcher from your rearview mirror.
Political bumper stickers.
Driving a prius or a hummer.
Stretched limos.
Being passionate about KISS.
Actually putting the sticker that came with your mac on anything.
Growing a soul patch.
Being Christian.
Informing the world that you are an atheist at the drop of a hat.
Convincing yourself that there are republicans in the audience who are going to have an epiphany and suddenly start giving a shit at a showing of a Michael Moore documentary.
Wearing sunglasses indoors and/or at night.
Wearing green, sequined top hats and shamrock glasses on St Patrick's Day.
Gluing shit to your car.
Yelling “Woo!”
Dating musicians.
Referring to one's participation in anything as having been “a long, strange trip”.
Doing blow or heroin.
Talking to sober people about politics while stoned.
Being a stripper.
Passionately liking the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Identifying with the cast of Jersey Shore.
Bringing up how long you've been sober at every single social gathering you attend.
Dancing on a bar to the Lenny Kravitz cover of “American Woman”.
Dressing up like the Crow and/or the Heath Ledger version of the Joker at every single party or function you attend.
Constantly reminding people of your coffee addiction.
Being old and wearing festive sweaters.
Alerting the world to your raging heterosexuality by telling everyone that Megan Fox is hot.
Carrying a tiny little dog around.
Reminding people who you voted for in the last election.
Caring deeply about the dolphins. Not all marine life, mind you, just the dolphins.
Telling people that you are studying marine biology so that you can swim with the afore mentioned dolphins.
Being an actual dolphin.
Playing in a Doors cover band.
Displaying stickers that let the world know that you (or maybe your bike?) only buy local and haven't willingly left the Portland Peninsula in several years.
Being brought to us by letters and/or numbers.
Being white and affluent.
Being the guy that wears the white tuxedo to the prom.
Paying money for a shirt emblazoned with an image of Che Guevara.
Making statements about being in touch with your feelings.
Doing that thing where you pantomime rearranging your face before doing an impression of someone.
Playing poker.
Monday, February 1, 2010
BLUETOOTH HEADSETS: THE MATING CALL OF THE AMERICAN ASSHOLE
The other night, I went to Borders after work, intent on purchasing a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls. Once I had located this tome of awesome manliness, I headed over to the occult section to see if they had any new books about Norse or Japanese mythology. While attempting to locate a Vaniir needle in a haystack of post-Twilight homoerotic vampire bullshit, I thought I heard someone say “Hey” to me.
Looking over my shoulder, I made eye contact with this dude. He had long hair, pulled back into a slick pony tail, glasses and a leather trench coat.
“Okay, what you need to do is rebalance your karma.”
I flashed him a what the fuck look.
“You wont reincarnate as someone else.” he said in an urgent tone of voice, “You're just going to repeat the same mistakes over and over.”
Now keep in mind that we were making eye contact and he was speaking in my direction.
“No, it doesn't work that way.”
It was only then that I realized that this fucking new age asshole was having a very loud, idiotic conversation with his bluetooth headset and was just making eye contact with me because he was also a creepy, new age fuck.
….
I would like to meet the inventor of the bluetooth headset, and then I would like to to punch him in the dick with the ancient lucha technique known as “El Cocko-Puncho”. I'm sure he had altruistic intentions in developing his product, but he has actually managed to find a way to make self-important assholes even more obnoxious.
Yes, people who own a bluetooth headset and choose to use it anywhere other than in the car are assholes. In fact, chances are that they are stupid fucking assholes with insipid lives that nobody actually wants to hear about, including the person on the other line. I say this with a fair level of certainty, because I have to listen to other people's bluetooth conversations all the time.
(If I have just pegged you as an asshole, you may now be wondering what I mean by “I have to listen”. Surely, I have better things to be listening to than your conversations. And you are right, I do have other things I would rather be listening to, like the music I am playing or the quiet conversations I am having with people who are actually in close proximity to me. However, because you have a piece of plastic lodged in your ear, you're automatic response is to say everything loudly, as if you are addressing someone who is across the room. As such, it becomes impossible to continue my conversations or enjoy the music I am playing, and I am forced to hear about your stupid bullshit.)
There's an old Hateful Man proverb about turning lemons into lemonade, then throwing the squeezed-out lemon husks at passersby.
Somehow, contemporary social contract theory has come to allow anyone to say anything loudly in public, as long as they have a bluetooth headset on. I certainly did not agree to this, as I am sure anyone who has the ability to think about other people, or at least has a sense of shame, would. However, it seems to be here to stay, so all you can really do is take advantage of it.
Here are some fun activities that exploit this phenomenon!
1. ARTS & CRAFTS
First off, you need to invest in something that LOOKS like a bluetooth headset
If your phone came with a bluetooth headset, awesome. Remove the batteries and use that. If you don't feel like chipping in for a real one, you can always glue a rectangular rubber eraser to an earpiece from a broken pair of headphones and paint it black. Really, it doesn't even have to look that convincing up close, as no one will be willing that close to you.
2. AWKWARD....
Go somewhere very public and crowded. I recommend the waiting room of an Olive Garden on a Friday night, as people will not only be feeling claustrophobic, they'll be irritated both at the restaurants shitty service and themselves for ever thinking eating at an Olive Garden on Friday night (or anytime) was a good idea.
In a slightly louder than normal voice, say something akin to following:
“Hey Babe. It's (insert current time). I just got the results and they're, well, they're not good. The medical term is Hogan-Lacher's Syphilitic Glandular Discharge. Basically, it means that I now have permanently crusty, swollen (testicles or labia). I probably contracted it in Thailand. It's highly contagious. We're probably going to have to put the pets down. You definitely have it if I do. There's a good chance it has infected your (ovaries/testicles) and you're sterile. Give me a call when you get this. I love you.”
Tap the headset, then shake your head, scratch your crotch and say “Oh fuck, I need to get some Purel.”
Run out of the waiting room.
Okay, actually, that's probably illegal. So don't do that. However, short of convincing people that they've contracted some kind of horrible, highly contagious bacterial junk rot, that headset gives you carte blanche to say anything in public.
I recommend the following fake conversations:
“You're adopted Timmy. Stop crying and let me talk to that milfy mother of yours. No, I wont tell you what that means. Why? Because you're a filthy orphan and I want to nail your fake mommy without your fake daddy knowing.”
“I'm calling to let you know I'm breaking up with you because your new haircut and penchant for wearing an oversized flannel shirt makes you look like a Large Marge. I'd actually text this to you, but that costs money.”
“Dad, I am undergoing hormone therapy to become a woman. No, I still have a penis and I still prefer women. I just have my own set of boobs.”
“Sorry for showing your kids The Story of O. It was French. I thought it would be a cultural experience.”
“There was blood in my stool again. Should I call the doctor? Its been a month.”
“We really should try anal. You know the Reagans were fans.”
“I just wanted to say I love you one more time before you die. No, I wont come and visit you. I told you, that place smells of old people and that orange stuff they sprinkle on vomit. Pretend you're a doggie in the kennel.”
When you have these fake conversations, make constant eye contact with people.
3. TAKE BACK THE STREETS
Take the fight to the people handing these fucking headsets out! Go to an AT&T or Verizon store and pace around, having one of the conversations from section 2. Look at cell phones and products. When a clerk asks if you can help them, cut them off before they finish their question by raising your right index finger to indicate that you want them to wait, then tap the headset and and mouth the words “they wont shut up” while making a jabber jaw motion with your left hand. Clerks fucking love that shit. After a minute or two, just leave.
4. TANDEM ASSHOLES
If you know someone else with a hatred for mankind and a bluetooth headset, go to a Walmart and walk around, side by side, having a discussion with each other over your headsets. Discuss the people you see and the products you are passing.
Any time you become “separated” (i.e. more than three feet apart or on either side of another person or an isle), get even louder than you were before.
Have one person go into the restroom and sit in a stall and say “Okay, one more and I'll be out in a minute.”. Have the other person stand out in front and periodically say something like “That is amazing! I can't wait to see you you when you finish. Be sure to wash your hands! Did you use a paper toilet seat guard? Because I don't want you tracking someone's sweaty ass bacteria onto the seats of my prius”.
Hug each other when you are finally reunited.
Looking over my shoulder, I made eye contact with this dude. He had long hair, pulled back into a slick pony tail, glasses and a leather trench coat.
“Okay, what you need to do is rebalance your karma.”
I flashed him a what the fuck look.
“You wont reincarnate as someone else.” he said in an urgent tone of voice, “You're just going to repeat the same mistakes over and over.”
Now keep in mind that we were making eye contact and he was speaking in my direction.
“No, it doesn't work that way.”
It was only then that I realized that this fucking new age asshole was having a very loud, idiotic conversation with his bluetooth headset and was just making eye contact with me because he was also a creepy, new age fuck.
….
I would like to meet the inventor of the bluetooth headset, and then I would like to to punch him in the dick with the ancient lucha technique known as “El Cocko-Puncho”. I'm sure he had altruistic intentions in developing his product, but he has actually managed to find a way to make self-important assholes even more obnoxious.
Yes, people who own a bluetooth headset and choose to use it anywhere other than in the car are assholes. In fact, chances are that they are stupid fucking assholes with insipid lives that nobody actually wants to hear about, including the person on the other line. I say this with a fair level of certainty, because I have to listen to other people's bluetooth conversations all the time.
(If I have just pegged you as an asshole, you may now be wondering what I mean by “I have to listen”. Surely, I have better things to be listening to than your conversations. And you are right, I do have other things I would rather be listening to, like the music I am playing or the quiet conversations I am having with people who are actually in close proximity to me. However, because you have a piece of plastic lodged in your ear, you're automatic response is to say everything loudly, as if you are addressing someone who is across the room. As such, it becomes impossible to continue my conversations or enjoy the music I am playing, and I am forced to hear about your stupid bullshit.)
There's an old Hateful Man proverb about turning lemons into lemonade, then throwing the squeezed-out lemon husks at passersby.
Somehow, contemporary social contract theory has come to allow anyone to say anything loudly in public, as long as they have a bluetooth headset on. I certainly did not agree to this, as I am sure anyone who has the ability to think about other people, or at least has a sense of shame, would. However, it seems to be here to stay, so all you can really do is take advantage of it.
Here are some fun activities that exploit this phenomenon!
1. ARTS & CRAFTS
First off, you need to invest in something that LOOKS like a bluetooth headset
If your phone came with a bluetooth headset, awesome. Remove the batteries and use that. If you don't feel like chipping in for a real one, you can always glue a rectangular rubber eraser to an earpiece from a broken pair of headphones and paint it black. Really, it doesn't even have to look that convincing up close, as no one will be willing that close to you.
2. AWKWARD....
Go somewhere very public and crowded. I recommend the waiting room of an Olive Garden on a Friday night, as people will not only be feeling claustrophobic, they'll be irritated both at the restaurants shitty service and themselves for ever thinking eating at an Olive Garden on Friday night (or anytime) was a good idea.
In a slightly louder than normal voice, say something akin to following:
“Hey Babe. It's (insert current time). I just got the results and they're, well, they're not good. The medical term is Hogan-Lacher's Syphilitic Glandular Discharge. Basically, it means that I now have permanently crusty, swollen (testicles or labia). I probably contracted it in Thailand. It's highly contagious. We're probably going to have to put the pets down. You definitely have it if I do. There's a good chance it has infected your (ovaries/testicles) and you're sterile. Give me a call when you get this. I love you.”
Tap the headset, then shake your head, scratch your crotch and say “Oh fuck, I need to get some Purel.”
Run out of the waiting room.
Okay, actually, that's probably illegal. So don't do that. However, short of convincing people that they've contracted some kind of horrible, highly contagious bacterial junk rot, that headset gives you carte blanche to say anything in public.
I recommend the following fake conversations:
“You're adopted Timmy. Stop crying and let me talk to that milfy mother of yours. No, I wont tell you what that means. Why? Because you're a filthy orphan and I want to nail your fake mommy without your fake daddy knowing.”
“I'm calling to let you know I'm breaking up with you because your new haircut and penchant for wearing an oversized flannel shirt makes you look like a Large Marge. I'd actually text this to you, but that costs money.”
“Dad, I am undergoing hormone therapy to become a woman. No, I still have a penis and I still prefer women. I just have my own set of boobs.”
“Sorry for showing your kids The Story of O. It was French. I thought it would be a cultural experience.”
“There was blood in my stool again. Should I call the doctor? Its been a month.”
“We really should try anal. You know the Reagans were fans.”
“I just wanted to say I love you one more time before you die. No, I wont come and visit you. I told you, that place smells of old people and that orange stuff they sprinkle on vomit. Pretend you're a doggie in the kennel.”
When you have these fake conversations, make constant eye contact with people.
3. TAKE BACK THE STREETS
Take the fight to the people handing these fucking headsets out! Go to an AT&T or Verizon store and pace around, having one of the conversations from section 2. Look at cell phones and products. When a clerk asks if you can help them, cut them off before they finish their question by raising your right index finger to indicate that you want them to wait, then tap the headset and and mouth the words “they wont shut up” while making a jabber jaw motion with your left hand. Clerks fucking love that shit. After a minute or two, just leave.
4. TANDEM ASSHOLES
If you know someone else with a hatred for mankind and a bluetooth headset, go to a Walmart and walk around, side by side, having a discussion with each other over your headsets. Discuss the people you see and the products you are passing.
Any time you become “separated” (i.e. more than three feet apart or on either side of another person or an isle), get even louder than you were before.
Have one person go into the restroom and sit in a stall and say “Okay, one more and I'll be out in a minute.”. Have the other person stand out in front and periodically say something like “That is amazing! I can't wait to see you you when you finish. Be sure to wash your hands! Did you use a paper toilet seat guard? Because I don't want you tracking someone's sweaty ass bacteria onto the seats of my prius”.
Hug each other when you are finally reunited.
HATE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE
In this weeks installment, I pay tribute to two of my favorite literary styles: Erotic Celebity Fan Fiction and “Chose Your Own Adventure”. The names of the celebrities have not been changed. They may sound like bigger ceelebrities that you have actually heard of, but I swear to God, they're actually just Canadian up-and-comers from the CW that you've merely never heard of.
HATE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE #1 : IN THE LAIR OF THE HOSEBEAST
“Oh shit!”
Startled by a sudden strange noise, you wake up in a strangers rickety, queen-sized, Ikea bed. The cheap, pink cotton sheets are wet with sweat and you can smell the musky, oily stench of stale bodily fluids.
Looking around the room, you see an odd mix of large stuffed animals, crystal pony figurines, mylar butterfly balloons, a life-size portrait of Rick Bannon, and a bunch of old, rusty medical equipment.
You become aware of someone singing off-key Cariah Marey songs in the bathroom to your right.
If you try to locate your pants, scroll down to PAGE #2.
If you make a break for the door, scroll down to PAGE #3
If you investigate the singing, scroll down to PAGE #4
PAGE #2
You search the floor frantically, trying to locate your pants. There's something horribly wrong about this house, and while your first instinct is to get the fuck out as quickly as possible, you would prefer doing so with something covering your filthy genitals.
After several minutes of searching for pants to cover your shameful nudity, a raspy voice calls to you from the bathroom.
“If you're looking for your clothes, you left them in here, lover.”
If you go into the bathroom to retrieve your pants, scroll down to PAGE #4
If you make a break for the door, scroll down to PAGE #3
PAGE #3
Overcome with a sense of impending doom, you decide to ignore your nudity and make a break for the front door.
“Mother fucking shit!” you yell as you discover that what you thought was the front door is actually an oven, and not because it at all resembles an oven, but because your parents were alcoholic first cousins.
If you decide to leave through the oven anyway, scroll down to PAGE #7
If you decide to head back toward the bathroom, scroll down to PAGE #4
If you decide to leave through one of the windows, scroll down to PAGE #8
PAGE #4
You walk towards the open door. As you approach, the singing stops and the person in the bathroom lets out a coy giggle.
“Come on in, Lover-boy.” says a raspy, but playful voice.
You poke your head through the doorway.
Oh fuck!! It actually is Cariah Marey!! She's lying in a bubble bath, nonchalantly sawing away at her left leg with a rusty hacksaw.
If you ask her why the fuck she's sawing off one of her legs with a rusty hacksaw, scroll down to PAGE #5
If you make a break for the door to the apartment, scroll back up to PAGE #3
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll down to PAGE #6
PAGE #5
“Cariah Marey, you old so-and-so! Why the fuck are you sawing off your left leg with a rusty hacksaw?”
Cariah proceeds to give you a long, incredibly incoherent answer involving rainbows, by which time she has completely severed her left leg.
She giggles and points at a heap of clothes on the floor.
“You left your pants in here last night, after we copulated in the shower.”
You complement Cariah on aptly describing any sexual intercourse that may have occurred with the most cold, unappealing word possible.
She thanks you, then begins sawing away at her other leg.
If you make a break for the door to the apartment, scroll up to PAGE #14
If you attempt to staunch her bleeding by making a tourniquet with your belt, scroll down to PAGE #9.
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll down to PAGE #10
If you grab your pants, put them on and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll down to PAGE #11
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll down to PAGE #6
PAGE #6
You decide to take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family.
Wow. Cariah has a fucked up concept of family. She keeps insisting that she actually gave birth to her stuffed animals and that they love her and call her Mommy-Ma-Ma.
Also, wow. You actually chose to take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family. Hi-five!
When you finish, she asks you to light a match.
If you light a match, scroll down to PAGE #12
If you ignore her request and don't light a match, scroll down to PAGE #13
PAGE #7
You decide to attempt to leave by using the oven, anyway. Unfortunately, on closer inspection, you discover that it is not a gas oven or even an electric oven, but an oversized E-Z-Bake oven, and there are several mold encrusted pizza boxes and a rancid Hungry Man Turkey Dinner inside.
If you decide to head back toward the bathroom, scroll back up to PAGE #4
If you charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Nick Cannon, scroll down to PAGE #10
PAGE #8
You approach the window. Oh wait, you're an inbred cretin with fetal alcohol syndrome. What you thought was a window is actually a portrait of an extremely waspy looking Jesus.
You fall to your knees and begin sobbing, your spirits completely crushed.
If you try to locate your pants, scroll up to PAGE #2.
If you investigate the singing, scroll up to PAGE #4
PAGE #9
Wait, why the hell would you do that?
If you make a break for the door to the apartment, scroll up to PAGE #14
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Nick Cannon, scroll down to PAGE #10
If you grab your pants, put them on and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Nick Cannon, scroll down to PAGE #11
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll back up to PAGE #6
PAGE #10
You scoop your pants off the floor and dash toward the nearby portrait of Rick Bannon. Ah ha! Remembering that your parents were alcoholic first cousins, you realize that your shitty inbred mind had mistaken a door for a portrait of Rick Bannon!
You step out onto the front porch, right as the real Rick Bannon is getting back from a night out alone. He sees you leaving his apartment. You are still naked from the waist down because you did not bother to put on those pants. Only instead of murdering you for making him into a cuckold, he assumes there's a reason you don't have any pants on and takes his own pants off.
You look at each other for several long, awkward seconds.
You clear your throat.
He looks at his watch.
And then you are both hit by a bus.
You spend the next thirty years of your life in a coma. Eventually, Cariah pulls the plug on you. Somehow, this actually causes you to wake up. She's wearing a creepy vinyl nurse costume and has had extensive plastic surgery to supposedly retain her youthful features, but really, she looks like a partially melted wax doll.
You have a stroke and slip back into another, deeper coma.
You come to again, another twenty years later, and promptly die of old age.
THE END
PAGE #11
You scoop your pants off the floor and put them on, then dash toward the nearby portrait of Rick Bannon. Ah ha! Remembering that your parents were alcoholic first cousins, you realize that your shitty inbred mind had mistaken a door for a portrait of Rick Bannon!
Crashing through the door, you stumble into daylight and sweet, sweet freedom. Or so you think.
Immediately after thanking God for getting you out of that nightmarish hellhole, you hear someone blowing on conch shells. Turning around, you see an advancing army of filthy orangutans. Before you have time to remove your pants and display your dominance, their leathery paws drag you to the ground and tear you to shreds.
THE END
PAGE #12
You strike a match across your teeth like a cartoonish villain. For a brief second, you notice the rippling effect of a gas leak, then everything goes white.
You, Cariah Marey, her fucked up stuffed animals and rusty medical equipment and probably Nick Cannon's suffocated remains are vaporized in the ensuing explosion.
Thank God!
THE END
PAGE #13
You ignore Cariah's pleas to light a match, and let her baste in the stench of your bowels.
You collect your pants from the heap on the floor, triggering a bear trap, which completely severs your left foot.
Cariah thrashes about in the tub, moving the stump that once was her left leg around and singing a song about how the two of you are now twins.
The last thing you hear as you bleed out is her awful, vocal warbling.
THE END
PAGE #14
Overcome with a sense of impending doom, you decide to ignore your nudity and make a break for the front door.
“Mother fucking shit!” you yell as the you discover that what you thought was the front door is actually an oven, and not because it at all resembles an oven, but because your parents were alcoholic first cousins.
If you decide to leave through the oven anyway, scroll up to page #7
If you decide to head back toward the bathroom, scroll down to page #15
If you decide to leave through one of the windows, scroll down to page #8
PAGE #15
You skulk back to the bathroom, resigned to the wretched fate of being Cariah Marey's living plaything. Seeing as how you just mistook the oven for the front door, you probably are stupid enough to actually find Cariah Marey pleasant and even talented.
Once back in the bathroom, you find that Cariah has now completely severed both of her legs and is in the middle of grafting a pair of pink vinyl pony legs onto her stumps. She's singing happily about her new Lover-boy and pointing at you every time she mentions this unfortunate schmuck.
If you attempt to burn you eyeballs out with a curling iron, scroll down to PAGE# 16.
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll down to PAGE #6
PAGE #16
With the soul-crushing realization that you are doomed to a future of gecko ankle tattoos and vocal warbling, you search around the bathroom, looking for something – anything - you could use to end your life. While looking around, you notice your pants lying next to the tub, and shudder at the implications.
You grab a curling iron from a cabinet under the sink and plug it in, intent on burning through your eyeballs, into your brain. In the few moments it takes for the iron to warm up, you attempt to make small-talk with Cariah.
She's fine. Her favorite color, of course, is pink. No, you may not call her “Mimi”. Working with the ODB was fun because he was always calling her vacuous. She doesn't know what that means, but it sounds funny!
Thank God! The curling iron has finally gotten hot! You hold it in front of your face for a second, smelling the mix of electric heat and burning product, and say a little prayer for forgiveness.
Ow!! Fuck!! That really hurts!! What the fuck were you thinking?!! All you managed to do was blister your eyelids. Fuck!! Shit!! Ow!!
You run around the bathroom, flailing your arms, knocking shit off the walls and strewing makeup and hair products everywhere.
Finally, you regain your senses. For some reason you are still clutching the curling iron.
Cariah waves and blows a handful of bubbles at you.
If you fling the curling iron into the tub, scroll down to PAGE #17
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll back up to PAGE #6
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll down to PAGE #10
PAGE #17
This is it! Using the last ounce of your strength, you fling the curling iron at Cariah, hoping to electrocute her in the tub so that you can tend to your blistered eyelids then find a way out of this nightmare.
The curling iron flies out of your hand, arcs out about two feet and comes crashing down to the floor. What the fuck? Did you think you'd found the curling iron with the world's longest fucking cord? Its still tethered to the wall, Dumb Ass!
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll back up to PAGE #6
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll back up to PAGE #10
HATE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE #1 : IN THE LAIR OF THE HOSEBEAST
“Oh shit!”
Startled by a sudden strange noise, you wake up in a strangers rickety, queen-sized, Ikea bed. The cheap, pink cotton sheets are wet with sweat and you can smell the musky, oily stench of stale bodily fluids.
Looking around the room, you see an odd mix of large stuffed animals, crystal pony figurines, mylar butterfly balloons, a life-size portrait of Rick Bannon, and a bunch of old, rusty medical equipment.
You become aware of someone singing off-key Cariah Marey songs in the bathroom to your right.
If you try to locate your pants, scroll down to PAGE #2.
If you make a break for the door, scroll down to PAGE #3
If you investigate the singing, scroll down to PAGE #4
PAGE #2
You search the floor frantically, trying to locate your pants. There's something horribly wrong about this house, and while your first instinct is to get the fuck out as quickly as possible, you would prefer doing so with something covering your filthy genitals.
After several minutes of searching for pants to cover your shameful nudity, a raspy voice calls to you from the bathroom.
“If you're looking for your clothes, you left them in here, lover.”
If you go into the bathroom to retrieve your pants, scroll down to PAGE #4
If you make a break for the door, scroll down to PAGE #3
PAGE #3
Overcome with a sense of impending doom, you decide to ignore your nudity and make a break for the front door.
“Mother fucking shit!” you yell as you discover that what you thought was the front door is actually an oven, and not because it at all resembles an oven, but because your parents were alcoholic first cousins.
If you decide to leave through the oven anyway, scroll down to PAGE #7
If you decide to head back toward the bathroom, scroll down to PAGE #4
If you decide to leave through one of the windows, scroll down to PAGE #8
PAGE #4
You walk towards the open door. As you approach, the singing stops and the person in the bathroom lets out a coy giggle.
“Come on in, Lover-boy.” says a raspy, but playful voice.
You poke your head through the doorway.
Oh fuck!! It actually is Cariah Marey!! She's lying in a bubble bath, nonchalantly sawing away at her left leg with a rusty hacksaw.
If you ask her why the fuck she's sawing off one of her legs with a rusty hacksaw, scroll down to PAGE #5
If you make a break for the door to the apartment, scroll back up to PAGE #3
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll down to PAGE #6
PAGE #5
“Cariah Marey, you old so-and-so! Why the fuck are you sawing off your left leg with a rusty hacksaw?”
Cariah proceeds to give you a long, incredibly incoherent answer involving rainbows, by which time she has completely severed her left leg.
She giggles and points at a heap of clothes on the floor.
“You left your pants in here last night, after we copulated in the shower.”
You complement Cariah on aptly describing any sexual intercourse that may have occurred with the most cold, unappealing word possible.
She thanks you, then begins sawing away at her other leg.
If you make a break for the door to the apartment, scroll up to PAGE #14
If you attempt to staunch her bleeding by making a tourniquet with your belt, scroll down to PAGE #9.
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll down to PAGE #10
If you grab your pants, put them on and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll down to PAGE #11
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll down to PAGE #6
PAGE #6
You decide to take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family.
Wow. Cariah has a fucked up concept of family. She keeps insisting that she actually gave birth to her stuffed animals and that they love her and call her Mommy-Ma-Ma.
Also, wow. You actually chose to take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family. Hi-five!
When you finish, she asks you to light a match.
If you light a match, scroll down to PAGE #12
If you ignore her request and don't light a match, scroll down to PAGE #13
PAGE #7
You decide to attempt to leave by using the oven, anyway. Unfortunately, on closer inspection, you discover that it is not a gas oven or even an electric oven, but an oversized E-Z-Bake oven, and there are several mold encrusted pizza boxes and a rancid Hungry Man Turkey Dinner inside.
If you decide to head back toward the bathroom, scroll back up to PAGE #4
If you charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Nick Cannon, scroll down to PAGE #10
PAGE #8
You approach the window. Oh wait, you're an inbred cretin with fetal alcohol syndrome. What you thought was a window is actually a portrait of an extremely waspy looking Jesus.
You fall to your knees and begin sobbing, your spirits completely crushed.
If you try to locate your pants, scroll up to PAGE #2.
If you investigate the singing, scroll up to PAGE #4
PAGE #9
Wait, why the hell would you do that?
If you make a break for the door to the apartment, scroll up to PAGE #14
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Nick Cannon, scroll down to PAGE #10
If you grab your pants, put them on and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Nick Cannon, scroll down to PAGE #11
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll back up to PAGE #6
PAGE #10
You scoop your pants off the floor and dash toward the nearby portrait of Rick Bannon. Ah ha! Remembering that your parents were alcoholic first cousins, you realize that your shitty inbred mind had mistaken a door for a portrait of Rick Bannon!
You step out onto the front porch, right as the real Rick Bannon is getting back from a night out alone. He sees you leaving his apartment. You are still naked from the waist down because you did not bother to put on those pants. Only instead of murdering you for making him into a cuckold, he assumes there's a reason you don't have any pants on and takes his own pants off.
You look at each other for several long, awkward seconds.
You clear your throat.
He looks at his watch.
And then you are both hit by a bus.
You spend the next thirty years of your life in a coma. Eventually, Cariah pulls the plug on you. Somehow, this actually causes you to wake up. She's wearing a creepy vinyl nurse costume and has had extensive plastic surgery to supposedly retain her youthful features, but really, she looks like a partially melted wax doll.
You have a stroke and slip back into another, deeper coma.
You come to again, another twenty years later, and promptly die of old age.
THE END
PAGE #11
You scoop your pants off the floor and put them on, then dash toward the nearby portrait of Rick Bannon. Ah ha! Remembering that your parents were alcoholic first cousins, you realize that your shitty inbred mind had mistaken a door for a portrait of Rick Bannon!
Crashing through the door, you stumble into daylight and sweet, sweet freedom. Or so you think.
Immediately after thanking God for getting you out of that nightmarish hellhole, you hear someone blowing on conch shells. Turning around, you see an advancing army of filthy orangutans. Before you have time to remove your pants and display your dominance, their leathery paws drag you to the ground and tear you to shreds.
THE END
PAGE #12
You strike a match across your teeth like a cartoonish villain. For a brief second, you notice the rippling effect of a gas leak, then everything goes white.
You, Cariah Marey, her fucked up stuffed animals and rusty medical equipment and probably Nick Cannon's suffocated remains are vaporized in the ensuing explosion.
Thank God!
THE END
PAGE #13
You ignore Cariah's pleas to light a match, and let her baste in the stench of your bowels.
You collect your pants from the heap on the floor, triggering a bear trap, which completely severs your left foot.
Cariah thrashes about in the tub, moving the stump that once was her left leg around and singing a song about how the two of you are now twins.
The last thing you hear as you bleed out is her awful, vocal warbling.
THE END
PAGE #14
Overcome with a sense of impending doom, you decide to ignore your nudity and make a break for the front door.
“Mother fucking shit!” you yell as the you discover that what you thought was the front door is actually an oven, and not because it at all resembles an oven, but because your parents were alcoholic first cousins.
If you decide to leave through the oven anyway, scroll up to page #7
If you decide to head back toward the bathroom, scroll down to page #15
If you decide to leave through one of the windows, scroll down to page #8
PAGE #15
You skulk back to the bathroom, resigned to the wretched fate of being Cariah Marey's living plaything. Seeing as how you just mistook the oven for the front door, you probably are stupid enough to actually find Cariah Marey pleasant and even talented.
Once back in the bathroom, you find that Cariah has now completely severed both of her legs and is in the middle of grafting a pair of pink vinyl pony legs onto her stumps. She's singing happily about her new Lover-boy and pointing at you every time she mentions this unfortunate schmuck.
If you attempt to burn you eyeballs out with a curling iron, scroll down to PAGE# 16.
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll down to PAGE #6
PAGE #16
With the soul-crushing realization that you are doomed to a future of gecko ankle tattoos and vocal warbling, you search around the bathroom, looking for something – anything - you could use to end your life. While looking around, you notice your pants lying next to the tub, and shudder at the implications.
You grab a curling iron from a cabinet under the sink and plug it in, intent on burning through your eyeballs, into your brain. In the few moments it takes for the iron to warm up, you attempt to make small-talk with Cariah.
She's fine. Her favorite color, of course, is pink. No, you may not call her “Mimi”. Working with the ODB was fun because he was always calling her vacuous. She doesn't know what that means, but it sounds funny!
Thank God! The curling iron has finally gotten hot! You hold it in front of your face for a second, smelling the mix of electric heat and burning product, and say a little prayer for forgiveness.
Ow!! Fuck!! That really hurts!! What the fuck were you thinking?!! All you managed to do was blister your eyelids. Fuck!! Shit!! Ow!!
You run around the bathroom, flailing your arms, knocking shit off the walls and strewing makeup and hair products everywhere.
Finally, you regain your senses. For some reason you are still clutching the curling iron.
Cariah waves and blows a handful of bubbles at you.
If you fling the curling iron into the tub, scroll down to PAGE #17
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll back up to PAGE #6
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll down to PAGE #10
PAGE #17
This is it! Using the last ounce of your strength, you fling the curling iron at Cariah, hoping to electrocute her in the tub so that you can tend to your blistered eyelids then find a way out of this nightmare.
The curling iron flies out of your hand, arcs out about two feet and comes crashing down to the floor. What the fuck? Did you think you'd found the curling iron with the world's longest fucking cord? Its still tethered to the wall, Dumb Ass!
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll back up to PAGE #6
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll back up to PAGE #10
Monday, January 25, 2010
TIJUANA SWORD FIGHT: AN ESSAY ON THE FATHERLY ART OF FATHERHOOD
For a long time, I have restrained myself from writing about the art of fatherly child-rearing. As a man who is simultaneously creeped out by and afraid of accidentally breaking babies, I felt that I had no right to criticize or make suggestions about the beautiful act of raising your children in such a way that they don't turn out to be stupid assholes.
That all changed earlier this week when I read the Bible.
I'm just fucking with you. No, actually, I read “Fatherhood” by Bill Cosby. I was stuck in the waiting room of a Toyota dealership in Downeastern Maine for four and a half hours, and it was the only thing to read that wasn't an AARP pamphlet or Golfer's Digest. He's not just funny. He's very wise.
Anyway, this life changing event has now given me carte blanche to delve into the world of child rearing essays, as I am now clearly an expert on the matter. So here goes:
My horrible, hypothetical child, Rasputin Caligula Von Hateful, was refusing to eat anything other than hot dogs the other night. I would offer him some broccoli and he would say “No Daddy! I want a hot dog!”.
“Broccoli is expensive, My Boy.” I would say. “I provide this for you instead of blowing all our money on Rogaine and issues of Swank.”
“I want hot dogs!!” replied my little ingrate.
“And I want a child who isn't wearing adult diapers at twelve because he is afraid of being sucked down the drain when he flushes.”
“That was cold blooded, Daddy.”
“EAT YOUR FUCKING BROCCOLI!!”
“I WANT HOT DOGS!!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!”
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
“SNUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHH!!”
“BAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”
This exchange further degraded into noises I cannot even begin to replicate in text for several hours. Needless to say, Li'l Raspy did not get his hot dogs and I spent the evening screaming into a pillow until blood from my lungs had created a nice Shroud of Turin-ish image of Vin Diesel. Nestling on a bloody Vin Diesel put me into a nice, deep to sleep, which allowed me to think of a solution to my ungrateful son's desire to only consume tubular hog anus.
The next morning I dressed Rasputin in his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit, strapped him into his young adult car seat (I just don't trust him) and took him on a road trip, promising him that it would end in hot dogs if he behaved. I am by no means a tyrant. My definition of behaving when it came to my hypothetical child was that he couldn't make eye contact with me, he couldn't refer to me as Filthy Uncle Farty Ass, his pants had to stay on when he was in the company of other human beings and he couldn't eat things he finds on the floor of my car. Rasputin, being a horrible, insolent child failed spectacularly on every single rule.
The joke was on him, however. As he sat there writhing in his intentionally demeaning, oversized car seat, trying to get his pants completely off while stuffing stale floor jerky into his mouth, staring and calling me Filthy Uncle Farty Ass, I just smirked.
“You're a good boy, Raspy.” I said. “Don't worry. You may be a horrible failure... at everything, I may have already written you out of my will in favor of a random derelict I met in the restroom at that rest stop, you may have been told never to come back to multiple Presbyterian Churches, you may have been born with a set of genitals never before documented in the annals of medicine that required countless expensive reconstructive surgeries before we could broadly apply a gender to you which in turned doomed you to attending a shitty day care with knock off Winnie the Pooh characters on the wall instead of the elite and therefore expensive Feshington Acres Child Care, thus dooming you to moving your lips while you read your Betty and Veronica comics, but dammit, you are getting hot dogs!”
I drove all morning, zipping down I-95 and I-93 until we reached a decrepit looking street in the middle of Manchester, NH lined with porno arcades, tobacconists and the world's filthiest Laura Ashley outlet.
“Daddy, it smells like kitty's pee-pee, throw up and shame.”
“Yes. Yes it does. Welcome to Libertarian Country.”
We strolled into a charming little rats nest called Manchester Chaw and Porno. The balding nineteen year-old at the counter with three fingers on either hand and a rather disconcerting neck tattoo of Styx guitarist Tommy Shaw took one look at my son and said “Dude. That better be a fuckin' dwarf dude, and even if it fuckin' is, I ain't selling him any granny homo porn. Because we're all out.”
“Please just look at the floor, son.”
I went up to the counter, quickly purchased three items and led my son back out to the car.
“Da-da what are Barely Legal Ginch Lickers and why do they deserve an entire magazine devoted to them?”
“Ah ha ha ha! Seriously, don't call me Dada! You're twelve and it makes me drink.”
I opened the brown paper bag and pulled out a pair of snacks.
“What are those, father?”
“This,” I said, dangling the item in my left had closer to his face, “is a Sonora Firecracker.”
Rasputin stared at the squishy, small, red, wrinkled sausage inside the plastic sleeve.
“And this,” I said, switching up my display, “is a Daisy Pickled Sausage.”
Again, my unwholesome child regarded the discolored, waterlogged processed meat inside the clear plastic tube.
“They look like hot dogs, daddy.”
“They are hot dogs, oh my unfortunate son. Pickled hot dogs. You are going to have yourself a good old fashioned Tijuana Sword Fight.”
“What's a Tijuana Sword Fight?”
“I'm glad you asked, Son. You are going to eat both of these pickled sausages. You are going to take a bite of one, and then the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. Pausing between each bite, you are going to evaluate the subtle differences between each one. If you can eat them all, you get the special prize that is still in the bag.”
I don't think it had fully dawned on my doddering simpleton son what he was about to consume, because he tore into the packages with gusto. Immediately, my car was filled with an aroma very fitting of Manchester, New Hampshire, and Rasputin's hands were dripping with hot dog juices and vinegar. Despite the bitterly cold, January weather, I was forced to roll down the window to avoid being overpowered by the pickle-eggy-assy stench emanating from the questionable meat clutched in my child's hands.
Just as my son was about to put the Sonora Firecracker in his mouth, a look of terror and revulsion filled his eyes. He made a groaning noise, flung the sausages onto the dashboard, rolled down his window and proceeded to vomit his breakfast all over Manchester's unfortunate, cracked and filthy tax free sidewalks. Amazingly, the undigested Alphabits landed in just such a way that they formed an incredibly well-written and insightful synopsis of the Dudley Moore and Daryl Hannah movie “Crazy People”.
Rasputin immediately declared himself a vegetarian and I called him a pantywaist then made him walk the 95 or so miles back to Portland.
In case you were wondering, the third thing I purchased was a strip of firecrackers which I used to terrify him into no longer playing with his American Girl dolls in the cat box.
Ah, fatherhood!
That all changed earlier this week when I read the Bible.
I'm just fucking with you. No, actually, I read “Fatherhood” by Bill Cosby. I was stuck in the waiting room of a Toyota dealership in Downeastern Maine for four and a half hours, and it was the only thing to read that wasn't an AARP pamphlet or Golfer's Digest. He's not just funny. He's very wise.
Anyway, this life changing event has now given me carte blanche to delve into the world of child rearing essays, as I am now clearly an expert on the matter. So here goes:
My horrible, hypothetical child, Rasputin Caligula Von Hateful, was refusing to eat anything other than hot dogs the other night. I would offer him some broccoli and he would say “No Daddy! I want a hot dog!”.
“Broccoli is expensive, My Boy.” I would say. “I provide this for you instead of blowing all our money on Rogaine and issues of Swank.”
“I want hot dogs!!” replied my little ingrate.
“And I want a child who isn't wearing adult diapers at twelve because he is afraid of being sucked down the drain when he flushes.”
“That was cold blooded, Daddy.”
“EAT YOUR FUCKING BROCCOLI!!”
“I WANT HOT DOGS!!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!”
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
“SNUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHH!!”
“BAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”
This exchange further degraded into noises I cannot even begin to replicate in text for several hours. Needless to say, Li'l Raspy did not get his hot dogs and I spent the evening screaming into a pillow until blood from my lungs had created a nice Shroud of Turin-ish image of Vin Diesel. Nestling on a bloody Vin Diesel put me into a nice, deep to sleep, which allowed me to think of a solution to my ungrateful son's desire to only consume tubular hog anus.
The next morning I dressed Rasputin in his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit, strapped him into his young adult car seat (I just don't trust him) and took him on a road trip, promising him that it would end in hot dogs if he behaved. I am by no means a tyrant. My definition of behaving when it came to my hypothetical child was that he couldn't make eye contact with me, he couldn't refer to me as Filthy Uncle Farty Ass, his pants had to stay on when he was in the company of other human beings and he couldn't eat things he finds on the floor of my car. Rasputin, being a horrible, insolent child failed spectacularly on every single rule.
The joke was on him, however. As he sat there writhing in his intentionally demeaning, oversized car seat, trying to get his pants completely off while stuffing stale floor jerky into his mouth, staring and calling me Filthy Uncle Farty Ass, I just smirked.
“You're a good boy, Raspy.” I said. “Don't worry. You may be a horrible failure... at everything, I may have already written you out of my will in favor of a random derelict I met in the restroom at that rest stop, you may have been told never to come back to multiple Presbyterian Churches, you may have been born with a set of genitals never before documented in the annals of medicine that required countless expensive reconstructive surgeries before we could broadly apply a gender to you which in turned doomed you to attending a shitty day care with knock off Winnie the Pooh characters on the wall instead of the elite and therefore expensive Feshington Acres Child Care, thus dooming you to moving your lips while you read your Betty and Veronica comics, but dammit, you are getting hot dogs!”
I drove all morning, zipping down I-95 and I-93 until we reached a decrepit looking street in the middle of Manchester, NH lined with porno arcades, tobacconists and the world's filthiest Laura Ashley outlet.
“Daddy, it smells like kitty's pee-pee, throw up and shame.”
“Yes. Yes it does. Welcome to Libertarian Country.”
We strolled into a charming little rats nest called Manchester Chaw and Porno. The balding nineteen year-old at the counter with three fingers on either hand and a rather disconcerting neck tattoo of Styx guitarist Tommy Shaw took one look at my son and said “Dude. That better be a fuckin' dwarf dude, and even if it fuckin' is, I ain't selling him any granny homo porn. Because we're all out.”
“Please just look at the floor, son.”
I went up to the counter, quickly purchased three items and led my son back out to the car.
“Da-da what are Barely Legal Ginch Lickers and why do they deserve an entire magazine devoted to them?”
“Ah ha ha ha! Seriously, don't call me Dada! You're twelve and it makes me drink.”
I opened the brown paper bag and pulled out a pair of snacks.
“What are those, father?”
“This,” I said, dangling the item in my left had closer to his face, “is a Sonora Firecracker.”
Rasputin stared at the squishy, small, red, wrinkled sausage inside the plastic sleeve.
“And this,” I said, switching up my display, “is a Daisy Pickled Sausage.”
Again, my unwholesome child regarded the discolored, waterlogged processed meat inside the clear plastic tube.
“They look like hot dogs, daddy.”
“They are hot dogs, oh my unfortunate son. Pickled hot dogs. You are going to have yourself a good old fashioned Tijuana Sword Fight.”
“What's a Tijuana Sword Fight?”
“I'm glad you asked, Son. You are going to eat both of these pickled sausages. You are going to take a bite of one, and then the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. Pausing between each bite, you are going to evaluate the subtle differences between each one. If you can eat them all, you get the special prize that is still in the bag.”
I don't think it had fully dawned on my doddering simpleton son what he was about to consume, because he tore into the packages with gusto. Immediately, my car was filled with an aroma very fitting of Manchester, New Hampshire, and Rasputin's hands were dripping with hot dog juices and vinegar. Despite the bitterly cold, January weather, I was forced to roll down the window to avoid being overpowered by the pickle-eggy-assy stench emanating from the questionable meat clutched in my child's hands.
Just as my son was about to put the Sonora Firecracker in his mouth, a look of terror and revulsion filled his eyes. He made a groaning noise, flung the sausages onto the dashboard, rolled down his window and proceeded to vomit his breakfast all over Manchester's unfortunate, cracked and filthy tax free sidewalks. Amazingly, the undigested Alphabits landed in just such a way that they formed an incredibly well-written and insightful synopsis of the Dudley Moore and Daryl Hannah movie “Crazy People”.
Rasputin immediately declared himself a vegetarian and I called him a pantywaist then made him walk the 95 or so miles back to Portland.
In case you were wondering, the third thing I purchased was a strip of firecrackers which I used to terrify him into no longer playing with his American Girl dolls in the cat box.
Ah, fatherhood!
Monday, January 11, 2010
Sexy Teen Vampires
What follows is an excerpt from the latest book in my sexy teenage vampire series, "The Dark Matter Saga: Book Nineteen – The Movement". I have no delusions of grandeur in regards to the quality of my writing. I just know that it will pretty much make me a billionaire. Because, holy shit, America fucking loves shitty, sexy teen vampire bullshit.
Enjoy!
CHAPTER 7:
Rumor's heart was pounding. Her thighs were shaking. Her glasses were fogging up. This was easily the grossest outhouse in all of Turner Falls. The wretched smell of three years of backed up sewage wafted up from the dank hole and coated her nostrils like a thick, greasy paste.
It reminded her of Durmitt... for some reason. Oh God, where was Durmitt? Handsome, sexy, perpetually sixteen as played by a twenty eight year old with a lifetime membership to a hair removal... store.
Her heart began to beat faster. She grew flushed. Then she smelled the putrid stench of stale human waste again and remembered that she had to offload a two-days camping topped off by a night of binge drinking deuce.
"Oh Jesus" she muttered as she sat down on the cold, damp, poorly attached plastic toilet seat that covered the hole.
Suddenly she smelled that lovely, familiar lilac and fresh baked cinnamon roll smell she now knew was the smell of sexy teen vampires. The rank odor of archaic shit faded away and she was filled with loving warmth.
"Oh Durmitt, I knew you'd come to comfort me!"
"Oh. Yeah. Sure. I'm here to... comfort you... and not watch you poop."
"I can't see you Durmitt. Are you invisible?"
"No. I'm just watching you through a hole my creepy uncle drilled in the side. You just get comfortable and start pooping."
"Oh, well, I thought you might be able to turn invisible. You know, because you smell like lilacs and cinnamon rolls, have the power to fly, can throw a car, have laser eyes, are bullet proof, can breathe underwater, read every language known to man and can actually drink a person's blood without breaking the skin."
"Less talky more squatty, Babe."
"Durmitt, when will you make me a vampire? I really want to be with you forever."
"Not now, Sugartits, Now is for pooping. So poop."
"Durmitt, have you ever loved someone as much as you love me?"
"No."
For a long moment, both Durmitt and Rumor were silent. Then the stillness of the night was broken by a loud, splattery fart followed by a splash.
"Oh God, Durmitt. I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"I love you Durmitt."
"Yeah, whatever. I think I'm going to go off and mope somewhere."
The cinnamon bun smell faded away, and once again Rumor was alone in the dark, smelly outhouse. It occurred to her that Durmitt had been depressed and strangely fixated on her bowels lately. Vampire's were so sensitive!
Durmitt had a craving for some chaw and an issue of “Sweaty Guzungas and Ass”.
Enjoy!
CHAPTER 7:
Rumor's heart was pounding. Her thighs were shaking. Her glasses were fogging up. This was easily the grossest outhouse in all of Turner Falls. The wretched smell of three years of backed up sewage wafted up from the dank hole and coated her nostrils like a thick, greasy paste.
It reminded her of Durmitt... for some reason. Oh God, where was Durmitt? Handsome, sexy, perpetually sixteen as played by a twenty eight year old with a lifetime membership to a hair removal... store.
Her heart began to beat faster. She grew flushed. Then she smelled the putrid stench of stale human waste again and remembered that she had to offload a two-days camping topped off by a night of binge drinking deuce.
"Oh Jesus" she muttered as she sat down on the cold, damp, poorly attached plastic toilet seat that covered the hole.
Suddenly she smelled that lovely, familiar lilac and fresh baked cinnamon roll smell she now knew was the smell of sexy teen vampires. The rank odor of archaic shit faded away and she was filled with loving warmth.
"Oh Durmitt, I knew you'd come to comfort me!"
"Oh. Yeah. Sure. I'm here to... comfort you... and not watch you poop."
"I can't see you Durmitt. Are you invisible?"
"No. I'm just watching you through a hole my creepy uncle drilled in the side. You just get comfortable and start pooping."
"Oh, well, I thought you might be able to turn invisible. You know, because you smell like lilacs and cinnamon rolls, have the power to fly, can throw a car, have laser eyes, are bullet proof, can breathe underwater, read every language known to man and can actually drink a person's blood without breaking the skin."
"Less talky more squatty, Babe."
"Durmitt, when will you make me a vampire? I really want to be with you forever."
"Not now, Sugartits, Now is for pooping. So poop."
"Durmitt, have you ever loved someone as much as you love me?"
"No."
For a long moment, both Durmitt and Rumor were silent. Then the stillness of the night was broken by a loud, splattery fart followed by a splash.
"Oh God, Durmitt. I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"I love you Durmitt."
"Yeah, whatever. I think I'm going to go off and mope somewhere."
The cinnamon bun smell faded away, and once again Rumor was alone in the dark, smelly outhouse. It occurred to her that Durmitt had been depressed and strangely fixated on her bowels lately. Vampire's were so sensitive!
Durmitt had a craving for some chaw and an issue of “Sweaty Guzungas and Ass”.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The Riddle of Steel
Hello, Fellow Miserable Assholes,
First of all, you may have been wondering where the Hateful Man has been for the last 3 months. I wish I could say something awesome; like that I was going door-to-door, clotheslining anyone who actually purchased “Confessions of a Shopaholic” or waging a letter-writing campaign to inform people that Susan Boyle is really just Morrissey. Sadly, neither one is actually the case.
In truth, the Hateful Man has a job – a job that requires him to work a lot between late October and early January. Before you even ask, no, I am not a mall Santa Claus. I consider mall Santi to be a form of plushy-ism and I am not okay with that. No, I just manage a shipping department somewhere. It’s an awesome job, one I love, but it keeps me very busy (occasionally to the tune of 60 hours a week) which prevents me from spewing half-crazed vitriol about how much I hate stupid people for months on end.
So, the big news in the world of Hatefulness is that I have finally found a religion that I can actually endorse as a Hateful Man.
It was not easy finding such a religion. I had to consider the pros and cons of a wide variety of churches, cults, covens, sects, branches, clutches, hives and small cities in Texas. Religions after all are, for the most part, fundamentally hateful to begin with. The problem is that they are often the wrong kind of hateful.
As a Hateful Man, I fully and freely endorse Crom. Yes, Crom, the patron deity of Conan the Barbarian.
Why Crom? Quite simply, he does not give a fuck. Seriously. Crom does not care. He gave you the courage and strength to persevere at birth, and if you do not use it to your fullest extent, that’s your problem, not his.
What does Crom actually expect from you? Well, mainly, he doesn’t want you to bother him. If you plea to Crom for help, you will be lucky if he merely chooses not to listen. If he has to get off his mountain to help you, you better be fighting the entire Mongol horde, armed only with a gnarled tree root that you had to rip out of the ground, otherwise he’ll take it out of your hide.
He’s not big on the whole temple/singing of praises/gathering thing, either. Think about it. If you constantly had to hear children and atonal parishioners droning off the lyrics to “(your name here) loves me” or “A Mighty Fortress is Our (your name here)”, you’d probably be pretty irritable.
Crom will not redeem your sins. For the love of being a total dick to people, do not ask Crom to forgive you. He won’t. It’s annoying and disrespectful. You might as well ask him for a piece of gum and to validate your parking pass while you’re at it, because he won’t do any of those things. What you do with your life is your business, and if you do something to fuck up your chances of getting into Valhalla, Crom is not going to help you.
Speaking of Valhalla, you may be wondering what you can do to garner Crom’s favor, and what benefits come with this? Well, as stated earlier, the big thing is that you do not bother him. If you are to earn Crom’s favor, you need to bring attention to yourself through hard work, struggle, courage, cleverness and sheer brutality. Do not sit around waiting for other people to solve your problems – solve them yourself.
The second thing you need to do is figure out the Riddle of Steel. What is the Riddle of Steel? Basically, it’s the question of whether you should have more faith in the weapon in your hand or the hand holding the weapon. When you die, Crom will ask you for your own interpretation of the answer. Answer wrong and Crom will mock you and kick you off his mountain. Answer correctly, and you will earn Crom’s grudging respect and he’ll get you into Valhalla. Seeing as how Crom apparently is some kind of proto-Celtic deity, not an Aesir or Vanir, this is no small favor. Motherfucka gots to pull some strings, homey. That hook-up takes some fuckin’ work.
Does Crom have any holidays? Again, he does not want to be bothered, so no. He’s too brutal for greeting cards and warm feelings and shit. In fact, the fact that you even have feelings really makes Crom not want to be associated with you. But really, when was the last time you actually enjoyed a holiday? I suppose, since Crom is proto-Celtic, you could toast him on St. Patrick’s Day. But if you’re already drunk enough that you’re making toasts to deities, you’re probably just going to make an ass of yourself and will wind up getting on Crom’s nerves. Plus, if you or anyone around you yells “woo!” while toasting him, you’re automatically on his Valhalla Black List. Crom hates it when people yell “woo!”
Basically, Crom is a Hateful Man, and he doesn’t expect you to put any effort into actually worshipping him. It’s the perfect religion for people who do not really want a religion, don’t like other people, and don’t want to sing, but still want an afterlife. Choosing Crom just makes sense.
First of all, you may have been wondering where the Hateful Man has been for the last 3 months. I wish I could say something awesome; like that I was going door-to-door, clotheslining anyone who actually purchased “Confessions of a Shopaholic” or waging a letter-writing campaign to inform people that Susan Boyle is really just Morrissey. Sadly, neither one is actually the case.
In truth, the Hateful Man has a job – a job that requires him to work a lot between late October and early January. Before you even ask, no, I am not a mall Santa Claus. I consider mall Santi to be a form of plushy-ism and I am not okay with that. No, I just manage a shipping department somewhere. It’s an awesome job, one I love, but it keeps me very busy (occasionally to the tune of 60 hours a week) which prevents me from spewing half-crazed vitriol about how much I hate stupid people for months on end.
So, the big news in the world of Hatefulness is that I have finally found a religion that I can actually endorse as a Hateful Man.
It was not easy finding such a religion. I had to consider the pros and cons of a wide variety of churches, cults, covens, sects, branches, clutches, hives and small cities in Texas. Religions after all are, for the most part, fundamentally hateful to begin with. The problem is that they are often the wrong kind of hateful.
As a Hateful Man, I fully and freely endorse Crom. Yes, Crom, the patron deity of Conan the Barbarian.
Why Crom? Quite simply, he does not give a fuck. Seriously. Crom does not care. He gave you the courage and strength to persevere at birth, and if you do not use it to your fullest extent, that’s your problem, not his.
What does Crom actually expect from you? Well, mainly, he doesn’t want you to bother him. If you plea to Crom for help, you will be lucky if he merely chooses not to listen. If he has to get off his mountain to help you, you better be fighting the entire Mongol horde, armed only with a gnarled tree root that you had to rip out of the ground, otherwise he’ll take it out of your hide.
He’s not big on the whole temple/singing of praises/gathering thing, either. Think about it. If you constantly had to hear children and atonal parishioners droning off the lyrics to “(your name here) loves me” or “A Mighty Fortress is Our (your name here)”, you’d probably be pretty irritable.
Crom will not redeem your sins. For the love of being a total dick to people, do not ask Crom to forgive you. He won’t. It’s annoying and disrespectful. You might as well ask him for a piece of gum and to validate your parking pass while you’re at it, because he won’t do any of those things. What you do with your life is your business, and if you do something to fuck up your chances of getting into Valhalla, Crom is not going to help you.
Speaking of Valhalla, you may be wondering what you can do to garner Crom’s favor, and what benefits come with this? Well, as stated earlier, the big thing is that you do not bother him. If you are to earn Crom’s favor, you need to bring attention to yourself through hard work, struggle, courage, cleverness and sheer brutality. Do not sit around waiting for other people to solve your problems – solve them yourself.
The second thing you need to do is figure out the Riddle of Steel. What is the Riddle of Steel? Basically, it’s the question of whether you should have more faith in the weapon in your hand or the hand holding the weapon. When you die, Crom will ask you for your own interpretation of the answer. Answer wrong and Crom will mock you and kick you off his mountain. Answer correctly, and you will earn Crom’s grudging respect and he’ll get you into Valhalla. Seeing as how Crom apparently is some kind of proto-Celtic deity, not an Aesir or Vanir, this is no small favor. Motherfucka gots to pull some strings, homey. That hook-up takes some fuckin’ work.
Does Crom have any holidays? Again, he does not want to be bothered, so no. He’s too brutal for greeting cards and warm feelings and shit. In fact, the fact that you even have feelings really makes Crom not want to be associated with you. But really, when was the last time you actually enjoyed a holiday? I suppose, since Crom is proto-Celtic, you could toast him on St. Patrick’s Day. But if you’re already drunk enough that you’re making toasts to deities, you’re probably just going to make an ass of yourself and will wind up getting on Crom’s nerves. Plus, if you or anyone around you yells “woo!” while toasting him, you’re automatically on his Valhalla Black List. Crom hates it when people yell “woo!”
Basically, Crom is a Hateful Man, and he doesn’t expect you to put any effort into actually worshipping him. It’s the perfect religion for people who do not really want a religion, don’t like other people, and don’t want to sing, but still want an afterlife. Choosing Crom just makes sense.
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