Do When Done

She was cross-legged on her couch, hunched over, phone in hand, scrolling and reading. She texted, "800 words for what"

"to save m" She put the phone down. It was the first time she'd gone to the toilet without her phone in ten years. She wasn't spoiled, but she had a pleasant upbringing. Her boyfriend was raised by a television with a bulky fat remote and his current phone folded in half. At least it fits in his pocket, she thought. What does he do in the bathroom? She heard her phone vibrate and rattle her coffee table. She hated that noise. She leaned and opened the door, raised her voice and commanded her phone to read the text: "eight guys here, need to motivate them, figured around 100 words of encouragement per" The voice was robotic, but her mind translated it as she heard it applying a tone that hid concern with confidence. She tried thinking of a response, but all she could think of were questions to ask her phone.

VVVVV VVVVV. She picked up her phone, read his next message and put the phone back and waited for it to ring and walked away. She could hear the table rattling from her room. She was on her back thinking, stretching and yoga and thinking, on her computer typing and thinking. She wrote him: "here are some links with tips on motivating people" She was embarrassed by her own lack of effort and started cleaning. She flung and shoved things back to their place and the vacuum tracks weren't parallel. She took the shower cold, washing only the neck down, chewed her food less than normal, skipped her sox and scarf but put on her seat belt and nearly ran a stop sign before braking hard. She pulled over to check the phone. There was a police car around the corner. The officer chased and stopped the person behind her. "than you!" her phone read and she sat there crying.

Retiring this Blog

This just in: this blog is dead! In dying, it has given life to a new blog.

I will, with my colleague, be testing the waters attempting to re-spark my creativity and post in a consistent fashion. Corazon will continue posting on her blog, I will not. It is her blog and I have no business posting there. Also, as the breaking news brief stated above, I am quitting this blog until further notice where further notice means never or a month, whichever comes first. My money's on never because I still have high hopes on it arriving as that's when my girlfriend said she'll let me do that thing to her thing with that thing with things.

Breaking Blogger News!

What is this! A Blogger feature I’ve not seen before, a feature perhaps purloined? Purloined and downgraded it seems. I’ve seen better thefts performed by quadriplegics or the NY Times.

I’ve added the feature to this blog and adjusted it accordingly. Unfortunately, after this addition my bland blog has turned into a bland and ugly blog.

Seriously, check out those voting boxes beneath this entry. They’re crude and outdated. It’s like walking down the street and seeing Blogger wearing an expensive suit, a fitted shirt, shiny leather shoes, and parachute pants.

Is there no way to customize this feature (further)?

Seeking Guest Writers

That’s right, friends, I’m seeking guest writers. I’m looking for someone who’ll contribute to this blog for money. That’s right, I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you how I pay the street walkers who indulge me on occasion: with poems. That's right, poems.

You’d be surprised how often prostitutes will accept mediocre, drunken poetry as payment for fellatio. No, I guess it’s not that surprising. It’s only happened twice, and they were women I was dating at the time.

Anyway, potential guest writers, the ideal candidate will:

-Be attractive;

-Not be experiencing any financial hardships so as to accept poems or sexual favors as payment;

-Not outshine me and;

-Be witty and provocative.

Actually, be either witty or provocative for a writer with a combination of the two will surely outshine me. If that happens, you’re dead. You hear that, motherfucker? DEAD.

If interested, post relevant information as a comment and I’ll contact you within a minute of applying.

Chess

I used to be a goddam chess genius! My army brother taught me when I was eight and when he returned on leave a year later, I was the best player in the house—shit, I was the best player on the block! So you can imagine my surprise when all the Joe Nobodies who can barely type out sentences on Yahoo chess annihilate me.

You know, I’m starting to think my insidious fucking family let me win all those matches years ago. I’m starting to think that maybe I wasn’t so good after all. I bet if I played them again today, they’d kick my ass. Yeah, that must be it, or it’s all the inhalants I’ve been huffing.

Anniversary Party

So the one year anniversary of this bitch is coming quick. It came so quick I didn’t even realize it. Now I know how my sexual partners feel. Nah, I’m kidding, I’m as flaccid as a half-filled water balloon.

Anyway, to celebrate I’m throwing a party at my place. I’m gonna have grab bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and a 2/3-full bottle of 7up.

Lucky for you all, the anniversary lands on October 4^th, a Saturday. This means that there’s no work the next day and we can stay up as late as we want watching Saturday Night Live on my bed. I’ll be on the computer watching porn, but you guys can eat my Cheetos and drink my 7up on my bed. Just bring your own fucking napkins. I don’t want any Cheeto residue staining my bed. Make sure they’re moist napkins because dry napkins don’t do shit against Cheeto dust fingers. I don’t need to be telling you this.

If you don’t bring your own moist napkins, I’m not letting you in.

Don’t RSVP, I’ll just expect people at my door that night.

No Substance

Yeah, so I haven’t been posting with the same frequency. So what. Bite me. Just the women. Harder.

Thanks.

I’m kidding. The truth is that I’ve been slaving for two weeks hunched over my keyboard and wallowing in my filth trying my hardest to come up with something worth your time. I have pages and pages and pages (two) of words I’ve found unfit to post. Every time I write something and it’s not posted, an angel’s wings get clipped. Now you understand the enormous weight on my shoulders. Why would God do this to me! Why, God! Why!

You know what? This blog looks really bland. I mean, it’s white and there’s a glass. What the hell? Invisible powdered water? What was I thinking? Oh wait, hah! I’m so brilliant. I wish there were more color here.

There, now I’m happy. If you can help me add more color, leave me a comment. I expect no comments.

Television Kills Brain Cells, Story at Eleven

I’m bummed. There’s hardly anything good on TV.

Have you seen the Food Network lately? It’s become the MTV of food. How many different food competitions can they air? Chili competitions, burger competitions, cake competitions! What is this?

They’ve resorted to putting contestants in cake and sculpture competitions through a gauntlet of stairs and bottomless pits like in The Golden Child in hopes that there will be a catastrophic cake collapse. I have an idea, how about putting together a team of ice sculptors and bomb squad agents to see who can most intricately and artistically sculpt their way into a bomb encased in ice. This will ensure an explosion, death, and higher ratings.

And what’s up with these ‘in search of’ shows? At their core these shows are about a team of slack-jawed fools chasing nothing. Look at In Search of the Lochness Monster. How about airing the show where you actually capture the beast? It doesn’t even have to be the Lochness Monster, a peculiar fish will suffice. I’d even be happy with a larger-than-average fish. It doesn’t even have to be freakishly enormous, a goldfish the size of my hand will do.

As far as I’m concerned, the best thing on television in recent years has been the Classic Arts Showcase, a show that encourages viewers to “go feast upon the buffet of arts in their community.” There are two things excitingly cool about this: one, it’s completely non profit and funded to run by founder Lloyd Rigler until at least 2022; and two, it’s something different.

I mean, I won’t be one of those viewers who’ll go out and feast upon the buffet of arts available in my community. First of all, I’m not that interested in the arts, and secondly, the buffet of arts in my community is either paintings of naked women on velvet hanging in bars, or graffiti. I’m just glad that there’s something novel airing. CAS is like a singular rose hidden in a field of rampant weeds.

I wish there were more stimulating and somewhat innovative shows on television. Something that would capture my attention and keep it like an iron trap, something like The Benefits of Champagne Enemas, or Talk Sex with Sue Johanson with Live Demonstrations and Donkey Shows and Also Instead of Sue Johanson it’s Scarlett Johansson. Yeah, that’d work just fine. Instead I have to deal with reality TV, wife swapping, and the Food Network teaching me how to chiffonade and make a roux every 30 minutes.

Where are the donkeys? Such is life.

The Tale of Angry Dog

Once upon a time there was an angry dog. “Angry Dog! Angry Dog!” people would shout as he strolled by. Everyone always wondered why his owners named him Angry Dog. Some assumed it was because of his angry demeanor, others because he always mauled passersby.

“That dog is Satan’s dog,” the older folk’d say. “I’m going to kill me that gosh darn dog one’ these days,” the younger folk’d say. And the children, they didn’t have much to say on account of them being chased across the neighborhood to be eaten by Angry Dog.

He used to be a good dog back in the day—back before he was bred as a fighting dog. “Good dog! Good dog!” he would hear with subsequent pats and belly rubs every time his owners had visitors. He would sit, roll over, shake hands, and he hardly ever humped as his balls were removed, you see. I can’t really say what caused his owners to turn such a perfectly good pup into a vicious fighting machine of death. I asked them once and they said, “protection,” but I really think it was for the money they got at the dog fights.

One day there was a secret town meeting where the destruction of Angry Dog was to be discussed. “We gotta kill that dang dog,” yelled one participant.

“Now how in tarnation are we gonna kill that there dog? He just about takes one of our arms off every time we get near the feller!” said another.

“How ‘bout we stuff cats with dynamite, and set catmines next to fire hydrants!” said yet another.

“You’re all ignorant and insensitive oafs,” yelled a young woman with college textbooks clutched to her chest. “It’s not the dog’s fault! We should be punishing his owners! They’re the ones who created this creature! Target them, not the—.” At that point the frothing beast burst through a wall in an explosion of splinters and pinned the young woman on the floor before she could finish her sentence.

When the town folk returned, all they found was the motionless body of the young woman. There wasn’t a bite on her. For months the cowardly town folk believed she had died of fright, but the coroner said no, her death was the result of a failed mugging.

To this day nobody knows Angry Dog’s whereabouts. All I have to say is be careful at the next town meeting, for it could be you who is involved in a failed mugging.

My Poetry

This first poem is called The Expulsion and is an homage to Langston Hughes. I was inspired by a man walking into a supermarket who bought a papaya. The papaya was heavenly and fresh when I bit into it. I am that man.

A part of you,
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me,
but we are one and soon two.
You kissed my face and we fell in love,
then you rotted me from the inside out.
After you're gone
you cause me agonizing pain
when you explode from my chest cavity,
face hugger baby.

The following poem is an untitled snippet of the journal I kept while hiking across the Appalachias attempting to discover nirvana. Many of you have read this as I sometimes use it as an away message, a constant reminder of the fragility of life and the power of ritual animal sacrifice.

A giant bear with funky claws of tender
swipes at my face with beautiful fury.
I ate his child and he's revenging my body,
with pounces of gold.

To My Visitors

I've noticed a good deal of my random visitors (around 50%) come after finding me via Google searches. I apologize because I've mislead you all.

Here are some popular searches:

By far the largest contingent of visitors would be those looking for Alana de la Garza, the actress who plays the ADA on Law and Order. I don't know why they're directed to my site, but I presume it's because I've linked to her picture here. To you, because you probably aren't aware, here is a Google Image Search and the Wiki page of my future girlfriend.

The next largest faction consists of--and this is especially popular in Europe--consists of people doing searches on champagne enemas, or champagne piss enema orgies, or champagne enema ass piss. I can tell they're especially desperate because my blog is around the 30th or 40th listed (why? Here). Champagne enema visitors, I won't link you to another site, but I'll say that the first handful of hits are usually your best bet for champagne enema ass piss orgy videos.

The next largest contingent consists of people searching for dialogues. Dialogues about the weather. I'm not sure why, but "dialogue about weather" seems to be a popular search among South American countries. ¿Que onda, Peru? ¿Por que? Not sure what you're looking for, but here, you'll remain unsatisfied.

To the other 50% of my visitors, those who've been tricked by Yelp or other blogs into coming: suckers.

The Story of My Father - The Boxer

This is part one of the story of my father as best as I can piece together from the little tidbits he’s shared over the years.

My father was born on a ranch far from the city, deep in the dirty hills of Mexico where the ground cracked, the sun charred and the water froze. He was the youngest and toughest of seventeen, worked harder than a mule, and learned to herd sheep and stave off wolves by eight. By ten he was herding sheep on week-long journeys where he lived off cacti and the occasional mutton.

At thirteen he developed a penchant for boxing. Few knew his boxing prowess as few were familiar with how a life of farming, herding, and poverty primed a fighter with toughness. He once told me that he was play-fighting with his siblings and he fell and hurt himself. There was blood and crying when my grandfather tended to him. “Your grandfather,” he said, “uprooted a 150 foot redwood and broke it in two over my head. ‘That’s what you get for hurting yourself!’ he scolded.” My parents would do this to me all the time, so I have no trouble believing the story.

My father trained furiously. Every chance he had, he would punch a boulder into dust. This was rare, as rocks were scarce in those days due to a boxing fad, but he found a good many and put them to good use. He progressed quickly, disintegrating boulders with fewer and fewer punches. It didn’t take long before the compressed air at his knuckles from his swing pulverized granite. “There were countless untapped veins of boulders in the caves atop mountains. Other fighters never dared venture that high. Far too many orangutans, they’d say. What fools. Little did they know they were my finest sparring partners.” He said it was the exercise, the early rising, and the boulder punching that made him such a great fighter, but I think it was all the orangutan meat he consumed.

The first swing of his first match ended his career as the punch exploded his opponent’s head. It was a sad day for my father, not so much because he couldn’t pursue his passion, but because he’d exploded someone’s head. The judge ruled that he take care of his victim’s family in accordance with the laws of Mexico at the time. “I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “I’d never cared for a family of rhinoceroses before.” A daunting task indeed, especially for a dismayed thirteen year old.

And so ended that chapter of my father’s life.

Rude People

So I’m standing outside of the Roost having a smoke with a lady friend when we’re approached by a stick of a woman wearing a dull coat as thick as her English accent. She smiles and bends slightly at the waist as if talking to a child and asks my friend, “are you a hooker?” This, of course, leaves us speechless. The foreigner continues, “do you like being called a mooshpin?”

“I’m sorry?” I asked but she didn’t look at me, she kept her beady eyes locked on my friend as if trying to melt her with her sight.

“In England the . . . ,” she continued, sounding as though she was speaking with a sack of marbles lodged in her mouth and with censure in her tone. I blew smoke into her face before pushing my friend back into the bar.

We went out half an hour later for another smoke and the crazy bitch was standing on the corner near the bar. She kept her eyes on my friend.

“Is there a problem,” I asked her.

“No, no problem.”

“Are you sure?” I asked again, drunk with liquor and vengeance. I pulled my friend behind me with my arm around her waist and stared into the rude bitch’s empty, beady eyes, blowing smoke in her direction.

“No, there’s no problem,” she said before walking across the street. I ran across behind her and demanded an apology. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” I said. She began walking away and I noticed she turned around and glanced at my friend. The gall. She turned her head quickly and I ran up to her and greeted the small of her back with a movie-style jump kick that sent her a few feet forward. I karate chopped her shoulder, she collapsed and I spit on the ground beside her and put out my cigarette in her hair.

Doesn’t she realize it’s rude to stare? And almost just as rude to call someone a hooker?

The next story takes place on the freeway. My friend and I were on the 110, driving north on the right most lane that merges with an on ramp. A red pickup pulls up behind us, then to our right to try and pass us. Rude. My friend speeds up and doesn’t allow the pickup to pull ahead. He reaches 120 and the red pickup disappears behind us. Two minutes later, the pickup attempts the same stunt but is again foiled. Rude! The third time it happens, I think the jerk wants to have some fun—a few races a few laughs—so I turn my head to smile and notice the two barrels of a shotgun being cocked and pointed at my face. Rude!

It’s the rudest thing that’s ever happened to me.

I lower the window, reach for the pickup’s tire and pull it off sending it into a hellish fishtail across all four lanes. I lob the tire behind us into the pickup’s cab where it detonates, creating a mushroom cloud dwarfing the buildings downtown. Rude.

This all really happened (even the shotgun) except for the wanton and needless violence.

Billiards Part 2

Back in Cypress for 9-ball two weeks ago and it’s like this:

I walk into the pool hall with a friend, pay the entry fee and ask, “Am I still a 4?”

“Yes, you need to come in the money twice to be bumped up to a 5.”

I stagger to the nearest table for a couple practice games before checking the brackets to see my first opponent, “who’s Julio,” I ask my in-the-know friend.

“Julio?”

“Yes, The 7,” I say.

“He’s the best--,” he looks around, “he’s the best player here.” He looks around once more, “yeah, he’s the best player here. You can win easy with your handicap.” I hope so. I wasn’t too worried seeing as how I’d just slugged a half pint of vodka and had my first smoke in four days. Also, he was spotting me the last three balls, so if he ran the first six and missed, all I had to do was pocket the following ball to win (which happened once).

They called the matches and I went over to introduce myself. “Not use to giving away such an advantage,” said The 7.

“Won’t make a difference, you’ll still win,” I say. It was a good short match. We finish, shake hands again and I walk over to report the results.

“What was the score,” my friend asks.

“Three one.”

“Aw, well that guy’s really good. At least you got one game. Good job.”

“No, I won.”

“What!” He says with utter surprise.

“Yeah, I won,” I say while walking out for my ritual swig and smoke and feeling downright champish. Winning’s invigorating, especially when you’re not supposed to win. You can feel it in your belly and can’t help but to pop an electric smile, even alone, to yourself. I took another swig and heard my name inside.

I’m playing the guy with a Bluetooth set forever attached to his ear. Bluetooth man is a 6 and has to spot me the eight ball. He’s cocky, so I shoot sloppily a couple drunken times and he resigns himself to being nonchalant, shooting from the hip like a pitcher throwing with one eye closed. He’s a nice guy, but his conceit gets the best of him and he misses an easy shot leaving me a difficult cut on a two-nine combo from across the table:

I make the combo and win the first game and run from the four to the eight in the second game. It was a fine victory. He wins the third and fourth games, leaving me to break on the final rack. I break, make the one and play safe on the two. It’s not a difficult shot, but again, he’s so wonderfully blasé and thinks I won’t win that he leaves me another combo, albeit a much more difficult combo:

My left hand is tense and shaking like an old engine about to die, but I make the shot. “Fucker can shoot,” Bluetooth says in Spanish behind me. “He’s not a 4.”

I walk up to report my win and my friend asks for the score. “Three two,” I say allowing a feigned feeling of defeat to sag my face. His shoulders slump but before he says anything I say with a smile, “just kidding, I won.” He gets excited and I walk out for my swig and smoke and I get drunk. Neither The 7 or Bluetooth made eye contact with me as I stepped out, but I heard each say to a friend that I wasn’t a 4.

Maybe I'm not a 4, but because of it I came in third and won forty dollars that night.

Billiards

There’s a pool hall in Cypress. They run a tournament every Tuesday night and employ a handicapping system to level the battlefield.

Being a four, I’m awarded several advantages when playing against fives and sixes. Against a five, for example, I’m awarded the last two balls on the table in a game of nine ball. Against a six, I’m awarded what they call the Special Eight, meaning if I make the eight (as opposed to the nine) on any shot, I win. Against the rare seven, I’m awarded the last three balls on the table.

Anyhow, most take losing against me in stride, giving me a cordial smile after some bullshit shot I’ve made.

The first time I play at this tourney, the guy running it asks me, “do you recognize anyone here?”

“Yes, her,” I say pointing to an Asian woman playing alone two tables from us.

“Would you say she’s at your skill level? She’s a four. Who wins when you play?”

“We’re even. She wins mostly, though,” I say.

“This guy isn’t a four! He’s a five,” someone says from behind me, startling me. I turn and figure this guy’s being facetious as I don’t recall ever meeting or playing the saboteur.

“You can see me play if you’d like.”

“Nah, start him as a five. He’s not a four. He’s a five,” says the saboteur.

“We'll start you as a five.”

“Alright.” There goes my advantage.

I go outside for another couple of swigs from a bottle, a smoke and some talk with the other players. “Have you heard of So-and-so,” I ask my friend.

“No, who the fuck is that?”

“That guy right there with the bandana and pony tail. And he’s fat.”

“No, why?”

“He’s trying to sandbag me. I think. I don’t remember him from anywhere,” I say before my other friend’s name is called. I walk in to watch him play. He plays a four and he’s demolished quickly. “You did very well,” I tell him as we’re walking to report his loss. His opponent vouches to grant him a handicap of three and me a handicap of four. Excellent, how nice of her.

I went back outside for another smoke and another swig and heard my name inside. My opponent was the saboteur who was now at a disadvantage and who was surprised to have to give me the last two balls on the table. We played and he did well and he was happy until I made the 6, 7, and 8 and he became upset, upset like an ape whose territory I was occupying. I rack, he breaks and pockets all but the 7, 8 and 9 ball. He walks away from the table with a cocky smirk thinking I won’t win, but I bank the 7 and make the 8 and he storms off to talk to my friend about how I’m not supposed to be a five, not a four. Were he a cartoon, he’d be tomato-red with steam shooting from his ears. I offer to play as a five, that I don’t mind, but it doesn’t work. He keeps up his angry rampaging, throwing one of his cues onto the empty pool table next to us before deciding to rack his own break. He breaks and—this is the highlight of my night—he breaks beautifully, makes the one and the two but scratches and leaves me with a three-nine combo. I make the combo and win and he begins cussing loudly and goes off talking like a malcontent vagrant cursing God for his misfortune.

“Fuck this, I’m never coming back here again. This guy isn’t a four. He’s supposed to be a five! I thought he was a five!”

“I was a four until you said I was a five,” I say from behind him, startling him. He shoves his cue into his case and stomps out in a fit of childlike rage for a cigarette. I wait a second before walking out and passing him for another swig and smoke, but the euphoria I got from that paled in comparison to what that won brought me.

One of the cheapest yet most satisfying victories I’ve had.

Jury Duty

Another short story. This one was inspired by that one time I was summoned by the court to be indicted for treason against the state and a traffic ticket.

We’d returned from our lunch break a week into the trial. “Your Honor, I request you declare a mistrial,” the prosecutor said.

“On what grounds?”

“Jurors 3, 7, and 8 have slept through half of the trial, and Juror 8 is clearly drunk after every lunch. He smells like Jack Daniels and I believe he is pissing himself as I speak.”

“I fucked your wife,” spit juror 8.

“I deny your request, counselor,” the judge’s words were followed by an uproar from the court. “Order! Order, motherfuckers!” He stood and threw a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels across the room, showering the frenzied audience in shattered glass and drops of liquor. Juror 8 shed a tear and the crowd sat. “Continue your cross examination, counselor.”

He rose from beneath his desk and cleared his throat, “Your Honor, may we at least wake the sleeping jurors?”

“Objection!” cried the defense attorney, waking jurors 3 and 7.

“Overruled. The prosecution will rouse Juror 8.”

He poked the muttering Juror, “no. No. No more. No more sausages! Stop!” The prosecutor’s next poke changed the setting of Juror 8’s dream who was now laughing, “Ha! Judge, you crazy bastard! I can’t! No more shots!” The prosecutor began shaking violently Juror 8 who was again sobbing and muttering more about sausages, dreaming apparently of being attacked by the walking Wienerschnitzel hot dog. The Juror woke with a swing, knocking the prosecutor out cold. “Most wanted motherfucker, take that!—oh shit.”

“The defense requests that the charges of public fornication and beastiality be dropped.”

“Request granted, goat fucker.”

Jesus Christ, what a piece of shit story. I'll make it up to you, I swear!

Cash Cab LA

I was walking down 1^st street on my evening constitutional when a cab pulled up alongside me. The window came down and it looked like A Night at the Roxbury had thrown up inside the cab. A platinum blond popped her head and chest out of the window. Her breasts would’ve hung out over the door if they weren’t so perky.

“Excuse me! Sir!”

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi, we’re on a game show! I need your help answering a question.”

“Alright.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” she said with genuine glee.

“Quit flirting with the nerd and ask the question already,” roared the driver, Dustin Diamond.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” her voice quivered. “The Romantic Period spanned approximately fifty years. Name fifteen English notables from the period.”

The driver leaned over the passenger side seat, lowered the window, spit through it and wished me luck: “good luck, fucker.”

“Barbauld, Smith, Robinson, Blake, Burns, Wollstonecraft, Edgeworth, Wordsworth, Scott, Coleridge, Lamb, Austen, Lord Byron, Shelley, Keats, Haz—”

“Alright, that’s enough, asshole. You got it,” Dustin said throwing himself back into his seat.

“You’re so smart! I totally forgot about Coleridge and Blake and I was gonna say Lord Tennyson and Dickens instead.” She leaned out further and shook my hand. She was very pleased.

“Nah, Tennyson and Dickens are from the Victorian Age,” I said.

“Oh yeah, smart guy? I forgot the last part of the question: recite one of their poems in its entirety,” Dustin said flinging the door open and walking over to me.

“Hey, that’s not fair! He answered the question!”

“Shut your mouth, Titties. Recite the poem, bitch!” He puffed out his chest and half-lunged at me with a half-cocked head.

“It is an ancient Mariner
And he stoppeth one of three.
‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me—’”

“You son of a bitch,” he cut me off. He spit on the floor and stormed back into the cab. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. You have two blocks left, bitch, I guess that’s enough for one more question.”

“Thanks again so much,” she said and the cab’s tires spun out, jutting the vehicle forward resulting in the blond bumping her head on the window’s rubber frame as she tucked her breasts back into the cab. I continued my constitutional and noticed the cab stopped a block ahead. The blond jumped out and a wad of crumpled up bills were thrown out of the passenger side window in three bursts followed by random change which she almost dodged.

The cab’s tires spun out again speeding it forward leaving the camera men and crew running wildly behind it trying to catch up to their ride. I walked up to the blond who was picking up quarters and asked if she won.

"No. Yes!"

Tom and Jerry

I love Tom and Jerry. I've often wondered how their antics translate into real life.

Here, for instance, Tom is chasing Jerry.

Real life? Ah, shit.

Here, Tom and Jerry are fencing.

In real life? Oh no! Jerry, watch out!

Here is a duel over what appears to be a case of tomatoes.

What a waste.

There's a Moth in My Room

I contemplated destroying it.

It was fluttering around, circumventing the circle of light the lamp lit on the ceiling, landing on the wall and curling into itself. Everyone kills moths. It knows this. I know it knows this and it knows that I know this. I decided against its obliteration, though. So, I’m wondering: will it attempt to kill me while I sleep?

It is the next logical step.

I’ve lost track of it. Perhaps it went into stealth mode. Perhaps it’s plotting against me. Perhaps I should seek out the beast and lay upon its face a swift swing of my fist. My friend exacted a similar campaign against an unwanted houseguest. She was much more humane, granting the creature its life while I seek to destroy it--if I wake, that is (as my life is in danger you see).

Perhaps the moth has garnered the support of its family. Perhaps I should be wary of moths from hereon.

Perhaps it has turned my family against me.

No, that’s crazy.

Three Words

Champagne, asshole, party. What do they have in common?

A champagne enema orgy? How I wish!

No, they are the songs of three comedians-turned-musical-geniuses.

Video 1

Video 2

Video 3

For the Champagne Enema Orgy, click here. Haha, frank so funny. That's as good as it's getting this month, folks.