AN OVERHANG IS WHAT'S NEEDED

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TODAY IS A GOOD DAY FOR DEMOCRACY

Sorry to leave you with tacky, uninspiring reposts, but I've been busy wondering why-oh-why I actually came back from vacation instead of selling the rental car, growing my hair out, building a makeshift hut from rainforest leaves and cow dung, foraging for grubs and fruits to survive, swimming in the ocean, eating raw tuna, and basically behaving like a lankier Gauguin with tourists and locals alike. Minus the Syphilis, of course (fingers crossed!).

Bring your umbrella to work today in case it rains McCain. Eeeesh.

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ALOHA ER'BODY

I will be out of the office until Monday, March 24th. If this is an emergency, please take a deep cleansing breath and remember... we're all gonna get leid!

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JUST POINT, BLAST, AND COOK!!

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I AM SOOOO NOT FUNNY

She:
date: Tue, Mar 11, 2008 at 1:38 PM
subject: Things
>>>>>>
"Hey kid,
I was just cleaning out the junk on my work computer and saw that at one point I had bookmarked your blog. I was pleasantly surprised to see that you had started posting again...until I read this: http://youhandsomedevil.blogspot.com/2008/01/i-am-classy-and-almost-100-std-free.html

Um...call me dense but what the hell do you mean by Kitchen Aids? I'm too panicked that you mean AIDS (though my mother would say we just call it HIV now) to really read this over again. I also assume that you are with it enough to actually call if that were the case. So please, please, for the love of god calm my mind ASAP."
>>>>

Me:
date: Tue, Mar 11, 2008 at 1:40 PM
subject: Re: Things
>>>>
"http://www.kitchenaid.com/home.jsp"
>>>>

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REPOST (GASP!)

It's not really my style to do this, but I'm reposting an E-article (pronounced "EEEEEEEEYYYYAARTICLE!!!!") from Treehugger.com because it's near and dear to my heart. Water issues are interesting and "tap" into the deepest realms of irony (e.g. "40% of the bottled water sold in the United States is tap water anyway"). As an added bonus, the article mentions the Westchester Co. watershed from which all delicious, unfiltered water makes its way into New York City's taps. Smart people call that "Ecosystem Services," a concept that radically alters our perception of landscape ecology, economics, and why we should think twice about building over every square inch of nature. Fucknuts, like my friend, Doug, call that "hogwash," but no one will pay attention to him unless he says something crazy. Boo fucking hoo, Doug.

Read to the end where Treehugger asks you about your town's water source. Heads up, San Francisco, they're talking to you. Don't fuck around on this one.

Enough "tap"dancing (like it's raining softballs today). Read on...

IF YOU DARE!!

from Treehugger.com
--------------------------

All teh netz are abuzz about an Associated Press study that found pharmaceuticals in drinking water. Our resident chemist didn't think much of it (it is all old news to TreeHuggers) and concluded: "Thanks a lot AP, for handing a dopey talking point over to the bottled water marketers."

John was right, and it did not take long; No Impact Man Colin Beavan was asked in an interview if bottled water was a solution to the problem. He references Food and Water Watch to remind us why it is not:

Read the full article

Quick word of advice for you. Tap water is good. Bottled water, not so much. Tap water can be hard to find. Plastic is scary. Hydration makes you look younger / more attractive. Consider getting one of these SIGG bottles. Sure, you'll look like one of those freaken' hippies with their free love and their organic beer and their STRING CHEESE, but if you purchase the "Hello Kitty" design, I guarantee you won't get invited to any drum circles any time soon.

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I'M THE GUY WHO DOES HIS JOB (FOR MOM)

Picture me, juvenile, prankster, having dinner conversation with a collection of people who, by all accounts, are much smarter than I (in defense, I'm obviously much bigger; evolution favors me). I love it. For every one word spoken, a thousand pop up in my head; constellations of decision trees and logic webs blossom like fireworks when I listen to these worthy scholars. I learn so much from hearing these people talk!

Of course, I'm the jackass that believes you can't be privy to an intellectual conflagration without setting a few small fires. This attitude, while provocative and infinitely more interesting than agreeing with everyone else (see: banal dinner conversation among freshman IR majors ["you know, I wish society would just see the futility of war as like, an extension of our own, like inner conflict, you know?" zzzzzzzzz....]), can cause a bit of trouble.

Consider this: I, well fed and content with not being an asshole, am thinking about having intercourse in an fMRI machine (like you do), listening to a very poignant and pointed discussion of gender discrimination. I am a white male.

What I should have said was NOTHING. There are two truths in our (thank Christ) rapidly/rabidly evolving culture which pertain to this discussion in which I strongly believe:

1. Gender discrimination, like racism and ageism, does currently exist, and
2. is shitty.

Duh.

For fuck sake, DUH!

What I DID say, using a gross economy of words, was "nuh-uh." Why? Well, maybe I wanted to see what it was like to defend sexism, you know... just to see what that's like. I expected to be booed off the academic stage by a barrage of heated, and un-measured words (for truly you can't understand a person's motivation while they are cool, calm, and collected, now can you?). What I hadn't intended was the request for elaboration on a point that, in all fairness, I had just pulled straight out of my ass.

For yea, verily, my friends if there is anyone on this planet who would volunteer to beat the holy iced tea out of every beneficiary whiteman who thinks "blacks / women / jews/ A-rabs / poor people / gays / mex-ee-cans" have no business in their business with their own flaccid boy's club, it's me. And if you didn't know, ya ain't spent enough time with me alone in a closet with a case of MGD and a BB gun. So how the hell do I defend sexism?

Not very well, I'm afraid, but I can stick to what I know, and that's all I can do. So you've been labeled a bitchy, aggressive, silly, insignificant woman in the workplace, eh? Well I'll bet you've never begged a woman for sex, now have you. Yea. I thought so.

That's a little joke so we don't get to serious.

Treading water, I looked back on the last corporate job I held (122,000 employees worldwide, wheee!). If I remember correctly, it didn't matter if you were a woman, a man, or a goddamned kangaroo just as long as you did your job and you did it well. My life was mercifully devoid of any snarky, backroom gossip because we were all to busy with our stock dropping 18 points in 2 years to give a shit about politics. Mmmmm Ramen....

Did I just become an angry, white, male, capitalist???

No no no no no! I was working in an industry where the only reputation anyone had to defend was a reputation for not fucking up. Ahhh the simplicity of cash business...

"Sorry... I spilled coffee all over myself this morning, so I had to come to work wearing this lacy, camisole that displays my firm, milky, bosoms in all their glorious splendor."
"Yea, fine, great, grand, wonderful, you think we could find a way to shave 750k of next quarter's budget? Maybe we could cut back on materials cost, but we might run into problems meeting EOY goals, and piss off our QC folks, which might mean the end of bonuses this year. What were you saying about coffee? Oh, we should order some Chinese unless our SA brats want pizza."
"You're right, let's take a look at last month's production numbers..."

Bring your own stripper pole to work for all I care just as long as I don't have to work weekends.

Alas, I'm a product of a different generation and a different lifestyle. I wonder if my freshman Psychology textbook says we men downplay women's ambition because our father's ruled the roost, and our mothers kept to their place? Not so, Psychologists! (And I'll thank you not to suggest I want to shack up with mom, you twisted bastards). No, no! Our mothers were the pioneering feminists in what I would call the glorious second dawn of gender equality (voting, while totally awesome, was just not enough I would say). Many of us were lucky enough to be born into a generation of working mothers. Mom had a job! Mom had a graduate degree! Mom read books, and smoked marijuana, and listened to rock and roll music! And mom, when it came down to it, never took any shit from dad. Mom never let anyone put her "in her place."

Good on ya' girl.

So, fuck, where was I, which is to say where are we? Well, I suppose we give the finger to those who don't share my progressive, albeit rough-hewn, viewpoint on gender equality, and wait for them to retire, die, and pass a shit-ton of money and entitlement to their bratty, culturally impotent children who will do us no more harm. Amen.

After all, if you can't look me (me!) straight in the face and tell me (ME!) that you don't give a flying fuck what I or anybody else thinks, then maybe we're in for a long, tragic, drawn-out slog to the finish line. The optimist in me believes the world is ultimately so reductionist that the quality of one's work will RULE ALL in the end. No matter how white you are or how many Y chromosomes you have (oodles and oodles!!), if you can't suck it up and do what you said you would, you won't get the respect you deserve from those who really know and matter. Or... even little, ol' me?

This line of reasoning, sadly, doesn't work very well when you're begging for sex. Trust me.

Trust me.

In then end, I'm quite sure I didn't win any popularity contests among dinner guests, but what I did find was that firm confirmation that, no matter how far I roam, am surrounded buy brilliant, magnificent women who will never define themselves in any other terms than their own. That's what I was looking for all along.

And, having now read this, some of you women will hopefully consider intercourse with me? Pretty please?

I can cook, ladies! I can cook!!

Thanks, mom.

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I AM A MARKETING WIZARD

My popularity is waning, according to the hoards of blog readers who email me constantly begging for new post-y goodness (read: "Mom"). Apparently I've failed to provide you with quality entertainment while you sip your morning coffee or pray to God that our long, national nightmare / your current STI will come to a dramatic end soon. For that I am genuinely sorry, but thanks to an upcoming television appearance, a well-rounded diet of peanut butter + lemonheads + Miller Lite, and my own God-given and goddamned ability to drive the ladies batshit crazy, I've been so self-absorbed and so energy drained that I have been just utterly unable to have a single creative thought emerge in this last week. I believe the kids call it "living la vida loca," which I absolutely do not understand and find truly offensive (we mock what we don't understand, doctor. Doctor? Doctor.). Damn kids with their rock 'n roll and their makeout parties....

Fortunately for you/me the weather has turned a rosy cheek, and it's now gorgeous as all get out. In related news, hordes of college women (let's say "graduate students" to avoid any hints o' Nabokov in my narrative) are getting out as well to sun their firm, youthful shanks while nerdy CS majors rubberneck and crash their Segways into each other. Jesus it's a beautiful season. In short, I, your humble ("crass/perverted/hyperactive") narrator, am beginning to feel the faint tingle of a good mood coming on.

A quick check 'o the medicine cabinet reveals that yes, in fact, my good mood is organic in origin and has absolutely nothing to do with the handfuls of prescription drugs I jack from jock assholes who grope my ladyfriends / have the bad luck to invite me to their crappy parties and grope my ladyfriends. [See, I TOLD you I was in a good mood again! Ho HO!] Nope, my glistening aura comes courtesy of Grandmama Nature, herself. Thanks, Geritol.

Why is my mood important? Well, it's really not, and if you think it is, then please send $5.00 in cash to:

That Assclown, Mike Huckabee
P.O. Box 2008
Little Rock, Arkansas 72203

But you SHOULD be happy to know my brain is cranking in high-gear with greasy-slick serotonin lubricating all my happy, dendritic cogs. I, my friends, I have an idea, and you're privy to it first (they say you gotta git in on the ground floor... that's how you build an investment portfolio). I came up with this idea while trying to think about companies that have been so successful at branding, we refer to all products from multiple manufacturers by one copyrighted title (e.g. Kleenex, Band-Aid, the Baldwins).

Speedo is another company with a monopoly on branding. I say "Speedo," you say "leathery, old Europeans." Or you say "Michael Phelps," in which case I owe you a slice of pizza. In any event, we say "Speedo" when we mean "low-profile, competition quality bathing trunks" or some such old-timey lingo because it's easy to remember, ubiquitous, and conjures up thoughts of swiftness. SPEEEEDO. SPEEEEEEEEDO. Whisper the name and watch your words slip away on the wind. SPEEEEEEEEDOOOOOO.

How does one break through the stiff marketing ceiling Speedo installed to keep the entrepreneurial folks like myself out of the biz? Huddle up, and I'll tell ya. You use their own marketing tactics against them. You take "speed" and make it "speedier." You make it warp speedier.

My friends, welcome to the age where the cruel tyranny of Speedo has been replaced by the glorious springtime sponsored in part by "WARP-SPEEDOS, FOR WHEN 'FAST' JUST ISN'T NEARLY 'FAST ENOUGH.'" Observe:

	Speedos		WARP-SPEEDOS

I think we can all agree we will look back one day and say, "forget the internet, WARP-SPEEDOS truly made the world what it is today." Hell yes, they did. Hell yes.

Note: so much of this post was made up, please don't send me any emails warning me about the dangers of taking prescription drugs. I don't even like using moisturizer, and that's on the outside, people. The outside.

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STP, SO TOTALLY NOT COOL

My roommate and I decided to give each other Christmas gifts this year (despite the fact one of us is decidedly JEWISH, but who's counting?). As it turns out, we both scored major hits with our presents; I got a guitar, and she got shoes. All stereotypes properly satisfied.

Last night a buddy of mine came over to "jam" with me, which is hilarious considering his rock 'n roll career out-spans my own by several orders of magnitude, but we still have plenty of overlapping material on deck to keep things rolling. All of a sudden he tells me to play a particular chord, which I do obligingly, then another. I learn and master a full chord progression before I realize I've been playing a Stone Temple Pilots song without even the softest pangs of suspicion. My apartment (also car, office, personal space, brain) is a Stone-Temple-Pilots-free zone. STP is not allowed in my world. Playing STP songs is so totally not cool. I had to drink 11 beers before the self-loathing subsided (ever seen The Crying Game?).

I woke up early this morning because someone (maximum likelihood = "me," but p>0.05 no doubt) set my alarm for 6:30am. I believe I had a craving for vegetarian sausage patties + eggs, + and cheese on rye toast last night, settled for canned artichokes + chocolate sauce instead, and set my alarm clock early to follow up on my craving when sufficient sobering-up time had passed. Everybody loves a good breakfast in the morning.

Funny enough, when I crawled out of the pillow-and-blanket cave I'd built around me during the night (for maximum monster defense) to silence my alarm, I caught an insipid, droning melody drifting through the air. The radio was playing the same sausage-fingered Stone Temple Pilots song I learned the night before. Scott Weiland was mind-stalking me like he was goddamned Freddy Krueger.

The whole experience cast me down into a very odd place today (in an entirely odd week), which could only be erased by the velvety smoothness that is Kenny Loggins and Michael McDonald.

Fuck yea...

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I AM NOT SUPERMANLY

I just got invited to do this. I am most certainly not doing it.

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ANNIE POTTS IS SURPRISINGLY ATTRACTIVE

I'm having a terrible crisis in my life right now. As much as one can feel as if things are awry, there simply aren't enough road markers that let us know just exactly out of whack we are. Fall asleep at the wheel, end up in Tuscaloosa. Them's the rules.

You see, I'm sitting here eating a tomato while my laundry spins round and round downstairs, and I'm watching Pretty in Pink. Problem: I'm thinking Annie Potts is more attractive to me than Molly Ringwald.

Jesus, is that how you know?

I need to take a break, search for my missing pipe (and a a fine briarwood pipe at that), and search the fridge for nutrition. It's such an awful shame what we savages eat when the womens aren't looking. Oh how good it is to cram the last of the tomatoes in your mouth, the joyous simplicity of shaking the Chipotle seasoning directly into my gaping maw. Did I just dribble a bit? No worries! I'm eating over the sink! Pour down the crumbs from last week's cornbread and wash it all down with 3 cans of Milwaukee's finest. I'm pretty sure, nay, I'm positive that if I eat all the remaining leftovers in the fridge, I'll consume a more rounded diet than any meal prepared by someone else's hands.

OK. Now I'm all better (and Tokyo Drift is on, so I don't have to think about Molly Ringwald anymore). I get cranky when I'm not fed.

I'm also planning a sweet vacation for March where I will rent a truck and spear all my meals on the end of a giant steel pike and hope the sharks don't get me first (I will also have beer). My soul needs a recharge. Any ideas on how to stretch my $47 dollars all the way to the Aloha State, you let me know, aiiight.

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CAREER OPPORTUNITIES

There are jobs in this world that a human being, a real person with real feelings, was never meant to perform. These jobs are degrading. They are sadistic. They push a person to his absolute limits, and return little or nothing as compensation. Professional diaper washer, bull masturbator, meter maid, prison rape researcher (an actual career), these are truly deplorable ways in which we could be spending our time, but without which we could not function as we do.

I submit to you, however, that nothing, nothing in this wide world, can come even remotely close to the abject horror, the unspeakable torture that is being The Designated Driver.

First off, I'll be the first to claim a DD is absolutely necessary in all cases, which is one of the main reasons why the job is so awful. If you are DD, you have entered into a sacred contract that stipulates 1) you will protect the lives of every soul in your care, and 2) you will make sure no one gets date-raped. We, as a society, will likely agree both tasks are of paramount importance. We, as a society, might also agree the DD is likely to just get crapped on the whole time s/he is performing these tasks.

But you cannot complain, you ungrateful bastard! Soon enough your coin will flip, and all debts will be repaid in full! You brought this on yourself!

So you smile, you con drunk people into letting go of each other's genitals at the end of the night, you talk with strangers who spit unconsciously while they slur in your face, you stop at Taco Bell, at White Castle, at IHOP, you drive safely through the wee hours of the morning while Nelly Furtado blasts on the radio, you sweet-talk frat boys into taking their hands out of your friends' shirts / not beating the shit out of you.

All the while saying to yourself, "sweet mother of christ jesus tapdancing christ in a chickenbasket I could really use a double bourbon right now."

Tempting, isn't it? Surrounded by all that sweet, intoxicating medicine, the revelers with inhibitions lowered, the girl (if you were 6-beers-and-shots into the night and she were just a little less passed out on the couch at 9:30pm) who would make a fine conquest, your mind wanders...

Alas, you stave off, you saint. You martyr. You persevere.

"He has Elton John on his iPod? Oh how funny! Look, everybody, how lame that is!" [not so lame when I'm holding your hair while you vomit on a Volkswagen, eh?] "Oh you look so cute holding that purse! It matches your dress! Awwww, doesn't he look so cute with that purse?!" [yea and that homeless guy would have looked cute holding it, too, if I hadn't snatched it up off the sidewalk.]

But you knew exactly what was going to happen, didn't you. You volunteered for the job. And why? Well, that's obvious. You're going to go home, swear on everything holy in this infinite universe that you will never, ever, in your life get drunk like that for as long as you shall live, while simultaneously making the same solemn commitment to get as brain-bustingly shit-faced as soon as physically possible. You're going to break the goddamn land speed record in Vodka. You're going to Minor in Whiskey at the Sorbonne. You're going to teach the fucking standing-room only, Nobel Prize winning class in Crap-In-Your-Pants-Drunk off Sambuca because of the things you've seen tonight. Now that's what I call "job satisfaction."

And you love every minute of it don't you, you sick son of a bitch, because someday you won't qualify for immunity, you'll qualify for the Senior Discount, won't you. You'll be "That Guy" at the party instead of that guy at the party one day.

And the weekend's right around the corner, and some other poor bastard will be DD, and you're gonna get you some payback, aren't ya. Hellz yea, you are.

Just do me a favor and stay the hell away from my Volkswagen.

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TEXAS FINALLY CATCHES UP.... TO?

I didn't want to start the week with a political discussion, but I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to share with everyone (the 1.5 intentional readers per day plus the sorely disappointed redirects from Google:search="Lindsay +Lohan +Brooke +Hogan +thong") this Valentine's Day miracle from Texas:

"The 5th Circuit, siding 2-1, said it is unconstitutional to punish individuals selling sexual devices, since those devices are typically used in the privacy of people's homes."

Just in time for America's most romantic holiday, it is now as easy to buy a dildo in Texas as it is to procure an assault riffle (whew!). Opponents of the decision cite "sexual addiction" as a major cause of concern, and that making sex toys more available will only feed this "recognized mental disorder." Supporters of the decision (e.g. me) are quick to point out that tobacco and liquor are both widely available in Texas and are responsible for the deaths of thousands every year. Sex toys, in contrast, kill very few (I don't have the statistics in front of me, but I'll go out on a limb and claim dildo-related deaths can't really compare with... oh, say gun violence... just a thought). Personally, I'd rather confront a sex-addict than an "I'm currently shooting you in the chest"-addict, but it's all a matter of perception, I guess.

The story, which I found through WashingtonPost.com, links to this truly chilling website ("Nominated for Best Conservative Blog"), which you should visit, especially if you are one of the girls from Carrie or an "I'm currently shooting you in the chest"-addict.

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VD 2008

Ok, like, that's waaay too much of a softball. Calling it "VD" is like making your girlfriend cinnamon rolls for breakfast on Valentine's Day and telling her you hope she likes her "buns" sticky, because you're gonna make them "extra sticky" today...

Jesus, that's not the same at all. What the fuck? Why do I have to spoil a perfectly good holiday like that?

Lemme jus' focus on th' positive fo' ah secuuund. Today, many of you will get laid, or at least be romantic with someone. For me, well... I've got my fingers crossed because I rully rully rully hope it's not bar skanks again this year! For others out there, you'll be doing it to honor the lord. Excuse me, The Lord. Yup. JC gets his "props," from the happy couple at Book22.com this Valentine's Day [P.S. in retrospect that is simultaneously the best and worst pun I have ever made in the course of my long, sad, sarcastic life].

I would be well within my rights to rant on about the apparent hypocricy of a religiously-guided, ahem, "intimacy product" vendor, but I'll be nice today and say, hoooray for y'all at Book22.com. Sure, I'm 100% creeped out by your website, and frankly the thought of wholesome, bedimpled Christians slathering on some "Like a Virgin" personal lubricant ($12.00 for the lube, the irony comes free of charge), and putting their "hmmmm-hmmmms" in each other's "hmmm-hmmms" makes me a little uneasy, but I'm going to applaud your efforts to bring some common sense (and a little G-D-given fun) to your "anointed" brethren.

Exhibit A: Book22.com sells condoms.

Wha? Christians + condoms = crazy! But I... I thought... huh. What am I to make of this? I say good for you. "After all, nothing says 'I love you' like population control!" sayeth Treehugger. While abstinence-only sex education has done little or nothing to lower teen pregnancy and STI's* it has had significant negative impacts on a person's self-image and social status in his/her peer group.** Yet our friends in conservative Christian circles continue to cry out against birth control. Sigh... Or new friends at Book22.com, however, believe that honoring your church-sanctioned, life-committed, monogamous partner with terse, lights-off-pajamas-on, vanilla sex can be fun AND safe (abomination to the Lord optional depending on whether or not you live south of the Mason-Dixon)! Baby steps, but in the right direction.

Exhibit B: Women can enjoy sex again (whew).

While this was total news to me, apparently women can enjoy sex as much, if not more so, than men. This fact has not been lost on the Spiritpreneurs at Book22.com who have based nearly their entire collection of intimacy products on enhancement for women during sex. Heck, I think that's just peachy!

Of course, let's be honest with ourselves for a moment, shall we? By far the most effective way to enhance sexual enjoyment for men is to simply increase its frequency or ease of acquisition. Failing that, you have the overwhelming prevalence of pornography that targets heterosexual men (see: "internet") used as general proxy, but you're unlikely to find that manner of content on a website "offering quality products to enhance the intimate life of God's children." But why be cynical? It's a LOVE holiday, baby!

So I hope, nay pray, that you all have a wonderful Valentine's Day filled with all the super kinky or whitebread or whatever kind of intimacy you're looking for. Good luck and God bless.

*actual science.
**stuff I just totally made up.

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MEXICANS ARE THE NEW BLACK (PART III)

PART III
I had the intention of telling a story about waking up sleep deprived with a headache thiiiiis big, but I woke up sleep deprived this morning with a headache thiiiiis big. I can't figure out if my current state will make this post better or worse...

I did, however, have a good thought this morning while talking to my coworker about "blow busses," school busses in the parking lot of snowboard and car conventions on which, for the right price, men can climb aboard and receive blowjobs from car bimbos and snow bunnies. Until I was told otherwise, I had assumed "blow busses" were busses that served cocaine. That got me thinking about American Psycho, a movie I had seen last week, specifically a scene where Christian Bale and Justin Theroux do shitty blow in a club bathroom. Then I started thinking if I ever owned a swanky club, I'd have three bathrooms: "Men," "Women," and "Blow." I think I'd get extra points for service, and every one would think I was cool.

Anyway, I woke up Sunday morning in a hotel room sleep deprived with a pounding headache. To me, the most logical solution to those two problems was to eat the remaining rind of cheese and re-watch The Replacements on HBO. Good call. Feeling my sould revived by the dairy and Keanu Reeves's vacant doe eyes, I checked out of the hotel and headed west.

Like so many trips like these, I had no plan, no map, no thoughts in mind but one.
Obtain these:
and eat them here:
Well fed, and losing steam, I finished the drive back south, and ended my weekend with a warm snifter of Remy Martin, seaside, watching the sunset over the Pacific, which is just about as far a man can go before baptizing himself in that gorgeous saline sapphire.

If anybody's keeping score, we're putting this trip down in the "win" column.

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MEXICANS ARE THE NEW BLACK (PART II)

You ever have one of those days where you almost get taised by a drunken, +50 hotel prostitute? I do, and that day was Saturday.

I don't need to recap, but you can easily infer the state of my body that morning, but I was pleased to be checking items off my list of things to do that day. My plan was to drive 2 hours north, drink constantly from 11:30am to 4:30pm, possibly have intercourse (with a WOMAN this time) in a winery bathroom, forget to eat anything all day except for an entire block of cheese, meet some colorful people at a hotel bar, and pass out with my church clothes still clinging to my sweat-and-Manhattan-soaked body, and I love it when a plan comes together (we call that "foreshadowing" in the literary business.... gosh, I'm so bloody smart!).

For some reason, all my bloody mary fixin's were laid out neatly in the kitchen when I awoke, and I revel in my ability to sling a monster bloody when put to the test. Five minutes later and biggity-shazam, I've got a nalgene full of juju for the road; not that I advocate for drinking and driving, you understand. That would just be irresponsible. Riding in a car while tipsy, shrieking at cows and shoving fistfuls of Kettle Chips in my craw, is perfectly acceptable.

God, I haven't even arrived at breakfast yet! What fun!

Praise ye who stocked my fridge chock-o-block with groceries that superb Saturday. Know what has two thumbs and loves to cook himself some dee-lish breakfast? This guy [indicates self].

You know, I think we're going to speed things along and fast-forward a bit. Stick with me now.

...Sunny... meet some good 'ol friends up at the vineyards... drinking drinking... spending way too much cash for bottles... checking into a hotel... drinking bottles... eating an entire brick of cheese... hottub... drinking bottles... watching The Replacements... dressing up in my church clothes...

A-ha. Here we go. Got to skip all that juvenile and boring "wine tasting" chatter, thank God. Anyway, I arrive at the hotel bar dressed somewhere between Dylan McDermott and a circa 1963 Dick Clark. Jesus, I'm sexy. The clientele at the bar is split evenly between some young, well-dressed, sophisticated-but-certainly-approachable, patrons and three kinda cracked-out older people. Immediately I make the decision to engage the older folks, since I can only imagine how much potential lies in their company. I order a Manhattan from the bartender (who looks as if he mixed his first drink sometime during the Taft administration--one look at his withered arms and I decide against the tippy-top shelf liquor), and belly up to the rail.

The middle-aged man to my right is drinking the same drink as I am, and he looks the least like a serial killer. I introduce myself to him first. After a brief exchange of names and occupations (I tell the truth for once, BOR-ING), we get to the "what are you doing here" questions. I reveal that I am trying to clear my brain; that I am trying to discard the shackles of my job and monotone existence. I talk of my desire to chase what little is left of the American West and to see the great Pacific Ocean laid before me inturrupted by great Pleistocene fingers of stone. I am here to feel the nature of "human."

He is there for a cat show.

I didn't know they even had cat shows.

He continues. Cat shows are apparently better than dog shows, since dog shows involve a "pyramid" of judging whereby contestants filter through an ever-dwindling pool of competition until only a single champion remains ("Best in Show"). The judging at cat shows, in contrast, involves all cats simultaneously competing for various accolades which are then weighted to the size of the overall attendance (e.g. 4th place at a 1,000 cat show is better than 2nd place at a 200 cat show). These earned points ("rings") are tallied at the end of each competition year, at which time the CFA crowns the Top Cat in the Nation.

I can only interject with the occasional Christopher Guest joke, which gets exactly zero positive response from my new friend. After some prodding I get him to reveal how well his cat is doing. He leans in as if to keep our conversation private from sinister ears:
"Right now," he whispers, looking to see just who is watching, "right now, WE'VE got the top cat in the Nation."

I confirm this when I get back home. To my delight, he is not bullshitting.

Not a bad start, I decide. Meanwhile, the woman to my left has become steadily drunker. This has an obvious effect on the man to her left, which will matter later. But first, the woman. Picture one of the actresses from Golden Girls, now reverse time so that she is in her late 40's or early 50's. She's just like that, only... you know... a hotel prostitute. I'm not judgemental, but from the look of things, the change-wad of 1's in my pocket might buy me a full night with this woman with the possibility of a pancake breakfast. Not one to discriminate, however, I engage her in conversation as well. She is borderline insane and tells really un-funny jokes about how women are different than men. Observe:

To my companion: "Do you know why it takes a million sperm to fertilize one egg?" she asks.

We say nothing, only cling to each other like castaways and shuffle awkwardly in our seats.

"Do you know why it takes a million sperm to fertilize one egg?" she repeats, totally oblivious to our discomfort. A pregnant silence ensues.

Under my breath, I mutter, "beause they don't stop for directions... jesus fuck how old is that fucking joke?"

She hears me. She wonders how I could have known that. She insists I have heard this joke before. She becomes indignant; I have stolen her moment.

She also owns a taiser, which she proceeds to show me.

The man to her left, who has been solving the economic riddle of how much money he would have to spend on drinks so that he would be willing to spend money on the woman, quickly walks away. He has government experience. He has no tolerance for the intoxicated / armed.

He is, however, a pretty groovy guy, and is heavily involved with government-sponsored emergency management. We talk for a spell about climate change, and how it's much smarter for the US government to (at least in secret) believe in, and respond to climate change, since an ounce of prevention will go a hell of a long way to saving money/our asses in the future. All in all a reasonable fellow. I enjoyed meeting him, and as I shake his hand on the way out I get the feeling he enjoyed meeting me. I believe this because he is comfortable enough to admit that he is there to finish writing a collection of erotic stories.

I ask him what kind of erotica he writes. I learn it is mostly mystery, historical, and "noir" erotica. I do not know what any of that really means, but I do not admit this, nor do I press the subject any further. Some things are better left un-explored.

Throughout all of this insanity, I have been chugging Manhattans as if they were snakebite antidote. I am not intoxicated; I am what the Irish call "drunk."

PART III
(to be continued...)

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MEXICANS ARE THE NEW BLACK (PART I)

You ever have one of those days where you almost get taised by a drunken, +50 hotel prostitute? I do, and it happens a lot.

PART I
I took the weekend off so that I didn't end up on a kill-crazy rampage. On the way out of the office, one of my least favorite co-workers cashed in on a promise I made, oh... let's say on Angela Lansbury's 8th birthday. I promised her, waywayway back when, that I'd use my Godly writing skills ("skillz") to co-author an environmentally-themed article for a hippie-themed magazine. Basically our conversation went thusly:

she: "Hey, I was thinking we could write an article together about blah blah blah boys blah blah the mall blah blah blah chewing gum blah blah stickers."
me: "Uh-huh, sure, sounds good, let me know what you were thinking, uh-huh, yea, cool!" TRANSLATION: "I am not listening to you. I am thinking about soup. Please get the fuck out of my office."
she: "Awesome! I'll write my half and then send it to you, and you can write your half!"
me: "Yup. I'll do that. Just send me what you've got and let me know when my half is due!"
TRANSLATION: "I am still not listening. I am using words that you used so you think I am listening. I will say whatever I have to say so that you will leave and I can go home, do the dishes, look at internet pornography, and drink a beer in the shower."

Then I forgot all about making this promise until Friday.

At 6:00pm Friday, February 9th, 14 hours before I left town, at my favorite coffee-and-gelato shop, I opened up my email to find one half of an article due a mere six hours in the future. I attempted to open the file. The file would not open. I used my skillz to MAKE the file open. The document was full of gibberish (non-representational symbols). I used my skillz to convert the symbols to readable text. The readable text was full of gibberish (incoherent ramblings of a semi-intoxicated 4 year-old).

I understood the majority of the individual words on the page, but I could not understand how they fit together to form even a whimper of a coherent thought. No matter how long I stared at the words or how many times I slammed my cranium against a marble statue of Tony Henry in the corner, I could not figure out how, oh merciful God, how a literate person could have produced such insanity. I quickly realized 1) I was going to have to work a hell of a lot harder than I had originally intended, and 2) I would rather shit in a pillowcase and mail that to the magazine instead of this current abortion of a literary piece. People might think, "yes, he put his name on a pillow case, defecated into that pillowcase, and then submitted the pillowcase for publication," but they would also think, "at least he didn't spell his name with a Hello Kitty sticker."

Stormclouds formed behind my brow. Lightning struck my brain. Faint whiffs of steam began to rise from my ear sockets. I picked up the phone and dialed the coworker's number.

"Hello?" said a man's voice on the other end of the line.
"Hi, is RuPaul* there?" I inquire, smoothing out the tremmor in my voice [*RuPaul is a made-up name. Her name is not really RuPaul]
"Who??"
"RuPaul? Could I speak to RuPaul, please?" I ask politely.
"um...."
"I'm sorry, but I think I may have the wrong number," I offer. I'm a Midwesterner. I have an extremely polite phone voice. The situation did not warrant such a courteous offering from me, but there's no sense in being curt with a stranger.
The voice answered back with, "Uh, yea, I think you DO..."

To which he added, "...QUEER!!"

Many patrons of the coffee-and-gelato shop would later remember hearing a sharp sound from somewhere close by, somewhat akin to the noise large bubblewrap blisters make when ruptured or a dry stick splintered over a knee. The sound came from deep inside my lizard brain where the decision to transform from "I am mildly annoyed" to "some motherfucker's gonna die, kill, kill, kill" gets made. If you'd have stuck a thermometer in my mouth at that moment it would not have read a balmy-yet-homeostatic 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. The thermometer would have read, "hot lava; his blood is hot lava right now."

Then I blacked out. When I awoke, I performed such feats of literary alchemy I would have made both Marcel Proust and David Copperfield proud of me (for "magic" reasons, not "rape" reasons... apparently he's an alleged rapist. Too bad he couldn't make those rape charges disappear, huh!? Am I right, folks?! High five!!). Anyway, I win. Score one for the Gipper.

I went home, 1) made myself a bloody mary, 2) drank a bloody mary, and 3) repeated steps 1 and 2 until step 1 became too hard. I awoke the next morning in deference to (or maybe in an artful dodge of) renal failure to a kick-ass vacation weekend.

Score.

PART II
(to be continued... I will answer the "WHAT drunken, +50 hotel prostitute?" question)

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THE INTERNET IS, LIKE, TOTALLY FREAKING ME OUT, MAN

Owing to my aforementioned spinal injury and the ensuing liver-busting cocktails of spasmolytics + opiates that allow me to be oh-so-productive at work, I haven't gotten out of the office/house much. Sure there's TV, but I've long since exhausted all acceptable possibilities there. And, yea, maybe I learned a song or two on the new guitar, but a pilled-up white man hacking through Cat Stevens's catalog is just way too trite at this point (hey Mom and Dad, I work with your kids! hooray!). Super Tuesday was exciting, yet Tuesday, and today's Thursday, not Tuesday anymore, so that just leaves me with the internet.

And the internet is kewl.

I've never said this before, but I think YouTube was worth the squillion dollars Google paid for it. Prove this to yourself by taking two meaty fistfulls of Tylenol PM, wait 30 minutes, and watch this video:

Stare at it. After awhile that little blue dude starts really speaking to your soul, hombre. Hokay, now that you've got Matthew Wilder's sweet sweet one hit wonder in your dome, go ahead and take a gander at his live performance:

Do you hear that? It's the sound of your mind being blown wide friggen' open. Giggle like a tickled baby for me.

So I'm easily tricked by things that bounce around joyfully and without purpose. That's why I liked this year's Superbowl commercials so much. Most were totally random, involved some form of senseless gimmick (like a guy getting wailed on by man in a mouse costume), and left me completely unable to recall what, if anything, I was supposed to then go out and purchase. Until this morning I would have said "bravo to you, sirs" but I no longer have any faith in our country's octo-mega-pus advertising regime. Why, you ask (as if you were actually curious)?

Because the French sell fruit better than anyone in the fucking universe. Don't believe me? Do yourself the biggest favor by shutting the door, making sure no one is looking, and watching this television advertisement that is certainly unsafe for any workplace environment in our ridiculously misguided, puritanical, and vitamin-deficient country.

P.S. If you don't appreciate breasts, don't click on the link. Then never, ever speak to me again. Get out of my site. (I just blew your mind again, didn't I.)

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HUMBLED...

Sooner or later you realize there's someone out there doing it better than you are. They are more deplorable, willing to reveal greater embarassments; they have filled your niche better and more successfully than you have. In my case, that person is Tucker Max.

Wow.

Well done sir, well done.

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TOM BRADY AND MARK MORFORD ARE SEXY (BUT NOT AS SEXY AS I AM!)

Forgive my cantanker today, I'm recovering from a fresh back injury procured from a bloody-mary-and-B-List-swimwear-model / hottub-and-stripper-pole-dinner-party, which isn't actually a joke or nearly as awesome as it sounds, but nevertheless describes, in the appropriate amount of detail, how my life goes sometimes. It doesn't help much that my Wii bowling soreness outshines my actual bowling soreness (115 left handed, too!!). Yo soy CRABBY today.

I can drink as much as I used to, just as all of you can, but now that many moons have passed since our Greek days, I can no longer wake up and function in polite society as well as I used to.

Which is why I propose a national post-superbowl day off, and now I'm at home doing my part to advocate for this cause. It's not that I got really crazy yesterday, you understand. I couldn't really tell you how little I care about the New England Patriots or the New York Giants, which is weird considering my borderline-obsessive interest in another New England sports team [crosses self reverently]. I can't help but hate a little on Tom Brady, though. Sorry about that, Tom, but you already banked 3 superbowls, and the only 18-0 record in NFL history. Oh, oh... and you're banging quite possibly the hottest woman in the fucking universe at the moment... talk about your consolation prize.

If you're keeping score, it's a + in the "schadenfreude" category and a - in the "no stabbing pain in my spine" category. To be fair, I did come home in the middle of the day, make myself a healthy meal of broccoli and peanut sauce, catch Return of the Jedi on HBO, and mix up a soothing cocktail I like to call "The Sublimator:"

- 1200mg Ibuprofen
- 20mg Cylobenzaprene
- 40mg Hydrocodone
- 175mg Milk Thistle so that my liver might actually have a fighting chance of lasting through middle age
- 1 banana for potassium (and delicious flavor!)
- Mix with 2 cups of mango juice and serve over ice

I assure you, $250k in higher education spent with Andover/Choate/St. Paul/Exeter/Lawrenceville boys & girls coupled with Dan Sullivan's delightful "American Pharmaceutical Association's Guide to Prescription Drugs" gives me supreme confidence in my ability to mange pharmaceuticals today. (I also have industry, training, bitches!)

(...try and chug it down riiiiight when Carrie Fisher starts kicking ass on Jabba's sail barge in that smokin' hot space bikini... Now that's good medicine!)

Don't be too harsh on me, my drug alchemy emerged in the fall of 2004 when I got hurt so badly I couldn't walk for a month. One tends to remember, in vivid detail, pain signals interrupting nerve impulses to and from the legs AND REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS. Forgive my sensitivity to pain.

Which brings me to the real target of this rant: Mark Morford. I've been torturing this regular SF Gate columnist for ages now, but he offers up such a perfect target. His "Zen and the Art of Being a Liberal in San Francisco" column gets on my nerves from time to time, but he, like Jasper Johns or any true nemesis, brings out the best (beast?) in me. Let's ignore for a second how much he steals my shit, he wastes a lot of time on the "we are all one, so lead with your heart" arguments. I get frustrated when Morford's column tells me to drink more fine California Pinots, or practice this-or-that new school of yoga, or make love to a woman deeply like sipping scotch or driving "small European cars." It's all so liberal-chic it makes me uncomfortable. I'd prefer to argue, and I'm channeling Kurt Vonnegut now, that one should lead with his cock and not his heart.

Mark will "never wear sneakers." I will, because they are comfortable and support my skeleton when I run. Mark "sleeps naked," presumably because it's how nature intended. I sleep naked because I'm prone to passing out after sex. He writes about "a wry and punch-drunk universe;" I'm wiry and punchy when drunk. See what I'm doing there? Oooo, I'm so clever!

I don't like it when people tell me how to live virtuously, liberal or conservative; I prefer to listen to my human instincts and try not to dress them up in haute couture. For example, Mark's latest column on the frivolity of scientific studies derides the silliness with which we place our faith in "how to live" science. His advice would be for us to listen to the vibrations of the universe and not to spoil their whispers with our "facts" and "studies." But are all those facts and studies so bothersome to you, Mark? Do they offend your Zen? Would you rather take a deep, cleansing breath and imagine them all away? Show some fucking balls, for chrissake. If yer gonna shoot, shoot tuh KYLL!

Yes, Mark women who drink 2 glasses of wine each day live longer, but you forget to mention women who drink 2 glasses of wine each day probably fuck-and-like-it more than average! I'm sure we'd all agree that's pretty neat. Is it a one-to-one correlation? Probably not in most cases, but hey, I'm no scientist. IF SCIENCE ENCOURAGES WOMEN TO DRINK AND FORNICATE, THEN SIGN MY NEXT PAYCHECK OVER TO THE GODDAMN NSF.

Ok, I'm not being 100% fair. I've had my own winks in the public eyeball lately, appearing on television and print, and I'll tell you it's no picnic. I haven't yet mastered the art of weaving one's own safety net while saying the provocative. It's the difference between Conan O'Brien (funny) and Jay Leno (your parents think it's funny), so maybe I should cut Mark Morford some slack. You wanna get paid, you better be nice sometimes.

Or maybe I should just kick him in the nads. Who knows what I'll do now that The Sublimator is kicking in. (We in the literary sphere would call that remark "heavy-handed," but screw off! I'm no SF Gate columnist.) I'll probably just do some yogic stretching and pour myself a glass of fine California Pinot.

[Special twinkle from a brilliant star in our galaxy today. Were you watching?]

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PHENOMENOLOGY

It's mad early. I woke up before sunrise. I am on my way to work. Still, wiping the cocaine-plus-chopped-up-Thin-Mints I've been snorting to DESPERATELY WAKE UP MY BRAIN, I have time to read a little Slate.com. They've been nice enough to write me an article about 2 Girls 1 Cup, so I don't have to stoop to that level.

And thank God, too, because I'm so friggen' classy.

More to come; scratch your neck, tug both ears, crack your knuckles, and kick back for a few hours. Daddy's goin' out to do some good fo' tha' community.

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YOU ARE SURROUNDED (SPECIAL STATE OF THE UNION EDITION)

"I didn't really like the look of penises right away," she said.

"Yes, I'll bet they are a little distasteful at first, but I'm sure you like them for what they can do to you," I offered, hinting at how we grow old and forget all things capricious and young.

There was a pensive silence when we both took stock of our lives, our desperate youth, failures and triumphs. We each spent a heartbeat in ourselves, reliving moments of wistful childhood, looking backwards in time down the path that had led us to now. Here, with our history and identity at hand we sat and wondered at their meaning.

"Kind of like my first beer," I suggest. An elegant sip of wine; the cobweb billowing of pipe smoke.

"Yes. Pretty much exactly like that. It's all cocks and beer, all the way back to the beginning of time."

So, then, is my evening of phalli and symmetry.

There are, quite literally, dicks everywhere today. I won't dwell on it, but I'm searching for a name for the emotion I'm feeling. Is it relief that this was the 8th and final State of the Union address from a man who, without question, is poorly qualified to deliver such a lecture? Sigh... I have nothing else to say besides such things are inevitable in this most disappointing of ages, when we shake our heads at the State of things, when history will judge us, mercifully, as unsuspecting victims of our own excitement rather than the able actors we are. We have created this world. There's no sense in denying that.

With luck, our children will view us as one would view a stranger with a Midwestern accent or a Southern drawl, well meaning but maybe just a bit lacking up there [discreetly indicates brain].

Alas, it would be unfair to say that my beloved president is the only dick in the dildo closet. Borders bookstore makes the list as well. Sadly, the ginormous "book" seller (which, incidentally, has equal numbers of DVDs as literary volumes, of which Legally Blonde rounds out the why-oh-why-must-we-have-a-embarrassing-taste experience) nudged my favorite used bookstore out of business (earthy smells, obscure thesis chapters). Those rat bastards at Borders stay open until 11pm, though, so, yes, that's where I was today.

Surrounded by hot, hot cocks.

It's not hard to notice what books will be jumping off the shelves this season. For instance, the "Sexuality" section at Borders (147 versions of the Kama Sutra, ancient and modern), which could also be called "You Might As Well Just Masturbate to 90% of This, Because The Rest Will Be Excruciatingly Painful for Your Pale, Flabby, Couch-Seasoned Body" with no less accuracy, occupies as much shelf space as "Fiction/Literature" A-K. Lump in the "Erotica," "Romance," and "Graphic Novels" sections, and you've just out-played every author of "Literature A-Z" in Borders's universe (with flesh).

To ram my point home, I'll tell you this: there were 1/4 as many books by Roald Dahl in total as the seminal, "Speeding: The Old Reliable Photos of David Hurles," which anyone a) with an MFA or b) who has been mistakenly invited to an "industry party" in San Francisco (never again, damnit!) will tell you, is full off hot, hot cocks. [What bibliologists often refer to as "folio-cock."]

I'm not a writer. I'll never write a bestselling novel. I will, however, tell you that if I ever do attempt to sell my work to the public, the only way that bitch is ever going to make me famous is if I call it, "Fuck Like a Champ: My Life as President by J. Sizzle."

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I AM NOT MENTALLY CHALLENGED

We have most certainly become a nation of voyeurs. We watch reality TV. We visit celebrity gossip sites. We have "Lindsay Lohan nipple slips" in our search history. [We read self-indulgent, nonsensical blogs!] I am guilty, guilty, guilty in my own right. Sometimes I'll search for random phrases out there in the Interweb just to see what the universe throws back my way. Often it leads to someone's slice-o-life blog, which of course I'll read to see how other folks do it. I'm an internet voyeur (and not necessarily the porn kind).

My spine was fucking killing me this morning, so I searched for my+spine+is+fucking+killing+me just to, you know, see what the universe had to say about that. The universe said, "Chibbers down my spine bone." Google said, "...A FUCKING RAT. it was at least 5 inches long not including its mangy tail. it looked confused," which I thought was pretty interesting, since I had my own little rat rescue operation just 4 days ago.

Touche, universe. You have my full attention.

Then I started exploring Mazyface's livejournal trying to piece her together from the trail of crumbs she had left for others to find. What could I learn from peeking into this stranger's window? I learned that Ms. Mazyface had nice hardwood floors (under that rug). I learned she could probably do a little better for boyfriends, though the frequency of their sexual encounters seems pretty good, and I sense a great deal of warmth between them. I learned also that we share a penchant for watching people smoke bongs on YouTube and scrutinizing their home decor.

Alas, I do not know, and will likely never meet this person. Why then should I get to know her (or the online avatar that represents what I know of her)?

I realize, now, that my brain isn't as challenged as I had once thought. It's no fun to live a vicarious life. Are you emotionally challenged? Are you mentally challenged? I'll bet not. Hence, all, I request that you get up (yes, right now) find a stranger, and attempt to talk him / her into making out with you. [Note: if you are currently in a loving, committed relationship, have your partner pretend to be a stranger. A foreigner would also suffice. Swedish exchange students anyone?]

Think of the challenge, the feeling of satisfaction! The joy you will experience after communicating with a real live person and connecting, how marvelous it will be! Breathe sacred air and drink deeply from our community cup. Run your fingers through the thick, velvety curls of your very own personal interaction...

Plus, I mean... making out is pretty sweet on it's own, really. Kind of a win-win there. And I'll wrap this up by asking everyone to please stop fucking reading US Weekly. I... I think that was my point. One can really never tell.

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PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE

Just like you, I wake up, nuzzle my pillow girlfriend, Katya, shower, dress, leave for work, arrive, rail 3 lines of Adderall and crushed up Altoids of a mirror in my top left drawer, take one deep yogic breath, curse Mark Moreford/Jasper Johns, kiss my photo of fat-Elvis, and open my email. Such elaborate ritualism braces my sleep-addled mind for the impending bitter splash of spam emails (and the occasional subpoena). Everything about this exercise is designed to block out all the negative subliminal indications of my (real or imagined) physical inadequacy.

disprovingg580@effectsoft.com not only knows the size of my penis, but s/he truly believes I need to "improve" its size, girth, and related woman-satisfying qualities.

Why so harsh, disprovingg580@effectsoft.com? What do you know that I do not?

And what of colonistsvx46@fraser-group.com and his/her insistence that I require a "PhallusKing-sizedTerrell?" The idea is intriguing in its mystery, and as I struggle to decode this secret message (intended only for me and my... PhallusQueen-sized Terrell?), I wonder if that's really the key to happiness. Doesn't every man covet that ExtensivePenisEmelia? That EdgardoSizeableCock? The elusive SchlongGreatestGary? Surely those grinning billionaires fondling AnorexicPerfect-bosomJane on their yachts have what I should have "down there:"

a DomingScholngMan-size.

You know what, wz-1@ouinet.com? I'm not going to fall for your ploy (and you can keep your millions, Mr. Nigerian royalty). Your Jedi mind tricks will not work on me. I realized this morning, while jacking the beanstalk desperately searching for the courage to face the world sans black-tar heroin, that, quite frankly, I'm pleased with my junk the way it is, thank you very much.

My stuff has an inquisitive nature; he smiles in the same graceful way a swan looks upward to the sunrise, thankful for the hope of new dawn. He is playfully cheeky in the nearly imperceptible way that he curves left, like one lightly-cocked eyebrow above a wry grin. What a trickster! Strong as oak, tender as a kitten, my junk is perfect as it is. So I say to you, inhabits8@vonfraud.com, you can keep your promises of a CockDinosaurRaul. I'm not buyin' it. Nor do I care to "Teach [my] Woman Obediencey!" as unblockede0@cyclepup.com would have me do.

No, I will not believe the hype. The Dance Dance Revolution will not be televised. I will not bend to your spammy will! I say to you, PenisHappyMen of Earth, do not submit! Rise up and stab at them with Sporks of Justice! Hurl great clods of melted jellybeans at their advancing hordes! Pillage their cybervillage, and hold their e-wenches prisoner with your perfectly acceptable, partner-satisfying, "nice-surprise, but not I'm-in-over-my-head-big" flesh sabers!

Let this be a warning to you, kingshipnry@greatcirclecapital.com, and all your scheming brethren, we and our "it's perfect, my last boyfriend was WAY too big, and I didn't want to have sex with him" penes are gunning for you!

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AND A HAPPY OHMYGOD YOU'RE A F'ING MORON TUESDAY TO YOU!

I'm not a big fan of racism.

There I said it. It feels good to get it out. I am, however, an enormous fan of irony. I cite, for your benefit of example, the following excerpt ripped from the very headlines of our beloved and always-accurate-and-never-biased newspapers:

"About 25 white supremacists marched through a Louisiana town on Monday in a white power rally on the United States national holiday honoring slain civil rights leader Martin Luther King."

(They kinda do this every year).

Fine. Exercise your first amendment right to be a giant ass clown, I'm fine with that (and I'm required, by law, to suffer fools such as yourselves). I'm a firm believer in the right to speak your opinion.

I'm also a firm believer in paid fucking paid federal fucking holidays! Assuming for one moment that many of these lively ladies and gentlemen are, in fact, employed (employable?), doesn't that mean they're getting paid to take Martin Luther King Jr. Day off fo' pro'testin'?

I don't know about you, but my financial situation isn't such that I can just burn through vacation time or take an unpaid day or two off to pursue, say, any number of virtuous intellectual pursuits (e.g. coke and/or whores, etc.). Talk about moonlighting! I do believe that yes, I'd have to wait until a paid holiday (federal law 5 U.S.C. 6103) to do all my last-minute hate mongering.

Fortunately, January 21, 2008 was such a day! How convenient! Oh look, honey, little JR's softball and lynching practice are canceled as well! Looks like we can make that drive out to Louisiana... I'll start making a pie for your sister-in-law while you go tattoo the kids!

Wheeee!

Before anyone tracks me down and beats the life out of me in my own back yard, remember that my taxes pay for federal and municipal workers. I gave you some of my hard earned bucks to take a day off for racism. [pats self slowly on back with look of absolute and horrifying confusion on his face... the "2girls1cup" face.] Sigh...

There's room for irony, today, but there's no room for... "un"-irony, I guess, which I why I'm not even touching on Mike Huckabee's no-body's-gonna-tell-ARKANSAS-we-cyan't-fly-our-confederate-flag attitude, despite the fact I praised his tax plan in an earlier post. AND, I haven't even begun to torture his ass on this, the 25th anniversary of Roe vs. Wade. Says Mike,

"Sometimes we talk about why we're importing so many people in our workforce. It might be for the last 35 years, we have aborted more than a million people who would have been in our workforce had we not had the holocaust of liberalized abortion under a flawed Supreme Court ruling in 1973."

Pretty ironic, huh Mike?! Right?? Like, whoops, man I hate Mexicans so much, I wish I hadn't aborted so many feti, right?!? AHAHAHAHAHAHAAA! Holocaust, indeed!! HI FIVE!

Oh my fucking god, you're all f'ing morons (Tuesday)!

Oh.... I see, now. There's a hidden camera over there in the corner! And that's not a potted plant at all! It's Ashton Kutcher! (I should have guessed).

I beg you all, in light of the two anniversaries I mentioned in this post, please celebrate your special days ironically. Been happily married for 27 years? Celebrate by sleeping with an underage Thai hooker in your Escalade! Didn't see that one coming, did you, dear?! (P.S. I think you just got your next marketing campaign, DeBeers. You're welcome.)

Do it for me, and do it for Johnny. Happy anniversary!

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AND SPEAKING OF...

Continuing on on today's (this weeks?) old-man-themed posts, I'd like to take this opportunity to say how pleased I am to be taking the night off playing me some motherfckng cribbage. It's a thing done by sagacious Midwesterners in warmly-lit cabins away from the frivolity of city life, a game that, like Paul Harvey and pancakes, is unlikely to change anytime between now and the apocalypse. Observe: "...If the card is a Jack, the dealer scores two points for "his heels", also known as "his nibs". This latter term is occasionally confused with "his nobs", which is more correctly used for a Jack of the same suit as the starter, scored during the show part of the game." How adorable is that, those aren't even jokes.

I've been mildly hungover for about 17 days now, 4% from drinking, 29% from going meat-free, 47% from consuming old milk, and 20% staying up to the wee hours of the morning cultivating a man-crush for Mandy Potemkin. I wouldn't ask me too many questions about that one if you know what's best for yourself.

This guy, I, [indicates self] needs old man therapy tonight:

1) Leg blanket for legs
2) Woolen cap
3) Esoteric card play (see above)
4) Gin gimlets
5) Company of those hard of hearing
6) Soup and/or easily-digested foodstuffs
7) Pipe
8) Slippers
9) Earthy aromas
10) Mandy Potemkin (??)

Comfort breeds contentment, and who would refuse such a regimen of quiet self-indulgence? Ho ho! Not I! Let's be old together, you and I, and let's indulge ourselves with a little wholesomeness, a little soul-restoring bowl of praline-pecan ice cream, a little old-fashioned Americana. Join me and fritter away our dinners in front of the fire, repeating every sentence twice, or even three times. Let's nod our heads in the amber glow of the evening, making oh-so-sure we don't confuse our nobs with our nibs.

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ANOTHER TOTALLY F'D UP FRIDAY

Somewhere deep inside my brain, normally restrained by his whip-cracking, taskmaster superego zookeeper (think Colonel Klink), lurks a savage cavebeast, drooling, slobbering, and making horribly tasteless jokes. Poor, poor superego... battered by the deluge of vodka and greasy olive brine, wearied by the restlessness of fitful sleep, maddened by the unending adrenal tides of rising and receding testosterone... he's off today. The beast prowls...

It's another totally fucked up Friday in the great circus up there [indicates cranium].

1) On the way to work, I suddenly realized I get to guzzle oysters at my favorite bar this weekend. I love oysters. I love them. I love them so much, in fact, that I whisper, "I want you inside me" into their tiny, molluscan ears each time I eat one. You are the only person I've told.

2) I find the term, "The Wet Spot" offensive. I prefer "Sex Puddles" ("Love Puddles?").

3) A mini-coworker reminded me today that, yes, when I get old, I will also get "old-man-balls." Awesome. "Ever wonder why your grandfather shifts every time he sits down?" she inquires.
Without waiting for my response, she clarifies, "it's old-man-balls... swingin' down."
"Of course," I retort, "I call that 'The Grandfather Clock. Everybody knows that."

You wonder what a quarter of a million dollars in secondary education buys you? "The Grandfather Clock." Fucking priceless.

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I ALSO APPRECIATE ISABELLE HUPPERT, LIKE, AT FIRT, AND THEN IT GOT KIND OF WEIRD

Shamefully, I infused my last blog title ("I something something Huckabee") with the lampooning media spirits that will probably lead to an incompetent man running for president of the United States on name recognition alone (dead thuds of my head on the desk, thud thud thud). In my heart I know I could have done better. In my defense, I do write these things as quickly as possible, alternating sly sips of Wild Turkey with paranoid glances over my shoulder and tweaky mouseclicks when co-workers walk by the office. (I don't think they'd ever look at me the same if they knew I was about to say, in the eternal and indelible ink of internet blogging, that Vanessa Redgrave is a smokin' hottie. But more on that in a moment).

First off, Isabelle Huppert is a smokin' hottie. Convince yourself of this by 1) turning whatever sinister parental controls to "none, you fucking fascists" on your favorite search engine and 2) searching for images of Isabelle Huppert. Quick note, though, roll the dice and take your chances if someone's lookin' over your shoulder. Let me just say that this little exercise aroused my interest in the matter. I was inspired. (In the pants... see what I did there? You would rather destroy a stained glass window than an artist such as myself. Oscar Wilde is high-five-ing me from beyond the grave, cheeky bastard. But since I can't have you following me...).

Or how 'bout this. Go and find yourself a copy of Storia di Piera (aka Die Geschichte der Piera, wheeee!). Lather, rinse, repeat. The young Ms. Huppert has the same art house appeal as a young Vanessa Redgrave (c. The Sea Gull). I tol' yoo I was gonna say it! Buster Poindexter said it best I think; "Hot, Hot, Hot!" He should know because he was David fucking Johansen!

Jesus, I'm ADD today. Ooo, clever segue! Ahem...

Just as time has stolen the glamor and glory from David Johansen (see, I tol' you!), it has been unkind to Vanessa Redgrave. Isabelle Huppert has faired better in my estimation, but those are the breaks. You either turn out a Kathleen Turner or a Judy Dench... sexy Brit-beast that she is. So, please judge fairly.

I'm a fan of Isabelle Huppert. Or at least for awhile, I suppose. During my research, I discovered she named her oldest daughter Lolita. Hmmmm... How can a parent, in all good conscience, name her daughter Lolita?! I can't understand it. It should have been off the market since 1955. You had me, and then you lost me, Isabelle. I can forgive a lot of things (some kid gave me lice in kindergarten), but I can't forgive that.

And so, like a sheaf of wheat, so is this post about hot older chicks sacrificed to make ready the fields of my future explorations. I give you a list of names that should never, under any circumstances, appear on a birth certificate after, say... 1995 to be fair:

Lolita, Wren, Elvis, Prince, Holden, Diesel, Sigmund, Carson / Cody / Hunter. They're all either way to obvious or just... for chrissake, you know? I mean, come on. Just name your goddamned kid "Batman" and be done with it.

Hell, it worked just fine for Nicholas Cage, right?

Ass.

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I (GNARLY BLEEDING HEART) HUCKABEE?

WHAT?! What did I just say? I said what? Aside from his homophobic hate speak, his evangelical Dems-killed-Jesus attitude, wildly anti-evolution crotch groping, and general all-around-douchebaggery, I'm struck dumbfounded by the quality (yea, verily liberal-y-ness!) of Mike Huckabee's tax plan [which he, of course, will never, ever get the opportunity to explore... poor, sad, bastard that he is].

Who wants to talk politics on a Monday? Well not even me. However, I would like to give credit where Steven E. Landsberg told me to. "Abolish all ye, the Income Tax!," proclaimeth Mike, "And thou shalt collect only sales tax!" OK? OK, I say. Why not? You want to piss your hard-earned cash away on Jewel albums? Go right ahead! We'll use your tax bucks to build libraries (where you can listen to Jewel albums for free, you dipshit!)!

Sounds a bit like a flat tax, though doesn't it (also not at all my original thought. I steal from smart people)? Now hear this.

Fuck. That. Shit.

You need milk, cereal, bread, PB&J? Cool. 4 bucks. You want Lifelike Imported Italian Silk/Silicone Fellatio Attachments for your new Mercedes? Right on, brotha! Help yourself (and cough up the 25% sales tax on luxury goods I'm goan' levy on yo' ass, you sick son of a bitch!). Why? Well, might as well charge a little extra for all that groovy consumption that leads to ALL of us getting generally shit on by the vengeful climate gods, not to mention the pissed-off masses of motherfuckers sick of building useless USB gadgets for our dumb asses at a whopping 8 cents a pop. "Party hard, pay the piper," so my grandmother used to say.

Shit, the city knows exactly how much my house is worth. Why don't they grade... oh I dunno... the taxes on my energy bill based on my home's value (or square footage, or how many dirty hippies we have crammed in everywhere, etc., etc.). Neat-o! Or better yet, cut me a .5% sales tax break on domestic goods vs. imported, blow past all those silly tariff laws (and 100 or so years of economic theory), and put the decision in the hands of the consumer! 1% sales tax break on green products? WHAAA?? OMG, OMFG, Mom!

Bring on the black market I say. Sure, no one likes an anarchist, but if you're clever/desperate/bored enough to start trading on the black market, chances are you're not in the best financial position anyway. Good for you, you clever, little entrepreneurs, you. If you can afford the Auto-fellatio device described above, chances are you can afford the sales tax (and let's be perfectly frank with each other, if you find yourself with the afore-mentioned Auto-fellatio products, I'll bet dollars to donuts you're getting all the tax-free black market coke and whores you can get your hands on! Unless you're claiming all that as a business expense, then die, die, die you slimy fuck! GAWD, it feels good to be an American!). If you can afford expensive shit, you ain't gonna drive into the city to score your Christian Louboutins from a Puerto Rican guy with a van in an alleyway. (1. that's a slight against anyone who gets her look from "The Hills," not Puerto Ricans, and 2. don't ask me how I, of all people, know fuck all about Christian Louboutin or The Hills).

I'm sure this exactly how Mike Huckabee would have explained it, given the chance. Still, as I watch the agonizingly slow ticks of the clock, I feel I should spend the time to give some examples of my (stolen, unoriginal) stance on this form of taxation.

-Generic food products (i.e. substitute goods): 1%
-Bottled water: 10%
-Whiskey: 0.5%
-All Apple products: 25%
-Tasteful, high-class pornography: 1%
-Books: 0%
-Jewel CDs: 40%
-Anything from L.L. Bean: 45%
-Coke: 1%
-Whores: 1%
-Ugg boots: 80% - 90%
-"Product": 45%
-"Us Weekly," "Teen People," or any such publication: 90%

Thorsten Veblen, eat your fucking heart out. Happy Monday, Bitches! Oh yea, and screw Mike Huckabee.

(special neck rub for D today.)

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HOO-RAY FOR SURFING!

It's been two years, give or take, since the Mavericks Invitational crowned a champion out in the HMB. Climate change (my cruel bitch mistress) is f'ing up the rotation! Still, I'm thinking monster waves this year, replete with all the carnage and brain-scrambling nastiness of 2006. Apparently, MySpace is rebroadcasting the whole shi-bing with all kinds of groovy camera angels and interviews and bikini surf groopies and awwwwwwwwww yea. I only wish I'd be out there, myself, with a big bowl of brazil nuts, a hot glass of Jameson, and a nice warm leg blanket for my legs, pops. If only I could find myself a bendy mermaid to teach me how to surf...

If you haven't ever heard of it, find yourself the time to witness the fitness.

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I AM CLASSY (AND ALMOST 100% STD FREE, LADIES!)

My first reaction to the idea for this post was to start going to church again. Sadly, 4 Tylenol PM and a half-carafe of cough medicine couldn't exercise these demons from my head. I was conflicted. "Listen to your heartsong" I would say to the mirror in the morning, "it will never betray you." I listened. My heart told me I had shit for brains.

Then I met my coworker for 9:30 coffee, and I knew that this time was the right time to let this idea out into the world. K-rod, I hope this tale makes you feel better. After all, as my good neighbor so recently reminded me, I can't be afraid to reach for that rainbow. Ahem:

---------

I have been known position myself awkwardly among women (unintentionally brilliant double ententdre!). Don't believe me? See, if you will, oh I dunno... here here here here (2007 only!) and, not to put too fine a point on it, here. Yup. I roll big time. As luck would have it, a judge finally ordered me to get "Tested" last week (I know, I know... fascist), and I felt it necessary to spread the almost good news to almost all my partners. Those in the womens' prison will have to wait 'till the 1st of the month for their phone calls like always.

me: Hi, is this [Staci/Brandi/Chastiti/Cinnamon]?

(pause, muffled noises from the receiver)

me: It's 7:30.... I suppose that makes it... gosh, about 4:30 in the morning in Amsterdam. I guess I woke you up, but... (pause) we need to talk.

me: I got tested the other day, and I need to tell you that I'm almost 100% in the clear. But... there is this one thing...

(muffled, but decidedly angrier noises from the receiver)

me: I... think I got it from all the eating out I've been doing lately.

(icy silence from the receiver)

me: Honey, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but...

me: It's... it's KitchenAids. I think you should get tested right away.

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Happy Friday, everyone. Keep reaching for that rainbow.

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MY, WHAT BIG TEETH YOU HAVE!

And speaking of breach of etiquette...

Welcome to the new year, ladies and gentlemen. The smells of new spring mingle with the avuncular aromas of this silly pipe tobacco I've so recently taken to smoking. It's a disgusting habit, but I enjoy watching smoky ghosts bloom and arabesque into the whisper of drizzle outside my balcony. My mind wanders. I conjure images of intellectual pioneers; of bearded poetry dragons. Ginsbergs. The brain binds in Kerouacky tar. It's here I meet the close boundaries of my imagination. Shame on me for being so clumsy with my inherited erudition. But honesty is the proxy of talent, so they say, so share I will.

Tonight I'm the insomniac. Bless the little children wrapped tightly in blankets. Daisies in a moonlight meadow with only the specter of dreams to tease their imaginations. Pure white petals in pale starlight. I, on the other hand, I have the hands of the devil this evening. What of purpose these nights if only to stalk an invisible prey? Nothing to do! Nothing to say! Boredom in my backyard! Perfidy in my palace, for new readers dine with us tonight!

I had forgotten the sting of performance that travels with these posts. Let pilgrims in the door and more follow. Open your chest and your guts pour out. My point? Ha! Embrace the meta-irony! Charge into the dark, and grin with wolfish teeth. What better message than no message? (You're just showing off now!)

This is MY space! Freedom of ownership! You are welcome guests here, though. Chuckle and grin at the farce. But what fun, this con! Read on and find tiny gems amongst the sand. Relish the discovery, and try not to judge too harshly. It's just a proxy for talent, of course, but that's entertainment I say, I say, I say. C'mon in, all. There's room for plenty.

Just don't say I didn't warn you...

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REBORN AGAIN

And so, once again, a cosmic do-si-so back into the arena. One dark night, whiskey, a warm girl, a stiff elbow to the ribs, a wisp of perfumed smoke, and the overwhelming desire to run my goddamn mouth off (due in no small part to my deep admiration for this rambling motherfuck) take me back here to the land of tasteless profanity, sentence fragments, absurd misuse of The Semicolon, and the orgasmic nirvana of seeing the contents of my brain shot across the expanse of cyberspace in rich, milky comets of literary subgenius. Oh yea, I do it for you (no greater than 2 readers per day, no doubt, but one does not blog for glory, only money, and this ride's free, blogger.com! [6 commas!]).

The general etiquette for an event such as this is a recap of recent developments to which your audience has not been privy:

Q: What have you been up to since our last chat?
A: Fuck you, that's what.
(cough. awkward silence.)
Q: Any major achievements since your last visit?
A: Fuck me. No. Not in the least.

Just like you, I've opted to arrange my life in such a way so as to be allowed as much fuckaround time as possible (equal emphasis on getting laid and/or/because of/in spite of alcoholism in the American standard but not the French [i.e. I am not currently intoxicated]). Hence the fresh-as-a-daisy attitude towards this so-called forum. Also, I miss laughing at my own jokes, swimming in the deep ocean of my sadness, and savoring the spats-and-top hat sophistication with which I so neatly turn a phrase. Gary Cooper is now sucking it in his grave. That's right. Suck it, Gary Cooper.

Plus I've accumulated a cadre of new villains to persecute: 1) Jasper Johns, 2) Mark Moreford, 3) Anderson Cooper, and 4) me (read the disgusting, self-indulgent archives of this blog. Alternate Sambuca and insulin shots. Shower. Repeat). Their/our offenses will be duly noted and exercised (but not excised; I flatly refuse to self-censor).

Please stay tuned for future (useless and confusing) instructions...

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